The old man and the tree
It was a different story last night, driving home
through the jewelled nightscape of the city,
branches spangled across the back window,
but morning is monochrome: silvered stumps splayed
against an absent sky, limbs truncated, lopped off
at the wrist; a torso stripped by the sure swipe
of secateurs. The old man sighs.
Hard to equate this petrified presence,
these blanched discs of flesh,
with the deep green lobed leaves
of his childhood, their pendulous purpling fruit,
their tiny, sweet, summer-crunching seeds.
At his boots, black tendrils of roots curl
clumps of compost like giant worms, unwilling
to be bedded down in this foreign soil.
Perhaps they were not so different,
the tree and him. Take the fig, his friend had urged
as if it were his to give. The old man kneels,
lays his hands against what’s left of it,
rustles up words that might approximate
an apology, or a prayer.
Denise O’Hagan
Born and raised in Italy, Denise lived in the UK before emigrating to Sydney, Australia.
After completing a Masters in Bibliography and Textual Criticism at Leeds University, she worked as an editor with various publishing houses including Collins, Heinemann and Routledge in London, and Horwitz Educational and Cambridge University Press in Sydney, where she was also consulting editor with the State Library of New South Wales.
She set up her own imprint Black Quill Press in 2015 to publish her late mother’s books: Jerome & His Women (2015), shortlisted for the Institute of Professional Editors’ Rosanne Fitzgibbon Editorial Award (the ‘Rosie’), and a second revised edition of A Roman Death (2017), originally published by Macmillan. She also edited and published Chinese Whispers: In Search of Ivy (2018) by Alison Choy Flannigan; her own writing guide for authors, the Mini Style Guide (2019); and co-edited and published poetry anthology Messages from the Embers: From Devastation to Hope (2020). She now works with independent authors, helping shape and edit their work.
Her poetry is published widely in Australia and internationally. Recipient of the Dalkey Poetry Prize, she has also been shortlisted in various awards including the Australian Catholic University Poetry Prize, the Robert Graves Poetry Prize (UK), the Plough Writing Prize (UK) and the Proverse International Poetry Prize (Hong Kong). She was Poetry Editor for Australia/New Zealand for Irish literary journal The Blue Nib until 2020. Her poetry collections include The Beating Heart (Ginninderra Press, 2020), shortlisted for the Society of Women Writers NSW Book Awards 2022, and Anamnesis (Recent Work Press, 2022), finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Award (Poetry) 2023 and shortlisted in the International Rubery Book Award (Poetry) 2023.
Denise is currently the 2024 Writer in Residence at Don Bank Museum, courtesy of North Sydney Council, New South Wales.
The old man and the tree is the winner of the 2024 Monica Taylor Poetry Prize. Judge Renee Liang writes:
There is something about being presented with a feast of poetry that is so energising. The anticipation just before I click open on a new document; the joy of reading and going ‘daaaamn that’s good’; the wonderful intimacy of being invited into someone’s human story.
This is followed shortly by the terrible realisation that this is a competition and that someone, i.e. me, is going to have to make some decisions.
It’s traditional for judges to say that it’s been really tough to decide and that, really, everyone is a winner. Far be it from me to break with that tradition. Through the four weeks or so that I was reading, rereading, exclaiming and, dare I admit it, feeling somewhat intimidated by the craft and skill on display, I was constantly reminded of the reasons we (i.e. me) love poetry: it is human. It is vulnerable. It is a mirror, a portal, a scent that reminds us of something we’d forgotten. It was a gift for me to open each and every one of the poems entered and meet the mind of the artist who wrote it. So if that is you, thank you.
Like all judges before me, I’m reminded that whether I like something or not is intensely personal. A poem might speak to me because it reflects my lived experience, because it offers an entirely new lens on something I hadn’t considered, because it showcases breathtaking mastery, or because I admire the huge risks taken with craft. Like all judges before me, I reflect that these factors mean that my choices are intensely personal, too, and a different judge might have made a slightly different weighting.
I thank takahē and its staff for allowing me to write this report. It’s important for me to explain to the poets who entered how I made my decisions, so this is for you.
There were 253 eligible poems entered this year, so my first task was to work out which poems I wanted to spend more time reading and considering. In this first pass, I chose any poem that caught my attention.
When it comes to poetry, it’s easy to catch my attention! If your poem felt real to me; tried something new in terms of subject or structure; showed technical excellence; excited my curiosity in some way, such as showing me a point of view I never considered or took risks with language; or just made me go ‘huh! I need to read this again!’ then it made it to ‘Stage 2.’
Here’s where I make my first, gentle, judge’s observation. Many of the poems that didn’t make it to the next stage had very fixable issues. For example, maybe enough attention hadn’t been given to choosing the correct form. There has to be a clear reason why rhyme, alliteration, assonance, or one of the more show-off poetic forms (pantoum, sonnet, etc.) has been chosen. Each format brings with it certain strengths, and also certain weaknesses. If you’re going to use a set of rules, know why those rules work and make sure it fits with what you want your poem to do.
Rhyme for example is often used for humour, or to work together with rhythm to set up a strong beat, or as part of a form such as a limerick or traditional sonnet. It takes a lot of skill to use rhyme well, and I admire poets who can. The flip side is that rhyme can often distract from the flow of the poem, or make a pattern that doesn’t fit with the story or style. In other words, know your form and choose to use it. There are lots of wonderful resources on poetic form if you want to go all nerdy poetry-swot (guilty as charged).
Another common mistake was not knowing when to end the poem. It’s really tempting when you are deep into exploring feelings and words to keep going, embroidering your point, having five different conclusions like the Lord of the Rings movies. Those words can be so tempting, each new phrase conjured even more delicious. I hear you. The mantra ‘less is more’ is a good one to keep in mind. So is the rule, often advised for fiction, ‘enter late, leave early.’ This is probably the rule I use the most when I edit.
There’s also the mantra ‘leave them wanting more.’ You don’t have to hand-feed all the details to the reader. Readers love being challenged, so leave space in your poem for them to play, to fill in the blanks. Taking detail out is nerve-racking, of course—how do you know when you’ve taken out too much and no one gets what you’re talking about? That takes experience and/or patient fellow writing group members. Be brave. Take it out, then test it out. Trust in your readers’ narrative intelligence.
In my second pass, I got a little tougher and started picking poems that really stood out. Here’s where simple mistakes—for example spelling mistakes, or a title that didn’t fit the poem—started counting.
Remember that the title is part of the poem. It is the first thing a reader sees, a little like a book cover. It sets the scene, establishing an expectation that can either be continued by the poem or—surprise!—turned around and reframed by what follows. A title that is too obvious, or conversely doesn’t ‘set up’ the poem that follows, needs to be reconsidered.
Admission: I’m a punctuation pedant when it comes to poetry. In my own poems, I’m always scrutinising commas, capitals, full stops. I read poems in my head, then aloud, listening for pause and flow. If a punctuation mark is not needed it gets taken out. Ditto for line breaks. Shape and space do matter—they dictate the push and pull of breath when reading. (And have you ever noticed that we breathe in our brains when silent reading too?) The shape of a poem dictates how light or heavy it feels, and every mark and space contributes. So take your time massaging your poem to do exactly what you want, and be thankful we’re no longer using typewriters.
I also took innovation into account. Here is where a poem that was technically competent, but didn’t stretch any boundaries, might have been passed over. We do teach certain tricks and structures in creative writing classes, but those tips and tricks are meant to just be the gateway. Hopefully, we also teach that departure from established convention can be thrilling, and rewarding for both the poet and their reader.
As I was reading, I also noticed recurring themes: there’s a reason why poems often address the death of a loved one; chronic illness or loss; first love or heartbreak; or remembered grief. That’s bound up in the reasons we write in the first place and the role poetry plays in society and downloading our mental states. From a purely lazy writer’s point of view (hi, me!), it also makes sense to let the strong emotions of remembered life events drive the writing forward, as this is when it’s easier to connect to that deep energy/duende that feeds flow.
But, remember that 95% of the other poets will have picked similar themes. Sometimes, picking a left-of-field theme—something unique to you—will have the reader entranced. It will also have me admiring you for taking a risk. I encourage everyone to try writing on an unexpected topic—if nothing else, it will stretch your narrative bones.
So. Mastery of technique. Fit of structure to theme. Innovation in narrative or structure. Really thorough editing and proofreading. If you did all these things, it’s likely you made it to consideration for the longlist and shortlist. You are amazing, but all poets are incredible, delicious human beings and we know it.
Here’s where it started to get personal. By this time, I had read each likely-to-make-the-list poem seven or fifteen times, written little notes to myself on what I admired/was envious of and what it did to me. Some poems just wouldn’t leave my brain, or had a rippling effect on my soul. Some poems had me simultaneously in awe at the technical skill and the emotions induced. At this stage, all of the poems were so close and I loved such different things about every one that I just read each poem over and over until I knew how it impacted me, and why.
Here, in order, is how I made my final selection with the shortlisted poems:
Winner—Denise O’Hagan, ‘The old man and the tree’
This is a piece about migrant longing to find belonging, and really spoke to me about how the older generation of migrants accept setback and quietly keep on persisting and hoping.
The metaphor is powerful—a fig tree that has at first thrived in its transplanted space, then been callously cut to a stump despite being fruitful (a Biblical reference?).
Like many poems on the shortlist, this poem is both emotive and technically masterful. The poet shows great restraint with words and detail, and sticks to the one extended metaphor. They show experience in choosing to end the poem where it does: in my view, the right place. Other poems on the long list go on a little past their ideal finish.
There is so much left unsaid in this unassuming piece. So much deeply buried longing. So much wanting to belong and refusal to give up hope. It also rings true to me and the migrants I know, including my parents. The more you read the more it gives.
Runner Up—Frankie McMillan, ‘The Folly of Spit: a pseudo sestina’
This is an emotive, dense and storied piece. It seems casually written but is actually tightly crafted with an easy, singing rhythm which is created by the form referenced in the title (and it’s a pretty modern interpretation of the form). There are moments of LOL imagery followed by smack-you-in-the-face tragedy. My favourite kind of writing trick.
I love the shifting realities of this piece and the way the poet plays with the reader. Time and space and story are not anchored, they revolve around the two main characters and their relationship. Do we trust the speaker? By the end of the poem, no. But we still back her.
I admire the clever use of stereotypes/motifs to reflect back this unreality, the demands of expectations on what a standard relationship looks like, as debated by the protagonists. Love is sweaty, awkward. Body fluids don’t go where they should. You don’t always focus on the moment even when you feel guilty that you don’t. Partners don’t have to match to be good together, but sometimes the expectations are what drives them apart.
Technically and emotively, this piece stands out. The whip-smart humour and pathos is so enjoyable.
Highly Commended—Bronte Heron, ‘First Shave’
This is a very close first-person POV poem. We are right behind the eyes of the subject as they describe a haircut, with apparently inconsequential details—the quality of the light, how the feet of the haircutter change position—building until we realise the circumstances in which this haircut has come about. A great example of how a title adds context to a poem and provides the final devastating piece of information.
Despite the level of detail, the poet is restrained in their choice of words. This is a piece that demonstrates how powerful ‘show not tell’ can be, layering by suggestion, by subtext, until the ultimate line confirms our building suspicion. Again, this is a piece that doesn’t waste a single word or detail—everything builds to the final mic-drop, yet quietly observed moment.
Highly Commended—Nicola Andrews, ‘Heat Tolerance’
This poem has a streetwise, youthful feel, full of pop culture and meme references, but mixed in with random nerdy scientific and historical references. The rhythm and refrain of the title repeated in the line ‘I am building my heat tolerance with you’ also feels reminiscent of older eras of writing—protest songs, spirituals, beat poetry. It’s wryly funny, but the loose structure belies the work that has gone into structure and the careful selection of details which are piled into an intricate cage of ideas. Yet despite all that, this work is very specifically from the current Aotearoa indigenous youth movement—images like ‘We are patiently feeding a slowly swelling rēwena bug’ are both powerful and a IYKYK wink.
I like the way personal and political mix. The poem is as much about building a relationship (with an ally? a friend? something more?) as it is about a flowering activism. The piece has a fast-paced, fluid, streetwise feel, reminiscent of the craft of the current generation of indigenous/POC spoken word poets. It is polished, intellectually aware work, and the notation ‘after Frank Hara and Craig Santos Perez’ speaks to hours of nerdy reading and discussion. Influenced by the past, this poem looks very much to the future.
Highly Commended—Sandra Lock, ‘Unfinished Life’
This is a tribute to a life, leaving more questions than it answers. In a single breath we are given a sketch of a woman’s life, by a narrator who knows the woman well. But what is interesting is that we never see the woman, we only see her by the space that she leaves—the family events, the kids needing picking up, the laundry, the day-to-day chores that remain unfinished. We don’t see her passions or interests, only how she is indispensable to others. Even the manner of her leaving this life is not discussed, as if it’s less important than the small acts of service she never finished. Perhaps there is a hidden message in this poem and it’s not a memorial poem at all.
Technically, there’s economy of words. The last line of the penultimate paragraph has either a typo or a deliberately unfinished line—I have chosen to interpret it as the latter.
Restrained, succinct and intense, this poem leaves us suspended, just like the subject.
Highly Commended—Annabel Wilson, ‘On a silver thread’
At the beginning of the poem, a silver thread, spun by a tiny spider, stretches out. It’s a fitting metaphor for the effect of this poem, which economically builds tensions until the denouement.
This poem carries a hefty emotional hit, carefully building up tension to release with the last two stanzas.
The poet understands that when it comes to words less is more, and sometimes what is not said—the spaces between the words, the breaths, the pacing—is what matters. It is, of course, also about watching a parent pass from the world. The poem authentically reflects the silence between family members who know that all has already been said, it is enough to be there at the end.
The penultimate stanza brings tears very close, even on many rereads. Beautiful, haunting, a light touch on a heavy subject.
Commended—Jackson McCarthy, ‘Aubade’
Such a small, perfectly formed poem with huge, huge stories between the words. In just six lines, balanced and rhythmic—the shape of a relationship is sketched. So much is suggested, nothing is confirmed—the mind of the reader is left to do its work. It’s one of those poems that stays with you after as you try to work out what happened. I wondered if it referenced ‘Advice to a dead lover’ by Fleur Adcock—though where Adcock’s poem is bitter and dismissive, this poem is tender and forgiving. Technically adept, hard-hitting emotively.
Commended—Ariana Tikao, ‘Te Tarere o Hikaiti’
This poem, in English with quotations from an extant Māori text (which has been acknowledged), is potent and mysterious, referencing a modern day doomed romance through the lens of mythology.
An extended pantoum incorporating a traditional Māori chant (I think a mōteatea?), this is an innovative blending of two traditions, the pantoum itself being a derivation of a Malaysian poetic form. It takes further risks by the brevity of its lines but stays tightly controlled. A formidable technical achievement. Generating emotional punch, it echoes ancient Māori myths of self-sacrifice in the face of impossible love, with a clear line drawn to the current generation.
Commended—Hebe Kearney, ‘re-grieving’
A beautiful, evocative yet restrained exploration of the cycle of grief.
I really felt this one personally. It felt true to me. I love the dark and light, the fluctuations, the hesitancy, the gradual opening up again to the terror of love (in case there’s hurt again) knowing it still might be temporary.
As a tiny bugbear, the title doesn’t quite match the lyricism of the piece. Its authenticity and the personal details are generous and leave a warm feeling.
Commended—Lee Fraser, ‘Never Laid a Hand on Me’
Poems often tackle difficult topics. Sometimes only a poem can say what can’t be said in real life. This poem might address one such situation. A woman calls out her grandfather for the sexual abuse of her mother, which has resulted in inherited trauma for her.
This is a restrained, well-crafted poem that barely holds its anger/passion in. Reading silently, some of the assonance, alliteration and repetition hit heavily and disrupted flow, but read aloud, this energetic rhythm might be viewed as a strength.