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Poetry Samples
Patricia Goedicke Poetry Award Winner
 There is Colour in Haiti After All
Alexandria Garcia
Victoria, British Columbia, Canada
Splashes of hot pink, greens and yellows stain the market square
plump women work their dark fingers
retailing okra, yams, and cassava
that are strewn across the dusty road
plump women work their dark fingers
under sleep taffeta parasols
that are strewn across the dusty road
unsettled by rustling feet
under sleek taffeta parasols
hard green plantains litter the road
unsettled by rustling feet
sifting soil through the air
hard green plantains litter the road
smelling of thick unripe skin
sifting soil through the air
parted full lips inhale the dust
smelling of thick unripe skin
retailing okra, yams, and cassava
parted full lips inhale the dust
splashes of hot pink, greens and yellows stain the market square.
Find out more about the
Patricia Goedicke Poetry Award >
Richard Hugo Sense of Place Award Winner
Watching the Rainstorm from the Edge of Frye Lake
Julia DeAngelo
Greenwich, Connecticut, USA
The front of the rain comes towards me. It's like dominos falling or water spilling
from the vase my elbow just bumped or sprinkles decorating the cake I just
baked; a controlled and gentle motion moving from left to right. Sweet drops
of nothing. These delicate chocolate chips fell at the edge then slowly, just a hair
quicker than clouds roll by, melted towards me, their purity engulfing me.
My dear cousin, the rainstorm. I am all too familiar with you. The water droplets
that dramatically fall from the inner corners of my eyes are the masterminds
behind this hurricane. This world has named me their own. A place where my
freckles blend in with the mud and the color of my complexion is of a young
tree’s. Here I decide that all things good for me can be found here. Maple syrup is
the best friend to my sweet tooth. The glassy water mirror reminds me of what I
could become. Berries blessed by a bird’s own lips.
My love stems from a wildflower and my beauty from this dirt. The faded buoy is
my Beanie Baby, the marshmallow keeping me above water when sea grass gets
hungry. The wind sings my lullaby, a gentle vibrato that bubbles up to the surface.
A pine tree with the leaves of true rainbow of colors is my raincoat that I share
with the ducks.
I could seal my window shut when the power goes out. Or I can stay here and
see how peacefully nature deals with its anger. The wind vents without breaking
anyone’s heart, even if sometimes it claims a windowpane.
I can identify a pine tree but can’t explain why the most beautiful artwork I see is
in the clouds. I’m still learning how to rest my head on a rock, the cushion of this
Earth’s physic.
Find out more about the
Richard Hugo Sense of Place Award >
Brumous Cemetary
Elissa Watters
Rye, New York, USA
Pennsylvania dirt brittle, brackish,
compressed by rainfall of bitter moon,
starstruck and shattered, strewn with stone spices
Matthew Miller, 1917
dirt compressed on desolate bones: a pelvis, an elbow
blue sky over blue lake,
blue cries of blue newborn, premature, doomed
blue eyes shine through blue brume under blue sun
green grass meets green sea
green gasps churn green peace, land among green pastures
green eyes follow green music
red sky highlights red lips,
red heart blooming red peonies, everlasting
red eyes crave red body
white ground sweetens salty, life-sucking dirt,
white sky hides white sun from white faces
white eyes see darkness in white landscape
dirt brittle, brackish, compressed, starstruck, shattered,
maroon eyes, darkened by rising dust, falling void of the Universe,
crave body,
satisfied by a red hand, foot, ear
to cradle in the blue night under a green moon,
white face turned away, a wrinkled lily
violet sunset bursts with violet cries,
violet condemnations intertwined with violent sobs
violet fireworks descending over violet stream of unrecognizable, violet faces
Matthow Müller, pile of bones buried in Brittany, has no pelvis.
The Science Teacher: a Dedication to Enjoyers of Sinusoidal Curves
Eric Protzer
Victoria, British Columbia, Canada
Enough energy to vaporize Egypt walks into the classroom
— it avoids this implication
by calling itself Miss Mund—
retrieves a flat, yellow balloon from the drawer
announces:
“Watch the dots on the balloon, children,
Georges Lemaître. 1931. The big bang theory.
The priest took a break from singing hot air to the heavens,
thought of a solution to a problem,
etched some numbers into a chalkboard.
What a genius.
Watch the balloon, children.
I will empty my lungs into it.
This is to represent the universe as it expands.
Do you understand,
Billy?”
Billy,
who was pounded together from gas
in the furnace of a star,
says only
“Yes, m’am.”
Miss Mund comments
on the lack of energy in the classroom,
which is really terribly ironic
but since nobody is pondering
their explosive potential
no one finds it funny.
Pinching the balloon to her lips,
she gives another tired shove
to air that has been shoved by neanderthals,
dinosaurs, three supernovae
and really could have done without another,
until Billy,
who has been watching the balloon,
pushes his hand up faster
than fifty thousand trillion nine hundred and seventy three sextillion six hundred quintillion kilograms
of earth can pull it down.
“Was the big bang yellow, then?”
“No, Billy.
The big bang
was not yellow.
Do you see what happens
to the dots
as I inflate the balloon?”
Miss Mund shoves the air again,
but the air has had quite enough
and books it.
The class stares on
as one world ends
and another begins.
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