The Atkinson, in partnership with The Arts Society Southport, invited anyone over 18 with links to the Sefton Borough to take part in our third Poetry and Creative Writing Competition.

Responding to artworks featured across two exhibitions at The Atkinson, Philip Connard and Edwardian Impressionists, participants were invited to submit one entry with a maximum of 1000 words.

The competition was for poetry, stories, song lyrics, essays, letters, blogs, zines or any other form of creative writing.

The entries were be reviewed by a panel appointed by The Atkinson. The winners have now been announced and will receive a prize awarded by The Arts Society. Their creative writing will also be displayed in the Art Gallery. Please join us in the Art Gallery on Saturday 7 September at 11am when the winners will be reading their creative writing aloud, next to the artworks they were inspired by.

Winners

Prose:

1st place: His Duty by Elizabeth Butler
=2nd place: Just For Tonight by Jayne Usher
=2nd place: Scrambling For Cherries by L.M. Sharykin

Poetry:

1st place: The Bathers by Phil McNulty
2nd place: Trick of the Light by Kenneth Payne
=3rd place: Boy by Pippa Witter
=3rd place: Ratcatcher by Malcolm Terry

Download: Inspirations winning entries

His Duty By Elizabeth Butler

Inspired by: The Bathers Frederick William Jackson (1859 – 1918). Atkinson Art Gallery Collection.

It could have been anything, a discarded paper bag, a piece of tangled seaweed, a jellyfish floating lifelessly. It could have been, however, he knew it was his brother.
William had had enough of the aggravation from his parents. Filled with rage and no common sense, he left the house, slamming the door behind him. With eyes blurred, he teared up. Alone, William could cry, alone he could express himself, away from the prying eyes of his family, wanting him to be something he wasn’t. His face felt warm and blotchy. He stomped down the broken pathway, tunnel vision taking over. Like being in fog, he could only see just in front of him.
Tiny fingers tugged at his shorts pocket. In William’s state, he hadn’t noticed, he just kept zig zagging down the uneven road, wanting to be away from this place. Only when his short’s pocket was practically torn off, did he turn around to look. Below him. at waist height, stood his little brother, Archie. Red faced from running to catch up to him, his large, blue eyes stared up at his big brother. He should have been easy on him, considering how young he was, but in the moment, William really couldn’t have cared less.
“Go back home Archie.” He huffed, spinning back around to march off. “I’m sure Mother and Father will be wondering where their precious boy has got to.”
Like a baby bird not yet ready to fly, Archie tilted his head. He had no idea what was going on, no idea of the problems William had to deal with. He shooed him home, as though swatting a fly, still he stayed in the same spot.
“Fine.” He said defeated. “You can come along, but….” he stopped, his finger outstretched, pointed right at him. “You better do whatever I tell you, okay?”
Not the smartest kid, even for his age, Archie smiled and nodded, oblivious to everything around him, he just skipped along.
“Not too fast there!” He cried out catching up. “What did I just say?”
“Sorry…” He mumbled. He could speak when he wanted to.
The boys continued to walk down the path, towards the coast. As William predicted, the sea was out.
“We’re going to the beach?” Archie chirped up, bouncing up and down. “Did Mummy and Daddy let you?”
William let out a huge sigh. “You have no idea, do you?”
Just like a puppy not understanding simple commands, Archie tilted his head to one side then shook it.
“The beach is fun though!” Archie whimpered. “How can you not like the beach?”
William scoffed. “It’s not the beach, okay? It’s Mother and Father… they’re shipping me off.”
It seemed counterproductive to be having this conversation with a child, but there was no one else around and Archie happened to be there.
“I told them that I’m too young, I’m still two years away, but somehow they’ve found a way passed the system, they think it’s a badge of honour and with father’s injury…”
“Father’s nasty foot?” Archie asked inquisitively.
William rolled his eyes. “Yes, Father’s club foot…”
Before William could explain further, Archie caught his first glimpse of the sea and dashed off in front of him, further ignoring his requests. William, using all the strength in his legs, darted after him, until they met at the foot of the sand dunes, where the dusty path met with the sand.
“Archie! What did I tell you….”, William was interrupted by the gleaming sparkles in the ocean. Today it looked more beautiful than he had ever seen it, so inviting.
He smiled and grabbed his little brother’s hand tightly, as they raced down the sandy hill and into the beach cove. Everywhere was peaceful, not a single person around. The occasional seagull circling, flying over.
William beamed down at his brother. “You go and play over there, I’ll just be in the water, I won’t go far, you can wave to me.”
A child is so easily persuaded, especially when there’s something that excites them. They don’t know the repercussions, until it’s too late. Archie was no different. A happy, go lucky sort of child. Full of beans and never thinking twice. He threw himself down on the sand, his loose blouse tossed aside. He perched in just his shorts, wishing he had brought his bucket and spade, still he played joyfully in the sand.
What seemed like a few moments turned out to be a couple of hours. Unaware of the time, Archie played by himself. The lonely beach had started to fill up. A few people gathered around the shore, all huddled together, staring at something intensely. As a curious boy, Archie lifted his head up and craned his neck forward for a glimpse.
It looked like a group of adults with an old broken wooden boat. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Archie stood in bare feet and shorts, peering into the distance, his hands twirling around nervously, then came the scream.
Sensitive to noise, Archie darted for the shoreline. The adults gawped at something in the boat, and the screaming woman visibly shook, while her older friend comforted her. Being small, Archie could squeeze through gaps, in between legs. Crouching and zigzagging, Archie finally found himself at the front.
The water had seeped inside the boat, salty and cloudy, it swished about. It could have been anything, a discarded paper bag, a piece of tangled seaweed, a jellyfish floating lifelessly. It could have been; however, he knew it was his brother. William’s lifeless body lay there undisturbed, as if he were just sleeping.
“Someone, get to a phone box! We need to call the authorities!”
The adults panicked, chaos on the dunes. Archie was too little for anyone to notice him, but he managed to tug at someone’s trousers.
He wept, as one gentleman bent down to his level.
“That’s my brother!” He cried. “That was my brother!”

The Bathers By Phil McNulty

Inspired by: The Bathers Frederick William Jackson (1859 – 1918). Atkinson Art Gallery Collection.

I shivered on the low tide beach
Would rather be crabbing
In the sand and silt by the clinker boat
But Mr Jackson gave me sixpence
And mother and father are happy
On their blanket
With the beer he bought them

I’m blue cold
Whitby North Sea cold
Have a headache from the salt air

Mr Jackson wanted me in the water
He paints people bathing
I said, I’d paint him bathing
And he laughed

I hate going in the sea
My knitted trunks become shapeless
And hang to my knees
And there are shells and stones
That hurt my feet

Even the gulls have gone
From the beach
To pester the boats at the fish dock

Perseverance, said Mr Jackson
Patience, said mother
Stop complaining, said father
As he opened another beer.

It seems a long while ago now
Eight years
And this September day
Is just as cold and misty

I remember the words-
Perseverance
Patience
Don’t complain

But I’m knee deep
In Ypres mud
It may have been beautiful once
Passchendaele
Now it’s bomb craters and barbed
wire bodies and blackened tree stumps
And I wait for the whistle
To advance into all of that

I’d give anything
To be back on my Yorkshire beach
I wouldn’t complain
And Mr Jackson?
I’d return his sixpence

Partner

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Posted on 4 September 2024 under Exhibition, General news