Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2006

This is ridiculous.

Last academic year, in an English lesson, Mrs Beaumont (our teacher) told us about this poetry competition that we could enter if we liked. I thought it would be a laugh to enter so asked her for the website and submitted three poems. I don't think anyone else in my class submitted any.

They received about 10,000 entries, and chose 100 winners to attend the award ceremony at Shakespeare's Globe (!) on National Poetry Day.

One of them was me.

I'm not too sure what the prize is, I think it's a year's membership to the Poetry Association or whatever it's called.

Could be interesting. Who knows?

Here are two of the three poems I entered into the competition:


The Day of Samantha - Written in Year 5, six years ago.

The trout is very proud,
In the way of his great taste,
And when he sees Samantha,
He swims away with haste.

He swims through the rest of the sea,
Talking to different fish,
He sees his friend Stickleback and says
“My, you must make an awful dish.”

“That’s right,” said Stickleback,
“Samantha’s hated me for ever.”
“What would she do if she found you?”
“The thing she’d do, is sever!”

“I think I’ll go home now,
It’s getting very late.”
The trout swam home,
Until he saw a little bit of bait.

He couldn’t resist the juicy bait,
So he swam up to have a bite,
He effortlessly was lifted out of the water,
He never thought he was that light.

He couldn’t breathe he was gasping for air,
He was trying to yell and shout,
An annoying little girl was yelling
“I caught a trout!! I CAUGHT A TROUT!!!”

Sitting on the dinner plate,
Getting very beaten,
Samantha sat down at the table,
And the tasty trout got eaten.


Serving - A pastiche of Seamus Heaney's "Digging", written as a piece of English homework.

Between my palm and opposable thumb,The handle lies. My hand is numb.

Over the net, a low rasping sound;
My opponent bounces a ball on the ground.
The Sun turns my skin golden-brown

As would have any expensive tanning cream.
He stretches high, throws the ball twenty feet away
Straight up in the air,
Where he was serving.

The racquet and ball came into contact,
Momentum being conserved as physics would dictate.
The ball followed a parabolic flight path
And sailed over to my half of the court.
Hating the ball’s hardness in my face.

By God, the young man could handle a racquet
Better than old men.

My grandfather hit more balls in a day
Than any other man on the tennis court.
Once I carried him back to his chair
And made sure he could reach his walking stick.
But he had swapped it, for a tennis racquet.

Heaving and sighing heavily, breathless sobs
As he puffed on his pipe, the smoke went up and up
To the ceiling. Smoking.

The smell of tennis balls, the beat and bounce
Of felt and leather, my racquet anticipates
What is to come. It awakes in my hand.
But I am ready to let it follow itself.

Between my palm and opposable thumb,
The racquet lies. I’ll serve with it.


I hope you liked them. The third poem I entered was called "Dear Eleanor" but I can't remember how it went as I was making it up as I was submitting it on the website. I chose the name "Eleanor" not based on anybody I know, but just because it's quite a cool name. I forgot to save a copy to my computer, so I really have no idea how it goes. I do know however that the last word is "munter".

National Poetry Day is the 5th of October, so I'll be having the day off school to go to the Globe Theatre. I've never been there before, so it'll be quite good, hopefully.

RJ