Haddon Library Poetry Competition, 2009
University of Cambridge, UK
The Haddon Library of Archaeology and Anthropology, University of Cambridge ran a poetry competition to celebrate the University's 800th anniversary. The competition was for poems inspired by the numbers 800, 1209 and/or 2009. The prizes were presented in Cambridge on Friday 25 September 2009, during the University's Alumni Weekend. Mary was awarded second place in this competition.
The Story of 800
Out of the blankness of nothing came four zeros.
Eyes in flying saucers of bewilderment.
And they looked 'round, but couldn't see, until two
became spectacled and two monocled.
And they adjusted their view. But after a while
became accustomed and no longer saw anything new.
And so zeros became telescopes. And the sun
and the moon and shooting stars enveloped them.
And as the far drew near they became accustomed
and no longer saw anything new.
So they turned then to eyes of a microscope and
the near changed; into a most curious stranger.
And they saw cells and the nucleus of cells and all
the circles we are made of. With eyes refreshed, zeros
were everywhere. In straggles of hair and sticks of chalk.
In transverse section, bronchioles, for air to talk.
In rolls of papyrus, neurones and old bones. In oak
trees, battered coins, bath-pipes and tins of peas.
And the zeros glimpsed their arc of possibility. And
two tried seeing themselves new. One balanced on top
of the other, to become an infinity. A figure of eight.
The dance of perpetual quest.
And the other two grew, in the knowledge of infinite
possibility. And this is how the story of 800 began.
Click here for audio version
Out of the blankness of nothing came four zeros.
Eyes in flying saucers of bewilderment.
And they looked 'round, but couldn't see, until two
became spectacled and two monocled.
And they adjusted their view. But after a while
became accustomed and no longer saw anything new.
And so zeros became telescopes. And the sun
and the moon and shooting stars enveloped them.
And as the far drew near they became accustomed
and no longer saw anything new.
So they turned then to eyes of a microscope and
the near changed; into a most curious stranger.
And they saw cells and the nucleus of cells and all
the circles we are made of. With eyes refreshed, zeros
were everywhere. In straggles of hair and sticks of chalk.
In transverse section, bronchioles, for air to talk.
In rolls of papyrus, neurones and old bones. In oak
trees, battered coins, bath-pipes and tins of peas.
And the zeros glimpsed their arc of possibility. And
two tried seeing themselves new. One balanced on top
of the other, to become an infinity. A figure of eight.
The dance of perpetual quest.
And the other two grew, in the knowledge of infinite
possibility. And this is how the story of 800 began.
Click here for audio version
A Commended Winner of the National Poetry Competition 2008
Mary's poem 'Feeling Trapped (A True Story), the tale of the improbably named Jonathan Trappe, a man most prone to day dreams, secured her a winning place in the UK's largest poetry competition. Carol Ann Duffy, the current Poet Laureate, is a former winner of this prize...
Read more.
About Me
I was born in Coventry to Irish parents. I started writing poetry as an escape from the debilitating effects of ME, an illness I developed in late 2007.
I have always loved ideas, words and stories. Writing poetry has been a lifeline for me, a vital means of expression, creativity and productivity.
The Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine, April 2010.
Two poems by Mary which received double commendations in Warwick University’s first international medical poetry prize: "Patriotic for the Past" and "Tiptoe". Published in a book of 46 poems with the other winning entries.
FORMER intensive care nurse and university lecturer Mary Courtney only started writing poetry, as an escape from the debilitating effects of ME, two years ago. And she’s really rather good at it. Read more.
It's
going the way of the collar and chain for the insane,
asylums, beehives, ash-middens to crap in, the handicapped
idiots, gluttons, imbeciles, fat people. Paper hats for nurses
and kitchen table grit in your nails surgery.
It's going the way of those long lists you never get round to.
Mr Sawbones doing it quick on a ship, chicken in the basket,
giblets, geriatrics. The workhouse screeching curses on you.
Dunnock. Fusty luggs, creepers crackish!
It's going the way of the never seen and the did they reallys.
The way of the the quirkies. Curiosities. The way of the yo-yo
and dodo. The kakapo, cocoa and toast on a tray for two weeks
post-confinement. Convalescence. Never heard of it.
It's going the way of the rest. Nostalgia. Into the looking-glass
of crusty sleep. The museum piece. Somewhere to drowse on
a listless afternoon. Like The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar
Tongue – something to flick through. Dead as a parched page.
But what if David Attenborough was persuaded to make a
documentary for posterity. Recording the bass notes, tremolos
thunder, high whistles and wheezes; the long wild trumps and
farting snores of the night jungle. A record of the raucous
Last song of the lost choir of the Nightingale Ward. And saved it.
asylums, beehives, ash-middens to crap in, the handicapped
idiots, gluttons, imbeciles, fat people. Paper hats for nurses
and kitchen table grit in your nails surgery.
It's going the way of those long lists you never get round to.
Mr Sawbones doing it quick on a ship, chicken in the basket,
giblets, geriatrics. The workhouse screeching curses on you.
Dunnock. Fusty luggs, creepers crackish!
It's going the way of the never seen and the did they reallys.
The way of the the quirkies. Curiosities. The way of the yo-yo
and dodo. The kakapo, cocoa and toast on a tray for two weeks
post-confinement. Convalescence. Never heard of it.
It's going the way of the rest. Nostalgia. Into the looking-glass
of crusty sleep. The museum piece. Somewhere to drowse on
a listless afternoon. Like The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar
Tongue – something to flick through. Dead as a parched page.
But what if David Attenborough was persuaded to make a
documentary for posterity. Recording the bass notes, tremolos
thunder, high whistles and wheezes; the long wild trumps and
farting snores of the night jungle. A record of the raucous
Last song of the lost choir of the Nightingale Ward. And saved it.
I mean
how can you tiptoe round that one
introduce it slyly, shyly into conversation
Oh by the way whilst I think of it
would you mind
waiting whilst we tiptoe round his bed full of
efficiency keeping his blood pressure primed
to the level that his vital organs remain vital
would you mind
awfully thinking of someone else at this time
perhaps several who are tiptoeing round death
who could benefit from the end of this suspense
would you mind
awfully donating the organs of your loved one
whose stem has just died or should I say your
loved one who is tiptoeing between death and
life would you mind
introduce it slyly, shyly into conversation
Oh by the way whilst I think of it
would you mind
waiting whilst we tiptoe round his bed full of
efficiency keeping his blood pressure primed
to the level that his vital organs remain vital
would you mind
awfully thinking of someone else at this time
perhaps several who are tiptoeing round death
who could benefit from the end of this suspense
would you mind
awfully donating the organs of your loved one
whose stem has just died or should I say your
loved one who is tiptoeing between death and
life would you mind
©Copyright Mary Courtney
Web design by Patrick and Nick Courtney
Artwork, watercolour and hot wax, by Mary Courtney