Hampshire Poet for the National Year of Reading

Poet Alison Orlowska from New Milton was appointed to this honorary title on 31 March at an official launch of the National Year of Reading in Hampshire.

Just under 100 local poets entered the competition from all areas of the county, from writers aged 18 to over 80, submitting two poems from their portfolio and a personal statement. The poems were judged by poet, performer and playwright Keith Bennett who short listed 25 entries. Keiren Phelan, Literature Officer for Arts Council South East and Wendy Cope, acclaimed poet and Hampshire resident, then chose the winning poet.

The other short listed poets that performed at the launch were David Hellens of Basingstoke, Enid Hughes of Aldershot and Julian Stannard of Winchester.

The winner, Alison Orlowska, will now produce four paid commissions to commemorate local activities and projects that will promote the importance of literacy throughout the 2008 campaign. Commenting on her role the Hampshire Poet said "I am in no doubt that a passion for reading nourishes and broadens horizons. Over the years I have developed an exciting relationship with language through books and writing. I thrive on being able to share with others my enthusiasm for the possibilities inherent in reading and writing."

Read one of the poetry commissions at Hidden Treasures or Object as Muse

Mudeford Quay
These gardens lead protected lives,
reaching seawards,
awash with craft
that never move from berth,
halliards ringing, clinking
their breezy percussion.

Dinghies nod in secret from one another
with the matey slap and trickle
of the tide upon their sterns,
while gulls and mallards
pick at grit, sort through seawrack,
undisturbed - they take their time.

Schooners, yachts are waiting, waiting
for sailors, helmsmen, oarsmen,
- any men - to claim them,
board them, busy themselves
priming engines, hoisting mainsails,
running below to rig out the galleys
for a week-long voyage.

They do not come, those sea lords,
and the boats show their colours
to the sun, let jibs loll,
sails swell with insouciance,
listing, listing to the click-clink
bells, a temple to themselves,
unbroken. Crewless.

Capricorns don't get dressed in January
spend all year beavering at survival,
so take time off: they've earned it;
potter around in out-of-shape slippers
and dressing-gowns with Weetabix on the lapel,
gaze out of the window
let the clock run down
neglect to open the mail
play at slobs and slatterns. Just for now.

They've passed months with belts tightened,
put up, shut up, squared up to every adversity,
ransacked their attics for a can-do outlook,
dressed their wounds in private,
scorned menace wearing only their nerve.

They know. The time will come soon
to roll back sleeves, pull up socks,
buckle on protective vests when crocuses
arrive to drive forward the year.
But meanwhile, in January, Capricorns
- it's their shout - don't get dressed