Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

The Ferry.

by jamie shaw

The spit off the ocean
and the  sourness of the storm
leads him to St Kilda again.
To moldy crowded flats
and the dusty ozone
of old electric heaters.
To the rich gravel whine
of grey junky winters.
To a long whistling kettle
and the endless  waiting game.
In the waves, that slaughter wine
he feels the cold scams of Fitzroy Street.
The ribbon days on the esplanade
and crawling aimless along the pier.
As he winds back those boney years
the grey horizon slowly bends
to the tiled hills of the mainland.
The quiet croaking voices fail
and that emptiness is far away.
And he leans against the rail
to taste that spit again
and he toasts a smile to victory.
To the joy, to the rolling swell
and to have faded quietly
from that long killing street.

Added: 13.04.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


Lovely images 'bony years' and the kettle boiling, but 'killing streets' not explained enough for me. 'To' lines, capitals? Moving sad poem