Winners of 2013 Robert Burns Poetry Competition Announced
Winners of 2013 Robert Burns Poetry Competition Announced
Dunedin (Tuesday 15 January 2013) – After a record number of entries this year, the winners of the 2013 Robert Burns Poetry Competition have been selected by the judges, 2013 Burns Fellow, David Howard and Librarian, Paul Veart. The winning entrants are:
Published Poet –
Recipient of the Stan Kirkpatrick
1st – “Scrap o’ truth, for a’ that….Life of Robert Burns” by Debbie Williams of Maryhill
2nd – “Kirkoswald (Cumbria)” by David Pell Goodwin of Ocean Grove
3rd – “Spelling” by Sandra Sarala of Halfway Bush
Unpublished Poet –
Recipient of the Allan Millar Medal and
1st – “Hearts Entwined” by Jane Kerr of Maryhill
2nd – “Graceland” by John Kelk of Invercargill
3rd – “In Praise of Porridge” by Nicola Thorstensen of Andersons Bay
Young Poet – Recipient of
the Stan Forbes Medal
1st – “The Fower Pups of the Clan Thistle” by Joseph Corbett –age 15 of Waikouaiti
2nd – “My Question” by Jenna McNaughton – age unknown of Roslyn
3rd – “Who tells the story best?” By Magdalena Auer – age 7 of Andersons Bay
The first prize winners will each have their poems published in the Otago Daily Times on 24 January, and will receive their medals from the Dunedin Burns Club during public celebrations of Robert Burns’ birthday on Friday 25 January, in the Dunedin City Library. Audience members will also hear each of the winning poems read out loud.
All second and third prize winners will also be present during this event to receive their certificates, and will be gifted a signed copy of “The In-Complete Poems” by David Howard.
For He's A Jolly Good
Celebrating Robert Burns' Birthday and the Robert Burns Fellowship
Join David Howard as he talks about his hopes for the year ahead as the University of Otago's Burns Fellow, and hear the winning poems from the 2013 Robert Burns Poetry Competition.
Friday 25 January, 12.30pm - 1.30pm
Ground Floor, City Library
Burns Poetry Competition
Medal and Trophy Information
The Stan Kirkpatrick medal is awarded to the winning published poet
The late Stan Kirkpatrick joined the Dunedin Burns Club for a period after serving with the Merchant Navy including being on convoys to northern Russia. He later moved, in 1952, to Southland and helped start a Burns Club there. He helped popularize Haggis Ceremonies in Dunedin including the poem Address to a haggis. The works of Burns held a place in his heart.
The Allan Millar Memorial trophy and medal is awarded to the winning unpublished poet.
The late Allan J Millar was the President of the Dunedin Burns Club from 1959 until 1961 and, together with his wife Flora, was a strong supporter of the Club. He became the Patron of the Club, a position he held until his death, and he remembered the Club in his bequest. Keeping alive the work of Burns was important to him.
The Stan Forbes medal is awarded to the winning young poet.
Stan Forbes was born in Dundee and came to Dunedin in 1958 where he met his wife Roberta who came from the west coast of Scotland, and, along with others including Dunedin’s JK Baxter, learned Tam 0’Shanter as a child. He has been a stalwart and office bearer in the Dunedin Burns Club since that time being the President from 1969 until 1972 and is the current Patron of the Club. He has worked quietly in the background and has contributed with singing, poetry, and drama in the tradition of other work horses including Bill Oliver, Charlie Turner, Bill Brown, and Margaret Smith. Helping children become familiar with Burns is dear to him.
2013 Robert Burns Poetry Comeptition
1st Prize – Jane Kerr
Ah dinnae ken hoo Ah cam to be
Lik King Muck on a throne of tree
Here in this strange but familiar place
Wi’ shite of gull running doon mah face
Ah sit alift the
mingle and fray
This fair Edin’s heart in which Ah stay
They hae taken me unto their core
As a Fellow to a liquur store
Ah can see jist wa Young Tom cam
Tho’ Ah pity heem wi’ jist his chair
So far from haem for to do God’s will
Thenk the Laird I hae my scroll and quill
The Scottish bard they ne’er can
I’ll nae go far, dinnae fret
I’m canty here, tho’ Ah swatch forlorn
Ah hae plucked a rose wi’ nae a thorn
2nd Prize – John Kelk
colliding gulls through pie ruins
‘some hae meat but canna eat’
the vagrant’s hair shuffles rubbish
‘and some wad eat that want it’
‘but we hae
meat’ lovers feed
‘and we can eat’ each other
under the presence of St Paul’s
‘and sae the Lord be thankit.’
We always rushed the meal table to
ancient uncle speak a strange language…
I preside over a pavement of extinguished
writers, well mostly,
some hae thoughts and canna say: a dead poet’s society
and some wad speak that want it:
plaque kept alive with
shoe tongue, rain spit and trendy digital feet
but we hae song: a gull quills the air, and
we can squawk, with bird
speak streaks my hair; the godwits arrive and sae the Lord be thankit.
for words, we laughed, listened, loved
conscientious reverence and feasted on his echo of Selkirk…
some hae noise and canna sound
much: asthmatic airbrakes choke
like burst bagpipes and some wad yell that want it: boy racers play-
fight decibels, drunken mouths rage darkness, bells frighten time
but we hae sound: plane’s rustle, engines hum and
we can speak: sparrows chirp,
people chatter and on the Sabbath alfresco voices descend steps in octets, cross
the road without looking, climb my back carrying tinnitus and sae the Lord be thankit!
3rd Prize - Nicola Thorstensen
In Praise of Porridge
When t’rooster wakes ye up at crack
Yer peghan rumbles fit to wake the dead
And your blether’s swollen ‘maist fit tae burst
Be ye a lusty Scot, get oot o’ bed!
A gusty bowl o’ brose,
weel topped wi milk
Will see ye through yer work wi wame replete
Its snoke unmatch’d, its texture smooth as silk
It fills yer stamack til ye tak yer meat.
starched white gut rot should yer ashet fill
Nor scurvy cereal stuff in yer creg
Sure yoghurt only serves to make ye ill
Eggs Benedict’s an – insult to the egg!
Beware the dawtit gilpey, dainty-fed
Who sups on croissants, crepes and fremmit fare
She’ll toss the lee lang night, cauld in her bed
Wi indigestion troubled passing rare.
For sic, deprived o’ brose, pit up a
Grant them an easy exit from this world
Scots, come, get it down yer throat
Lord, laddie, toff or oaf, the humble oat!
1st Prize - Debbie Williams
Scrap o’ truth, for a’ that….Life of Robert Burns
‘tis true, the life ye led
there’s nane sae bauld, frae wha’ I’ve read,
to kilted Scot each lassie fled
into thine arms,
fu’ lo’ed by thee to woo, an’ bed,
held by thy charms.
Wha’ makes a man, a
man, we ask
is it ye’re looks or manly tasks?
How mony deeds, to boast, to bask
to conquer a’,
or hide a’neath a thousand masks,
thy past recall.
times were hard, ye dinna care
fu’ blooded Scot, saft heart, laid bare,
wi’ quill an’ ream an’ Lowland flair
sae bauld indeed,
for a’ the world, yoursel to share
as scattered seed.
Sae mony bairns ye sired in
frae pedistal dear Rabbies fall
frae Parents grace an’ Calvin call,
Thru’ sang an’ rhyme, o’er came it a’
ye’re mark to make.
Ye spake o’luve, an’ spake o’ loss
a’ frae the heart i’ rhythmic gloss
sae mony gone to earthy moss,
an’ live na’ mare.
But Rabbie lo’ed, an’ lo’ed b’cause
he’s man, for sure.
Wha’ makes a man w’ luve possessed
to lay his sauls poetic zest
a’ Whisky laced, bared Rabbies best,
we read i’ awe,
the words between each line a test
as ne’er before.
‘Twas helped nae dou’t by
a dram or twa, o’ Whisky fine,
sae wad ye sang to “Auld Lang Syne”
an’ merry be,
still Rabbies words fore’er enshrine
Let yon coofs jib an’ snirt awa’
Romantic era’s here to stay
the Brotherhood o’free men say
luve conquers a’
an’ worldly goods must soon decay
as thowless hal’.
This Scotian say we hae, we hae,
our Ploughman Poet’s on his way
frae soil an’ sweat his labours pay
a pittance sore.
Uplift our Bard frae toil an’ clay,
he’s worthy more.
dinna quat ye callin’ Bard
tho’ life were cruel an’ health were bad
each word ye wrote, emotion scarred
wrenched frae inside,
now resting, aye, i’ high regard,
i’ peace an’ pride.
Wi’ luve thee
penned sweet words i’ tune
now Rabbie’s gone, an’ gone too soon.
May saft winds blaw, bricht glow the moon
on Rabbie’s saul.
Ye’re spirit lives i’ Dune-doon,
we hear thy call.
2nd Prize - David Pell Goodwin
For so many years, so central,
One wonders how the grouse will breed now,
The salmon spawn, without your gruff attentions.
You have shrugged it all off, finally indifferent;
The fishing, the shooting, and yes,
The lawsuits too.
You’re bound to cop it up
On several counts,
But it’s hard to think that for the rough shooting –
Wellies running green dew,
Sun-warmed, blued steel
Cradled in tweed before
At the firework burst of a starting bird,
Whipping past like a cast, trout fly –
It’s hard to think you did not have along at those times
Companion, not judge,
Bright-eyed and loving as the spaniels.
David Pell Goodwin
3rd Prize - Sandra Sarala
kindle-indle idle brindel
catch-a Finger an yr spindle
ma bloody blad a drip-drap
an the fussfloor
curious whore – see o see
yr sleeping-ise intuition
yew tu wait to woo the wholly
berries, prise yr prince
wit shredded ‘ands
clitch-und-clatchin’ threw dem
briars, hunnert daze ur-
kindle-indle idle spindle
catch-a Finger an yr
bring der Finnder an yr bridel
aal-oo ! aal-oo !
ma lovely love-a trip-trap
an ma danse floor
seeking score – heer-o-heer
yr listning-eyrie kenntuition
mistle-toes und holy oak-horns
plant a seed, sing yr empress
high-flung notes, sonor
tones and muscled mind,
thousand plays ur-
kindle-yeidle brindle speidle
bring der Finder an yr
1st Prize - Joseph Corbett
The Fower Pups of the Clan Thistle
I hath but fower puppies
They come frae t’ north
Border between Scotland
And t’ Englishmen couth
They’re nae ane foot lang
Less than half of that height
Not e’en a rat
Would tremble at their might
They ken they are Scottish
They ken of their bluid
When I blow on my bagpipes
They howl in t’ mud
Their canny wee mother
She’s a gallus young thing
But when it comes t’other animals
She’s t’ heid bummer at killing!
Does nae matter to her
Gin it’s possum or rabbit
She takes ‘em and shakes ‘em
‘Till she’s unco wabbit.
Ben comparison her
Seem a bit glaikit
They frolic and play
Not a one of them is shilpit.
T’ largest is
She’s a douce little bairn
She may seem peely-wally
But ken her and you’ll learn
She’ll nae take nae skelping,
She’ll rummy you up,
Nou I gae on tae
T’ niest little pup.
Grimsby is a big
He’ll ne’er be shilpit
His buyers picked ano’er
Nou Grimsby is crabbit.
She cheated death twice
Gin she annoys t’ cat again
It may not be thrice
Robbie is t’ final
Shoogly when he came forth
Nou he has a gallus mou
Probably why I named him fowerth.
Nou I’ve told
you of our smytrie
T’ clan of Thistle it’s named
They’ll be with me nae mair
But in their bluid their roots remain.
Joseph Corbett – Age 15
|Rummy||Loud noise (in this context rough)|
2nd Prize - Jenna McNaughton
If I should ask ye a question,
One of need of great definition.
As ye see I don’t know,
But sorely need to ask.
Are ye friend or foe
Hidden behind thy mask.
Hidden away behind thy
Ye don’t seem so certain.
But ask thy-self this,
Im just trying to give ye a hand,
Why do ye so wish
To hide thyself from thy land.
Is there something
I can’t or won’t see?
Why cant ye tell me?
Is there something evil and dark hiding it self in thy sight?
Ye could stand strong and lean,
But it is holding ye back from the light,
And making ye squeem.
Now all I ask is this,
As my last and final wish.
Why run when ye could fight?
Why kneel when ye could stand?
How can not ye see so much light,
Right in the centre of thy land?
3rd Prize - Magdalena Auer
Who tells the story best?
Movie’s let your thoughts hardly
So, who tells the story best?
Songs stick in my
head I can never forget
That should be the way to learn a Shakespeare's sonnet
You never know what will happen in
your dreams at night
But I always hope it will be alright
When I listen to audio books
I float away in the most wonderful easy way
Grandma reads fascinating
I like how she looks when she reads the books
watch, I read, I listen, I dream and sing
In every case, all stories are a marvelous thing
Magdalena Auer – age 7