Poetry competition CLOSED 1st July 2019 6:54pm
WINNER
Anonymous
Anonymous
RUNNERS-UP:
PoetsRevenge
and Heaven_sent_Kathy
Fear of Oneself
Poetry Contest Description
The Classic Corner: Sharon Olds' Tribute
After a month's hiatus, The Classic Corner is back! Co-Host - JohnnyBlaze ( also the amazing artist who rendered Olds' portrait )
Part XV in an ongoing series introducing serious writers of DUP to the most well-known poets in classical and modern literature.
Sharon Olds ( November 19, 1942 ) is one of America's contemporary poetry’s leading voices. She is known for writing intensely personal, emotionally scathing poetry which graphically depicts family life as well as global political events. “Sharon Olds is enormously self-aware,” wrote David Leavitt in the Voice Literary Supplement. “Her poetry is remarkable for its candor, its eroticism, and its power to move.” Olds’ poetry is also known for its accessible and direct free verse style. Often first-person narratives, her poetic voice is known for both its precision and versatility. The colorful events of the poems are always rendered in sharply realized images that cut quickly from the gory to the beautiful and back again. Her books appeal to a wide audience, and almost all of her work has undergone multiple printings.
Among her many awards and honours, she received prestigious awards, including the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Critics Circle Award, T. S. Eliot Prize, and the first San Francisco Poetry Center Award
Guidelines
Write a new poem honoring Olds inspired by any of her poems. Do your best to make us feel as though we are reading poems by Olds. The more we feel you "capturing her essence" in "your own words" , the higher you will score. This will involve choice of wording, delivery, subject material, formatting, target audience - a wide range of factors.
The Rules
1. One entry per DUP persona.
2. No erotica; this is open to all ages and can't be viewed with an ECW.
3. No exact word limit; however, attempt to keep it no more than 250 - 300.
4. Any form is acceptable ( studying the poet is advised ).
5. Hashtag your poem #SharonOlds and link to your poem here. Do NOT copy paste your poem to the competition. The point is to eventually direct visitors searching for Levertov to your poem via the hashtag we hope will eventually be implemented by the Webmiss.
6. In your poem's notes, provide a link to the poem(s) by Olds that inspired yours ( please do not forget this step - we have had wonderful entries which were disqualified for not adhering to this simple yet required step ).
Comp will be judged by a panel including myself. You have one month; best of luck to all entrants.
(A Sea Of) The Unborn
Sometimes I hear him yelping,
the tiny one that never was;
I feel his minute potential orbing
in my head.
He is writing me love letters;
they are stacked against everything -
Murmuring his faint heartbeat
that never takes or emerges.
I wonder how such solace
could be mine to think of him,
or how he dozes inside such
bleak non-reality.
Desperately, I feel him reaching,
waiting for a reaction;
I feel his liquid soul, his blue torment
pulsing in a sea of the unborn.
.....
#SharonOlds
( a non-entry )
the tiny one that never was;
I feel his minute potential orbing
in my head.
He is writing me love letters;
they are stacked against everything -
Murmuring his faint heartbeat
that never takes or emerges.
I wonder how such solace
could be mine to think of him,
or how he dozes inside such
bleak non-reality.
Desperately, I feel him reaching,
waiting for a reaction;
I feel his liquid soul, his blue torment
pulsing in a sea of the unborn.
.....
#SharonOlds
( a non-entry )
Written by PoetsRevenge
Go To Page
A Sausage Cock
( after the poet Sharon Olds )
As a man who should be self aware
like others of his gender,
I watch him on his own,
pushing an empty shopping cart
past the processed meat—
unconscious that here I am
just down the aisle by the spice rack,
where the garlic with parsley, and
hot Hungarian paprika, stand erect.
The way I imagine his member does,
encased in denim’s crush of crotch;
a sausage cock. It’s as if I’m standing
amid his blond acreage, hardly seeing him
but for the stalk of corn in a field of wheat.
As a man who should be self aware
like others of his gender,
I watch him on his own,
pushing an empty shopping cart
past the processed meat—
unconscious that here I am
just down the aisle by the spice rack,
where the garlic with parsley, and
hot Hungarian paprika, stand erect.
The way I imagine his member does,
encased in denim’s crush of crotch;
a sausage cock. It’s as if I’m standing
amid his blond acreage, hardly seeing him
but for the stalk of corn in a field of wheat.
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
The Bite ( after Sharon Olds )
When I was four years-old,
I bit my six month-old brother, hard;
my baby-teeth sinking into his delicate flesh,
soap residue coated my lips from his fresh bath.
As he screamed, I felt instant shame.
But it was too late, my mother retaliated
puncturing my good arm with her canines,
a consequence of my action.
Her sharp anger drew blood;
she became an old nurse
whose sensitivity disappeared with youth.
I was jealous of the affection afforded him
because it was foreign behaviour;
something I never experienced from her.
It contrasted belt and switch marks,
and exile to my bedroom.
All alone, listening to her coo
while he giggled, I realized being loved was something
I was abandoned to learn on my own.
I scanned my toys, those inanimate, cold-blooded
bodies, and realized I had so much love to give
regardless of their inability to reciprocate.
I hugged my doll, tightly, that soft rubber baby
with a damaged arm. I never stopped Loving
after that.
And one day, I allowed its return.
~
#SharonOlds
I bit my six month-old brother, hard;
my baby-teeth sinking into his delicate flesh,
soap residue coated my lips from his fresh bath.
As he screamed, I felt instant shame.
But it was too late, my mother retaliated
puncturing my good arm with her canines,
a consequence of my action.
Her sharp anger drew blood;
she became an old nurse
whose sensitivity disappeared with youth.
I was jealous of the affection afforded him
because it was foreign behaviour;
something I never experienced from her.
It contrasted belt and switch marks,
and exile to my bedroom.
All alone, listening to her coo
while he giggled, I realized being loved was something
I was abandoned to learn on my own.
I scanned my toys, those inanimate, cold-blooded
bodies, and realized I had so much love to give
regardless of their inability to reciprocate.
I hugged my doll, tightly, that soft rubber baby
with a damaged arm. I never stopped Loving
after that.
And one day, I allowed its return.
~
#SharonOlds
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
non-entry
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Sundowner
( after Sharon Olds )
The days have been passing by
endless, or so it seems to me.
I have all the time in the world,
but not for myself. As one’s powers
ebb and slow to a sluggish creep,
until I discover a curious
self-satisfaction of autonomy:
not obligated to givIng reasons
for those who expect answers to
placate a guilty conscience
when it’s my business.
Like one’s mother, who has now
taken what seems is a final turn.
Not able to walk. In a special bed
with in-home care. Her face
pinched, closed, in a scowl
from all the pain she has in spite
the morphine drips.
Pastey, with a fierceness in light
of her body’s sagging resignation.
Even having lost all appetite,
as I have but on a far lesser scale.
Her bed is close to the window;
she faces away, not noticing the
intense flashing she hates
of the sundowners
as the end approaches, having
claimed her own autonomy.
#SharonOlds
The days have been passing by
endless, or so it seems to me.
I have all the time in the world,
but not for myself. As one’s powers
ebb and slow to a sluggish creep,
until I discover a curious
self-satisfaction of autonomy:
not obligated to givIng reasons
for those who expect answers to
placate a guilty conscience
when it’s my business.
Like one’s mother, who has now
taken what seems is a final turn.
Not able to walk. In a special bed
with in-home care. Her face
pinched, closed, in a scowl
from all the pain she has in spite
the morphine drips.
Pastey, with a fierceness in light
of her body’s sagging resignation.
Even having lost all appetite,
as I have but on a far lesser scale.
Her bed is close to the window;
she faces away, not noticing the
intense flashing she hates
of the sundowners
as the end approaches, having
claimed her own autonomy.
#SharonOlds
Written by Heaven_sent_Kathy
Go To Page
two mirrors
(Fear of oneself: Sharon Olds tribute competition)
It was as if he was scared that the sky-blue
anger in his eyes would become dull
if I became a better person. When he died
I tore through; sauntered creepily; shamelessly
removed all the drawers, emptied all pockets,
shook all bags, opened all the books for clues
to know why, whenever we had talked,
we were in two different rooms.
We had a couple of large mirrors
in the house, angelically bordered with rust,
book-ending his artwork; half for me,
half for the world. They hung on a stone façade
he had installed over a cave-like space behind.
It was there with an unsettling callousness
that I threw down the gay porn and condoms.
I always knew all things were hidden; as a young boy
I would flit by his bedside while he slept borrowing
his girly mags not remembering their order
when replaced. At night while I slept, the door
would slam open; a neck-hold and a storm rage
of ‘Keep Away’ would lullaby-me chaotically
through the night.
It never stopped me though,
for that I felt weirdly a little his pride. I shake when I write that.
I placed no thought on neither ritual
nor disillusion as I threw the tapes into black bags,
atop his unpaid bills, under dried paint brushes.
I did not know in what coffin I could bury this emotion.
For his sunrise and dusk split him. His eastern shine built libraries;
his sinking west destroyed them. Now there are only two things
I unearth: for when he never left my gaze
on the hospital bed; his blue eyes dulled
and when we arrived home,
it was him,
that suddenly burst out of the field,
weightless, winged and whole to explore the sky.
#SharonOlds
It was as if he was scared that the sky-blue
anger in his eyes would become dull
if I became a better person. When he died
I tore through; sauntered creepily; shamelessly
removed all the drawers, emptied all pockets,
shook all bags, opened all the books for clues
to know why, whenever we had talked,
we were in two different rooms.
We had a couple of large mirrors
in the house, angelically bordered with rust,
book-ending his artwork; half for me,
half for the world. They hung on a stone façade
he had installed over a cave-like space behind.
It was there with an unsettling callousness
that I threw down the gay porn and condoms.
I always knew all things were hidden; as a young boy
I would flit by his bedside while he slept borrowing
his girly mags not remembering their order
when replaced. At night while I slept, the door
would slam open; a neck-hold and a storm rage
of ‘Keep Away’ would lullaby-me chaotically
through the night.
It never stopped me though,
for that I felt weirdly a little his pride. I shake when I write that.
I placed no thought on neither ritual
nor disillusion as I threw the tapes into black bags,
atop his unpaid bills, under dried paint brushes.
I did not know in what coffin I could bury this emotion.
For his sunrise and dusk split him. His eastern shine built libraries;
his sinking west destroyed them. Now there are only two things
I unearth: for when he never left my gaze
on the hospital bed; his blue eyes dulled
and when we arrived home,
it was him,
that suddenly burst out of the field,
weightless, winged and whole to explore the sky.
#SharonOlds
Written by nomoth
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
AC
A hot summer day
Inside a steel mill
Cutting glowing red
Billets of iron
With a huge
Acetylene torch
I thought I was
About to die
When suddenly
I passed out
I awoke in a small
Cinder block building
Cooled by a squeaky
Amana AC unit
Where God's cool breath
Was blowing across
My pale face
At that moment
I experienced
The realization
That without
The Lord's salvation
I will be condemned
To a similar place
That never ever
Is air conditioned
#SharonOlds
Inside a steel mill
Cutting glowing red
Billets of iron
With a huge
Acetylene torch
I thought I was
About to die
When suddenly
I passed out
I awoke in a small
Cinder block building
Cooled by a squeaky
Amana AC unit
Where God's cool breath
Was blowing across
My pale face
At that moment
I experienced
The realization
That without
The Lord's salvation
I will be condemned
To a similar place
That never ever
Is air conditioned
#SharonOlds
Written by snugglebuck
Go To Page
Anonymous
Just a heads up, Folks.
Ahavati and I are now advertising the Classic Corner comps directly on our website
http://PoeticMedics.com
with the intent of announcing the winners, linking to the winning entries and promoting future comps in the hopes of expanding your readership.
Individual pages for each comp will added soon similar to our NaPoWriMo 2019 page:
http://PoeticMedics.com/napowrimo_2019_poems.html
Ahavati and I are now advertising the Classic Corner comps directly on our website
http://PoeticMedics.com
with the intent of announcing the winners, linking to the winning entries and promoting future comps in the hopes of expanding your readership.
Individual pages for each comp will added soon similar to our NaPoWriMo 2019 page:
http://PoeticMedics.com/napowrimo_2019_poems.html
Attencion: Firstly, we now have a Classic Corner Discussion Thread:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/speakeasy/read/10855/#448901
Secondly, we're putting the final touches on the Classic Corner edition of our website. Each comp will look like the screenshot above. The icons will link back to your winning poems. If ANY previous CC winner, or current competitor, does not wish to be on featured, please message us immediately.
You can view the site updates here: http://poeticmedics.com/index.html
We've only added winners to Gibran and Addonizio as examples for you to view. We will be adding the rest this week. It is our hope that this will give you more exposure as a writer and drive fresh members to the site. Many of our NaPoWriMo participants experienced double and triple views on their featured NaPo Poems.
While your poetry will not be featured on our alternative social platforms - the link to our classic comps will.
A huge heads up to Johnny for working so hard to have this completed by June ( or, should I say tolerating my design preferences alterations
). 
Amongst the graveyard ghosts # Sharon olds
Walking down the potholed road
Just me and lonlely steps. corns were pinching
New shoes just for vanitys sake
Swearing" the white ones fitted like a glove"
Do you think that God would care
He was never at home when you called
Come self doubts, question marks fall capsized
Prayers screemed from quavering lips
The lych gate creaked
It signaled the road to come
Some carried crying, and some in white
Confetti and rice in your pockets
The gravestones they tell another tale
Why do they tilt
Stop it she thought, gilt or pleasure
An answer somtimes it comes
Small moments like new shoes that pinch
" to late now to spoil youself" was wrote on her headstone
Just me and lonlely steps. corns were pinching
New shoes just for vanitys sake
Swearing" the white ones fitted like a glove"
Do you think that God would care
He was never at home when you called
Come self doubts, question marks fall capsized
Prayers screemed from quavering lips
The lych gate creaked
It signaled the road to come
Some carried crying, and some in white
Confetti and rice in your pockets
The gravestones they tell another tale
Why do they tilt
Stop it she thought, gilt or pleasure
An answer somtimes it comes
Small moments like new shoes that pinch
" to late now to spoil youself" was wrote on her headstone
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Known To Be Left (Left Behind)
Mirrored in absence
known, felt,
the one shot taken, unremoved.
I unbutton my blouse
to find him whole, a pitcher of cream
soured, undrank,
left behind by my thirstless heart,
tears lifted by Mercy's angel from it,
and him, gone.
I remember his backside the most vividly,
I could not swim far enough to reach
and pull him back to me
through an eyelet of my hopefulness.
I could not repair the dying love for him.
I remain untouched, ashamed of my pitted skin
above where my own heart had been,
all along in faith,
laughing on the outside as
naked with the clothed,
slowly coming undone.
I die inside the
insect-bitten flesh of his leaving,
no longer known best by anyone,
broken free from having been known.
.....
#SharonOlds
(A non-entry)
known, felt,
the one shot taken, unremoved.
I unbutton my blouse
to find him whole, a pitcher of cream
soured, undrank,
left behind by my thirstless heart,
tears lifted by Mercy's angel from it,
and him, gone.
I remember his backside the most vividly,
I could not swim far enough to reach
and pull him back to me
through an eyelet of my hopefulness.
I could not repair the dying love for him.
I remain untouched, ashamed of my pitted skin
above where my own heart had been,
all along in faith,
laughing on the outside as
naked with the clothed,
slowly coming undone.
I die inside the
insect-bitten flesh of his leaving,
no longer known best by anyone,
broken free from having been known.
.....
#SharonOlds
(A non-entry)
Written by PoetsRevenge
Go To Page
Early Memory ( after Sharon Olds )
Imprint—a bridge, and someone—
an Aunt, squeezing my hand;
wobbly-walk, trees after rain
infused light of branch and leaves—
sound but not sight, water
moving underward, echo—
muffled voices—human and animal
heat solidified on skin, humidity
beading necklaces, lace and dirt—
after-rain muddiness drying in sun;
imprint, footfall of a paw, fossilized
now long gone, having moved on
leaving its mark on the world —
history in hours, significance;
“I’ve been here,” it announced
without uttering a word—
I understood that one day
mine would be left too.
~
#SharonOlds
an Aunt, squeezing my hand;
wobbly-walk, trees after rain
infused light of branch and leaves—
sound but not sight, water
moving underward, echo—
muffled voices—human and animal
heat solidified on skin, humidity
beading necklaces, lace and dirt—
after-rain muddiness drying in sun;
imprint, footfall of a paw, fossilized
now long gone, having moved on
leaving its mark on the world —
history in hours, significance;
“I’ve been here,” it announced
without uttering a word—
I understood that one day
mine would be left too.
~
#SharonOlds
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
non-entry
