stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17899
    [post_author] => 18
    [post_date] => 2017-03-29 19:19:17
    [post_date_gmt] => 2017-03-29 19:19:17
    [post_content] => My mother said she’d never known such rage
within a child, she told me later,
after the doctor, and after the pastor.
I don’t recall the nights within the cage.
I’d raise my two-foot frame against the bars
and fill the little room, my mother said,
with screaming, screaming that could wake the dead,
my fists and eyes clamped shut against the dark.
I don’t remember much till I was saved.
It was by chance her detuned radio
whose crackling plugged the quiet’s monstrous hole.
I sank beneath its filtered, whispered waves.

Still now, when silence starts to sink its gap,
I hear the desperate presence climbing up
and twitch the dial to static’s frequency.
Its hiss alone can make the thing retreat.
We used to top and tail, me and my twin.
And when the white noise stops she speaks again.
    [post_title] => Detuned Radio
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => detuned-radio
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2017-03-30 10:41:32
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2017-03-30 10:41:32
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=17899
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2016
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 'Detuned Radio' won third prize in the 2016 National Poetry Competition. 

From the judges: "‘Detuned Radio’ is an impeccably constructed poem with an intriguing echo of the narrator’s uncle in Robert Frost’s ‘A Servant to Servants’, kept in a cage. The child’s ‘rage’ is extreme: neither medicine nor religion, with its hint at the attempt to cure demonic possession, can affect it. The first stanza recounts the narrator’s memory of him or herself as that child. The second stanza switches, more or less entirely, to the present. Only the last two lines of the poem go some way to explaining the source of the child’s rage—a dead twin—and personify what had been, up till then, ‘the desperate presence’, ‘the thing’. ‘Detuned Radio’ is an oorie poem which never quite reveals its full hand. It uses the suggestiveness of subtle horror to light the reader’s imagination. Its sense of ‘pacing’, the way the sentences are laid into the stanzas, with no enjambments, is beautifully handled. Its last line makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. " - Gerry Cambridge [wpcf-rights-information] => [wpcf-poem-award] => 3rd Prize, National Poetry Competition 2016 [wpcf_pr_belongs] => ) [poet_data] => stdClass Object ( [ID] => 17297 [forename] => [surname] => [title] => T.L. Evans [slug] => thom-lloyd-evans [content] => T.L. Evans lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and three kids. He has been writing poems mainly on his phone on the train to and from London over the last year or so. Work to date addresses subjects such as how bad his commute is, hip hop, carrots and tea. He is a member of the Brixton Stanza and his aim is to get good enough to write a proper love poem. ) )
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17297
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => T.L. Evans
    [slug] => thom-lloyd-evans
    [content] => T.L. Evans lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and three kids. He has been writing poems mainly on his phone on the train to and from London over the last year or so. Work to date addresses subjects such as how bad his commute is, hip hop, carrots and tea. He is a member of the Brixton Stanza and his aim is to get good enough to write a proper love poem.
)

Detuned Radio

T.L. Evans

My mother said she’d never known such rage
within a child, she told me later,
after the doctor, and after the pastor.
I don’t recall the nights within the cage.
I’d raise my two-foot frame against the bars
and fill the little room, my mother said,
with screaming, screaming that could wake the dead,
my fists and eyes clamped shut against the dark.
I don’t remember much till I was saved.
It was by chance her detuned radio
whose crackling plugged the quiet’s monstrous hole.
I sank beneath its filtered, whispered waves.

Still now, when silence starts to sink its gap,
I hear the desperate presence climbing up
and twitch the dial to static’s frequency.
Its hiss alone can make the thing retreat.
We used to top and tail, me and my twin.
And when the white noise stops she speaks again.