Bay Lit awards evening showcases creativity
baylit awards evening
Our writers were out in force at the Mussel Inn again last week. When some of the winning entries were read aloud, a full house of poets, short story writers and their supporters was treated to yet another reminder of the vast creativity to be found in Golden Bay.
The occasion was the awards ceremony for Baylit, the Golden Bay Arts Council's annual writing competition. Baylit obviously provides a valued outlet for writers of all ages in our community because the competition once again attracted good numbers of entries.
This year's judges, Michael Harlow (poetry) and Owen Marshall (short story) congratulated all entrants and sent some writers specific feedback that they will no doubt savour.
Arts worker John Arcus ran the ceremony in his typically respectful and inclusive manner. He also paid tribute to Paddy Brennan who, though not an arts council member, volunteers to help run Baylit each year.The full prize list is published elsewhere on this page. Neil Wilson
Edge
I stood on a brink once made of stone;
gray lichen-laced sharp, carved by
bitter winds and earth fire woven wild.
Below me stretched evergreen forest
sun-spattered Douglas fir, spruce turned
darker green by the memory of fire rivers
and petrified smoke.
There's occasion to breathe,
Purpose to seize when you're on a brink.
I sat on a shore once made of sand
encrusted and carved by cattle and elk.
Rain-heaved swamp grass bowing
weeping in the smooth glassy current.
Dancers drink there; four-legged and tawny
twitching their ready to secret music
from the sea and the storm.
There's occasion to pause,
destiny to ponder, when you're on a shore.
We stood in this circle once made of light;
shattered, splintered by summer lightning,
shadowed under thunderheads and
prismed into rainbows.
Sleepers wake here and taste memories
lost and loved in lonely windows
where lace curtains blow like
A Wyeth painting unfinished
on a canvas made of whispers.
There's occasion to die,
change to wear,
when you're made of light.
James W Barnes
First prize, adult poetry.
Racing with dragonflies
As summer sun brightens our lazy eyes
we venture down a meandering road
on bicycles racing with dragonflies.
Together we worship these cloudless skies
crowning the land of our placid abode
as summer sun brightens our lazy eyes.
Between flashes of green we memorize
glimmering life of an earthy world slowed
on bicycles racing with dragonflies.
High overhead karearea cries
its flight path imagined real and followed
as summer sun brightens our lazy eyes
Along this dirt line life sits in disguise
all that we see is blurred and well mellowed
on bicycles racing with dragonflies.
And then we hear ten thousand goodbyes
wrapped round the wind in our ears and echoed
as summer sun brightens our lazy eyes
on bicycles racing with dragonflies.
Em Hofstede
First, adult rhyming poetry
The Cold of the Morning
Sometimes in the cold of the morning
with the frost heavy in the shadows
and in the clear night the snow on the peaks ringing
I stand to talk to my two mares.
They touch their smoking muzzles to my cold hands
I wrap my arms about their necks
bury my fingers in their thick coats
lose my hair in coarse black manes.
I bend to pick the ice-glass from the trough
hold it, drop it and watch it shatter
on the edge of grass and mud
bordered by pukeko prints. The frost is heavy in the shadows
the shadows are heavy, deep along the fenceline
and lie grasping blue around the feet of trees, the trees shiver, the shadows advance
fingers of frost and cold onto the grass.
I shiver
but the mares' hooves crush the frost into the grass
into the sun
they step over and stand to snort beside me
dip their necks
they are the pukeko lighted to the ground
they are the eyes of calm.
Rose Stocker
First prize, youth poetry.
Myself
Although on the outside I'm a plain little girl,
On the inside there is a whole new world.
I am the mysterious owl making its midnight flight,
I'm chipmunks chirping happily because all things are right.
I am a tiger on a mountain,
A monkey in a tree,
A dove in a fountain,
All these things are me.
I'm streams bubbling cheerfully down a river bed,
I am the great white clouds billowing overhead.
I am a dolphin skipping soaring high through waves,
On the outside I'm the girl who always behaves.
I'd like to be an eagle daring and unafraid,
And at the end of my life see the difference I've made.
This plain little girl with dreams full of hope,
with my inner self I will one day elope.
Clara Mapley
First prize, child poetry.
