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.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A message from: Sara Bauer
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.”
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
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.
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
No Cash Prize This Contest: Haiti Donations Now Accepted
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Introducing: Sara Bauer
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Enter the $5 quarterly poetry contest: topic is "DUMPED!"
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!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A message from: Mark NP
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.
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
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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