The theme for Basford Cup 2024 was A. E. Housman's collection ‘A Shopshire Lad.’ His poems celebrate the people and places of Shropshire. The challenge was thus to write a poem about Shropshire. Some excellent entries were received and ten of those entries were read out by their authors in Friday's school assembly. The winner of the Year 7 competition was Tyler Connors Korolczuk and the overall winner of the KS3 competition was Max Tung.
The winner of the KS4 competition and overall Basford Cup winner iss Will Aston who retains the cup from last year. This feat is all the more remarkable because Will only started writing poetry three years ago. Will is sitting A-levels in English Literature, History, Religious Studies and Art. He has a place at Durham University to read History.
Will's poem, ‘George’ refers to Saint George. Mr Jopling critiqued the poem: "This complex but fascinating poem contrasts the ageless qualities of the Shropshire hills with the ever changing world around us. I really like the way Will refers to the ancient legends and myths of Shropshire alongside elements of popular culture. I really like his reference to the giant Gwendol who wanted to drop a spade of earth in the River Severn in order to flood the people of Shrewsbury but got lost or misdirected by a resourceful cobbler and ended up dropping his spade of earth near modern day Telford. He also makes reference to the ancient Celtic Kingdoms of the Welsh borders before the time of the Romans. Will has perfected a very distinctive verse form of short compact stanzas that is very effective. His use of alliteration and sibilance is also a distinctive feature of his writing.
George by Will Aston
- This dawning, the hill donned its shroud,
- It lies dormant; stricken with mourning.
- Mist, double thick, double heavy, envelopes,
- Flows rumbling and tumbling, whisking
- Tumultuous skies laid wearily over
- Rolling green hills, teeming with fish.
- Goldfish, to be totally frank, were never
- My cup of tea: memories so brittle, so
- Frustrating. Truly, must we forget?
- Forget the origins of a so great a seat,
- Begotten by a shoemaker’s deceit,
- Cobbled together by giants and men.
- Flaming effigies sit atop the hill,
- An eternal custom that comes
- And goes with the ebb and flow
- Of people and cultures and tongues.
- Crisp, hot and cold, breath traces
- Linger on the precipice of history.
- A history neglected in favour of
- Trinkets and tat from far off
- Decadent shores; ignorant, sad.
- Smitten with the melancholy
- Crunch of cold underfoot;
- The gasping echoes of kings
- Survived only by their legacy;
- Or rather, lack thereof.
- Yet the stone remembers.
- Stone remains an embittered
- Memento to weepings of the past.
- It remembers the Northwind’s howl;
- It remembers Gwendol’s scowl.
- But a new giant rears its head,
- Domineering, jeering at us.
- A true titan, fattened on principles
- Birthed at the feet of the Wrekin.
- Llys Pengwern remembers,
- Albeit washed away by the rains
- Of the marches, mizzling.
- Attested to by lineage only.
