Sunday, 04 August 2019 16:00

Bread and Roses Poetry Award 2019: the winners!

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Bread and Roses Poetry Award 2019: the winners!

The five winners of the 2019 Award are as follows:

So, I Grabbed Ahold of My Own Cunt by Jane Burn

spines stronger than the back of the Earth by Martin Hayes

Pencils by Dave Hubble

Dark by Paul Summers

Bank by Rob Walton

Congratulations to the five winners and thanks to all those who entered. This year's Bread and Roses anthology containing a selection of entries will shortly be available to buy online at £5. If you wish to order copies in advance please contact This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Here is one of the winning entries: 

So, I Grabbed Ahold of My Own Cunt

by Jane Burn

Better that than under the thumb of the wrong man.
The one that shits a brick cos your hemline’s above the knee,
the one who sights a level with your breasts.
Come, you upskirters,
gropers,
fiddlers.
Roll up, roll up to where we’re stuck,
behind our desk, our till, our bar, our counter top, our stall.
Come,
with moisture on your smacking lips, rub keen palms
on greasy fabric thighs.
Bless us and our pursefuls of pin money, shackled
to your trouser pocket rummaging for change,
your come-to-bed conversation, leaning that bit over,
catch
a sneaky treat of tit, a clue of cleft. Here, you say,
as we kneel to stack a shelf. While you’re down there, pet.
Look how we break the day around our babies,
bite our tongues
or get the boot.
Look how the bags-for-life have have swung
their weighted lacerations on our skin.
Watch us
check behind before we bend, sense you fix the open target,
thrust with the intrusion of your eyes.
Look at the glass ceiling, how we drown beneath it,
ice over a pond.
How you fear the witch that bleeds five days
and doesn’t die,
how we’ll only mutter on about down below, ask for time off
when our kids are ill. How we’ll only cry.
Look how my hand closes a fist, opens like a rose.
Look how we stop going out cos we’re sick
of midnight coercion whining up our legs, sniffing out the hole,
the pissed-up booze fumes tongued along our necks.
Listen to your songs – your I know you want it,
your justification of blurred lines.
I do not want the feel of you inside of me
and so I grabbed ahold of my own cunt
to save you a job,
to save me having to run.

Lyrics taken from Blurred Lines, sung by Robin Thicke.

 

Read 44 times Last modified on Tuesday, 17 September 2019 14:15
Mike Quille

Mike Quille is a writer, reviewer and chief editor of Culture Matters.