by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Charlotte Hughes and Wendy Call
The buildings of my town cannot see they are caught killed and stacked they don’t notice the sun overhead Has it followed me across the border? It beats over their long hair-shingles, dead and brittle, missing in places I live under the flat gray roof I am in the lit apartment, 33A
On the way to the desert the one skeletal road is buried by sand the color of dried blood billboards reaching up like gravestones leading nowhere lonely monuments that are lit by golden arches brushed with neon
Neon bleeds across the night sky The sound of trucks on asphalt is an ax sharpened before the cut On my hall, a child calls for her mother, looking through each peephole like a robber or a bird trying to fly through a pane of glass.
[post_title] => On the Road VII
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[content] => Charlotte is the first-prize winner of the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard, and commended in the 2020 poetry translation challenge. She is also commended in the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge; the Artlyst Art to Poetry challenge; and the first Bloodaxe Archive challenge (The Poetics of the Archive) on Young Poets Network.
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by Irma Pineda, co-translated by SZ Shao and Wendy Call
your house, with eyes that hold both grains of sand and the sun in his vanishing sky
your house, crowned with tiles coloured every shade of hard and soft -
who is emptiness, to make his home in this body? and who is darkness, to squat beneath tiles painted by the sun?
your house, whose arteries feed the mountains and quench the thirsting seas
your house, her mouth sealed in unkissed reds -
who is silence, to leave her without dogs or daughters?
and who is death, to rob her even of blood and thieves and birdsong?
[post_title] => Your House
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[content] => SZ Shao is the second-prize winner of the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard. She is also commended in the Climate Crisis and You challenge on Young Poets Network, in partnership with the Freud Museum London.
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by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Alor Sahoo and Wendy Call
The windows of the village houses scour the beach for sand grains. They reflect on the distant sun that leaves them in the dark. Their head of roof shingles hidden, dyed a soft black and red. Who’s inside that pink and yellow hair? Who’s inside that dark brick skin?
Trekking to the mountain, your last dirt road fades out. Maybe this path would have drowned you in a flood, destroying your foundation. Your declining village has only one entrance: a set of doors, dry, cracked ruby lips.
When did you bleed out? Did your silence drive the dogs away to another village? No running children receive your cul-de-sac hugs, no robbers jump between your heads. The birds have also emigrated…
[post_title] => On the Dirty Road
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Alor is the third-prize winner of the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard.
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Mia Nelson and Wendy Call
The houses have eyes looking for every infinitesimal grain of sand as well as the distant sun, which today is un-brilliant above us and does not slip light on the houses’ scalps, their tiled hair braided softly in black and red.
Who dances or breathes or dies under those roofs? Who looks back at me from these dark houses?
Later, walking towards the mountains, the lines of blood we call the village streets fold away into the bodies of the town. I think this is because the village only opens its red mouth to the sea, only has the capacity for one, single swinging door.
You turn to me and ask, where does all the blood go? Does returning home always accompany this most terrible silence? Where are the dogs or the children or even the robbers humming in the dark, their backs laying on warm roof tiles?
Sister, everyone has gone. Even the birds.
[post_title] => My Sister and I Return to the Imaginary Street of Our Ancestors, Which We Left Long Ago
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[title] => Mia Nelson
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[content] => Mia is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; the Climate Crisis and You challenge, in partnership with the Freud Museum London; and in the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge on Young Poets Network.
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[post_content] =>
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Gunisha Aggarwal and Wendy Call
[post_title] => About the path numbered 7
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This translation is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN), written by Wendy Call and Clare Pollard, editor of Modern Poetry in Translation. The challenge was to translate Irma Pineda's poem 'Lu Neza VII', working with notes and a bridge translation in English by Pineda's translator Wendy Call. You can read both the original poem and the bridge translation here.
Gunisha writes about her process in making this concrete poem: "Irma Pineda's poem 'Lu Neza VII' evoked a very vivid visual of a landscape painting in my mind because it has a lot of rich imagery that describes the village. I also wanted to highlight the multiple elements of nature mentioned in the poem such as the sun, mountains, sea and birds which are reminiscent of a typical landscape in the translation. Therefore, I thought it would be interesting to present the entire translation as a visual poem in the form of a landscape."
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Gunisha is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard, on Young Poets Network.
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by April Egan and Wendy Call
your house and its town eyes
saw grain until it saw a beach far away, a sun that failed to shine
through their shaking slats of hair swilling red and black and soft
who dares live under yellow and pink who lives limb to limb with dark houses?
to the mountain and the mountain your body is one flat falling vein
to a clot of cold sea, shadow town left red in its naked gums
expect the bloodless silence that scared the dogs away expect no children on the winking street no leaping through the gaps in its eyelashes
limb from limb and the birds too, are over.
[post_title] => miembro a miembro
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This translation is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN), written by Wendy Call and Clare Pollard, editor of Modern Poetry in Translation. The challenge was to translate Irma Pineda's poem 'Lu Neza VII', working with notes and a bridge translation in English by Pineda's translator Wendy Call. You can read both the original poem and the bridge translation here.
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[title] => April Egan
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[content] => April was a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2020. She is the overall winner of the Agincourt 600 Poetry Competition in the secondary category, and is the first-prize winner of Gboyega Odubanjo's People Need Nature challenge on Young Poets Network in 2020. April is commended in the Poetry and Political Language Challenge, in partnership with the Orwell Youth Prize, and commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard.
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[post_content] =>
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Jayant Kashyap and Wendy Call
Now the houses, like the sun, have a yellow roof, or pink, their eyes shouting at the beach, but the sun, lost, doesn’t care today; there is no light in their plaited, textured hair; nobody knows who’s there in the houses that are now ruined.
The path that leaves to the sea also hides under a mountainous veil the only way to your village, its only open mouth-door – red, easier to leave from the distance.
This place, it’s worried about its sun. This place, it’s worried about its son. In the wake of your leaving, even the dogs couldn’t bury the silence; there’s nothing here anymore – the dogs, the robbers, the birds, even the birds have now left this worried, horrible place.
[post_title] => The Wake Of
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This translation is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN), written by Wendy Call and Clare Pollard, editor of Modern Poetry in Translation. The challenge was to translate Irma Pineda's poem 'Lu Neza VII', working with notes and a bridge translation in English by Pineda's translator Wendy Call. You can read both the original poem and the bridge translation here.
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[ID] => 19733
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[surname] =>
[title] => Jayant Kashyap
[slug] => jayant-kashyap
[content] => Jayant is the third-prize winner in the Bletchley Park challenge on Young Poets Network. He is also commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; in the tree poetry challenge; in the fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenge, Take Note; and in August Challenge #1: Re-mixing History, Fiction and the Unexpected.
)
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[post_content] =>
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Priya Abularach and Wendy Call
And up here, the houses still crane for something like you – back when the world spun above their heads, deep gold globe, those buildings were organ-warm and flushed. Now the sun is shadowed, the whole length of a year away. I hear them ask, who is home? who is home?
Once you disappeared through the mountains All signs of life were lost with you – They unspooled into the sea. Your old village is mournful now, And the dead ends of your absence leave me with only one passage, Red like a body, opened.
Why is the village so pale? Was it the silence that startled the dogs? These streets lack their children, And these roofs their robbers. Look, even the birds have flown away …
[post_title] => Poem From Your Village
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This translation is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN), written by Wendy Call and Clare Pollard, editor of Modern Poetry in Translation. The challenge was to translate Irma Pineda's poem 'Lu Neza VII', working with notes and a bridge translation in English by Pineda's translator Wendy Call. You can read both the original poem and the bridge translation here.
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[title] => Priya Abularach
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Priya is a 2020 commended Foyle Young Poet, and is commended in the 2021 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard, on Young Poets Network.
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[8] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21801
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-08-10 15:01:00
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-08-10 15:01:00
[post_content] =>
[post_title] => Homes of Flesh and Blood
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_name] => homes-of-flesh-and-blood
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This erasure poem is the first-prize winner of the Young Poets NetworkErasure Poetry Challenge in 2021. It uses as its source text page 37 of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (Western Publishing Company, 1990).
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 1st prize, Erasure Poetry Challenge
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)
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[surname] =>
[title] => Sarah Cassidy
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[content] =>
April Egan reads 'Dock Leaf Liturgy' from Sportn't:
Stas Forte reads 'Obituary For A Body' from Sportn't:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=omO5zgxCS0c
Mercury Tarantino reads 'Sad Golden Eyed Boy of Olympus' from Sportn't:
https://youtu.be/M4pu48vHbLk
[post_title] => Sportn't
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => sportnt
[to_ping] =>
[pinged] =>
[post_modified] => 2021-06-18 14:05:04
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This zine is the first-prize winner of the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. These young poets responded to the collaboration challenge.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
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[surname] =>
[title] => April Egan, Stas Forte and Mercury Tarantino
[slug] => april-egan-stas-forte-and-mercury-tarantino
[content] => The writers and artists in this group are the first-prize winners in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge, with their zine Sportn't.
)
)
[17] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21663
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:04:02
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:04:02
[post_content] => “[Robert Hooke] achieved fame as Surveyor to the City of London and chief assistant of Christopher Wren, helping to rebuild London after the Great Fire. He worked on designing the Monument, Royal Greenwich Observatory, St. Paul’s Cathedral, whose dome uses a method of construction conceived by Hooke, and Bethlem Royal Hospital.” - The Monument
The fire was a swarm of locusts without stomachs.
The city was a crooked limb, broken and reset.
The fire was a butcher’s knife, cutting the fat.
The city wears survey stakes like dressmakers pins.
The fire was a blight, infecting ancient timber.
The city was only living out of habit.
I will lean on London, and have it bend from my weight.
[post_title] => Robert Hooke Reimagines London
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => robert-hooke-reimagines-london
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[post_modified] => 2021-06-21 14:54:17
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the second-prize winner of the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Jack Cooper responded to The Great Fire Poetry Challenge.
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[ID] => 19742
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[surname] =>
[title] => Jack Cooper
[slug] => jack-cooper
[content] => Jack is the first-prize winner of the second Bloodaxe Archive challenge on Young Poets Network, about White Space. He is the second-prize winner of the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge, and the third-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge and the nonsense poetry challenge.
Jack is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge, Gboyega Odubanjo's People Need Nature challenge, the Climate Crisis and You challenge, the Bletchley Park challenge, the moon poetry challenge, the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019 and August challenge #3 on meta-poetry.
)
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[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:04:00
[post_content] => When I’m alone I use the lost language, gathering up giltycups
for your grave, thinking only of how much you loved yellow, how you’d
stretch your hand to the sun in the archet, watching it settle in the grooves
and galaxy of your palm. We’ve been having cazelty weather since you went,
my love, the sky is dark over the gallycrows and the chimleys still smoke,
although it’s supposed to be spring. I think of you avroze in autumn,
knowing somehow you’re taking the blowth off the trees, and I’m angry
at you playing hidy-buck with me – you were always meant to be found,
eventually. It’s your turn! you’d yell, well, tiaken boy, I’m still seeking.
I only wished to tell you of the hoss-stingers I saw down by the river,
their wings and the water all of the same glitter, and how the poppies to-year
are redder than ever. I only wanted to tell you how you’re laid anigh the place
we loved, the place where all the dummels swarm the honey-zuck.
I never realised our home held so little and so much – I kept your popples,
sold on the rottletraps and the dust. The mourners didn’t understand
when I said I’d found a fairy’s heart so I think, somehow, it will be
my last. I left it with you as the wordle passed, and it’s cazelty weather
for us again, rathe love, look – the sky is singing thunder.
________
Words from the Dorset Dialect, South-West England:Archet: Orchard
Anigh: Near to
Avore: Before
Avroze: Frozen
Blowth: Blossom
Cazelty weather: “Casualty weather” i.e. thunderous / stormy
Chimley: Chimney
Dummel: (Abbreviation of Dumbledore) – Bumblebee
Fairy’s heart: Fossil
Gallycrow: Scarecrow
Giltycup: Buttercup
Hidy-buck: Hide-and-seek
Honey-zuck: Honeysuckle
Hoss-stinger: Dragonfly
Popple: Pebble
Rathe: Early
Rottletraps: Rickety old household items
Tiaken: Attractive / captivating / compelling
To-year: This year
Wordle: World
[post_title] => Avore
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_modified] => 2021-07-09 10:20:28
[post_modified_gmt] => 2021-07-09 10:20:28
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the third-prize winner of the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Amy Wolstenholme responded to the 2018 August Challenge #4: Break the Ice with Vernacular in Poetics.
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[title] => Amy Wolstenholme
[slug] => amy-wolstenholme
[content] => Amy is the first prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2019 on Young Poets Network. She is the first prize winner in August challenge #1 on photographic poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Andrew Pettigrew in 2019; and the second prize winner in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge and in August challenge #3 on meta-poetry, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Danique Bailey in 2019. She is also the second prize winner in Gboyega Odubanjo's People Need Nature challenge on Young Poets Network in 2020. She is the third prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge, and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature. Amy is also commended in the Bletchley Park challenge judged by So Mayer; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; and in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019.
)
)
[19] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21673
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:03:55
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:55
[post_content] => In two hundred years all archaeologists will find of my life
will be plastic bungs. I fall asleep on them. I am the princess
who can’t feel her peas. They leave me bullseyed, looking
as if a tick has bitten and left redness as its triumph.
All they will find are these stoppers which prevent my body
from getting contaminated. They come in boxes of three thousand,
enjoy running between my fingers into the guttering, finding
their way into nooks in the car. They have tiny nubs
inside of them, filling the orifice of a syringe. My life
has always been about stopping. The pause before,
prevention of secondaries. I’d bury a locket
if I didn’t think it’d be stolen by an anorak with a metal detector.
I’d bury a syringe if they couldn’t test it for opiates.
Here I bury the artificial pea of my pauses.
[post_title] => Item 293.7 Rural History Museum, 30/04/2221
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Hannah Hodgson responded to The Future – what does it look like to you?.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, YPN 10 challenge
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[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Hannah Hodgson
[slug] => hannah-hodgson
[content] => Hannah is the first prize winner in the Poetry and Political Language Challenge on Young Poets Network, in partnership with the Orwell Youth Prize. She is the second prize winner in the second Bloodaxe Archive challenge, about White Space, and is commended in the fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenge, Take Note. She is also the second prize winner in the 19-25 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge, and in the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
Hannah is additionally a winner in the 2016 Young Poets Network August Challenge #2, as well as a commended poet in August Challenges #1 and #4, and in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge. She is also a winner in the 2016 Behind the Curtain poetry challenge, in partnership with the V&A Museum, and the winner of the 2016 Even It Up Poetry Challenge in the 15-18 age category.
)
)
[20] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21674
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:03:52
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:52
[post_content] => pretend you’re kicking the heart of the tree. you’re crushing me. you need to swing over that branch. i know how your legs work. we have the same body, remember? i’ve lived in our chest two years longer than you. are you gonna keep your maiden name when you get married? it’s also your maiden name, you idiot. i’m not a maiden. oh, but i am? i can’t fit here. make yourself fit. i’m gonna slip if you don’t shut up. well i’m not planning on catching you. i hope you fall on your head. you know your head was so fat when you were born you would’ve come out feet first? mom had to get sawed open so you wouldn’t choke to death. i’d never have done that for you. i know you better than anyone else. remember the taste of rain at sunset? it’s called petrichor. i want home caught between my teeth. i miss baby you. i used to suck on clay and stuff it into your ears so you wouldn’t hear me cursing at you. you were so stupid. still are. maybe, but i’m way stronger than you. hah. you can’t even take out the trash without dropping it. that’s not true. i’m a twelve-year-old man. wow i really miss baby you. i’m never letting you get married. what, you’ll crash my wedding or something? no, i’ll just beat your boyfriend up when you’re asleep. wait what if this trunk collapses? anyone who knows how you peel your pickles and eat raw cookie dough out of the bowl would never swear to love you for the rest of your days. i wanna be a white chicken in the alps when i grow up. is salmonella just in salmon? don’t you love me? yeah, as hard as i worship god. aren’t you atheist? exactly. i hate you so much. same here. what did mom’s uterus smell like? dunno. maybe cherry cola? move on up dude, you’re taking forever. dad said we shouldn’t be annoying mom so much, she’s almost in menopause. know what that is? yeah and you don’t need to know. the view’s better down here. no it’s not. wait i wanna know though. do you know what a period is? what kinda question is that? it’s just grammar, can you stop changing the subject? so then you really don’t need to know. you’re the worst. yep. can you make me mac n’ cheese later? thought i was the worst? make it yourself. stop hugging the tree. but i like the way you melt the cheddar. it’s called sixteen seconds in the microwave. pretty please? you’re ugly. i think i’m allergic to the seeds in bananas. you can’t be. we have the same genes. for god’s sake, will you stop ripping the twigs off? i’m not doing anything for god. i’m gonna miss you when you die. gosh fine, for my sake, then. why don’t we sit in this dent? i wish it was monday this weekend. the sun’s getting strong. what’s it like to fall in love? what happens when you don’t? don’t worry, no one will ever want to be with you. i hurt my knee. are you gonna have kids? put some ice on it when we go back inside. are you? i’m not gonna let you be their uncle. you’ll appreciate me more once i’m gone. you sound like dad. we’re too heavy for that branch. maybe i am your dad. ew that’s incest. red berries are always poisonous, dummy. it’s not incest unless we’re making babies. i love the me that’s left in you. i almost lost your voice in the wind. i think we’re as high up as we can go. the leaves up here don’t have any color. we should’ve brought the camera. just take a picture in your head. i’m gonna save you forever. the green of the grass looks raw from here. don’t eat it then. your advice is crappy. just tryna keep you alive. you don’t need to. i dunno what’s left of me if you’re gone. i wish we were the same person. we are. then you’d always be talking to yourself. not necessarily a bad thing. i’ll remember you until you die. that’s it? well yeah. i need you so badly it makes me sick. Is your favorite color still brown? no, it’s the silver in your eyelashes when you cry. eyelashes are for girls. eyelashes are for eyes. i think mom loves me more than you. well i love you more than mom. oh. i smell a storm. we better get off and go home. what if i fall? just breathe deeply and imagine yourself on the ground and you’ll be fine. promise? no, but it’s the best i can do. just pretend you can love me with your eyes closed. that’s enough.
https://youtu.be/SBv6nSWXD1Q
[post_title] => brother and sister climbing dead oak
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[post_name] => brother-and-sister-climbing-dead-oak
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[post_modified] => 2021-06-21 14:54:58
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Divya Mehrish responded to August Challenge #1: Is This a Poem?
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, YPN 10 challenge
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[ID] => 21051
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Divya Mehrish
[slug] => divya-mehrish
[content] => Divya was a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2018. She is the third-prize winner in the Poetry and Political Language Challenge on Young Poets Network, in partnership with the Orwell Youth Prize. She is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge; the 2020 poetry translation challenge with Modern Poetry in Translation, judged by Clare Pollard; and in August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry. She was longlisted in the 2019 National Poetry Competition and in the 2020 Art to Poetry challenge.
)
)
[21] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 21670
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:03:47
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:47
[post_content] => I’m tracing the pressed flower on the page,
dipping fragile sunrise, the place
where we could be two angels.
See, we wanted that paradise:
two girls lying in the woods,
safe in the cocoon of friendship,
like they’re both fated for
each other, not
pursued, not men pushing out the lines,
just Hermia and Helena.
We could feign it like the May field whispered,
mixing colors, hands, moons.
What I would give to be fair for you:
dark hair and angles, fierce and sacred,
eyes like lodestars shining. Translated.
Instead, we sit the silence, watch the play.
The grim suitors mock me,
copying out their tragic histories,
then, worse, they stay.
We aren’t chiasmus, weren’t cliché.
So quick, bright things fall to confusion, anyway.
[post_title] => An Edict In Destiny (Or: Helena Looking Back)
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
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[post_password] =>
[post_name] => an-edict-in-destiny-or-helena-looking-back
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Creagh Factor responded to Putting on a mask – the final Foyler August challenge.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, YPN 10 challenge
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[ID] => 21671
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Creagh Factor
[slug] => creagh-factor
[content] => Creagh is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge.
)
)
[22] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21666
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:03:43
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:43
[post_content] => After Gaia Rajan
The horizon ruptures in the shape of my name.
Dana, Dana, it calls while I sleep on my belly
in the woods. I will dream about the sky,
how it unfolds like a bruised lid, how deer
dung marks constellations in the dirt.
Later, I will drive myself across town.
I will run laps around the track until I have no more breath
to give. Every note of birdsong sounds
like it is mine. I sweat into my palms.
Nearby, there is a statue of a dead woman
and I can’t remember her name. Only that she lived
once and died between my textbook pages.
I call her Dana and wonder if she kept her promises.
Her mouth stays sewn to her cheeks. When I go
home, I shower and still smell like pine needles.
I will never be clean. I believe this so much I let
the water collect anywhere but on my skin.
At sunset, I lock myself indoors. Anyone
that knows me is dead. I am built
of stone. I bury the pretty bird under the trees.
then dutifully slice the tires on my car.
My stomach cramps. I do not sleep. I stare
at the horizon until it melts. When I die,
tell the sky I’ll dream about its name.
[post_title] => Sharon, Massachusetts
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
[post_password] =>
[post_name] => sharon-massachusetts
[to_ping] =>
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[post_modified] => 2021-06-18 09:03:43
[post_modified_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:43
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Dana Blatte responded to Namedropping: A Challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, YPN 10 challenge
[wpcf_pr_belongs] =>
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21667
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Dana Blatte
[slug] => dana-blatte
[content] => Dana is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge.
)
)
[23] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21669
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-06-18 09:03:38
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-06-18 09:03:38
[post_content] => The forsythia, like all stars, is dying
its impermanent death. Gold, bronze,
gone. I yank my old hair from the brush,
leave it in parcels on the doorstep
for the birds – magpie, robin, song thrush.
The pheasants make their road accident sounds,
twisted metal out their mouths. I am still
and heavy so long the mud welcomes me home,
my feet enter the squelch as though fleshless.
Mosquitos throb me bejeweled, jet and ruby,
standing on the bank. The stream is a wild girl
at a music festival, scabbed with body glitter.
She knows all the words to all the songs,
I am trying to learn. I am so still
mice forget me or mistake me for a birch.
They have hands like I have hands.
They might be water rats. I might be
water rats. I’m feeling plural like that,
the sun sucking my elbows, sunning me wide.
I fumble across a field. My body is a field.
I breathe deep enough to turn myself inside out.
At the edge, the forest sways its seductive, tipsy sway.
I show her my colony of mosses, my amulets
of nettle-rash stuck close to my bones like blood-
wet grass as we trade ghazals of mulch and birdsong.
The cut-out dolls of green light between branches dance,
take my hands, my eyes. I return home, bitten.
[post_title] => On Becoming a Changeling
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_name] => on-becoming-a-changeling
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[post_modified] => 2021-06-21 14:53:46
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Young Poets Network10th anniversary challenge in 2021. This challenge offered the opportunity to respond to any previous challenge or feature published in the first ten years of Young Poets Network. Ellora Sutton responded to Ways to be Wilder: A Challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, YPN 10 challenge
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 18987
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Ellora Sutton
[slug] => ellora-sutton
[content] => Ellora Sutton is an MA student from Hampshire. She has won the Mslexia Poetry Competition, the Artlyst Art to Poetry Award, and the Pre-Raphaelite Society Poetry Competition. She tweets @ellora_sutton.
Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems and the third Bloodaxe Archive challenge, The Re-Re-Re-Drafting Challenge. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019. She is the third-prize winner of the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge and August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry.
Ellora is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge; the Keats challenge, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021; in the first, second and fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenges, The Poetics of the Archive, White Space and Take Note; the 2019 and 2020 poetry translation challenges with Modern Poetry in Translation; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.
)
)
[24] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21610
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-04-26 12:09:53
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-04-26 12:09:53
[post_content] => for Grandad
Beyond the window, summer is packing up,
the way we used to gather the leftovers, fold the picnic blanket
and carry it – and the hamper – back to the car’s open boot.
Once, you’d have told me why the air seems to cling. Now,
the long shadows stare as you lie, your scalp against the pillow.
Your breaths come like smoke rags crossing a waning moon.
Deep inside my eleventh August, you said we could travel
forwards in time, but never back. We’ll never reclaim
Liddington Hill, an upturned cooking apple against low sky,
its trees a garland of broccoli florets, its forgotten Easter cross;
the stout mossy church, the slide that burned our knees;
the grave that asked for wild garlic, for a yew’s generous shade.
Later, there’ll be thunder. The wind will shred the heat.
The Downs will stare, like the shadows, as our horizon blurs,
as the marsh floods at the thought of the year growing old.
You’ve chosen the hymns – just the hymns. Listen,
I could read another chapter. Or I could sing:
the day Thou gavest, Lord of all hopefulness, is ended. Many things are bright and beautiful, but not this. Never this.
[post_title] => The Darkness Falls at Thy Behest
[post_excerpt] =>
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[post_name] => the-darkness-falls-at-thy-behest
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[post_modified] => 2021-04-27 14:46:22
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[wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is the first-prize winner of the Keats challenge (‘The Weariness, the Fever and the Fret’: Writing Illness, Health and John Keats) on Young Poets Network in 2021.
[wpcf-rights-information] =>
[wpcf-poem-award] => 1st prize, Keats challenge
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[poet_data] => stdClass Object
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[ID] => 21612
[forename] =>
[surname] =>
[title] => Olivia Tuck
[slug] => olivia-tuck
[content] => Olivia is the first-prize winner of the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
)
)
[25] => stdClass Object
(
[ID] => 21611
[post_author] => 23
[post_date] => 2021-04-26 12:08:47
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-04-26 12:08:47
[post_content] => I’ve never held an orange which has fully dried out, with its cloves loose
and falling apart. I’m only experienced in fresh oranges, cloves displacing juice,
a candle wrapped in tinfoil, dolly mixtures on cocktail sticks, the church
a once-a-year attendance. The belltower is a place I’ll never visit again.
Pulling joy with ropes after a wedding. When I lost myself they started
by using plywood, made a door wedge supersized into a ramp.
We park in the vicar’s space. I become a higher level of Christian –
martyr, blame ridden, sinful. This happened because I didn’t pray
during communion, didn’t make a stained-glass window of my life;
because once, my mother’s belt got hooked onto my wheelchair,
and in silent a chapel she panic-farted. It happened because I can’t drink
blood, or let Christ’s flesh dissolve on my tongue. It happened as a trial.
It happened as a wake-up call, it happened because I had sex too young.
My body chimes as it wakes up. It’s broken because my parents
have genetic conflicts, blank data spirals. There’s nothing deeper.
[post_title] => I Wear a Set of Lungs as a Necklace
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[title] => Hannah Hodgson
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[content] => Hannah is the first prize winner in the Poetry and Political Language Challenge on Young Poets Network, in partnership with the Orwell Youth Prize. She is the second prize winner in the second Bloodaxe Archive challenge, about White Space, and is commended in the fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenge, Take Note. She is also the second prize winner in the 19-25 age category in the Turn Up the Volume challenge, and in the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
Hannah is additionally a winner in the 2016 Young Poets Network August Challenge #2, as well as a commended poet in August Challenges #1 and #4, and in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge. She is also a winner in the 2016 Behind the Curtain poetry challenge, in partnership with the V&A Museum, and the winner of the 2016 Even It Up Poetry Challenge in the 15-18 age category.
)
)
[26] => stdClass Object
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[post_date] => 2021-04-26 12:07:37
[post_date_gmt] => 2021-04-26 12:07:37
[post_content] => I’d rather play in the park, I think but
at least it’s not school. I’m somewhere
completely new. It looks nice and clean but
all the grown-ups look so sad and I don’t know
why. They tell me it’s a fairly simple procedure
but I’m not so sure I would have to sleep in this room
with all these other children if it was really so simple.
There are tests and that’s ok because I’m clever but
I’m pretending to understand when really I’m
just watching the juice through the straw
and the drinking butterfly at the end which isn’t even
like a butterfly because butterflies never hurt
me. At night I get bored and sometimes in the
morning I wake up thinking I’m home but only
for a few seconds. Then I can watch the train go around
and around into the tunnel and out again. My friends
have a stethoscope and we try to listen to each other’s heart
beats but we can’t hear anything because we’re not
doctors. I like the doctors too but why do I have to
wear a dress? I don’t like it. I can’t run around
in it. Instead my bed is moving and I’m watching the
lights on the ceiling blur into one until I stop and there’s
more people. Mother, why do I have to wear this mask?
I can breathe, look, I’m fine, and it smells. I don’t want to
[post_title] => Into The Tunnel (And Out Again)
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[post_date] => 2021-04-26 12:06:59
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[post_content] =>
[post_title] => Stolen Syllables
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[title] => Freya Cook
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[content] => Freya is commended in the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
)
)
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[post_date] => 2021-04-26 12:05:09
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[post_content] => lifting cans of rice pudding over my head
counting to eight on the metronome of my hips
eight more eight more in the living room
yes!
I can balance on one leg and stay there like a tree
half uprooted
I had not thought of my body as a party
I had not thought of myself in such quantities of kaleidoscope & reggae
[post_title] => Ode to Mr Motivator
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
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[content] => Ellora Sutton is an MA student from Hampshire. She has won the Mslexia Poetry Competition, the Artlyst Art to Poetry Award, and the Pre-Raphaelite Society Poetry Competition. She tweets @ellora_sutton.
Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems and the third Bloodaxe Archive challenge, The Re-Re-Re-Drafting Challenge. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019. She is the third-prize winner of the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge and August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry.
Ellora is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge; the Keats challenge, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021; in the first, second and fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenges, The Poetics of the Archive, White Space and Take Note; the 2019 and 2020 poetry translation challenges with Modern Poetry in Translation; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.
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[post_content] => I do not want to be. I am a negative –
if the grey light grazes me, I will bloom
into uselessness, sepia spreading
to my curled edges. I do not want
the light to leak anymore.
I lunge across my lurching floor
and drag down the blinds, then fall
onto my still-made bed; the mattress
bruises. Peacock’s-back-purple spreads
across my tender retinas, ink
on a wet page. On the unfeeling street
a woman shouts and grabs my tongue
and burns. I try and press paracetamol
from the packet, silver foil too silver.
Water tastes rust now; I swallow dry
dust in my throat. I cannot –
I do not want to be. I want to be a negative
hung up in the darkroom, all inverse.
[post_title] => Migraine
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
[ping_status] => closed
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[post_name] => migraine
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[post_modified] => 2021-04-27 12:29:28
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[title] => Victoria Fletcher
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)
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[found_posts] => 848
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by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Charlotte Hughes and Wendy Call The buildings of my town cannot seethey are caught killed and stackedthey don’t notice the sun overheadHas it followed me across the border?It beats over their long hair-shingles,dead and brittle, missing in placesI live under the flat gray roofI am in the lit apartment, 33A […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by SZ Shao and Wendy Call your house,with eyes that holdboth grains of sandand the sun inhis vanishing sky your house,crowned with tilescoloured every shade ofhard and soft – who is emptiness,to make his homein this body?and who is darkness,to squat beneath tilespainted by the sun? your house,whose arteriesfeed the mountainsand […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Alor Sahoo and Wendy Call The windows of the village housesscour the beach for sand grains.They reflect on the distant sunthat leaves them in the dark.Their head of roof shingles hidden,dyed a soft black and red.Who’s inside that pink and yellow hair?Who’s inside that dark brick skin? Trekking to the […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Mia Nelson and Wendy Call The houses have eyeslooking for every infinitesimal grain of sandas well as the distant sun,which today is un-brilliant above usand does not slip light on the houses’ scalps,their tiled hair braided softly in black and red. Who dances or breathes or dies under those roofs?Who […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by April Egan and Wendy Call your house and its town eyes saw grain until it saw a beachfar away, a sun that failed to shine through their shaking slats of hairswilling red and black and soft who dares live under yellow and pinkwho lives limb to limb with dark houses? […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Jayant Kashyap and Wendy Call Now the houses, like the sun, have a yellow roof,or pink, their eyes shouting at the beach,but the sun, lost, doesn’t care today;there is no light in their plaited, textured hair;nobody knows who’s there in the houses that are now ruined. The path that leaves […]
by Irma Pineda, co-translated by Priya Abularach and Wendy Call And up here, the houses still crane forsomething like you – back whenthe world spun above their heads,deep gold globe, those buildingswere organ-warm and flushed.Now the sun is shadowed,the whole length of a year away. I hear them ask,who is home? who is home? Once […]
Download Sportn’t Download a text-only version of Sportn’t April Egan reads ‘Dock Leaf Liturgy’ from Sportn’t: Stas Forte reads ‘Obituary For A Body’ from Sportn’t: Mercury Tarantino reads ‘Sad Golden Eyed Boy of Olympus’ from Sportn’t:
“[Robert Hooke] achieved fame as Surveyor to the City of London and chief assistant of Christopher Wren, helping to rebuild London after the Great Fire. He worked on designing the Monument, Royal Greenwich Observatory, St. Paul’s Cathedral, whose dome uses a method of construction conceived by Hooke, and Bethlem Royal Hospital.” – The Monument The […]
When I’m alone I use the lost language, gathering up giltycups for your grave, thinking only of how much you loved yellow, how you’d stretch your hand to the sun in the archet, watching it settle in the grooves and galaxy of your palm. We’ve been having cazelty weather since you went, my love, the […]
In two hundred years all archaeologists will find of my life will be plastic bungs. I fall asleep on them. I am the princess who can’t feel her peas. They leave me bullseyed, looking as if a tick has bitten and left redness as its triumph. All they will find are these stoppers which prevent […]
pretend you’re kicking the heart of the tree. you’re crushing me. you need to swing over that branch. i know how your legs work. we have the same body, remember? i’ve lived in our chest two years longer than you. are you gonna keep your maiden name when you get married? it’s also your maiden name, you idiot. i’m not a […]
I’m tracing the pressed flower on the page, dipping fragile sunrise, the place where we could be two angels. See, we wanted that paradise: two girls lying in the woods, safe in the cocoon of friendship, like they’re both fated for each other, not pursued, not men pushing out the lines, just Hermia and Helena. […]
After Gaia Rajan The horizon ruptures in the shape of my name. Dana, Dana, it calls while I sleep on my belly in the woods. I will dream about the sky, how it unfolds like a bruised lid, how deer dung marks constellations in the dirt. Later, I will drive myself across town. I will […]
The forsythia, like all stars, is dying its impermanent death. Gold, bronze, gone. I yank my old hair from the brush, leave it in parcels on the doorstep for the birds – magpie, robin, song thrush. The pheasants make their road accident sounds, twisted metal out their mouths. I am still and heavy so long […]
for Grandad Beyond the window, summer is packing up, the way we used to gather the leftovers, fold the picnic blanket and carry it – and the hamper – back to the car’s open boot. Once, you’d have told me why the air seems to cling. Now, the long shadows stare as you lie, your […]
I’ve never held an orange which has fully dried out, with its cloves loose and falling apart. I’m only experienced in fresh oranges, cloves displacing juice, a candle wrapped in tinfoil, dolly mixtures on cocktail sticks, the church a once-a-year attendance. The belltower is a place I’ll never visit again. Pulling joy with ropes after […]
I’d rather play in the park, I think but at least it’s not school. I’m somewhere completely new. It looks nice and clean but all the grown-ups look so sad and I don’t know why. They tell me it’s a fairly simple procedure but I’m not so sure I would have to sleep in this […]
lifting cans of rice pudding over my head counting to eight on the metronome of my hips eight more eight more in the living room yes! I can balance on one leg and stay there like a tree half uprooted I had not thought of my body as a party I had not thought of […]
I do not want to be. I am a negative – if the grey light grazes me, I will bloom into uselessness, sepia spreading to my curled edges. I do not want the light to leak anymore. I lunge across my lurching floor and drag down the blinds, then fall onto my still-made bed; the […]
[post_title] => Stolen Syllables
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[content] => Freya is commended in the Keats challenge on Young Poets Network, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021.
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[post_content] => lifting cans of rice pudding over my head
counting to eight on the metronome of my hips
eight more eight more in the living room
yes!
I can balance on one leg and stay there like a tree
half uprooted
I had not thought of my body as a party
I had not thought of myself in such quantities of kaleidoscope & reggae
[post_title] => Ode to Mr Motivator
[post_excerpt] =>
[post_status] => publish
[comment_status] => closed
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[content] => Ellora Sutton is an MA student from Hampshire. She has won the Mslexia Poetry Competition, the Artlyst Art to Poetry Award, and the Pre-Raphaelite Society Poetry Competition. She tweets @ellora_sutton.
Ellora is the first-prize winner of the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate. She is also the first-prize winner of Bailey Blackburn's 2018 August challenge #2 on found poems and the third Bloodaxe Archive challenge, The Re-Re-Re-Drafting Challenge. Ellora is also the second-prize winner in August challenge #4 on the poetics of interrogation, written and judged by Foyle Young Poet Kara Jackson in 2019. She is the third-prize winner of the Ode to (Small) Joy challenge and August Challenge #2: Fairy Tale Poetry.
Ellora is commended in Young Poets Network's 10th anniversary challenge; the Keats challenge, part of The Poetry Society's celebrations of Keats's bicentenary in 2021; in the first, second and fourth Bloodaxe Archive challenges, The Poetics of the Archive, White Space and Take Note; the 2019 and 2020 poetry translation challenges with Modern Poetry in Translation; the Mary Wollstonecraft challenge, written and judged by Bee Rowlatt of the Mary on the Green campaign; the moon poetry challenge, judged by Nii Parkes; the Golden Shovel challenge, judged by Peter Kahn; the Bletchley Park challenge, judged by So Mayer; the W. S. Graham challenge judged by Rachael Boast as part of Graham’s centenary celebrations; and Ankita Saxena’s protest poetry challenge, remembering 100 years of the women’s vote in the UK.
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[post_content] => I do not want to be. I am a negative –
if the grey light grazes me, I will bloom
into uselessness, sepia spreading
to my curled edges. I do not want
the light to leak anymore.
I lunge across my lurching floor
and drag down the blinds, then fall
onto my still-made bed; the mattress
bruises. Peacock’s-back-purple spreads
across my tender retinas, ink
on a wet page. On the unfeeling street
a woman shouts and grabs my tongue
and burns. I try and press paracetamol
from the packet, silver foil too silver.
Water tastes rust now; I swallow dry
dust in my throat. I cannot –
I do not want to be. I want to be a negative
hung up in the darkroom, all inverse.
[post_title] => Migraine
[post_excerpt] =>
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