Painting You The Darkness: Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016 Anthology

Foyle Young Poets of the Year Anthology

“I can’t believe it. I’ve always looked at poetry competitions and always thought the poets are so amazing, and now I’m one of them.”

– Aisha Mango Borja, winner, Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016

Foyle Young Poets of the Year Anthology The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX www.poetrysociety.org.uk ISBN: 978-1-900771-99-3. Cover: James Brown, jamesbrown.info © The Poetry Society & authors, 2017 The title of this anthology, Painting you the darkness, is from Emily Franklin’s poem ‘Apotelesma’.

Painting you the darkness Poems by the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016

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.

We also thank Bare Fiction, Bloodaxe, Carcanet, Chatto & Windus, Divine Chocolate, Frances Lincoln, Faber and Faber, Forward Arts Foundation, Inpress Books, Jonathan Cape, Nine Arches, Pan Macmillan, Penned in the Margins, Picador, PN Review and Poems on the Underground for our winners’ prizes.

We send our best wishes and gratitude to the judges, Malika Booker and W.N. Herbert, for their passion and enthusiasm in helping to make this year’s competition so successful. Thanks also to guest poet Ian McMillan.

Our thanks to Southbank Centre for hosting the prize-giving ceremony and to Arvon for hosting the Foyle Young Poets’ residency. Thanks also to Marcus Stanton Communications for raising awareness of the competition, and our network of educators and poets across the UK for helping us to inspire so many young writers to engage with poetry and language. Finally, we applaud the enthusiasm and dedication of the young people, teachers and librarians who make the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award the success it is today. foyleyoungpoets.org

Contents Introduction Roberta Sher Lucy Thynne Priya Bryant Jennie Howitt Steven Chung Emily Franklin Aisha Mango Borja Letitia Chan Emily Dee Yasmin Inkersole Finn Scarr de Haas van Dorsser Eva Brand Whitehead Allegra Mullan Cyrus Larcombe-Moore Sophia Carney

4 sunny side up sink dolores Picnic at Hanging Rock Exception to Snow Apotelesma Not This Year Grandma Making Glutinous Dumplings with My Mother The Causeway, Lindisfarne Seeing in Halves

7 8 9 10 12 13 16

An Orison to a Future Comet Places to cry Addison Lee my ghost diphenyl oxalate

20 24 25 26 27

17 18 19

List of commendations Foyle Foundation & The Poetry Society Young writers & The Poetry Society Schools & The Poetry Society Enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017

28 29 30 31 32

2017 entry form

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Introduction “It is an honour and privilege to be judging the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2016... this is the most exciting prize for young poets.”

Malika Booker, 2016 judge Welcome to the winners’ anthology for the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2016.

Since 1998 The Poetry Society have been finding, celebrating and nurturing the very best young poets from around the world through this prize. 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.

This year we received over 10,000 poems from more than 6,000 young poets from across the UK and around the world. Writers from 76 different countries entered the competition, from as far afield as Nicaragua, Kuwait, Ethiopia and Uzbekistan. From these poems this year’s judges, Malika Booker and W.N. Herbert, selected 15 top poets and a further 85 commended poets. The scale and global reach of the competition demonstrates what a huge achievement it is to be selected as one of our 100 winners.

Judge W.N. Herbet says: “this was a year of film poems, poems bringing obscure words to vivid life, poems about the body, about the turbulent relationships between us and our partners, our parents, our ancestry...

In short, it was a bumper year, providing ample evidence that the poem can do almost anything with the utmost economy, intensity, and, for the reader, engagement and delight. The judges hope everyone will enjoy reading these poems as much as we enjoyed choosing them.”

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This anthology features poems by the top 15 winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016, and celebrates the names of the 85 commended poets whose work is available in an online anthology (see page 28).

Both anthologies celebrate the talent of our fantastic winners and are distributed free to schools, libraries, reading groups and poetry lovers across the UK and the world. We hope that the quality of writing on display will inspire even more young writers to enter the competition in future years.

All 100 winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award receive a range of fantastic prizes, including a year’s Youth Membership of The Poetry Society and a goody bag stuffed full of books donated by our generous supporters. The Poetry Society continues to support winners throughout their careers, providing publication, performance and development opportunities, and access to an internship programme.

The top 15 poets are also invited to attend a week’s residential writing course at Arvon’s centre in Shropshire, The Hurst. There they spend a week with experienced tutors focussing on improving their poetry and establishing a community of writers.

Since it began, the award has kick-started the careers of some of the most exciting new poetic voices. Here is what some of our former Foyle Young Poets have achieved this year: Sarah Howe became the first person to win the T.S. Eliot prize with a debut collection; Helen Mort was invited to be a judge for the 2017 Man Booker Prize; and Imogen Cassels, Theophilus Kwek and Phoebe Stuckes were selected as winners of the 2015/16 Poetry Business New Poets Prize. Being selected as a Foyle Young Poet is a defining moment for young writers, and for many the point at which they begin to consider themselves poets. It builds a community of young writers who continue to support each other.

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Alongside the competition, the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award programme runs a range of initiatives to encourage and enable young writers, both in school and independently. We distribute free teaching resources to every secondary school in the UK, share tips from talented teachers and arrange poet-led workshops in areas of low engagement. Each year we celebrate ‘Applauded Schools’ who contribute impressive numbers of entrants. Congratulations to our 2016 schools: Grange Technology College, Bradford, and Wembley High Technology College. We also identify ‘Teacher Trailblazers’: teachers and librarians recognised for their dedication to developing creative writing in schools. 2016’s Trailblazers Joanne Bowles of Tor Bridge High, Plymouth, and Kate Brackley of Kingston Grammar will be sharing their experience. The competition also feeds into The Poetry Society’s online platform, Young Poets Network, which provides a year-round selection of writing prompts, competitions and guidance for aspiring writers.

Through this work we continue to support young poets everywhere, so that there is more outstanding poetry to celebrate every year.

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Roberta Sher sunny side up it was a yellow hairclip; josie knew it was childish but equally she hated the wisps of baby hair that ventured out of her temples like cow ears. it flew straight through the crack in the floorboards. calmly she lay on her stomach with a torch and her eye between the planks and that was when she saw all the eggs; wasp eggs, bird eggs, sandgrouse and nightjars hiding inside green shells speckled like chocolate pebbles. all perfectly round; some chalky, some oily as the tinamou egg; there were spider eggs and mollusc eggs crustacean eggs on a carpet of watery frogspawn and salmon eggs so close to hatching that she could see their little glassy eyes wobbling behind films of yolk. they stared up at her, confused as to why she should disrupt their peaceful wait. josie considered the eggs briefly, then stood up and brushed the dust off her jeans; looked in the mirror and decided the wisps weren’t so bad.

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Lucy Thynne sink i’ve decided to live in the kitchen sink i think i’ll fit in better there and pretend I’m holidaying in st tropez i’ll float, with the spoon as my lilo the water’s lips making swollen foam bracelets on my thighs and tell my colleagues, all casual that I needed a change of scenery. i’ll have tepid showers under the taps all day long, and the water will become my negative space, cling to me like a conjoined twin and glaze the small of my back with the colours of my dinner. washing up will be a bubble bath of acrid chemicals, white fuses on milkstone skin but i won’t mind because i’ll be making friends with the plates, having whispered conversations with the forks. i’ll know the four ceramic walls like a mother would know the shape of her baby’s head, and best of all i’d be scrubbed clean: red, raw and newborn like crying backwards, and the plug that swallowed up the sky would swallow me.

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Priya Bryant dolores I’m watching you as I pull sand from my skin, tiny studs who balk at their fate – and I want you to move, sift your hands through mine as if we were easy that way. the sea ticks out a drumbeat and all my limbs stick in their sockets. later we will climb the grimy walls along with the ivy; you will shrug your shoulders, tar-slow, beneath a grinning yellow street lamp. later I will whisper to you. under the Spanish moon, the things I would let you do to me.

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Jennie Howitt Picnic at Hanging Rock February 14th, 1900 Flowers pressed and laced with postcards Roses are thrown down stepping stones A girl leans off the balcony Silhouette golden, face unshown O take us to the hanging rock, Oasis to the dead grass wastelands The haystacks and the dust clouds.

If the Hanging Rock won’t come to you Then you must go to the Hanging Rock.

This Rock which waited a million years just for us Let us be at the mercy of Venomous snakes and poisonous ants, Let us eat luncheon Whilst we lie among the daisies, Botticelli angels with white clouded robes Cross the mud gilded creek Where we wash wine glasses.

Rocks with faces like statues With growling voices that speak to you come closer 10

The rock spirits spy On silly schoolgirls from the shadows, Dance under the sunlight, Offer your stockings, Give up your bodies.

Smoke-filled haze Is the air where the crows caw.

And all the people look like ants When you are the Hanging Rock.

A homage to the girls Whose fate was set before they were purple-born Aborigines bang drums Policemen call into caves The foreigner watched the moon rise They all saw swans everywhere These swans like in the scrapbooks we made With pink ribbons and photographs, A girl jumps off the balcony And died with their dreams.

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Steven Chung Exception to Snow The winter I discovered myself in a boy’s arms, I also found my other missing parts in an elevator.

All that closed space makes a person a master of geometry, and I entered a shapeless silence in my head. I remembered the stuff I thought I had buried in the snow, how he said the white flakes on our skin were failed cremations.

Not of us, but of the evergreen forests, because the Southern Hemisphere was burning. Half of the world is always on fire but we wanted to be the exception to prove our existence, like how an elevator calls no attention unless it is broken.

Atop the terrace of the building, I couldn’t decide whether to let the blizzard cover me in all its vague histories or to cover the white mass with my arms and pretend that in my blindness I saw the shape of a head across from mine, that in the thick of the white, I could see all that had been erased.

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Emily Franklin Apotelesma Here we are. I’m half-sober and you’re stamping on a cigarette like it killed the last person you kissed.

Here we are. Outside the party. No stars. Only street lamps.

Talking about other people’s tragedies to avoid our own truth.

And you love me.

In a push you up against the wall kind of way.

In a put my tongue in your mouth kind of way.

You say.

Your tongue is sharp, eyes spark.

I am going to paint you something beautiful.

I tell you.

And you leave me outside in the dark.

I am painting you the darkness.

I will paint in the stars.

Aquarius: Stop running away.

You’re at a concert. Music flashing, bodies pulsing.

This darkness. It hides within bursting lights, your screaming friends.

This could be something beautiful.

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You text me.

I want to drown you in milk.

Peel away the innocence like the shell on a snake.

And I love you. And I want to bathe you in honey, wash your feet in my hair.

Aquarius: Everything will be okay.

Here we are. At the edge of a roof. Why do I always seem to meet you in moonlight?

I am painting the lines between the stars that join the abyss in meaning.

I am painting you.

You, my horoscope, my lucky stars.

You are always too far away.

Aquarius: Breathe.

Here we are. The high street, too long after the lamps have turned on.

And you are close enough to touch.

And you are still too far away.

Here we are.

The only thing left that we haven’t tried.

We are meeting in the middle.

Constellations colliding.

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Here we are.

Silhouettes in your kitchen, shadows on your stairs.

We are painting in the stars.

Sagittarius: Everything is okay.

The stars tell us nothing.

The stars are merely pretty.

You are my abyss.

You are boundless.

And nothing can hold you down.

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Aisha Mango Borja Not This Year Grandma Aisha! says my Colombian grandmother, Aisha, your ears need piercing.

She inspects the two pure ovals on the side of my head, and I picture her among my disapproving aunts, needle like a sword, apple like a shield in her hands and suddenly as if she had tapped a baton on a sheet of music it starts: Are you a girl?

Girl? Girl?

Yes, I say and now only my brother can save me but next year he won’t be so cute and the needle will still be waiting.

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Letitia Chan Making Glutinous Dumplings with My Mother The kitchen drips with steam and in it stands my mother whom I cannot recognize. She puts balls of sesame inside bigger folds of dough, white in her pale cracked palms.

Under the acrylic my mother’s nails are short and small, bent as umbrella tops. Mine are naked almonds rife with milk spots.

I think of the dust that makes its way into the ball, the dead skin of my hands. I make small nubs of dough. Sesame paste sticks to the crevices of my mouth, sickly sweet, and I am always surprised to see my blackened teeth.

My mother laughs at me for taking forever. Seeing me at the airport she laughed at how dark I’d gotten.

She suggested taping my eyelids to make a double crease, told me when I was younger that eating fish makes your eyes bigger, my mother who doesn’t eat fish. When I am a mother I will also dry my daughter’s hair at two in the morning when she is limp from sleeplessness and tears, and I will keep my inglorious self from her. My mother at my age is unrecognizable in a photograph, long radish shaped face, gentler than me in a polo shirt, wet eighties Hong Kong when she was already dating my father.

I think about how I am so easily impressed. How I allowed myself to give for a boy who only ever looked at me once, when I was unprepared and naked and a smaller version of myself. She does not know I know of the years my father was f*** ing white girls in a place far away from her, my mother whom I envy and know because I too know how to be unwanted and androgynous, wordless in the way I am now, in the way she goes on laughing. The ginger tumbles in the pot.

My mother pours her dumplings into it and they bubble like bodies that have never belonged to us.

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Emily Dee The Causeway, Lindisfarne In spring, when frost delays departure, the wooden pillars lock, speared into the sand.

Snails creep across the rough bark, varnishing the rugged wood, seeking moonlight in the higher altitude.

Tearful seals raise their sombre heads to the sky, smoothing the sharp rocks with their melancholy sighs.

Moss-cloaked barriers restrain the sea as screaming winds power forwards and the moon, a silent engine, drags the weary water across the sand.

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Yasmin Inkersole Seeing in Halves Barnabas had one eye.

Upward-pointing, like a spoilt ballot in a Sea of cloned paper brothers.

His lunchbox was tin and patterned with polka dots Worn away to crescent moons. Once he met Paddington at Namesake station, and we took pictures.

I left my ticket on an underground bench but Barnabas remembered his lunchbox.

It is introspective, speculative, creviced, curved, cut, cow, cat – The little tin box of a one-eyed bear who Could explain himself better than I. Eye fallen from its socket long ago, not needed, not Missed at all. Like a button on a train-track, Gravel-coloured, stone-sized.

I took him for ice cream and then, After, cut the stain from his fur. One-eyed and Moulting Barnabas. Sat him in a cupboard to keep him Safe – And because, and because, outside there were paper Brothers for me. And the brothers sang and spoke in tongues I could understand. But Barnabas was quiet, half-sensed and Half-incensed, from all I could read in his eye.

A shipwreck off the Andes, round like the Gaping head of a volcano. And it reminded me of A black pupil in a brown eye, one I’d Seen before. Faded image, a memory I’d Left on a railway once, between tracks like Cloned-brother teeth.

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Finn Scarr de Haas van Dorsser An Orison to a Future Comet Cataclysms 92 : 1-37 1 When meteor showers are omens of omniscience in a world where the legacy of Man is a calculation beyond the capacity a tower of transistors can provide, it is funny that our kind would revert to superstition.

2 Perhaps it is another cyclic mandate of the aether.

3 Formerly, the inherited world – an abundance of algae, aphids, and chloroplasts – sat in contented silence, watching her numberless daughters thrive.

4 But one prodigious egg, a Cain of old, will rot in the nest. 5 Slow, unto a vine, tendrils of this terrible, toxicant trailblazer maraud out across a vista of untainted birthright.

6 A step over our horizon then equated to just one further deg. of axial obliquity. 7 Now, a clockwork march against dawn, winding up to one full revolution. 8 Maternal vices are patience and that kind of love which is unwilling to look truth in the eye, even when the pillow is finally lowered across her warm face.

9 Be warned that it requires more than the wheel, a horsepower, or a teranewton metre of torque to shorten Earth’s nights to a deliberate blink. 10 So, after looking back through

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our full circle, it is in this way that we mark out our Origin.

11 If you’ve lived long enough to

remember sunlight through trees, visions begin to appear of whole civilisations borne upon rafts. 12 Rafts barreling down a rapid that forks every time a new regret boils up.

13 Perhaps it is all down to that dicey enemy, fate, after all. 14 But, if ever the anterior parts of this chronicle are recovered, don’t be convinced that some despotic divinity played any part in a planet’s final foray. 15 Instead, look to the advent of inter-cluster shuttling or the harnessing of stellar nucleosynthesis.

16 Or simply search amongst stars.

17 Draw intricate blueprints once more than needed, and listen as their sprawling gear wheels and ratchets slot straight into the Milky Way. 18 Watch them sing in accordance with the harmonic charts. 19 Notice the sky become plated by an ancient pianola roll bronzed by the genius of these machines. 20 We learned each of the score’s contours and raised sparks by heart as it revolved sweetly behind smog curtains. 21 Invocation always was the ultimate of human gifts. 22 So, if it recurs in you, the species to one day translate this almanac of sorts, use it instead to print the cosmos in triumphant metal and tissue.

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23 Thus, uphold a foundation of comfort in the earthliness and motherly affection that kindled our gift. 24 This is the last fork in the rapid.

25 When a few escape capsules

become embers leaping from the fiery cracks, a sole prayer will be hastily made.

26 Hope these craft won’t break formation, instead gather into their own shower, meteorites to a surrogate mother. 27 We promise to glance back now and again, to pull back those curtains and expect the glory to regrow from a false belief in the Fountain of Youth. 28 Even in diaspora there is sweetness on the cusp with Pisces, for our astronomy is already overstepping into astrology. 29 It will regress more.

30 A fortiori, non progredi est regredi.

31 So, the legacy of Man is an imaginary number after all, a cycle of rebirth.

32 The virgin novelty of each intoxicating invention invacuates us to the curse of opportunity cost. 33 Of preservation, know that immortality is an illusion built upon that which can be eviscerated. 34 As the globe has been polished to a tabula rasa finish, so too may this tome reach its end. 35 Wisdom now impregnated, all that is left now is to pick you out

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from amongst the contorted face of our galaxy.

36 And through an old lens, a pathway to immortality is marked: An embryonic bomb ticks over, held in a womb of rock and ice.

37 Awake to sow life again in the only place that ever was home – the centre of the universe.

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Eva Brand Whitehead Places to cry hiding under the apple tree with broad branches and pink flowers; when feeding the next door neighbours’ fish blibity blobity blu halves of dry fish food captured; and taken under water; stuck in the school toilet you know there is a queue but your pink face tells you to stay; in your mother’s arms under the shining red currant bush in the pouring rain

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Allegra Mullan Addison Lee Perhaps I am in love with you, Or the back of your bald head.

Or in love with the idea Of being in love with the back of your bald head.

Or the silence between us, As we flash past, City scape that turns to city scape, Ridden with tiny lights.

I love how it all transforms From strange places, To places I’ve seen before.

We worm around Regent’s Park, And neither of us make a sound.

I watch the back of your bald head, From Shepherd’s Bush, to Kentish Town.

I am brilliantly, burningly happy.

These people who have eaten me Hollow for days, Are behind me now.

Here, there are no complications, Here, my mother can knit me together again, When I feel unwound.

And everything is hours away.

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Cyrus Larcombe-Moore my ghost I spent two years banishing a ghost from my head.

So now it sits in my back garden.

And sometimes it stands by the kitchen window, watching us scramble breakfast eggs and burn toast.

And every now and then, whenever I’m not alone, it stands at the end of my bed.

And it will sleep in my cupboards among the baggy t-shirts and jumpers.

And where ever it goes I smell chestnuts, honey, cinnamon, raisins.

It still gives me butterflies, and the smell clings to everything.

I just wish I could eat alone sometimes.

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Sophia Carney diphenyl oxalate diphenyl oxalate (n.): a solid ester whose oxidation products are responsible for the chemiluminescence in a glowstick i. the drugstore glowstick curled around my knuckles and cracking in my palm gives off more light than i ever will ii. when i was seven i fell asleep with a pink one in my mouth and chewed it as i slept for something solid to hold onto the made-in-china fluid spilled out and stained the inside of my cheek till i was glowing, glowing iii. i don’t believe in the divine but now i mumble a prayer to the lightning bug gods to let me pour out of my skin; let my epidermis crack like so many knuckles and spill out, stain the white shag carpet at my feet iv. not the 99-cent neon i roll between my fingertips, but something dark and oozing and long past its sell-by date that cannot be encased in polypropylene v. no matter if my veins snap with my sanity if it means i no longer leave a stain on everything i touch.

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Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016 Congratulations to the commended poets Will Adams, Sarah Opefoluwa Adegbite, Deryn Andrews, Margot Armbruster, Nikita Bastin, Matthew Birch, Daniel Blokh, Joscelyn Blood, Jolina Bradley, Annabel Brazaitis, Emily Breeds, Maria Calinescu, Louise Chapman, Emma Choi, Chloe Clarke, Ruby Crook-English, Annabelle Crowe, Lyra Davies, Magnus Dixon, Jamie Duncombe, Aidan Forster, Megan Freeman, Annabelle Fuller, Lucy Gardner, Rachel Gittens, Freya Gray Stone, Abigail Green, Alex Greenberg, Lorcan Greene, Hanna Hall, Nancy Harber, Harriet Harding, Ava Rowan Harker, Rachel Herring, Eileen Huang, Allison Huang, Finty Hunter, Irina Petra Husti-Radulet, Kara Jackson, Davina Jandu, Meredith Jones, Jane Keenleyside, Grant Kim, Na’Imah Laurent-Dixon, Mukahang Limbu, Enyu Vivien Lin, Ian Macartney, Georgia Macfarlane, Cia Mangat, Jacob Mason-White, Helena McBurney, Marina McCready, Riona Millar, Eira Murphy, Cara Nicholson, Elisabeth Ololade Ajayi, Lucy Olsen, Rachel Poels, Nola Propst, Lucy Ruddle, Louisa Saddler, Reem Sultan, Hannah Tankaria, Aileen Tierney, Lucy Tiller, Isabelle Tod, Vivien Urban, Ezekiel Wallis, Elizabeth Walmsley, Ellie Whiteside, Clarisse Wibault, Rhiannon Williams, Ava Witonsky, Madeleine Woods, Helen Woods, Shaw Worth, Rebecca Wright, Emily Yin, Margaret Zhang, Lily Zhou, Rumaisa Zubairi.

The commended Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016 online anthology Look out for the new online anthology of poems by the commended Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2016. For details, visit poetrysociety.org.uk/foyle

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Foyle Foundation The Foyle Foundation is an independent grantmaking 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. foylefoundation.org.uk

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. 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. poetrysociety.org.uk

Help young writers thrive The Poetry Society’s work with young people and schools across the UK has changed the lives of many emerging 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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Young writers and The Poetry Society 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 is The Poetry Society’s online platform for young poets up to the age of 25. It’s for everyone interested in poets and poetry – whether you’ve just started out, or you’re a seasoned poetry 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. We partner with amazing organisations, from English National Ballet and the British Library, to Oxfam, sparking ideas that travel far beyond the page.

For updates, like us on Facebook or follow us on Twitter @youngpoetsnet. youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk SLAMbassadors is The Poetry Society’s national youth slam championship, open to young people aged 12-18. Prizes include a masterclass weekend with slam champion Joelle Taylor and the chance to perform at a prestigious London venue alongside a headline spoken word act. Recent judges and headliners include Lemn Sissay, Kate Tempest and Akala.

SLAMbassadors workshops are also available for schools and youth groups. slam.poetrysociety.org.uk Poetry Society Youth Membership is for aspiring writers and poetry enthusiasts aged 11-18. Members receive poetry goodies, opportunities for feedback, The Poetry Society’s newspaper Poetry News, and other benefits. poetrysociety.org.uk/membership

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Schools and The Poetry Society Foyle teaching resources, including lesson plans and online versions of both the winning and commended Foyle Young Poets anthologies, are available on our website. poetrysociety.org.uk/fypresources Poetryclass lesson plans and activities, covering all Key Stages and exploring many themes and forms of poetry, are easy to search and free to download. Each resource has been created by our team of poet-educators and teachers, with hands-on experience of developing an enthusiasm for poetry in the classroom. Find Poetryclass on our dedicated site: resources.poetrysociety.org.uk Page Fright is an online resource, bringing historical poetry to life with contemporary spoken word performances. Page Fright poets such as Benjamin Zephaniah perform their own work, and explore historical poems afresh. Resources and writing prompts help you create your own poetry. poetrysociety.org.uk/pagefright Poets in Schools help develop an understanding of and enthusiasm for poetry across all Key Stages. Whether you want a one-off workshop or a long-term residency, an INSET session for staff or a poet-led assembly, The Poetry Society can find the right poet for you. 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 free access to our Poets in Schools service. poetrysociety.org.uk/membership Follow us on Twitter @PoetryEducation or sign up to our schools e-bulletin for all the latest news.

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Enter the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 Judges: Kayo Chingonyi and Sinéad Morrissey Enter your poems – change your life! The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2017 is open to any writer aged 11 to 17 (inclusive) on the closing date of 31 July 2017. The competition is completely free to enter and poems can be on any theme or subject.

Individuals 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 under any circumstances so please keep copies.

Prizes include mentoring, places on a week-long residential writing course at an Arvon Centre, publication in a prestigious anthology, and much more. Winners also benefit from ongoing support and encouragement from The Poetry Society via publication, performance and internship opportunities.

How to enter: before entering, please read the competition rules, published in full on our website. Enter online or photocopy the entry form opposite and send it, with poems, to: FYP 2017, The Poetry Society, 22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX. School entries: want to submit poems from your whole class? You can enter a set of poems by post or online using our simple 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 For full rules and instructions on how to enter visit our website: foyleyoungpoets.org 32

Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2017 Entry Form Individuals: complete and post this form or enter online at foyleyoungpoets.org Schools: to submit multiple entries, use our online form for teachers or download a class entry form from foyleyoungpoets.org Name ____________________________________________________________ Address _________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________ Postcode ____________________ Country ____________________________ Your school ______________________________________________________ Your tel MOBILE PREFERRED ____________________________________________ Your email

__________________________________________________________________________________

Date of birth __________________ No. of poems submitted ______________ Gender

MALE

Ethnic group

FEMALE

OTHER

________________________________ PLEASE SPECIFY

________________________________________________________________________________

This information helps us to monitor and carry out our activities as required by our funders and in accord with the charitable aims of The Poetry Society. All personal information is treated confidentially.

I confirm I have read and agree to the competition rules (online at: poetrysociety.org.uk/fyprules) To enter by post, write the entrant’s name and postcode on the reverse of each poem submitted and include a completed entry form. Send to: FYP 2017, 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, Young Poets Network, to keep you updated with opportunities for young writers. If you do NOT wish to join the mailing list, tick here A

B

C

D

E

F

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“A bumper year, providing ample evidence that the poem can do almost anything with the utmost economy, intensity, and, for the reader, engagement and delight.� – W.N. Herbert, Judge