The Academi Cardiff International Poetry Competition

Runner Up - Colin Sutherill

Colin Sutherill is the author of Einstein’s Bumblebee (Blackwater Press), a collection of poems which Anne Stevenson said “open a door to poetry’s future”. He was also the founder of Blue Bang Poets and is represented in the group’s anthology, The Blue Bang Theory (Redbeck) along with Diana Syder, John Sewell and Terry Gifford. Colin has been a prizewinner in other competitions in previous years, including the National Poetry Competition. He is a former journalist who currently teaches journalism subjects at Sheffield College.

Morgan’s Guitar Break

The chords for Georgia bear lilt and line,
are thermal colonnades and
those four guys are up there playing cumulous
and skylarks, plaid topography, a dozen towns:
see Morgan’s head bend low across the strings,
fret fingers hooked and shimmying,
pearled pick among some dancing eighths
while Mickey’s bass gives slow and long
…Morgan eases back out of his solo, head
raised now, eyes closed,
                                      that undersong
a presence on his brow.

You need to know that Morgan is, hey, one rome
-antic guy. Other tunes he gets so off on
would be My Old Flame and Where or When and
Hoagy songs, those ones where love and loss cry out
though no-one’s at the mike
to do the words.
                         Here’s the thing though:
drinks breaks, other times he’s off the stand
you’ll often catch him on his own and
really out of it, well
                              get him drunk enough
he’ll tell you everything – which means
the way he missed his chance that time,
a girl he’d never seen before
nor ever since, revolving door
in Swan and Edgars, some such store
and how they swapped a glance,
stayed, looked again,
now couldn’t
                   turn away,
                                  could not
                        break off: the moment
             stalled.

And he’ll be silent for a while, stare
at his pint, then bite his lip: I bottled, funked my one big
thing. He’d blinked, you see, walked on
life kind of flickered,
doors and clock hands jittered,
turned again.
                     Not long after that, the guy
moved out, left Cynthy on her own. Sounds crazy
but you’d never say so, right? Just leave it and he’ll
maybe shrug, tune his guitar awhile, play
muted chords.
                     Regret’s a solo art, he’ll say.