Over 18s NPD 2025 poetry competition: 'PLAY'
Winner: Playing Field - Jackie Hutchinson
Winner: Playtime - Peter Wathen
Winner: Play - Dan Shelton
Highly commended:
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Greener Grass - Judith Shaw (42)
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Taking My Daughter To The Park - Sam Szanto (36)
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Let's Play - Clarissa Bird (23)
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Did You Play FiFa on X-Box Dad? - A.P. Staunton (11)
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Imaginary Dog - Robin Daglish (17)
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Nature's Quiet Reconstruction - Peter Devonald (7)
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War Games Mike Munson (40)
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Play - K Hutchinson (28)
1. Martians - Soo Doo
2. 1914 - Amanda Hill
3. Are We There Yet? - Debbie Milner
4. Behind the lines - Steven Holloway
5. Black Widow - Peter Wellby
6. Checkmate - Peter Devonald
7. Nature's Quiet Reconstruction - Peter Devonald
8. Child's play - Kerri Moors
9. Christmas at the Race Track - Robin Daglish
10.Day Dream Play - Alana McIntyre
11. Did You PLay FIFA on X-Box, Dad? - Andrew Staunton
12. Fifteen Love - Jeff Gallagher
14. For Those Who Speak Fluent Gamer - Mike Munson
15. I Built a Wall the Other Day - Peter Wellby
16. I Want to Take Up the Piano - Gary Marshall
17. Imaginary Dog - Robin Daglish
18. Improvise - Jeff Gallagher
19. Music in the Listening Place - Jackie Hutchinson
22. Kite Club - Stephen Holloway
23. Let's Play - Clarissa Bird
24. Mesdames, Messiers - Antony Mair
25. Playing for the Kommondant - Antony Mair
27. A Play On Words - Peter Wathen
32. Playing Games - Chris Goode
33. Remembrance of Play - Di Hills
34. Echoes in a Demolished Street - Di Hills
35. Stage Play - Zachary Thraves
36. Taking My Daughter to the Park in Eastbourne - Sam Szanto
37. The Record - Darren Rogers
38. The Visitor Dorian Nightingale
41. When All the World's a Stage - Mark Durbidge
42. The Greener Grass - Judith Shaw
43. Graceless - Judith Shaw
WINNER
Playing Field - By Jackie Hutchinson
Shake high, a bonny leg tall as sun, floppy arms, kick!
sing to twig and wing, your notes tight as blossom
your throat, a muscle for the sky, soprano, if you let it trail
dance, as sunlight muscles its way west
you are at your best, feet firm as night, are turning
knees spun, this day will be remembered for its lift
as cloth is lifted and stitches the air with music
here there is no work, there is no warring
only the rediscovered lightness of dance.
WINNER
PLAYTIME - By Peter Wathen
Children are red dots on a school field,
animated poppies blown by wind and play,
are a chaos of scarlet atoms
in a galaxy of green;
giving the lie to the ordered day.
The school buildings, low slung,
are full of crayon-coloured freedoms,
are prefabricated white like Nissan huts;
white like the chalk grids for hopscotch
etched in tarmacs of ancient playtimes,
emptily agleam in the beaming sun.
The children are suddenly a sunset river
flowing wildly to a grey sea,
are anarchy controlled by a pea
in a whistle of tin-pot silver.
Are formed, warned, into thin red lines
like soldiers marched from old-fashioned times
by teachers, all importance aquiver,
to buildings low slung and a sadness of sums
and lessons for ever and ever and ever …
I listen as silence holds sway,
missing the happy sounds of play’s invention;
sad for the detention and rank and file
of children returned to the ordered day
to learn, sadly, that life’s not all play,
and registered time is soon ticked away –
as their schooldays will be … in a while.
WINNER
PLAY - By Dan Shelton
PLAY
Once upon a time… it was a plane, it is a train, no it’s a spaceship. I'm the king of the castle.
Creatively incorporated into a multitude of imagined worlds, one moment a box, the next a trunk full of pirate treasure, a sports car, flying machine, or golden throne.
Close your eyes and count to 10!
We don't stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing. It's a prescription after admission to the big house, with the square windows, with the Dr's and Nurses, and poor Jill’s with Jack who has fallen down.
Something came from out of space, a monster emerges from the fancy dress box, but you can't catch me. Take an egg box, a piece of string, something from the garden it’s a new game that lasts as long as the suns still shining.
Goal!
Imagination never stops, just because we've aged, our friends still want to knock for us to come out and play, the games just change with time. Plugged in, turned on, tuned in, on-line.
Coming ready or not!
It’s an occupation, rehearsal, an education, a re-training, a development of skills, something you’ve never done before, My mums better than your mum.
You’re it!
And they all lived happily ever after...
1.
Martians; XIII -
written by Soo Doo
All work and no play
Makes Jack a dull boy they say.
Get back home and hit they hay.
What did you do today?
But if no job at all,
No plan, no wherewithal
Each day like all the rest,
You sit in pants and vest
And cannot make some fun;
Go for a walk, or run,
Or write, or draw, or sing –
Create or do something –
What is your life then worth
If devoid of mirth?
On Mars they have a saying:
And now these three remain:
… Work… Rest… and Play.
But the greatest of these is Play
3.
Are We There Yet?
By Debbie Milner
Are we there yet? I heard them cry,
as yet another field passed by!
We had to get out of bed very early,
They were tired but it was only ‘Yearly!’
Let’s play a game of eye spy…
‘Mine is better,’ name the animal beginning with -
‘A,’ Anteater and so the game gets to Fly.
We hear another ‘Are we there yet?’
Let’s have a snack I suggest,
eaten with haste they hardly digest!
Time for a wee stop,
into the garage we all pop.
‘Where has Tommy gone?’
He wandered off to the books, singing a song!
We are in the car and back on track,
A contest to count sheep and horses were they hack.
Finally it seems hard to convince,
over that hill we shall arrive, so we pass the mints!
‘There is the sea,’ someone ‘shouts out,’
smiles and happy hearts, that’s what the journey was about.
Buckets and spades at the ready,
It is so much better than sitting at home watching telly!
4
Behind the Lines
by Stephen Holloway
I saw his shape approaching past the changing rooms
As I stood between the goalposts furthest away
He always missed the kick-off, half-time loomed
A promise made that he would never betray.
Standing apart from the crowd, his shout was unique
His loud voice of echo erupted from a touchline
Late and estranged from any huddled-up clique
Of manager, parents or those with minds that confine.
I loved his apartness; I took this from him
Alone on a goal line, confined to a box
This sportsman, a golfer now, playing, not always to win,
But to be; competing in life; taking the knocks.
He never acknowledged me; but we both knew;
My acrobatic save; his blink to memory, shuttered and stored;
My mistake; I watched him think, words quietly flew
As angles became narrowed, I stuttered, was flawed.
His generation knew all about doubt
They’d had bad teachers, the past hands over damaged dreams;
One error, my trigonometry was poor; passed back to blackout,
To air raids and war and tins of Brylcreem;
And yet it seemed to be just him and I
For us an unorthodox method of love
Him, without an identity, me, my father close by,
Behind the lines where a look was enough.
5.
BLACK WIDOW
By Peter Wellby
‘She got him! Come and see!’.
She comes too close, too quickly.
Against my leg I feel her thigh.
We watch him struggle in his silken shackles
the web-threads pluck and try like a demented harpist
tweaking electric glue.
Caught in her world-wide web,
deprived of earth he seizes air,
beating to a cicada shrill the sky,
no gentle but a raging goodbye ‘Why?’
Her spinnerets are working busily:
a winding-sheet to mummify her fly.
Eight dark eyes watch
she weaves him in her soft thread, patiently
attentive to his tantrums,
plays him steadily as a spit-roast.
Her needle-thin legs gossamers apply
like a crisp nurse, a tricoteuse.
A sympathetic horror – tie and die.
She mocks me, yes her smile is teasing, sly.
Had he flown when first he spied her
he would not end up inside her.
Her delicate extensions map my neck like callipers.
A frisson or a shudder, stirs the fly.
Wrapped in his gauzy ball now he is still and dry.
She hums impatiently.
Swaddled in silk
I do not wish to die
to an arachnid’s lullaby.
6.
Checkmate
By Peter Devonald
All the chess pieces have fallen,
strewn and tumbled around the board,
four bishops roll around the floor,
four knights stricken and upended,
four castles collapsed the same
as all the pawns, fallen, fallen,
wiped from the ornate board,
all over the place their collapse,
no reason for any of it at all,
no logic or cause for this ruin,
kings and queens just the same
as all of us in the final reckoning,
a certainty of sunset shadows,
lengthening in crimson delight.
7. HIGHLY COMMENDED
Nature's Quiet Reconstruction
By Peter Devonald
A certain vibrant blue made for summer evenings,
pink and orange hues, the colour of pure nostalgia,
playing football as children till last goal wins,
great lilting summer sound of leather on willow,
as real bats fly wild across darkening velvet skies,
scattering of sunlight flickers into rich melodies,
birds cartwheel across the sky, freefall tumbling
home, full moon whispers a million fragrances,
sweet aroma of sweet pea and honeysuckle,
a profound sense of promises and wild potential,
we feel alive right now, we peer into the distance,
we witness our future, a bridge from here towards
tomorrow, a gateway, a transition, an awakening,
blossoms bloom as we learn to play too.
8.
CHILD'S PLAY
By Kerri Moors
Freedom in blades
between my soft pink toes.
Breathing in warm sun
betwixt English clouds,
being clean cotton wrapped.
Secured by my fresh faced mother.
Child’s play.
A mathematical playground
of breaking dreams,
and a desolate future
looms at the edges of my mind.
Sliding smiles and rosy red cheeks
replaced with restricted rage
against the educational machine.
Child’s play.
Young adults linger.
Stumble.
Tapping on beer soaked carpets
and play house with debts
that will never be paid.
Gorging on gilded promises
from the powers that stalk
the measly monthly pay.
Child’s play.
Fumbling through parenthood.
No one knows what they are doing.
Do they?
Responsibly lying.
School runs, chasing nits.
Have you made the right choices
for their future?
Mid-Life's Game
Where is the bell for playtime?
Dull joy found in the
Bottom of a glass,
In the bed of another,
In the status of a car,
In being a mother.
So raise a glass, come what may,
it's all a joke, this life's just child's play.
9.
Christmas at the Race Track
By Robin Daglish
Small boy on a pew, wedged between parents,
oblivious of the ancient church and all its history;
carol singing washes over him: he’s at the races,
thumbs steering his racing car through the corners
of a digital track.
All the centuries between that stable scene
and games machine, bring the tech magi
satelliting over the curve of Biblical land.
Flat-Earth-Angels and shepherds don’t cut it:
millions are watching signs and wonders
on their screens.
The tech billionaires control the narrative.
No room at the inn? we have an app for that.
As the prophet Arthur C Clark put it:
‘Any reasonably advanced technology
is indistinguishable from magic.’
10.
Daydream Play
By Alana McIntyre
I’ve worked hard all day.
It’s time to play, I sit in a café
sipping a lychee bubble tea with tapioca.
It’s sweet and soothing, the black gooey balls
zoom up the straw a reminder of
granny’s frogspawn pudding (some call it that hating it)
I reminisce over the chewy toffee flavour with a
brown blanket of nutmeg, sugar, and butter, yummy.
Followed by fond memories of sucking an orange with
a sugar lump cut in the top squeezing and slurping the citrus juice.
The calming rhythm is a reminder of the to and fro of a swing,
even in old age I can’t resist to sit on an empty one in
a deserted playground remembering mine strung on
an apple tree branch when I was young.
As an artist/writer playing with
sea sounds in my head inspired by the seascape
painted on the café wall, waves kissing the shore,
roaring, crashing, foaming, lulling
bringing surprises in flotsam and jetsam,
shells, to decorate sandcastles, sparkling sea glass,
strands of coloured fishing net to weave
onto rescued sculpted wood. The clock ticks
‘It’s time to go home.’ as Andy Pandy would have said.
The last glistening black bubble guzzled,
my daydream play is over.
11 HIGHLY COMMENDED
Did you play FIFA on X-Box , Dad ?
By Andrew Staunton
With a cylindrical stone , he stood all alone ,
And relived the week-ends big matches ,
In his mind's eye , from forty yards let fly
A screamer that no Goalkeeper catches .
Two sweet volleys bounced off shopping trollies ,
A diving header that went in,via a wheel ,
Then a mesmerising dribble , right through the middle
Was embellished with a cheeky back-heel.
Out in the yard , or roads barely tarred ,
To him , it was a packed Wembley ,
Until his Mother's shout and the threat of a clout ,
Saw him sprint down the wing for his tea .
12
Fifteen Love
By Jeff Gallagher
(after watching an old couple play tennis)
Fifteen love/thirty love/forty love/gone
First game/first set/change ends/play on
Through replayed highlights of cross court rallies/
Lobs and volleys, lets and net calls,
Smashes, backhands, swerve and topspin,
Ins and outs, old scores, new balls/
Advantage shifting from one side to the other/
Love fifteen/thirty/forty/truce
Now defence is attack/and fighting back/
It’s fifteen/thirty/forty/deuce
Honours are even/and now the tie breaker/
They can’t be split/as they grunt and caper/
Fast forward now/to this final game/
All previous games a distant thought/
Each end result a dull statistic/
And each point scored a lost retort/
No broken rackets/faded tramlines/
split decisions/injured pride/
Scores are even/no winners here/
No pre-match nerves/no loss/no fear/
No rivalry now - they only dream
Of barley water/strawberries/cream
A new respect/for each other’s play
No protest/no inquest about the day
For partners in doubles will overcome troubles/
and play the game
And remain old friends/for their match depends
On love -
Where it all started
And where it ends
13
First night
By Chris Ralls
A burble of voices in the auditorium.
Lights dim, an air of expectation
when the curtain rises and the play begins.
The playwright, sitting in his box,
looks out anxiously at the audience’s faces.
Will they laugh or applaud in the right places?
Dialogue impassioned, moulded and fashioned
in his inimitable style, the characters all the while
playing and parrying with the words he wrote.
As if searching for a quote
a newspaper critic nibbles on his pen,
then scribbles frantically on his pad.
But will what he writes be good or bad?
Half time interval, polite applause,
the audience inscrutable
as they scramble for the bar to order drinks.
The playwright thinks his efforts might have failed.
But then the second half,
and now his listeners laugh and lap up the dialogue
with increasing zest.
Could this play turn out to be his best?
The final scene and then the curtain drops.
The playwright mops his brow.
He can lay aside his fears
as the audience claps and cheers.
But after this first night, will the scribes endorse
the audience’s delight, or even be polite?
The playwright knows what a review entails,
that in the end the critics hold the key
to whether his latest play succeeds or fails.
14.
For Those Who Speak Fluent Gamer
by Mike Munson
Power Up Your Life. Join The New Era of Gaming… Making Heroes out of Couch Potatoes
Gamers Assemble. Victory awaits.
Dress Code: Pyjamas and Victory… Wear Pyjamas, Save the Universe.
Sleep Is For the Weak, Games are for the Brave. Play Hard, Dream Big.
Dare to Dream. Dare to Game. Who Needs Sleep? Let’s Game.
Battles Await. Heroes Rise. Unleash your Inner Hero.
Become the Legend... Where Heroes Are Made.
Where the Games Never End… Where Every Day Is Game Day. We’ve got More Games Than
You Have Excuses.
Gameplay So Immersive, You’ll Forget Your Job.
Reality Has Competition. Reality is Boring - Game Instead. Redefine Reality.
Drop In, Game Out… Respawn your Reality.
Step Into The Extraordinary. Experience The Unseen… Gaming, Reimagined.
Monsters. Treasure, and More. Oh My!
We’ve Got Your DLC Right Here. Unicorn Levels? We Got ‘Em.
Unlock The Impossible.
Mana, Health, Fun: ALL UNLIMITED. Experience Points for Your Soul. Out of Health Potions?
We’ve Got Plenty. “Your Daily Dose of HP and XP”.
Your Ping is Low, Your Spirits Are High.
Play More. Live More. Gaming like never before.
Level up your fun here. Level up your Life.
I play to win.
Player One, Ready for Fun. Press ‘Start’ for Adventure. Press Start for Insanity.
Your Next Adventure is Loading….
Game On, Real World Off. Pixels Over People Any Day. No Glitches in Our Matrix
Reality Called… We Hung Up. Your Mom Called... She Can’t Save Your Game.– The Zombies
Called… They Want Their Brains Back... Step Up, Play on.
We put the ‘Fun’ in ‘Game Over’- Game over for Boredom.
Time Wasted? Nah, High Score Achieved. A New High Score in Fun.
Your Quest Begins Here.
*No Elves Were Harmed in the Making of This Game
15
I BUILT A WALL THE OTHER DAY
By Peter Wellby
I built a wall the other day
to try to keep the world at bay
but the world saw what I was at
and, since the earth is round not flat
travelled that night and half a day
tapped on my back and ask to play.
I built a wall the other day
to try to keep my friends away,
but my friends thought that I was sick
and found a ladder by a rick
and ropes to speed them on their way
so their love I could not gainsay.
I built a wall the other day
to keep my family away,
their grief was pitiful to hear,
I knew too well they held me dear
and could not bear to hear them pray
so tumbled all my wall away.
I built a wall the other day
to hold my love, where we might play.
I decked her out with poppies red
I wreathed blue cornflowers round her head
but my fair love she could not stay,
she kissed my lips and danced away.
16
I Want To Take Up The Piano
by Gary Marshall
I want to take up the piano
Can I play on yours
Practise an hour every day
In between the chores
I’ll play with both my hands
Bass and Treble cleft
By the time I am finished
To give, I’ve nothing left
I’ve never played a tune before
Day one teach middle C
If you let me practise
I’ll learn a symphony
You say you have a keyboard
I think a Piano forte
After just one lesson
You will be my forte
17 HIGHLY COMMENDED
Imaginary Dog
By Robin Daglish
I’m walking my imaginary dog,
throw him a stick and he runs for it.
Crossing a field of menacing cows,
time for a swift exit.
He shits and I pick it up
with imaginary poo bag.
There’s only one flaw,
he never barks
when someone’s at the door.
I like his company,
we share our love of the great outdoors,
but I’m not possessive,
this dog could be yours.
18.
Improvise
By Jeff Gallagher
I’m a chissom, man, a shoot, a sprout sprung
from a jism, a jizzum, a jizz see man we’ve only
played two bars but I start to improvise, cry out,
to follow the rhythm where it drives, from that
two note bluenote fused, a fizz, a snaking line,
a song to the stars, you got to swing, and improvise
I’m Fats, I’m Satchmo, a funny face, a pop-eyed
clown, a crumpled suit, still laying down a twelve
bar riff, a tune the white man’s ear can place,
then jazz hands, fingers, lungs and eyes make
those dudes and girls so cute move their bones
starched and stiff to what I play when I improvise
I’m the sax, the bass, the soft skins, the kid in
white who clears your glass, who wants a piece of
what you’ve got - and respect is where that jive
begins, so I play a sound that you despise, a song
that sings of race and class, this jazz got balls, yeah,
it says so what? - just hear me while I improvise
I ain’t no star, just a second horn, a boy who’s
hired to swing, swing low and dumbly play another
chorus, just another sideman, a guy reborn and
grateful for your compromise, but man I’m gonna
run this show, ain’t no one now will dare ignore us
when I take that stand and play and improvise
I’m cool, I’m dandy, I’m the lead, I’ll take my song,
my attitude wherever beat and jive and soul can
take them, just see what’s growing from that seed,
that chissom, that jizzum, that jazz - I rise to play
like any other dude, yeah, these are my rules, now
I can break them, ain’t no more need to improvise
19.
Music in the Listening Place
By Jackie Hutchinson
I feel sad and elated when I listen to Donna Summers Last Dance.
It’s the wind whistling through the brass, whittling the air into magic
We were so deep in trance in London, the sea had slid away
only the Thames boat with its sting of night stars
stayed afloat above the music.
Each wave, a bubbling bass, in contrast to the river-less tunes
plucked from my guitar, the tone wood of Donna’s voice
was a mellow, bright clarity of disco, everything smooth
and glassy, and plastic, clipped as starlight.
I’d like to be out there, on a ship
tumbled ricochet making me homesick
and then down to the skirted nightclub, where all the seabirds go
their husbands idling at football screens
the music stacked and dropping Stax.
I’d close my eyes so I couldn’t see,
the boatyards, steel mills, breweries
only feel the nostalgic waves, the sinking
the music wrapped around the moon
the drinking!
Our time has come, don’t worry honey
we are sugaring the pool, remembering being 14
skipping school, lying on a bed of Motown
tossed by a field of music
stretched oceanwide.
20
Jumpers for Goalposts
By Gary Marshall
I want to go back
To when all the games were on Saturday afternoon
To when the FA cup was exciting
To when we had the Cup Winners Cup
To when shirt numbers were relevant
To when only the champions made the champions league
To when we played on grass
To when all the kids played World Cup
To when next goal wins
To when arguments were settled by a penalty
To when you could join any random game
if there were two of you
to when I was 8
to when things were simple
to when things made sense.
21
JUST MY IMAGINATION
by Philippa Coughlan
I stopped and blew the dandelion cotton bud flowers
chasing kites plainly made on high windswept hills
sat and played with the sock shaped animals and faces
read my marvellous books on secret windowsills.
I rattled the dangerous clackers and conkers
banged the beautiful rainbow coloured xylophone
shared with friends our many skipping rope songs
watched the eyes on the dial of the Fisher Price phone.
I imagined hiding for days in a wooded secret den
mixing bright paints and writing in diaries with locks
bicycled all day for PYO strawberries we always just ate
only returning when Mum called dinner in coded clocks.
I laughed at the seaside of Mister Punch and poor Judy
carried with care the small bags of money for arcades
we built sandcastles majestic that could stop an invasion
collected crabs at low tide and scraped along our spades.
I braved my knees and head with the giant pogo stick
stood once on a frog and screamed all the way home
the swings and the slides in our park were on concrete
we’d meet our mates by the bench and go off to roam.
I heard when they told me beware of the stranger
watched TV when The Magic Roundabout came on
loved Sindy (not Barbie) and made her a cardboard home
we all cried and dug a grave when our pet cat was gone.
I know that the past is an illusion for some generations
running innocently all over in golden summer bliss
we can’t bring it back in a wrapped up nostalgia
but we can pass on sentiments so children today don’t miss.
22
Kite Club
By Stephen Holloway
Emerging from a lone scout hut
The sound of souls with booted foot
They marched to where the air did sing
With hope from high and twisted string.
On a chalky point of Beachy Head
Ran those tiny figures of mirth
Hoisting contraptions from an anchored earth
They, as ballet, a pirouette,
A dance with gusts and jets
Taut lines to France, to Dieppe.
Controlled by hand and sight
An upward arc, then a dive aghast
The kite club showing its skill and class
From stratosphere to sea in one swift swoop
Vertical, diagonal and through a loop
A beauty with a fuel-less flight.
Captain Sky winched in his craft
And members cheered each somersault,
Every turn and velvet vault;
So there they stood on Beachy Head
Reeling in their tethered beasts
Like birds of prey on Spartan heaths.
24
PLAYING FOR THE KOMMANDANT
By Antony Mair
In Terezin we forgot the comforts of Prague / our lives controlled / half-starved / then they crowded us into railway trucks / now this spacious drawing-room / roses outside in full bloom / grass freshly mown / Play he says / we lift our bows
On the train I tended my sick husband / when we arrived they led him off / Are you the musician? a guard asked / This way / My viola is in Terezin / We have one here for you
The players stared at me, hollow-eyed / one of them I recognised from Prague / our clothes mere rags / an hour’s rehearsal / the viola they gave me was Italian, eighteenth century / a tone that warmed the heart / I placed it under my chin / felt a contact with other chins that had held it there
They made us wash away our prison stench / now I see Frau Kommandant, impeccable / blonde perm / lipstick/ are those Italian shoes? / her children fidget on their chairs
Our leader nods / we draw our bows across the strings / I’m back in Prague / on a concert platform / then the adagio / the viola solo / expressionless faces watch us / through a side window I catch sight of the prison wall / a tall chimney rising above it / I think of my husband being led away / tears begin to flow / I feel unclean
25
Mesdames, Messieurs, faites vos jeux—
By Antony Mair
the croupier’s bored voice a background
to secret dreams of wealth for those who sat,
pale-faced, night after night, watching the wheel,
the bouncing ball. This time, perhaps...
Their piled chips dwindled with their hopes.
I stood apart, untempted. But now, years later,
I tap the iPad’s keys for another game
of Solitaire. No chandeliers, no bowtied barman,
no bottles of Dom Perignon dispensed like coffee.
But algorithms do their silent work,
feeding me the same compulsion as
those haunted souls once felt.
Their ghosts surround me, still sitting
with their eyes on the spinning wheel,
daylight forgotten, rent unpaid,
credit cards maxed out, until
the bank refuses and they’re outside
in the empty street, looking back
beyond the muscled doorman
at the lit interior, the croupier’s rake,
the life they might have had.
26
Only a Game
By Soo Doo
“Bedlam hath no barricades”
thus the mystic spake
(surrounding his words of wisdom
with quotation marks for the Press)
The madman sniggered
and locked himself away again.
Protesters cut away at the fence
opening a human sized hole.
Only a handful entered the Base
where they stood,
waiting to be arrested.
As the fence began to give way
a roar went up,
missiles hurtled through the air,
fists and boots flew,
those who only wanted to watch the game
tried to flee but panic
spread quicker than bodies
and some were crushed to death.
It’s only a game.
It’s only a game and you play it with your life.
You can get yourself arrested, you can get yourself a wife.
You can take a chance or play it safe, you play it how you want to,
and no-one wins but it’s better to play than wonder why you’ve got to.
27
A PLAY ON WORDS (Acrostic)
By Peter Wathen
An old Bard makes a play on words, conjures visions.
Mistress Merryweather pray listen –
In the street your children play knucklebones,
down and dirty amongst courtesans and coxcombs,
squat late alone where bats fly and midges’ drone
under a midsummer sky.
Magic spells, though, are let loose in the air,
moon-shadowed children become, by and by,
evening spirits taken from childish play,
reimagined in parts of a different play –
now, naiads and dryads of rivers and glades
in magical mischief fly.
Golden days and nights; the bewitched moon
haloed the skulls of some travelling players;
turned their lines around in their heads,
summoned words never meant to be said;
dream-plays, not theirs, but plucked from the air,
rehearsals for which, might yet never be read.
Enchantments that tease haunt streams and trees,
as urchins, transformed, play tricks not knucklebones –
‘Mistress Merryweather, please! Call your children home!’
The above poem, (26 lines) is an acrostic.
The first letter of each line when read downwards spells:
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. Shakespeare’s play within a play.
28 HIGHLY COMMENDED
Play
By K Hutchinson
I saw the gleam in the eyes of young women,
Hitting the ball with vibrancy and zest. Bat in hand,
They moved simultaneously in agile fashion, even as
Men swung fiercely at ping-pong balls, not that far away.
It was a lovely day, with the radiant sun streaming
Through the verdant green branches and foliage, of
My friends’ back lawn. Food and drinks were plentiful,
And the well-placed tables, emitted the flavoured
Spices of a delectable cuisine, nicely laid out for dinner.
As a child, I played ‘hide and seek,’ as my favourite game.
I had no Nintendo or cell phone, and in my village,
Few kids rode bicycles, with even less being familiar
With the challenging stunts that made us jump gleefully.
Yet we shared a strong spirit of camaraderie, knew the
Social and mental value of playing, of teamwork… of the
Spirit of harmony. Now, as I watch the men and women play,
I feel a déjà vu about the beauty of play that transcends borders.
I find myself playing marbles, spinning ‘tops’ joyfully,
In the gravel of the neighbour’s yard. I then ride gleefully
Down steep hills on go-carts, with total disdain for my
Safety; catch crayfishes in the river with my bare hands,
Totally unafraid of their very mobile, quick and sharp claws.
Now I am alert again! I look at the women, as they
Move with impunity… a sense of freedom and lack of
Guile, that reminds me of kite-flying in the village, that kids
Roamed back home, the mango trees on which we danced.
No clowning attire or calypso masquerade now, as
I look upwards to the heavens, smell the pungent air,
Which for the first time seems hallowed, as my heart
Sings the value of play, my soul whispering praises, to Love.
29
PLAY
By Damien Ellis
Press play
Press play
Let's play
less play
makes for a stressed day
My fortay is more play
may your day start with foreplay
I'm for play
in all ways
all fours in the hallway
or hanging off doorways
I digress, I'm naughtay
connect four in a warm place
Or a football with your mates
May all your days always
Find time for play
in large and small ways
Cos it can help take the edge
off the fucking mundane
But if you take life for a game
then you might get played
Just play your position
and prey you still get paid
Cos it's a cold world and most don't play
Some learn from play
Some earn from play is
Love what you do
you won't work one day no
Some turn from play
Wage slaves go grey
dig earl graves
And you’re a long time laid
all work no play
Made jack's light fade
Might trade
For the playdough
Shut your cake hole
there's no way yo
Life's worth more than a payload
Burnt fingers play with fuego
Chasing pesos
But there's gold in this here rainbow
30
Play Fair
By Abir Mustakin
I thought I hit a home run, that I finally found the one.
I dreamed of us in a little green house on Mayfair.
We agreed we’d Pool our resources to make sure we’d get there.
It would have been fun, but I was the only one who played fair.
You need to take a Risk to get the win, or you’ll be left behind.
We’re all rolling dice in this Game of Life,
you climb up ladders until you’re face-to-face with snake eyes.
Then you’re sliding down the winding path of your fate,
all the way back to square one.
When you dust off, declare a rematch, a second chance!
We’re stuck in the eternal Roulette wheel of samsara,
running around like beads in Manqala.
Whatever your strategy,
lucky streaks and superstitious beliefs won’t change the probabilities:
When you trust, betrayal is always on the cards.
Other players will look for ways to leave you in the dust,
hoodwink you, put you in a Blind Man’s Buff.
I only found out my hand when we placed down the cards.
Maybe I’m a Jack of Hearts,
but you played me, for a Fool.
How was I meant to see through your lies,
when you have a such steel cool Poker face?
That was until I found Space Invaders in our place!
You claim it was just a mistake,
but I realised it was all Charades,
that I was a little meeple in your game.
Shah Mat! The King is dead! Checkmate.
In the end, I knew I had been outplayed.
31
Player
By Annette Foreman
He was a player
right from the start
he played with my emotions
he played with my heart
as though he were a basketball athlete
running all over the court
bouncing my heart up and down
all over the hard wooden floor
he'd twirl it on his fingers
spin it around so fast
Harlem Globe Trotter
a blast from the past
they were revered
admired for their skill
this player only meant me
harm and ill will
a play thing that he thought
only he could command
as I sat in silence and watched
from the court side
without a referee on my side
the whistle should have been blown
a long time ago
he continued to play on
using my heart as his ball
in his game
threw it high in the air
didn't bother to catch it
as it landed upon the hard floor
it amused him
as he watched it crash up and down
before grabbing it violently
once more
spun it around as he'd done
so many times before
just as tried to smash it down as hard
as he could into the hoop net
I began to feel dizzy
physically sick
I stood up and shouted
you'll not destroy me yet
he turned with a look
of disbelief in his eyes
shock and anger
I'd interrupted his game
stopped him ever playing
with my heart again
32.
Playing games
By Chris Goode
I played chess with Wittgenstein
I lost
I played tennis with Wittgenstein
I lost
I played golf with Wittgenstein
I lost
and I said to him maybe the one thing
games have in common
is that you’re better player than me
at them
but he said
nein nein, du Dummkopf!
I also am better at philosophy than you
what you are missing here
is that all games have a ‘family resemblance’ -
I call it Familienähnlichkeit –
not just one essential thing as Plato says
but traits – just as your DNA implies
your second toe is longer than your first
and don’t even get me started on what makes a poem
a poem
33
Echoes in a Demolished Street
By Di Hills
On a dishevelled city street,
a piano, upright, proud and stern,
stood before a shattered ruin, rooms agape,
a house once filled with joy, now departed.
Day and often night,
passers by like moths to flame
played music, sweet and sour on willing keys,
waves of sounds, drops of melody.
Teen dirges played by lovelorn girls,
three notes then worship wept away,
chopsticks, fast and furious, banged out by boys,
furies of hormonal noise.
From distant, ravaged lands,
songs remembered by exiled slaves,
rock, beat, jazz tapped out by wistful dads,
mementoes of reckless, riotous youth.
Sore to ears, taint to eyes,
A child wallops obstinate scales,
Loud pedal hostile to the angry foot.
Grade One piano a forlorn hope.
And wonder for the fleeting crowds,
Moonlight Sonata, played by a lady wood sprite,
soft tones melted into night mists,
heavenly harmonies in troubled times.
And then one day,
the piano gets trashed, removed in a skip,
though among the noise of demolition,
it is said sometimes you can hear music,
echoes of much loved tunes, discord, clamour
and rare- but precious sounds of genius.
34
Remembrance of our Play
By Di Hills
In the school playground, we played tag,
you always tried to trip me up,
when Mrs Stern- Strict -Meany told you off,
you were ever the round eyed innocent.
In the woods, we climbed old oak trees,
you always flew to the highest branch,
your grin would poke from bristling leaves,
make me topple from my baby branch.
On heather hills, we played hide and seek,
you behind an oak tree, herd of cows,
your weird whistle pierced the sultry air,
silent as a deer, you jumped, hid my eyes.
When we went to giant school far away,
you said you wouldn’t play with me,
you cackled with your mates on so smart phones,
posted a picture of me in cyberspace.
You went to uni, I to local college,
but we played in the hippest band around,
you on bass guitar, I on old violin,
you became a star, I curled ladies hair.
You married a rich lady, I a poor man,
our boys and dogs played together
in the garden of the pub nearby,
we played the fiendish quiz, won first prize.
Now we’re together in the local care home,
we play -remember the name, the day, the place,
sometimes you try to catch and kiss me,
but you can’t trip me, hide away,
it’s me who remembers who we were,
it’s I who loves you still.
35
Stage Play
By Zachary Thraves
gulp in the air, stale, smothered with sweat
hear the bones crackle, like ice in lukewarm tonic
limbs stiffen becoming stone, seduced by medusa
and then a word falls out from splintered lips
the first word, a dozen eyes surrounding
this lifeless form, nod in collective appreciation
rewards unlocked. Level achieved. Stage two opened
another word forms within the minds abyss
like a statue, refusing to budge, contained
in time, no connection between image and sound
the throat collapses into a black hole
all life sucked into the falling star, a gasp
two-hundred eyes widen with fear, is this the fall?
Teeth chatter, sweat falls from fingertips
mouth moves with no purpose or control
body in freefall, the brink of collapse, shutdown;
until, the blur around you distills, you remember
breathe, focus; suddenly, the script glows into life.
36 HIGHLY COMMENDED
Taking My Daughter to the Park in Eastbourne
By Sam Szanto
Where is it,
that special place,
the stone throne
with steps and pillars?
Forty years ago,
my mother and I
came to this park to play.
Every time, we found
the stone throne.
Where is it?
Where is this special place
where girls become queens
and fairies and elves
serve them tea?
We meander mulchy paths,
shying away from dogs.
The café is closed.
At the mustard-yellow folly
my daughter poses for a photo.
Where is it? Where is it?
Where is the place she told me to go
when I was frightened? I imagine
us holding hands, protected
by the magic.
On a bench, frail flowers
tied to each end,
a plaque reading
‘Beloved wife and mother,
in our hearts forever.’
37
The Record
By Darren Rogers
As my hands
More, my fingertips
Hold the circular waxen beauty,
I cleanse with love
Each and every groove.
That Mariana trench bass
Deepening the soul.
Feel it through the veins.
Hairs will rise
Hearts will beat in time.
As the rhythm and rhyme
Swirl into imaginative ears
Across a lifetime
Of heartfelt memorised
Love
38
The Visitor
By Dorian Nightingale
And you appear at the door, years late, penny short -
espousing out-of-date, stanza-form therapy.
A remedy of lines in rhythmic time
now just redundant addenda.
Its cathartic verse rendered
surplus,
untendered.
Why read an appendage penned past the point that it matters?
The written prescription isn’t valid.
So I intend to decouple
from its carefully, crafted commentary
and spurn the wordery of its eloquent counsel.
To stay away from this latest play,
from this needless postscript of meaning.
For this poetry’s come too late
and still seems so grief stricken.
39
Tillie
By Mark Durbidge
Oh do come out to play Tillie
We'll have so much fun and be silly
With Lily and Billie and Millie
Oh do come out with us Tillie
It will be such a hoot such a thrilly
Riding Cliperty Clop the young filly
Oh do come out today Tillie
We'll kick off our shoesies and peel off our socksies
And swim in the ocean with crilly
Oh do come out to play Tillie
We'll eat lots of chocolate and feel rather illy
Then sprinkle on dinners of grown ups hot chillie
Oh do come out with us Tillie
We'll explore castles of cheese in Caerphilly
And shoot arrows with Eros in Piccadilly
Oh do come out to play Tillie
There's not enough time to dally or dilly
Daydreaming of beaches abroad in Sicily
Oh do come out today Tillie
One day we'll be too old over the hilly
Taking lotions and potions and pilly's
40 HIGHLY COMMENDED
Wargames
By Mike Munson
We weren't really cruel as young lads in our endz, when left to our roadside devices.
Our Call of Duty was 'Japs and Commandos' - so our racism wasn't the nicest.
The others were always the enemy, as we stalked with sticks through the woods.
Our Sunday School Salvation Army, ganging up like some junior Bloods.
Our God given right to the youth club, we annexed with appropriate force,
We claimed the West Bank, of Killingholme Bec, and took it to settle old scores.
“I didn't”, tie a lad to a lamp post, for straying onto our turf,
“I didn't”, rope up a dame, to the railway tracks. Thompson and Venables did worse.
There's child's play, and games just for grown-ups; Squid games, and 'double or quits',
Wargames are absolute mine fields, leaving families and children in bits.
When playtime's wrung out there's a toll to be paid, and the Fisher Price - isn’t free,
All games have winners and losers, it's not always a graze to the knee.
GI Joe, he’s in the White House, although he goes by different names.
He's playing alone with his Big Boy. Happy endings, are his aim.
Barbie has taken her Santa Claws out, Johnny Seven’s packing heat,
Action Man and Desperate Dan are fighting street to street.
Diplomacy's a hard game. It's much easier to Risk
some far off Lego neighbourhood being bulldozed brick by brick.
You said, “You should play by the rules”, told me not to play with guns,
It’s not only careless parents who lose their care less sons.
When you're ID’ed by an AI, you'd better Hide and Seek
shelter from the drone above, targeting the weak.
So, feed the Starving Baby©, it doesn't cry real tears.
Play’s not taught us anything. These aren't our Early Years.
41
When All The Worlds A Stage
By Mark Durbidge
There's a sickness deep in my belly
From what I saw last night
Nerves and legs feel like jelly
False diplomacy in full sight
A red carpet for the killer
The applauding jester smiles
Then shakes hands with Godzilla
My mouth now tastes the bile
Keep friends close and enemies closer
Apparently so with a war monger
Was it all just an act and for show Sir?
As for peace...you show no hunger
Men pulling strings for self gain
Play out life like it's some kind of game
Killing people for minerals and grain
What end lies in store for Ukraine?
This world though is not your stage
And it's people not merely your players
For humanities sake turn the page
To fulfilment of peace in our prayers
42 HIGHLY COMMENDED
The Greener Grass
By Judith Shaw
Alison Hadley, Louise Everett, Sandra Smith and me
43
Graceless
By Judith Shaw
Two girls owning the empty curve
from side to main street,
These poems are not shown in full due to publishing rights