{"id":2110,"date":"2014-02-14T09:08:02","date_gmt":"2014-02-14T09:08:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/?p=2110"},"modified":"2025-02-03T12:04:54","modified_gmt":"2025-02-03T12:04:54","slug":"the-rspb-rialto-poetry-competition-highly-commended-entries","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/2014\/02\/14\/the-rspb-rialto-poetry-competition-highly-commended-entries\/","title":{"rendered":"The RSPB \/ Rialto Poetry Competition: Highly Commended Entries"},"content":{"rendered":"

You can read the four prize-winning poems and judge Ruth Padel’s report in the Wet Winter issue of The Rialto, out now; order it here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

And below, as promised, are the six Highly Commended entries, in alphabetical order.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

STARLINGS\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Paul Bavister<\/b><\/p>\n

At first the forest filled us with fear \u2013
\nlong rows of pine trees, lifeless
\nbut as the years passed we chopped
\nand sawed them into cottages
\nand burned the offcuts to keep us
\nwarm through dripping winters.<\/p>\n

Strawberries and raspberries leapt up
\nin the clearings, made our summers
\nalmost easy. The kids showed no interest
\nin the place we\u2019d left so on the tenth
\nyear we trekked for two days back to
\nthe overgrown high street. What struck<\/p>\n

us most were the birds. Goldfinches swirled
\nup clouds of thistle fluff and in the birch trees
\nhundreds of starlings repeated the beeps
\nof unlocking cars, the Nokia ringtone, sirens
\nand an ice cream van\u2019s endless repetition
\nof The Teddy Bears\u2019 Picnic<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

GLEN\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Cathy Bryant<\/b><\/p>\n

You comb your hair with thistles and drink at the burn
\nwhile the snow-hare is running. The witch appears
\nas trees do from mist, offers you a warm egg and
\na hearth. She is half-here as a damselfly, threadbare
\nas the skittering clouds. Take the moths from her hair,
\nand the spiders; lay them gently in alder, to winter.<\/p>\n

After the snowmelt runs and the bog softens, squelching
\nup to the softest skin between the toes, you will stroke,
\nfor a summer moment, the living antlers of a pool-eyed
\nyoung stag, and feel them warm and furred.\u00a0 Lice dance
\non them, black as the snake-sized benign slugs who
\nseep out of the bracken at night, while you, naked,
\nwalk into a water-moon. You, glaistrig<\/em>, green woman
\nwho hears insect wings and washes in waterfalls,
\nwill hold herbs and the young deer will leave a warm
\nlick on your hand, barter for the fistful of watermint.<\/p>\n

Here is the Highland fist of tongue-rough, tongue-smooth
\nrock. Each stone a fingerprint, a map of whorls like
\nthose rippling on a wild goat\u2019s pelt, spelled out in all
\ncolours of moss and time, and each rock, stone, goat
\nand moss a solace. You remember the living touch
\nof a long-ago cat, ash coloured and softer than antlers;
\nyou feel the sombre power of mountains. You shift
\nyour feet, toes curling into turf, and cannot say goodbye.
\nWhen you drink from that burn and wash off your
\nweeping, as the hare runs, you will lift your face
\nand in your hair will be a crown of weed and the
\ncoin of a water-snail, grey as your rain-eyes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

NOTWITHSTANDING\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Alex Josephy<\/b><\/p>\n

your elderberry eyes; the sleek line of your back; your fawn pelt; the way you ripple when I move near; your creamy underside; your habit of sitting bolt upright, moving your head to and fro; the sheen on your delicate claws that still clutch a morsel of pecorino cheese; your rounded ears that light up in the sun, and the optimistic curve of your tail;\u00a0 your ceaseless and methodical gnawing, one wire after another, again and again, never for a moment giving up hope; notwithstanding any and all of these,<\/p>\n

after nightfall you will be taken from this house, shaken from this cage, decanted onto the North slope of the hill, left to find your own way onward under the moon, through the tall stalks of grass, docks and thistles.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

BEE IN ALLIUM\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Alison McNulty<\/b><\/p>\n

A corona glow of sun rims around
\nthe allium. Its tiny indigo
\nflorets radiate and become a planet.
\nOver the zenith a forager bee
\nslowly orbits \u2013 searching. Sometimes pauses,
\nhovering like a nanoscale shuttlecraft,
\nits booster engines droning, faint zig zag
\njet trails soon blurring. Zooming past dew domes
\nof rainbow slivered glass \u2013 poised above \u2013
\nhe pinpoints a blue open flute, alights,
\nbalances; inner telemetry makes
\nhis humdrum task easy. The sepals glide
\nautomatically apart and docking
\ninside the shuttle bay, he barters
\npocketfuls of pollen to fuel his tanks
\nwith nectar. Then vital work over darts
\nbrimful, back to his own waxy warm world,
\nto tremble dance a precise astral chart
\nfor others to seek the waiting treasure.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A KESTREL CAME TO THE TOWER\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Caroline Squire<\/b><\/p>\n

Our printed faces turn to the window
\nto see her silence touch, then rest
\non the concrete pillar. We take time
\nto look into stillness<\/p>\n

at the folding layers of cream
\nand brown, her superior eye,
\nthe flecks of black
\non wings lapping with grey,<\/p>\n

and though she ignores our perches
\nwhere we praise codes inside,
\nforgetting our beginnings,
\nshe scores a breeze for us<\/p>\n

and we beat with envy,
\nour seated shapes flickering with time,
\ncram to hold every last bit of flight
\nuntil it\u2019s gone, just a spot of grime<\/p>\n

on the office window. So now, despite
\nbeing fifteen floors above ground
\nwith our dulled view of the ring-road verges,
\nwe\u2019re closer to it somehow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THE GIFT\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by Pat Winslow<\/b><\/p>\n

303 acres of land on the western bank Allegheny River was given to Cornplanter, chief of the Seneca on March 6th<\/sup> 1791 by Thomas Mifflin, the first governor of Pennsylvania.<\/em><\/p>\n

A bark canoe paddling the broad flow,
\na span of tumbling sunlight between
\nstands of cottonwood and pin oak,<\/p>\n

years of thaw and melt, sounding
\nthe white waste in winter, a spike
\nand a saw slicing through ice, a long<\/p>\n

grey fish slimming into view, a spear
\nand a knife, deer hide stretched tight,
\ndrying by day; by night, a fire,<\/p>\n

pale smoke in the mornings, the creak
\nof saddle leather; silver dollars in spring,
\nthick pelt of beaver, otter, bear; a hawk<\/p>\n

circling a planter\u2019s moon, ears of corn,
\nbeans, squash and melons, tobacco,
\nsmall quantities of oil for medicine.<\/p>\n

A gift that\u2019s not put to good use
\nis just asking to be taken back
\nsay Stockburger, Kinnear and Noyes.<\/p>\n

A blast furnace is built, a foundry,
\na mill race, a warehouse, a landing stage.
\nThe gift passes to the Graff Hasson Company.<\/p>\n

Drake\u2019s well is sunk, churches rise, a dam,
\na bridge, a railway, roads, realtors, banks.
\nQuaker State and Penzoil move in.<\/p>\n

In 2006 the city celebrates with fireworks
\nand a rock concert on the shore line.
\nBut the economy\u2019s shot and folks<\/p>\n

are closing down and selling up.
\nFor those who stay, there\u2019s little left
\napart from rust, food stamps and hope.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Image: A Wedge of Starlings. Walter Baxter. CC.ASA2.0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

You can read the four prize-winning poems and judge Ruth Padel’s report in the Wet Winter issue of The Rialto, out now;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":2148,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2110","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blogs"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2110","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2110"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2110\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11288,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2110\/revisions\/11288"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2148"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2110"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2110"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.therialto.co.uk\/pages\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2110"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}