“The Foyle Young Poets Awards are important beckoning points for younger writers. They recognise a poet’s first adventures into a public space for their poetry.” David Morley, Professor of Writing, University of Warwick
The title of this anthology, Fools for Love and Salt, is taken from Jenny Walker’s poem ‘Chips’ (p. 15).
Poems © the contributors 2012 Cover: James Brown, www.newdivision.com Design: Michael Sims. FYP logo: Siavash Pournouri Published by The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street London WC2H 9BX. Tel: 020 7420 9880 www.poetrysociety.org.uk
FOOLS FOR LOVE AND SALT Poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2011
Acknowledgements The Poetry Society is deeply grateful to the Foyle Foundation for its generous funding, which has driven the growing ambitions of this prize. We would also like to thank Bloodaxe, Carcanet, Faber, Picador, Seren and tall-lighthouse for their continuing support in providing book prizes for the Award. We send our best wishes and gratitude to the 2011 judges, Imtiaz Dharker and Glyn Maxwell, who selected the work in this anthology. We welcome 2012 judges Helen Mort and Christopher Reid. We would also like to thank the Southbank Centre for hosting the prize-giving ceremony, and Divine Chocolate, Paperblanks and Poems on the Underground for donating exciting prizes for our winners. We extend our thanks to the Arvon Foundation for hosting the Foyle Young Poets’ residency with ongoing commitment and expertise. Finally, we applaud the enthusiasm and dedication of the young people and teachers who make Foyle Young Poets the great success it is today. Find us online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org and the Foyle Young Poets Facebook group
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Contents Introduction Alexandra Cussons Eleanor Coy Elisabeth Wilson Emma Townley-Smith Flora de Falbe Matthew Broomfield Jenny Walker Jessica Mayhew Joel Lipson Laura Wanamaker Phoebe Stuckes Safrina Ahmed Emma McNairy Robert Marston Polly Fullerton
4 Sewing Pattern if it’s important to you Desert Composition 4pt suicide note Schizo Chips I want the words... Playing in the Snow Chatham, MA Reeling Layers of Kant reveal: Variation on César Vallejo’s ‘Black Stone on a White Stone’ Sadness Burnout Ballad
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List of commendations Enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2012 Foyle Foundation The Poetry Society
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2012 entry form
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Introduction “This award shows that thousands of young people are writing poetry, and with such strong and vigorous voices.” Imtiaz Dharker, Foyle Judge 2011 Welcome to the latest edition of the winners’ anthology of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. 2011 was another record year, with submissions from a staggering 7,215 young poets from a total of 43 countries worldwide. The quality was, as ever, of an impressively high standard, and judges Glyn Maxwell and Imtiaz Dharker had their work cut out choosing the top 15, and 85 commended, poets. The judges were struck by the level of maturity in the work. “They are placing themselves in the social world – not just looking inward but outward to their social environments and understand themselves in a very mature way,” said Maxwell. “These young people are saying, ‘If I’m going to be a poet, I have to step up and face these things’.” The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award is recognised as one of the UK’s premier literary awards. Founded by the Poetry Society in 1998, the competition has been supported by the Foyle Foundation since 2001, and is now firmly established as the key award for young poets aged between 11 and 17 years. This anthology features poems by the top 15 Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2011, and names the 85 commended poets selected by the judges. These poems are a testimony to the talent and strength of these new voices.
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Winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award benefit from ongoing support and encouragement, via publication, performance, promotion and internship opportunities. This year, for example, we’ve showcased Foyle winners at StAnza Festival, St. Andrews; Southbank Centre, London; Ledbury Poetry Festival; St Giles-in-the-Fields Church, London, and the Poetry Café, London. As the competition reaches its fifteenth year it is notable how many former winners are now shaping the landscape of contemporary poetry, winning adult awards and publishing full collections. Helen Mort, who won this Award as a teenager, is now a successful published poet and we’re excited to welcome her as a judge of the 2012 competition, bringing the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award full circle. Alongside the prizes and development opportunities for its winners, the Award also incorporates a year-round programme of activity aimed at encouraging creativity and literacy in schools. Every year the scheme nurtures best practice in creative writing teaching, identifying committed Teacher Trailblazers to act as mentors and share lesson ideas. We also offer additional poet-led workshops and events to a number of Applauded schools, to reward their continuing commitment to, and enthusiasm for, the Award. We hope that you enjoy reading the poems in this anthology and that they inspire many new young poets to enter in 2012. Happy reading!
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Alexandra Cussons
Sewing Pattern Begin with her back: stitch the groove of her spine with chord, grain-line, inside out. Mark out her fingers with chalk on the inner plush of her hands and cut the finger pads round. Seam up her thighs and with trim, fringe the hoods of her eyes in black. Fold the lining of her mouth; double layer her lips, don’t forget to button her navel. Pleat the cups of her ears, silk thread her crown, hem the edge of her tongue. When this is done, burn the traced paper patterns. Turn inside out.
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Eleanor Coy
if it’s important to you sweetheart, the flowers cut in the shape of your name won’t cure your bleeding heart. the trainwreck of your face. i found god in the supermarket aisles and he reviled me. i am not his little girl. death is all over you. crawls down the lonely motorway of your lower lip. breaks every syllable you talk. someone gave me your number. must’ve added it up wrong. told me to leave. told me to never come back. darling, cut me an i love you into your skin with rain. take a picture of you crucified and send it through the telephone wires. i dreamt of you, years later. your hair spilled out and then they cut it off.
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Elisabeth Wilson
Desert I can be beautiful. Intricate; gently seek out my soul. Yet you etch a pattern in the sand. A double cross. Yes I can be beautiful but I can be brave, bold and bad. Keep you here so please, please don’t stray from my hold. I blame myself sometimes, then I blame you. So these scarce, solitary sand dunes whisper that same song of Judas. You are alone now. I allude to beauty. In reality I’m reckless, and justice will come to you.
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Emma Townley-Smith
Composition When I move the compass in its lazy circle Like a leaf, spiraling, Seeking to connect the lines of longitude over Russia, My hand becomes encased In an errant snow bank. I’m off by an inch (and a season or two) And in preparation for an avalanche, I push two fingers Back against the mountain, like clay, and Where I leave my fingerprints I try to accept that I have failed. When I slide away, belly down Like the alligators below me To survey the damage, My elbow hits a desert where the Arabian Sea Has been consumed by the compass rose, And the tiny grains of sand Lodge themselves, like parasites, Among the folds of skin. I loose a sigh that brings me to the ground And topples castles in northern Italy, But I let the bricks scatter and I breathe Red dust that dyes my hair, settles on top When I lay my head In a mossy valley on the edge of Serbia.
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Some strands move the dust on to Germany, and brush the tips of the trees That smell like air fresheners, making The sun rise red and yellow and orange On their needles, bringing morning and The colours of age to wood. I trace the edge of Sweden with my finger, Smelling fish and people over six feet tall. I hook my finger in a net and drag a miracle To some lowly fisherman, hoping that the cosmos Is watching and will remind me not to just Evaporate from this project. I pretend that I ran the marathon along the coast, Kicking the dust up into my face and blonde hair, And that my victory dance, obscuring a border, Is the real reason that Sweden won half of Denmark. I wash my fingers of this ink and this deal In the lakes of Poland, overturning a few boaters And weekend fishermen, but I figure With the fish that chip away at my fingernails down below They’ll have better luck next time.
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By the time I get to Spain I’ve basically given up, and I take my pen and Slash a hole through the sky, letting Particles of dust and light rain down on their cities. The solar panels begin to churn in earnest, And thus, in destroying my work, I’ve only renewed their energy. Finally, I rest my cheek in the Zillertal, Finding one place in Austria I haven’t ruined, And when I look out over the awkward borders And misshapen fields, I realize that the world, From down below, Is beautiful.
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Flora de Falbe
4pt suicide note touch-texting typing microcosms of what we mean. abbreviating our names. writing them in pixels. unfriended my friend the other day, walled her off my wall; snapped in my limbs like hinges and minimised myself.
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Matthew Broomfield
Schizo Everything is ugly. Dull light consumes The evening’s heat. Cityscape. Sundown. Cockroaches are alive in the skirting-board. Domestos swirls in the cistern. Suburban children Sniff glue and smell of deodorant. Photons Oscillate through the atmosphere. Skin cancer. Maybelline. Lazarus. The truth is somewhere Else. Men without jobs make love to women With many children. They are all choking. I am Legion I am Legion The electric goes off again. Something takes hold Of his hand and draws him on. Something Is in his heart. Two rats gnawing electric cable. His skull explodes. Alopecia. Sickle-cell anaemia. True love. A child’s drawing of a house. Smoke spirals. Fridge magnets. His smile Is nailed to his face. Chemotherapy. Particles In motion in water. Poor children play football In the shadows of chimneys. Mirages. They tell him To lie down and he lies down. They say rise And he rises. Guard dogs patrol these premises. I am Legion I am Legion Frayed kettle-cord across hotplate. An accident. Sirens. A shotgun beneath the counter. Incinerator. He is ashes in the wind. Gastric reflux. He burns From the inside out. Washing-lines. The sun Is enormous. Pakistanis. June. July. He tests
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The blunt edge of a carving-knife with his thumb. A baby with its fingers in the socket. A toddler Tumbling into an open fire. Flyover. The sky. Boredom. His bed is soaked with sweat. Soap. I am Legion I am Legion Everyone is insane. Scrap metal. Dogs in hot cars. Dead flies. Sometimes he is Christ. They tell him To be quiet and he screams. Vacuum cleaner. Fish and chips. Vomit on the kitchen floor. Trauma. Vertebrae crack. Little freak. Lighter fluid. A crowd gathers round a dead Child or animal. Alzheimer’s. There is no replacement For a mother’s love. Paracetamol. A dull, lasting Pain. Heat. They devour him entirely.
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Jenny Walker
Chips It is our night, so we buy chips and grin guiltily over the greasy wrapper at each other, crumpling yesterday’s paper in our sticky, unharnessed hands. We are fools for love and salt and we see that it is good. Our feet scatter stars in the inky black, with the click-clack clatter that’s classed so coolly cosmopolitan these days. They have lit up all the lights for us, for our arms and lips and eyes wide open to drink it all in. But, bending at the waist at the pavement’s gutter, clutching each other on the dark street corner – Sudden vertiginous precision finds the old woman with the cataract vision, cramming the memories into her mouth in salty handfuls and smacking her lips.
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Jessica Mayhew
I want the words... I want the words to gulp me like a Fine wine: Drink me drunk and dumb, numb; Sink me sunk. I want the words To carry me like the sea, Buzz me like a bee Help me flee for an hour or two, or three... I want the words To take me out of body, out of mind A guide, not of the spiritual kind. Leave me like a toy wound-up, to unwind. I want the words To worm their way away Weave their way astray, They’ve had their play, had their say. I want the words To read me like a book Write me, take a look At my blurb; the pseudonym that I took
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I want the words To swallow me whole, even the shell, Engulf me like a white-blood cell Dissolve me like an enzyme: well. I want the words To have me as I am, Love me how they can. Time me from one to twelve. Word me as words word themselves.
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Joel Lipson
Playing in the Snow Ice man. Ice man. I sought you on snowy days when I was a young boy. While my family played with sleds or warmed themselves indoors, My purpose was altogether more serious. Ice man. Ice man. I would call, inviting you To enter my garden, so frostily emblazoned with twoand-a-half inches of snow. You never did, at least not to my knowledge, But I saw you once or twice just past the fence. Ice man. Ice man. I repeated, exuding endless fascination Which mother attributed to my young imagination. I never stopped repeating your name, Even when I grew. I hushed you into the corner of my mind Where you froze, and expanded. Blood boy. Blood boy. I can see you now, Seeking something awful in the snow. When the winters are thick and the wind is strong, I come to watch your search. I do on occasion venture in, Over the fence, which I know well from both sides, But never when you can see. Blood boy. Blood boy. I murmur to myself, You haven’t tasted the bitter cold as I have, or become lost in it. How could I inflict that upon you, as you are now? You will find what you seek in time. Blood boy. Blood boy.
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Laura Wanamaker
Chatham, MA Steeple like a swear word. I’ll never say (Amen) again. Library like a turtle. Book spines, shell tiles, thick. Beach like a boomerang. Always, always, always. School like a snake. Barely escaped. Bit of venom in my blood. Boys like buoys. Apartment like a lobster trap. Don’t have to go in. Area code like a worm. Infests old devices, old books. Yards like shrines. Vandalized with bike tires. Forests like hairlines. Each recedes uniquely. People like paper. Kept, crumpled, salty, lined.
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Phoebe Stuckes
Reeling I felt like I was drowning in an endless shingle of X’s and Y’s. I wanted to build a fort of cereal boxes in between me, and them, I wanted to hurl text books at them like a noisy hermit. Instead I gave up, doodled on school desks, ruled out engineering as a profession. Is it possible to feel aeronautical, beneath graph plotted stars? I wanted to draw a positive correlation, from me to you. No marks (?) No marks at all (–) It doesn’t matter how pretty your handwriting is.
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Safrina Ahmed
Layers of Kant reveal: The clouded mind is Kant without his hair extensions, his eyelash curler. We met last night and he was like Christmas, sad, a tree. Kant told me to toss my arms in the oven, think of the world as a big wound. Kant is Japanese and has a cremated heart. He asks if I’m married although my hands are full of wild sea creatures. Kant has a smooth back and he is like my husband. I wrap my face in yours and we giggle because I love you when you are a honey collector, straw hat touching my nose, when you hum feminist mantras to me, and me and Kant, we giggle when I tell him, I love my husband.
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Emma McNairy
Variation on César Vallejo’s ‘Black Stone on a White Stone’ I will die in the South, in a field of corn husks, outside a town with trailers, with plastic picket fences, a town passed through by the narrow highway belt, a town you flash by on your way to somewhere else, noting the briefly picturesque field labourers, shimmering with sweat in the haze of summer. Now they pile into a rusty pickup, laughing, leaving to head south with the butterflies. One last time they tromp through the familiar furrows. They find me while they are saying goodbye to the land. I think it will be on a Sunday, when the weather is solemn, and the whitewashed Baptist church is suddenly silent, the hush after a hymn when all bow their heads. Waiting, for something as great and beautiful as a stained glass window. The margins of the bible are very small, and I am scrawling this there, for writing is a kind of prayer. It is the ritual of the dots and the commas and the continuing hope that someone will read your words. I could not minister, because I would never be willing to stop praying, to signal the organist to commence with praising.
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Emma McNairy is dead. One Sunday the sermon ended, and people went home to Saran-wrapped trays of devilled eggs, nestling in plastic divots, filling fridges and picnic tables. Men filled a rusty truck, headed for a warm winter home. Beetles crackled over corn chaff, burrowed deep for winter. At the crossroads a car idled, caught behind a freight train, lumbering like some massive, ancient animal. I was a husk, and to the police all the fields looked the same. Waiting, the driver noted the loneliness of the train’s low whistle, glanced out at the corn field, and accelerated onward.
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Robert Marston
Sadness I took Sadness to a boxing match. He pushed the door open slowly with one finger dragging his feet, it sounded like a snake hissing as it died. With his face light blue and his clothes faded grey, his eyes showed that something he’d loved had gone. Others looked, but ignored him and carried on. Sadness became sadder, and shrunk a bit. I sat with him and said “you don’t have to be sad because you still have a friend.” He started to smile and shine more brightly and his light blue face had more colour to it and his clothes beamed brighter too. When the first match was over people came and started to talk to him and said “We just looked away because the match was on...,” and Sadness became bright gold and was happy.
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Polly Fullerton
Burnout Ballad Staring through the mirror-glass She primes the wreck to be, Marble-eyed and mobilized To scorn philanthropy No accounting for the sheets Hard-tossed with sanguine love; Preening as a courtesan With kohl reminiscent of The blackened air around a flame That gutters in the breaths Of would-be lovers, half and half, Where only one bequests A sentiment of something more Than equanimity, There lingers here an aftertaste: La Belle Dame sans Merci! But in the sweat of grating skin And melodrama queer, She may white-flag through all her tears A spell of lovely fear
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And when the act is dead as rope She’ll smear her ember eyes Across the virgin lily-silk – A hanging compromise Retreating back behind the door To purge the depthless glass With arrogance and seamlessness And mouthing de-ca-dence She’ll clock within an hour or two A waking-time of sense And regret that she did not slip out A smirk at his expense And the mirror-glass will echo her In rude delicacy Whilst the smoky air renounces True celibacy.
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Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2011 Congratulations to the commended poets Daniel Annett, Ameerah Arjanee, Allison Avila-Olivares, Rosie Bingham, Selina Borji, Helen Bowell, Ella Bucknall, Rebecca Louise Burgon, Joanna Burton, Amy Carter, Imogen Cassels, Jordan Casstles, Kirill Chernyshov, Charlotte Cohen, Charlotte Corderoy, Shannon Cox, Kathryn Cussons, Laura Donald, Ella Duffy, Luke Edgar, Clara Fannjiang, Kenzo Follows, Francesca Gallio, Poppy Garrett, Calder Gillie, Alessandro Giovannone, Naomi Hamilton, Madelaine Hanson, Cleo Henry, Eloise Hewson, Catline Hill, Catherine Hodgson, Connor Hogan, Joanna Hollins, Amanda Huelin, Zainab Ismail, Imani Jeffers, Joshua Kam, Misha Karmiloff, Natasha Keary, Jacqueline Khor Tze Pei, Emma Lister, Violet Macdonald, Sorley MacKay, Ruth Maclean, Laura Manders, Yasmin Mannan, Agnes Martin, Sophia Martins, Ruby Mason, India Rose MatharuDaley, Holly Matthews, Dominic McGrath, Amber McKean, Zohar Mendzelevski-Steinberg, Aithne Moran, Liam Morgan, Sarah Murphy, Mary Newman, Beth Nixon, Ryan O’Halloran, Melissa Margaret Powers, Natalie Richardson, Sarra Said-Wardell, Jani Salminen, Bianca Sarafian, Catherine Saterson, Ankita Saxena, Rosie Scott, Helen Scott, Catherine Shafto, Alexander Thomas Shaw, Florence Taylor, Deva Taylor, Kwek Mu Yi Theophilus, Emilie Thompson, Katie Tunstall, Isaac Turner, Olivia Valdes, Sylvia Villa, Nicky Watkinson, Rosie Wells, Matt Wild, Anna Willis, Laura Lee Xin-Mei. For a wealth of ideas on where to go next with your poetry, visit www.youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk
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“Winning the Foyle Young Poets of the Year changed the way I saw myself, and my future. In short, it made me realise I could devote my life to the thing I loved, if I had enough determination.� Helen Mort, Former Foyle winner & Foyle judge 2012
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Enter the Foyle Young Poets Award 2012 JUDGES: HELEN MORT & CHRISTOPHER REID Any writer between the ages of 11 and 17 (inclusive) on the closing date of 31 July 2012 can enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2012. The competition is free to enter and poems can be of any length. Individuals may enter more than one poem. We strongly advise that you concentrate on drafting and redrafting your poems. Remember, quality is more important than quantity. Competition entries cannot be returned under any circumstances so please make sure you keep copies. Due to the large number of entries we receive, we are unable to respond to entrants individually. You can enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org, or photocopy the entry form on the inside back cover and send it, with your poems, to: FYP 2012, The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX. Please mark the back of each poem with the entrant’s name and postcode. Teachers can request class set entry forms and resources by emailing fyp@poetrysociety.org.uk Prizes include a week-long residential writing course at one of the prestigious Arvon Centres, poet visits to schools, Youth Membership of the Poetry Society and an invitation to the exciting prize-giving ceremony in London. There are also special book prizes for schools generating the greatest number of entries to the competition, presented by our partner publishers, Bloodaxe, Carcanet, Faber, Picador, Seren and tall-lighthouse. The top 15 poems will be printed in an anthology, just like the one you’re holding right now, and sent to over 20,000 schools, libraries and poets across the UK and beyond. To enter online, and for some hints and tips on writing a winning poem, go to: www.foyleyoungpoets.org 29
Foyle Foundation “The Foyle Foundation and the Poetry Society have been on an amazing journey over the last eight years in developing The Foyle Young Poets. During this time the scheme has grown to become a major programme and literary award attracting thousands more applicants as we have pioneered new ways of targeting and reaching young people and schools.� David Hall, Chief Executive, 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 trebled its support, and enabled the competition to develop and grow to become one of the premier literary awards in the country. The Foyle Foundation has extended its support for the Award until 2013. www.foylefoundation.org.uk
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The Poetry Society The Poetry Society is Britain’s leading voice for poets and poetry. Founded in 1909 to promote “a more general recognition and appreciation of poetry”, the Society is now one of the country’s most dynamic arts organisations, with around 4,000 members around the world; and is the publisher of the leading poetry magazine, Poetry Review. With innovative education and commissioning programmes, and a packed calendar of performances, readings and competitions, the Poetry Society champions poetry for all ages. As well as the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, the Poetry Society offers lots of other opportunities for young writers: Young Poets Network: If you’re an emerging poet, an avid reader, an enthusiastic performer, or just starting out in poetry, our new online community has something for you. The Young Poets Network website offers advice on everything from keeping a notebook, to organising your own gig. All year round, top poets set exciting challenges to help you flex your writing muscles; offer feedback; and share their reading tips. Read new work by other young poets, get help understanding poetry terms, trade your comments, and listen to poets such as Benjamin Zephaniah, Jo Shapcott and Daljit Nagra. It’s all totally free. For exclusive advance information on new opportunities, join up at www.youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk and ‘like’ Young Poets Network on Facebook. SLAMbassadors UK is the Poetry Society’s national slam championship, and has showcased some of the best up and coming performance poets the UK has to offer. SLAMbassadors is open to 12-18 year olds, and has featured high-profile judges and mentors
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such as Linton Kwesi Johnson, Dizraeli and Scroobius Pip. Prizes include a masterclass weekend at the Poetry Society with Slam Champion Joelle Taylor and a live performance at a prestigious London venue. Individual filmed entries can be submitted online. Workshops are available to schools and youth groups. Get involved! Visit www.slam.poetrysociety.org.uk Poetry Society Youth Membership is open to anyone aged 11-18, costs £15 per year and offers the opportunity to submit to YM: Poetry, our online magazine (www.ympoetry.org), which is edited by former Foyle winners. Members receive free books and posters, Poetry Society magazine Poetry News and an information pack for young writers. All 100 winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award receive a year’s free membership as part of their prize. Poetry Society resources for schools: individual schools can take out ‘Solo’ membership of the Poetry Society, receiving books, magazines and resources throughout the year. All member schools receive the Poets in Schools consultancy service – free, expert guidance on organising poet visits or Poetryclass Inset sessions. Specially tailored lesson plans, longer term poet residencies and poet-led showcase events can also be arranged. Plus, our new Schools Network Education Package allows groups of schools to enjoy these benefits at a reduced cost. The Poets in Schools consultancy service is also available to non-member schools for a small fee. For details about all of our projects, visit www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/education or email education@poetrysociety.org.uk
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Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2012 INDIVIDUALS: use this form or enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org
Name __________________________________________________________________________ Address _______________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________________________ Postcode ________________________ Country ______________________________ Your school __________________________________________________________________ Your tel MOBILE PREFERRED ____________________________________________________ Your email
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Number of poems submitted__________________________________________________________________ Date of birth _____________________________ Gender Ethnic background
MALE
FEMALE
OPTIONAL ____________________________________________________________________
The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2012, judged by Helen Mort and Christopher Reid, is open to writers between the ages of 11 and 17 years (inclusive) before the closing date of 31 July 2012. Poets can enter more than one poem, of any length and on any theme. Competition entries cannot be returned under any circumstances so please make sure you keep copies. Please write the entrant’s name and postcode on the reverse of each poem submitted. Please photocopy, complete and return this entry form and send it, with your poems, to: FYP 2012, The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX OR enter online at www.foyleyoungpoets.org The Poetry Society has created a FREE online community to keep you updated with opportunities for young writers. If you do NOT wish to join the Young Poets Network, please tick here
ENTRYFORM 2012
TEACHERS: to submit multiple entries, use a Class Set Entry Form available at www.foyleyoungpoets.org or fyp@poetrysociety.org.uk
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Winning poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2011 selected by Glyn Maxwell and Imtiaz Dharker www.foyleyoungpoets.org