Poem of the month

Each month the two FSP editors select a poem, from those read throughout that month, as the poem of the month. A laminated copy of the poem is awarded to the poet at the next FSP City meeting. This is peer recognition of a poem of high quality.

February Poem of the Month: In Memory of Robin Gibb by Nigel Dey

Our first Poem of the Month for 2021, selected by Anthology editors, Louise Nicholas and Judy Dally, from poems read at the February Open Mic.

IN MEMORY OF ROBIN GIBB
Nigel Dey

Massachusetts is one place I have never seen.
My world is an island in a stream.

You don’t know what it’s like.
You can only guess what I mean.
I see only through a lighthouse beam.
But love bursts through any seam.

My world is your world 
And our world is this world.
And this world is round.
I used to think it flat and square.
But still it rains everywhere.… Click for more

Poems of the Month: June and July

With one editor residing in Port Augusta & one in the Barossa, getting together to discuss poems has been a challenge (and after an exhausting 4 hour long phone conversation to determine March & May we decided it had to be face to face). Finally after a couple of hiccups we achieved it this past weekend.

June

June was a massive success for the online portal. Over 60 poems were submitted by 22 poets and the quality was extraordinarily high. A quarter of the poems made the longlist and choosing, first the final five, then the top three was exceedingly difficult.… Click for more

Poems of the Month: March & May

COVID-19 has definitely thrown up some challenges this year but the editors are pleased to announce the Poems of the Month for March & May. 

March

March was our second and to date last face-to-face meeting of 2020. 65 poems were read and the longlist for this month was really quiet long. It was an excellent selection to draw upon & there were many fine poems in the initial discussion. But we managed to get it down eventually. We liked so many we have noted three Highly Commended poems. The challenging thing was how completely different each of the final 4 poems are yet each so strong in their own way.… Click for more

December Poems of the Month: Judy Dally and Louise Nicholas

Living with Mr D. by Judy Dally

1.
At 2am
 
or 4 pm
 
or sometimes
10pm
just after 
we go to bed
 
he gets up
to make breakfast.
 
He asks me
“Do you want breakfast?”
 
And I say “No
 
It’s too soon.”
 
It’s just too soon.
 
2.
For some reason
his feet
don’t tuck under the sheets
 
so
night after night
I lift his feet into the bed
spread the sheet over his legs
and tuck him in.
 
Like a baby.
 
3.
When we sit
in a group of four
 
there are sometimes
just
three of us. 
  
4.
On those nights
when he isn’t sure
what time it is
what’s going on
who he is
(maybe 
who I am)
 
I lie in the bed
with my back to him
and make him hold me.
… Click for more

November Poem of the Month: Lindy Warrell

The Tourist by Lindy Warrell

It's not my country… 
          this jeweled isle of caparisoned elephants
           and twirling dancers chanting and
            torch throwing in dazzling costumes 
             over pure white cloth 
              to a million torches and drums
               thrumming in veneration.
                                    Buddhist spectacle surround sound.
 
It's not my country…
          where obeisance to gods
           and vows are performed
            in coconut frond palaces
             woven for the divine when
              a priest trans vests to dance
               in silken sari and trance. He is the Goddess.
                                     Cries of joy and rupees adorn Her sacred hem.
 
It's not my country…
          where drunken tourists
           lounge near-naked in hotel luxury
            and palm-lined beaches
             wander unheeding in
              paddy fields people call home
               where buffalo graze and children play.
… Click for more

September Poem of the Month by Rob Ferris

Guerillas by Rob Ferris

Still camouflaged from the air
the guerrillas are dead in a glade.
Birds and conservative creatures
diminish them.
In cocoons of dappled cloth
their bodies pupate backwards
while images crawl away
alive on a cameraman’s back.

In the forest
they fade by fragmentation
their flesh maintaining 
sun drenched birds
rehearsing siren 
trumpet calls:
the music of
historical necessity
that placed them
in this shade.

Ideas swarm and die like bees,
steel wobbles and rushes
through leaves.
Fruit of revolutionary change
falls and dries
in the sun.
In villages, men’s mothers
lie awake
and make them brothers.

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