First Prize
Damen O’Brien The Turn
Second Prize
Krista Schmeling The Inlet
Highly Commended
Alana Kelsall after Fukushima an elderly couple at home
Peter Mitchell Bro / ken O / pen
Glen Phillips An Etude for the Air
Commended
Coral Carter All in the Game
Glenn McPherson An Aside for my Grandmother the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo
Stephanie Powell Geometries of motion
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Judge’s Report
It is with profound pleasure and a sense of reverence for the craft that I present the judge’s report for the 2024 Ros Spencer Poetry Prize. This year’s submissions have been nothing short of extraordinary, both in their quality and quantity, rendering the judging process simultaneously rewarding and challenging, formidable and exhilarating.
The staggering number of entries—472 poems from across the globe—speaks volumes about the far- reaching influence of WA Poets and the enduring legacy of Geoff Spencer, our esteemed award patron. It also underscores the noteworthy and noble intentions behind the prestigious Ros Spencer Poetry Prize.
As an environmental poet, I was particularly moved by the prevalence of climate-themed works among the submissions. Nearly two-thirds of the entries grappled with environmental concerns, their quiet protests echoing through work after work, poem after poem. This collective voice, reminiscent of Mary Oliver’s assertion that “attention is the beginning of devotion,” highlighted the universality of the theme, the urgency of action in our changing world, the need for poets to bring attention to it, and hope that poets are channelling in these uncertain times.
As a judge, the process of selecting and shortlisting entries was a journey of discovery and rediscovery. As T.S. Eliot once mused on the nature of poetry, I witnessed firsthand how “genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” With each poem, I was granted the privilege of not just reading, but of reading between the lines, noting the subtle inflections and connotations that give each work its unique voice. The second and third readings allowed me to truly know each piece, as hidden meanings and metaphors came to life, expressing themselves more openly. By the fourth and fifth readings, I knew I had made significant headway in understanding the depth and breadth of each piece.
This meticulous process led to a shortlist of 23 poems after the third reading. From these 23 poems, I began the intricate task of selecting the true gems. Ultimately, 8 poems shone brightly, with 2 emerging as the absolute winners in my eyes. This rigorous selection process although onerous ensured that in the end each one of the recognised works represents the pinnacle of poetic craft and resonance.
I have also selected 112 stellar works to be included in the Brushstrokes V anthology. Each selected work is emotion and experience distilled into words. These poems, much like the “widening gyre” of Yeats’ “The Second Coming,” spiral outward from personal experience to touch upon universal truths.
The poems selected herein demonstrate not only technical prowess but also a profound engagement with our times. They embody Adrienne Rich’s belief that “poetry can break open locked chambers of possibility, restore numbed zones to feeling, recharge desire.” From intimate observations of nature to sweeping reflections on global challenges, these works span the spectrum of human experience in the Anthropocene.
Each piece, whether explicitly environmental or not, carries within it the pulse of our changing world, reminding us of poetry’s enduring power to reflect and shape our understanding of the most pressing issues of our time. It is my sincere hope that these chosen works will resonate with readers, inspiring them to see the world anew through the lens of poetry and perhaps, in the words of Seamus Heaney, to “believe that a further shore is reachable from here.”
With these considerations at the forefront, I have meticulously selected the following poems as winners and commendations.
Prize-Winning Poems:
First Prize, “The Turn” by Damen O’Brien
This free verse poem interweaves environmental concerns with personal experience, using tidal imagery as a central metaphor. The poem draws the reader into the ebb and flow of the tides, using the physical shape of the text to mirror the “uncertain edge of things.” The speaker observes a mangrove ecosystem at the turning of the tide, which becomes a reflection point for broader themes of climate change and human impact. The poem’s structure, with its long, flowing lines, mimics the ebb and flow of tides and thoughts. Vivid sensory details of the coastal environment (“mineral stir of tiny crabs,” “aromatic mess”) are juxtaposed with urban imagery from Shanghai, creating a global perspective. The poem’s tone shifts between observational and contemplative, with an undercurrent of anxiety about climate change – “that other wave” that looms in the background. This environmental concern is presented as both immediate and abstract, much like the tide itself. The poem’s frenetic energy and measured cadence work in tandem to convey a sense of impending crisis and the need for decisive action. The concluding lines leave the reader with a sense of uncertainty, mirroring the global uncertainty about climate outcomes. Through its rich imagery and thoughtful parallels, the poem encourages reflection on humanity’s relationship with nature and our collective future.
Second Prize, “The Inlet” by Krista Schmeling
This poem left me “feeling”. It is filled with imagery that speaks in the language of saltwater to the eager, listening ear. To the impermanence, the chaos, and the peace that all coexist in one space, while time is fluid. To the birth, death, and renewal found in nature. Through keen attention to the sensory details of the coastal environment, the poem immerses the reader in the ebb and flow of tides. Imagery shifts between concrete and abstract, often merging human anatomy with geological features, suggesting a deep bond between body and environment. The contemplative tone invites introspection, while the juxtaposition of contrasting elements like “peril” and “peace” highlights the duality present in both nature and human experience. The poem’s embodied references also add a deeply personal dimension, grounding the universal themes in lived experiences very human in nature. The closing lines, with their reference to a “cadence older than a song,” reinforce the poem’s theme of connection to something ancient and elemental. Ultimately, “The Inlet” is a beautifully crafted work that celebrates the timeless rhythms of the natural world and our place within them.
Highly Commended Poems:
1. “after Fukushima an elderly couple at home” by Alanna Kelsall
The poem straight-away throws you into dissonance through carefully arranged imagery. It is a deeply moving response to the nuclear disaster and meltdown that unfolded in the wake of an earthquake and a tsunami in Fukushima, Japan in 2011. Through the lens of a single photographic image, the poem captures the dissonance and grief experienced by the residents of a small village in the aftermath. The
poet’s use of placemaking language, coupled with the striking juxtaposition of the elderly couple’s domestic tranquility and the extent of the environmental catastrophe, creates an unshakeable sense of unease and disquiet. The poem’s final lines, pondering “what we can plant in the new soil / what we can’t,” leave us brooding, delving into the loaded question of survival and all that it entails.
2. “AN ÉTUDE FOR THE AIR” by Glenn Phillips
Glenn Phillips’ “AN ÉTUDE FOR THE AIR” is a remarkable poetic exploration of the elemental force of wind, tracing its journey across the Australian landscape. Through vivid personification and a sweeping, almost musical structure, the poem imbues the wind with a sense of agency and gravitas, highlighting its role as both a creative and destructive force. The Poet’s masterful use of language, from the rhythmic cadences to the vivid sensory imagery, creates a palpable sense of the wind’s physical presence. The poem’s underlying questions about the “language” of the wind and the weight it carries on its “shoulders” resonate with contemporary concerns about the state of our environment. “AN ÉTUDE FOR THE AIR” is a captivating and thought-provoking work that celebrates the power and mystery of the natural world.
3. “Bro / ken O / pen” by Peter Mitchell
Peter Mitchell’s “Bro / ken O / pen” is a visceral and immersive poetic account of the catastrophic floods that devastated Lismore, New South Wales in 2022. The poem bears witness. Its fluid, fragmented lines mirror the relentless surge of the floodwaters, while the expressive and evocative language captures the profound disorientation and trauma experienced by the residents. The poet’s use of concrete poetic techniques, such as the visual splitting of words, enhances the sense of rupture and dislocation. And I urge you to experience it on paper for that powerful textural quality. The poem’s haunting final image of the “sod / den fam / ily photo / graphs” and “a / pet’s bust / ed col / lar” leaves us speechless and mourning, speaking to the lasting impact of such natural disasters on individuals and communities.
Commended Poems:
1. “All in the Game” by Coral Carter
Coral Carter’s “All in the Game” is a nostalgic and evocative poem that captures the buoyancy of childhood memories and the enduring bonds of community and familial connections. The poet’s godmother-aunt is your godmother-aunt. The poet’s uncle is your uncle. The local footy team is your local footy team. The poem speaks to the ability of memory to bring old things to life. Carter’s use of language and attention to sensory details transport the reader to a time and place that feels at once familiar and wistful. It begins to shape our understanding of the world. Softly, gently coaxing us, letting us imagine a different truth, one that occupies the spaces in our mind so we begin to see it a shade lighter. To NOT what’s there, but to what’s missing.
2. “An Aside for my Grandmother the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo” by Glen McPherson
Glen McPherson’s “An Aside for my Grandmother the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo” is a deeply personal and poignant exploration of the poet’s relationship with their grandmother. The poem links an endearing, endemic bird and its characteristic habits with an enduring memory of someone so close. The animated bird then becomes a metaphor for the human experience of aging and deterioration. McPherson’s use of language and keen observational skills capture the intimate details of their grandmother’s life, from the “dry tips” she can no longer reach to the “great screeches of deliverance” that mark the poet’s own journey. You are suspended in time with the narrator-poet who connects all the dots, reads all the signs in retrospect. The result is a moving and reverent tribute to the complexities of and the cyclical nature of life.
3. “Geometries of motion” by Stephanie Powell
Stephanie Powell’s “Geometries of motion” is a raw and visceral exploration of the physical and emotional upheaval of pregnancy and childbirth. The poem finds a way to show you a sharp image of the vulnerable, naked truth. There is no softening of the edges, no morphing of the truth, but everything is delivered blunt and raw and real. The poem’s striking imagery and fragmented structure mirror the disorientation and trauma experienced by the poet. Powell’s language is both precise and emotive, capturing the anguish of the “bodily estrangement” and the grief that accompanies the severing of the maternal bond. Interestingly it is the metaphor of flying that ties the poem together, somewhere in the depths of it is an uplifting message. The poem’s haunting final lines, “My opening yolk ripped from the substance of her egg” resonate profoundly, speaking to the lasting impact of the transformative experience.
Lakshmi Kanchi
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First Prize
The Turn
You came to the tide at precisely the wrong time
—— or precisely the right time, when the mangrove
————- hesitates to breathe, when the mineral stir of tiny
———————-crabs oil the water and the aromatic mess swirls
—————————- and eddies, undecided if it’s going in or coming out,
———————————— steaming, intestinal pneumatophores, seed pods
treading water, waiting for the turn, some esoteric
—— illustration of quantum mechanics, like those seven
————- hours you lost in Shanghai under the fevered haze
———————- of coal-fired industry, when you swore we passed
—————————- the same building twice, one half with wreckers
———————————— swarming and the other half scaffolded and on
the rise, the sun a warm miasma of incoherent light
—— and the landmarks merging into an indecipherable
————- and unfriendly alphabet; a minute or two and you
———————- will know if the water’s bubbling in or draining
—————————- out, withdrawing like the sea is preparing its next
———————————— argument, making its case; like that other wave
we’ve all trying to forget, deny, stop thinking of,
—— so you walked down to the simmering mud,
————- the uncertain edge of things, raddled, clumsy line
———————- of mangrove trees; that other wave withdrawing
—————- ———— in your head, washing through the headlines on
———————————— the news, in everybody’s lunchtime conversation,
the one that will get us in the end, at 2 degrees of
—— warming, how long can we fear a thing before we
————- stop caring, before it soaks deep into our bones?
———————- That other wave’s been building for some time,
—————- ———— out beyond the mud flats, where search parties
———————————— of shorebirds, quarter their pools for food, out
beyond the dreadnought pelicans, the dredging
—— sandpiper reorganising the beach; out where
————- the future is, in all its vague implacability. You
———————- try to mark its position like you measure the tide:
—————————— is the water still receding, piling up into the fist
———————————— of all our failures, or is it on its way in, after all?
____________________________
Second Prize
The Inlet
Forgoing symmetry—and sidedness
you could still find yourself
picking through
the net you’ve drawn in
over brachiopods, blue-bottles
and the soft goo of baby octopi,
for what was there from the start, and
what becomes of it all
once the tides get hold of it,
and time has its way with
the peril, the peace
You could squat deep into the cave of your hips,
the calcium carbonate coral of them,
under the fuzzy haze of moonbeams,
amid the seaweed breath expunged from the deep
Your plumage over your anchorage
the shade of you, arranged into
systolic, diastolic
sifting the lifelike from the still
In that kind of silence, the perimeter begins to poke at you,
if you’re lucky, rock you to sleep
In a cadence older than a song,
Familial as the sweep of your cheekbone,
then far-off as an echo
sounding out the elements, soft and firm
Krista Schmeling
____________________________
Highly Commended
after Fukushima an elderly couple at home
In response to a photo of an elderly couple taken by Hashimoto Noboru
in Iitate, Japan on 12 March, 2012, one day after a nuclear power plant
in Fukushima went into meltdown following an earthquake and a tsunami.
———————————————————————— half
turned to face the light / she layered in bulky cardigan and
top / he in zip-up jacket / knees tucked under comfy quilts
at the low table / hanging scrolls / framed prints of shrines /
kanji looping and dipping like waves on the dark walls of
their winter nest / outer sliding door reflected in the smooth
pool of a TV /
—————————————————— will they stay?
forests hug the steep sides of this picture-perfect village /
in my twenties I skied down nearby Bandai-san with my
Japanese boyfriend / far away from life on the farm / still
settling in to the rooms of his language / quietness / this
photo reminds me of his parents’ house in Yokohama / its
warmth holding me close / shapeless in my own voice /
—————————————————— the shock
of wind-driven radiation pushed northwards into the clear
mountain air / evacuation orders slapped on Iitate / who
knows what grief was boarded up / teams of suited workers
blitzed roadsides and gutters / unable to disperse questions
about trees feeding from deep under roads / play-grounds /
and what level is ever safe and for whom
——————————————————some residents
in Iitate stayed on / mainly the elderly / were they too frail
to move / too sick / too embedded in this place to leave? /
thirty years ago on the farm / my ailing father walked from
bed to office view / hugged his routine to him / wanted his
funeral cortege to drive from the town out to the farm and
back / one last look at the paddocks /
——————————————————an elderly couple
in a traditional house / samurai swords perched on a stand /
sliding doors / symbols of bygone times / a war meant to end
all wars seeding the Second World War / then two bombs
split the world open / now this / another reckoning /
what we can plant in the new soil / what we can’t /
Alana Kelsall
____________________________
Highly Commended
Bro / ken O / pen
Before & after the once-in-a-500 year flood,
——————————Sunday 28 February to 3 March 2022
Through thousands of the deepest nights, this house was a smile.
——————During two wet dusk-to-dawns,
the vault above pummels
——Widjabul/Wia-bul’s* skin.
——————————Water swirls over uneven ground,
——pools in crevices.
————At first the overflow hums,
————a low-vibrational hum,
————dark & dense
————like the river’s growl
————as if to say we’re boiling over.
——————————Hours pass.
——————————The road is a river,
——————————one of many bitumen-rivers,
——————————all-together
——————————a tempestuous Wilsons River.
Now at express speed,
————45 Elliot Road,
————South Lismore
——————is bro / ken o / pen:
——————————foundation blocks ——————shift,
——————————the house splits
————————————————into two halves
————————————————like heart-valves separated,
————————————————like a thousand stars fractured.
Under skies with no obligations,
————this shattered abode holds voices—disembodied,
———————— rustle of air particles, ——inky-dark stranded-howls.
Six weeks later, Number 45 is liminal – three wooden steps lead to mid-air,
—————————————— the 4th & 5th mud-under;
—————————————— fireweed sprouts tiny yellow suns
—————————————— off a window-sill, below
————————————————black house flies buzz.
How will
——————sod / den fam / ily photo / graphs,
——————shred / ed door / mats,
——————a / pet’s bust / ed col / lar
——————become the slow breath of new life?
Peter Mitchell
____________________________
Highly Commended
An Étude for the Air
Follow the wind’s vast coursing:
risen from the sea it disturbs
spare dune grasses in passing
then wends its way by river-run,
bluffs, sand-spits, sheoak groves
and over open waters of lakes
to swamplands and the talus of scarps.
What language is this that wind
utters? What has it picked up
over ocean leagues from its own
family of breezes and gales?
Does it long for ease? After
countless centuries, so much
on its shoulders now must rest.
Over our flatlands on hot
mornings, it can take a bunch
of dry leaves hundreds of metres
aloft in devilish violence
of vortex. Or fan into rage
a grassfire to explode mulga
and mallee into fireworks.
At night, among desert inlands,
air then begins to turn back.
Past heat in the salmon gums
blows harder and harder now
from the north-east. Ceaseless
as siroccos it travels back
over the wheatlands once more.
It skirts wandoo forests, breasts
monoliths of granite; finds
at last linked coastal lagoons,
oceans of crowded surf. Wind
reaches far out to sea then,
where passengers in steamships
take scents of the eucalypts.
On land this ‘easterly’, nightly
through valleys of apple, streams
across orchards and vines. And
slams the doors and windows
of farmhouses; until by midday,
sea breezes for a time prevail.
Respite is the land’s reward.
Ocean winds truly tame our
lands. Some continents face
typhoons, or even fiercer storms.
Here, forests no matter how tall,
their millennial trees must bow
down. Habitations of men
are puny in such snarls of air.
Our winter storms lean so hard
on this west coast that streams run
amok, childhood days are drenched
and humans hunker down against
wind chill. Worshipfully we wait
the wind’s bidding since after all
our lives depend on mountains of air.
Glen Phillips
____________________________
Commended
All in the Game
As a child I went to the footy with my godmother-aunt. We cheered for our team Railways Railies Red Legs the Blood and Tars as we drank tea from the metal thermos cups and ate homemade melting moments from an old Rose’s chocolate tin. We sat in the Austin Cambridge parked behind the goals while my uncle joined the men in the crowd in front of the grandstand. We were not allowed to be with the men or gather in the huddle on the oval at the end of each quarter. There would be bad language my aunt explained not nice for girls to hear. The men wore red and black Sturt peas on their lapels during finals time. Go Railies! Far away in a different state my Nanna and great-aunt went to the footy every week. They were one-eyed for West Augusta Westies the mighty mighty Hawks purple and white. Always arrived in time to watch the Colts Seconds then A Grade. Always sat in the same spot. If anyone else sat there they asked them to move. The whole town knew this was where Mrs W and Mrs K sat. Go the mighty mighty Hawkes! Years later as I drove by I could see their two white heads in the grandstand. Even when they had both passed away I could still see them. Every Saturday. I would report home that I had seen Nanna at the footy that she was still there with aunty watching. They were there until the council pulled the grandstand down to build a sporting complex. And then they weren’t.
sale day
the space where the fridge
used to be
Coral Carter
____________________________
Commended
An Aside for my Grandmother the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo
Yours is the heart that begins to turn from flower
————to seed
at the first mention of your cockatoo beak
catching dry tips
————it cannot quite reach, snapping
each one into manageable hours.
Somewhere in an album
is a bunch of pictures you flick through
————which break
up
like dropped ash on the road’s surface
other birds watch car after car flatten.
How long has it been since you were a sign
————of belief?
A snake inside a letter
————box, waiting, shies at your hacking cough
two doors down
————on rubbish day
becoming instead a negative powerline
reverberating, a hissing transformation,
————resisting treatment
out of spite.
In this tree, and later, after the divided road
————swells with centuries
of storm clouds, you are, like them,
————evidence
that the liver in the underground is sick.
Back, back when I was first taught
————to pray
as a way to stop falling, when the landscape burned
with new breasts, when I hadn’t finished
———————— dying,
The heart knew great screeches of deliverance.
Glenn McPherson
____________________________
Commended
Geometries of motion
I watch the metal soar
Two beams of steel parcelled together—
a stiff and strange bird amongst clouds
In the hands of the machinist their
flight is careful, without error. Beneath
they are building something to
last years, even decades My body grew
in wild proportions. I dropped the plum
and it stained the desk, the juice dried black
while I sucked clean the stone and dug
into the sickness of my body, its fibroid head. This
outrageous pregnancy, an exhaustion of months
and bad posture, my shoulders folded around
like a crone When they cut her from methe working is not as clean–
surgeons are shoe-lacing every bent and
broken fibre, tying off
the knife work, leaving a scar shaped
like a tapeworm. I pull the pouch
of my belly up to see if it moves
On an archipelago of pillows, I dream of planes going
down while being told everything is OK
Is it normal to be this low and
perpendicular to the ground?
Now I am a winch
levering her up like mineral
when she is unable to fend for herself
softening the mechanics of my hands
embracing her ore, her leather–
it is not easy:
the grief in our bodily estrangement
My opening yolk ripped from
the substance of her egg
Stephanie Powell
____________________________