October 1st was National Poetry Day, and that evening I was part of an online event where poets whose pieces had been shortlisted for Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year shared their work. I shared mine from the upstairs lounge of a tour bus outside Newcastle Arena with my laptop propped up on a shelf against the bus window. Most poets seemed to be joining the event from desks behind which we could see suitably crammed bookshelves. I’m not sure what that says about our respective lives, but I do know there was some splendid work in the fourteen poem shortlist. The judges gave an in-depth analysis of each piece before it was read – which successfully sent my impostor syndrome into overdrive – and then we waited for the results.
Reader, I’m delighted to say my poem grooming for men was awarded 2nd prize. It’ll appear in the festival anthology (alongside another of my poems which made it to the longlist) and I’ve added it to this website so you can read it there if you want to. Maybe you’ll agree with the judges. Maybe you won’t. As they pointed out, judging – however objectively you approach it – is also a subjective process, and what one person loves can leave another cold. I set out to write a poem as well as I can, and hope that other people like it, and I send poems in to plenty of competitions where they sink without trace. Swings and poetic roundabouts, people.
On the same day, New Zealand Poetry Society got in touch asking me to check the proof of my poem January, in this old house in their competition anthology. If my share of poetic success has been used up for the foreseeable, so be it. I’ll keep sending poems to comps, though, because why not? Which reminds me, I’ve some word-fettling to be getting on with. See you later.