MAG Poetry Competition 2011 - search for new poems

About 44% of the participants in the 2011 poetry competition wished their poems to remain viewable on the website. Check these out here:

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His Last Words

by David Swan

He hung there like a fake Rembrandt,
Beautiful but false.
His slender arms stretched like
Twisted towels,

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Isn't it twee

by Dawn Reeves

Isn’t it twee

Isn’t it twee, sipping tea, in sleepy suburbia.
With middle class mums bouncing Bailey and Bethany and Beatrice

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Nightmare

by Dayna Zoldan

Black.
Pitch black.
Falling.
Falling.

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Your Animal Default

by Debbie Jellings

This morning, while I’m having second dunk,
you lean down, freshly towel sloughed
with the simple grace of a fawn

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Sun-Flecks In Our Hearts

by Derek Fanning

The Light Shone and the Darkness was repelled - Young Fionn stepped forward, beautiful and wise He ran through the bleakness with happy cries And laughed with joy when the death-bell knelled. Who among you can step up to Fionn's plate? Who among you can reach the level he attained? Will you and you be ignobly shamed? Will you and you not be worth a rate? Life is short and Heaven awaits us The world about us is miraculous glorious - The song-birds carolling, the wild beasts licking, The burren flowers opening, the noble stallion kicking - We should strive to match this beauty - Sun-flecked, echoing in our souls, the sea.

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My Heart's In This Beautiful Country

by Derek Fanning

My heart is in Ireland the meadows buzzing with insects on a summer afternoon The angel-guardians standing on top of Keeper Hill The loving wives and mothers and girlfriends Their hearts adoring you I adoring them The bantering youths playing hurling with great skill The old man singing of love over a guinness I am of the country not of the metropolis I am of the community not of anonymity I am of the highways and byways of the purple hills In the spring the trees' leaves possess a gorgeous hue; The May woodland floors are decked with a myriad bluebells - We lay upon the carpet of bluebells In the beech and birch wood Beneath the Ridge of Capard And I dreamed of an order of Druids Which loved creativity and philosophy Which prayed in oaken woods And were tender-hearted, gentle - Because it's true what the New York poet said: Whoever treads this sacred Earth without compassion in his being Is walking to his own grave My heart's in this beautiful country In its mountain regions (kneeling and praying on hill-tops) Galloping on horseback across the plains A country where there is compassion A country where there is loafing and fun My heart is in Ireland the meadows buzzing with insects on a summer afternoon The angel-guardians standing on top of keeper hill

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" Butterfly"

by Donald Falconer

Butterfly - why do you sit still softly
on the rose, silent as an earthquake to
a deaf ear? Why does your philosophy
astound and confound the finest of true

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If Only They Would Just

by Donald Mahaney

Ours is a battle of the bellicose
Whose grievances are carefully crafted
Words that are wrought, honed and hewn to atoms,
To blindly buffet and blunt the past—Selves

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Bipartite idiosyncrasy

by Eamon Jubbawy

Even at this time of night, I hear Them calling me.

A siren song so alluring; I'm sure He looks down on this kind of inveiglement.

Mother always told me: "The beauty of man lies in the eloquence of his tongue".

Of course, eloquence conveys itself in many forms.

Never before have I felt like this.


Even at this time of night, I hear Them calling me. A siren song so
alluring; I'm sure He looks down on this kind of inveiglement.

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Distance

by Edmund Draycott

In one dimension
Single
Homogeneous
Translation-invariant

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