It is no coincidence that our "SMOKING" poetry contest has ended just before November 19 - the same day as the Great American Smokeout 2009. Hopefully it lands us a few more Google hits than usual!
In all seriousness, thank you and congratulations to all of the poets, especially our winner: Liz Sheridan. We'll be in touch with everybody next quarter when the new topic is announced.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A message from: Frank Calo
I would like to thank all the poets that submitted work to this contest. It has been a very hard choice. The short poems were fantastic and to the point. The longer poems wove stories. In the end I had to go with one of the longer poems. "Untitled" tells the story of a family of smokers: a mother, father and daughter whose vice of choice was tobacco, all starting in their teens and foregoing harder drugs and spirits for a lifetime of nicotine addiction. In the end, it is a tale of choices and roads not taken.
WINNER, November 2009: untitled - Elizabeth Sheridan
We began
before I had begun.
My mother was eighteen,
living in the desert
and avoiding the accessories
of Sixties living (although she loved turquoise.)
Who lives in Tucson
during the height of Haight-Ashbury
and never samples
peyote?
Mescalin?
Marijuana?
My mother.
At eighteen, she shrugged
and shook her pack of Virginia Slims.
Her cigarette was her alibi.
My father was eighteen,
living in Pell's Hell
and reveling in independence
of being a kid (finally!)
Who prepares parents' taxes
for the fifth time
and never refuses
liquor?
Ladies?
Marijuana?
My father.
At eighteen, he laughed
and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth.
His cigarette was his golden watch.
I was seventeen,
pulling straight A's
and sweeping up my family's fractures
as I worked 40 hours a week (at Chuck E. Cheese's.)
Who can dig herself
so deep that her only options
seem like
pills?
Liquor?
...?
Myself.
At seventeen, I considered
and bypassed the Stoli for the Marlboros.
My cigarette was my longest relationship.
before I had begun.
My mother was eighteen,
living in the desert
and avoiding the accessories
of Sixties living (although she loved turquoise.)
Who lives in Tucson
during the height of Haight-Ashbury
and never samples
peyote?
Mescalin?
Marijuana?
My mother.
At eighteen, she shrugged
and shook her pack of Virginia Slims.
Her cigarette was her alibi.
My father was eighteen,
living in Pell's Hell
and reveling in independence
of being a kid (finally!)
Who prepares parents' taxes
for the fifth time
and never refuses
liquor?
Ladies?
Marijuana?
My father.
At eighteen, he laughed
and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth.
His cigarette was his golden watch.
I was seventeen,
pulling straight A's
and sweeping up my family's fractures
as I worked 40 hours a week (at Chuck E. Cheese's.)
Who can dig herself
so deep that her only options
seem like
pills?
Liquor?
...?
Myself.
At seventeen, I considered
and bypassed the Stoli for the Marlboros.
My cigarette was my longest relationship.
HONORABLE MENTION: The Flick, The Flint, The Spark, The Fire - Caroline Frank
What would Roosevelt say if he walked into a bar,
To relax with a whiskey and smoke a cigar,
And the bar back ushered him 20 feet from the door?
The man who was leading that Second World War.
Smokers are lazy, unhealthy, degenerates-
Don’t idolize people,
Only their sentiments.
Pick and choose what great things to admire,
Ignore the great minds and their portable fire.
Let’s travel back to 1905,
When Einstein observed the speed of light,
A discovery in one hand and in the other?
His pipe.
Would we live in darkness when the secret was told,
What Edison lit before lighting the bulb?
And what about Orwell, Wilde and Tolkien?
We love all the stories they wrote while chain smokin’.
And we all know of a rebel, who didn’t have cause,
He stole our hearts and he gained our applause.
In honor we printed a stamp with his face,
With his signature cigarette safely erased.
We danced to The Cool and we Flew to the Moon,
Then broke out of Folsom in our Blue Suede Shoes,
With nothing but Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Throw on those records and let’s hear those songs sung,
Our melodies and memories from those famous black lungs.
Marilyn was an icon but her habits, excusable?
And did anyone care when they went to her funeral?
It’s a good thing we’re safe now and given the facts,
About cancer, low birth weight and of course, heart attacks.
Tobacco was fine when it was funding our nation,
Before there was cotton and household radiation.
Another Truth commercial?! Please, change the station.
You can warn us and scare us and force us our health,
And forget all of those who chose for themselves.
To relax with a whiskey and smoke a cigar,
And the bar back ushered him 20 feet from the door?
The man who was leading that Second World War.
Smokers are lazy, unhealthy, degenerates-
Don’t idolize people,
Only their sentiments.
Pick and choose what great things to admire,
Ignore the great minds and their portable fire.
Let’s travel back to 1905,
When Einstein observed the speed of light,
A discovery in one hand and in the other?
His pipe.
Would we live in darkness when the secret was told,
What Edison lit before lighting the bulb?
And what about Orwell, Wilde and Tolkien?
We love all the stories they wrote while chain smokin’.
And we all know of a rebel, who didn’t have cause,
He stole our hearts and he gained our applause.
In honor we printed a stamp with his face,
With his signature cigarette safely erased.
We danced to The Cool and we Flew to the Moon,
Then broke out of Folsom in our Blue Suede Shoes,
With nothing but Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Throw on those records and let’s hear those songs sung,
Our melodies and memories from those famous black lungs.
Marilyn was an icon but her habits, excusable?
And did anyone care when they went to her funeral?
It’s a good thing we’re safe now and given the facts,
About cancer, low birth weight and of course, heart attacks.
Tobacco was fine when it was funding our nation,
Before there was cotton and household radiation.
Another Truth commercial?! Please, change the station.
You can warn us and scare us and force us our health,
And forget all of those who chose for themselves.
Constance - Daniel Larkins
Because her lover quit her, Linda said
She would end her life puffing,
Shriveling, silent and slow suicide. I
Can’t help but think of my mother. I held
Her sharp knuckles and thin wrists and yellow
Fingertips—the drags made my mother: more
A woman, Skinny, younger and older,
Grow on her adrenal gland a tumor
The size of a filter. Disposable
Buyer—A smoker and her son in chains.
From my bed by the window, wind whistles
Speaking her speech, my mother exhaling
Speaking to me, sick, and sad, and wheezing.
She would end her life puffing,
Shriveling, silent and slow suicide. I
Can’t help but think of my mother. I held
Her sharp knuckles and thin wrists and yellow
Fingertips—the drags made my mother: more
A woman, Skinny, younger and older,
Grow on her adrenal gland a tumor
The size of a filter. Disposable
Buyer—A smoker and her son in chains.
From my bed by the window, wind whistles
Speaking her speech, my mother exhaling
Speaking to me, sick, and sad, and wheezing.
A True Love Affair - Sue Grass
It started when I was twelve.
From my first puff,
I was in love.
True love.
The never-ending, can’t believe it,
butterflies in my stomach true love.
Yet…I toyed with a full commitment.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen,
that I really consummated this love affair.
I held nothing back,
I was a pack a day smoker.
I always had a pack
and I bought cartons.
The perfection of our relationship
lasted until I was twenty seven.
I wanted to have a baby.
My husband said,
“Not until you quit.”
So, I held my middle finger to my thumb
every time I wanted a cigarette,
and chanted,
“Baby, baby, baby,
I want a baby, not a cigarette.”
I was lying,
but it worked.
I got pregnant,
breastfeed,
Did it all again
and had my two babies.
Always, always
mourning, the end
of my beautiful relationship.
From my first puff,
I was in love.
True love.
The never-ending, can’t believe it,
butterflies in my stomach true love.
Yet…I toyed with a full commitment.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen,
that I really consummated this love affair.
I held nothing back,
I was a pack a day smoker.
I always had a pack
and I bought cartons.
The perfection of our relationship
lasted until I was twenty seven.
I wanted to have a baby.
My husband said,
“Not until you quit.”
So, I held my middle finger to my thumb
every time I wanted a cigarette,
and chanted,
“Baby, baby, baby,
I want a baby, not a cigarette.”
I was lying,
but it worked.
I got pregnant,
breastfeed,
Did it all again
and had my two babies.
Always, always
mourning, the end
of my beautiful relationship.
Expenses - Eliezer Sobel
My vaporizer showed up today;
I’d been thinking about getting one for 27 years,
but always thought it would mean I was a smoker,
and I was unwilling to make that commitment.
Before shelling out $165 for a vaporizer,
I could continue polluting my lungs for three decades,
comforted by the idea that I might choose to stop any day.
Now I can’t stop, or I won’t get my money’s worth.
Worse, this new contraption seems to use up a whole lot more herb,
so my overhead is going up as well.
I guess I could factor in all the money I’ve saved over the years
by never smoking cigarettes or getting into cocaine,
and only buying the $3.99 merlot at Trader Joe’s.
And if you consider the heroin I’ve never purchased
plus all the soft drinks I’ve avoided since my 20s,
I am virtually swimming in dough from all the ways I DON’T get high,
all the addictions that passed me by.
I’m a substance abuse success story!
(My accounts got skewed by all the Ecstasy, though;
at thirty bucks a pop,
it messed with my numbers in a disproportionate manner.)
I’m going to turn the whole thing over to my CPA and see if he can crunch it
in such a way that the IRS gives me a deduction for the vaporizer
and offers to score me some Lebanese Red for the holidays.
I’d been thinking about getting one for 27 years,
but always thought it would mean I was a smoker,
and I was unwilling to make that commitment.
Before shelling out $165 for a vaporizer,
I could continue polluting my lungs for three decades,
comforted by the idea that I might choose to stop any day.
Now I can’t stop, or I won’t get my money’s worth.
Worse, this new contraption seems to use up a whole lot more herb,
so my overhead is going up as well.
I guess I could factor in all the money I’ve saved over the years
by never smoking cigarettes or getting into cocaine,
and only buying the $3.99 merlot at Trader Joe’s.
And if you consider the heroin I’ve never purchased
plus all the soft drinks I’ve avoided since my 20s,
I am virtually swimming in dough from all the ways I DON’T get high,
all the addictions that passed me by.
I’m a substance abuse success story!
(My accounts got skewed by all the Ecstasy, though;
at thirty bucks a pop,
it messed with my numbers in a disproportionate manner.)
I’m going to turn the whole thing over to my CPA and see if he can crunch it
in such a way that the IRS gives me a deduction for the vaporizer
and offers to score me some Lebanese Red for the holidays.
Last - Mike Drabble
The match flares
Gutters
And with a wrist-snap-flick
Is cast
Aside
With the first lungful
I watch him wheel
And stride back
The precision of his gait
The breeze
This bead of sweat
Meandering
Down my forehead
Suddenly much
Brighter
Clearer
Another drag
And I recall
My village
The bones amongst the ashes
The rage
In the corner of my eye
He raises his sword
A last hit
And I spit the cigarette out
I’m glad
I refused the blindfold
Looking
At the one opposite
The way his barrel shakes
I know
He’s more scared
Than me
I laugh
And the sword falls
Gutters
And with a wrist-snap-flick
Is cast
Aside
With the first lungful
I watch him wheel
And stride back
The precision of his gait
The breeze
This bead of sweat
Meandering
Down my forehead
Suddenly much
Brighter
Clearer
Another drag
And I recall
My village
The bones amongst the ashes
The rage
In the corner of my eye
He raises his sword
A last hit
And I spit the cigarette out
I’m glad
I refused the blindfold
Looking
At the one opposite
The way his barrel shakes
I know
He’s more scared
Than me
I laugh
And the sword falls
Apostrophe to Marlboros - Ruth Yeselson
Lovely macho-boros,
cowboy killers, coffin nails,
necessary butch accessories:
you speak for me when I have no voice to say
STONE—
smoke curling up her thigh, intimate yet aloof,
a long distance touch while I
shoot pool all cool behind that screen—
RAGE—
cartoon red ticking bomb box,
sticks rolled up, packed tight, and even filtered,
never forget that cigarettes burn—
and, yes, DEATH—
one bar suicide each hot tube,
secret black lung spot scar,
seven minutes solitude,
oh sweetest savored death-ward time
smoked most alone.
cowboy killers, coffin nails,
necessary butch accessories:
you speak for me when I have no voice to say
STONE—
smoke curling up her thigh, intimate yet aloof,
a long distance touch while I
shoot pool all cool behind that screen—
RAGE—
cartoon red ticking bomb box,
sticks rolled up, packed tight, and even filtered,
never forget that cigarettes burn—
and, yes, DEATH—
one bar suicide each hot tube,
secret black lung spot scar,
seven minutes solitude,
oh sweetest savored death-ward time
smoked most alone.
Diner, 2005 - Mark NP
he tick-flicked a cigarette in a rhythmic and nervous way over the plastic ashtray
trying to unstick ash that wasn’t through burning yet
so the cherry would rip if he didn’t stop
a thought crossed his mind that he felt like a slave and he was immediately embarrassed
but he couldn’t help reassure himself that he wasn’t absurd in the feeling
he smoked spitefully
precisely because his mother told him not to all the while growing up and when
he finally did quit he’d only start again once she was dead
strings of smoke hung about his head like Christmas garland just as gaudy and pointless as everything else
and when the smoke began to pour from the cigarette like a storm of wild horses he got scared and rubbed the butt into the old ashtray
out lifted that terrible odor like a chemical death and he lit another one right away
to fill his nostrils with a better smell
trying to unstick ash that wasn’t through burning yet
so the cherry would rip if he didn’t stop
a thought crossed his mind that he felt like a slave and he was immediately embarrassed
but he couldn’t help reassure himself that he wasn’t absurd in the feeling
he smoked spitefully
precisely because his mother told him not to all the while growing up and when
he finally did quit he’d only start again once she was dead
strings of smoke hung about his head like Christmas garland just as gaudy and pointless as everything else
and when the smoke began to pour from the cigarette like a storm of wild horses he got scared and rubbed the butt into the old ashtray
out lifted that terrible odor like a chemical death and he lit another one right away
to fill his nostrils with a better smell
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Introducing: Frank Calo
We are proud to introduce Frank Calo as the November 2009 poetry contest judge. His background in theater should prove to be an interesting lens through which he'll view the submissions.
Frank is the Executive Producer and Artistic Director of the Spotlight On Theatre and Co-Producer of Planet Connections Festivity (both festival producting theater companies). He has produced hundreds of plays and productions through his New York theatre festivals. Most recently, he directed and co-produced the Paris production of Andy Warhol’s "Secret Girlfriend" which had a successful run at the Theatre De Nesle. He has also produced and hosted specialty events including the Variety Tonight shows in NYC and NJ.
Frank is the Executive Producer and Artistic Director of the Spotlight On Theatre and Co-Producer of Planet Connections Festivity (both festival producting theater companies). He has produced hundreds of plays and productions through his New York theatre festivals. Most recently, he directed and co-produced the Paris production of Andy Warhol’s "Secret Girlfriend" which had a successful run at the Theatre De Nesle. He has also produced and hosted specialty events including the Variety Tonight shows in NYC and NJ.
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