Leonardo Poetry Competition 2019: Making the Familiar Unfamiliar

Mark Richardson presents the finalists from Years 7, 8, 9, 10 and 12 for this year's Leonardo Poetry Prize. Entrants were asked to make the familiar unfamiliar. 

Winner of Year 7 prize: Augustas Corbett
Winner of Year 8 prize: Mei Mei Reilly
Winner of Year 9 prize: Christian Sim
Winner of Year 10 prize: Manon Francis_Braconi
Winner of Year 12 and Leonardo Prize: Ethan Simmonds

Image by Thomas Beattie

Nature’s Home

Trees surround me,

Mighty giants, hovering over

As I walk alone

In nature’s home.

Sunbeams fall,

Leopard spots on the ground

All alone:

It’s nature’s home.

Darting birds,

Arrows above,

Flitting alone

In nature’s home.

All these I remember,

With a sharp pang of loss,

Standing alone

In what was nature’s home.

Now all life is gone,

Not a sound can be heard,

This is what was known

As nature’s home.

Tom Clarke, 7U

Through The Door

I walked up the withered marble stairs,

Past the sign that says, ‘Continue he who dares.’

Past the tangled vines engulfing

Whatever structure lay behind them,

Past the rocks that guard the den.

Sounds of creaks and snaps make

Me jump in my shoes.

Sounds of windy whistling willow trees

Make a rhythm like the blues,

Sounds of birdsong, a complex symphony,

With the repetitive echoes of my footsteps.

I smell the grass: not cut, but green and growing,

I smell the old cement as it crumbles, its innards showing.

I smell the grass again, now burning in the sun,

The sun burning through the windows

And making patterns on the floor.

This is what I see, smell and hear

As I walk through the door.

Thomas Krol, 7W

A Dream

You want what you cannot have

Like a flame wanting to be water,

Something that would never happen

Something it’s not capable of.

Life is not possible without wanting,

But you just want more.

You want to be someone else

Because you’re not good enough.

You don’t see yourself in full colour

You see other people

So you want them.

You’re wanting everything but you.

You’re attracted to something,

Everybody is,

But you want it

And you know you can’t have it.

You want what you can’t have,

Like a human wanting to fly.

It’s just not possible –

So make it possible.

Flixy Coote, 7X

Sadness

It wraps chains around my ankles

So I cannot move.

I freeze while water drops around me.

My body hurts, yet I feel no pain.

My heart aches, yet I lie still.

It places tape on my mouth

So I cannot speak.

When it leaves

It will always come back.

When it comes

It takes over.

I cannot move,

I cannot speak,

I cannot think.

It fills me with pain.

It builds up inside me

Until I can take it no more.

It plunges down through my soul

Until I feel empty, nothing.

It crushes me so I can’t move.

I can’t fight it any more.

Jess Hookway, 7X

Glad You Aren’t Here

Well, I’ve arrived.

Don’t visit me.

You would hate it.

Hate the infinite stretches

Divided by smooth white lines,

Hate the dangerous metal cells

They voluntarily lock themselves in

When they don’t want to walk.

They roll them down the stretches

Black fumes escaping out the back

That make you cough and splutter.

Sometimes, when they have poured too much

Fermented grape or likewise into their mouths

They roll into each other.

It happened yesterday.

Then they are taken to a special box for people in pain,

Where they suffer next to people

Wearing blue and white.

But you wouldn’t hate it like I do.

Hate their monstrous tower boxes

Rising into the sky

Hate the grey mist that hovers in the sky

Constantly drenching everything.

They have a sea,

A different kind of sea.

It is brown.

It is a plastic sea.

Glad you aren’t here.

Willow Armstrong, 7Y

My First Piano Lesson

Eighty-eight soldiers stand like statues

Awaiting my command

Blank expressions, prepared to fire

When told to.

Fifty-six white soldiers, bigger than the rest

Wait in groups of eight

Commanded by majors

(Or minors).

If I fail a command, I am forced

To repeat the whole attack.

The leader is frustrated by my mistakes,

And breathes heavily.

Thirty-two black soldiers stand above the white,

Thinner, more agile.

When I touch them,

They fire high-pitched shots.

I keep commanding them wrongly

They grow rowdy, shouting me to practise my aim.

I have to come back again next week.

I leave the camp in tears.

Augustas Corbett, 7Y

Today to the Past in Cambodia

The green of the vegetation stopped,

Cut off by a barrier of grey stone.

Swirls and shapes started to evolve

And they carried on along a wall;

As long as the Nile.

The carvings ended; a corner

Then, a large hole in the wall;

An arch, adorned with symbols

Of creatures and humans, green with age.

Some screaming, others pleading.

The arch was a portal into another world.

Here were mosaics and goblets, altars and statues.

Some plated with gold, others silver,

But all as beautiful and magnificent as jewels;

It was like going back in time.

The altar was guarded by two towering giant statues

Wearing tunics as marvellous as sunset,

Holding shields printed with twirling creatures,

Carrying spears as fierce as a firedrake dragon,

And wearing helmets as solid as stainless steel.

The altar was solid gold, shining and elegant.

Candles stood proudly, wax solidified on their handles.

Ancient books and scrolls were caked in thick dust.

These were illustrated by symbols and drawings

Of snakes and eagles, vultures and bears;

Explaining hunting centuries ago.

The only solution to the puzzle,

Which seemed to be a myth,

Was that this was an ancient jungle temple,

Where warriors would honour their gods.

Duncan Jeynes, 8V

Postcard from the Beach

The palest sand, windswept smooth,

And a darker, firmer brown

Where the tide

Has recently gone out.

A smattering of pebbles and larger stones

Left by the tide

All in greys, light to dark, almost charcoal black

Some with bands of white quartz.

Seashells shining with the sea.

On the beach on jet-black dog

Races to the tideline to retrieve a ball.

And all the while,

Seagulls wearing bright white shorts,

Grey wings and black tails with white tips

Carefully eye them all.

Mei Mei Reilly, 8W

The Museum

Opened wide, the marble building called for visitors.

Inside was alive with other people,

Wandering through the cemetery of animals.

These corpses were contained within invisible walls,

Stuffed with fixed expressions

Emotionless creatures frozen to the spot.

People gawped at the plaques:

A memorial, a gravestone for the animals

Sentenced to a life of stares.

The corpses’ children were sold in the shop, stiff and priced,

Transferred to the arms and bedrooms of the young.

The building is cavernous, empty,

Like the hollow shells of its inmates.

Its floor mimics my footsteps, mocking my capture.

Maybe I will end up here,

In the graveyard of stares.

Sophie Haworth, 8X

A Whole Rainforest

A whole rainforest

Clamped on my hand,

Sliced, then stretched out

To bathe in the sun.

Dark water,

And a bird’s coat,

Stain the insides.

the whole language

All in one.

Without it,

The whole world would be silenced.

You can see the years of use

In the sepia pages.

It contains the history

Of many cultures.

It patiently awaits

Until someone needs

A shape, a meaning.

Sophia Caldwell, 8Y

I See the Ripple of the Water

I see the ripple of the water

Outstretching into the calm horizon.

I hear the waves crash

Against the shore continuously.

I smell the richness of the salty sea.

I taste the chilled air of the wind,

As it moves freely

Over the never-ending ocean.

I feel the cool water rush over my feet,

Then retreating,

Trying to pull me in to see the beauty it contains.

Under the water,

The waves above me sound muffled,

Like a trapped voice.

The colour is unforgettable:

Pale red, bright yellow, dusty blue.

I want to look at all of them at the same time.

Lots of shiny fish swim, curious,

In and out of the rainbow coral.

The rays of the sun turn blue

When they reach the surface of beauty.

Isabelle Durrant, 8Y

For The Very First Time

Bright lights flood my eyes,

Quickly taken away

By an overlooming shadow.

Pained screams overwhelm my ears

Forcing me to feel real pain

For the very first time.

Water lands on face in floods

I look up and see the chocolate brown eyes

Smiling down on me in love and pain.

My lips are forced apart

As a gummy object

Is shoved into the tiny gap.

Rough hands make their way

Down my back and suddenly

I begin to fly.

Everything looks white

Apart from a pale figure

Smothered in a blue sheet.

I get placed on the blue figure

Which gives me a chill.

I look around: nothing moves.

This cold thing feels lost

Like it doesn’t belong.

I don’t want to be here.

I want to escape.

I want to go back

To the warm, dark watery world

Instead of lying on a giant

With its cold, emotionless face.

Imogen Stewart, 8Z

They’re Not There

There were splotches of emeralds

Creating canopies of leaves and washes of lapiz

To illuminate the sky.

Darted across the pastel blues

Are dark brown birds, frozen in perfect synchronicity

These static animals showcase large wing spans.

This all is enclosed in a frame of gold.

Holding the snapshot together

A cursive signature to sign the home of the photograph.

On the backs lay messages in many varieties of ink.

The handwriting would vary from message to message,

Always containing a different passage

That contained words of distinctive emotion

And signing off was always either polite

Or passive aggressive.

Wherever you go

You’ll find one in a corner shop

So you can silently boast to the receiver

About where you’re enjoying yourself,

Knowing they’re not there.

Hamish Critchley, 9W

Bang!

Bang! A flash of white light, and

I arrive on a damp blue floor

With a weird feeling of wetness on my shoes.

I look around before realising I have something in my hand,

A cardboard cut-out of my surroundings,

Deep blue for miles on end,

Luscious green for all to see,

A massive structure with no bend,

Many little dots smiling with glee,

A lonely old house without a friend,

A swarm of winged creatures flying along the sea,

A trading centre, although I have nothing to spend.

As I zone out from this cardboard cutout,

I see a massive army of sunlight blocking machines,

People captured by screens,

And no animals anywhere to be seen.

Thomas Drabble 9W

The Sleeping Giants

The vastness,

The deep blue is endless

Like the foreign world of space

But closer to home.

I’ve never felt this small before.

Staring into the great abyss,

I see the dark shapes growing closer,

Like an iceberg without any ice:

These giants float effortlessly below the water.

A ritual as old as the sky,

Sleeping under the stars,

In perfect harmony with one another

Like the ancient stones at the Winter Solstice.

Eve Pryor, 9Z

Visiting a Desert

Stardust surrounds me.

The sun pours its radiance to a high degree,

Cutting winds take away my breath,

A silence so lonely it reminds me of death.

I swipe away the dirt and sweat.

Cacti loom above me, casting a dark silhouette.

They look at me scornfully,

As I am an uninvited guest.

But I ignore them,

Carrying on my quest.

My rumbling hunger will not leave me alone,

I’m growing so weak, I let out a groan,

Crashing to the floor.

This experience is burnt in,

So I’ll remember it forever more.

Amazing Izekor, 9U

Over The Top

“Over the top”, and the whistle blew,

This was it, no chance for turning back.

The World around me was outrageously loud,

But inside my head was an eerie, dead silence.

Two weeks to go now,

Who knew war was so boring?

Just sat here day after day, sitting, waiting.

The quiet times so boring, yet the busy times, so exciting.

Only one week left now,

The time moves terrifyingly slowly.

People always seem to come and go,

Yet I’m always stuck here, day after day.

Tomorrow’s the day worth waiting for.

My, how the time has narrowed.

Excited for what this long awaited day will hold,

I wait, on high alert, for the orders.

It's time, we’re here now,

This suddenly seems like a horrific idea,

Why did I look forward to this?

I wish I was still bored, sat on the bonnet of the jeep, back at camp.

“Over the top", and the whistle blew.

This was it, no chance for turning back.

The World around me was outrageously loud,

But inside my head was a dead, eerie silence.

Christian Sim, 9X

Postcard

A picture alone in a shop,

Hoping a tourist will pick them up.

Pictures of sun and sea,

The location of the picture it reads.

Marked and personalised with ink,

Then stamped and sent away.

Flying across the world with bird-like speed.

Carried through sky, air, land or sea.

And delivered straight to you.

Some from strangers,

Or family members.

Messages of jealousy,

Love,

Kindness.

Description of the time they’re having,

Sad parents far away,

Still waiting patiently for their return.

Jacob Goad, 9X

The Struggle Called Life

It’s hard,

Waking up each day,

Putting war paint on,

Marching outside.

It’s hard

Putting your boots on tight

Every day

And ploughing through the mud.

It’s hard,

Standing up tall,

looking straight ahead,

Shoulders back – focused.

It’s hard

Scraping your hair back,

Tight in a bun,

Out of your way

So you can get on.

It’s hard,

Marching forward

When the wind’s pushing you back.

But it’s something we all do,

Daily.

Lydia Lazenbury, 10V

My Fate Draws Near

It is near,

I can feel it drawing closer,

My time is up,

The enemy drawing closer.

Like darkness consuming the light,

The feeling flooded through me.

I accepted it gratefully,

I knew my fate drew near.

I hold no fear for the enemy,

I have accepted destiny,

But the fear I do have,

Is for those left remaining.

The love I had left,

The woman I loved,

It makes me wonder,

How did I end up here?

How did I end up here?

Such a wonderful life,

Taken from me in seconds,

From enemies who knew not of my name.

War. What is it good for?

Reuben Poole, 10V

 

Defamiliarisation

A fretwork of brilliant mosaics,

Flowing upward to white-puffed clouds,

Ships of white in the blue above,

Glistening and gleaming,

Its rays pirouetting to and fro,

Creating a ripple of slow waves,

That eddy amongst the leaves, in the gentle breeze.

Soft and diffuse,

Fresh as the dew that

Effortlessly flows with the earth’s curves,

Reflecting pure joy,

Its vivacious hues, living art,

An elixir from the night,

The honeyed tones and sepia glow,

That scattered from the light.

As it dipped below the horizon,

The fleeting colours of dusk fade away,

A timeless existence of crimsons,

A sky filled with fire intensified,

A warm painted seabed,

The burning golden orb fell down,

Melting into a lustrous Stygian darkness

Poppy-Rose Banton, 10Y

Born

I’ve been in this world two minutes,

I’ve seen all I need to see.

The present seems bright, blinding white light,

But my future looks dark to me.

Giants in blue patrol the compound,

Where I lay constricted by binds.

I struggle to break free, fighting the boundary,

When one condemns me when I try to speak my mind.

I’m wrenched from my position,

To the body of my captor.

I open my glassy, blue eyes, eager to compromise

My fate of abuse or glamour.

I can see how dark this world is,

The inequality extending far beyond.

The man dressed in rags like me, I wonder if he is what I’ll come to be,

But his skin is dirt-ridden with time.

A woman in fur walks by,

Turning her nose up to the man.

How elegant she strides, pearls swinging to the sides,

As the man eats out of a can.

I wonder for this dystopian place,

Does it care for equality?

Will I grow up to be wealthy, will I have plenty?

Or will I be cast down in society?

Sophie Gale, 10Y

Postcard from Normandy

Silver raindrops fly past, hitting roaring Spitfires

Fire flaming bullets, like flying meteors.

Spitting out death with every pop.

Raindrops fly through dense, heavy, murky smog

Like the grim reaper, consuming its victims.

Raindrops fly onto marching troops muddy helmets

Dripping onto blood splashed faces.

Raindrops fall onto overheating ship cannons

Evaporating in a heartbeat off the cast iron frame.

Raindrops drench the remains of soldiers items

Black boots, burning berets, used ammunition.

The unrecognisable private will remain altered for eternity

Too distorted and disgusted for the outside world to see.

Raindrops fly onto the corner of his postcard.

From Normandy it flies to you.

Theo Taylor-Smith, 10Y

299,792,458 m/s

Too fast.

The memories of brighter, happier, more free time

Surge through my mind as weathered hands trace card.

Fixed smiles, glazed eyes, frozen in time,

Papery skin reminded of a familiar warmth no chill

Could quell.

I squint, words dancing.

A thousand lifetimes light me

Then hurry by, and never come past again.

Manon Francis-Braconi, 10V

The Person with the Camera

Someone has to take the photo.

One eye shut behind the lens,

They scan the horizon looking for their photo.

Ignore the damage on one side to find the one place it looks good.

Hide the decrepit town to show the beautiful sea.

Raise the façade in one area,

Invite them in.

When they arrive they will be disappointed by what they actually see.

The cameraman has misled them.

The truth they came to see,

Is the lie they have discovered.

Is it really a surprise?

The misleading of these individuals is no longer new to them.

Disappointment is permanent.

A moment of perfection they saw in the postcard,

Was once again false.

No wonder we are all so sad now.

Christopher Clark, Y12

Looking Down

There’s something thoroughly fascinating about the froth,

Dull bubbling white against an unwaveringly deep blue,

Thick impasto patterns shifting and interlocking,

Delicate lace spiralling up over the metallic boundary,

Embellishing the rust.

Threads form and sprout below, reels of white

Unwinding and unravelling, branching outwards, unable

To stitch themselves together, floating in unison

Untethered, guided only by the ebb and flow

And the jarring thuds of a distant propeller.

The mechanical whirs and clanks easily fold and

Blend together, fading into an electrical hum, audio left

Unsynced, the relentless buzzing of a forgotten TV set

Blocked out easily, numbing, leaving you staring at

The flickering screen.

Utterly abstracted, reduced and simplified, delicate

Impressions too unfixed to fully focus on,

Too intricate to look away from.

An entirely temporary fixation, transitional in nature

Begun unintentionally, born out of the curiosity of a

Bored mind, but somehow utterly unbreakable,

Only interrupted by arrivals and the occasional

Interventional offer of food.

Gaze falling into and out of focus,

Like thread, wound together and pulled apart.

Merlin Cross, Y12

Humans

Humans are strange creatures indeed.

They cry from laughter and live most wildly in their sleep,

They often wade in too deep

Or pretend to be something that they are not.

They wake to laze in their pyjamas

And watch who they wish that they were

On tiny screens

Their heads full of dreams

That they never act on.

They're all guilty of looking down at their feet instead of up to the sky —

No one knows why

They’re all so scared of trying and failing.

The ones who reach out are the ones who are rewarded,

The ones who get it sorted.

But the truth is we’re all just as scared of success as we are of failure,

Which one’s braver?

The humans often ask.

So most of them decide to sit back and hide

Because who really wants to know what you’re worth?

Life gets in the way, just another day,

You have to really push yourself to try:

No one knows why

But humans are all scared to succeed; watch them follow your lead —

Aren’t we all really sheep underneath?

Miranda Gent, Y12

Postcard

I’m immersed in the beauty of cantatas and chorales,

From the purity of the soprano to the grounded bass.

The passage of fugue brings a joy to my face.

What more serenity could support morale?

Blinded by bereavement, your tears will fall

To the loss of one who has lost so much more.

But the water will ink the notes on the score

Of a symphony of cries to destroy us all.

I write, I compose, I perform on stage,

Accompanied by an orchestra of angelic perfection.

So please do not hope for some futile resurrection

As we’ll all join this cast in a new age.

I have settled in my room, ready for my stay.

A postcard from an eternal holiday.

Sacha Hemingway, Y12

For Someone Not Important

Hi dad,

Yes, you’re probably asking,

‘Why the hell have I got this postcard?’

Or even,

‘How is it rained on so much?’

Because it’s stolen, and

I am homeless.

Yes, I still hate you.

Yes, I can’t forgive the things you did to me

And mum.

Yes, it’s impossible for you to receive this,

This postcard ironically saying

‘Wish You Were Here!’

Even though it should be directed

At mum.

The front,

As you won’t see this,

And because of the rain,

Barely even says ‘You Were Here’,

Which is fitting for you,

Not mum.

At least for her,

Before she decided to pass away,

She stayed.

So, my lack of a home

Had nothing to do with this.

I don’t know how to finish it.

Obviously, you can’t receive it,

So I’ll chuck it in the trash…

…and…

Get on with my life.

Ethan Simmonds, Y12

Postcard of a Rose

Two lovers left in their relentless dreams,

Distanced by the cruel expanse of road,

Taken to composing cards by any means,

He sent her once a postcard of a rose.

A red so deep it touched the depths of hell,

And yet so bright it glared towards the Sun

And challenged the light of Helios’s spell.

She read and wept and there herself began…

But her reply was none so sweet and fine.

The card itself depicts a dreary daisy,

Which stands beneath a towering sturdy pine,

So sure to die, engulfed in shadowed shrubbery.

And so, sent off with hearts and feeble kisses,

The lovers parted and sent no more messages.

Rebecca Stone, Y12