The History of Janet Coats
Janet Coats was part of the renowned thread-making family, J&P Coats. The eldest daughter of Thomas Coats and Margaret Glen, her father was one of four brothers who inherited a Paisley-based thread manufacturing company that was renamed J&P Coats in 1830. She was also the wife of publisher, James Tait Black and Janet’s own literary aspirations resulted in two volumes of nature-inspired poetry, one of which was published as Verses and Rhymes, in 1899.
Inspired by Janet Coats and her legacy, we host an annual poetry prize for adults and young people. Shortlisted writers have their work published in our Janet Coats Memorial prize pamphlet and receive a reading at the annual prize giving event during the Festival itself. Winners of the prize are announced by the judging panel at the Award Ceremony and the winners receive a cash prize.
2023 Young Person’s PrizeShortlisted Poets | Poems |
2023 Adult PrizeShortlisted Poets | Poems |
|---|---|
| Lucy Richards – There once was a woman, Rosa was her name (WINNER)
Muhammad Zulhizam – Goodbye Erin McAleer – The words of the now Luke Wilson – The Gloves of the Devil Adam Howat – Hermit |
Eilidh Cameron – Persevere (WINNER)
Martin Goldie – Awful Confusion Beth McDonough – The Impatience of Angels Kay Johnston – Upcycle Recycle Caroline Johnstone – Lean towards the light |
Young Person’s Winner’s 2023
Winner - There once was a woman, Rosa was her name - Lucy Richards, S1, St Andrew’s Academy
There once was a woman, Rosa was her name,
She lived at a time when the rules had to change.
When people of colour or a certain race,
Had to use different bathrooms, live in a different place.
But Rosa wouldn’t stand for this, she had to put things right.
So one day on a bus, she sat in a seat saying white.
She knew the rules existed, but she felt the time had come.
To take a stand and bring them down.
What was done was done.
These are the rebels of our past.
Their legacy will surely last.
There lives a girl, Greta is her name.
She lives at a time when the world needs to change.
When the earth is slowly melting away,
Iceberg by iceberg, day by day.
But Greta wouldn’t stand for this,
She had to put things right.
All the speeches she’s done now, it all started with a strike.
She knew they wouldn’t like it,
But she felt the time had come.
To take a stand and bring them down,
What was done was done.
These are the rebels of our present.
Their legacy will surely last.
There lives a large population, by many different names,
We live at a time when a lot needs to change.
When politics and poverty, to name a few,
All need solutions that are way overdue.
But we shouldn’t stand for this, we need to put things right.
But to mend this broken world, we must put up a strong fight.
Yes the rules exist, but the time has surely come.
To take a stand and bring them down.
It’s time to get things done.
We are the rebels of our future.
Let’s make our legacy last.
Commended - Goodbye by Muhammad Zulhizam, S1, Castlehead High School
I turn off my TV,
I’m writing you a letter,
about how I can’t stand it.
Your warmth welcomes me,
but the streets are calling me –
awaiting my boots.
Nobody wants to kill,
The sun is shining and the dreams bright,
Yet we serve, to partake in a fight.
Your warmth welcomes me,
but my officers are calling me –
awaiting my boots.
Nobody wants to kill,
The sky is blue and the dreams bright
Yet we serve, to partake in a fight.
Commended - The words of the now by Erin McAleer, S2, Johnstone High School
The chants of those who walk through the streets
The speeches of those who have chosen to lead
The music of those who express through their songs
The boldest of bold and the strongest of strong
The way they all act as if it is alright
The way they leave us in this destitute plight
The way they steal away our hopes and our dreams
The weakest of weak and meanest of mean
The words on the pages that all disappear
The books turned to screens and the smiles turned to sneers
The knowledge that fades until it is gone
The turning of time as the people are pawns
The stories of a life we all used to live
The chronicles of times lost to the drift
The legends of dragons majestic and strong
The end to this chapter and moving along
The Gloves of the Devil by Luke Wilson, S6, Gryffe High School
My hand is wrapped, an iron fist
A bandaged wound
A silky cloak.
My hand grows old, the glove stays on
Through death and birth
From spring to winter
With one hand I make a mark
A single scratch,
A letter, of sorts.
For I am the devil and you- a rocking horse!
My hands take apart lands and yours stay stuck on a grey stiff world.
My gloves protect me from my painful end, like your glasses save you
from seeing ends at all.
My devil eyes and my devil ears see trees and traffic, noise and quiet.
And yet your rocking horse nose smells only the wood on your rocking
horse head.
I stumble up, my devil legs on your sloping back.
You, a rocking horse, never breaks never falls.
Me, a devil, hurts and curses.
You, your childhood, your toys your things.
Me, my hands, my horns my hurt.
You are a rocking horse and I am the devil.
You are a statue and I am the villain.
My devil lands and devil hands, remake and rebel.
They have come to burn
Your endless rocking for satisfaction.
My constant movement, the freedom of fire.
I pull your gloves off, and new devils arise.
You are ash and I am the devil.
With my hands, my devil hands
And with your ash, your stinking fire
I burn alight your heart’s desire.
For you, rocking horse as you are, never move and never dance.
You have no gloves
For spring or winter
For sleep or action
Your constant stirring
Satisfies the devil’s hunger
But burns, discolours the devil’s hands.
My gloves give me strength
You- a rocking horse.
Your gloves hurt your soul.
Hermit by Adam Howat, S2, Castlehead High School
I don’t speak to anyone.
I don’t see a soul.
I have nothing to enjoy,
But I’m ok on my own.
Left to my own thoughts,
Isolated and forgotten
In my own desolate home…
But I’m ok on my own.
Barren but beautiful.
Plain but picturesque.
The silence is orchestral.
I’m doing fine on my own.
Sometimes I wonder if I could be happier,
Maybe I’d say hello to a stranger,
Sometimes I feel so alone.
Am I ok on my own?
It would be nice to laugh.
It would be great to chat.
Maybe I need a friend…
Maybe I’m not ok on my own
Adult Prize 2023
Persevere by Eilidh Cameron - Winning Poem
Borscht for tea
on the floating Victoria
see your children
dance, and return
to the depths of a North Sea lullaby
the grumble and grin
soothing young fears to sleep
only the fireworks startle -
you are safe here.
In Scotland,
ships define our edges, now holding you
until change comes, if it comes, when?
Britannia, Phoenix, Fingal
across the water, luxe hotels lie
no room at the inn
for seventeen hundred displaced
our super sponsor kin
I wonder how you are
behind those distant haloes
Awful Confusion by Martin Goldie
She sits like my mum. Sat on a chair by a bed. She sits as though
she was deep in thought, gently patting a crease on her neat
check skirt. On her bedside cabinet, alongside untouched fruit
and chocolate, from a dark wood frame bright young eyes
laughing beam, in faded fifties sepia new lovers happy being.
And here, she sits alone, her life’s love gone. One of few
remaining of the bright young of that greatest of generations.
Of those who saw the rise and fall and rise of tyrants. Watched
Europe war then unite then divide. Felt the chill shiver of a cold
world on the brink. And in a blink a life lived. And reward for
those few left, to depart this earth to a lonely scared covid death.
And here, sat old in that cold ward, to heal, I pray. That same face
that same smile. But from a sadness in her eyes, I saw she wanted
hard to know me. And as we sat with our hands clasped tight. Face
to face, son to mum, mum to son. From the depths of that once
crystal mind, with a strength born of strength, in a voice as clear as
a cold blue sky.
My dad’s words uttered in my mum’s sweet voice “I don’t give up.
We don’t give up. I don’t give up. We don’t give up”. A mantra for
a life. That will to live born of love. Love given and received. Love
that drags the soul from dark despair. And even in that awful
confusion a love that never can be taken.
The Impatience of Angels by Beth McDonough
As seen in a pair of brass figures removed
from Hoy Low during modernisation
of the lighting equipment, Stromness Museum.
Try not to be fooled by our Art Nouveau aspect,
all those diaphanous garments,
concealing, revealing just enough
of the answers to the usual glanced questions
concerning the gender of angels.
Note we’ve not chosen that at ease contraposta,
we’re upright, held to attention.
Our long wings have already unfolded
as utterly gallus uncompromised sails,
rigged out for big winds over Hoy.
Yes, one pinion was snapped in removal, flitting
or transit perhaps, but please observe
how those feet have conveniently lost
all earthly hold, as was first carved
into the maker’s lost casting wax.
Don’t dare diss our hair as styled in mere ringlets -
we’re rocking untied Viking plaits,
loosened to collar-bone length.
Our haloes are practical bunnets. Not one thing
weights us, or bends our brass necks.
The Keepers no longer require our protection,
but check our deceptive lax fists.
We grasp long trumpets, and trust us -
we could be the first to hear your Parousia.
We can blast news, roar on Orcadian gales.
Upcycle Recycle by Kay Johnston
We transformed
With wool and cotton
By treadle and by hand.
We are a beacon
Tethered to the land
Magnificent, resistant.
We translated once
With lichen, bilberry and broom
Shades and hues now remade.
In the warp of time
shifting, turning, revolving
Reaching out again.
Navigating by stars
Sailing on routes
Made of optical fibre.
From warm berths that shelter us
We weave our destiny.
Lean towards the light by Caroline Johnstone
scud through red skies and raw air
in reminders of impermanence.
Freezing fog clambers down mountains
that do not dream of other seasons
over rivers deepened by the surge of flood waters.
Snow cloaks trees and the brittle fretwork
of branches and lovers’ names - passive parishes
and villages are enfolded in white silence.
The crunch of self-preservation means beetles
and dormice burrow in leaf litter, surrender to sleep.
Cattle shelter in barns, the mountain hare changes coats.
They know the ways of winter, know to rest
and nest and yet be fully alive. Let this too
be your invitation to trust.
Comfort yourself. Wrap thick blankets round you,
fill fat hot water bottles, hold candles like warm prayers
against whatever it is you fear or apologise for.
What then speaks louder to hope than these
small acts of rebellion? Fire speaks to fire with a touch
of grace. Where there is darkness summon the light.
