A Quarterly Writing & Poetry Contest

A message from: Matthew Cariello

2010-07-17T12:44:00.001-07:00

One of the things I look for in poetry is a sense of context, of the life that surrounds the poem. Whether or not this particular piece is autobiographical, it resonates in ways that go beyond the moment of the poem, out toward the politics of daily life, history and on to the moments when the outer and inner world collide. While the commitment to the “triggering constraint” has been maintained, it’s also been transcended in ways that suggest a subtle and sensitive mind. The bold subject matter, the strong images, the consistent rhythm of the quintain (broken with a sestet at a crucial moment) all suggest a writer with both natural ability and great potential. Well done, and buona fortuna!

WINNER, Summer 2010: Hell's Kitchen - Ryan Roskilly

2010-07-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

There is a demon at my kitchen table,
The father of my children,
Red and fuming with his half-empty bottle of black liquor.
I don’t dare speak; silence is his language,
Silence is my language.

I hear my children’s footsteps lightly drumming
On the hard-wood floors.
They peek their heads around the corner
To see what mood He’s in.
The bottle says it all.

The words “Get in here!” roared, as if culminated
In hell itself, rattling and cracking the windows.
It was enough to loosen my grip
On the pan I was bringing to the table.
His steak, as if in slow motion, fell to the ground.

He rose from his seat, slow and menacing;
I’d just triggered my own agony.
I drop to my knees, scrambling to salvage his patience,
But he soon towered over me,
Fingers clenched.

He waited for me to rise, to look him in the eye,
Before he cocked back and
Crushed my jaw with his hammer-like fist.
I fell to the ground, blood and teeth on my tongue.
My children look, horrified, at their mangled mother.

He looks down at me for just a second, marveling
At his work, then steps over me toward the children, whiskey in hand.
They both back against the wall
Out of reach from the monster, their father.
Good boys.

They hurry in to bring mommy to her feet,
Tears now streaming down their soft, pale cheeks.
They sit me in a chair before running
To collect towels and ice.
A glimmer of light guides my eye to his revolver on the counter.

I stand up while my little boys search,
I wander toward the pistol.
The silver metal, gleaming bright,
Tells me why he loves this gun.
My children are now watching me, looks of terrified approval;
They’ll never see my blood again.

The weight of the gun in my hand
Pulls me toward the living room,
Where the demon now sits.
I smell the liquor, his fiery rage,
Filling my lungs with flame.

I stand tall before his throne of black leather,
The shining pistol between his horns.
I look him in the eye again, this time I am strong.
My finger lays upon the trigger,
My trigger.

C.A.R. - Kev Kage

2010-07-17T12:37:00.000-07:00

One, two, points at you
Four, three, curled to me
Opposing digit starts to fidget
Tires of waiting patiently

Heard a sound, look around
Into night, out of sight
Swear that I just heard you there
Don’t run if you came to fight

Sneak attack, can’t turn back
Two best friends, thumb descends
Pow! Clang! Click! Bang!
See how this game always ends:

I got you first

No, I got YOU first

Today it was breakfast - Sarah S.

2010-07-17T12:33:00.000-07:00

Today it was breakfast.
Breakfast killed me today
half an avocado
pitted
shriveled
gray
which could have been delicious but looks instead
like a metaphor for
my decaying life. Malicious
mocking
fruit.
I am squeezed. Abruptly it begins:
that familiar fusion
of piss-warm tears
and sticky snot on my chin. This is absurd.
I’m losing my grip: avocados
are not adversaries.
But my emotions slip suddenly from beneath
like a slimy tub floor under
unsuspecting feet.
Boom.
“It’s the hormones,” I say
or
“It’s my job,” or
more
the strain of pretending
things are what they were
Before.

At dawn I am queen.
By breakfast, reduced
to a lunatic
weeping
at the sight of produce.
I have sense enough left to at least be
embarrassed. I shake my head
compose myself
wipe my nose on my sleeve.
I pour cereal instead.

Trigger - Mark NP

2010-07-17T12:32:00.001-07:00

If you believe that you possess
an individual solution to save this planet,
I’ve got a poem to sell you where
I step on a flower and – through
a series of wild and incredible events –
trigger an alternate future
where butterfly wings
crash down buildings
and aliens father a new humanity,
all thanks to chaos theory.

Gee – it kinda feels good to pretend that I
actually have some remote control
over anything that happens out there,
and that I don’t live in a time & place where
I’m a wage-slave to debt and obligation
under the threat of some brutal alternative like poverty;
that instead I alone control the fate of everything.

At present, tidal wave
forces of history and economy
have condensed
life into one hopeless
vision of an ecologically unstable and
politically violent future.

Alone I am nothing. My life is nothing.
This truth is a contradiction that puts to shame
a fantasy where I am in any way
in charge of what happens to me.
One person does not stem History
and nothing about this life
will change except that
to which humanity itself wholly
and finally endeavors together.

Deadline Extension -- June 5

2010-05-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

"Trigger" poems will be accepted until June 5. Good luck!

Introducing: Matthew M. Cariello

2010-05-13T03:38:00.000-07:00

The next Poetry Contest judge has been announced! We welcome Matt Cariello as our latest evaluator.

Matthew M. Cariello was born and raised in New Jersey. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio, where he works in the English Department at the Ohio State University. His poems and haiku have been published in Poet Lore, Artful Dodge, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, The Evening Street Review, Frogpond, Heron’s Nest, Daily Haiku, and Modern Haiku. He has also published stories and reviews in The Long Story, The Indiana Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Cortland Review, and The Journal. His essay "The Contiguous Image: Mapping Metaphor in Haiku" will appear in the summer issue of Modern Haiku.

New contest topic - TRIGGERED - deadline May 28

2010-04-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

ANNOUNCING a new topic in our continuing quarterly poetry contest. The contest is $5 to play, open to anyone, and the WINNER TAKES ALL. Every entry is published on this website.

The topic this time around is TRIGGERED. The contest will be decided and winners posted on or around May 30.

The rules are as follows: create a 2 page MS Word document. On the first page, write a short poem or prose poem around the topic TRIGGERED. You can be as creative as you like with this in both form and content. On the second page, write the title of the poem, your name, your cell phone number, and your e-mail address.

Send $5 through PayPal and e-mail the document to neurohr.pierpaoli@gmail.com by 11:59PM on May 28, 2010. The PayPal link is in the right hand margin of this blog.

The entries will be evaluated by a qualified judge, yet to be determined and soon to be announced. Good luck!

A message from: Mark NP

2010-02-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone who participated in this round of the quarterly poetry contest! Please enjoy the excellent submissions for the competition below.

Not only do we appreciate your continuing efforts in keeping poetry relevant and fun, but the added impact of this month's contributions to the Haitian earthquake relief effort gave our work new, additional importance. I'm happy to announce that through several generous donations by our poets we were able to give more than the usual minimum contest fees to Doctors Without Borders.

Though our topic for this Valentine's Day was "Dumped!" we perhaps participated with more 'love' than we might have initially guessed. Congratulations to the winner and thank you to our judge, Sara Bauer.

Our regular contest will continue with a new theme next quarter.

A message from: Sara Bauer

2010-02-14T10:04:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone who submitted to this contest, as your poems were the basis of some lively discussion on Valentine's Day Eve.

"Indecision" maintained my interest because of its two-part structure and its reference to relationship foibles that made me think, I've been there. The scene with the menus and the perceived distance between the couple was interesting because the poet worked a metaphor to new advantage, I think, with the introduction of sushi. I always wonder at diners needing a sushi menu when they've been eating the stuff for years. For me, this hinted at indecision and disaster. I've also had some first-hand experience with a large vocabulary being a liability in a relationship.

"In Summer" combines technical merit with mature insight, and was the strongest of the submissions. This poem deserves the win because it addresses the theme and transcends it, opening the door to hopefulness and personal fulfillment, not simply revenge. It's difficult to be funny in a poem without the punchline threatening to undermine the entire piece. This author snuggles a hilarious Starbucks reference in the middle of the poem, and manages to build a poem that's much, much bigger than the joke. Though this poem seems to have been inspired by an abusive relationship, the poet makes those details quite powerful through subtle means. "In Summer," effectively addresses what I believe to be the silver lining of break-ups: the opportunity to examine one's own desires and preferences irrespective of a partner. The speaker in this poem re-claims her sense of fashion and her sense of self, which I found incredibly gratifying.

WINNER, February 2010: In Summer - Sarah S.

2010-02-14T10:02:00.001-08:00

I am glad I am wearing my short skirt.
The really slutty one. The one that lived
balled up in back of the closet
as I slipped
into the dreary old lady costumes for which you praised me.
Even these, you found fault with
in our daily morning taunting ritual
in the bathroom. “Man, those pants
they fit you like a glove. Your shirt is so tight”
how you would sneer. All the khaki in the world
could not shield me from those hands.

Thick thighs bloom beneath
a twelve-inch patch of denim. I’m glad you can see them.
I am scurrying across Central
eating strawberry-habañero gelato.
Maria and I have just come
from paying for dessert, and flirting
with the man with the big teeth.
Me in my flip-flops, me in my short skirt, passing Starbucks.
I’ve said to Maria
that I cannot now pass here sans thoughts of us.
Maria advised I apply
for part-time employment
so to have worse memories of the place
than ones of you. And the man with the bicycle is you.
Not a ghost now, but you for real:
in the twilight, I am squinting to be sure.
Yes, you, and you are the one
who scooped up my kicking
screaming
170-pound self
and hurled it to the linoleum. You, who broke
My heart and my glasses.

You see me, and I
am wearing this short skirt. So I laugh. I bruise
so easily, but not today.
And then I flip my flops across the street to where Maria stands waiting.
Maybe you glance again. I hope you do
see that harlot you almost married
enjoying her freedom
under a darkening sky
in summer.

HONORABLE MENTION: Indecision - Allison C.

2010-02-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

Part I

I look over the menu at him.
He’s looking down at it, deciding which rolls to get.
I inhale sharply to hide my hesitance and fear
of making him angry over the decision
between eel and tuna.
Eel.
Tuna.
The space between his menu and mine
should have been filled with laughter and analysis, wit and charm.
Instead, silence and indecision.

His unintentional tone cut through me,
not from its searing malice,
from its utter apathy.

He’s not in love with me.

“Let’s get the tuna,” he said.

Part II

He said he doesn't like the way I speak sometimes.
He said he doesn't like the words I use.
He said I use vocabulary to try and assert my intelligence, to prove something.
I didn't know how to respond.

I stared at him. With consternation.

I didn't say the word 'consternation' because he doesn't know what it means.

(An example of the caustic sarcasm that permeated our argument last night).

He couldn't follow the logical progression of my analysis of our relationship.
...analysis being some unnecessary scientific word…
As if emotions and insecurity can be expressed in such diagnostic terms.
However, the distance and detachment that I feel from myself
In the course of this relationship can be accurately conveyed in the clinical quality of the word
Analysis.

I see the end in sight.

In a few weeks, I'll tell him we need to stop seeing each other.
In a few weeks, the full severity of his words will sink in,
If they haven't already: he is not in love with me.

Dumped - Caroline Frank

2010-02-14T09:59:00.000-08:00

Sometime around five they screeched to a stop,
And a charming young doll with blues eyes got on.
The group fell silent - in fact, they were stumped:
How did someone as handsome as him get dumped?

“She thought I was perfect when she stood in the aisle,
She held me tightly beneath her beautiful smile.
But then she took me home and we got down to living,
I guess she got bored or maybe Barbie said something.
Needless to say when this new guy showed up,
He moved in the mansion and I’m in the dump.”

“I understand what it’s like to feel cheated,
Because I gave that bastard all he ever needed.
He used me for everything! From his lunch to his car,
But like everything else he just took it too far.
And then he blamed me for the mistakes that he made -
He cut me to pieces and threw me away.”

“What happened to me was not nearly as violent,
He just moved on and for years left me silent.
And if there is one feeling I’ll never forget,
It’s the touch of his fingertips grazing my neck.
He blamed himself, said I’d done nothing wrong,
His mind was made up, but, we played one last song.”

“I hate to crash this pity party,
But when you’re all done feeling sorry,
I think that you should heed my warning:

This truck is headed for the quarry
So this guy can dump this dead girl’s body.”

“What are you saying?!”

“How can this happen?

“We’re all gonna drown! We have to stop him!”

“Are you really that crazy? What do you plan to do?
He felt no mercy for her, he feels nothing for you.”

“God dammit! Could this day get any worse?!
Is it not bad enough we were dumped by the curb?”

“Not when you can’t stop the one driving your hearse.”

Playing Games - Michael Pietrasz

2010-02-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

Boom! Marissa sunk my Battleship
again and again and again
my heart fell, Scattergories
like a drunk playing Jenga

it was game night
no Chess or Checkers
only games with three people

Marissa invited him and me
a triangle of love
I played the puppy
while he was the racecar

A cop in theory
he called it law enforcement
trying to get a triple word score

yet I had no Clue
I just wanted to Go Go Go
while those two
were trying to Connect Four

what a game of Risk
waiting for the last Uno card
in the Battle of the Sexes

it Boggled my mind
how I made the same Sorry! mistake
over and over and over again
thinking I could somehow, Backgammon

I left their Candy Land
let them scream Yahtzee!
all night long

I was stuck
in my own Trivial Pursuits
but I guess that’s why it’s called
The Game of Life.

No Cash Prize This Contest: Haiti Donations Now Accepted

2010-01-25T03:18:00.000-08:00

Please read this carefully. Each quarter we accept $5 entry fees along with your poetry submissions. Our judge announces his or her selection and, usually, all of the money collected is awarded to the winner.

At this time, however, due to recent tragedy, we think it is a better use of the funds to support those affected by the earthquake in Haiti.

Therefore, we are still accepting poetry for competition but please be aware there is no cash prize for the winner. If you would like to contribute more than the $5 entry fee please feel free. All money collected will be donated to Doctors Without Borders.

Every bit helps. Thank you for supporting this change.

Introducing: Sara Bauer

2010-01-23T09:06:00.000-08:00

We are excited to announce the poetry contest judge for February 2010!

Sara Bauer has been writing and teaching in NJ public schools since 1998. In 2002, she joined the National Writing Project at Rutgers University, where she now serves as Co-director of Internal Relations. She also works as an adjunct for the Graduate School of Education at Rutgers. Sara earned her BA and MA at Centenary College, and completed an MFA in Poetry at Fairleigh Dickinson University in 2006. She has delivered several presentations about the teaching of writing, at ASCD and NCTE conventions. Her writing has been published in the NJEA Review, Sow's Ear poetry journal, Whiskey Island magazine and the online journal of The National Writing Project.

Enter the $5 quarterly poetry contest: topic is "DUMPED!"

2010-01-12T18:33:00.000-08:00

ANNOUNCING a new topic in our continuing quarterly poetry contest. The contest is $5 to play, open to anyone, and the WINNER TAKES ALL. All contestants are published on this website.

The topic this time around is "DUMPED!" The contest will be decided and winners posted on or around February 14 - just in time to profess (or depress, or suppress) your innermost Valentine's confessions.

The rules are as follows. Create a 2 page MS Word document. On the first page, write a short poem or prose poem around the topic "DUMPED!" You can be as creative as you like with this in both form and content. On the second page, write the title of the poem, your name, your cell phone number, and your e-mail address.

Send $5 through PayPal and e-mail the document to neurohr.pierpaoli@gmail.com by 11:59PM on February 12, 2010. The PayPal link is in the right hand margin of the blog.

The entries will be evaluated by a qualified judge, yet to be determined and soon to be announced. Good luck!

A message from: Mark NP

2009-11-18T15:59:00.001-08:00

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.

A message from: Frank Calo

2009-11-18T15:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-18T15:52:00.000-08:00

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.

HONORABLE MENTION: The Flick, The Flint, The Spark, The Fire - Caroline Frank

2009-11-18T15:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Constance - Daniel Larkins

2009-11-18T15:49:00.002-08:00

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.

A True Love Affair - Sue Grass

2009-11-18T15:49:00.001-08:00

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.

Expenses - Eliezer Sobel

2009-11-18T15:46:00.002-08:00

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.

Last - Mike Drabble

2009-11-18T15:46:00.001-08:00

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

Apostrophe to Marlboros - Ruth Yeselson

2009-11-18T15:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Diner, 2005 - Mark NP

2009-11-18T15:44:00.000-08:00

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

Introducing: Frank Calo

2009-11-08T15:05:00.000-08:00

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.

NEW Deadline - NOVEMBER 17

2009-10-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

The contest deadline has been extended to November 17th.

Also, a judge has been selected! Stay tuned for details.

SMOKING poetry contest - $5 and poem due by Oct. 31 for entry!

2009-10-05T14:59:00.000-07:00

ANNOUNCING the second quarterly poetry contest. The contest is $5 to play, open to anyone, and the WINNER TAKES ALL. All contestants are published on this website.

The topic this time around is SMOKING. The contest will be decided and winners posted by November 19. We think the topic will lend itself to some interesting poems.

The rules are simple. Create a 2 page MS Word document. On the first page, write a short poem or prose poem about SMOKING. You can be as creative as you like with this in both form and content. On the second page, write the title of the poem, your name, your cell phone number, address and email.

Send $5 through PayPal and e-mail the document by midnight on October 31, 2009 to neurohr.pierpaoli@gmail.com. The PayPal link is in the right hand margin of the blog.

The entries will be evaluated by a qualified judge, yet to be determined.

Good luck!

A message from: Mike Drabble

2009-08-16T09:02:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone that entered this contest: it was a pleasure to read your work. There were some strong pieces submitted, but a decision had to be made and I went for 'Hot Fun Shark Attack'. This is a poem that captures the blank-eyed menace of the shark, but in an unexpected yet jarringly familiar setting. It shows that the shark has survived for hundreds of millions of years because its predatory efficiency can be adapted to places other than the oceans; places where, just like at some sunny shoreline, apparently innocent play can mask a more ruthless undercurrent. The writer reveals this undercurrent to be as dangerous as any we may encounter, and leaves us alert for the next time we may venture into a place - or relationship - that sees us out of our depth.

A regular writing & poetry contest: SHARKS

2009-08-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

Posted here are the submissions of the poets who participated in the first regular writing & poetry contest, August 2009. The topic was simply "SHARKS." Each contestant pitched in $5 in a winner take all short poetry free-for-all.

Ruth Yeselson's "Hot Fun Shark Attack" was declared the winner, with Dan Larkins & Anthony Lioi receiving Honorable Mentions. Mike Drabble of Unquiet Desperation judged the entries.

Feel free to leave comments for the writers.

WINNER, August 2009: Hot Fun Shark Attack - Ruth Yeselson

2009-08-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

I search GOOGLE for “shark facts”
and find: Shark Attack Hot Fun Girls Video:
Join Amy, your hot teacher in swimsuit and floaties
for Fun Facts About Different Types of Sharks.
I fear to click on it, imagining pornographic shark SPAM
circulating tirelessly in my electronic ocean, but
I cannot help but imagine the different types of sharks
nosing among the hot fun girls
as they giggle and splash for the video camera:
the Hammerhead butting against the buttock cheeks
and the Great White gliding amidst the swimsuited crotches,
as hot fun artificial boobs bounce beside fins and floaties.

Amy, this is not the poem I had planned to write,
but I feel a motherly urge to advise you:
Do not believe what the sharks tell you.
There are no fun facts about sharks:
they do not have 8-inch dicks that are always hard;
their wallets do not re-grow $100 bills each time they spend one;
life with a shark is not more fun because it’s dangerous.
Sharks existed before dinosaurs. They have territories,
but no loyalties. They perceive an injury
as a weakness, and will rip you up
when you are down. So, Amy, if you see a shark
swimming your way, flexing his athletic physique,
trailing the blood of his friends or rivals,
flashing some bling and a BIG smile,
do not wait around for the hot fun shark attack,
but swim the other way immediately,
and do not look back.

HONORABLE MENTION: Guantánamo Bay - Dan Larkins

2009-08-15T12:05:00.002-07:00

My husband:
Born in captivity
Released and caught in the wild, now
The fish fat you scrape into your scalp
The fin on your plate in Sapporo.

Our child:
Parthenogenesis then Royal Caribbean
Broke off his front teeth
But he grew them back.

Myself:
Just a hammerhead who
Sometimes at night stares
Breathless at the moon’s lights
Above spears and sirens and screaming.

HONORABLE MENTION: The Shark at Fox Point - Anthony Lioi

2009-08-15T12:05:00.001-07:00

The window is empty.
The window of George and Irene’s Aqualife fish shop is empty.
The window at Aqualife is empty.
The window in Providence is empty.

Once the tank had perfect water.
The 200 gallon tank had perfect water
and a dogfish shark, family Squalidae.
The dogfish swam in perfect water in Providence.

The dogfish was the delight of pedestrians.
The shark swam in the mighty Aqualife ocean tank,
a sign that Rhode Island fishkeeping reigned supreme!
The shark was a wonder of Providence.

Then, like Marilyn Monroe and Michael Jackson, the dogfish died.
The tank drained under mysterious circumstances.
Like Robert Kennedy and Gandhi, the shark was dead.
The shark was dead only minutes from the sea.

The mighty tank lies empty.
George and Irene are at work at the window because
like Elvis, Jesus, and the Pawtucket Red Sox
that shark is coming back!

That shark will be a wonder of Providence!

The Shark in a Well - Philippe Javier Garcesto

2009-08-15T11:54:00.000-07:00

In a restless concoction I once encountered
The Shark in a Well with whom I Battled
Terrorist of All Blue stuck in pipe
That could barely fit his Monstrous hide
Trapped in the confines of this Steel room
My only escape was through the Well
Where certainly awaited my Doom

With only a Strip of plexi-glass to cover the opening
I pressed my weight on top to brace against the Titan
His determination to barge into the room was Shocking
The pearly Knives that graced his Smile;
This beast of the sea sought to Chew upon My Head!

With no weapons on hand just my mind to withstand
The Fear of this demon Awash all over me
Pressure against the glass; my Will close to Collapse
The end was near I was losing my strength
Time crawled towards the inevitable conclusion

I stared into his black Soulless eyes
The Hunger was his only Allegiance
He broke through the surface as I was thrown back
He smiled to me a shivering quivering Edible mess and said
“STRUGGLE or SURRENDER”

Other Fish - Mark NP

2009-08-15T11:48:00.003-07:00

white legs dangle down wriggling toes, flashing thighs reflect across the room

that skirt is so short; so are your legs and you can’t touch the floor bottom

you stir the smoky blueness as you bounce one foot and splash looks to make waves

see my jagged tooth grin and the oily fins circling, do you smell blood?

there’s no frenzy - just a cool ripple that cuts the water all power and stealth

a wet rush swimming in drinks and you think something looms beneath

but I glide by without incident; your eyes follow the smooth length of my body

no attack, you’ll wake in tact left to wonder just who got rubbed the wrong way

Little Fish - Caroline Frank

2009-08-15T11:48:00.001-07:00

Will you cry when I die?
Or instead, will you sigh,
a breath of relief,
around my demise?

Never did nothin' but try to survive,
can't help how scary God made my eyes.
Can't help how violent my meals may have looked,
but if it makes you feel better, I left lunch with a hook.

A hook in my stomach to tear my insides to shreds,
but what do you care?
You'll be safe when I'm dead.

I doubt that you understand any of this,
when you're just like the others...
just a scared little fish.