Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011


by Simon Finnerty

Stumbling as though in dream,
My eyes fought to take in what breath would take away.
Vast plains of purest seams woven by more than masterful hand,
And rooted into like a careless love beaming naively for the here.
Sweet noises of wing’d beings less than forever and so, much more sweet and rare.
Fragility begs sanctuary more than the ever.
Walking on with slow progress (for it’s a wonder any can be made when each step demands one back.)
I continue past rivers, streams, oceans and seas, canyons and caves, hills and plains.
These words are new, but do not reach the feats to describe what is granted to men,
And is so took for.
Young sun with its eager rise soon forfeits to ageless moon, unabashed.
Evoking pleasures only felt by its wanting pull.
Contemplation and reflection greet wearied feet,
For tis them that walk... I merely follow.
You find at times the hollow hour
Provides sense enough to observe what is often mistook.
And in the darkest times only the purest lights shine strong.
Pure reason is that what we must follow,
For earthly goods only serve to burden the trail.
(Bliss: A Travellers Tale)
The raging ragged rock roared ire though the night
Blessing the stars with its very presence,
And the cold dark stones welcomingly wore the soles
Of the few feet that dared to remain into the night,
Light long bid gone.
Human only in form their song left me all over a’shiver,
Not cold but my senses charmed by such a soft sweet melody...
And I felt myself a well in cold desert.
Blessed to be humbled in such a place,
Yet harrowed by a sense of empty purpose.
A traveller tells of such sights, but words are bones,
Bearing no heart or true form to what has lived,
And is so, now lost.
Bit truth is the wind to the rock,
It batters and beats,
But rock remains, homing the weary traveller,
Warming his cause.

Added: 20.04.2011