National Poetry Anthology 2008

Roy receives his trophy from Peter Quinn (left) who is holding the photo which inspired the poem. Roy's wife, Ena, is holding the £1,000 cheque and on the right is Celia Thomas, another of the 290 winning poets who featured in this year's National Poetry Anthology. Press and civic dignitaries including the town's Mayor, Alan Jones, were at the the presentation on Friday 22 February at Dowlais Library, Merthyr Tydfil. Peter Quinn presented the trophy and cheque.

LADY IN RED

He glanced at the picture that hung by a string,
Then looked again at the lady within,
So aloof, yet alone, so silent, withdrawn,
An impression so gentle, yet sad and forlorn.
In misty surroundings she walked through the wood,
He longed to be with her, if only he could.

Alone and lonely, walked the lady in red
With a scarlet umbrella to cover her head,
Lovely and lonely like a painting of old,
A picture to hang in a frame made of gold.
A picture of dreams, so vague yet so deep,
Does she laugh? Does she cry? Does she sigh?
Does she weep?

His chair is now empty, he's gone from the place
Where he gazed at the lady dressed in crimson and lace,
But glance at the picture and then look once again,
Look past the umbrella that's shielding the rain,
Look through the mist, just past her head
And you may see him waiting for the lady in red.

Roy Lewis, Merthyr Tydfil, Wales


LAKELAND

Below the storm-tossed northern hills
where Vikings made their home;
Grizedale, Thwaite and Bloody beck
the Norsemen tilled the loam.

Roman forts and megaliths
dot these ancient fells.
While far beneath the mountain's rim
lakes rise from mighty wells.

As Saddleback and Skiddaw peak
thrust towards the sky,
Rainswept bursts of swirling cloud
and lighting flash on high.

Thunder rolls across the heights
like heaven's awful wrath.
Shifting ice-bound goblin mists
hasten in its path.

Far above, the storm god, Thor,
revels at the sight.
While all around darkness falls
as twilight turns to night.

S Raymond, Southport, Merseyside

AFTER WATERLOO

Where are they now, those fine lords and ladies
Who danced yesternight at the Duchess's ball,
Heedless of men drawn warm from their billets
To tread the wet earth at their regiments' call.

And where are now those burghers of Brussels,
By news of our march drawn all to the street.
To watch us fifed on in our rich blazoned columns
With drums beating time for the fall of our feet.,

And where are they now, our following army
The wives and the sweethearts, matrons and maids,
And wither our corps of gamblers and hucksters,
Harlots and bankers all plying their trades.

Where are they all, now the action is over,
For them we braved round shot, bore bayonet's thrust,
Now our columns are broken, our bodies lie bleeding
And friend next to foe lie conjoined in the dust.

Swift they are gone for our death carries meaning
Gone to seek fame or the stock-jobber's hall,
Gone to assess the wild swings of fortune
Gone to get wind of the next easy call.

Roger Baker, Whitecross, Herefordshire

THE MAN WITH TATTOOED EARS

I bought fruit from the man
With tattooed ears
By the box of begonias,
Deep lines on his face,
Sparkly eyes.
What a mornin', he said
All my boxes o fruit
Fell ont' flowers int' night
Crushed half of 'em
And now bills ter sort.
Ah well, bugger it, eh lass.
I like the man with tattooed ears.
I walked away smiling
And feeling hopeful somehow
About tomorrow.

Angela Jenkinson, Wollaton Park, Nottinghamshire

THE BEAUTY OF DEATH

Above my head the shades unfurl
Subtle and soft as mother of pearl
From palest peach and tangerine
To golden ochre laced with cream

Deeper and deeper, the colours spread
From burnished bronze to vibrant red
Like some enormous passion flower
A defiant show of waning power

Then a change of mood ensues
As the colours change to greys and blues
Suggesting pounding surf on piles
Of rocks on the coast of the western isles

This majestic pageant's final scene
Is of velvet darkness, calm, serene
The beauty holds me, makes me stay
As I stand in awe at the death of a day

Dorothy White, Whitecrook, Scotland

ANOTHER DAY IN BAGHDAD

It's just past nine, Baghdad time
And Bush's junkyard dogs
Are out on the attack.

Cherry picked, half-mad bloody tyrants
Sit playing with a pack of fear cards
In the blood and the dust

While the moon-crazed Masters of Death and Despair
Sit alone in their tower
And muse over the next Speciality of the Day

Intestinal pain
Severed limb
Broken soul

It's just past nine, Baghdad time.

June Dormer, Scarborough, North Yorkshire

IN A SOHO STREET

A man who sits and waits to die
Who bears a tear stain for an eye
Is so ashamed he ever heeded,
The cruel and bleak prosperity lie.

He's never been afraid of work,
Is young but infirmity steadily creeps,
And one mistake has spiralled him down,
To the rancid pavement, on which he sleeps.

He's free to roam anywhere he chooses,
provided he pays with flesh from his heels:
With the pity of others his pride he loses -
No one asks him how he feels.

As evening cloaks each possession he owns,
He hopes for charitable passers by:
They feel the chill which bites his bones -
Yet everyone vows not to meet his eye.

If you ever see him peaceful and sleeping,
Respect his world bundled on the ground:
And if you can't or won't offer him help,
Don't step over - tiptoe round.

Wendy S Harvie, Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire