Poetry
Issue #2
IALS Ian McKillop Sonnet Prize 2006
First Prize:
The Drowning of Desdemona by Samuel Newton
Second Prize:
Going Through Her Things by Sally King
Sonnet most Horrid by John Vance
Third Prize:
The Sermon by Jason Slade
First Prize
The Drowning of Desdemona
Mamma mia I'm up to my neck in you.
She sang to my senses, her Adrian fish,
Calamari, prawns. Pearls from deadly blue
That for centuries six served splendid dish.
Now she drowns. Flapping fish blight her - my ache.
The water deteriorates "...achoo"
She splutters, but now she must eat our cake.
Swarming, sinking, suffocating. The true
Tragedy of Desdemon' - she is safe
Never. The flavoursome fennel sausage
Falls to the deeps as Neptune's anger chafe
Her walls. Culture - cud for rash cod. Message
Desperate she no long' sings but screams belief
"We must think - else Oceans bring our relief."
Samuel Newton
Second Prize
Going through her things
Mamma mia, I'm up to my neck in you.
Negotiating landmarks, life, I fish
in those forgotten fragments, from the blue -
Your ornaments, your scent, the Christmas dish.
I think back to before, you smile, I ache.
You filled life to the frame, laughed loud, your huge 'achoo',
That made your neighbours jump.My seventh birthday cake,
You said when I blew out the flame, my wish came true.
But nearer time, no longer held and safe,
No more breakfast on a Sunday, fried egg and sausage,
instead bleak hospital bed. The plastic bedding chafe
against your skin. I wish to leave this message:
I'm sorry for my long held misbelief,
That when you died, "it would be a relief".
Sally King
*
Sonnet most Horrid
Mamma mia, I’m up to my neck in You,
Staring blindly, with the eyes of a Fish.
And my heart is an ice block, rigid and Blue,
And my mouth is a round disjointed Dish.
No longer suffer a mystery Ache,
Or expel surprise with a a Achoo.
No longer eating that cyanide Cake,
I guess that your love just didn’t ring True.
My spirit watches you steal from the Safe,
Hope you choke on your victory Sausage.
Or even better, I hope the chains Chafe
When the police find this blood writ Message.
Just as I question my lack of Belief
I hear the sirens, Oh what a Relief.
John Vance
*
Mamma mia, I’m up to my neck in you,
Gnawing your icy fingers like frozen fish,
You’re more agreeable now you’ve turned blue,
Even a tad frigid, you make a tasty dish,
While still warm blooded, you made my loins ache,
Fevered, trembling, convulsed, I sneezed achoo,
Satisfaction’s become a piece of cake,
Though gristle’s hard to munch, it’s true,
It had to be, to keep my poor heart safe,
So I turned your organs into sausage,
Y’rejections had begun my pride to chafe,
Though more fool you when I got the message,
I’ve found, (contrary to more romantic belief),
S’best submitting to cannibalistic relief.
Bethan Mobey
Third prize
The Sermon
Parson: "Mamma mia, I'm up to my neck in you,"
Jonah shouted to that biggest of fish.
For it had come straight out of the blue
To be swallowed whole, like some kind of dish.
Congregation: Not this again Reverend, for heaven's (s)ache.
Parson: The thing about hecklers is- a-achoo -
They're so greedy they want to have their cake
And eat it too.
Congregation: No, no!
Parson: It's true, it's true.
I say no sermon in England is safe
From yobs who won't stifle a shout.
Congregation: Sausage!
Parson: Rascals! Look here, you're beginning to chafe.
Congregation: Then it's about time you got the message,
About our small congregation's belief,
That when you shut up we'll get some relief.