WINNERS POETRY PRIZE 2016 Dromineer Literary Festival
Judge Colette Bryce
FIRST PRIZE: Yoga in the Heritage Council HQ
(formerly the Bishop’s Palace) By Nuala Roche
Yoga in the Heritage Council HQ
(formerly the Bishop’s Palace)
I’ll wager I’m not the only woman
in the last six hundred years to spend her
lunch-hour in the bishop's bedroom, striking
a Downward Dog. Feet planted square to hands,
arse in air, face to tower-house wall, its
medieval window preserved in steel,
sealing echoes from the Middle Ages:
a bishop's cry of alarm — night terrors.
His glistening noggin under the four-
poster, the furtive look through the fringes
of his brat-cloak. From the hearth a cow face
moons at him, her steam-breath warming the floor
but in her dolorous expression he
soon detects a womanly sorcery.
WINNERS POETRY PRIZE 2016 Dromineer Literary Festival
Judge Colette Bryce
SECOND PRIZE: EMASCULATE By Majella Kelly
EMASCULATE
They were already dead when I took an axe to them, those true
bone extensions of his skull. He was in hard horn — a full, broad
palm on display, tines curved strongly upward, symmetrical as a
six-pack. Immense, and somewhat fascinating, they had become
cumbersome, superfluous structures that hindered his progress
through the forest; over-burdened like a knight with too many
accoutrements — layers of leather and chain mail, heavy helmet,
steel plates, long-sword, scabbard and shield. My buck in velvet
was sensitive and protective, delicately turning his head sideways
between trees, and I was tired of picking up after him, snatches
of fabric snagged on saplings or strewn on the forest floor, though
one year I did fashion some into the most exquisite pair of shoes.
Destined to decorate a gatepost, to be a trophy, a museum piece or
a bridge over a rivulet, they were useless to him even as a weapon,
their sharp points unexposed even with his head bowed right down
between his forelegs. To save him the gigantic effort of maturing
a new pair, I soldered the wound shut. And they didn’t go to waste.
I up-cycled them. Antlers make wonderful buttons and necklaces.
It’s such fun to embellish and polish them, like you would ivory.
My prize possession is a Baton de Commandement which fastens
dresses, straightens arrows and smoothes leather thongs. I even
sling spears with it. I really thought I was doing him a favour, until
last night, when I dreamt an Irish Elk rise from a dawn-white mist
and those spacious ornaments looked so singular, and so beautiful.
WINNERS POETRY PRIZE 2016 Dromineer Literary Festival
Judge Colette Bryce
THIRD PRIZE: Through the Looking Glass By Amanda Bell
Through the Looking Glass
The outcome would be different now – the dog destroyed,
after she burst clear through the glazed porch-door
in her haste to see who'd rung the bell, piercing
the child who stood there with a shower of sharp projectiles,
though she herself escaped almost unscathed.
Unlike my father who, when his turn came
to run through glass, ruined a brand new work suit
but continued to the counter, placed his order
for a burger, leaving in his wake a stardust trail
of diamonds bathed in ruby blood.
But other breakthroughs, bloodless, leave no clues,
more like pushing through clear membranes
till they stretch to breaking point, let you pass
straight through – not scarred, unwitnessed,
just less visible, for all that you're more you.
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