TOMORROW IS MOONBOUNCE DAY. We had more than 100 entries for our poetry competition with its most unusual prize: the chance for the winning poem to be bounced off the surface of the Moon and its echo heard by the great Lovell Telescope at Jodrell Bank – see Jeanette Winterson’s column for details.

The standard of poems was very high – yes, it sounds like you have to say that, but really, it was; we judges, however, are pleased to announce that the winner is Joanna Clark, for whose entry I am more than happy to give over a chunk of my column.

Clark spends her days at Imperial College, London – poetry’s rarely a good day job. She tells us she’s part of the Pitshanger poets in Ealing (www.pitshangerpoets.co.uk ) and I was glad when she told me that the late Michael Donaghy, whose work I love, had encouraged her. He was right to: her poem combines elegance and humour with some panache. I am sure the Moon will enjoy the bounce as much as the rest of us will. If you can’t come to Jodrell Bank, visit the Times technology blog on Sunday for an up-to-the-minute report.

Just click on: timesonline.typepad.com/ technology to see how we get on . . .

Fly your poem to the Moon

Michael Schmidt launches a writing competition combining art and science

BACKGROUND

• Phase by Joanna Clark

• First word: Erica Wagner

• Her word: Jeanette Winterson

Related Internet Links

• First Move Festival blog

Phase by Joanna Clark

Attractive, isn’t she, from here? The pull’s not strong, but it’s common to feel drawn to her,

especially when she lets that cool white light fall full on your face. You’re keen to speak to her.

We’d recommend, if anything, you write. She probably won’t hear your words up there.

They make no sound – no atmosphere, you see.

In any case she’d never hold you to them: herself a satellite, she won’t support one.

So should you choose to visit her, take air; and warmer clothes – we reckon she’s been cold

a thousand million years. And time your run: the peak of her brilliance is when she starts to wane,

to turn that heavenly body (arid, pitted, stone) back to the night you thought she had outshone,

shrugging off light which never was her own.

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