They Don’t Make Gods For Non-Believers



    Poetry Prize 2016 judges Andrew McMillan and Rebecca Perry on ‘They Don’t Make Gods For Non-Believers’:

    We were instantly drawn in by the voice of this poem – its strangeness, its ease with itself even in the face of such an uneasy subject, such a disquieting unfolding of events. With its masterful, regular couplets, this poem pulls itself into control; a control we secretly fear will dissolve like the ‘light/with all its grit and soft sine’ that ‘comes apart/into colour’. But right up to the final, shattering line, we are completely held. In reading this poem, we too are exposed to the ‘too white light’ – forced to confront our relationship to illness, health, belief, death, what we rely on.


    When I tell him I’m dying, my doctor says I’ll die
    years and years from now if I’m careful, so I will

    die, then, I say, but carefully. After all, if it’s worth
    doing then it’s got to be worth doing carefully

    and my doctor agrees (he should). All the same
    you can be too careful, which is why I see him far less

    than is, quote-unquote, prudent. My doctor, I mean, not
    God. Him, I see so much more than should a devout

    non-believer. But never where I expect to – great
    storms, great losses and the like. Rather in the pale

    residues left behind latex gloves, or the soft patience
    of a painkiller. Maybe it’s a sign I’m approaching

    the end. Or it may just be the perfunctory depression
    of my tongue again, the requisite ah. Ah, as though

    comprehending. But let’s face it, comprehension’s
    not the issue. I mean, I can comprehend, like glass,

    that light, with all its grit and soft sine, comes apart
    into colour, but that hardly helps the halogen, hardly

    amounts to understanding. My doctor thinks his is
    a look of understanding, with all that plastic wisdom

    of sign and symptom, but understanding nothing
    of mine. Between you, me, and my god, my God

    I’ve got a lot to cower from. Which, I guess, means
    I should put faith in one of us. But Him I don’t trust

    any more than my doctor, or me, or any more
    than anyone else so reliant on terror in their acolytes,

    shivering and braille-skinned, deaths confessed to
    and calendared. He laughs at my swithering, hands

    swaddled in the too-white light, reading my body,
    asking who I’m speaking to as I write this, kneeling,

    pages closing more quietly than hands on the bed.


    Poetry Competition Winner 2016

    Patrick James Errington is a poet and translator from the prairies of Alberta, Canada. His poems have appeared in magazines and journals including The Iowa Review, The American Literary Review, The Adroit Journal, Horsethief, DIAGRAM, and others. A graduate of Columbia University’s MFA programme, Patrick now lives in Edinburgh, where he is a doctoral candidate and Buchanan scholar at the University of St Andrews.