DESMOND O'GRADY POETRY COMPETITION

First 10 of 40 shortlisted poems for the Desmond O'Grady Poetry Competition (http://www.desmondogrady.com/poetrycompetition.html) read Wednesday 14th November at White House Bar:
"November" by Ann Dempsey" read by Marian Cody,
"In The 

Hands of White Men" by Cait Morris,
"MAGPIE" by Carlos Reyes read by Tom McCarthy,
"FLYING FISH" by Carlo Reyes read by Martin O'Briain,
"Fear is the Cheapest Room in the House" by John Saunders,
"IN THE GALWAY HOOKER BAR" by Keith Armstrong read by Dominic Taylor,
"Everyday Holocaust" by Mary Jo Gibbons read by Mark Mulvey,
"On a swing" by Rachel Sutcliffe read by Bertha McCullagh,
"My Lemon Tree" by Tammara Or Slilat (Video),
"The Man With The Silver Tinged Hair" by Teri Murray

TUEBINGEN AGAIN

I come back to you

when I am feeling hopeless,

when I am in despair of the heartless.

I trail my hefty books through Customs

to reach you,

to plunge into your depths,

to swim in the mystery of your streets,

the beauty of your trees,

the melancholy of your seminar rooms.

Yes, Tuebingen,

it’s me

looking for myself once more

in your troubled mirror.

So I dive

into La Boheme

and back and back and back

into the Boulanger.

So I stagger

out of Hades

and into the arms 

of the Neckarmueller 

to feed the ducks

with scraps of my trembling poetry.

Your Hoelderlin Tower

always makes me feel sad.

My body droops like a weeping willow

as my mad muse floats up river

to liberate new dreams,

to greet fresh friends.

I sail in your skies

in a Lufthansa trance.

Let me sing

of all that’s good in Swabia

for you.

Let me wish your lovely children joy

and then let me break my heart again

when I have to leave you.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

AFTER THE UK

Shreds of the UK

flapping in the downturn,

decayed Britain

broken into smithereens.

No Kingdom now,

no United State.

We are

citizens

with no obligation

to genuflect

in front of an overstuffed Queen.

Get the UK out of your system,

no going back.

We take the power

to rule ourselves,

make community,

build our own spaces.

Break

the hegemony

of dead parties,

lifeless institutions,

let debate flower,

conflicting views rage.

We want to breathe

and strip away

executive power,

share

the beauty and culture

of these islands

around.

Make good things,

good love.

Empower ourselves

with an autonomous freedom

in a new England,

in a new Europe,

in a New World

of real ownership

and delicate emotion.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

55 DEGREES NORTH

They’re going to illuminate Scotswood,

make floral entrepreneurs in Elswick.

Someone’s set fire to our Arts reporter,

it’s another Cultural Initiative.

Sting’s buying the Civic Centre,

they’re filling the Baltic with tanks.

The Sage is changing its name to onion,

Shane’s pissed on the classical conductor.

They’re floating quangos down the Tyne,

the bonfire will be at Shields.

They’re bringing tourists to witness miracles,

the Chief Executive will strip for money.

They’re blowing up the Castle Keep

to build an installation.

They’re giving the locals more public art,

it’s something to rhyme with.

They’re taking live theatre to the cemetery,

the vicar will write an Arts Council poem.

Steve Cram’s taken up painting

to stop his nose from running.

The river will be made into an ice rink,

we can play with our boats in the bath.

Let New Labour bomb Iraq,

they’re making a museum of politics.

Stuffing glass cases with old principles,

the head hunters are out and about.

It’s cultivated jobs for the boys and the girls,

they’re putting the Arts into centres.

Drain the music from our souls,

we have to be grateful to be patronised.

Their self-righteousness grins from on high,

let the bombs fly and rockets rip.

We can enjoy some more tamed Art,

say cheerio to your history.

They’ve wrapped it up in moth balls,

thank God for the boys from the south.

They’ve saved us from self-government,

we’ve missed out on the Love Parade.

This City of Culture got lost in the end,

the Angel glowers over us though.

Thanks again City Fathers,

it looks uglier every day. 

You’ve reinvented our culture for us,

you’ve rendered it meaningless.

Guts ripped out,

we touch our forelock to your glorious Lords.

From the orifice of the Deputy Prime Minister

leaks the corrupt emptiness of your manifestos.

The aching past of the working man

has become the death of England.

Let us hail you from NewcastleGateshead,

a city you made up for yourselves.

Let us watch your empty schemes plummet,

let us learn to dance in community again.

We are Geordies naked with a beautiful anger to burn.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Desmond O'Grady Poetry Competition

White House Limerick Poetry presents the Desmond O'Grady Poetry Competition, open to all poets from all around the world.

Shortlist

  Poem title  Poet

IN THE GALWAY HOOKER BARKeith Armstrong

Our curseJosephine Doyle

Fear is the Cheapest Room in the HouseJohn Saunders

My Lemon TreeTammara Or Slilat

On a swingRachel Sutcliffe

In my mother's house nothing went to wasteSiobhan Flynn

My viewSiobhan Flynn

MAGPIECarlos Reyes

FLYING FISHCarlos Reyes

In The Hands of White MenCait Morris

SyriaMary Ellen Fean

The SpirePeter Branson

Idir MhnáMáirín Mhic Lochlainn

CITY RAINMae Leonard

NothingAmy O'Donoghue

WarAmy O'Donoghue

DosserMike Gallagher

Paint MeBernard Kariuki

Out a many one peopleChristena williams

Harrison makes a clock 1727Jim Bennett

ReflectionsPat Mc Coubrey

SisterDarren Donohue

The IslandMajel Haugh

Remembering PadraigPapick Stack

NovemberAnn Dempsey

Everyday HolocaustMary Jo Gibbons

Dá mbeifeá in ann mé a fheiceáil anoisLucy Weadick

Lydia Dwight Resurrected. V&A Museum Number 1054-1871Phil Howard

DAWN AT FALLMiriam C. Walsh

EnduranceMary Angland

KintsugiDoireann Ni Ghriofa

The Dark and the WindEdward O'Dwyer

The World is ColorfulMary McCormack

SavedMary McCormack

I wish I went with youGerard Doyle

Divine revelation - In dedication to Desmond O'GradyMaysa AbdelAal Ibrahim

The Man With The Silver Tinged HairTeri Murray

DOES MY BUM LOOK BIG IN THIS?Seamus Harrington

SEDUCED IN APRILMarie Cadden

FinaleMarie Cadden

FOR DAVID STEPHENSON

David Stephenson was a deep friend,

I met him through books.

He came from Carlisle

with that intense and craggy look.

We studied life together,

smoked Full Strength

and sipped Real Ale.

He liked his women big.

I learnt from him

to visit pubs at lunchtimes

to end up pissed in lectures

but, most of all,

to read the letters of Van Gogh,

the diaries of Franz Kafka,

to go inside 

the jazz 

of Ornette Coleman

and Cecil Taylor.

David told me that 

‘Most people are thick’

and, as a socialist of a kind,

I sometimes think he had a point.

I wonder where he is today.

Back across country I surmise,

smoking and looking at the sunrise,

with a fat woman kissing his neck,

listening to Mingus 

and the sky.

KEITH ARMSTRONG