Smeaton300: Poems on Roots and Journeys

Adult’s Category Poetry Competition Winners

First Prize – “Qasida for my grandparents’ garden” by Ute Kelly
Second - “Library wasps” by Liz McPherson
Third – “Dolls’ house” by Liz McPherson

Highly Commended

“Dovetail” by Noel Whittall
“Homecoming, 16:33” by Ruth Kelsey
"At No. 135" by Gail Mosley
“Revenant” by Barsa Ray
“True Home” by B.A.Silcock

Judge Rachel Bower’s comments

It was a great pleasure to read such a variety of poems about journeys, home and belonging for this competition. There were poems of streets, skies, plastic bags. Of trains, plants, comfort and sadness.

The best bit about judging a competition like this is discovering new ideas, fresh perspectives and beautiful images. But the worst bit is having to choose winners when every single poem entered offers a unique insight into the question of what it means to belong!

The winning poems were particularly unique in the way they explored this question through striking concrete images.

1. ‘Qasida for my grandparents’ garden’ is a rich, textured poem, packed full of sensory images. There is a quiet confidence in the way the poem moves us through its unfolding story (and history) and I loved its rhythmic qualities.

2. “Library Wasps” cleverly uses the image of the wasp nest to explore ideas of home, welcome, loss, destruction and mourning. I especially liked the details in this poem: the papery nest, sagging ceiling boards and small bodies.

3. “Dolls’ House” conjures the world of a home in miniature: the drama of the everyday taking place within the confines of a shoebox. There were so many compelling details in this one too: little yellow rugs, bent pipe cleaner limbs, scraps of string.

1st Prize of £150 – Ute Kelly

Qasida for my grandparents’ garden

after Philip Metres

i.
When my grandmother cooked,
there was fire. Fire and rabbits
and carrots and peas and
last year’s plums and cherries
in jars. Strawberries, soggy.
Gold-rimmed plates that had made it,
buried, through war. Eat, this is it
for today. Only some of the time
was this true. Only some
of the time did clean plates
bring good weather next day.
Only some of us grew
tall, though most of us strong.

ii.
I have planted blackcurrants and birds
in the gardens I tried to make homes, even when
it meant unearthing the leftovers of houses.

iii.
On the way to their garden, I remember a field of maize,
how tall it was then. How my grandma didn’t much care
for its owners. My aunts have no memory
of maize but of strawberry fields.
Back in the house that once hosted weddings,
that once had a wall and a window where now
there’s a door and a window where now is a wall
and a table and chairs that are now in the garden,
I ask my cousin. Maize, she says.

2nd Prize of £100 – Liz McPherson

Library wasps

The flat roof of our library is home to wasps;
each summer they build papery nests,
homecoming signalled by circling of insects,
slight sag of ceiling board, low buzz.

I imagine our wasps harvest stories
like nectar, snuggle up in their beds,
share an old favourite, discover a new one.
I wish for all families such simple pleasures.

In late summer, pest control shows up
with their chemical guns, leaves carpets
of death. We walk round heaps
of small bodies, mourn them silently
till the cleanup teams come.

3rd Prize of £50 – Liz McPherson

Dolls house

I take an empty shoebox, wrestle out the tissue paper,
cut a window, door, install two pipe-cleaner people.

I spread the lawn, lay out a chocolate foil path,
wind it past pools and shady seats and flower beds

up to the new front door, no awkward steps, no lock.
I fashion beds from matchboxes, chairs from Lego bricks,

plates from bottle tops. One smiles, but Other won’t behave,
frowns at the cooker, table, little yellow rug I made.

I bend their limbs, knit cloaks with scraps of string, weave hats
from pigeon feathers, paper the walls with birthday wrapping.

I hear Other shouting as I go to bed upstairs,
This isn’t what I wanted. YOU can’t choose.

Highly Commended Poems

Dovetail by Noel Whittall

John Smeaton dovetailed his life perfectly
into Hanoverian Britain.
Down in London a string of Georges
held the throne, while up in Leeds, Smeaton
worked at building and shaping our land.
His own description fitted him perfectly:
A civil engineer. Not just any civil engineer,
but the first.
Windmills, canals, steam engines, bridges,
he worked on them all, improved them all,
strengths and pressures calculated,
never guessed.

He taught us what lighthouses should look like
to endure centuries of foul seas and vicious gales.
The footings of his Eddystone masterpiece,
dovetailed rock into rock off Plymouth.
stand yet, washed daily by tides,
a wordless memorial to
the great Yorkshire engineer.

Homecoming, 16:33 by Ruth Kelsey

Always a silent sigh of relief
as we ease away from King’s Cross,
and the pull of London fades.

Scent of north in the engine’s nose,
electric horses gather speed,
each minute a mile closer to home.

Windows frame a green and pleasant blur
of fields and hills and trees until, as if
to contradict, urban graffiti and neglect

scream this place is far from perfect;
but right now, no-one really cares
as silver threads lead back towards

familiar cadence and short vowels,
to strangers who will always call us love;
to sips of strong, soft-watered tea.

Now we dream of front doors,
of locks yielding to a key’s turn;
thankful, as with a click and a close

the house whispers in our ear,
welcome home, I’ve missed you.

At No. 135 by Gail Mosley
or 431 28 70

The garden bench remembers three generations
posed for photographs.

The pear tree aches for the lean of a ladder
against its trunk.

The hornbeam hedge catches echoes of
coming ready or not

The grass is growing out its bald patch where
the goal-post stood.

The pond hankers after jars of tadpoles.

The flagstones dream of being swept
free of snow, rose petals, fallen leaves.

The shed has locked itself out
while spiders sling their hammocks
over deck-chairs, paint pots, beanpoles
and the ghost of a hockey stick

at 431 28 70
or 135.

Revenant by Barsa Ray

A flight instinct cuts me loose, spurs me from home,
to follow salmon, swallow, seaman, circus clown,

I leap, fork-tail the air, roll my gait, paint
over my face, unravel myself thread by thread.

Tumbleweed for years, one evening I climb a hill,
imagine a flight of steps rising, and feel the rumble

buried deep in me — highway of sound —
map finger tips to valley lights, spark a memory:

I'm six, scaling the hill of grandma's open staircase
unheeding of her warnings of snakes

cooling off on the steps. Time unspools
to when I knew nothing and wanted to feel everything,

even snakebite. Would viper venom make my head swim,
turn lips blue — like Aai's berry jam — would it kill?

I hear her calling as she cooks supper, pretend I'm not there.
Call again, Aai! I will come, but no more see you

than the hum from the highway was the sound of the sea.
Six, I look out top from my crow's nest, lights beckon

from that portal to the world: lorries on tarmac
running night after night on their tread-thin tyres,

the drivers' bloodshot eyes looking to return
to homes they believed they had.

True Home by B.A. Silcock

home is everywhere
I am; deep within myself
it does not matter

Smeaton300 is a creative programme from arts organisation Foxglove, working with artists and scientists inspired by the work of the UK's first civil engineer – John Smeaton.

John Smeaton was born in Leeds in 1724 and dedicated his life to developing ways of working for the public good.

This year, the University of Leeds's Cultural Institute and School of Civil Engineering commemorate the 300th anniversary of his birth through a series of curated events.

Our thanks to all our project partners, Rachel Bower and indeed the community groups and primary schools that took part.