Winning Poem Announced in the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Competition 2026

George Syranidis Announced as Winner of the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Competition 2026

The Limerick Writers’ Centre is delighted to announce George Syranidis (UK) as the winner of the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Competition 2026 with his winning poem The Cistern. The announcement was made last night during the much‑anticipated Desmond O’Grady Memorial Reading, an event, held in association with Poetry Ireland, that drew a large and warmly engaged audience.

This year’s competition judge, Seán Lysaght, revealed the winning poem during the evening’s proceedings. Although Syranidis was unable to attend in person, he sent a specially recorded video of himself reading the poem — a gesture that created a memorable moment of connection between the poet and those gathered in Limerick.

George Syranidis is a sustainability professional from Athens and Nicosia, now living in London. His writing draws on Cypriot landscapes to explore memory, inheritance, and the pressures of social and environmental change. Speaking at the announcement Seán Lysaght had this to say about the winning poem; “This poem won me over after several readings. It unfolds slowly, like a story told casually, informally without any desire to impress. The speaker talks about their ancestral place in Cyprus, where the arrival of rain is increasingly critical, given the context of climate change and summer droughts. They are also at a distance from the place now, a summer visitor when heat is more searing than ever. The vigil for water becomes also a kind of search for the speaker’s ancestral identity as he now lives elsewhere. The Cistern is very modest in its materials and effects; there is no apparent need to be literary, no self-conscious search for artifice. The poem is entirely comfortable in its chosen mode, and it builds an engaging drama of its own through knowledge of its place and objects.”

The Memorial Reading itself proved a tremendous success. Guest readers Seán Lysaght, Jo Slade, and Jamie O’Halloran delivered a sequence of rich, compelling readings that held the audience throughout. They were joined by author Kieran Beville, who offered an engaging outline of his forthcoming book on Desmond O’Grady, adding depth and context to the celebration of O’Grady’s enduring legacy.

A particular highlight of the night was Lysaght’s powerful rendition of The Limerick Sequence, which drew an especially warm and appreciative response.

The winning poem, along with the names of the runner‑up and highly commended entries, is now available at:
www.limerickwriterscentre.com

For further information, interviews, or media enquiries, please contact:
limerickwriterscentre@gmail.com

Full results of the competition:

First prize: ‘The Cistern’ – George Syranidis (UK)

Runner-up: ‘Why the Hearts I Drew Were Unconvincing’ – Alvy Carragher (IRL)

Commendations:

‘Syntagma Nights’ – Alessandro Focardi de Ritter (ITALY)
‘The Shannon’s Silt’ – Ari Ghosh (IRL)
‘I Loved It When My Mother Laughed’ – Bronagh Mallon (UK/IRL)
‘Bubbles’ – Catriona Clutterbuck (IRL)
‘Pocaire Gaoithe’ [107-08] – Eithne Lannon (IRL)
‘April, Delaware Bay’ – Liza Katz Duncan (USA)
‘An Age’ – Nathanael O’Reilly (USA)

THE WINNING POEM

The Cistern

I was small.
Cyprus fit between my palms, a warm stone I turned
until the cool side showed.

We did not say much about water, only that the well is asleep.

Behind my grandmother’s house
the cistern was a dark mouth, rim worn smooth.
I lay flat and spoke my name into it
to make a second child live there, down where the cool stayed.

The rope was rough and it burned my fingers.
When the bucket scraped the wall below
a thin sound rose up and I waited for water.

By the tap there was a tin cup, dented at the lip.
It tasted of metal and something green you could not name.
You held it with two hands.

At noon the courtyard light made the whitewash sting;
a fly kept landing on the rim and I blew it off.

The sea was close enough to hear itself breathing.
It glittered like a bowl tipped over.
I touched my finger to my tongue. Only salt.

In those years the first rains were a promise we knew by heart.
My grandmother watched the sky in silence.

Before rain the yard went quiet.
Cicadas drilled in the carob tree by the gate,
and basil on the sill went sharp in the heat.
Stone gave off its stored sun when you brushed it.

In August the yard cracked like a dropped plate.
My heel found a line and dust rose hot and bitter.

Inside, a voice stopped me. Not angry. Quick. Enough.
The cup went upside down to dry.
The air drank what we spared.

We waited for rain with our ears.
Sometimes she set a basin out early.
The first drop hit stone like a pin. No one moved.
Then the smell came up, dust turning dark.

Now I come back and the heat stays into October.
The tin cup is still there, but we hold it differently.
We count without speaking. Two swallows. Three. And stop.

Rain comes out of step, loud on the roofs, then gone.
I lean over the cistern and say my name.
It returns at once, clean and quick,
and there is nothing below to hold it long enough to sound like water.

George Syranidis Announced as Winner of the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Competition 2026

Full results of the competition:

The Cistern

I was small. Cyprus fit between my palms, a warm stone I turned until the cool side showed.

We did not say much about water, only that the well is asleep.

Behind my grandmother’s house the cistern was a dark mouth, rim worn smooth. I lay flat and spoke my name into it to make a second child live there, down where the cool stayed.

The rope was rough and it burned my fingers. When the bucket scraped the wall below a thin sound rose up and I waited for water.

By the tap there was a tin cup, dented at the lip. It tasted of metal and something green you could not name. You held it with two hands.

At noon the courtyard light made the whitewash sting; a fly kept landing on the rim and I blew it off.

The sea was close enough to hear itself breathing. It glittered like a bowl tipped over. I touched my finger to my tongue. Only salt.

In those years the first rains were a promise we knew by heart. My grandmother watched the sky in silence.

Before rain the yard went quiet. Cicadas drilled in the carob tree by the gate, and basil on the sill went sharp in the heat. Stone gave off its stored sun when you brushed it.

In August the yard cracked like a dropped plate. My heel found a line and dust rose hot and bitter.

Inside, a voice stopped me. Not angry. Quick. Enough. The cup went upside down to dry. The air drank what we spared.

We waited for rain with our ears. Sometimes she set a basin out early. The first drop hit stone like a pin. No one moved. Then the smell came up, dust turning dark.

Now I come back and the heat stays into October. The tin cup is still there, but we hold it differently. We count without speaking. Two swallows. Three. And stop.

Rain comes out of step, loud on the roofs, then gone. I lean over the cistern and say my name. It returns at once, clean and quick, and there is nothing below to hold it long enough to sound like water.