Winning Poems for May 2007
Judge Bryan Appleyard
First Place
Refugee sproutings across the Continental
by Mike Keo
MiPo
Brother,
let us find refuge in
unabashed love;
the crescent blade
tucked against your waist
held like an organ for self flight;
my sac of collected mango pits
I planted for redemption but never sprout
fruits in this land of many winters;
let us pawn them all in for;
tears and honey,
hummingbirds and misfortune,
naga and lock gates,
so we may one day burrow our hands so
deep into a furious hive of dashes and discomfort
that we are fortunate enough
to understand what hold
the spirit is not war and calls to home,
but a monsoon of poetry & weeps
that fastens the mouth
sweet like a Mekong vernacular
sticky with the weight of America's
orange blossom.
Second Place
The Sandwich Hour
by Yoly Calderon
New Cafe
Eyes draw a horizon on mine.
There's a hint of sweet tobacco
breaking away from his aftershave,
scurrying down the nook of my nose.
"Mind if I join you?"
Do I mind?
I do and don't.
But how do I explain with one
hour for bellies to restock?
"Let's go."
We head out of the office
onto a sunlit runner.
All the while we're touching
on summer camp for the kids
and European cruises versus
cleaning gutters on vacation.
There's an unoccupied table
under the pink crown of a redbud
tree. We sit. I cross my legs.
Topics are sustained with mid
drone voices: the dream of being
invisible; how he almost became
a vegan; why people marry,
(I uncross my legs) and divorce.
It is moments away until
the hour- One round hour,
like a corkscrew begins to top the wine.
I finish my soft drink- let ice chips
skate down my throat. We get up
to leave when he reaches over to me,
but pulls back as if I'm a stove
whose burners are turned to high.
"You have an eyelash on your cheek."
Fig. There's fig in his aftershave.
Third Place
In a City Made of Seaweed
by Dave Rowley
Desert Moon Review
Double Sonnenizio on Two Lines by Ilya Kaminsky*
In a city made of seaweed we danced on a rooftop, my hands
were slippery dancers, your body a love-flung shorebreak
arched at the hips. Now a city of sand slips beneath us too, castle
rooftops battered by the tide's foamy tentacles: such trembly aggressors,
such lurchers of reclamation. We scrawl our story in lines
of seaweed cursive. One lover is a dollop of oyster, the other
a mother-of-pearl cradle, we cling tight as the dance-floor shifts.
Such stubbornness flings us through a city of kelp; it's complicated
among the olive pods. Stubborn love is like a leatherjacket, that tough city
swaggerer, or a porcupine fish filled with air--you suck up what the ocean hands
you, whether krill, or squid's black ink. The seabed is a rooftop, our story
made for flight: streaming from our gills in stubborn recklessness
these words of love are little bubbles, dancing, rising on a dare.
Such is the story made of stubbornness and a little air.
*First and last lines are by Ilya Kaminsky.
Honourable Mention
It
by Carla Conley
The Critical Poet
"Life begins unless you interrupt it,"
the old man said and what, inside a womb,
is any kind of isn't? There's no room
for nothingness, not anything on earth
is nothing: only tiny, timid, not
ready yet, but moving. Whether want
attends it, still it is: it makes no matter
until the metal sharpens, comes to scatter...
then, the remnants leave because there is no room
for lifelessness inside a mother's womb.
It wasn't: I was disposed to disagree
but then it was, though maybe it would be
a cunning seahorse? Next time that we met,
it had gained a head and stunted limbs and yet
it maybe wasn't - somehow, I supposed
I'd love it if it were. They found its nose
and something pulsing: heart. I started looking
for missing parts, each little finger crooking;
each foot unfurling. What a dreadful eye -
like a raisin, baked - are we sure that it's alive?
It tested waters just as I would do,
pushing boundaries - now it was a "you"
to whom I crooned as it paddled around the place:
here be monsters. Soon there was a face -
Are we sure that it's alive? When did desire,
all by itself, create? When did despair,
all by itself, destroy? I tell you never:
life/death, plus or minus, the endeavor
needs a being. We are sure it is alive
but life is a pinpoint, not sure to survive.
and soon there was a need to hurry out
of the straitened quarters. Both of us grew stout.
This small world couldn't hold him, mama's girth
stretched tight, horizons cracking. This is birth:
what starts as frail as smoke attains a crown -
his head, his little body cloaked in down -
triumphant as a king. His little hand
finds my fingers finally.
I finally understand.
Honourable Mention
First Date
by Sally Arango Renata
South Carolina Writer's Workshop
As I turn towards the lake
I feel his glacial blue eyes
sizing me up from behind.
It's not hubris, it's a knowing,
an itch at the back of my brain.
He's not my type.
So why the flounce,
the undulation?
My hips feel the freedom
to be rounder, my legs longer.
I stride aware of how the peach
on my toes contrast
with cerulean sandals.
My body is talking to me
and to him, in a swill
of invisible words
that will never be
mentioned
unless he is the one
to make the first move.
Honourable Mention
Jaycee Beach
by Millard R Howington
South Carolina Writer's Workshop
If I didn't jog north to the Dania
Beach pier then I'd thread the sand
dunes south to Jaycee Beach. The
dune grass whipped at my legs as
I pushed myself in sprints through
the loose sand, then a veer over to
the wetter stuff near the gentle surf
and those clouds rising up like mighty
white towers guarding the ocean, and
tinged pink for the sunrise. I went
for the coffee from an ancient canteen
truck parked there under the swaying
palms, and the lovely blonde lady
who leaned well over to serve.
Every new beginning comes from
some other beginnings end...
Why not try a new beginning...
at The Maelstrom...
Judge Bryan Appleyard
First Place
Refugee sproutings across the Continental
by Mike Keo
MiPo
Brother,
let us find refuge in
unabashed love;
the crescent blade
tucked against your waist
held like an organ for self flight;
my sac of collected mango pits
I planted for redemption but never sprout
fruits in this land of many winters;
let us pawn them all in for;
tears and honey,
hummingbirds and misfortune,
naga and lock gates,
so we may one day burrow our hands so
deep into a furious hive of dashes and discomfort
that we are fortunate enough
to understand what hold
the spirit is not war and calls to home,
but a monsoon of poetry & weeps
that fastens the mouth
sweet like a Mekong vernacular
sticky with the weight of America's
orange blossom.
Second Place
The Sandwich Hour
by Yoly Calderon
New Cafe
Eyes draw a horizon on mine.
There's a hint of sweet tobacco
breaking away from his aftershave,
scurrying down the nook of my nose.
"Mind if I join you?"
Do I mind?
I do and don't.
But how do I explain with one
hour for bellies to restock?
"Let's go."
We head out of the office
onto a sunlit runner.
All the while we're touching
on summer camp for the kids
and European cruises versus
cleaning gutters on vacation.
There's an unoccupied table
under the pink crown of a redbud
tree. We sit. I cross my legs.
Topics are sustained with mid
drone voices: the dream of being
invisible; how he almost became
a vegan; why people marry,
(I uncross my legs) and divorce.
It is moments away until
the hour- One round hour,
like a corkscrew begins to top the wine.
I finish my soft drink- let ice chips
skate down my throat. We get up
to leave when he reaches over to me,
but pulls back as if I'm a stove
whose burners are turned to high.
"You have an eyelash on your cheek."
Fig. There's fig in his aftershave.
Third Place
In a City Made of Seaweed
by Dave Rowley
Desert Moon Review
Double Sonnenizio on Two Lines by Ilya Kaminsky*
In a city made of seaweed we danced on a rooftop, my hands
were slippery dancers, your body a love-flung shorebreak
arched at the hips. Now a city of sand slips beneath us too, castle
rooftops battered by the tide's foamy tentacles: such trembly aggressors,
such lurchers of reclamation. We scrawl our story in lines
of seaweed cursive. One lover is a dollop of oyster, the other
a mother-of-pearl cradle, we cling tight as the dance-floor shifts.
Such stubbornness flings us through a city of kelp; it's complicated
among the olive pods. Stubborn love is like a leatherjacket, that tough city
swaggerer, or a porcupine fish filled with air--you suck up what the ocean hands
you, whether krill, or squid's black ink. The seabed is a rooftop, our story
made for flight: streaming from our gills in stubborn recklessness
these words of love are little bubbles, dancing, rising on a dare.
Such is the story made of stubbornness and a little air.
*First and last lines are by Ilya Kaminsky.
Honourable Mention
It
by Carla Conley
The Critical Poet
"Life begins unless you interrupt it,"
the old man said and what, inside a womb,
is any kind of isn't? There's no room
for nothingness, not anything on earth
is nothing: only tiny, timid, not
ready yet, but moving. Whether want
attends it, still it is: it makes no matter
until the metal sharpens, comes to scatter...
then, the remnants leave because there is no room
for lifelessness inside a mother's womb.
It wasn't: I was disposed to disagree
but then it was, though maybe it would be
a cunning seahorse? Next time that we met,
it had gained a head and stunted limbs and yet
it maybe wasn't - somehow, I supposed
I'd love it if it were. They found its nose
and something pulsing: heart. I started looking
for missing parts, each little finger crooking;
each foot unfurling. What a dreadful eye -
like a raisin, baked - are we sure that it's alive?
It tested waters just as I would do,
pushing boundaries - now it was a "you"
to whom I crooned as it paddled around the place:
here be monsters. Soon there was a face -
Are we sure that it's alive? When did desire,
all by itself, create? When did despair,
all by itself, destroy? I tell you never:
life/death, plus or minus, the endeavor
needs a being. We are sure it is alive
but life is a pinpoint, not sure to survive.
and soon there was a need to hurry out
of the straitened quarters. Both of us grew stout.
This small world couldn't hold him, mama's girth
stretched tight, horizons cracking. This is birth:
what starts as frail as smoke attains a crown -
his head, his little body cloaked in down -
triumphant as a king. His little hand
finds my fingers finally.
I finally understand.
Honourable Mention
First Date
by Sally Arango Renata
South Carolina Writer's Workshop
As I turn towards the lake
I feel his glacial blue eyes
sizing me up from behind.
It's not hubris, it's a knowing,
an itch at the back of my brain.
He's not my type.
So why the flounce,
the undulation?
My hips feel the freedom
to be rounder, my legs longer.
I stride aware of how the peach
on my toes contrast
with cerulean sandals.
My body is talking to me
and to him, in a swill
of invisible words
that will never be
mentioned
unless he is the one
to make the first move.
Honourable Mention
Jaycee Beach
by Millard R Howington
South Carolina Writer's Workshop
If I didn't jog north to the Dania
Beach pier then I'd thread the sand
dunes south to Jaycee Beach. The
dune grass whipped at my legs as
I pushed myself in sprints through
the loose sand, then a veer over to
the wetter stuff near the gentle surf
and those clouds rising up like mighty
white towers guarding the ocean, and
tinged pink for the sunrise. I went
for the coffee from an ancient canteen
truck parked there under the swaying
palms, and the lovely blonde lady
who leaned well over to serve.
Every new beginning comes from
some other beginnings end...
Why not try a new beginning...
at The Maelstrom...
