GEOFF STEVENS MEMORIAL POETRY PRIZE 2018 IS NOW OPEN
JULIE MACLEAN & TERRY QUINN
TO HAVE TO FOLLOW
Julie Maclean appears in international journals including POETRY, The Best Australian Poetry, Mslexia, Shearsman, Southerly, BODY and Poetry Salzburg.
She has been winner and highly commended in poetry and short fiction competitions in both Australia and the UK.
Former teacher of English and Drama in both hemispheres she teaches Creative Writing in community settings.
Julie has two previous publications.
Terry Quinn also has two previous poetry publications and is published widely in the UK.
He is a regular contributor to The North, Acumen, The French Literary Review, South and Orbis and was runner-up in the 2014 BBC Proms Poetry Competition.
Former Medical Engineer with the NHS in the UK he also spent some years in the Middle East.
He now helps organise poetry events in the North-West of England including the National Portrait Gallery’s ‘Picture a Poet’ Exhibition.
£6.00 + P&P UK
PUB: 1st JULY 2016
As joint winners of the inaugural Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize our collections were published by Indigo Dreams Publishing in 2013.
Winning that prize and launching our books together in the Black Country that same year put us on the same page. We come from similar worlds; both born in England in the fifties and both travellers and poetry lovers.
We continued writing to each other, sharing ideas about poetry, publishing and the weather. This seemed important with the world between us – one writing from the north of England and the other from the Antipodes.
In December 2014 we decided to start using each other's poems as triggers. This project is the product of a year's work, born of that original poetry prize. Gratitude and thanks go to Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams.
Alice is over there (TQ)
Said the woman with a white badge
pointing to row upon row of Wonderland
where some books were short and fat
some long and thin
some looked heavy some looked fun
and one was all of those things
“This isn’t right,” exclaimed the Customer
“There’s only one Alice”
“That is not so” said Alice in a pink dress
“She’s correct” said Alice in a hat
which set off a deafening chorus
of girls’ voices that right had been left
but they were not, absolutely not,
some kind of cheap copy
except for a slim volume on the top shelf
who proudly bristled that that’s exactly what she was
until an old hardback demanded SILENCE then exclaimed
“Do not choose them, I am the original Alice,
these are copywrongs,
so you may pick me as it is my anniversary”
which caused a huge fluttering
“That’s quite enough, Sir,” said the Assistant firmly
“we’ve all been Alice since 1907, so please leave.”
she fussed around the shelves calming them all down
muttering to herself about consequences
before disappearing down a corridor marked
To Science and Natural History.
Stonehenge in the Ley of the Dark (JM)
From under an old army blanket
we watched the sun rise over Friars Heel
before high wire and solstice porn ruined our Druid fantasy.
We startled every kissing gate after elderberry picking,
a flask of tea and an argument over a short skirt.
hem grown long without you,
I can’t stop searching
for a marking stone
or tump of trees
on a mound by the weir
to show me the dead-true way
to a sighted track
where the knapper traded
flint and salt,
and a boulder shaped for a man’s back
splayed in sacrifice
was shot by rays on a Midsummer
slaughtering day in a Malvern cave.
So many times I lay upon that sarsen stone
as Tess in full view of the moon’s opinion
desperate to find the beckoning fire on the hill,
only now realising that if I could have
been still, under the bend of that copper lea,
understanding how a grove of beech is light
because it has no light
roots wrapped quiet, curious but clenched for dear or sour life,
that light would have aligned me with the boy
who drowned in the lake,
marked by an oak bench and marigolds.
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