Arts Arts Award Award Voice Voice ‘At War’ poetry anthology ‘At War’ poetry anthology poems poems written written by by young young people people aged aged 11-22 11-22 to to mark mark the the centenary centenary of of the the First First World World War War in in 2014 2014
Published by Arts Award Voice
Arts Award Voice is an online magazine which offers young people a voice in the arts and supports those working towards an Arts Award. Voice is run by a team of young people who want to open the door to the arts for others aged 12+. The ‘At War’ poetry competition offered young people a chance to write about warfare during the centenary commemoration of the First World War in 2014. Some young poets explored more recent wars or conflicts in their own lives, whereas others took inspiration from the First World War poets and tackled the Great War. We received 124 entries from across the UK and much further afield, and were immensely moved by the quality, power and range of the writing. Our judges have selected 16 poems for this anthology and we hope you enjoy them. The Arts Award Voice team www.artsawardvoice.com Arts Award Voice is run by Upstart Projects for Trinity College London Arts Award is run by Trinity College London in association with Arts Council England
My family and me My mother’s brother died on the Russian front, snow covered his bones like a blanket, keeping his bones warm, but he was not there. His soul had left his body mangled, broken, dead. My father’s brother died in Korea. The warm morning sun and the cool evening shade snuggled up against his bones and comforted him. But he was not there. A bullet through his head caused his untimely demise. The sun cradles him like a mother her new-born child. My parents met, two damaged souls, one cold and distant one hot and angry. They touched. They steamed. The pain. They turned from each other. They longed for each other. They touched. They steamed. She warmed he cooled. They love. They made me. I am the fight against war, for I am peace and I am love, I am understanding and I am tolerance. They, we, survived in memory of those who lost their lives. They, we, push through. Alexander Deans-May Age 11 London
Winner, 11-16 years
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The Munitionette Close to the Somme, or not too far away, Cold, curled-up carcasses start to decay. Who fired the mortar; who’s going to hell? No-one but me, because I made the shell. Six foot deep craters surround ev’ry tree, All the ground blasted by my TNT. Wounded men burning, the blood-curd’ling smell; Put there by me, because I made the shell. Day-long, I suffer, I bleed and I sweat, Why, well, who knows? I just try to forget Lives I have ended, and widows I’ve made; All a result of my plying my trade. Though I’ve killed many, you’ll find me unhurt; Skin stained by vitriol, powder and dirt. ‘What did you do?’, you ask, ‘really, do tell!’ All ashen-faced, I say: ‘I made the shell’. Joe Weeks Age 16 Plymouth, Devon
Winner 11-16 years
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At War You find it in the edges of conversation, When there’s a pause, A heart beat, When you’re frozen, Struggling to avoid a painful subject, And you’re telling yourself that it does no good to dwell on past events, You find it when your head is battling with your mind, Although some may say they’re the same thing, You’re drowning in the trenches that they’ve dug for themselves and reason is in no-mans-land, Begging for a ceasefire, You find it in between the tear tracks that run down your face, Each competing to be the first to drop off your jawline, And salt is in your mouth, Roaring like the sea and you’re biting down on pebbles to stop you screaming eerily like a seabird, You find it when heavy eyelids compete with insomniac imagination, At 4am, And when you realise that you feel empty, Like a washed up tin can, battered, there is no half-full or half-empty about the matter, It’s just gone, You find it here, Now, A troubled mind scratching at a chalk board in a hope to make the words re-appear, It’s nowhere yet all around you, It’s the silence of insanity, It’s the calmness of catastrophe, It’s the tranquil of terrorism, It’s war. Matilda Cole Age 12 Bishopstone, East Sussex
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Runner up 11-16 years
War Within I was tinted yellow at birth and was tinted with desires of freedom as I grew but I was neither of the names they called me; I was neither Gook, nor Yankee I was divided among myself between both ends of the spectrum I was taught what to learn but I did not learn what I was taught I learned to be my own color but was taught to blend in with the colors of the crowd; to smear myself onto the palette As a growing child I was free, wild and daring, but I was constrained by chains of condescending eyes as I grew What others would see me as was sometimes what mattered most and I was divided among myself when I was ill I did not know whether to nibble on juk* or scoop up fragments of chicken noodle soup and when I ate, I warred within on whether I was supposed to use the pair of wooden sticks or the bar of steel that would branch and split at its tip
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I was taught to kneel before my elders and respect them, too but I also learned to question authority and so I was deemed to be both brave and rude Embroiled in the midst of the angst that was my mind I struggled to find my kin, someone of my kind But I learned that I was alone that I myself had to fight for what I wanted but I was taught that I was part of the group whatever group that might’ve been I was in a melee of thoughts but regardless of how many battles I had fought I knew that I would still be the same person within or would I? and I wondered whether I was in need of an armistice; some kind of peace treaty or if the havoc and brawl was what defined me Kim Hyunsung Age 16 Seognam, Korea (*juk: Korean porridge made of grains such as cooked rice, beans, sesame, and azuki beans)
Runner up 11-16 years 7
Anorexia: at war with myself I’ve lost you again I’ve tried in vain You slip away when I don’t see you I’m blind to everything that’s true You make me so helpless, so tired, so weak To all the ones I love their help I now seek: Rid me of the lily in my lung and put the murderer to be hung Teach me how to see then set my swallows free. Emily MacLeod Age 14 Pau, France
Highly commended by Kat Francois
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History in the hands of the living And what of life, of love bled black And white, to lists of pages, Names and names of Men. The noble, lowly, high-esteemed The old and young, the never been We rewind, pause it, forward fast Your lives are ours, they never passed Now play: to die in agony ten times over, The sweethearts lined up, kindest lover. We close the book and you go home, live laugh love, stake claim to fame, Keep it open, you remain Oh drummer Hodge, without your name. Jessica Bowden Age 16 North Muskham, Nottinghamshire
Highly commended by Neil Rathmell
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At War To me, it seems strange that to declare yourself a feminist is to declare yourself a foe you say ‘feminism’ with disgust like it’s synonymous with hatred. Because god forbid a woman can think and fight and stand up for herself yet we use no guns no bombs just words. we raise our voices instead of swords no blood is shed in the name of our cause except that which is ours because people still believe that a woman’s body, a woman’s choice but not in the familiar combat boots and khaki is not her own. green In some ways perhaps no drills or salutes we are but that does not mean that we are not soldiers at war we just fight in a different way because it is the only way we can for alas women ‘aren’t built for the front line’ Elin Gray Age 14 Penath, Wales
Highly commended by Caroline Bray
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Jasmine Stung His hair roasted by the sun His body sculpted by tedium Long and weary strides - his run Selling flowers, the medium His burnt hair - his cap Shield against the heat His spirit - an open tap Cooling down his bare, singed feet Stretching every sinew, to feed little sister Mustering up all his strength To play the king, the queen, even jester He runs, no matter, the tiring length But life is a beast that can’t be tamed Nor its path controlled With so many things not going his way Watch his story unfold It hadn’t been a good day No one to sell to, nothing to earn Just as he decided to go another way Ah! A silver-tinted-beauty…Would destiny turn? The idling Range Rover having cast a spell Hundred strings held in withered palm He ran towards the facade, desperate to sell Raised hope in both eyes, heart - anything but calm. Large, liquid eyes, peered into tinted glass Fist clutched, teeth gritted He detected a portly man, way beyond his class Inside the lukewarm blanket, flawlessly knitted
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The man’s eyes seemed full of conceit But the boy didn’t care
He must sell the flowers or face defeat With sister starving on the thoroughfare As if in answer, the glass was lowered, slow The chilly blast caressed his skin Joy, oh boy as he felt the blow A cool touch or a hot sin? ‘Buy my flowers, take them all I’ll give you a royal deal They’re cheaper than at any stall It’ll give my sister her first meal!’ The man, however, looked distracted Shooing out a buzzing fly, To jasmine or boy, not attracted The glimmer of hope was now a lie The pesky pest rid of, the tinted-glass rose Without even a glance At our hero - stranded…morose Watching slip away, his last chance And yet he smiled - grateful Even though he hadn’t gained a plateful He was thankful to the man in the golden seat For the cool noontime treat in the burning heat As evening set upon the street Stomachs yet empty, but sparkle in eyes As brother, to sister, described the treat To shroud their state, a fitting disguise Partho Gupte Age 13 Mumbai, India
Highly commended by Joelle Taylor 12
Basket Case he returns in a wicker bowl to his mother’s front porch. when she goes to let out the cat (a proud gray Persian older than the war) she discovers the remnants: 22, eyelids that twitch him awake at night stomach lean, pock-marked like a battlefield. not since he was a baby has he been so small. the memory of his legs rounds out the air; his remaining arm clings to the basket as to a lifeboat
(who some three years before tapped their toes against this porch chewed bubble-gum whistled at girls lithe and dangerous as rifles.) October wind whispers secrets in a language he no longer wishes to understand just as he no longer finds anything profound in the opening and closing of flowers or star-bright chips of bone crushed into mud. in the dying light he appears near-angelic or like Moses in his basket
his mother kneels, reaches farm-thick arms around his shoulders – cradles him against trench lines groove across his cheeks crow’s feet tear-stained, breath reeking of gas her breasts, cross necklace imprinting his silent cheeks head crowded with nightmares of Jimmy Bob Gordo Frank her dress smelling of red poppies and dogwood. Shira Hereld Age 21 Washington DC, USA
Winner 17-22 years
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The Home Front Broken bones and panic. Telephone calls. Cries. Birdsong in the morning. This is the war edging to the front door step, the welcome mat and milk. Whistling missiles tearing though halcyon picnics and sandbagged back-garden trenches. Orphaned rag-dolls, Nestled beside the firefight, Dropped blood in the flowerbeds And daisies waving white flags In cracked pavement slabs, kneeling in the stained glass rubble. When it rains, And men bow shamed heads, The worms squirm free of grave soil Blind to the birds pinwheeling above. Kamaria Brown Whittingham Age 18 London
Winner 17-22 years
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War and Peace For as long as I can recall My body has been a battlefield Scars bleeding, aching, healed; A stalemate For which my soldier’s skin Suffers without relief or rest And listless beats mark time Inside the chamber of my chest A deadlock Awaiting defeat or victory When I should cease to be at all. But now my skin remembers And slowly we are advancing Stumbling, running, dancing; A resurgence Taking back the conquered lands Sculpting hope with shaking hands A revival One by one, the lamps went out But though we have not won the fight We are rekindling the light And blowing on the embers. Em Travis Age 19 Cambridge and Gloucestershire
Runner up 17-22 years 15
Conquests 1 When we get to conquer the moon and it’s full of advertisements in their buildings We will remember in dust the ancient evolution of the earth. Their dances will annihilate us. Amid war with extraterrestrials who will slice the moon with less intensity than when we ended our planet We will miss Cain and Abel Of nothing will serve to decide the eye color of your baby.
2 When we get to empty the earth emigrated as a plague to other planets We will have taught the dogs to kill and the robot will say bad words When we have fallen in love with extraterrestrials and they are only interested in us by the simple desire to discover the warm water We’ll go away. There, on Jupiter’s moon good men live The earth being a museum where the children don’t go It will be an impenetrable refuge when the last man throws the last stone. Eliseo Villafañe Age 18 Barinas, Venezuela
Runner up 17-22 years 16
Anthem for a Doomed Substitute Less than a mile from the prayers of Sunday morning church goers, the orisons of the more religious players are drowned out by shouts of: ‘HEADS UP BOYS, STRAIGHT IN, DON’T GIVE THEM A CHANCE TO THINK.’ Twenty-two seventeen year olds line up, their fathers shouting from the scuppered paint of the side lines, fitting fifty years of resentment into their weekend tracksuits. Mothers, who have been dragged along too, warm their hands round polystyrene coffee cups. The referee calls them to attention, having arrived late on the scene, gut first used to officiating games from a bar stool. ‘RIGHT BOYS, NICE CLEAN MATCH’ He demands. The whippet-like winger is first to be passed to, but is brought down by an opponent’s studded boot. He lands in a splatter of mud, blood spilling from a newly dug trench in his knee cap.
At the other end, the centre back absent-mindedly tongues his new wisdom teeth and the goalkeeper takes a drag of the rolly he has balled in his cupped fist. The palm of his glove is singed by the spitfires of fag butts. The game continues as it must and from the side lines a substitute is made to watch his own team lose. His shin pads are shelved for now, his Dad stopped coming six months ago when he realised his son wasn’t getting a look in. He adjusts his socks, stretches his quads hopefully. His boots are free from mud and cud, his smile like a down-turned-half-time orange, his kit is still loudly clean.
Highly commended by Caroline Bray 17
Lewis Buxton Age21 London
Boys Are Joining Kitchener points at me like I have anything left to give but at the same time it’s like he knows they’ve packed themselves off like it’s just another term of boarding school, or, as those old letters moaned, ‘ANOTHER LIFE SENTENCE OF BOREDOM. YAWN.’ I see their little faces, rapt as I enact a bedtime story where monsters turn out gentle and quiet and the conclusion is: ‘mummy, I thought they were scary at first but then they turned out good.’ I hear nothing, do you? Why is this war so silent? Dust doesn’t settle in my house, it grows. God knows I miss the last time they fell into the house full of ale and song. All I hear from the war is a list of censorship kennings: I fear the mud-pores we built will be our death cots. Writing this with a ration tally stick. All I wish for now is dream peace, free from fire-packed acorns. Boys are joining in bloody body-jigs. Boys are joining in bloody body-jigs, Kitchener. Read that, speak it, almost taste the blood roaring in your fat tongue. The war is so silent there can be no translation. I’ve never been one for poetry and I’ve never been keen on truly understanding things I secretly already know. I have nothing left for you, don’t you see? Jake Reynolds Age 19 Norwich
Highly commendended by Joelle Taylor
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Charge Stiff finger, murder lines Pointed forward. Ready for the heart to thrust Blood into the arteries’ mines, As if war would. Mechanism men march, Rigorously lampooning. Their sweetheart baited, Like the Kaiser in pigged starch She’s swooning. The realms chant lies In the form of truth, ‘Vive la révolution, l’abattage de masse!’ Guided by propagandising eyes Heckling peril from the roof, ‘Viva el armada y la inquisición Española!’ Indoctrinating forgetful lives And abolishing their proof, ‘Es lebe die Faschisten und die mörderischen!’ Skimming death and evil Like dirt on their hoof ‘Long live the democratic dictatorship!’ They do it once then once and once, Catastrophe is large, But still the fingers point again. Charge. Sam Coleman Age 18 Bexhill-on-Sea, East Sussex
Highly commended by Kat Francois 19
P-T-S-D Bullets in my mind – Open up my chest. Creature of the damned shadows, Curled into the soul’s cavity. Memories like decaying autumn leaves Never to see summer’s harvest. Clustered like fertile punnets, Pressed – to quench Hell’s thirst. Hands. Bloodied. Never to be clean again. Bed. Trench. Sleep – adrenaline for the demons. Infinity of silence, Ears bleeding the tears of No Man’s Land. Vignetted memoirs give future to my past But flayed arms anchor me to madness. Tie as hangman’s noose – Suit as costume of submission, Granted ‘fit’ for nine-to-five – Door opens into relentless daytime. The real war has only just begun… Ian Simpson, Age 18 Sunbury-on-Thames, Middlesex
Highly commended by Neil Rathmell
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THANK YOU To the many young poets who submitted poems to this competition. You can read some of these poems in our open At War anthology at www.artsawardvoice.com/atwaranthology
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THANK YOU ALSO To our judges for their time and thought in selecting the winners Kat Francois has a range of skills and roles: ‘comedienne, playwright, poet, director, actress, host, performer, broadcaster, youth and schools facilitator, PSHE educator’. She is the 2005 World Poetry Slam Champion and resident poet at Theatre Royal, Stratford East www.katfrancois.com Joelle Taylor describes herself as a ‘spoken word artist, slam poet, playwright, novelist and cultural terrorist’. She is Founder and Artistic Director of SLAMbassadors UK, the Poetry Society’s national youth slam championships. www.joelletaylordotorg.wordpress.com Caroline Bray is an Arts Award Associate working with museums and libraries, and has been involved in launching the Arts Award First World War Special Edition Certificate to young people who explore the Great War through the arts. www.artsaward.org.uk/firstworldwar Neil Rathmell is a writer and poet living in Shropshire who has worked extensively with young people. Neil took on the challenging task of shortlisting from 124 entries. www.neilrathmell.com
Thank you to Lydia Starkey for design and illustrations. See more of Lydia’s work at www.lydiastarkey.com
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