We are delighted to announce the results of the Hay Writers Circle Poetry Competition 2024. This popular competition again received a good number of entries from both inside and outside Hay Writers’ Circle and we very much welcome external interest in all our writing competitions.

We must primarily take a moment to thank our wonderful 2024 Poetry Judge, Susan Evans who single-handedly read all the poems, whittled them down into a long list, then short list, then our ultimate set of winning poems, with one highly commended entry.

Susan said, “It has been a real honour and a privilege to read and re-read such an inspired batch of food-themed poems on behalf of the Hay Writers’ Poetry Competition, 2024. As a classically trained chef, I enjoyed a generous helping of poems that tickled my taste buds! As a lover of food and travel, I was transported, through cuisine, all over the world! (And feel exhilarated and jet-lagged in equal measure). As an activist, a few pinches of protest poetry served as a reminder to
continue to act! And finally, as a performance poet, I could see and hear and smell and taste and touch all the poems; elevated from page to stage — something I had the pleasure of playing with, during my well received, live, performance poetry masterclass in Hay, last May…

But now, blindfolded and alone with a folder of completely anonymous poems…
How does one even begin to judge such diversity of literary talent? And only guess, on an intimate level, what each poem must mean to their respective authors? So I shall say this, congratulations to all poetry judges…! Seriously, HUGE congratulations to all Hay Writers’ 2024 Poetry Competition entrants:

Every.Single.Poem.Is.Worthy (I see a fabulous food-themed anthology!)

How I came to make my final winning selections; which wasn’t a breeze by any means, was mostly based on a combination of personal interests and feelings evoked; poems that provoked, tickled, transported, and aroused; poems that spoke to me, personally. Yep, it’s that subjective. Don’t hate me. Re-submit!”

Finalists each receive detailed feedback from, Susan (below) which maybe helpful for any writer going forward. Moreover, a mini-commentary from Susan, for all placed poems will follow in due course. Thank you, Susan for all your hard work, we are immensely grateful.

As with all good competitions, we are announcing in reverse order:

The Longlist:

A Last Supper – Sarah Leavesley
Beans a la Tost – Tammy Allen
Charlie’s yogurt – Angela Grunsell
Chocolatiers – Christian Donovan
Cream Tease – Barbie Wyard
Flapjack – Michelle Pearce
For All – Nigelle Baskerville
Food Factory – Martine Smith
It – Lily King
Leftovers – Jean O’Donoghue
Panning for gold – Nick Thomas
Second Helpings – Heather Moulson
Survival – Val Ormrod
Take Away – Catherine Smedley
The Milk Bottle – Martine Smith
Through a Mother’s Eyes – Mark Bayliss
Toaster Crumbs – Christian Donovan
Unwrapped – Michelle Pearce
War Child – Val Ormrod
Orphan Diner – Sam Ashton

The Shortlist:

A Dainty Dish – Kathy Miles
Cannon-fodder – Sam Ashton
hot cross buns – Helen Smith
I am not Raymond Blanc – Jill Munro
night custard – Helen Smith
Night Out – Val Ormrod
ode to a glass teacup – Helen Smith
ON SUNDAYS – Doug Devaney
Only Cousin – Heather Moulson
Pancake Day – Lily King
Rhubarb Cake, Germany 1968 – Birgitta Claus
The Fruit Stall, Wheeler Road, Bangalore – Jon Magidsohn
There is a subtle change of light – Diana Sanders
WILD SUPPER – Rosemary Firman

Hay Writers’ Circle Poetry Competition 2024 – Winners!

First Prize – Cannon-fodder by Sam Ashton
Second Prize – WILD SUPPER by Rosemary Firman
Third Prize – ode to a glass teacup by Helen Smith
Highly Commended – The Fruit Stall, Wheeler Road, Bangalore by Jon Magidsohn

The Winning Poem

Judge’s comments :

“Cannon-fodder: a powerful and important protest poem for our times, that which I kept returning to — hard not to; aware of bombs dropping, as I’m sat poetry judging … As a foodie, I fantasised that the overall ‘winning’ food-themed poem would be more feast than famine, and it was close, but I couldn’t let ‘Cannon-fodder’ go.
Firstly, the poem’s title: Cannon-fodder, slang for ‘expendable…’ Then the repetition of: ‘Gunpowder, gunpowder,’ within rhyming couplets; a sinister re-imagining, in my mind, of nursery rhyme: ‘Pat-A-Cake Pat-A-Cake.’ The haunting chant: ‘Gunpowder, gunpowder’ as ‘food for the gun’ to ‘gorge over Gaza…’ Such rich, culinary language and word play throughout the poem, for such dark subject matter.
The poem also shines a light on wars in ‘near-total information blackout’: ‘You yowl in the Yemen’s blood thirsty stew/Chaotic Sudan is your meaty chew.’ A fine example of literary activism literally filling in gaps in mainstream media; gaps which may take the pressure off governments to act. We are also reminded of profit over people in war: “They’re rich, worry not they have done their sums”’ Within the final stanza: ‘Would you allow bread for those on the run?’ I imagined those wonderful “Chefs for the People” of “World Central Kitchen,” (WCK) baking bread for fleeing refugees, in make-shift tents, and the tragedy of their clearly marked aid convoy in the Gaza Strip being targeted last April … a clever thing about the poem, “Cannon-fodder,” is that as immediate and accessible as the poem comes across, there’s space for the reader to imagine; as I have … and sadly, too many universal atrocities to apply a plethora of scenarios to — a chilling and thought-provoking piece. There were several, well worthy war poem entries — what also struck about “Cannon-fodder,” from a performance poetry perspective, is that I hear ‘Cannon-fodder’ on stage/soapbox, loud and clear; sending a protest message to the establishment, just as the late, great poet, Benjamin Zephaniah, et al would — I hope I get to hear this poem read/performed by the author one day, and I hope it helps to promote world peace.”
“Cannon-fodder” is a particularly timely poem in the run up to the UK General
Elections, 4 July 2024:
‘Nuclear weapons are a profound and existential threat to humanity. Instead of investing in weapons of mass destruction, we should be investing in our schools, hospitals and housing to ensure everyone can lead a happy and healthy life. That is what real security means.’
— Jeremy Corbyn

The Winning Poem

Cannon-fodder by Sam Ashton

Cannon-fodder.
Gunpowder, gunpowder food for the gun,
You gorge over Gaza, blocking the sun,
You yowl in the Yemen’s blood thirsty stew
Chaotic Sudan is your meaty chew .
Gunpowder, gunpowder food for the gun.
“Yes, Congo’s my snack, a land others shun.
Ukraine is the feast I always enjoy
While drug barons’ greed is sweet to employ.”
Gunpowder, gunpowder food for the gun,
Whose filling your stomach, ton after ton?
“They’re rich, worry not they have done their sums;
I’ll never starve though the world weeps for crumbs.”
Gunpowder, gunpowder food for the gun,
Would you allow bread for those on the run?
“No! Shooting it up is such tasty fun,
But don’t you blame me……..
I’m only the gun.”

Second Prize

Judge’s comments :

“WILD SUPPER” is an enchanting poem: a taste of the “Good Life.” I smiled all the way through the poem’s wild nature trail … the opening stanza sets the scene: ‘The sparrow chirruped/Mine is the seed stolen from the hanging basket/in the garden.’ As “WILD SUPPER” progresses, the poem feels fable-like, in how each bird, within each finely-woven verse, “speaks” of how nature takes care of itself, and shows us the necessity and beauty of biodiversity within its landscape: ‘The Robin sang/Mine is the worm tugged from the turned earth near the field’s ridge.’ The seventh and final verse delivers a charming and tasty surprise — beautifully orchestrated! And the last, solitary line, continues the theme of co-existence: ‘for my friends,’ simply heart-warming …

WILD SUPPER by Rosemary Firman

The sparrow chirruped
Mine is the seed stolen
from the hanging basket
in the garden.

The wren piped
Mine is the spider captured
from the tangled web
against the fence.

The blackbird called
Mine is the berry plucked
from the holly bush
by the blackthorn.

The kite mewed
Mine is the vole snatched
from the long grass
at the stream’s edge.

The robin sang
Mine is the worm tugged
from the turned earth
near the field’s ridge.

The dove cooed
Mine is the crumb pecked
from the rough gravel
on the garden path.

And mine?
Mine is the fresh loaf
baked by my love
eaten on the garden step

listening to the coo, the song, the mew, the call, the pipe, the chirrup.
Tomorrow I will scatter the stale crumbs for my friends.

Third Prize

Judge’s comments :

“ode to a glass teacup” is an exceedingly sensual poem, and it knows what it wants: ‘I want your smooth round belly/warm earth-made/mineral/magic’ The poem’s pace and passion is palpable—the poem barely takes a breath—no line breaks, and just two commas: ‘my lip, your lip’ I was so enthralled, I momentarily forgot that this is an “ode to a glass teacup.” We are still talking about tea, aren’t we….? Beautiful imagery: ‘your curves/holding the elixir/so fragrant within your womb/a flower unfurling’ Here, I imagine ‘Flowering Tea,’ whereby hot water, poured over floral bulb, unfurls — which is magical! “ode to a teacup” for me, shows immense art appreciation, and a gratifying relationship between art and life. A delicious ‘show don’t tell’ lyric poem; economical and sensual in its use of language; tapping into all the senses; allowing the reader to simply drink it in …

Ode to a teacup by Helen Smith

ode to a glass teacup
i want your smooth round belly
warm earth-made
mineral
magic
pressed
under pressure
now so firm
yet so fragile between
my fingers
that caress your delicate edges
your curves
holding the elixir
so fragrant within your womb
a flower unfurling
at your centre
i have never felt such beauty
as this, hot and wet
against my lips
your offering
my softness, your hard
rim
my lip, your lip
kissing
the wild heat of your making
i am burning
at your touch
i am melting
liquid
as a sigh, as the heat
you bring to my skin, to my belly
as i roll
your gift
across my tongue
and drink
until i’m done

Highly commended:

Judge’s comments :

“The Fruit Stall, Wheeler Road, Bangalore”’ ‘bursts out of brick and dust…’ What an entrance! This high-octane poem has a joyous energy and vibrancy, throughout: ‘brightest rainbow this side of KR flower market.’ This poem is full of spills and thrills; barely able to contain itself; capturing the essence of the bustling Bangalore marketplace: ‘Heads bobbing over the parapet of Papayas, passion fruit’ Lovely alliteration. ‘green oranges wobble’/good morning the ladies/ ‘ca-lip ca-lipping in their chap-pals’/‘fluttering saris of persimmon and pear.’ We must be in India! References to chap-pals (flip-flops) and ‘saris’ in ‘persimmon and pear.’ Fruits describe `The ladies’ silk dress in vibrant orange and green; matching the colours of the exotic fruits of “The Fruit Stall.” Stunning. And fourth stanza: ‘After a heavy rain, when the filter of dust flattens, midday’s cool air smells like every kind of lassi.’ Mouth-watering. The poem settles here for a moment, and I can almost taste ‘every kind of lassi.’ (I love a lassi). ‘Space for any vendor, an old woman parks her custard apple cart at the corner….’ I sense an easy, inter-generational, community warmth within this stanza. And a spectacular sense of market-trader theatre, too: ‘Father and son, one by one, machete the heads off coconuts…’ The final stanza: ‘…and sounds that wrinkle western ears…’ I found myself trying to wrinkle my ears! I’m curious, and wonder if said ‘western ears’ are not fully appreciating the local sounds? And then a salutation to the sun and the poem is suspended in ‘sweet harmony.’
“The Fruit Stall, Wheeler Road, Bangalore” for me, is a tremendously transporting and uplifting poem, with its high-energy narration, juicy word play and bursts of colour from Bangalore!

The Fruit Stall, Wheeler Road, Bangalore by Jon Magidsohn

bursts out of brick and dust between
the tailor and the hot chip man, the brightest
rainbow this side of K R flower market.
Heads bobbing over the parapet of
papayas, passion fruit and green oranges
wobble and good-morning the ladies
ca-lip, ca-lipping in their chappals,
fluttering saris of persimmon and pear.
Three men, moustaches and pink shirts, who
crew the kiosk little larger than a rowboat,
will tear the crown off a pineapple for you,
tell you the brown bananas, thumb-sized and
honeyed, are the sweetest, insist their
tamarind surpasses all others.
After a heavy rain, when the filter of dust
flattens, midday’s cool air smells like
every kind of lassi.
Space for any vendor, an old woman parks her
custard apple cart at the corner; her friend puts
chilli powder in a cup for guavas. Father and son,
one by one, machete the heads off coconuts piled
shoulder high, present each with a straw.
in April, when the mango kings, Badami and Banganapalli,
march into their royal boxes, queues lengthen like
a jackfruit’s sinewy flesh; yellow-stained fingers from
canoodling yesterday’s pips fondle bristly lychees.
And jamun and mangosteen and carambola
and sounds that wrinkle western ears and
colours that reflect off pale skin
and greet the sun with sweet harmony.

Huge congratulations to our winner, Sam Ashton, all our placed poets and everyone who entered our competition. Well done all!

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