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pushcart nominee

“XIV” by Joanne Godley

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

Front Cover of Picking Scabs from the Body History

 

“XIV” by Joanne Godley, a poem (previously known as “Anatomy of a Scar”) from her chapbook, Picking Scabs from the Body History, released in July, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“XIV”

I will not touch this wound    will not     I’ve taped my hands at
night worn mittens and gloves    created internal distractions to
stay as far the hell away      from myself so the hurts could crust and
scab over      I am a Black mother who told both children at their
becoming ages what it meant to be a Black in America; as they
left the Cute age, transitioned to the Intimidating age, & arrived
at the Dangerous age—America’s categories for Black youth—I
read the little black book to them at night How to Be Black and Stay
Alive—my girl included—the book told you to look a grownup
in the eye; to neither smirk nor shirk nor grin when spoken to;
stressed the importance of enunciating and articulating the King’s
English every day; to respect their elders; to neither lie nor cheat;
to say ‘yes sir’ to an officer; and understand that milk is a food not
a beverage

when my son was a phd at U Chicago*, he organized a protest
group—U Chicago having closed their Trauma Unit forcing many
South Siders to bleed to death en route to an ER across town;
Miz O was then administrator—the group leafleted, held talks,
picketed, engaged and enraged the University for years someone
sent me a YouTube video of my son’s arrest at one protest Chi
town cops surrounded him     he asked that they call the University
because the protest was sanctioned     he used the safe word those
pigs took my 77-inch baby down    face down    then opened ranks
the camera showed him on his face on the ground handcuffed my
heart flash froze      I tried to squeeze my body up into that phone
and shove aside those cops slip off his manacles and say, “get up,
Baby. Mama’s here.”      this drama plays on repeat in my head a
zillion times each day each night Trayvon Martin / Eric Garner
/ Sean Bell / Michael Brown / Alton Sterling made the news for
walking or running or speaking for saying nothing or breathing or

simply being Black     and human silent tears well and crest inside
my pain is a wrapped box no one wants to open the anti-gift     I
am all Black mothers to all Black daughters and sons birthing
them growing them launching them into the world to fight social
wrongs or die trying     their exit wounds wound me    linger deep
crust over      taut tough scars I point to with Black motherpride
this scab that scab

“there, those be my sons”

 

 

* The U Chicago Med Center broke ground on a new trauma center 9/2016—
two years after my son received his doctorate

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Joanne Godley, pushcart nominee

“Black Dot” by Julia Paul

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

CoverFront-StaringDownTheTracks

 

“Black Dot” by Julia Paul, a poem from her chapbook, Staring Down the Tracks, released in March, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Black Dot”

This is what loneliness looks like,
defined by what surrounds it.
A single black balloon
slipping through white sky.

This is the period sitting stone-still
at the end of a sentence,
any sentence, including this one.

This is what God looks like
from behind closed eyes,
faceless and distant.

This is the soul
according to some.
The soul, blackened by sin,
the light of grace snuffed out.

No.

This is the needle mark.
This is the black hole
into which the self disappears.
This is the exit wound.

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Julia Paul, pushcart nominee

“Soused Sestina” by Lauren Tivey

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

Front Book Cover, "Moroccan Holiday" poetry by Lauren Tivey
First Prize, 2019

 

“Soused Sestina” by Lauren Tivey, a poem from her winning chapbook, Moroccan Holiday, released in January, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Soused Sestina”

A blotto fantasia, on the rocks

Picture a man whose sole motivation is a bottle,
someone aimless and roaming in a dark forest of liquor,
a wolf on his track, brambles upon the path to his lover,
hunters lurking in tree stands, guns trained on this drunk
stumbling through thorny underbrush, in need of an angel
to guide him toward the shining, boozy beacon of ecstasy;

you can imagine when he lands on the spot, the ecstatic
guzzling of amber liquid—fluid of life—in the bottle
clean and glinting, its sloshing contents, his very own angel
promising relief and comfort, freedom from fear via liquor,
an escape from reality, imaginary threats. After he’s drunk
and satiated, the staggering and rolling: he’s never been so in love.

Nothing matters other than being smashed, his smashing beloved;
it’s a match made in heaven, the one true meaning, this ecstasy
of ethanol, forest now a seaside resort, conjured from the drink,
wonderland of waves, sun, salt, and suds, ships in a bottle,
even hunters morphed into mermaids, gesturing with liquor
from boulders in the undulating ocean, like pure angels.

It’s the promised land, he’s made it, and from every angle
it’s clear sailing with the Seven Sisters, a balmy day, so lovely,
in boats of booze, whiling away the time, answering liquor’s
siren call, forgetting past, present, and future, only this ecstasy
in his companion, his soulmate, enchanting inamorata in a bottle,
fulfilling every need and desire, which is only to be drunker

than the next lamo wobbling their way down an alley, drunk
as a skunk. Hold fast! he shouts, hold true! My darling angel
I’ll never leave you!
He’s the chosen of the genie in the bottle,
he knows, never learning she always strands her unwitting lovers
on the rocks, battering and breaking them in sadistic ecstasy,
leaving them quivering, devoid of hope, of joy, of liquor—

and here he lays, once again, exposed in the sun, leaking liquor
out of every pore, buzz evaporating, no longer the drunken
sailor, baking on the crag like a crab out of water, ecstasy
turned agony, and then comes the chuckling albatross, no angel
saving him, but shitting on him as he keens for his lost love,
just a wretched tosspot withering in the glare, sans bottle.

And so his tryst with liquor ends, not with a perfect angel
blissfully drunk in his arms, but a thieving, maniacal lover,
pilfering his ecstasy, unhappily-ever-after, with a bottle.

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Lauren Tivey, pushcart nominee

“Mouth Quill” by Kaja Weeks

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box 1 Comment

CoverFront-MouthQuill
“Mouth Quill” by Kaja Weeks, the title poem from the book, Mouth Quill: Poems with Ancestral Roots, released in Sept, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Mouth Quill”

At home, my stroke-assaulted mother,
you startle and confound me.
On my childhood bed
we eye each other.

Metallic sounds ring from your mouth.
Wailing not at gods, but from some crucible of the gods.
From those Northlands winds blow low and rise, they ripen.
Your incantation pelts the room, the color of blue sorrow—

one river, two rivers, three rivers, more . . .

My voice fails. I fear to go there and utter nothing.
I offer recorded purity, nuns singing 9th century Christian chant:
Gloria, laus, et honor tibi sit. Rex Christe, Redemptor.
Isn’t this your God?

No! You smack the music device
and, though words have eluded you for months,
deep-throated, you decree, “This is false death!”
and renew your endless spell.

We are so far from singing together.
I don’t know how to join you: my mouth quill has stilled.

Oh, Mesi Marja-memmekene, Honey Mama-berry,
Emakene hellekene, my Mother my dear.
Äiu, äiu, äiu, once you charmed me to slumber
on silken nets in this space of braided hair.

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Kaja Weeks, pushcart nominee

“An Annotated Facebook Acrostic” by Linda Ferguson

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

front cover of The Poeming Pigeon: Pop Culture issue
Cover Art by Robert R. Sanders

“An Annotated Facebook Acrostic” by Linda Ferguson, a poem from The Poeming Pigeon: Pop Culture issue, released in December, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“An Annotated Facebook Acrostic”

Feverishly photographing beautiful food and flowers.*
*I hate my boss. My kid served detention three times this week. Again,
ants in the jelly. So not perfect. Don’t tell anybody.

Ahhh, squirrels, puppies, llamas, donkeys. Soft and warm and snuggily.*
*My anti-anxiety medication is NOT working.

Cats! Sleeping in baby’s brand new cradle, leering at squirrels, licking
their toes in the bathroom sink.*
*I know I’m supposed to be eager to please, but how cool to be a furry,
arrogant beast with claws and teeth.

Everyone is smiling, smiling, smiling, just like celebrities! Perched on a
ladder cleaning the gutters or cheering for the team (windchill factor
below 20), blissed out in the recovery room just after surgery!*
*Remember what happened when you cried in front of everyone in third
grade? Do NOT, under any circumstances, look sad in public ever again.
I’m not kidding.

Bevy of besties. Besties at the apple tasting. Besties sipping wine on
the balcony at the beach. Besties belting out birthday karaoke.*
*I am never alone. Never lonely. I am adored. I never lie awake in the
dark thinking Oh hell, what’s wrong with me. I’m not kidding. Really.

Oh là là! Me in front of the Eiff el Tower and the Tower of Pisa, the Tower
of London, Thailand’s State Tower and Santiago’s Gran Torre. All the
torres and me!*
*See how adventurous I am! Such good taste (and money)!

Offl ine, I think about doing yoga, taking in orphans and communing
with fungi under trees.*
*If I do more things, I could post about them, and people would love
and admire me even more. How awesome would that be?!

Kudos! I won a prize! You won a prize! We donated money! Our latest
remodel is so lovely! We’ve all been with the same partners forever!
Our children are so successful and happy! We signed the petition
to save the bees! We rode the bus one day this week! We’re all so
beautiful, clever and aware, I can hardly speak!*
*When oh when will I be happy?

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Linda Ferguson, pushcart nominee

“Poem to My Unborn Child” by Doug Stone

November 30, 2020 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

Front Cover of Sitting in Powell's Watching Burnside Dissolve in Rain, cover art by Robert R. Sanders
“Poem to My Unborn Child” by Doug Stone, a poem from the book, Sitting in Powell’s Watching Burnside Dissolve in Rain, released in August, 2020 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Poem to My Unborn Child”

On this silent bluff, in this grove of pine
I stand and watch the sea turn in moonlight.
The April night is fragrant with the scent
Of new grasses, the wet earth, and sweet pine.
Before the moon turns full again you will
Be born my child, born in the depth of Spring
When the white rain steps from the sea and strolls
Across the green land and the soft wind purrs
In the grass like a comfortable cat.

Love’s dream is born in Spring, renewed again
In a lover’s eyes or whispered in the warm
Afternoon when old men meet in the park
And they have shaken Winter from their tongues.
It is a good time to be born, my child.
You will own the sunshine and the white rain
And the legacy of the wind-shaped clouds
Will gleam forever in your April eyes.

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Doug Stone, pushcart nominee

“Requiem for a Nobody” by Sally Zakariya

November 19, 2019 by The Poetry Box Leave a Comment

Cover-The Unknowable Mystery of Other People by Sally Zakariya
“Requiem for a Nobody” by Sally Zakariya, a poem from her book, The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, released in March, 2019 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Requiem for a Nobody”

Unknown, unsung, no obituary
to spell out the bare facts of his life,
just one of the many to perish alone
on the street, hand still outstretched
for help that would not come.

Lord have mercy on his soul,
his nameless soul.

Death knew his name, called him by it,
called him from an indifferent world
where he slipped by mostly unseen,
wrapped in a tattered gray blanket.

Death found him where he waited,
cheeks fallen in, eyes dimmed,
invisible to people bustling by.

Once someone tied his shoes, held
his hand, kissed his baby cheek,
but there will be no Pieta for him.

Lord have mercy on our souls,
our oblivious souls.

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: pushcart nominee, Sally Zakariya

“Boy” by Ahrend Torrey

November 19, 2019 by The Poetry Box 1 Comment

cover-front-SmallBlueHarbor
“Boy” by Ahrend Torrey, a poem from his book, Small Blue Harbor, released in March, 2019 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.


“Boy”

           ~thank you, Jamaica*

Grab a chain out back of the old Ford; go down to Frost Bridge and help Curt pull his truck out of the gully; make sure you attach the chain right; don’t pull too hard, you might damage the axle; try to be quick; remember to take your sister to youth group; make sure you pick up a couple twelve-packs, your mom is throwing another party; never climb a tree with your gun loaded; never take shit from anybody; if it’s fight or walk away, you fight; always respect your elders even when they’re in the wrong; never associate with fags, like the sissy you are bent on becoming; don’t get a car, trucks are more useful; don’t let your mother find your magazines, you don’t want her to know the truth to why you always lock the door; when pink is the only color, find another; go to the garage and help bring in groceries; wear a condom though it takes a little time; is it true that your lotion is next to the fruit basket?; don’t forget to take out the trash, the paper said the garbage pick-up date has changed, don’t forget; never use nails for sheetrock; never use yellow PVC on toilets, that pipe is for hot water, not cold; don’t leave your lotion on the kitchen counter; this is how you work like a man; this is how you sweat, unlike the sissy you are bent on becoming; this is how you lift weights; this is how you talk dirty; this is how you never bait a hook; this is how you look like a gentleman; but that isn’t my lotion; why would I put it next to the fruit basket?; this is how you tough it up; this is how you laugh at dirty jokes; this is how you take a dip, always keeping a spit-cup wherever you go; this is how you demand more than your share, because the world will screw you in the end, you have to keep ahead; open the door for Ms. Edna; try and be home before twelve; pen-up Jake before the neighbors shoot him, he keeps getting in the trash; this is how you catch a football; this is how you make a trail; this is how you make a trail when you don’t have a machete; this is how you make a trail when you don’t need to make a trail at all; this is how you throw a baseball; this is how you fall in love; this is who you love; this is how you fall out of love; this is how you grease a motor; this is how you take a risk; this is how you appear hard, when everyone’s against you; this is how you fail; this is how you fail and never cry; this is how you fail and get up again; this is how you call a duck; this is how to skin a buck; this is how you aim correctly as not to spook the turkey; this is how you play guitar; this is how to run a bar; this is how you change oil because quick lubes over-charge; experience is the best way to pass mechanic school; but what if I don’t want to be a mechanic, but a violinist? You mean to say after all, boy, you want to be the sissy I’ve tried so hard to keep you from becoming?

 

*inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s short story “Girl”

Filed Under: Pushcart Poems Tagged With: Ahrend Torrey, pushcart nominee

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