Winning Poems 2017

Bridge painting
Image above – The bridge in an old city © courtesy of Ihan Balaikin









Congratulations to our five 2017 winners! First and second prizes are published below and can also be found on the Wasafiri website

First prize:

In That Dream I Became A Stain In My Own House (Connor Frew, USA)

I dreamt that I was bitten by venomous snakes


The first was a cottonmouth,

In my living room


The second a black mamba,

In my parents’ bedroom


In that dream I became a stain in my own house,

A rejected organ


My parents watched crime television specials

In place of the news


Second prize:

That Summer (Aileen La Tourette, UK)


We’re lucky we’re not stuck in sweaty New York City

like the fathers in their summer suits are every day

and the Fresh Air Fund kids in their giveway t-shirts

who come down in buses and never get to stay.


We’re so lucky, stuck on our mothers’ quiet beach

up by the bridge, stuck not being a teenager yet

when everything will change. We get luckier every day,

when we can’t go to the movies and see Sandra Dee


– we already know she gets pregnant like my mother

but she’s much cuter and a beach ball doesn’t clip

her stomach on the beach and make her freak out

(though we don’t say that yet) because of the other baby


– three days after Christmas, like the ones Herod killed

a thousand years ago. It takes a long time to get over stuff.

We stay in till our lips turn blue like his. On rainy days,

we read magazines at Hendershott’s till we get chased.


We sneak down to First Street Beach where the teenagers

lie on dark green army blankets listening to transistors

and making out. First Street is by the boardwalk where

hamburgers sizzling on the griddles fill your mouth with spit.


The mothers wait for weekends when the men come down

to drive across the bridge to Somers Point, which isn’t dry.

Too old for dolls, we buy them anyway and then it happens,

the thing they’d lock us up in padded cells for, strapped


in padded jackets: the rubber baby dolls with plastic bottles

stuck in little holes between their stuck-together lips, they

start to twitch. Linda says: I put her on her back and when

I went to get her, she was on her stomach. We never catch them


rolling over, spitting jets of curdled milk, wetting their diapers.

(In this world there is no shit). We whisper She soaked herself

right through, next thing she’ll have a rash, mop, sigh, live

in a  bubble like Revival tents down the coast where Billy Graham


gets them going for Jesus. He has nothing on us as we climb

out of the waves we’ve surfed to body temperature and walk off,

leaving the mothers smiling in the sun behind us, thinking

we’re headed wistfully to First Street, then double back, fast,


along the hot, hot concrete to the house where rubber babies wait,

– we hear their baby sobs as we get close, and start to run,

desperate to touch and change and feed and cuddle them and feel

the strange electric summer when our dolls are turning real.



Funny Face (Helen Yendall, UK)

Remembering Vukovar (Roger Elkin, UK)

Eleven was to be other (Janet Smith, UK)