Honorable Mentions, May 2001 InterBoard Poetry Competition

Poetry

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Poetry

InterBoard Poetry Competition

Honorable Mentions, May 2001

WAIT 'TIL I TELL MY DADDY
Kemel Saldívar
(Mis Poesías)

Yeah Dad, I heard that squat son of a bitch wind up,
wind up and flag me good across the butt cheeks.
Then the tall one lashed and he knew
how to swing a whip, nine swine skin thongs
trimmed with twin lead rays flaying broad
across my trapezoid. Then the short one hit,
and the tall one, and he hit, and he hit,
and Israel sung Hossana, falsetto Halleluias
as skin tore, veins and capillaries juiced.
Arteries sprayed as Judea raved and centurions
driveled to naked muscle of whimpering messiah,
backskin red in dancing ribbons, flapping
to Zion’s temperate gusts. My flesh was made
an octopus of tissue, so the Italians stopped.

And I slumped to the courtyard, cramping,
cursing, sticky. Centurions sang my kingdom,
robed my wet topography in purple velvet,
tacked some thorny firebranch to my scalp--
veiny as your Hebrews. They shouted,
touting the centurion stour. Stew them
in pogrom, I prayed. Evermore spit baptismal
pogrom--cook the Levites in rank sulfur,
hurry patience to Armageddon, boil kike
fungus in Gehenna! your hell smear peace.
And they gave me a branch for a scepter,
and bitchslapped me and called me pretty,
then cudgeled my crown with that branch, slurping
when my scalp blood blotted their headgear.

But Dad, I loved Italian virtue, cried Eloi
Eloi Lama Sabachthani and Fuck Elijah!
And tearing my robe off they crabbed the flogging,
stripping blood and serum from suckling clots.
My wounds curdled, caked, were splashed
in lime juice; my eyes gargled crimson.
They membraned my shit-meat to humor
your people, and saddled the cross arm--
the hundred-pound timber gouging the armspan
it would sport. The splintered lumber nested
in your pigeon-king Father! I hit the deck.
Write what you will of my piety, but with Skull Hill 650 yards away, you think I did not bitch?
Yeah, Mikey and Gabe strained their collars.

Judge Harvey Stanbrough's comment: “A refreshingly honest, open, striking look at the crucifixion through the (rightly) opinionated eyes of a fearless poet.”

WAITING AS THE BIRD WAITS (FOR PERMISSION)
Richard Zola
(OZPoets)

this may be the last room
these the last shadows
on polished wood
your bracelets on this table
(yes and you traced
with your finger
circles in the grain of pine)
the birds you painted
across the wall
the bowls you made
these yellow flowers
this air on my skin
as you pass
this need to taste your teeth
to read the maps of your mouth
to press into you
to eat your hair
this stained floor
and your feet
blue veined and painted
this may be the last time
of waiting
for the shift of air
as you open the door
from the street

Judge Harvey Stanbrough's comment: “An excellent use of alternatively longer and shorter lines to drive home the wonderful imagery of this poem.”

PREGNANT VOICES (OF CHILDBEARING AGE)
Elizabeth Kate
(Callahan's Saloon)

I.

I haven't ever had a child of my own.
Now,
I don't think it makes me less a person
Never to have grown a person inside me.
Still...
When I heard him say, “A
Woman's defining moment is when she gives birth,”
I admit
I felt a twinge of regret
At all the could-have-beens
Before I faced him squarely and said, “I am
Not less fulfilled because I haven't seen
Myself round and full and fertile.
I have found my definition
By making different choices.”
I spoke the truth.
But...
It's a part of womanhood I've always wanted,
A child of my own.

II.

I cringe
When I hear them say,
“So when do you two think you'll start a family?”
Some people
Are worse than the IRS or insurance forms
For asking nosy questions.
I think I'll get a t-shirt,
Paint an arrow on it, pointing to my womb,
And write: “This space intentionally left blank.”

III.

Last Sunday, see, I accidentally
almost killed the woman next to me in the pew.
I think I could have beat her
with my prayer book, if I hadn't been so busy
trying to remember whether
turning the other cheek
meant that I shouldn't tell her
to mind her own damn business
when she reminded me the Bible
said, “go forth and multiply,”
and coyly asked when we were planning
to do our part.
I'm pretty sure I could have beat the rap,
pleaded temporary insanity
due to grief, two failed adoptions,
and infertility.

IV.

She wears pregnancy proudly,
A badge of womanhood.
She flirts flashing eyes
And rolls full hips,
Maternity blouse swinging
With milk-engorged breasts.
Like a Cochiti storyteller,
Or the Madonna of Renaissance art,
Artlessly
She flaunts fertility.

Judge Harvey Stanbrough's comment: “A little wordy in places, but structured well and emotion laden. Wish I could've personally choked the other lady in the pew on behalf of this poet.”

LOVING HYMN
Ani Gjika
(Atlantic Unbound)

To love him is a matter
of building brick and gold
walls, splashing in hot weather,
walking in cold feet.

It is to build a weir
by day and tear it down
by night, speak in silent voices
from many cages deep.

It is to plant a tree that bends
this way and that and
while the apples never fall
the ground stays apple full.

It is to pick the black
fish from white waters
inside his eyes for a new
purpose under our sun.

It is a matter of telling him
of love and what suffices,
a song I sing to hush
all his surrounding noises.