Creative flair!

Earlier this year, in the spring edition of the National Trust Magazine, we launched our first ever poetry competition ‘Landlines’. Our theme was the outdoors and over 1,700 people were inspired to put pen to paper and submit their poems. Entries were divided into two categories: over 16s and 16s and under. The poems ranged in subject and form, from acrostics on the Trust to haikus about snowflakes.

Our judging day was held at Nostell Priory, near Wakefield, where Jo Bell (Director of National Poetry Day: www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk) and Ian McMillan (presenter of Radio 3′s The Verb) whittled the poems down to 12! ‘A poem had to startle, surprise and excite’ says Ian ‘to make our shortlist’. Below are the commended poems, beginning with the winning entry in each category.

Ian McMillan judging our winning words photo by John Millar

For more on the judging day look out for our forthcoming issue of the magazine in September.

*Winner of the over 16s category*

Leaf Goddess
By Lesley Saunders, from Slough

The question of bracelets is the one about
nakedness and what makes it, how her bare

arm has just brushed against the whale-back
of sky lying against the slow length of her

after all its migrations and tornadoes.
She imagines practising her feldenkrais

on its tired atmospheres, the inert gases
rippling like glass-eels under her fingers

while she becomes leaf-throat, leaf-speckle,
a tease of beetle-wings and copper beech,

a birds’-nest of precious-metal puffballs
and chlorophylls.  Inevitable then that winter

is what she does best, the meaning
of which is resting roof-deep in leaf-lustre,
naked.  Staying.  Stayed.

*Winner of the under 16s*

Untitled
By Emma Lister

“It’s really something” -
standing out of the sunroof,
we are not dead yet.

In November, we’ve valleys,
houses leaning, nestled
among those fields

outlined in hedgerows -
and the trees are wet under
miserable sky.

Grow tall, leaves. Unfold.
Bring a cowlick of summer -
with meadows, poppies -

When you lie back down,
the grass curls over your face
and there’s a heavy

bee; autumn is kind
to him. The water in springs
tastes like last winter.

—————————————————
Over 16s runners-up
—————————————————

Nesh
By Char March, West Yorkshire

Last week they said it was cold in London.
A thin bit of mizzle brought them out
in a rash of umbrellas, much buttoning.

Up here, cold
is the landscape;
rain the absolute norm.
And no pissing about
with mizzle, drizzle, mist –
we shove through solid water,
that holds us lurching
at gravestone angles,
across Huddersfield Piazza;
through bucketclanking farmyards;
out onto the moor.

Our air is luscious,
alive, viscous,
slapping us awake
like a wet cod
across our chops.
———————————————————–

What They Brought to the Wreck of the Irex
The Needles, January 1890
By Shelley McAlister, Isle of Wight

From Kick Pudding Lane, a pud for the last man in, poor soul
a bit of spotted dick left over from Christmas

My best bible and a prayer for all those shipwrecked souls twickered out
and shrammed with cold and clinging to the rigging like gulls muck

Me not long from childbirth’s bed, my newborn’s caul
too late for them that drowned

A flask of whisky for the lifeboat lads, a nemmit of fusty bread
and cammicky pickle strong and rank as a jack tar’s drawers

A slab of chock-dog cheese like I sent to my chuckleheaded mate. Is this cheese?
said he, decided it wasn’t, cut a hole in it and used it as a grindstone

My homespun knitting wool and needles sharp as a marlingspike
I’ll make them a rugwarm blanket all the colours of Alum sands

My pillows, soft as ducks. Anchor your heads here boys, dream
of ships snug in safe harbours and yourselves tucked up tight coils of rope

———————————————————

FLOCK
By Susan Richardson

we are a one-us
we move for food   for fear
to keep the usness
there is no un-us
there is only an un-us when    one of us
forgets the us
and must run to catch up
one runs and the us runs
one bleats and the us bleats
one needs to eat from the lower slopes
and the us follows
the us criss-crosses us-tracks
the us dumps us-dung
the us leaves us-fleece
on spikes of barbed wire
the us huddles  forms an us-wall of wool
to us ourselves from dogs
sudden men and movements
we love to live thus    usly

———————————————————-

Sunday Worship
By Roberta J.Dewa, Nottingham

The first lesson. Start to know your place
as you turn into the minor road heading for
the moors. Although there is no silence
in you, imagine quiet enough to hear
the forest flexing underneath your wheels
the dark lap of the reservoir on flooded hills
the stretch of moorland peat between the tors.

At the locked gate you must leave your car.
This is the second discipline; we teach it here
because you are not to be trusted with an empty road.
You must be taught regression, to walk more
slowly than you need to reach the valley head
leaving no stone ripples in the lake, no heel-ruts in
the path. Feel heavy as the bones of mountains in your feet.

The third task. Walk uphill till you are far from voices,
then stop. Become a shape of stillness: a pine-tree,
a standing stone, a fence-post crumbling in a
scarlet marsh. Be only vaguely human on the skyline
of other people’s sight. Let your life shrink upwards
with the stream; run smaller, clearer, till you vanish
in its source. Wait for the rain. Know what is happening.
——————————————————————-
The Taking of Rossall Beach, 1973
By Pamela Matthews, from Northumberland

Our Hillman Superminx rolls, a Chieftain tank, onto the prom.
My brother, Commando shoes and camouflage trunks,
runs down the slade to secure our position.
Bodies are strewn over the sand,
sweltering, festering in the blistering heat.
Rough towels are laid flat, four square in formation.
Sandcastles spring up like a Maginot line.

Chased down to the sea, the command comes.
Dive! Dive! Dive!
Thrashing through the water like enraged torpedoes,
we launch ourselves into the murk and salt and
unidentified floating objects.

Marching wearily back up to camp, supplies are inspected.
The Thermos, an unexploded bomb, is gently lowered into position,
lest its innards shatter into smithereens.
The sunbaked Tupperware reveals corned beef on sliced white
which curls its nose up at the shell-less boiled eggs,
dislocated eyeballs, lost in action.

Back at HQ, half the beach litters the kitchen floor
and happiness in sunburned into our memory.
—————————————————————
Under 16s runners-up
————————————————————–
Summer
By Eva Sykes, Newcastle upon Tyne

Summer bounced
Into town
Putting smiles on children’s faces
Stopping grown ups frown

Summer leaped
Onto the sand
Rushing through the sun and sea
Shaking the waves hand

Summer skipped
Through the field happily going along
On his head was a sun hat
In his head a song

—————————————————-
Snowflake,
By Hermione Blandford, Romsey

Drifting through the wind
An ice-cold cauliflower
Landing in my hand

——————————————————-
On Charmouth Beach
By Freya de Lisle, Devon

Pearl grey sky, screaming wind,
A slash of azure cuts through the ashen clouds.
Ominous slate cliffs conceal rows of jagged teeth above smooth pebbles.
The hunt begins.
Eyes swing in wide arcs, seeking the prize –
Forever-spiral, ancient whorl.
Ocean sweeps over shore, breathing a maybe-promise of revelation.
Suddenly
A flash of recognition in the rocks –
Coil of cream on a charcoal block.
Trace the frame of the long-ago creature,
Feel the weight of it in hand.
Tiny body, work of nature’s art –
Ever spinning wheel ground to a halt.
———————————————————————-
Stonehenge
By Rachel Herring, from Salisbury

Statues. Everywhere. Fixed, as though caught
in an immutable whirlpool of stone:
featureless, yet intimidating sameness.
staring resolutely into nothingness, in a silent
and infinite reverie. Relics of the past.

Undiminshed, unchanging, ever present.
Passing through the years. Seeing all.
Hearing all. Remembering and knowing;
always knowing…

Enduring storms and tragedy;
persevering through wars and plagues.
Once they were alone.  But now the metal monsters rush past,
and generations come to marvel at their majestic aura
and silent contemplation of this ever changing world.

Now, the only moments of peace
come in the everlasting silence of dawn,
when the world sleeps soundly
in the unreal calm which comes
in that strange, peaceful time
somewhere between day and night.
———————————————————————
The Blue Lake
By Ella Belton Saunders, from London

As I push the long branches out of my way a park appears.

I never knew it was there and I don’t think

Anyone else does either.

There is a sapphire blue lake in the middle. It looks like

A Million crystals are floating on the top

When the sun hits it with a roaring flame of happiness

My little blue lake.