The Roots Belong to You: Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award Winners' Anthology 2023

Foyle Young Poets of the Year Anthology

The Roots Belong to You Poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2023

“Being a Foyle winner means so much to me. It feels like my voice is being given a spotlight, and that’s so important for young writers.”

– Rishi Janakiraman Foyle Young Poets of the Year Anthology The Poetry Society 22 Betterton Street London WC2H 9BX poetrysociety.org.uk Cover: James Brown, jamesbrown.info ISBN: 978 1 911046 49 3 © The Poetry Society and authors, 2023 The title of this anthology, The Roots Belong to You, is taken from Nabiha Ali’s commended poem ‘tuesday 10:30 p.m. (in the parking lot beside the field)’.

This anthology is available in a range of accessible formats.

Please don’t hesitate to contact us at fyp@poetrysociety.org.uk

Contents Introduction List of Winning Poets

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Top 15 Poems Heather Chapman Frank Qi Bea Unwin Lauren Lisk Freya Gillard Dawn Sands Cameron Calonzo Ellen Bray Koss Sidney Lawson Tyra Alamu William G. Marshall Eva Woolven Charlie Jolley Rishi Janakiraman Issi Sharp

Buying Our Second-Best Bed Hometown Eulogy suggestions for first love coda rugby poem the world viewed at 73mph Congrats First Blood* Washing Machine Marriage Not black enough That You Remember Me Pink Floyd (portraits of the moon) The Day We Caught the Train* triptych for your gay son Some Chunk of Willow

The Poetry Society The Foyle Foundation The Foyle Young Poets Award Further Opportunities for Young Poets Schools and The Poetry Society Acknowledgements Enter the 2024 Competition

* Content Warning: these poems refer to assault and violence.

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Introduction “These poems show such joy and invention in language that it is an absolute pleasure to spend time with them. They are suffused with love and they look in an open-eyed way at all sorts of difficult experiences. In every situation, they offer their beautiful and uplifting singing. What a wonderful advert for the importance of poetry, and – more – how much faith they give us in people, our capacity for empathy and tenderness and how, with nothing more than words, we can make the world go ‘Wow!’” – Jonathan Edwards, Judge of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2023

The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award has been finding, celebrating and supporting the very best young poets from around the world since 1998.

Founded and run by The Poetry Society, the award has been supported by the Foyle Foundation since 2001 and is firmly established as the key competition for young poets aged between 11 and 17 years.

In 2023, we received over 15,800 poems from over 6,600 poets from 120 territories. 15 top poets and 85 commended poets were selected by judges Jonathan Edwards and Jane Yeh; together, these 100 winners showcase some of the most exciting young voices emerging today. Reflecting on the judging experience, Jane commented: ‘I was astonished – and humbled – to read so many poems brimming over with inventiveness, ambition, and sheer quality. I was deeply impressed by the artfulness and linguistic sophistication found in many of these poems, as well as the engaging, ardent lyricism of their unique voices. It was a privilege and a pleasure to read these entries, which make me feel excited and energised about the future of poetry.’

This anthology collects the 15 top winning poems and celebrates the names of the 85 commended poets. A sister anthology, collecting the commended poems, is freely available to read online (as are a wide selection 4

of anthologies from previous years of the competition and accompanying teaching resources). All of the poems were written by poets aged between 11 and 17 years. Both anthologies demonstrate a breathtaking array of talent that promises to inspire poetry lovers everywhere.

You might find one or two of the poems difficult to read. Content warnings are included on the Contents page and at the top of any poems where this applies. We recommend younger readers ask a trusted adult to look at the poems before reading them alone. To enhance your enjoyment of the poems, videos of some of the young poets reading their work are available on The Poetry Society’s YouTube channel.

Some of the poems you will encounter in these pages strike a defiant tone: Tyra Alamu’s ‘Not black enough’ rails against racial stereotypes, while Charlie Jolley’s ‘The Day We Caught the Train’ frames gender-based violence in stark opposition to childhood innocence. Ellen Bray Koss’s ‘First Blood’ is an unflinching take on coming of age, while Freya Gillard’s ‘rugby poem’ harnesses an urgent energy and brings it to the page.

Other poems are characterised by joy, such as Cameron Calonzo’s ‘Congrats’, which urges happiness, and Eva Woolven’s ‘Pink Floyd (portraits of the moon)’, a delightfully surreal meditation on love.

You will find poems that explore big feelings through domestic details, such as Heather Chapman’s quietly elegant ‘Buying our Second-Best Bed’, or Sidney Lawson’s playful ‘Washing Machine Marriage’. Meanwhile, Lauren Lisk’s ‘coda’ and William G. Marshall’s ‘That You Remember Me’ reflect poignantly on intergenerational connection.

Many of the poems in this book burst with colour, sound and texture, often in surprising ways. Frank Qi’s ‘Hometown Eulogy’ and Rishi Janakiraman’s ‘triptych for your gay son’ are suffused with vibrant imagery that brings their reflections on heritage and identity to life. In ‘Some Chunk of Willow’ Issi Sharp’s deft extended metaphor draws on the material world to resist expectations, while Dawn Sands’ ‘the world viewed at 73mph’ is a vertiginous marriage of technology and the existential.

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Bea Unwin’s sensuously hypothetical poem ‘suggestions for first love’ tells us: ‘this is what they call hypervigilance / all senses to the ground’. Indeed, this might serve as an apt description of all the poems collected here, which pay generous attention to the world around them and lead their readers to fresh perspectives.

The title of this anthology, The Roots Belong to You, is taken from commended poet Nabiha Ali’s poem ‘tuesday 10:30 p.m. (in the parking lot beside the field)’. In a sense, it gestures towards the ethos at the heart of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award: with the award, we hope that every young person who has the courage to write a poem and send it in feels empowered to use their voice and nurtured to grow as a poet.

The Roots Belong to You marks a celebration of the work to come from some of the most playful, sharp and inventive emerging writers in the world. As Jonathan Edwards commented, ‘the achievement of these poems is enough to drive faith not just in the future but in the present of the art.’

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Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2023 Congratulations to the 100 winners of The Poetry Society’s Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2023. Thank you to everyone who sent their poems into the competition.

Top 15 Winners

Tyra Alamu . Ellen Bray Koss . Cameron Calonzo . Heather Chapman . Freya Gillard . Rishi Janakiraman . Charlie Jolley . Sidney Lawson .

Lauren Lisk . William G. Marshall . Frank Qi . Dawn Sands . Issi Sharp .

Bea Unwin . Eva Woolven

Commended Poets

Mathias X. Adler . Alicia Aitken . Evie Alam . Lux Alexander . Nabiha Ali . Zaara Arif . Eleni Barrett . Axelle Benoît . Maithreyi Bharathi . Grace Bowen . Saturn Browne . Elise Buckingham Lazell . Sophia Camiña .

Juliet Capgras . Lilly Cheeseman . Fae Chui . Lewis Corry . L. Costa . Dingzhong Ding . Mari Farrand . Elena Ferrari . Camille Gabbert .

Bohan Gao . Gabi Goncalves . Margot Liv Gothard . Noah GowerJones . Merila Gramy . Sofia Eun-Young Guerra . Sophie Hardaker .

Ben Heiss . Maille Hennessy . Emma Catherine Hoff . Paromita Islam . Riva Jain . Sarah Kane . Neha Katariya . Emma Kurr . Arthur Lawson . Michael Liu . Noah Ma . Iona Mandal . Hannah Mansfield . Frankie Martins . C. McIntyre . Ramona McNish . Fedora Mensah . Amber Alison Miller . Lydia Mitchell . Eesha Mohan-Clarke . Mukhtar O. Mukhlis . Frank Njoku . Noemi Nobile . Maabena Nti . Sophia Papasouliotis . Megan Park . Charlie Pennell . Isabelle Pollard . Anna Ponticos . Jack Puddy . Maaria Rajput . Esther Richards . Zach Rolfe . Madeline Schaeffer . Nerys Schmetterling . Margot Sidwell-Woods .

Amelie Sillitoe . Cassia Stuttard . Richard Su . Mariia Sukhomlinova .

Hannah Sutherland . Georgia-mae Tan . Malin Janna Vega . Ananditha Venkatramanan . Amy Walpole . Helen Wang . Robyn Ward . Chloe Whitehead . Elise Withey . Keiana Wolfe . Jesse Aviv Wolfsthal . Lara Wong . Leyton Wong . Jilin Yan . Ange Yeung . Viktorija Zak

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Heather Chapman Buying Our Second-Best Bed Mid-January, you decide it’s time.

I drive us to IKEA, stereo crackling ABBA. You lie in each bed with hands crossed over chest; I sit curled in artsy metal armchairs and mispronounce mattress names. Your reflection pigments the bloated green body of a table lamp.

You’ve planned everything else already – left wallpaper peeling, ready for a spirit to slip out alongside zip of centipede and cockroach whir. Picked dawn-gold lamplight, simile of renewal. Once you’re done, we share a glob of trifle in the café. I don’t care about any other legacy, you say, and I believe you but don’t say so. Stopped clauses curdle my throat.

I’m stuck on prepositions – in bed, beside bed.

You have chosen this endowment – I try to frame my memory around it: you, sat up in bed, cradling the magpie that crushed against our bedroom window – sudden flowering of white and black, then spiral fall, talons apostrophising the November mist. You, pillow-propped, with your taped-together Italian novel for literature club, umbrella lolled over your shoulder. Your casual past tense, your hand and my hand. I cry on the way home; you don’t. Sun passes through your profile. I press my pulse against the frost-breath of our first meeting, but it folds to golden, sleepy glow. My traitor heart leans to kiss your cooling lips and whispers an omen for red skies and easy dreams.

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Frank Qi Hometown Eulogy i ask my father where home is and he tells me it is Jinan, the city of springs. here, April sheen frames the waterlily bulbs like a gold filament painting. the sky stays persimmon-coloured after midnight. south of the river, i grow up wrapped in a red flag. the fabric stiffens my tongue and teaches me to speak in idioms. when he asks me in return, i tell him that i remember home falling like rain on a bruised London afternoon. in the back of a Wetherspoons, my sister tells me home is shaped like a plastic bag. she tells me home is minding the gaps, home is the Bakerloo line, northbound, with two stops to go. home is how my lips yield when i grieve that i will never belong. i ask my mother where home is and she tells me it is the ache sewn

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into the strokes of my name. and if i pick out the stitching with my fingernails and find again where i began, home is somewhere between the seats of this empty plane.

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Bea Unwin suggestions for first love Oh, let’s say she takes it apart in her hands: my grasshopper heart / pulls it delicately into pieces / each oily valve thrumming a midnightlit song // let’s say she leaves it thin, cradled wet / the same way you’d cup every star in your palms if only they would not burn you / these scrapping tongues knowing war as their first language // and let’s say now i see a reminder / she is only a woman with teeth like mine / grown in all wrong as a child / to trace my skin, sharp as the rotting bones of clocktowers // let’s say that she parts these salt-stained waters as though they are real, and not made of sand slipping through my fingers in a perpetual hourglass // or that she cuts back the lips of this budding hibiscus root / and dedicates to herself this temple called my bloodstream / a vein running unspun, a ghost of a silkworm / did you know some bugs have ears in their legs? i suppose this is what they call hypervigilance / all senses to the ground / so when she inevitably does all this, i draw a mosaic line between my second skin & a hiding place / and we hem the frayed edges of these years slowly // saying next to us lies our newest shame – it curls too small in the pillows / learns to outgrow its body.

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Lauren Lisk coda andante The last time you played piano Grandpa I counted its rotting teeth I had gotten to 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 before we stopped blowing out candles I started counting how many pills you could hide in your pudding before your body succumbed to life like it couldn’t fathom letting go of my hand on that first day when we hinged ourselves into the arms of a rusted school gate thinking that if this door would never open again this door could never close accelerando but eventually we have to stop and eventually we have to stop life plays

balancing on clefs pausing on each

rest now

through to the next bar

piano where you stop breathing. mezzo forte The last time you played piano Grandpa you played rubato like you had some freedom with time and you weren’t secretly counting down the days went and now we are at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 12

crescendo nights I’ve tried to sleep but my mother is perched on the mantelpiece holding you your photograph still as we sit side by side the moon in your fist plucking the stars like its strings. subito forte e presto It’s begging you to let it orbit. pianissimo e adagio Why won’t you let it orbit?

And this stage is flickering

is blurred.

smorzando The last time you played piano

and your face

Grandpa

you cried.

largo e piano You didn’t want applause.

You didn’t want the end.

I had never seen I had never seen

her cry before. you cry before.

White key. Black key.

And then this grey area.

Your pruning fingers as you lay flat

pricking notes out of needles on a bedsheet observing vials of water

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tremolo out

of your eyelids.

rit.

Why did you always try to hide yourself dying The melody lets go of its sound, dying The arpeggio lets itself fall and then land.

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Freya Gillard rugby poem a girl drops her shoulder and I pick it up later she returns the favour violence is senseless but this we understand I taste copper under my tongue she shakes my hand the blood is a becoming bruises blooming under hardened flesh I papered over the cracks in my bones and strong now they carry me faster than hitched breath through bodies and beyond body beyond all things atlas too would have fled his burden if he were fleet enough and I am fleet enough bring it to broil skin cracks and sears like drought or else like dirt beneath pounding feet under paling sun the ground growls snaps at ankles demanding struggle some girls fight it as brutes all fury studs ploughing good earth to be sown with our sweat and some girls dance weaving needles drawn through mottled cloth and sharper for it feet light but we fall heavy they ask me how I run the line like surgery like life hinges on precision I explain the line is not a line but a cliff edge and if I cross it I will never stop falling

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Dawn Sands the world viewed at 73mph Where is that statistic, that we all know but most forget, about the primary causes of death and how daily we relive that sentence?

We blur past the world in our capsule. At the base of a cloud there is a conjunction of heaven and earth: they are clustered by the gods over the horizon like hills shadowed against darkening skies, and across eternal fields the pylons are tattoos. They are vast. They are cities of steel bound by tightropes, and there is us, gliding across the highway miles below in clammy cold. The heavens are too far; the rain is falling, and we must keep our minds far away from our sentence. Cat’s eyes: they are wise, they are watching, they have seen things.

A swerve. The orange flash of an indicator light, and we slow down, we have escaped the inevitable. But when I step out of the capsule into the smell of the night the second-floor window is dizzyingly high and a single telegraph wire arches its way across the sky.

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Cameron Calonzo Congrats Something good is happening to you.

The sun doesn’t ache like it used to and the birds have stopped picking at your limbs.

This is just a drill and look! at your life’s love starting from rest, rubbing her eyes from across the Pacific.

You haven’t cried since your second-to-last birthday and The Show is within thirty miles, under forty bucks.

The helicopter’s landing and it’s not an emergency this time – less might not be more, and thank God there’s more of you to touch.

The fire in your name-brand jacket has spread to the rest of your closet. You’re out.

Dad says hi, he’ll call you after work.

You’re walking home, alone, you’re with a girl, she knows you and wants to keep in contact.

Something good has happened inside of you.

The backs of your eyelids aren’t so black anymore.

You’ve grown two inches. Your hands are manly, rough, and they don’t mind being idle once in a while.

Tell your family, new and old, where you’re going; write home. Show off those killer arms.

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Ellen Bray Koss

Conten

t warn

First Blood

ing

After Richard Siken i.

It starts with words splatting onto the ground that should’ve been strapped inside. It starts with a monster that rears its head, can only be killed with a hot, oily pistol. Here it is – the fight you’ve been itching for. Your chance to slice, to cut, to punch a wall. You’re sick of patching up holes. You’re sick of apologising. You drive out to the woods, set up Pepsi cans on a weary log and stand fifteen feet away. It’s as easy as ready, aim, fire. ii.

Well-mannered, kind, always giving and never asking. A nice girl like that is sure to turn savage eventually. iii.

There is violence, suddenly, everywhere. There is a pair of scissors to chisel the hair you can’t twirl around your fingers anymore, the fingers that now pry open bear traps, throw lit matches onto a petrol-soaked porch.

Smiling becomes just a baring of teeth, and the boys who don’t listen will find themselves part of the carnage. Instead of goosebumps on your arms, there’s adrenaline in your veins. There is a monster that needs to be killed.

In daylight, it’s reassuring – everything that must be killed can die. But at night, you’re realising just how much will need to be slaughtered. iv.

You didn’t know there would be this much rage, this much screaming.

This much blood and sweat and intestines. You were never taught how to explode without it being something dangerous. For the weapon to work, it must first become a lover, a guardian. You take your worries out into the yard and beat them into the grass with your primary school rounders 18

bat and it’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever done. You dig up your old diaries and it’s scarier than staring down the barrel of a gun. v.

What is this monster exactly? No one will tell you. It’s just something that has to be bludgeoned. The monster is your mother’s hopes, your father’s disappointments, all of your desire, all of your grief, the dance classes you haven’t taken since you were eleven. There are multiple monsters and they are boys with sticky eyes, men with furrowed brows. There is just one monster and the monster is you, and it is something deep and strong that scares everyone. vi.

Here’s the truth: all of that rage has to come out somehow. Who do you trap – the monster you used to be or the monster you’re no longer frightened of? It’s a test. A baptism by fire, maybe. Or candles on a 17th birthday cake. Either way, things will be set alight.

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Sidney Lawson Washing Machine Marriage Just air, paint, wood, steel, bedframe, mattress, and Your body between me and the washing machine.

I think of it whirring, whirling while you sweat, Think of my skirts wrapping around your trousers, Of my blouses dancing with your shirts, pine For the melodious chime which means the fun is done.

I am in love with the washing machine, and with you too Darling. When you return from work, wet with Engine oil, I go to work unwrapping you rapidly, Pressing my lips against your freshly free flesh, Filling the keen mouth of the machine, thrusting At buttons to start it salivating, sudsing, spinning.

To us housewives it’s brand spanking new As you are to me, but already I feel Like things will be this way forever.

It’s the swinging sixties and I’m living A luxury life of ease, upstairs, on my knees.

Darling, next, can we get a tumble dryer please?

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Tyra Alamu Not black enough

Wonder what it’s like living like her her hair bounces a million miles per hour people glare as she walks by the bus her teeth filled with a million gaps her black gums and her dark shiny skin they laugh and giggle at her tone and when she pronounces things wrong it’s because that’s how she was taught at home they flaunt their lighter tones and taunt her skin tone she doesn’t fit in with all these new afro beats or when she eats certain foods she can’t handle the heat because in this society you have to be in the middle why can’t she be prettier you see? she can’t change it she’s only fourteen she was always just the token black girl in every storybook Melanin through her veins but it felt like a reign she could never let go of sometimes she couldn’t tell if it was her skin or if she wasn’t pretty enough the word microaggression she never knew but now open like a million pages on a storybook but she won’t do it no more with her defined curls that defy gravity her attitude is electric, insult her and she’ll be back sharp because it’s about time you see how much her mouth holds instead of her hair.

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William G. Marshall That You Remember Me i I come to visit her in 2 Jacobson Terrace, as always, after mindless messages. She sits snugly by the soft couch, springy with a homely smile. A small, compact, living room.

She chit-chats to my momma and papa, as I wander freely alone.

Rummaging, rustling through her beloved belongings: old, outdated photographs, ornaments, shabby newsletters with solved puzzles, stacks of bingo cards, and salon makeovers.

All lost and found. I find a shining snow globe – I’m absorbed in it.

My blizzardous world, a white-out, as the white lies to the ground. She is my cold summer, brightening my dawn.

I play round with her anchor-catted doorstop; her doors open and close. Now, stuck indoors.

I return restlessly, as she jots notes in the juggling diary.

Joking about life, like feeling lucky for the Lotto today.

She laughs her head off, as I jolt and jump onto the three-seater sofa. Momma calls me off.

I crawl with cramped legs that can’t even walk a mile.

It’s time to go, a tight tug of a hug, and a close cheeky kiss, as she looks through the window pane, waving me goodbye.

Peace was on every crease of her brain.

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ii Today’s the day to celebrate her 90th Birthday.

It’s been forever, like light-years away from her.

She settles down in Tigh Na Muirn: the caged care home.

Lockdown has us locked up, with my mask strapped to a hiding face like we’re trick-or-treating.

She walks with a hunched back, all crumpled, I tremble with cold hands in the winter ‘family’ room.

Your feet tremor – the aftershock struck my calling heart.

I cuddle up as you grasp my bitter hands, groaning and shaking. Do you remember me? My heart’s been ringing for you – please pick up. I brought a present, a gift that you forgot. You’re lost in your mind.

Grooves flatten your creases.

Torn to pieces. My eyes conceal sharp icicles.

Father says you need to lay at rest, but you refuse.

We walk leisurely to your room, number 11, you flop on your chair, adjacent to the window.

I search for your notes; they’re all locked away in the cabinet from your torn, loose memories. You beam with blue ocean eyes with a stock on your shoulder. Sinking, drowning in confusion as you wash away.

I leave to the rest-room, washing my hands under boiling water, and put my whole poker face in the faucet.

Your eyes bagged enough. You stare out the waving window.

Wondering to yourself: what is beyond the light?

God’s innuendo – waiting for you to hold his hand.

It’s time to leave.

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iii I take a car home; things pass by so quickly. Things distanced away, it all comes and goes. I look away from my mirror as it glares at me – my brain’s a monsoon on this sunny day.

These twists and turns tire me out, I feel like I’m going to crash. A carpool of blinking back tears.

I come home breathless, a heavy chest, as I take off my gliding shoes and thump up the staircase. Bottled up, my door ajar, I’m still free.

I lie on my bed staring at the low ceiling. I think over to overthink, does she, still remember me? My thoughts will never pass away. It’s getting late.

Tossing and turning, dreaming of the missed past. My heart will stop in joy. I’ve cried enough that I’m the youngest old man.

To know: I can live out a fulfilling life, and by the end, I haven’t lived a single day. Though, deep down, does she still remember me?

My face, my name! Remember the times I was at your old, terraced house, one offspring hopping about! Do you… remember?

Who keeps shaking my snow globe!

It’s ingrained in my head and bogging my brain.

It ignites when I cannot put it out. Burning out; all that she will leave is ashes.

It’s just a burning memory.

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iv You check out – the window for the last time, reaching your hand outwards. As God gently grabs you to never-never land.

Blind to us. No shudder to think anymore. Curtains come to a close – nothing to show anymore – your final bow left me longing for a benediction.

Blacked out – though I found you down the tunnel.

Here you lay your last rest: Mary Gould Marshall.

We sing a few hymns – as my shattered voice cracks.

She taught me speech is silver, and silence is golden.

So here, the silence speaks for itself as she rests.

I carry blue forget-me-nots and let them go with you – I miss her. You left me hanging, but I’ll let her go.

I’m okay if you bite the last shortbread from the biscuit tin. You don’t have to be sorry anymore – you don’t need to remember anymore.

We still remember her in our broken hearts.

You may rest in peace – and not in pieces.

We can finally be released.

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Eva Woolven Pink Floyd (portraits of the moon) my face is obscured by the shape of my mouth; my eyes glass marbles and my ghost lover runs shark teeth over a guitar string; it makes no sound and i wonder if we were in a forest, would we make a sound? when we fall, inevitably, two glass children in the breast pocket of a walking giant my heart pink and made of the dregs of leftover pork chops and he looks so beautiful, still. the moon is blue tonight and sketches his face half of his features (his one green eye, the lazy side of his mouth) is coloured monsoon and tell me where did you sleep last night? i remember him and i, in another day and age, wrapped in arms that did not fit inside each other. our bodies full of the flotsam and the curve of the weeping willow, our legs submerged in the waves, my heart tied around my sleeve, and pulsing taking minutes, the metronome of his silent guitar and i take his hand and read his palm and i see him embedded in citadels, him me and i him spread out like maps at the kitchen table, open windows on the napes of our necks and i tell him, wordlessly, i can hear it, and it sounds like pink floyd

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Charlie Jolley The Day We Caught the Train After Tobias Wolff

Conten

I often thought, if someone shot a bullet straight through my brain, piercing pearls of bone like a butterfly to a pin board, it wouldn’t be my parents I’d think of, or the thin, murky roads I’d grown up on. I wouldn’t remember my first date, Levi-jacketed and sullen, how his lips tingled like strawberry sherbet. I wouldn’t remember the metal thrum of school gates, hormone-inflated teens scurrying in cliques like burning rats, all clean trainers and dirty mouths. And my mind wouldn’t be stuck replaying the gummy anguish of a dense summer’s day, barbecue smoke clinging to our clothes like warm skin or burnt toast. No, I’d think of you. Of that train. How that man with opal eyes sat too close, stroked your thigh, smoothed your skirt like you were plastic; a mannequin in a shop window there to be looked at and inevitably touched. How I stared at my phone, pretending I didn’t see anything, and how everyone else did the same. I’d think about your silent sobbing, like a teaching assistant in a stationery cupboard, as he tightened his playful squeeze: the air thick with his leering smile. Still, I was younger then, I learned a lot of things that day. Now I know that weakness is the scream you don’t dare to let out, the mouth that doesn’t open, a train on its way to nowhere.

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t warn

ing

Rishi Janakiraman triptych for your gay son i. i was uncorked to froth the antonym of an immigrant dream, bubbles simmering to the sky like i was pinned with incense sticks. we practise cultural entomology so now i am open -wounded to spill the liquor of a thousand loves, unspooled from my body to be sold in polaroids. framed by a mother’s fingers. thinning like her hair which held boyhood in every falling curl. split ends, dead. posthumous and skeletal, whittled into its marrow. a body bends in matrimony, splitting open and wailing to an american sun.

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ii they say mitochondrial dna is inherited exclusively through mothers. the beads of ova thread through a dreaming woman’s bloodline – necklaced. dripping brushstrokes dot matrilineage, twirling Tamil weaved into folk. the voice box throbs, lodged with sunken women. a tracheal coffin of this syllabic body, carrying her lips. they’re split like mine, how they bridle a romance, inherited. when i stole makeup from her cabinet, i thickened the flutter of each eyelash into place. how i mimic my mother, don the garland of her mothers. break off the string. each pearl drops to the ground.

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iii when i asked her what it meant to be in love, she told me love clung to movement, airless. she told me to marry a girl when this body has aged; that romance is hidden in each crease of a tea leaf, plunging into chai. crying its hymns as it serenades the gnashed spices. how it floats to the surface, convulses in water – breaking, undulating, from sea to shining sea.

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Issi Sharp Some Chunk of Willow Sitting on sandpaper,

speaking at the speed of sweat.

Push me into the paint can cos you just can’t wait to remake 30dB, tell me to keep it that way – but perhaps I like it less when I can hear my splintered breath breaking the barrier between my inside and out.

Say my station is made of rotten knots, like you forget branches weave sugared sun if you leave them, grow.

Tell me I’d never reach the head height of a sheep, because you think I couldn’t look into the eyes of something you didn’t make.

Make table legs

of my fingers, snapping like chocolate, like you just couldn’t let someone else be my ending.

Drag me to my senses so I’ll be a sucker, again, run me through the chipper for confetti.

Give me the privilege of novice woodwork, overstate the times I’d bend myself out of shape.

Reintroduce waves to show me the beauty of repeat performance, 31

I pluck each word to sew imprint shells, like you know what I would say. to see something shine, a kiss. Blow you the contents

proclaim trial-error a locked procedure. the beach with something empty, would listen before you already Stand in rock pools you’d pour corrode your eyes with of treasure; make you keel.

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The Poetry Society The Poetry Society is the leading poetry organisation in the UK. For over 100 years we’ve been a lively and passionate source of energy and ideas, opening up and promoting poetry to an ever-growing community of people.

We run acclaimed international poetry competitions for adults and young people and publish The Poetry Review, one of the most influential poetry magazines in the English-speaking world. With innovative education and commissioning programmes, and a packed calendar of performances and readings, The Poetry Society champions poetry for all ages.

The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award is at the core of The Poetry Society’s extensive education programme, and it plays an influential role in shaping contemporary British poetry. Previous winners include some of the most exciting poets writing today, such as Sarah Howe, Jay Bernard, Caroline Bird, Helen Mort, Holly Hopkins and Mukahang Limbu. poetrysociety.org.uk

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The Foyle Foundation The Foyle Foundation is an independent grant-making trust supporting UK charities which, since its formation in 2001, has become a major funder of the Arts and Learning. The Foyle Foundation has invested in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award since 2001, one of its longest partnerships. During this time it has enabled the competition to develop and grow to become one of the premier literary awards in the country. foylefoundation.org.uk

Help young writers thrive The Poetry Society’s work with young people and schools across the UK changes the lives of readers, writers and performers of poetry, developing confidence and literacy skills, encouraging self-expression and opening up new life opportunities. Support us by donating at poetrysociety.org.uk/donate

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About the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award Established in 1998, the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award is The Poetry Society’s flagship education project. In 2023, the competition received almost 16,000 poems from over 6,500 young poets from 120 territories. The competition’s scale and global reach shows what a huge achievement it is to be selected a winner. Every year, 100 winners are chosen by esteemed poets who are passionate about discovering new voices. Winners receive a range of brilliant prizes, including a selection of poetry books donated by our generous supporters, and talent development support, such as mentoring, performance and publication opportunities, throughout their careers.

Alongside the competition, the award supports poetry in schools. Free teaching resources, including the winners’ anthologies, are distributed to schools worldwide, and The Poetry Society arranges poet-led workshops in culturally underserved areas of the UK. Each year, we celebrate ‘Teacher Trailblazers’: individuals who have shown outstanding commitment to poetry in the classroom. In 2024, we are delighted to work with Tasha Seal from Beaconsfield High School and Kayleigh Mellor from Wilsthorpe School to share their enthusiasm for poetry with the wider teaching community.

The award has kick-started the careers of many well-known poets. Former winners regularly go on to publish full poetry collections and are often recognised in significant national competitions for adults. We are confident that the most recent winners will reach similarly dizzying heights, and we look forward to discovering yet more fantastic young poets in years to come. If you’re a young writer, enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2024 and you could follow in the footsteps of some of the most successful poets writing today.

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Further Opportunities for Young Poets Young Poets Network is The Poetry Society’s online platform for young poets up to the age of 25 worldwide. It’s for everyone interested in poets and poetry – whether you’ve just started out or you’re a seasoned reader and writer. You’ll find features, challenges and competitions to inspire your own writing, as well as new writing from young poets, and advice and guidance from the rising and established stars of the poetry scene. Young Poets Network also offers a list of competitions, magazines and writing groups which particularly welcome young writers.

In the past year, our writing challenges have invited young poets to unpick the ties between poetry, clothing and fashion, reflect on ways to cultivate peace, compose song lyrics for a youth choir on the theme of identity, tackle the villanelle and learn about the link between nature, health and writing. We’ve also published articles on code-switching in poetry, constructing reviews and criticism, getting over a crush with new writing, how to make a career in the arts and navigating Pride Month as a poet.

Young Poets Network also partnered with the T.S. Eliot Foundation to run the Young Critics Scheme, offering ten emerging poetry reviewers the chance to develop new skills around reviewing and share their thoughts on the T.S. Eliot Prize shortlist.

For updates about poets, poetry, competitions, events and more, like us on Facebook and follow us on TikTok and X, formerly Twitter, @youngpoetsnet and Instagram @thepoetrysociety Join the Young Poets Network mailing list to be part of this vibrant community of poets and continue your poetry journey. Sign up by visiting ypn.poetrysociety.org.uk

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Further Opportunities for Schools Download free poetry teaching resources, lesson plans and activities on our resources site, Poetryclass. Covering all ages and exploring many themes and forms of poetry, each resource has been created by our team of expert poet-educators and teachers. resources.poetrysociety.org.uk Teachers can register to receive a free copy of The Opening Line, The Poetry Society’s forthcoming compendium of poetry reading, writing and performance exercises for secondary schools. Supported by the Foyle Foundation, the book includes contributions from leading poet-educators.

Request a free copy by emailing fyp@poetrysociety.org.uk Book a poet to visit your school through our Poets in Schools service.

Poets can deliver one-off workshops, long-term residencies, INSET sessions for staff, and poet-led assemblies. Online and in-person options available. poetrysociety.org.uk/education School Membership connects your school with all that poetry has to offer. School members receive books, resources, posters, Poetry News and The Poetry Review (secondary only), as well as discounted access to our Poets in Schools service. poetrysociety.org.uk/membership Cloud Chamber is an online network for poets and teachers delivering poetry in the classroom to come together and discuss ideas, experiences and best practice. Meeting regularly on Zoom, each session considers a different theme. A presentation by an experienced poet-educator is followed by discussion time, and an accompanying lesson plan is circulated afterwards. It is free to attend and is open to anyone with an interest in poetry in the classroom. Find out more at bit.ly/CloudChamberPoetry 37

Follow us on X, formerly Twitter, @PoetryEducation or sign up to our schools e-bulletin by emailing educationadmin@poetrysociety.org.uk You can also follow The Poetry Society on X @PoetrySociety, and on Facebook and Instagram @thepoetrysociety

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Acknowledgements The Poetry Society is deeply grateful for the generous funding and commitment of the Foyle Foundation, and to Arts Council England for its ongoing support: together they enable the running of the competition and publication of this anthology.

Thank you to 2023’s judges, Jonathan Edwards and Jane Yeh, for their time, passion and support for the competition and The Poetry Society.

Thanks also to the dedicated team of poets who helped the judging process: Ella Duffy, Sarah Fletcher, Rachel Long and Josh Seigal. We are very grateful to former winners Eira Murphy, Helen Bowell, Jade Cuttle and Mukahang Limbu for helping us welcome the 2023 winners into the Foyle Young Poets community. Thanks to Shakespeare’s Globe for providing a venue for the awards ceremony, and Poetry By Heart for collaborating with us on the event.

We thank tall-lighthouse, Forward Arts Foundation, Carcanet, Nine Arches Press, Penguin Random House, The Emma Press, Poems on the Underground and Divine for providing winners’ prizes. Thanks to Chris Riddell for illustrating the top 15 poems, and to Arvon for hosting the Foyle Young Poets’ residencies.

Our thanks go to Marcus Stanton Communications for raising awareness of the award, and to James Brown for designing the Foyle Young Poets anthology artwork. Thank you to our network of educators and poets across the UK for helping us to inspire so many young writers.

Finally, we applaud the enthusiasm and dedication of the young people and teachers who make the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award the great success it is today. foyleyoungpoets.org

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Now YOU can be part of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award Aged 11–17? Enter the competition by 31 July 2024 Judges: Vanessa Kisuule and Jack Underwood Enter your poems – change your life! The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2024 is open to any writer aged 11 to 17 (inclusive) until the closing date of 31 July 2024. Poems can be on any theme and must be 40 lines or shorter. The competition is completely free to enter.

Prizes include poetry books, mentoring and the chance to develop your talent through publication, performances and writing opportunities. If you are selected as a winner, you will join a vibrant community of young poets.

The award has shaped the careers of many well-known poets writing today.

How to enter: please read the updated competition rules, published in full at foyleyoungpoets.org. You can send us your poems online or by post. If you are aged 11–12 you will need permission from a parent or guardian to enter. You can enter more than one poem, but please concentrate on drafting and redrafting your poems – quality is more important than quantity. Entries cannot be returned so please keep copies. For more information, visit the rules section at foyleyoungpoets.org School entries: teachers can enter sets of poems by post or online using our submission form. Every school that enters 25 students or more will receive a £50 discount on our Poets in Schools service. Want a FREE set of anthologies, resources and posters for your class? Email your name, address and request to fyp@poetrysociety.org.uk Find out more and enter online for free at foyleyoungpoets.org.

Remember, you must be aged between 11 and 17 years on the closing date of 31 July 2024. Good luck – we can’t wait to read your poems!

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“What a wonderful advert these poems are for the importance of poetry, and – more – how much faith they give us in people, our capacity for empathy and tenderness and how, with nothing more than words, we can make the world go ‘Wow!’” – Jonathan Edwards Judge of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award