Robert Burns Poetry Competition Winners
Our annual Robert Burns Poetry Competition attracts entries from all over New Zealand, and occasionally from international writers, too.
The Competition invites entries to one of three categories: Youth for those aged under 18; Published for those aged over 18 who have had a poem published ("published" being classified as having received payment for their work); and Unpublished for those aged over 18 who have not had a poem published previously.
The Youth Category of the 2017 Competition opens on 10th October, with entries to the adult Published and Unpublished categories opening on 30th November to mark the Highland celebrations in Dunedin on St Andrew's Day.
Every year the judges are hard-pressed to select winners from the range of highly-talented poets, but here are the place-getters from 2016.
Youth Category
First Place:
The Bard of Ayrshire
By Jolyon Bishop, Karori, Wellington
The most famous poet Scotland shall see,
The Bard Of Ayrshire they do call me.
My life is set, alas I am in heaven,
All to end at the age of 37.
Crowned a Freemason by the queen herself,
All of my work on everyone’s shelf.
A hero to everybody from here to Devon,
All to end at the age of 37.
The toil and pain of life on the farm,
Shaped my youth and ambitious arm.
I knew what I would become since wee seven,
All to end at the age of 37.
After drinking too much and losing my might,
the doctors could see my end in sight.
Isn’t it funny as I ascend into heaven,
My son is born as I die age 37.
Second Place:
To the Moon
By E Wen Wong, Avonhead, Christchurch
Robert Burns’ poetry often addressed things that were ‘normal’ in life, for example: ‘Address to a Haggis’, ‘Address to a Beelzebub’ and ‘To a Mouse’. These works inspire this poem.
Daylight’s last inkling settles into darkness,
You peek out from your home in the shadows,
Contrasting the monochrome dark sky,
Your face: the colour of pure snow.
To the moon of many shapes,
Distinct patterns, an artist’s shade;
To the moon who sails the universe,
Projecting rings of light, which gradually fade.
To the moon lighting the way to the wolves’ midnight calls,
Attracting them like moths to light;
To the moon the single eye against the freckles (the stars),
A story imprinted into the night.
To the moon, I ask, must you be nocturnal?
Why is it that, you cannot stay?
Why, when the sun, shows its face,
Do you sink somewhere far away?
Daylight’s last inkling settles into darkness,
You peek out from your home in the shadows.
Contrasting the monochrome dark sky,
Your face: the colour of pure snow.
Third Place:
Sin
by Chloe Robertson, Mornington, Dunedin
Sin is a thing that corrupts a life, yet every mortal performs it.
At least once in their short lives, it is not a secret.
Robert Burns consumed a powerful desire towards a finely crafted ale, and the lumps of meat we all know as ‘females’
The young poet is fondly admired, we need not worry about his sins.
As his nephew was a founding father during the Scottish settlements.
We need not worry that the man that sits at the heart of the city, was a beau, a drunk yet dawned upon others with pity.
Sin gives inspiration towards a writer in a trance.
Robert shows that in his work giving us a chance.
A chance to discover that sin is not all that bad.
It gives off creative auras that leaves us all glad.
Without his sins would we have poems like “Tam ‘o’ Shanter”?
I will leave it up to you to decide whether it does or doesn’t matter.
Robert Burns-The Great Scottish Bard that taught us all a lesson.
Create, discover, do whatever, from artwork from your sin.
Unpublished Category
First Place:
The Collier’s Shadow
by Christina Hulbe, Opoho, Dunedin
(an air to the tune of My Collier Laddie)
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
Time rolls on in thick green hills
I follow like my father.
The blood black thread, the riverbed,
Draw we men and earth together.
The blood black thread, the riverbed,
Draw we men and earth together.
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
Ember sun, when low it sinks
Calm, clear at dawn tomorrow.
But like the mine, it turns in time
'Til it turns again, we borrow.
But like the mine, it turns in time
'Til it turns again, we borrow.
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
No prospect now for profit made
Say the colliers' way is ending
Not for the poison'd men or air,
But for the dealer’s mending.
Not for the poison'd men or air,
But for the dealer’s mending.
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
Gone are those who cleared the way,
Who from darkness chased the night.
Gone too are those that never chose
But took the work they might.
Gone too are those that never chose
But took the work they might.
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
Come down now my father's line,
We're not bound to others' folly.
But the ghosts all drowned when the mine shut down
And won't be here to guide me.
But the ghosts all drowned when the mine shut down
And won't be here to guide me.
How live ye my brawlie lad
Where do you cast your shadow?
Out on the strand where sea meets land
Tho' I cannot say tomorrow.
Second Place:
Tae Carin An' Sharin
by Stewart Webster, Dalmore, Dunedin
Sae Dunedin is a Gigatoon,
Och aye, that's quite a feat!
Wi' broadband here, an’ wi-fi tae,
Tae mak oor lives cumplete.
The Internet is oors tae own,
In a' its breedth an’wunner,
As fest as licht in tae yir hoose,
It streams in frae oot yunner.
Aye, frae cyberspace it streams richt in,
Tae places big and sma,
Nae place is free, nae place immune,
Nae place, nae place at a’!
It fu’s maist mins’ wi yisless trash,
An' things that dinnae matter,
Like lemmings thir a’ drawn tae it,
Tae min’less empty clatter !
Minwhile, the real wurld close tae hame,
Fur mony seems sae dauntin,
Nae internet connection there,
Tae numb the pain an’ wantin
Wi auld fowk sittin a' alane,
In cald an’ empty places,
An' wee yins ga’en aff tae schuil,
In threidbare claes, worn shoes an’ socks,
An’ dour wee hardened faces!
An’ the floods in Sooth Dunedin,
Drove mony frae thir hame,
The drookit souls, thi lost it a’
An’ Nature took a’ the blame !
While ithers hae nae work tae dae,
Thi weel-shod rake in wealth
An multiply their assets fine,
Thir fortunes graw wi stealth !
Aye, life’s a sair fecht a’ the time,
Fur them that fa’ behind,
The sick, the lame, the hameless fowk,
An’ ithers o’ thir kind.
Am nae religious, nae not a bit,
Bit somethin’s wrang I fear,
When some hae muckle an’ ithers hae neane,
Noo that Gigatoon is here !
Aye, Gigatoon will tak us on,
Tae a future fu’ o’ wunner
But mony wull be left behind,
An’ simply left tea ponder,
Whit the future huids fur them,
As thir quietly ga’en under!
Aye, when a’ is said and done ye ken
It’s nae yer stash that metters,
Sae, gie a wee bit every day,
An’ care fur them in tatters.
Sae when ye reach the ither side,
An staun afore oor Makker,
Ye’ll bi sae welcome tae abide,
Wi' mony guid fowk up there,
Fur it’s nae whit ye hae that’ll get ye in,
Bit hou much ye cared tae share!
In this Gigatoon o’ oors !
End
Third Place:
Written at War Memorial Archway ANZAC Century Commemoration 2015, Veterans Passing The Baton of Responsibility to Youth.
by Alex Familton, Palmerston
One hundred years of ANZAC brace,
Guarding freedoms for the human race.
Their first century was of loss and gain;
Freedom wrought through searing pain.
Today we gather our wee village;
Ne’er subject to assault or pillage.
Auld comrades speak in stifled tone,
Around our Archway of solid stone.
Names engraved in marble and mind:
By foreign villages - bodies enshrined.
Veterans look through memory’s Arch,
Feeling the throb as thousands march,
Through jagged ruins and battle reek,
‘round broken bodies and hostile peak.
Memories of precipice the edge o’ life;
Tension in caring for comrade’s strife.
Tyrants cruel-grinding all that is just,
Until themselves - ground to dust!
Pipers and band rend a soulful tune,
pulses race faster; nobody’s immune.
Chords spiral and roll ‘round the burn,
We remember those who didn’t return.
They’re away forever but ever here,
And in a spiral of music they appear.
And in the valley below as blossom fills,
Hear the peaceful call of the bellbird trills.
But Thor is poised - ready to plunder;
In a flash appear on a spiral of thunder.
Harsh tyrants poised and ready to go,
With the poison claw of evil crow.
Ready to slay and foil and pinion,
In attempt to build foul dominion
By little villages our slain are laid
Sheltered by their honour’d shade
Veterans speak after sober thought
Of sacrifice and what was wrought
Veteran Quested, determined, frail;
Steps upright; has learned not to fail.
That’s not tears but reflection of pride,
As grandson Callum steps to his side.
Squarely binding the family with nation;
On the level for the first presentation.
“This Matai baton from a mighty tree,
Durable and resilient for next century,
On the path of life may you finally see,
Democracy bury remnants of tyranny.
May you play your part and trust in God,
You’re present at the finish to turn the sod”
Rangatira Ellison, Veteran of trust:
Honest and brave; knows what’s just.
He stepped up - deliberate advance,
With lamp in hand and kindly glance;
Dignified and recognised in Maori cloak;
Turned to Madyson Witehira as he spoke:
“This taonga, light, allows you to see,
Ancestral paths leading to dignity.
Na iwi katoa – work to set all free,
With cultural emphasis next century”
Veteran Dunckley obeyed wartime call,
With a sense of duty looked up to by all.
With a certificate recording this day;
To express the sound and genuine way.
With passion she spoke, very moving,
To Olivia Ollerenshaw leader proven.
“On life’s path we can be cruelly tripped!
Adding reality to this special script;
Describing leadership just and kind,
with wisdom as the crowning bind”
The people gathered quietly ‘round,
Witness to links so deeply profound.
Baton; lamp; script: accepted with gratitude;
By talented youth with a positive attitude.
Direct responses with clarity verbally;
Commitment given fairly an’ firmly.
Mature response beyond their years;
Towards the future - mitigating fears.
Youth run! Heaven be thy guide;
Veterans, sage; are by your side.
Published Category
First Place:
Bluid be Thicker than Liquor
by Nicola Thorstensen, Anderson’s Bay, Dunedin
Short syne, mae auldest bairn approached
And tauld me some dreidfu news.
Wi tremmlin vyce, the subject broached:
‘I’ve decidit tae absteen frae bouse!’
‘Nae skink, nae scuds, nae barley-bree
Shall ever pass atween these lips:
If ye’d seen what I hae ye’d agree
That drink and study do nae mix’.
He ayeweys was an eydent lad
Sae different frae his kin,
Had tae much study driven him mad?
He attempted tae expleen…
“Mynd Uncle Jock, God rest his soul,
Who should hae still bin leevin’,
A hav’rel turn’d when he were fou,
Wi’ his whorin’ and his thievin’.
He wis mair daft than daring –
Oft-times they’d find him, tozie,
Ootside Jean’s winnock, declarin’
Undyin’ love for Rosie.
He coud hae been weel-aff, for he
Were sonsie, and lang-heidit,
But his luve-bairns cost him sich
He micht as weel hae waddit!
One nicht, sae jakied he had focht
And awmaist lost his trews,
Before he knew it, he had bought
T’ gaitherin a round o’ bouse!”
At this last, I was sae pit aboot,
I scarce knawed whit tae say.
No kin o’ mine e’er paid for ocht
Save it were theirs to pay.
I gree’d, twere his chyce tae absteen
Tae focus on his learnin
But I didna ken whit he’d see
One nicht, fra’ kirk returnin’:
“I stopped, tae tie mae shuin,
And gazed upon his eemage
Fra eesome brou tae noble chin,
Tae the haund that held the plumage:
It coud hae been a gless I wis lookin’ in,
Sae sel-like he appeared.
He coud hae been mae twin!
Rabbie’s mae kin! I ken it!”
Since then, mae lad hae changed his tune;
His fause kyndness keeps him happy.
He scrimps on study but is ne’er wantin
A gude-willie-waught o’ nappy.
He’s become weel-kent in toun
For Rabbie’s songs a-singin’
An aw the lassies swoon
At his near-nakit flingin’.
He mae want Rabbie’s docht for verse,
But his drouthiness is – e’en worse!
Blood is thicker than liquor: an unreliable translation
A short time ago, my eldest child approached
And told me some dreadful news.
With trembling voice, the subject broached:
“I’ve decided to abstain from booze!”
No drink – no beer, no whisky
Shall ever pass between these lips:
If you’d seen what I have you’d agree
That drink and study do not mix.”
He always was an ardent lad
So different from his kin,
Had too much study driven him mad?
He attempted to explain…
“Remember Uncle Jock, God rest his soul,
Who should have still been living,
He became a halfwit when he was drunk,
With his dreadful misbehaving.
He was more daft than daring –
Often they’d find him, merry,
Outside Jean’s window, declaring
Undying love for Kerry.
He could have been wealthy,
For he was good-natured and clear-headed
But his ‘nephews’ cost him so much cash
He might as well have wedded!
One night, so drunk he’d had a fight
And almost lost his keys,
Before he knew it, he had bought
The whole pub a round of beers!”
At this last, I was so upset,
I scarcely knew what to say.
No kin of mine paid for anything yet
Unless it were theirs to pay.
I agreed, it was his choice to abstain
To focus on his learning,
But I didn’t know what he’d see
One night, from church returning:
“I stopped, to tie my shoe,
And gazed upon his image
From handsome brow to noble chin,
To the hand that held the plumage:
It could have been a mirror I was looking in,
So like me he appeared.
He could have been my twin!
Robbie’s my kin! I know it!”
Since then, my son has changed his tune;
His false lineage gives him cheer.
He scrimps on study but is never without
A generous measure of beer.
He’s become well-known in town
For Robbie’s songs a-singing
And all the young girls swoon
At his oddly-attired dancing.
He may lack Robbie’s gift for verse,
But his drunkenness is – even worse!
Second Place:
Building site banter – today’s Tam O’Shanter
By C J O’Brien, Company Bay, Dunedin
A tribute to the storytellers and the poets of Scotland, who everybody knows are found these days on building sites on or near the Clyde
Da’s gaun oot fer a swallae an’ his phone it’s bin beepin’
Messages fae ma Maw, who’s sat here waitin’
Her hair’s done, she’s ready, an’ she’s crabbit as hell
whilst he’s gettin’ pished doon the Royal Hotel
He’s a haverin’ bastard on vodka and good craic
Totterin’ aboot, he begins tae trek back
But ma Da, he cannae walk the length o’ himsel’
An’ he ken the Polis are oot, and they’ll smell
him bowfin’ wi’ drink, an’ he needs to gang hame,
So he nicks this auld bike and his pal nicks a gnome.
Wobblin’ doon High Street, singin’ a sang
‘Shonny Boy, the pipes…….’ but they’ll no sing it fer lang
An’ they gets tae the Park and there’s naebody there
Jist the shadows, the swings, an’ unease in the air
They lie on glass shards, under the bars
Swimming in voddy an’ searchin’ fer stars
An the gnome, they swear, it starts givin’ them evils
and Smurfs are feckin Smurfin’ an they’re thinkin ‘Oh Jesus!
We must be steamin’ cos that’s us hallucinatin’
An they’re tryin’ somethin’, anythin’, to get concentratin’
Ah’m no lyin’ Hen but, Michael Jackson comes oot o’ the darkness
An’ it’s Thriller and zombies and pure dead madness
He’s seein’ deep fried eyebaws and Celtic keep losin’
Andy Bluddy Murray and Camilla are refusin’
to leave him alone, and he’s fair paralysed
wi’ the night and wi’ Scotland an’ wi’ the gnome’s bloody eyes
An’ his pal Willy the Tile’s screamin’ Ah’m no aff me heid!
An they’re feart an’ wondrin’ if they’d rather be deid
An’ he’s wishin’ the Big Yin wud moan doon and save him
Or even some erse wi’ face paint shoutin’ FREEDOM!
Instead, oot the sandpit all raggedy torn,
Comes the ghaistly spectre of Ozzy Osborne
He’s followed by Kylie Minogue and her sister,
An’ th’ sicht of her hot pants ma Da couldnae resist ‘er
He’s keen fer a bosie an’ tae gie her a poke
But bonnie turns hackit, an’ gies him the dry boke
Now this gets too much for ma Da’ an’ his pal
They’re baith screamin’ and scramblin’ doon tae the canal
Wi’ the gnome in his oxter, Da’s pushin’ the bike
An trippin’ and fallin’ an’ feart tae shite
Ma Da’s clenchin’ and ragin’ and his insides are rottin’
Like tha’ scene wi Ewan Mcgregor on the bog in Trainspotting
They hop on the bike, faces awfy dour
Determined to beat their assorted pursuers
Ma Da’s oan the crossbar, his bawbags are chaffing
his pal’s pedaling like hell and neither ane’s laughing
They look at the gnome and they look at the watter
Throw the china behind them, hearin’ it shatter
The hunters stoop, scunnered, to pick up the pieces
Escape becomes possible, madness’ grip releases
Da trots intae the hoose, a’ glaikit an’ clarty
Ma maw shouts Ye Bastart! An’ giein’ it laldy
His claes are a’ runcled, he’s greetin’ an’ gurnin’
She’s raging to gie him a bloody good skelpin’
But his pal, he slopes aff, awa’ to his hame
An’ across the nicht air harkit………... ’’ that feckin gnome.”
Third Place:
Robbie Burns Pleasures
By David Fountain, Ashhurst, Palmerston North
thoughts evoked by words of Robert Burns (1759-1796) from Tam O'Shanter. A Tale.
“But pleasures are like poppies spread
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed”
Robert! (may I presume?) you say this well
yet you were gone a'for the young men fell
How true to see those heads asway
in fields of France, lives blown away
Like the flower so touched, its petals dropping
those young men fell, their corpses rotting
Where's the pleasure here I chance?
it's only in the General's glance
before they left, battalion steady
Immaculate, ranked and battle ready
But like the petals from the poppy siezed
as soldiers fell, his pleasure ceased
the flying lead their limbs had rent
the mud ran red, the poppies spent
“...or like the snow falls in the river
A moment white -then melts forever”
These lines Robbie (I feel more easy), are perfect imagery
the snowflake pure, consumed, to void its very symmetry
and to meld in the stream, become one with the flow
pulled over stones, rills, undercut banks below
No wartime here, your words conjure softness
pure pleasure here, the fate of a flake of frostness
in time to transform to water, gravity tumbling
now just a ripple from white frosting rumbling
“...or like the rainbows lovely form
evanishing amid the storm”
The rainbow (Robbie my friend!), you give us now
a thing that's just not there at all
Only in a mystical spectral bow
perfect in form, its colours glow
Like the flake so transparent yet white,
it's made from just water pure and bright
Here now the storm, that chaos of wind
the pot of gold gone now, the bow dimmed
Yet another image of pleasure spent
here for now and so much apparent
then lost forever, the storm has won
thunder cracking as from the gun
But memory now the bow is vanished
and with its loss the pleasure banished
“...Nae man can tether time not tide”
Finally here my wee Robbie Jo (for now we are mates surely bro) (dear)
You've put it all together.
These words I can see are ones you are saying
with your hand in the air, on your plinth feet a'laying
They summarise the fates of all those perfections
the poppy, the snowflake, the rainbow confection
and bring to mind your thesis profound
that pleasure must be taken when it is found
for it's gone so quick it becomes the past
before you can think its here to last
Thank you Robbie, you've made me think
I'll take up Tam's tale now - of pleasure, of terror and of drink!