Week 22 – entries and results

Week 22 – photograph by Denise Bourassa


When  Denise Bourassa  posted this wonderful photograph  of street art on Twitter I couldn’t resist asking if we could use it as a prompt for the photo and poem challenge and she agreed.

An amazing set of poems came in from the gently humorous, to the hard hitting. I am delighted to announce that the  winning poem is You’re not Banksy and I should know by Hannah Teasdale. Other popular poems amongst the voters was Michael Docker’s Gone Boy and Samantha Weaver’s This City. Very well done to everyone who entered. Any of these would be worth winners. Congratulations to Hannah.


Poem 1

 This city

This city is a painting hung mid-air

and far too close as to render

colour cracks, scuffs,

rough breath, tattered brown cuffs

larger than its frame.


This city strains my neck back as I try

to make space for more space

only allowing for my past head place

to be invaded by furrowed foreheads,

love glances, muttered chances.


This city won’t give up looking glasses

on the shifting brickwork sodden

with rain trodden receipts, Sunday scrawled walls

pulling the painting closer

to my resistance and any other possible

frame of existence.


Samantha Weaver


Poem 2

Gone boy


Jimmy’s lost and Jimmy’s gone.

How he used to carry on,


Legs like pipes and U-bend knees,

Eyes as sharp as stilton cheese,


Tarry, dusty, chalky shoes;

Fading from us like a bruise.


How we loved those perfect socks,

Tell the hours, the distance, clocks.


How we loved his many faces,

Life’s undone, like untied laces.


Gutters for us, drains and worse;

Jimmy’s there among the stars.


Burn, Jimmy, burn and go,

Only chalk to tell it so,


Burn. You played such childish games,

Now our world’s gone up in flames.


Michael Docker


Poem 3


You’re Not Banksy And I Should Know!


It seemed apt to cut cocaine

with your NHS exemption card –

a credit to your name. New starts end

and old beginnings beg to remind

of the fine white line we tread

in pretending our lives

will one day change.

I still don’t know…


Fresh perspective flushes through us –

enough to keep us guessing who

might do what, next.

Like that time you surprised us

with a Sonnet; fourteen lines

of exclamation – brave declaration

that you’re a poet.

I still don’t know…


My heart flutters. Anticipation

worries the turned new leaf in me.

‘I’m Banksy’ so you tell me. ‘Yer what?

Pipes in daps?’ I think you’re daft and laugh.

Hurt, you drop my hand like a stone –

‘You’re too dumb’ you spit, ‘go home!’

But I don’t – ‘cos

I still don’t know…


Hannah Teasdale


Poem 4


His laces are undone
I think, staggering past the old drain
the stars and stripes wink at me
little blue shorts
tubby tucked knees
God why did I take that tablet ?
my feet stumble
and as the drain pipe rises I am falling….


Andy Scotson


Poem 5

The plumber


The plumber came,

he looked

quite ordinary,


for his flashy

watch strap.

But when he left,

he’d not only fixed the loo,

but left a smile

in the back yard too!


Angie Butler


Poem 6


Look son, I know that you must be fed up

of sitting around with cold knees while

the big lads stride past in long pants.

I promise you that when you get taller

I’ll let you have some drainpipe trousers.


Karen Harvey


 Poem 7


Pipe Dreams
Pipe dream,


Permanently set.

Pipe dream,

The juvenile

Will take what he can get.

Ignorance is bliss

Until you fall over your feet.

Tie your laces, try again,

You’ll soon be walking through concrete…

With your one sock pink

And your shoe of blue;

You wonder who you are.

You often think

Concealed truth

Constructs the wall

That guards your heart.


Robert Mandefield