Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011


by Marianne MacRae

Emerging awkwardly from the branches, a man comes.
“He captained a ship you know;
one to space. And now here he comes,
out of the woods like a gazelle,
eyes big as planets.
They probably are planets for all we know!”

The world waits. 
Long wet grass brushes his space boots.
It’s 9pm. Smoke billows.
The shadow of his crash-landing looms
behind his wilting frame.
“I think it’s probably a hoax;
He’s walking like a puppet, look!
I can see the strings.
I think I can definitely see strings.
He isn’t wearing a watch;
how can we be expected to believe anything
when he isn’t wearing a watch?”
Someone opens a box of Ferero Rocher.
“Killed and ate the rest of the crew, they say.
Just imagine that, entrails spilling out like split pasties.
My word.”
A child runs through a crowded living room
with cheese spread smeared around his mouth,
hair stuck to his head with the excited sweat of the day,
making a sound like an aeroplane.
“Wait! Is that a femur in his hand?
Oh good God!”

Added: 17.03.2011