William Connor
Winner - 2015
“I LOVE WHAT CECIL DAY LEWIS SAID ABOUT POETRY: THAT HE DOES NOT WRITE POEMS TO BE UNDERSTOOD, BUT TO UNDERSTAND.
“I never chose to be a poet, and I certainly don’t sit down to tell the world something I know about. Usually, all I am aware of is a kind of wind-still, then a welling up in my chest. When I go for a run, strange bits of syntax, descriptions, lines might rise up from somewhere. Then, if I am lucky, these fragments will collapse into a poem. To me, reading and writing poems is like a opening a window out into an unseen world behind the ordinary one, perhaps the same world our dreams are filmed in. When I open that window, I am searching for something; sometimes I am fed, I rest, or am exquisitely disturbed. I am always left wanting more.”
Gran
After they had lifted her onto the wheeled trolley
and smoothed over her face
a starched sheet like pastry
Lu, dad and I drove to Upper Hutt
we wandered together and alone up the main street
looking for something still open
spools of perished air
stretching then bunched between us
the Chinese baker’s son
fat with glasses and a plastic gun
sat and shot with spitty sounds
at formica chairs
we finished off cold quiche
waited for the eftpos machine
by custard squares under cling film
I made the afternoon train
2am
last night in the dead of the night
I woke and sleep lay broken on the bed
you had woken too
and though neither of us spoke
we could have spoken
about something other
that we knew
that we have felt for some days now
but not seen
we saw it last night
with eyes behind our eyes
eyes that had not been sleeping
that were sharpened by the dark
we could have reached across the bed
with the hands inside our hands
what would have then been said,
sober, quiet, immense and frightening,
might have forded this white water
might have been a glimpse of stone
a breathless leap together
or a word to shut off all sound