Our Pushcart Prize Nominations 2023

In the world of independent publishing, where the written word takes on diverse forms and voices, recognition is a precious gift. The Pushcart Prize, an esteemed accolade in the literary world, celebrates the exceptional work of small press authors, shining a spotlight on their artistic contributions. Today, we take immense pride in presenting the remarkable poems nominated by The Broken Spine for this prestigious honor.

1. How to Build a Boy by Vic Pickup

This intriguing poem, How to Build a Boy by Vick Pickup, takes readers on a journey into the unconventional. Through a series of instructions, the poet explores the intricacies of raising a boy. However, these instructions, laced with surrealism and metaphor, reveal a deeper narrative. It’s a piece that challenges our perceptions and invites us to contemplate the complexities of growth, identity, and nurture.

2. Singing Eyes of Iran by Mariam Saidan

Mariam Saidan’s Singing Eyes of Iran transports us to a world where resilience and joy thrive in the face of adversity. The poem encapsulates the spirit of a woman who, despite her challenges, finds a reason to celebrate life. Through vivid imagery and evocative storytelling, the poet paints a portrait of strength and perseverance, reminding us of the power of the human spirit.

3. Sheltered by Jen Feroze

In Sheltered, Jen Feroze delves into the dichotomy of safety and ignorance. This introspective piece takes us into the comfort of a home, contrasting it with the harsh realities of the world outside. Feroze skillfully captures the essence of seeking refuge while acknowledging the privilege it entails. It’s a poignant reflection on the boundaries of our sheltered lives.

4. Dutch Elm Disease by Rachel Deering

Rachel Deering’s Dutch Elm Disease carries a profound message beneath its poetic veneer. The poem explores the resilience of elms in the face of decay and demise, drawing parallels to the human condition. Through rich symbolism and lyrical prose, Deering prompts us to contemplate our own journeys and the thresholds we encounter. It’s a poetic meditation on life, death, and the choices we make.

5. Findings by Ellie Rees

Findings by Ellie Rees invites us to discover the beauty in everyday objects and moments. The poem weaves a narrative around seemingly insignificant trinkets, transforming them into treasures. Rees reminds us to appreciate the artistry in the mundane, encouraging a shift in perspective. It’s a celebration of creativity and the profound impact of the ordinary.

6. Before She Died by Kyla Houbolt

In Before She Died, Kyla Houbolt weaves a narrative that blurs the line between reality and imagination. The poem’s focal point, a mother’s vision of white egrets nestled in a tree, elegantly morphs into an illusion, revealing they are merely flowers. This delicate imagery serves as a metaphor for a world once inhabited by magnificent creatures, now only accessible through the mist of memory and time.

These nominated poems are a testament to the diversity and exceptional talent that thrives in the world of small press publishing. They resonate with authenticity, creativity, and depth, embodying the core values of our literary pursuits. Through inclusivity and a commitment to quality, these works challenge, inspire, and connect with readers on profound levels.

As we await the verdict of the Pushcart Prize judges, we reflect on the significance of celebrating small press authors. Their voices enrich our literary landscape and contribute to a vibrant and dynamic culture of storytelling. The Broken Spine continues to provide a safe and welcoming space for writers from all backgrounds to share their voices and perspectives.

In conclusion, we extend our heartfelt gratitude to the Pushcart Prize judges for their dedication to recognising literary excellence. We eagerly anticipate the possibility of these remarkable poems being honored—a recognition that would undoubtedly be a significant milestone in the literary journey of their creators. The Broken Spine remains committed to celebrating the power of words and the beauty of the arts, fostering a community where creativity knows no bounds.

How to Build a Boy 
Vic Pickup

Combine cells and wait for them to take.
The exact combination is essential for optimum results. 

Feed regularly with milk or evaporated formula for the first months,
orange juice and cod liver oil for the prevention of scurvy and rickets. 

Your baby boy may have trouble sleeping.
A gentle rocking motion will soon send him back to the land of nod.

Try to teach your boy his ABCs. Wooden blocks with carved letters
may be helpful with this, and tuneful signing of the alphabet song.

Wear soft clothing and ensure a generous dusting of talc after your bath. 
A boy should associate his mother with comfort and a pleasant aroma. 

As your boy grows, he will undoubtedly play rough with his chums.
Do not pander to a scuffed knee or black eye. He must learn to be tough. 

Increase meal sizes as your boy gets larger to ensure healthy development. 
He’ll need meat for muscle, fish for brains, eggs and fruit for immunity.   

Steer towards appropriate behaviours – to think of his friends as brothers.
He may find a sweetheart. Encourage this; her letters will boost morale.  

When the call goes out, if you have succeeded in your role,
He will wish to volunteer. Pack him a flask and sandwich for the queue.  

Be excited for his departure. Your son will soon be a hero:
Look at him so handsome in his uniform!

The cost of war is high. He may return fractured, so do what you can 
to repair him. The field nurses will have patched him up. 

Recommence feeding schedule. If bedridden,
spoon him plenty of broth, chicken if you can get it. 

Be prepared to receive nothing more than an envelope. 
Some explosives are designed to erase a soldier on impact.

Singing Eyes of Iran 
Mariam Saidan

She flicks her glass eye in a public video saying  
“Now I have a singing eye!” 
She seems happier than I’ve ever been. 
light streaming in my little garden 
in London, weak heart in Iran. 
I keep repotting plants to see if the roots are fine
you do weird things when your motherland 
gets smaller than a prison cell 
and you escape it.

They shoot,                     
the women dance 
like there’s a nightclub 
in every single one of them 
open until dawn.

Sheltered
Adj: protected | ignorant
Jen Feroze

I’m thirty-six, in bed and reading
a book about birdsong.
Safe in my house of bricks,
I can only confidently pick out magpie, 
woodpigeon, crow. Earlier, in the park
I showed my son fallen leaves. Knew an oak 
thanks to its gifted acorns. Felt the shaking, 
resigned branches as the rest furzed into ‘trees’. 

Now I’m luxuriating under the nine-tog, adding
fingers of rain on glass to my favourite sounds. 
I’m forgetting sleeping bags sodden in shop doorways, 
bones clumped wet and chattering. 
I’m taking great gulping lungfuls of the world 
and scattering sticks and straw with every out breath. 

Dutch Elm Disease 
Rachel Deering

Elms make good coffins 
in their resistance to decay, 
even though each tree, itself, 
can struggle to survive. 
We observe and accept so much  
without the foundations of understanding: 
it is said that you should not speak  
whilst you dig a grave, 
you should not look back  
from a funerary procession. 
You should not.  

I don’t know why; 

only that Orpheus was grief-stricken 
with regret, resigned to be riparian  
in a longer song of sleep, hung 
upon the notes of music, strung 
to the roots required to grow  
a forest of Elm. Still, the green 
of love leaves as all things 
migrate to their own winters, in the end. 

And this tree can perceive its tenants, 
rally wasps, summon Saturn -  
no mother to these sip-sap children  
– expels them with repulsion.  
You should not dream of death,  
you should not depart a burial 
by the same route that you arrived. 
You should not.  

I don’t know why 

there are thresholds that we keep 
or cross; the Elm marks a passage alone, 
is no arbiter of choices and besides, 
alternatives narrow when one is stunted 
from actualisation: this is a disease 
of the unloving of a bark beetle, here, 
only a jaundice of sorrow 
can multiply amongst the living. 

Findings
Ellie Rees

We sit at both ends of her table, 

she with her sewing and me with a pen. 

Once she made dolls’ clothes while I did homework

            our hands were quicker then.

Caught by the colours in felts, silk threads

I watch as they melt in her fingers: 

            bowls made from tissue paper, netting scraps, 

            stacking pots glinting with crystal,

            sari-silk remnants, embroidery hoops,

            a basket of silver thimbles.

She makes things – makes them – for themselves,

refuses to sell or give them away.

            Jewel-coloured insects alight on her walls,

            paper birds perch on her windows, 

            seeds of eucalyptus, a sliver of quartz,

            a dead twig that grows 

            a filigree of lichen.

What to call them? She denies her art, 

says they are trinkets – found objects – found things.

In the end we agree on Findings. 

Before She Died
Kyla Houbolt

my mother saw
white egrets in the tree
but they were only
flowers. she knew that once 
there were great beasts
everywhere.