The Greg Judkins Prize for Reflective Poetry encourages registrars to use poetry to reflect on their practice. The theme for the 2018 ’What my patient didn't tell me".
In 2018 there was two prizes awarded, one for a Haiku and one for a longer poem.
Long Poem Prize winner
Everything trembles
Everything trembles. The hands, the voice, even the sclera
Tinged with colours of past misdeeds and error.
Eyes dart. They reach everywhere.
Except my eyes. We are two beings who share nothing but the same air.
Reach out, my mind’s hands. They try to settle on yours.
But it’s not enough. There’s an earthquake behind those doors.
My words. They start out, like always, what can I do for you today.
Your words. They start out, like always, I don’t know quite what to say.
You are slow. One thing, two things, then three. I have only fifteen minutes.
I quickly hand you a script. Knowing there’s an earthquake I cannot fix.
Then one day it happens. One thing, two things, then three. You show.
Over my script. Pointed finger, moving lips, furrowed brows. Then I know.
Everything trembles. My hands, my voice, even my sclera.
Tinged with crimson of past misdeeds and error.
I open my mouth. I say Sarah,
Would you like me to read that for you so you don’t have to?
Earthquake stops. You breath out. Yes, please. Softly you add, thank you.
Then you say nothing else. Because you know. Now you don’t have to.
My words. They start out, like always, what can I do for you today.
Your words. They start out, like always, I don’t know quite what to say.
You are slow. One thing, two things, then three. I listen until you are through.
I hand you a script. Reach out, my mind’s hands. They try to settle on yours.
And it’s enough. There’s no more earthquakes. Doors are broken.
Because we both know. From now on, words will be said. Never written.
By Narae Song
Haiku prize winner
Fifteen is not much
For only words and a glimpse
To unravel you
By Jonathan O'Donnell