Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011


by Amy Clark

Our barbed tongues worried away at old grudges,
dug into putrid flesh and picked away
at the crimson heads of fresh scabs;
we squawked over a mess of mangled carcass,
wolfed down that one last juicy morsel
before we chewed monotonously 
on regurgitated scraps of old gossip.

You, an effigy of a corpse, 
straw limbs hanging by a thread,
droplets leaked from a ragged pinprick 
forced through by our bitter hands – 
your pain was a release for waves of acidity that 
crashed and burned on red-raw wounds. 

Now, voices stifled by the hand of chastisement, 
we confine ourselves to whispering resentments
that flush with shame and stutter into
loath-tinged silences.

Added: 10.04.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


I felt it was clearly written, with good visual imagery, and sent across the right emotions.