NB Click on the names of the three prize-winning poems to read them.

Judge's Report

A poetry competition is a somewhat bizarre concept, a strange marriage of art and sport. From more than seven hundred entries I was charged to identify something called a winner, other poems to be called place getters, and fifteen further poems to be commended or highly commended.

After days and nights of reading and re-reading I would select these gallant few - roughly 2% of the total entries - which would then shakily mount the podium while somewhere in the distance anthems played.

Of course, the first thing to say is that far, far more than this percentage of entries was commendable, even highly commendable. During my initial reading I set aside just over two hundred poems of genuine quality demanding further consideration. One by one, poems were discarded and this process in turn left 120 poems or about 16% of the original entries.

There was then the necessity for more brutal winnowing, if winnowing can be brutal. Certain poems which seemed particularly striking were set aside and others were shuffled through until finally I was left with about thirty from which to make the final cut. It goes without saying that another judge, or even this judge on another day, might have made slightly different decisions, but I am ultimately satisfied that I have been left in the end with just under twenty superb poems. The point remains, however, that many other superb poems languish unselected. I do trust that the editor of the anthology will choose many of these.

What characterises the poem that makes it through this arduous, agonising process?

Clearly, the poem must sustain itself through many readings. Those pieces which exhaust themselves after one or two readings will be left behind. This means the finalists must have richness; they must intrigue with layers of possibility: a density that suggests there is a store of meaning still to be exploited.

The poem must stand out. Among the dozens of poems well-formed to the point of blandness, the exceptional poem draws attention to itself. This may be through a striking conceit, a marvellous image, an original take, a quality of voice. The poem that survives must have an originality that transcends mere novelty.

The final culling demands even more of a poem. At this point I'm looking for artistry. The best poems do not falter. Within the poetic framework or structure the poet has chosen, in the voice / tone / mood selected, there must be no false step, no unintentional dissonance, not one solecism. The American poet Robert Kelly says the craft of poetry is "perfected attention". My final selection was made of those poems where I felt the attention of the poet to his or her craft was utterly focused.

These were the poems then which like the bravest of the myriad spermatozoa first made it through to the egg of success.

The winning poem, Aubade, as winning poems often do, crept up on me somewhat surprisingly. Its sheer quality meant that invariably I put it into the box marked "terrific", but there were many other poems in that box, brighter, showier poems. This poem seemed less likely, quieter, more subdued. While written in unrhymed verse it was much more traditional in form and language. Even the title was old-fashioned. However, every time I sorted through the diminishing numbers, it went back in the box. I imagine it was a matter of the sheer control, the precision of the descriptive language, the beautiful cadences. We are participants in the poem, first standing at the shoulder of the poet in the deeper darkness before dawn as description gives way to meditation and thence to the more personal conversation we overhear. It is a beautifully measured poem which deepens even as the day lightens.

The second placed poem Greenfinches is quite magical, conflating leaves, greenfinches and angels and bringing together close observation, the immediacy of the moment, art and creativity. It is a poem I returned to often because of its teasing mysteries and ambiguities.

I was unable to separate the next two poems which exhibited strengths similar to each other, here the power of economy. Bell is wonderfully conceived with not a word misplaced with its slightly swinging rhythm, subtle repetitions and metaphorical layering. Apology similarly is a riff on a single metaphor leading subtly to and justifying the final striking image. Both poems are tightly controlled and memorable.

There were, as intimated, many wonderful poems to consider for high commendation. I'm pleased that some of the sheer variety of work offered came through in these selections which appealed for quite individual reasons. Some were witty, some were moving, and all were imaginative in conception and original in execution. If we grew back, if we grew down is a delightful rumination on a return to innocence. ‘Talkin' Blues is a delightfully clever piece with its deliberate disconnects of register, place and tone. By contrast, The Third Daughter replicates the voice of the new mother visited with the misfortune of a third daughter, presumably in a North African landscape. It is a dramatic piece, filled with the white noise of unspoken menace. Hen contrasts yet again. Here a battery hen is introduced to the world of free range grass, but what could have been sentimental or twee is made solid by close observation, second person address and nicely realised imagery:"...Then after a month, you plumped up / like a tea cosy..." The Odd Sock Exchange is also a 2nd person address poem. This takes the form of the proprietor of the oddly named exchange describing the establishment to potential visitors. It is a great idea and beautifully and amusingly sustained.

It seems churlish to distinguish the following poems for simple commendation. Each in its way is superb. Doggie Bones is a witty, wry piece distinguishing dogs and humanity and has an Ambrose Bierce-like cynicism about it I find very appealing. The world is also a place is a prose poem reflecting on knowledge and language in a dream-like fashion. Inscription was irresistible. It is a list poem with a compelling rhythm and chiming rhyme, and great fun to read aloud. Drowning the waterfall is cleverly done with concrete elements in its layout, dense in its description and nicely surreal. A dullness that will not gleam is laid out in couplets and like its stand-up comic "trades in sadness". It calls very much to mind Theodore Roethke's Dolor even to the extent of cataloguing one or two similar images. Shaking is tight and economical, hinting at and then with a flourish pulling out the clinching metaphor. Nachtigall [A0 278] is all economy, poetry pared to its essence and suggestion. Who was that last sentence again? is a goofy but hard-working little surrealist bio - it may come to us all. If you dream of a ladder...is a splendid reworking of an old theme, recontextualising it nicely.

These, then, are those that made it into the box and remained there. They are all admirable poems. It was a privilege to make their company and I will now withdraw as the anthems and fanfares fade.

James Norcliffe, Christchurch, June 2007

 

 

 

 

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