stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19548
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-10-10 16:43:11
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-10-10 16:43:11
    [post_content] => This was just like school. All those boys
and bright eyes and dimpled faces.
Sometimes the tedium came close
to killing him. Perhaps this was
just the disappointment that came
with being ripped from emerald
Winchester, its winnowing wind,
its ceaseless warm summer evenings.
Perhaps one can only cope with
adolescent boys for so long,
all those pale, elongated limbs
jostling each other like the
pages of a yellow book of
poems.
There were moments where his boredom
dissipated, floated into
the endless azure and joint the
clouds along with his panting breath.
It was dreamlike in a twisted
way. Of course, the dead eyed stares of
his superiors and the scrape
of cutlery on tin trays had
come to make his skin crawl. But here
in the air he was limitless.
There was only the elements
and tiny features far below, the
dollhouse buildings, the stretches
of green, the black roses blooming
beneath.
Oh. Something guttural sounds in
the back of his throat. He presses
twitchy fingers to the glass and
listens as their lilting German
is devoured by ash, like
all that Wordsworth he consumed
fervently back in his starch pressed
uniform. He’s still in a starch
pressed uniform. Watching nature
bastardized by all those red brick
structures in turn bastardized by
scorching fire. He jolts awake all
red burning skin and panting breaths.
He would prefer to be running
into the flames himself, he thinks,
to inbreathe the hot black nothing
than to have to live with this guilt
realised.
    [post_title] => Boys in the Sky
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
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    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => boys-in-the-sky
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    [post_modified] => 2018-10-10 16:43:11
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-10-10 16:43:11
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=19548
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network (YPN).

One of the judges, Karen Leeder, praised this "personal response to the life of Timothy Corsellis" and remarked upon some particularly "lovely ideas and some very achieved lines."

Em, the poet, commented, "I wrote this poem in response to the life of Timothy Corsellis. It discusses the juxtaposition between the excitement of flight and the tedium of military training heavily featured in some of Corsellis’ most famous poems, as well as his refusal to serve under the Bomber Command following his time in the R.A.F and the alienation he felt as an adolescent as one of the few boys at his school who wrote poetry. I make distant comparisons between Corsellis’ schoolmates and his fellow R.A.F pilots, drawing inspiration from his poem News Reel of Embarkation, which indicated that many of his male peers were drawn into war propaganda through youthful naivety that Corsellis quickly saw through. Finally I contrast Winchester’s green surroundings with the hypothetical urban landscape of 1940s Berlin and the eventual scenes of fiery destruction Corsellis would witness as an air raid warden, along with referencing the poetry of John Keats. This all to allude to the nostalgia Corsellis felt for Winchester in Hoxton following his school days. I felt inspired to write about Timothy Corsellis because the perspective of a young male war poet stationed in the UK is unique, as was Timothy Corsellis’ life and ambitions."
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Timothy Corsellis Prize 2018
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 18954
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Em Power
            [slug] => em-power
            [content] => Em is a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2017 and a top 15 winner in 2018. She is also commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 18954
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Em Power
    [slug] => em-power
    [content] => Em is a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2017 and a top 15 winner in 2018. She is also commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network.
)

Boys in the Sky

Em Power

This was just like school. All those boys
and bright eyes and dimpled faces.
Sometimes the tedium came close
to killing him. Perhaps this was
just the disappointment that came
with being ripped from emerald
Winchester, its winnowing wind,
its ceaseless warm summer evenings.
Perhaps one can only cope with
adolescent boys for so long,
all those pale, elongated limbs
jostling each other like the
pages of a yellow book of
poems.
There were moments where his boredom
dissipated, floated into
the endless azure and joint the
clouds along with his panting breath.
It was dreamlike in a twisted
way. Of course, the dead eyed stares of
his superiors and the scrape
of cutlery on tin trays had
come to make his skin crawl. But here
in the air he was limitless.
There was only the elements
and tiny features far below, the
dollhouse buildings, the stretches
of green, the black roses blooming
beneath.
Oh. Something guttural sounds in
the back of his throat. He presses
twitchy fingers to the glass and
listens as their lilting German
is devoured by ash, like
all that Wordsworth he consumed
fervently back in his starch pressed
uniform. He’s still in a starch
pressed uniform. Watching nature
bastardized by all those red brick
structures in turn bastardized by
scorching fire. He jolts awake all
red burning skin and panting breaths.
He would prefer to be running
into the flames himself, he thinks,
to inbreathe the hot black nothing
than to have to live with this guilt
realised.