Wigtown Poetry Prize 2022 Winning Entries
Congratulations to the winners of the 2022 Wigtown Poetry Prize
The Wigtown Prize
Calving, by Julie Laing
The Wigtown Scottish Gaelic Prize
Dithis Bhoireannach air Trèan, by Martin MacIntyre
Dithis Bhoireannach air Trèan
’S ann ga h-ithe far a’ chnàimh a tha sibh –
am boireannach òg blasta a tha
na seasamh mur coinneamh,
is a bheir dhuibh a h-aodann
a gàire is a dlùth-èisteachd
is a labhras ribhse
a cheart cho saidhbhir, siùbhlach, sùghmhòr
mu bhrìgh na beatha (dè eile a th’ ann?)
is a thogas a com
is a chuireas a lamhan
an tacs’ a cruaichnean
dìreach mar a nì sibhse
is a dhraghas an fheadhainn agaibhse thuice
na gnogadh-cinn
na sgaoileadh bhilean
na tuigse air ur cor
a dh’ aindeoin nam bliadhnaichean eadaraibh
’s nach b’ aithne dhuibh idir a chèile gu seo,
’s gun dealaich sibh, math dh’ fhaodte gu bràth
an Girona no ’m Barcelona.
’S beag an t-iongnadh gum feum sibh
na gheibh sibh dhith ithe an-dràsta:
ise ‘menù’ 1 ur latha, ma-tà
cha sàsaichear a-nist sibh
gum bi mìlsead na ‘postre’ 2 – canaidh sinn Flan Catalán –
agaibh air bàrr truimead is fallaineachd is spiosrachd a ‘plato’ 3 :
a cridhe mar rionnaig òig le a saoghal roimhpe
mar a th’ aig an nighinn agaibh fhèin,
is o nam b’ urrainn dhuibh dìreach tachairt rithese
gun fhiosta air trèan
is a h-ithe le gaol
mar a leigeas an tè shaor chàilear seo leibh gun strì.
Translation
Two Women on a Train
You really are eating her off the bone –
the young tasty woman
standing opposite
who gives you her face
her laugh, her attentive listening
and who talks to you
just as richly, fluidly, juicy-ly
about the meaning of life (what else is there?)
and who raises her breasts
and places her hands on her hips
just like you do,
draws yours to her
in her nodding
her widening lips
her understanding of your being
despite the years between you
and that you’d never met before now
and you’ll part, forever, perhaps
in Girona or Barcelona.
Little wonder you must eat
what you can of her now
she is the ‘menù’ of your day,
you will not now be satisfied until you’ve savoured
the sweetness of the ‘postre’– lets say Flan Catalán –
on top of the richness and healthiness and spicy-ness of her ‘plato'
her heart as a young woman with her life ahead of her;
just as your own daughter does,
and oh, if only you could meet her, by chance on a train,
eat her with love, as this delicious woman freely allows you to do.
The Wigtown Scots Language Prize
The Lintie, by Irene Howat
The lintie
The chaptane’s cahute wis mahogany wuid
thit leamed in the eelie’s licht
bit the licht o’s bourie, the chaptane kent,
wis is wee green lintie.
They wur buckelt wi’ae hesp, man an burd
for the mair the swaws sweelt
the mair the burd fuffert is feathers an sang.
Wi a rowin sea an a whurplin burd
the chaptane wis codgie.
Yin nicht is the veshel wis nearhaun a stack
a scowe lik neffer afore
skelpit er starn, nar cowpit er ower,
burlin er roon an thrawin er doon.
Oor efter oor the tarry breeks focht
wi the stack an the boat in a radgy birl.
Fur oor efter oor the wun did its warst
wi the wun an the sea in a skirl.
The chaptane hid hiself wupped tae the mast
e wid neffer gie ower is chairge.
Frae thair he spied muckle sclitherin heichs
an the lang sclim up thair sclenters,
than the veshel’s shidderin seekenin fa
doon intae the howes atween.
Frae thair he hearkened the skraich o the wun
an the screeve o smatterin timmers;
frae thair e spied the stack abin
an the wrack o is boat ablo.
Is hinnermaist sicht
oan thit frichtsome nicht
wis a glent o green,
an is hinnermaist soon
is the sea sooked im doon
wis a lintie.
The Dumfries and Galloway Fresh Voice Award
The Curse, by Andrew Murray
The Curse
That simmer’s day the king’s dragoons hung three men
fae the gibbets fur no renouncin their hatred o bishops,
an twae Mairgarets wur mairtyred tae the ocean – fixit ticht tae stakes tae droon as the
tide rose abune the bay o Wigtown.
They were aw merkit oot as malaperts, troublemakers whae listent tae meenisters preach
frae beneath their blankets in amang the hills o Gallowa’,
Loth even in the face o daith itsel tae stoap bein the foot sodgers o god: freedom fechters
railin against Episcopalianism
Mairgaret Maclauchlan an Mairgaret Wilson wir laid oot on the mudflats at Bladnoch,
clingin oan tae their crates like crabs.
Yin o them sang hymns but the sat watter dried them in her mooth. An offecial pullt her
heid up, giein hur a last chance tae recant her creed but she speired insteed
fur a gless o watter.
There’s plenty o watter there fur ye, said he, an pushed her back unner.
It’s said he’d a son, whae was born wi webbed feet.
Luckin fittit his hale life, he wuz, an aye thirsty forby.
Wigtown Poetry Prize welcomes entries from poets writing in English wherever they may live. Separate categories celebrate the best of Scottish Gaelic and Scots language poetry, a special category acknowledges a rising talent in Dumfries & Galloway, and a pamphlet prize is named in memory of Alastair Reid - local poet and one of Scotland's foremost literary figures.
Visit the Wigtown Poetry Prize website for full prize details, previous winners and more.