The John Betjeman Poetry Competition

This new prize is a great way to honour a great poet while simultaneously introducing young people to the thrill of poetry.
Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy

What an excellent website! Great to see John Betjeman living on here. Poetry is a way of looking at life and wondering about it in ways that interest us. Betjeman himself did that in many ways and I hope this competition inspires young people to read his work and of course write poetry themselves.
Michael Rosen

I wish the John Betjeman poetry competition existed when I was 10 - it would have been like a second Christmas! You lot don't know how lucky you are!
Laura Dockrill

As an English teacher, I believe that the John Betjeman poetry competition inspires students to express their appreciation and love of poetry and is an opportunity for them to be independently creative and competitive.
Sue Osman, Weald of Kent Grammar School

Listen to the winning poem

Congratulations to Jennifer Burville-Riley, winner of this year’s John Betjeman Poetry Competition!

The Guardian have a short podcast of Jennifer reading her poem, Saint Wyllow’s Bridge, and talking about her love of poetry. You can listen to the podcast here.

The competition was also mentioned in a column in The Independent about children, poetry and the Olympics! Click here to read the article.

Photos: right, Jennifer reads her poem at the prize ceremony at St Pancras.
Below top: children at the awards listen to poet Brian Patten.
Below bottom: Patron Joanna Lumley and judge Brian Patten with this year’s finalists.

All photos © Paddington Arts. More photos at MulTpleM4N on Flickr

Bath by Daisy Adams age 12

I hurtle down your winding lanes
With the dust of golden stone beneath my feet.
Your humid, summer breeze warms my bare arms and face.
With ease I squeeze through the hedge
And roll down that sun-bleached hill,
Laughing.

I come to a stop at the iron gate,
Grating softly at its rusty post.
Through time it has stood.
Ivy entwines itself around its ornate curls,
Growing new patterns,
Ageing.

Closing the gate I find the ‘holy’ stream
Running through the churchyard
And I dare myself to jump across.
A few rose petals drift in the water,
A shoal of pastel fish
Alive.

The churchyard holds the history of generations,
Each memorial telling a different story.
Some tales are polished, marble glinting;
Others lie worn and discarded, suffocated by bindweed.
Sun rays filter through the canopy of trees,
Spotlights at the theatre,
Immortal.

Beyond the graves there is a field of sheep.
I climb the fence.
White wool has snagged
On the barbed wire –
Fallen clouds.

Saint Wyllow’s Bridge by Jennifer Burville-Riley, age 11

This is a bridge between summer term and autumn,
Weather-bleached boards
across a Cornish creek
where tidal waters ebb and ease,
where riverweed dances
to the ocean’s pulse,
where armoured crabs
battle underwater
and treasure-fragments
await my discovery.

This is a bridge between truth and myth:
I press my ear to the creaking timbers,
sensing the ancient steps
of a persecuted saint
who walked a half-mile
to reach this bridge,
cradling his own
decapitated head.
I taste his salt-tears,
sharp to my tongue,
hear teardrops
flow to a grieving sea.

This is a bridge between past and present:
I conjure visions
of colourful barges
docked at the quay
in bustling days of industry,
loaded with coal and limestone rocks
destined for the fiery kilns.
There are pack mules and horse drawn carts.
There are children gathered
to watch men at work.

This is a bridge between childlife and teenhood,
a place to catch eels, net crabs, to dive or float,
build driftwood rafts, watch bats by moonlight,
hunt for ghosts, read books, skim stones.
I text my friends but find there’s no signal,
scrawl a note instead and stick it in a bottle,
drop it in the water,
the twinkling river light
winks back
as my summer-self stands
between two worlds.

Museo Archelogico Napoli by Dualtagh Grundy, age 10

In the never coming home
of autumn,
we dash through Napoli’s
rainy streets
to find the pink
Museo Archeologico
where the Ercolano bodies
are.

We shelter for a minute,
under an arch of black
and white marbled specks.
On the bottom step
are two shopping bags –
inside – four puppies –
a trapped, sad image,
full of life.

We are frozen
like Roman puppet masks
for tragedy or comedy.
Like being in a play –
still, in time -
in an airtight tube.

The raining day
outside the museo
is held like sticks to our faces
as if it’s all
going to fade in the end.
We look up
to painted angels on the ceiling -
angels looking down
on a glass time line,
smashed
at the sign of Aquarius
carrying still water.
Atlas, holding the world.

There’s a half lady
on a table
with a dog growing
from her neck -
the stuck stillness
makes snakes form a knot
at her stomach.

The Napoli Museo
is pink and warm
but in the middle
is a green garden
where
under sheltered felt
you can breathe
the ghostly statues
in green bronze
of Augustus,
Emperor of Rome.

But the Ercolano bodies
are somewhere else,
not here.

Napoli.
The autumn rain.
Things, found and lost.
The Ercolano bodies.
The bag pups.
John Keats.
Papier maché petrified,
Ghostly, statuefied.

John Betjeman Poetry Prize 2009

Roger McGough presented the prizes for the John Betjeman Poetry Competition 2009 at St Pancras International station on 20th October to Molly Tawney, Olivia Roxborough, Keturah Civelek and Helen Atkinson.

Roger McGough with Olivia Roxborough, Keturah Civelek, Molly Tawney and Helen Atkinson. Photo credit: Hugo Dixon.

Laura Dockrill leaning on the statue of John Betjeman. Photo credit: Hugo Dixon.

Betjeman's beloved bear Archie (right) with his companion Jumbo the Elephant. Photo credit: Hugo Dixon.

The winners of the John Betjeman Poetry Competition 2009 by the statue of Betjeman. Photo credit: Hugo Dixon

Winner: Lapland by Molly Tawney

The snow,
Crisp and new,
Remembers my foot
As it crunches through it.

I make sure that
I am the only one
Who asks the snow to remember me
Day after day.

There is no colour,
Just white upon white.
The only thing apart from snow
Is us and the tall green trees.

Falling like raindrops from the sky,
I just stand in awe and watch
The beautiful whiteness
Sit and rest on their companions.

I breathe in the frozen cold air
And watch my dragon breath
Spiral up and out of sight
Just like hot air from a chimney.

I just stop and listen
For the smallest sound
Until my ears
Are screaming in silence.

The snow reminds me
Of precious jewels,
Glistening in
The morning sunshine.

Have you ever been to a place,
Just like this one and felt completely alone?
Like you have the world in your grasp?
I have.
This is Lapland.

Runner-up: Holkham by Olivia Roxborough

I see my younger self
A small determined figure
In new canvas shoes with
Shiny buckles.
Making her way along the board walk
Under the weight of an oversized beach bag.
She fixes her steady gaze at a point right out on the horizon
Where the sky meets the sea
Wondering at the endless expanse
Below her.

She pauses for a moment
Then drops bag and shoes
Her bare feet break the sands crisp crust
Throwing up a cloud of icing sugar.
As she runs into the wind
Filling her lungs with freedom.
Chasing something, catching something
That isn’t there
Towards the sky of
Lapis lazuli.

In the drowsy afternoon
There is no sound but the beating of a
Butterfly’s diaphanous wings
And the rhythmic swishing of
A far off sea.
A sylph-like figure
Lost in concentration
Gathering pocketfuls of
Tiny, tightly-coiled,
Perfect, pale pink shells.

And now in my mind
I inhabit that memorising view
Unchanging, timeless.

Highly Commended winner: Evensong by Keturah Civelek

Our bench is roughly hewn,
beech perhaps, a pale dense wood
sitting among the scrubby
brushes while crickets cry
their incessant song.
Only the occasional
dog walker interrupts.

Behind:
thickets of sun-bleached grasses,
rustling gently, reed-like, in an
evening breeze:
a few sparse saplings, fragile,
leaning on their
black lacquered supports….

Beyond
the open expanses of
park, soft vibrant green
and the vaulted heights of
blue, blue sky, swept
through with creamy trails….

The sun peers through the
vegetation, warming our backs
like friendly love, spilling deep
shadows along pathways.
Buttery light illuminates
our skin: we glow
like Gods.

The air chills
bringing the scent of night,
mystery, melancholy revelations…..

And the sun slips gently beneath the ground.

Highly Commended winner: The Treasure of the North by Helen Atkinson

My small town is not that new
And it may have mould.
But what it has just down the road
Could almost be pure gold.

The cry of gulls, the crash of sea
Just echoes in my mind.
I can’t wait to see this place
I’m hoping for some time.

As my foot steps on the sand
My eyes just flood with glee.
I’ve become a child once more
I’ve lost all maturity.

No it isn’t perfect
Maybe it’s not clean.
And yes it’s a mining town
With some history.

But none of this could matter less
This feeling you can’t teach
No-one else can get this buzz
I get from Skinningrove Beach.

John Betjeman Poetry Prize 2007

The winning entries in the 2007 were announced at a special poetry event at the Cheltenham Festival of Literature, where a sell-out crowd heard the poems read by leading actors including Edward Fox, Phyllida Law and Dan Stevens.

The winner: The High Street by Jessica Thomas

I turn my MP3 player up to
Try and drown out the sound of
Boys thumping against the bus windows
Bags of the many people –
Like immigrants on a journey to a new life –
Bash against my arm
I’m going to have a bruise there tomorrow
I feel the bus cough and splutter into life
Crisp packets and McDonald’s wrappers
Scatter just as their owners do
As the bus wheels rumble over the cracked black
tarmac
Through the window I can see
The takeaway shops and fast food
And/or Indian restaurants
One café, two café and half a dozen high-fashion
clothes shops
With frantic shoppers darting in-and-out
In the distance I can see the ruins of a great castle
A once proud protector rising from the ground
As a monument to preserve acts
Of sacrifice and bravery
Surrounded by beauty and ignorance
Litter and heroism
It’s going to be a long journey home.
Jessica Thomas ©2007

The runner-up: Hellenic restaurant – Marylebone High Street by Angela Maria Charalambous

This is the place where I learnt to grow up,
Learnt to be myself,
And learnt how to make mistakes.

It is the place where I knew who I was,
Where I come from,
And where I want to go.

It was the place where I could see my future,
Hear laughter of a moment to come,
And was the place where I smelt the old and felt the new.

This place is somehow going to disappear,
Fade away,
Die out,
Somehow I don’t know what to do,
Don’t know where to start.

I doubt this place will ever be the same,
The place where I learnt to grow,
And where I learnt to make mistakes.

Highly commended: The stage!! by Katymay McGuire

As you walk through the doors,
You get attacked by lots of flashing lights
And everyone looks at you
It makes everyone feel happy.

Flashing from cameras
Claps and cheers
All the audience smiling from ear to ear.

The velvet stage curtains open
Bright lights on the centre stage
Music starts playing tunes that’s when to come on.

When you go on the stage
It feels massive like a cave entrance but it’s not really.

The John Betjeman Poetry Prize

On September 9th 2006, Sir Andrew Motion presented the John Betjeman Poetry Prize at St Mary Radcliffe, Bristol.

The third prize was awarded to Michael Deeks for his poem My Bike Jumps.

The second prize was given to Sarah Stewart-Watson for her poem The Cliff.

The first prize went to 12 year-old Jamal Msebele for his poem Kaleidoscope.

Sir Trevor McDonald with Jamal Msebele

Sir Andrew Motion writes: ‘The standard of the 2000 odd entries was certainly high enough to justify the existence and continuance of the competition: the theme helped applicants to concentrate their attention on real things in real places (which has a lot to be said for it), the styles and techniques covered an impressive range (from free to formal), and the language was generally both concentrated and lively. At the same time though there was enough evidence among poems which did not make the final shortlist to suggest that the competition has a value in encouraging schools as well as individuals to give more time to poetry. To become a rallying-point for ideas about the need to use a more concentrated language, more definite structures, and more animated rhythms. The competition has already achieved a good deal – and has a bright future ahead of it.’