Poems by Post X Lost Cousins
Throughout the first half of December, Poems by Post teamed up with Lost Cousins to run a poetry competition. There were no guidelines pertaining to length or style, we simply asked people to submit poetry about their ancestors/family.
There were many wonderful entries, and judging this competition has been challenging! My opinion offers no baring to the talent (or otherwise) of anybody.
Alas, in this moment, I shall wear the weight of a poetry overlord and decree onto you my poesy judgement! I hope you enjoy reading through these poems as much as I have.
Runners up
To an Old Yorkshire Granny, in hope, by Judith Bracewell
It was Christmas night at the Workhouse and mother was scrubbing again,
She’d scrubbed all the turnips and taties and the kids who walked out in the rain.
Life had never been easy for mother, Father always laying in bed
she had scrubbed all her life for others, just to keep her little ones fed.
T’was early one cold Winter morning, Mother thought it was time to change t’sheets
But as she rolled Father over the corner he fell all apart at the seams.
They sent for the local Beadle who declared that Father was dead
And since he was feeling quite needled, ‘It’s off to the workhouse,’ he said.
Now Mother had been sent to the blacksmith, to mend her battered old pail
When she met with someone familiar, wearing a strange white veil
“I’m sorry mother, the voice cried, for causing you so much pain,
I’d like to make things better, so you’ll never suffer again.”
Leaning gently towards her, he produced a bucket and brush
From now on Mother, deary, your work will not be such a rush.
Should by some misfortune, the bucket and brush you drop
no matter how much you shake it, the water never will slop.
To the homes of the local gentry, Mother went with bucket and brush
And whilst she stood as a sentry it scrubbed without even a push.
The floors had never been cleaner and Mother was so well paid,
She bought a house in the country and employed her very own maid.
Each year, around about Christmas, there comes a man with a veil
And quietly, down on the doorstep, he leaves a shiny new pail.
Emily, by Gillian Watkins
Emily, Emily,
Love of my life,
I asked you to marry me,
To become my wife.
But you turned me away
With never a care.
You left me confused
And in utter despair.
If I could not have you
Then no other man oughta,
So I bought me a pistol
With the intention of slaughter.
But you survived my attack,
Though dreadfully injured.
An eye that was blinded
And a face quite disfigured.
And I, for my sins,
Was sentenced to prison
And thence to Australia,
Twenty years transportation.
I wrote to you sometime
And you kindly replied.
Then I proposed once again
That you be my bride.
How you forgave me
I’ll never understand
But you sailed out to join me
In this far away land.
You left behind family
To cross half the earth
And share my life with me
Right here in Perth.
We were wed seven days later
And our family grew,
A son and three daughters,
Though we were left with just two.
We have had to work hard
And our lives have been tough
But with you by my side
That was always enough.
Now as I’m nearing
The end of my days
I want you to know
How I’ve treasured your ways.
So thank you my darling,
Love of my life,
For all that you are
And for being my wife.
Ancestors, by J. Paul Cripwell
The dead
they wait
patiently
to be
discovered
rediscovered
by we
the living
scouring
manually and
digitally
the myriad
of records
available
trying
to
slot
into
perfect
niches
and failing
Multiple
marriages
spelling
changing
names and
dates
lying
poor
writing
misinterpretation
linking
to other
not always
in agreement
we
theorize
and test
and
strive
for
GPS
For my Great Grandfather, Alexander, by Nicky Scowen
Alex was an army man, I know where he signed on
Where he served, and how he looked, but not where he was from
Well hidden are his ancestors, he said his dad was Bill
But search I have, with all my might, and found precisely nil
I’m sure he wouldn’t care but he is now my own brick wall
A puzzle to revisit, hoping one day it will fall
I’ve other folk that I can’t trace, but really this is key
If he chose a name to run away, then who does that make me?
Villanelle at the Falls Hotel, by Maria C. McCarthy
Ennistymon, Co. Clare
We sip drinks in the Dylan Thomas bar
of the Falls Hotel, where Caitlín once lived.
My mother was born in the attic here,
Grandad, the MacNamara’s caretaker.
Dylan and Caitlín hang out with us, framed,
As we drink in the Dylan Thomas bar.
Stories once passed from mother to daughter;
the doll that Caitlín gave her, as a child.
My mother was born in the attic here.
Caitlín was a writer and a drinker,
her husband more notoriously famed.
We sip drinks in the Dylan Thomas bar.
No bar named for Caitlín MacNamara;
tales of her family and mine remain.
My mother was born in the attic here
and several children more to caretaker
Thomas O’Halloran, his wife Eileen.
We sip drinks in the Dylan Thomas bar.
My family lived in the attic here.
i.m. Thomas and Eileen O’Halloran, and their first born child, Mary.
And the winner is...
Julie Collins with her beautifully written poem Evocations. This poem in particular stood out to me as it has everything I love in a poem; rhythm, rhyme, story, and purpose. I've read it several times over, and each time I find myself discovering something new within Julie's words.
If you want to read Evocations, you'll have to wait until March! Julie's poems will be typed up and posted, becoming an offical part of the Poems by Post canon.
I really enjoyed this competition, and would like to give a huge thanks to everybody that took part. I feel priveleged that you shared your words with me - you're all amazing.
Stay creative, and Merry Christmas!
Alex
