Peter Dix Memorial Prize for Poetry

Congratulations to Stella Borrowdale, who has been awarded the Senior Poetry Prize 2025. The trophy marks the life of Peter Dix, who was killed in the Lockerbie bombing; the trophy is shown, and is on display in the Library. The sculptor is Joe Sloan.

 

Stella's poems were on the theme 'Forgotten People', and here are two pieces from her portfolio:

Penelope

She unweaves her shroud in darkness at sundown in solitude.
Candles are forbidden in this shrine.
Midnight interrupts - leaving space for prayer in His name:
Three words spoken three times, one syllable.

Specific breaths are taken, reserved only for this moment.
Three minutes delegated to His memory in her mind.
Aglow with finest offerings: two libations; a golden kylix
sits quietly at His setting, no name inscribed.
 
Absence shapes this deity, yet she prays He will be here.
No responses are required in this shrine.
His hand and word together are sufficient in her mind;
He speaks the words; she burns for ten more years.

To question is to be human, yet she removes her dampened veil
Lest this man beneath her stairwell be the one.
This deity is damned: bound to slay one hundred men
For one more hour to forget His forsaken wife.

Marigold

The year slips away after September
And again it will happen in March
As the last puddle dries. I try to remember;
Did you shudder when it fell dark?
Is there any freedom in knowledge?
Or are there wounds heard in the sound
Of a voice that isn’t yours,
Spoken watchdogged all around

This clock was never ticking,
Long out of use with no sense of time.
I have no strength; you have no freedom,
But you can laugh—I gave you mine.
In the heart of my desires,
You are more than fleeting shadows;
Solid and substantial,
Allowed escape from wildflower meadows.

Tomorrow will be summer,
But it won’t ever be the same
Since you left your precious garden
In monsoon, which you call rain.
A chrysanthemum on the sill,
A marigold in the mirror,
Hidden carefully so only you can see the damage.
You tend to her so softly, attempt to form connection,
Yet a flower with no mouth can’t help you manage

To speak the words you wish were spoken,
Words you kept inside your head
For the benefits of hidden comforts in the sound:
The sound you crave - of darkness,
So you’ll leave your greenhouse in the rain.
By August, I will promise to never write about you again.