Winners 2024
Summary
PRIMARY
School Prize Larks Hill Primary, Pontefract
Individuals
Third Prize JONAH L . I am fire/ nothing stands in my way
Second Prize WILLIAM T. Fire is fuming
Third Prize OLIVER M. I am fire, I am colossal
SECONDARY
Third Prize NATALIA KRAHEL A place I once called home
La Sainte Union School, Camden
Second Prize VICTORIA IGUNNUBOLE A flicker, a flame
La Sainte Union School, Camden
First Prize VERONIKA STSEBA The fire is burning
Prince Henry’s Grammar School, Otley
ADULT
Third Prize SARAH LEAVESLEY Setting a Fire
Second Prize HANNAH LINDEN Survival
First Prize HELEN KAY Lighting the Wood Stove in November
SHORTLISTED ADULTS
MARY BLACK, MOHAMED GASSARA, OZ HARDWICK, LYDIA KENNAWAY, OSKAR KWIECZINSKI, LIZ MCPHERSON
Winning Poems - Adult
FIRST
Lighting the Wood Stove in November
i.m. my brother
I crumple newspapers from a bundle
you sent me, noosed with baler twine.
As if it knows where it is heading,
a woodlouse rows across war reports.
reaches the crossword, its antennae tap
the ouija board of your scrawled answers.
The lighter cog clicks its candle glow.
I brood over you and the paradox of fire,
how it can reduce everything to ash,
but here, in the mouth of a stove,
it turns hard news to eloquent warmth.
I close the door to calm the burning.
Helen Kay
SECOND
Survival
i
We take turns to poke with our sticks. Some
are dry as tinder and if we don’t drop them, the flesh
on our hands will run wet with blisters.
We retreat to a safe distance
as if we could escape smoke damage.
Some fires seem to take your soul.
ii
Stay inside. Cover every gap under the door
with stories you tell yourself about freedom.
Is it safe to burn what reserves we have left?
How do we survive the winter?
iii
There are those who tell us that everything
is a lie. They throw every book, every newspaper
onto the cart—carry it all to somewhere a crowd
has formed. Burn it all, they chant, burn it all.
Someone whispers that people are in those books.
We don’t know if they are speaking metaphorically.
iv
I am afraid. The mask I wear makes it impossible
to smell if other people feel the same.
My garden is covered in ash.
v
How are we here, now, in the glow of embers
arguing about whether there was a fire?
I hold out my hands to warm them, as you
palms deep in your pockets, pretend
it isn’t cold.
vi
And aren’t the stars suns however distant
they seem? Somewhere, even in a night sky,
light is traveling from very far away.
Hannah Linden
THIRD
Setting a Fire
My grandfather called it ‘whispering’ –
blowing a kiss through dry kindling,
stoking the lit newspaper’s flickers
so they’d stroke the laid-out logs
or black potatoes of coal into flame.
The artistry was in the making.
The careful layering of fuel and tinder,
the twist of his wrist striking the match,
this sculpture catching light…not yet
a blaze or inferno, simply a wild
flamenco of mesmerising colour and heat
that could become a passion, forge
a knife or lucky horseshoe, solder
a buckle or missing link, shape
a beacon, dragon or phoenix.
He called it ‘whispering’, that moment
before the surge and spread,
when it’s still possible to resist the urge
to rage and burn through everything
faster than light or life.
A second to hold the fire’s power
before it breaks the bounds and roars
across whole homes, streets, towns….
Though he never spoke of what he’d seen,
flames leapt in the mirror of his eyes.
When our grate was empty of all but
smoke and embers, he'd stir ghosts
from the ash and whisper
something softly under his breath
that sounded like names.
Sarah Leavesley
FIRST
Lighting the Wood Stove in November
i.m. my brother
I crumple newspapers from a bundle
you sent me, noosed with baler twine.
As if it knows where it is heading,
a woodlouse rows across war reports.
reaches the crossword, its antennae tap
the ouija board of your scrawled answers.
The lighter cog clicks its candle glow.
I brood over you and the paradox of fire,
how it can reduce everything to ash,
but here, in the mouth of a stove,
it turns hard news to eloquent warmth.
I close the door to calm the burning.
Helen Kay
SECOND
Survival
i
We take turns to poke with our sticks. Some
are dry as tinder and if we don’t drop them, the flesh
on our hands will run wet with blisters.
We retreat to a safe distance
as if we could escape smoke damage.
Some fires seem to take your soul.
ii
Stay inside. Cover every gap under the door
with stories you tell yourself about freedom.
Is it safe to burn what reserves we have left?
How do we survive the winter?
iii
There are those who tell us that everything
is a lie. They throw every book, every newspaper
onto the cart—carry it all to somewhere a crowd
has formed. Burn it all, they chant, burn it all.
Someone whispers that people are in those books.
We don’t know if they are speaking metaphorically.
iv
I am afraid. The mask I wear makes it impossible
to smell if other people feel the same.
My garden is covered in ash.
v
How are we here, now, in the glow of embers
arguing about whether there was a fire?
I hold out my hands to warm them, as you
palms deep in your pockets, pretend
it isn’t cold.
vi
And aren’t the stars suns however distant
they seem? Somewhere, even in a night sky,
light is traveling from very far away.
Hannah Linden
THIRD
Setting a Fire
My grandfather called it ‘whispering’ –
blowing a kiss through dry kindling,
stoking the lit newspaper’s flickers
so they’d stroke the laid-out logs
or black potatoes of coal into flame.
The artistry was in the making.
The careful layering of fuel and tinder,
the twist of his wrist striking the match,
this sculpture catching light…not yet
a blaze or inferno, simply a wild
flamenco of mesmerising colour and heat
that could become a passion, forge
a knife or lucky horseshoe, solder
a buckle or missing link, shape
a beacon, dragon or phoenix.
He called it ‘whispering’, that moment
before the surge and spread,
when it’s still possible to resist the urge
to rage and burn through everything
faster than light or life.
A second to hold the fire’s power
before it breaks the bounds and roars
across whole homes, streets, towns….
Though he never spoke of what he’d seen,
flames leapt in the mirror of his eyes.
When our grate was empty of all but
smoke and embers, he'd stir ghosts
from the ash and whisper
something softly under his breath
that sounded like names.
Sarah Leavesley
Winning Poems - Secondary
FIRST
The fire is burning
You can see tongues of flame through the crown of trees.
If you look closely, you will see the dance of mysterious animals in the fire.
Looking at the fire makes you feel warmer.
And you plunge into memories.
You can smell the smoke.
Only you and the fire under the cover of the night, and the glow of the big moon.
The flame beckons you.
You want to dive into the fire and connect with mysterious animals.
But you can't, because there will be no way back…
(translated from Ukrainian)
Veronika Stseba
SECOND
A flicker, a flame
(Inspired by anti-bullying week)
A flicker, a flame
No water, no shame
Nothing to blame
A flicker, a flame
Tell the fire, “you burn too bright”
Tell the fire, “you are too dim”
The fires flame will dim
Or wrestle deep within
A flicker, a flame
No water, some shame
Something to blame
A flicker, a flame
Tell the fire, “stay in your candle”
Tell the fire, “you’re too hot to handle”
The fire’s flame will dim
Or consider such great sin
A flicker, a flame
Just water, a shame
Everything to blame
A flicker, no flame
Tell the people, “you are too late”
Tell the people, “my anger is great”
All their egos will dim
Or fight to take the win
Ashes, a flame
No water, no shame
Everything to blame
Ashes, a flame
With ashes the city is bland
Burnt by what they don’t understand
Victoria Igunnubole
THIRD
A Place I Once Called Home
It spread fast,
The time was working like a heartbeat,
Black smoke filled the air,
Red were the burning flames of revenge,
Terror, death,
Burning with joy as they
Destroy the cities.
Cries and screams of those who are vulnerable,
Children crying, families scattering everywhere,
Buildings collapsing,
People running to and fro,
The sky getting darker and darker.
Nowhere to go,
Trapped in the blaze of fire,
The air suffocating,
Harder to breath,
The blaze was hot,
It burned deep wounds,
Left huge scars.
Now there is nothing left,
A place I once called home,
Now I stand in a city of ashes,
All alone.
Natalia Krahel
FIRST
The fire is burning
You can see tongues of flame through the crown of trees.
If you look closely, you will see the dance of mysterious animals in the fire.
Looking at the fire makes you feel warmer.
And you plunge into memories.
You can smell the smoke.
Only you and the fire under the cover of the night, and the glow of the big moon.
The flame beckons you.
You want to dive into the fire and connect with mysterious animals.
But you can't, because there will be no way back…
(translated from Ukrainian)
Veronika Stseba
SECOND
A flicker, a flame
(Inspired by anti-bullying week)
A flicker, a flame
No water, no shame
Nothing to blame
A flicker, a flame
Tell the fire, “you burn too bright”
Tell the fire, “you are too dim”
The fires flame will dim
Or wrestle deep within
A flicker, a flame
No water, some shame
Something to blame
A flicker, a flame
Tell the fire, “stay in your candle”
Tell the fire, “you’re too hot to handle”
The fire’s flame will dim
Or consider such great sin
A flicker, a flame
Just water, a shame
Everything to blame
A flicker, no flame
Tell the people, “you are too late”
Tell the people, “my anger is great”
All their egos will dim
Or fight to take the win
Ashes, a flame
No water, no shame
Everything to blame
Ashes, a flame
With ashes the city is bland
Burnt by what they don’t understand
Victoria Igunnubole
THIRD
A Place I Once Called Home
It spread fast,
The time was working like a heartbeat,
Black smoke filled the air,
Red were the burning flames of revenge,
Terror, death,
Burning with joy as they
Destroy the cities.
Cries and screams of those who are vulnerable,
Children crying, families scattering everywhere,
Buildings collapsing,
People running to and fro,
The sky getting darker and darker.
Nowhere to go,
Trapped in the blaze of fire,
The air suffocating,
Harder to breath,
The blaze was hot,
It burned deep wounds,
Left huge scars.
Now there is nothing left,
A place I once called home,
Now I stand in a city of ashes,
All alone.
Natalia Krahel
