Poetry competition CLOSED 28th November 2018 3:07am
WINNER
ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
RUNNERS-UP:
snugglebuck
and PoetsRevenge
The Man-Moth
The Mountain (How We Love)
How in my heart I can picture you and me,
sitting upon the mantle smilingly
gazing out upon the world as it appears,
an endless sea
Burning our eyes like fire,
salty and drawing our breath.
For what would we wish,
for Heaven in our midst,
for losing ourself in this dream.
For what we can hope for in this place,
for that which we can only esteem.
Setting suns and rising tides
are cherished moments in our time,
together are pondered frame by frame,
but what can come of this heart's name:
Our lives and the memory of it are
compressed into one..
We reflect upon one another
only as much as a mirror sees,
gives itself back to the other
and in this way you reflect me.
I can’t regret you if I tried,
I conjured you up all my life,
you became how we remained,
for only this we tried
and tried and tried as whence we stood
as a sea gull on a moor,
to never fall or forget to stand,
in this way we never would.
We stood for things beyond remand,
we reached for things beyond our hands.
A moving sea so icy cold
froze our wrists to the bone,
yet we never were alone.
Every light within us shone
Illuminating all that lives
beneath the waters crystal keep.
And I keep you and you keep me
warmed within our earthly stones,
warming things within our bones;
unknown things, unseen things.
And so never were we all alone.
On mountaintops where meadows grow,
surely we can walk and wade.
Like the grasses to and fro,
as children we can remain.
Grass is green in Spring to all Summer long
so it does not show its age.
Within each blade, a mountains song:
So does our love not know its age.
.....
#ElizabethBishop
sitting upon the mantle smilingly
gazing out upon the world as it appears,
an endless sea
Burning our eyes like fire,
salty and drawing our breath.
For what would we wish,
for Heaven in our midst,
for losing ourself in this dream.
For what we can hope for in this place,
for that which we can only esteem.
Setting suns and rising tides
are cherished moments in our time,
together are pondered frame by frame,
but what can come of this heart's name:
Our lives and the memory of it are
compressed into one..
We reflect upon one another
only as much as a mirror sees,
gives itself back to the other
and in this way you reflect me.
I can’t regret you if I tried,
I conjured you up all my life,
you became how we remained,
for only this we tried
and tried and tried as whence we stood
as a sea gull on a moor,
to never fall or forget to stand,
in this way we never would.
We stood for things beyond remand,
we reached for things beyond our hands.
A moving sea so icy cold
froze our wrists to the bone,
yet we never were alone.
Every light within us shone
Illuminating all that lives
beneath the waters crystal keep.
And I keep you and you keep me
warmed within our earthly stones,
warming things within our bones;
unknown things, unseen things.
And so never were we all alone.
On mountaintops where meadows grow,
surely we can walk and wade.
Like the grasses to and fro,
as children we can remain.
Grass is green in Spring to all Summer long
so it does not show its age.
Within each blade, a mountains song:
So does our love not know its age.
.....
#ElizabethBishop
Written by PoetsRevenge
Go To Page
fuel stop (filling station)
it was sitting on the state line
just a gas station with a grubby diner
overalls that could stand alone
the greeting of "aa won bee lonng"
I smothed my hair c'ause the hood was down
cheaked my look in the rear view mirr
his hands were manacured with oil
the thousand engines gears entrails
"hoodwy mam" said the missing teeth
and the ponytail so clogged with gease
my sun glasses I fold and put away
tosesterone can so betray
fuel needle on the red matched my blush
I pulled the hood and he cracked a smile
the sun glints on the filling dial
you going far his eyes questioned dark
Ford Mustangs like this "da don cum ceep"
and I was bored with the lonley road
and my skirt rode a little up my thigh
and slipped my rings into my purse
his musles toned the winshield clean
the burn it was real I tried not to believe
what to tip, just mother nature gile
the service charge the pump on the boarder line
come back again, return anytime
just a gas station with a grubby diner
overalls that could stand alone
the greeting of "aa won bee lonng"
I smothed my hair c'ause the hood was down
cheaked my look in the rear view mirr
his hands were manacured with oil
the thousand engines gears entrails
"hoodwy mam" said the missing teeth
and the ponytail so clogged with gease
my sun glasses I fold and put away
tosesterone can so betray
fuel needle on the red matched my blush
I pulled the hood and he cracked a smile
the sun glints on the filling dial
you going far his eyes questioned dark
Ford Mustangs like this "da don cum ceep"
and I was bored with the lonley road
and my skirt rode a little up my thigh
and slipped my rings into my purse
his musles toned the winshield clean
the burn it was real I tried not to believe
what to tip, just mother nature gile
the service charge the pump on the boarder line
come back again, return anytime
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Mother Hood
She stood there,
slightly ominous with a red hood that covered most of her face,
with a long red coat that reached all the way down to her boots.
“What about her?” I asked him curiously “she looks really cool”,
“Her name is Mother Hood” he responded “but she’s a villain”.
“How can she be a villain is she’s a mother?” I asked surprised,
“Technically she’s not a mother” he said as we glanced at her stance,
menacing like something out of a comic book or a graphic novel.
Then I wondered,
why on earth he would conjure up such a villainous creature?
The way she moved amid the unsuspecting crowd with such ease,
she seemed to be so wicked with an unknown objective.
She shifted like a shadow, a wretched memory of dreams past,
conveying a foreboding of unavoidable consequences that lie ahead,
her coat moved like a cape, her hood never revealing her eyes,
as if she’d been stripped of her sight and only had ominous vision.
As I drove away,
her silhouette seemed to follow like a faceless apparition in the night,
Lurking in the shadows of the hills, soaring fast like the blink of the eye,
on the corner of gas stations she appeared over and over again,
on the dimly lit lonely roads that ran parallel to the highway,
she was there, watching, trailing, silent, never revealing her true nature.
It could be said that under her tough guise was a feminine slender figure,
but her presence felt strong, sinister, malicious and so calculating.
Yet Mother Hood
never approached, never interacted or tried to make any contact,
it was as if her whole purpose was to let you know she was there,
to let you know that she knew your every move, your every intention
so that you’d freeze or give into some kind of unreal internal fear.
She was unrelenting in her pursuit, a dark superpower of sorts
which seemed to take a hold if you acknowledged her being there,
like a nightmare you had as a child which now had materialized.
It was in the mountain pass
where I realized who Mother Hood was and why she was there,
that shadow that chased me through the valleys and hills as I drove faster,
I slowly sank into my seat, with discomfort and anxiety slowly spreading,
looking up at the peaks where the moon cast a pale light amid the dark,
I was young again, not a man but a boy scared of the tale I had just been told,
and then I remember what my son had said as he had presented his art work,
“A hero needs a counterpart, a villain who plays on his opponent’s weakness”.
#ElizabethBishop
In the style of "The Man-Moth"
slightly ominous with a red hood that covered most of her face,
with a long red coat that reached all the way down to her boots.
“What about her?” I asked him curiously “she looks really cool”,
“Her name is Mother Hood” he responded “but she’s a villain”.
“How can she be a villain is she’s a mother?” I asked surprised,
“Technically she’s not a mother” he said as we glanced at her stance,
menacing like something out of a comic book or a graphic novel.
Then I wondered,
why on earth he would conjure up such a villainous creature?
The way she moved amid the unsuspecting crowd with such ease,
she seemed to be so wicked with an unknown objective.
She shifted like a shadow, a wretched memory of dreams past,
conveying a foreboding of unavoidable consequences that lie ahead,
her coat moved like a cape, her hood never revealing her eyes,
as if she’d been stripped of her sight and only had ominous vision.
As I drove away,
her silhouette seemed to follow like a faceless apparition in the night,
Lurking in the shadows of the hills, soaring fast like the blink of the eye,
on the corner of gas stations she appeared over and over again,
on the dimly lit lonely roads that ran parallel to the highway,
she was there, watching, trailing, silent, never revealing her true nature.
It could be said that under her tough guise was a feminine slender figure,
but her presence felt strong, sinister, malicious and so calculating.
Yet Mother Hood
never approached, never interacted or tried to make any contact,
it was as if her whole purpose was to let you know she was there,
to let you know that she knew your every move, your every intention
so that you’d freeze or give into some kind of unreal internal fear.
She was unrelenting in her pursuit, a dark superpower of sorts
which seemed to take a hold if you acknowledged her being there,
like a nightmare you had as a child which now had materialized.
It was in the mountain pass
where I realized who Mother Hood was and why she was there,
that shadow that chased me through the valleys and hills as I drove faster,
I slowly sank into my seat, with discomfort and anxiety slowly spreading,
looking up at the peaks where the moon cast a pale light amid the dark,
I was young again, not a man but a boy scared of the tale I had just been told,
and then I remember what my son had said as he had presented his art work,
“A hero needs a counterpart, a villain who plays on his opponent’s weakness”.
#ElizabethBishop
In the style of "The Man-Moth"
Written by wallyroo92
Go To Page
The DX Station
A Ford, a Dodge or even Chevy
Ding Ding the hose announcing
or maybe just some of the gang
with weight upon it, bouncing
In summer eves at half past dinner
bring our bikes and choose up sides
the DX station with lights much dimmer
get ready for the 'Ditch-em' rides
Choc-Ola was the favored choice
at fifteen cents a bottle
passed around and shared by all
allowed but just a swallow
Becky, Cheryl (aka 'Bone Shaker')
from a story read in school
King, McKeever, Sailor and Baker
four boys we thought were cool
Though well described within her poem
Elizabeth's short visit missed
all the things that made it home
to neighbor kids who knew its bliss
These are the memories which I've recalled
as read your tribute to 'The Filling Station'
gone now the pumps and many friends
that time has claimed though not forsaken.
#Elizabeth Bishop
Written by Amorous_tryst
Go To Page
Firstly, we'd like to thank each person who took the time to read about Elizabeth Bishop as well as write a tribute poem. Webmiss should be creating a hashtag very soon.
Many don't know that Bishop was an artist as well as poet, and her written works reflected her paintings in their ability to capture and portray the significance of scenes through color and words. Despite Bishop's independent wealth, she paid particular attention to the working-class setting: factories, farms, and fishing villages. Ernie Hilbert once wrote: “Bishop’s poetics is one distinguished by tranquil observation, craft-like accuracy, care for the small things of the world, a miniaturist’s discretion and attention. Unlike the pert and wooly poetry that came to dominate American literature by the second half of her life, her poems are balanced like Alexander Calder mobiles, turning so subtly as to seem almost still at first, every element, every weight of meaning and song, poised flawlessly against the next.”
This is exactly the model we looked for while judging this competition. Let us say first, that each entrant's submission was very much appreciated. We would ask in the future to pay particular attention to the rules: Hashtags ( slipalong you failed to hashtag #ElizabethBishop per the guidelines - this disqualified you
); spelling/grammar ( Wallyroo, we didn't get through the first stanza before stumbling - “How can she be a villain is she’s a mother?” This knocked you out of placing ); and form, which all contestants displayed excellence in accomplishing.
That being said, the winners are as follows:
Poppy, it was unanimous that your submission, 'A Cold Spring' captured not only its essence through an observational lens in the manner of Bishop, but also captured the essence of Bishop herself. It was flawless in presentation, paying attention to the minute details of the earth and those who toiled. Congratulations on a job well done.
Snugglebuck, we were so impressed with this submission, and felt you really stepped out of your box and hit the mark. While you captured the essence of Bishop's poetry flawlessly, yours was more detoured into somewhat of an environmentalist stance exercising the futility of theoretics. For this you were awarded second place.
Poetsrevenge, your submission was a well crafted poem with rhyme that flowed, and was an excellent homage to A Cold Spring; however, it was more confessional, thus turning the focus on the narrator. Because of this you were awarded third.
We'd like to further add an Honorary Mention to Josh and Jade for their excellence in form submissions.
Again thank you to all who entered. Elizabeth was a wonderful poetess whose legacy deserves to be remembered. Because of each submission here, she will be via a hashtag on DUP.
Many don't know that Bishop was an artist as well as poet, and her written works reflected her paintings in their ability to capture and portray the significance of scenes through color and words. Despite Bishop's independent wealth, she paid particular attention to the working-class setting: factories, farms, and fishing villages. Ernie Hilbert once wrote: “Bishop’s poetics is one distinguished by tranquil observation, craft-like accuracy, care for the small things of the world, a miniaturist’s discretion and attention. Unlike the pert and wooly poetry that came to dominate American literature by the second half of her life, her poems are balanced like Alexander Calder mobiles, turning so subtly as to seem almost still at first, every element, every weight of meaning and song, poised flawlessly against the next.”
This is exactly the model we looked for while judging this competition. Let us say first, that each entrant's submission was very much appreciated. We would ask in the future to pay particular attention to the rules: Hashtags ( slipalong you failed to hashtag #ElizabethBishop per the guidelines - this disqualified you
); spelling/grammar ( Wallyroo, we didn't get through the first stanza before stumbling - “How can she be a villain is she’s a mother?” This knocked you out of placing ); and form, which all contestants displayed excellence in accomplishing. That being said, the winners are as follows:
Poppy, it was unanimous that your submission, 'A Cold Spring' captured not only its essence through an observational lens in the manner of Bishop, but also captured the essence of Bishop herself. It was flawless in presentation, paying attention to the minute details of the earth and those who toiled. Congratulations on a job well done.
Snugglebuck, we were so impressed with this submission, and felt you really stepped out of your box and hit the mark. While you captured the essence of Bishop's poetry flawlessly, yours was more detoured into somewhat of an environmentalist stance exercising the futility of theoretics. For this you were awarded second place.
Poetsrevenge, your submission was a well crafted poem with rhyme that flowed, and was an excellent homage to A Cold Spring; however, it was more confessional, thus turning the focus on the narrator. Because of this you were awarded third.
We'd like to further add an Honorary Mention to Josh and Jade for their excellence in form submissions.
Again thank you to all who entered. Elizabeth was a wonderful poetess whose legacy deserves to be remembered. Because of each submission here, she will be via a hashtag on DUP.
Congratulations not just to our winners, runners up and honorable mentions, but to everyone who took the opportunity to immerse yourself in the writing of an established poet. Bishop wrote with the hopes that she would be read. You write with the hopes you will be read. It's the Circle of Literary Life that helps give birth to new poets and great poetry in the years to come.
Thank you for this, for the continued dedication you and JB have for inspiring, challenging, DU writer's to read and write. I am grateful for the genuine enthusiasm and passion you both have. A pleasure to spend some time admiring and mimicking Bishop's work.
With love.
With love.
