King's College London

‘With a Tongue Like This’ by Bella Steiner and ‘Malcolm’ by Shaz Baker were chosen as joint winners of the prize.

The competition was judged by Dr Luke Roberts, Senior Lecturer in Modern Poetry, and Dr Anthony Joseph, Lecturer in Creative Writing, both from the Department of English.

Bella’s poem was inspired by her love for the English language and the English literary canon, despite feeling torn between establishing an Anglophone identity and remaining connected to her Latin-American roots. This poem is grounded in Bella’s personal experience with identity, but it is also written as an ode to creatives who never feel a full sense of belonging when writing in a language that is not their own.

'Malcolm' is a poem about Shaz’s grandad, who was a welder in London before retirement. For Shaz, he is a figure that represents working class pride: his crass humour, life experiences and shameless attitude are traits that her family share, with her grandad as the patriarch. The poem is about Shaz embracing this after a long period of attempted rejection, particularly in the university world and her writing style.

Two other poems were highly commended by the judges: ‘Swallows in Summer' by Grace Brimacombe-Rand, and ‘Fractured Masks’ by Billy Smith.

Billy’s poem aimed to capture his feelings during a time when he was becoming disillusioned with the American theatre industry. He was reckoning with the fact that most of his life had been spent in artificially beautiful spaces. Because of his own theatrical nature, he felt it was hard for some people to truly see him.

The poetry competition is held in honour of Cosmo, who died in 2008 while he was a student in the Department of English.

This year, more than 100 students from across King’s submitted entries.

All four winning poets will be offered the opportunity to have their work published in Wild Court, an international poetry journal based in the Department of English.

Read some of the poems below.

‘With a Tongue Like This’ by Bella Steiner

"Is your tongue the empire of neutrality?" they ask—fast Claiming my syntax as foreign;

TSA declaring: unrecognisable—Locally undetectable.

"¿Qué acento?" la mujer pregunta, with swirling brows asphyxiating on the vomit of her question marks;

without having to explain... ... ...

That my sentences lie in a phonetic purgatory... ... ...

geographical centuries between my tongue:

blue, yellow, red?—"¿con siete estrellas?"—no. Mi lengua se estrella. when I scrape my tongue with the bumps of commas,

or colons; trying to find the next word...

"Se te olvidó Mija," and that stings on the throat.

With a tongue Anglophone-trained

not north or south, but transatlantic—iambic. Been too much like Donne, Milton, Plath—not enough like Neruda, Gallegos, Pizarnik,

But wait,

I'm still searching for the word, (aquí la tengo?)

but it is stuck in a relegated passport under

the Caribbean door.

‘Malcolm’ by Shaz Baker

Said plainly there’s no Prada

In the skint village off the A16

We all laughed afterwards, nearly

Cracked a rib, wheezing like grandad

Before he coughs up that Pneumonia

Phlegm that rattles like a wet fart

On a faux leather sofa. I hate the sound of it

But I want to love him. You know he made me

A wooden bowl once. Tells the same

Three stories, one’s about an infinite fuse

He built using since-classified raw materials.

Laughed again.

Where do you buy your clothes, then,

Said he gives them me, I have a

Promotional Hobgoblin Christmas shirt

From the early two thousands

And I’m wearing it right now,

Underneath. His second story

Is about a Glasgow smile so wide

The bloke’s cheeks fell off. I laff alone.

You know that’s kind of fucked up?

Said well he was, yeah, needed stitches

And I’m in them. Don’t worry,

They’re not cashmere

‘Fractured Masks’ by Billy Smith

Afternoons are spent collecting the acting company’s cardboard

So I can spend the evening turning it into the stones of Ireland.

Before bed, I must turn another muslin flat into a marble piazza

For a show that no one will call favourite.

This is what the ghostlight sees.

We’re waiting for the woman to die next door,

So her paintings and Chinese vases can be put to use

In a setting for Chekhov, Ibsen, or Shaw.

I’ve covered my soul in velour and face paint

To play the Clown, the Lover, and maybe the wise.

But though my blood is from those like Quentin Crisp,

You cast my quips aside. For you don’t like the mask

I wear when I’ve nothing left behind.

The scars I’ve earned are burns from amber stage lights,

Always shifting them for some greater star.

What good are the leaves of New England

If I’ve trapped my heart in this cavern of

Make believe.