Silver Slams: Finalist Poems from Preliminary 3, Semester 1
As we draw closer to the Thursday, December 4th final of our Silver Slams poetry contest, we will be posting the wonderful poetic works voted on by the audience to cross the finish line! Here are the winning poems, as voted by attendees, from the third preliminary of semester 1.
Moulded - Millicent Hayes
You who shaped me from the wet clay of the earth,
Bare hands forming the body to be given birth,
Moulding my mouth and eyes like yours
Your body feeding,
Our hearts beating,
Lungs in sync breathing
Like twin flames, we are the same,
You hate it -you seek to blame,
To change my personhood with wretched shame
Because Cronus fears his father’s gruesome fate,
But not even he could escape the children he ate
So you thrash at the walls in this haunted house of mirrors,
Reflecting me at all sides,
Because you cannot bare to see your own inhumanity,
Your delusion and depravity,
Exposed in me so mercilessly
Like Oedipus you claw out your own eyes violently
-Make yourself go blind
Deny that we are irrevocably intertwined
Two peas cut from the same vine
You wander around with hollow socket eyes
Like the master to the donkey
Avoiding any screed of introspection,
Afraid to see that it is your reflection,
Facing your unending cruelty and rejection
Oh, how I have attempted to pull my skin apart
In bloodied moments of fever,
Tried unravelling the stitches that hold me together
Dissect my body for you,
Become someone lovable -someone new
But no matter how much of myself I cut away
There will always be too much of me
-Too much of you
So, in my palm I hold my eyes too
Your replica through and through
Did you sing a Soldier's Song? - Christopher Stedmond
Did you chant a soldier's song
as you advanced toward Wexford town?
Though we, the confederate forces, were strong,
Against commonwealth artillery,
the siege would be merely prolonged.
Colonel Synnot bargained for peace,
but peace was not your plan.
The curse of Cromwell plagued my land,
til Wexford flowed red with blood
until, the barbaric were civilised by heavy hand.
How do you call us savages
whilst mirroring the massacre of the innocents?
You, Cromwell, were the savage militants.
The bones of the guiltless rest on Slaney’s bed.
Now, your hands are stained a crimson red.
‘Mid cannons’ roar and rifles peal,
How can this be the product of religious zeal?
I lay in the mire and begged for their life,
Paralyzed, I watched in horror as you murdered my wife.
Amidst such suffering, did you chant a soldiers song?
My Pet Rock - Adam Walsh
I own a rock.
He does not talk.
He sits quietly in his comfortable spot.
I try to interact,
But he remains the same,
That familiar dull expression.
You would swear he has no brain.
I prod him for reactions.
I even throw him at a wall.
Nothing happens.
Only a thump echoes
As he hits rock bottom.
And do not get me started on his love life.
All my encouragement is in vain.
Let us just say there is no Mrs. Pebble
Rolling through this world
Once, I did see a change.
Alcohol was poured on his face,
A glimmer reflected from his stoney head.
For a moment, it seemed alive.
Then that faded.
He returned to being empty inside.
I keep this old, dumb rock in a special place,
Inside my chest, with no room to bloom.
Unmoved by the events of the outer world,
Once I did see a change.
Alcohol was poured on his face,
A glimmer reflected from his stoney head.
For a moment, it seemed alive.
Then that faded.
He returned to being empty inside.
I keep this old, dumb rock in a special place,
Inside my chest, with no room to bloom.
Unmoved by the events of the outer world,
It sits cold and unchanging in its tomb.
Yet, unexpectedly, external forces bring warmth.
The minerals within do not change,
But deep in the cracks where no light reaches,
Crystals quietly form.