Excellent title, and it all comes together in those final lines. The smell of the aftershave that couldn’t be washed off…
‘The Last Person on Earth’ took hold of the IS&T Pick of the Month voters for September. The poem was ‘punchy powerful and provocative’. It evoked a different era while also exposing the ‘continuing predatory male’. It rang with authencity.
It caught voters by surprise, the knock-out last line, a title that takes you in the wrong direction, its humour, subtlety and cleverness, all making Carole Bromley a very worthy winner of the Pick of the Month for September 2024.
Carole Bromley writes for both adults and children. She is the winner of a number of prizes including The Bridport, Hamish Canham Award and The Caterpillar Prize. Twitter @CaroleBromley1 website www.carolebromleypoetry.co.uk
She has asked that her £20 ‘prize’ be donated to the Red Cross Gaza Crisis Appeal.
The Last Person on Earth
I don’t know why I went,
I’d already heard about the time
a colleague’s husband turned up
at the staff barbecue and punched him.
We met at The Prince of Wales
but he refused to go in because
a sixth former was working at the bar
so he insisted I got in his car.
I said I’ve got nothing to hide.
We drove to The Black Bull
and talked over a pint.
On the way back to my car
he pulled over in Windmill Lane
and tried to kiss me. I ducked.
I remember his after shave,
how I couldn’t wash it off.
Back at school I sent a pupil
to fetch the TV we shared.
He came back, puzzled, and said
Mr C says he wouldn’t lend it to you
if you were the last person on Earth.
Additional voters’ comments included:
Such a powerful subject, yet told through a story with a ‘here’s what happened’ simplicity and directness that speaks for itself. It lands a huge punch in the final line.
The way the lines are organised and the breaths they indicate give us a sense of suppressed anger.
Such a beautifully-crafted poem, but written with so light a touch that it feels effortless. I love the restraint, the wry tone, the feeling of having met this man many, many times in my own life!
A whole world – and a different era, summed up in just 21 lines. Punchy, powerful, provocative.
I love the way the poem takes you by surprise, as the title takes you in the wrong direction.
This poem is powerful in its subtext, everyday conversational – just as powerful as abuse itself can be.
Love the punch line!
Very powerful using simple words to describe something uncomfortable
The fear it portrays
#MeToo
Narrative drama building cleverly to the knock out last line
Succinct, well crafted, plausible. Clever use of title.
Love the succinct, humourous take the poet adopts about this incident and how the poem reveals what happens in both what is written and what is left out
The subtlety of the layers of feeling
It’s economical and understated.
Intriguing and sinister poem – I’m still thinking about it
The cleverness and cyclical use of the line The Last Person on Earth.
I very much enjoyed the poem, especially as a teacher
A small window into a sharp witty writer’s mind. Made me laugh.
The story behind the poem has the ring of truth and authenticity to it.
I liked the understated tone. The poet shines the spotlight on a disturbing subject in an approachable way, getting her message across with clarity and yet subtlety.
It fizzes with Carole’s trademark warmth, humour and precise voice.
Odd the way that old uncomfortable memories bubble up every now and then with their sharp details that won’t wash away.
The implications caught in what surrounds the actions experienced, and the way this is turned around by the subject at the end. What this says about the patterns of toxic behaviour and the chance nature of where these people are found. The universality of it
It’s a great narrative poem that succinctly tells a tale a small action that can have such a huge impact – though the poet leaves us to consider what that impact might be. So many will relate to the story especially with the added complication o it being someone you work with.
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THE REST OF THE SEPTEMBER 2024 SHORTLIST
After You Have Gone
Morning moves with tempered sound.
A heel turns by the green gate.
The alley setts rest in purple curves.
Some night seems to have been left here.
Pots of sweet herbs are placed
to fill the yard with subtle scent.
Somewhere a call comes, an unseen voice
waiting for the sound of a reply,
finishing its note on an echo.
There is small table with an open book
making a diamond shape in bright sunlight.
On a page a photograph of this scene
flicks in the eleven o’clock air;
the only movement in a solitary place.
•
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
forgotten to check what was going on in there.
And that smell of burning was no coincidence
he saw when he opened the door
inside it was far too hot
some of the ingredients were out of control.
Black smoke billowed into heaven
various singing angels started to cough
creation had failed to rise, had burned,
it seemed like only humanity was left
of all the complexity he had crafted.
God was not at all chuffed
and when he examined the whole mess
he could see it was completely fucked.
So god cleared his throat,
and in his terrible voice spoke.
Let there be no light
Ruth Aylett teaches and researches robotics in Edinburgh and has been known to read poems with a robot. Her pamphlets Pretty in Pink (4Word) and Queen of Infinite Space (Maytree) were published in 2021. For more see https://ruthaylett.org
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Lines
He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the metaphorical distance. Someone hands me a fifty-cent mint. It sits in the bottom of my pocket.
One of his daughters loved horses, but she worked as a nurse in the city. These two trees hang too far over the highway. They must be cut down. Thunder deafens us. Lightning blinds us. Why does the rain soothe us? This is an example of life being unfair. I have a pocket full of them. I have never touched a horse with anything but my eyes.
One of his daughters cried whenever she looked in the mirror, but the power was out. We eat dinner in the dark, and we do not talk about our day. The closed casket smells of flowers and something burning. My stomach rumbles; I have not eaten today. Someone glares at me. An old woman tells me that’s what the mint is for. Have some respect.
One of his daughters was still his only son. A storm is coming, but he will not be here to see it. A line of cherry pickers park in front of the funeral home. His daughter twists a bottle of water in her hands. The cap goes flying.
Maybe these are all the same daughter. Maybe these are all the same storm, coming and going with the wind. One by one, the cherry pickers follow the hearse to the graveyard. Despite our best efforts, it is not going to rain at his funeral. He had repaired that power line a hundred times. The power had always been cut.
At the empty funeral home, a cherry picker beeps in the distance. A pile of fallen limbs on the street corner gathered one by one, still damp with the rain. I have always wondered where the city takes them.
CS Crowe is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
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Homunculus
Explaining to my little man
about proportion,
he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy
with thousands of fingers.
Sensory and motor cortex
guiding the felt-tip pen,
big tongue lolling as he draws.
A little man with huge hands,
fingers like eyelashes.
My son looks over, all coy,
mini version of his father.
Flash in time, distance,
proportionality: three
purple artichoke flowers
held in one giant hand.
Oranges and almonds,
painted pigeons on the wing.
The sun’s eye ablaze behind
Green Horse Mountain.
Breath held, he waits,
heart a flutter of bat wings,
rising wall of sound:
frogs raucous in the Riu Girona.
Crush of water mint,
my lips press to a smile.
Picture of worship, I kneel,
At his too small feet.
Eliot North is a writer-doctor living in Valencian Country, Spain. They have been published in print and on-line for their poetry/prose/hybrid work… but not for AGES! Long story, but they are back writing after a hiatus and sometimes go on the site formally known as Twitter @eliot_north www.dreleanorholmes.com
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Tour of the Excavation
Collaged from text in the ‘Ice Age to Iron Age’ gallery at the Great North Museum, Newcastle, UK
The enigma is why this civilisation became extinct at the same time as a peak in carbon 14, which is a natural element, but in an unusual arrangement. More than 100 ideas have been put forward, including warfare, ritual activity, and technology which aimed to capture carbon or shape the landscape. Some even imagine that people left for a nomadic existence as hunter-gatherers.
There is very little surviving evidence. Settlements were submerged by rising sea levels; metal and bones are rarely found due to the acidity of the local soils.
We know that these people had a concept of history: our excavations discovered a house built for collecting and recording the past. This is a rubbing stone, used with a flint to light fire. How do you feel when you handle it?
They also created art. Stone surfaces, carved with abstract imagery, can be found throughout this site. The meanings of these symbols are lost to us today, yet they clearly held significance for their creators. Look at the different patterns: the simplicity of the spirals, the distinctive leaf-shaped designs. Trace them with your finger.
This is a battle axe made from granite. It is likely that fighting sometimes scoured the surface of the land. But burial monuments suggest that people had a belief in the afterlife and higher power.
Here is the most important find. Pollen is a virtually indestructible, microscopic part of a plant. It’s being used in a research project, to create seeds. Experiments show that these vast, treeless plains could easily be transformed.
Both tools and pollen being deposited in one place provides evidence that, even as technology became increasingly sophisticated, people still honoured a relationship with the land.
Look through the viewers to see what a grain of pollen looks like. Here, please touch. Thousands could fit into the palm of your hand.
Laura Webb (she/they) is a junior doctor whose writing explores themes of illness and healing, working-class history and the climate crisis. She co-edits Consilience, a journal for art and poetry about science. Instagram: @laurawebbpoetry