The 2018 Forward Prizes for Poetry
— Read on www.litro.co.uk/2018/09/2018-forward-prizes-poetry/
My review of the fabulous Forward Prizes For Poetry award night.
Masters and Captains
I came across this old book of poems on my father’s bookshelf today. It was one of his college texts, and I’d often leaf through it when I was a girl, paying close attention to the poems he marked up in pencil. My favorite back then was Trees by Joyce Kilmer (‘I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree…’), but tonight this one stood out instead. Especially the final lines: ‘I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.’
For 2018, may we all become our own masters and captains.
Poetry on Water
The animated skies above Lake Windermere doubtless inspired lesser poets than Wordsworth, their prose just as romantic and picturesque. I imagine a young poet gazing up at billious clouds burdened with snowflakes and the words spring forth in his mind, a ready poem to share with the world. But like so many youth inspired by greatness, he questions the worth of the words he scrawls and their originality, too. Has he made something worthwhile, something to remember? He recites his favorite line aloud as a cold shadow passes over him,
“Hung o’er a cloud, above the steep that rears, its edge all aflame, the broadening sun appears; a long blue bar it’s aegis orb divides, and breaks the spreading of its golden tides; and now it touches on the purple steep, that flings his shadow on the pictured deep.”
and he lets his own lines float away on the gentle waves lapping against the shore.
A new poem
Ruminations
The north wind blows through February trees
starlings take flight in the faded London sky
black shadows ebb and flow
murmurations mirroring my thoughts
Stop worrying it’ll drive you crazy
he likes to tell the future
it makes him feel divine
his words dig deep—roots that take hold
How will I know when it happens
he doesn’t hear me above the wind
it whips against my cheeks
When it happens how will I know
he shakes his head
Panic! I want to grab his throat with clawed hands
a crooked branch twists round my legs
he catches me with a ruthless grip
jaundiced leaves lie unsettled
like a thousand broken hearts scattered at my feet
Does the silver birch mourn
I need to know
the answer hangs between us
he snaps the offending branch in two
I’m free
a fleeting thought
he pulls up my collar stiff against the wind
I can do it myself
rough wool scratches my neck
a banshee’s wail races the wind
invisible fingers that tangle my hair
How long is forever
starlings swarm in the winter sky
inkblot algorithms that endlessly transform
the swirling ciphers hold encrypted answers
Is it happening now
I chew the words over and over again like cud
Everything is happening now
his voice
a gentle push towards an idling van
(M. Bracht, 2015)
White Moon Above Parliament
People whirl in a time lapsed blur
Below gilded spires and ancient brick
Along the banks of the blackened Thames
Faces framed in photographic light
A thousand selfies shine in the ether
But none as bright as the white moon
A pinhole pierced through the evening blue
