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Eugène
Delacroix, The Song of Ophelia (Act IV, Scene V)
1834
(lithograph) National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
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There were a quite a few excellent poems this month. There
are two winners. I addition, three poems earned honorable mention: “Dear
Vincent,” by Mary Jo Balistreri, “Dear Gizmo,” by Shelly
Blankman, and “Dear Poetry,” by Kali
Lightfoot.
The first place
poem gives a nod to William Shakespeare’s play, “Hamlet.”
The Love Letter Ophelia Wrote in Reply
“Doubt that the stars are fire…”
Beneath the stars the skater knelt
upon the ice before Your Majesty.
In the fold of your cloak, still I felt
the cold and how far the stars must be.
“Doubt that the sun doth move…”
Have you not read Copernicus
who masterly doth prove
the planets skate like those of us
who ‘round a monarch move?
“Doubt truth to be a liar…”
As soon as doubt my dream of you
as actor on a starry stage,
where you, bright hero, are most true,
though speaking lines upon a page.
“But never doubt I love…”
‘Trust an actor as your dreams,’
my father chides this loving daughter,
‘to learn what is from what it seems—‘
The sun melts ice; I drown in water
~ L.Shapley Bassen
“The Love Letter Ophelia Wrote in Reply” was
first published by the California State
Poetry Quarterly.
Second place goes to a longer,
unrhymed poem, which creates a very different mood. The poet’s particular use
of repetition creates a kind of melancholy.
Dear Father Time
Is
it summer again, is it hot again,
didn't
Mr Schmidt just now, sit in his gazebo,
didn't
he smile, weren't his hedges trimmed
didn't
the rain flood his narrow gutters
didn't
the summer end
wasn't
his body birdlike,
wasn't
it tanned
didn't
his best friend waddle through the door too,
old
and blind, didn't they just—
wasn't
the back garden
harrowed
and planted—
I
remember how he turned dirt
in
wobbly rows
weren't
his seeds planted,
didn't
his vines climb the south trellis—
I
blink and sniffle back the salt
I
have studied the vines planted close to his house
He
is the gardener to his autumn crocus
the
wind to his birdwing butterflies— (tightrope walkers
dodging
cracks in the air, curators of white and red
licking
sweet balls of liquid, one drop at a time)
I
can't hear his voice
I
cry, wetting the bare ground
I
no longer care how loud the sound I make
why
do I need to
when
was he silenced, when did it first seem pointless—
(that
what is held in the silences, silences
that
what it sounds like can't change what it is—)
didn't
the winter end,
wasn't
the earth warm when he planted
didn't
he plant the seeds,
wasn’t
he necessary, wasn’t he a tiller of the earth—
the
vines, spilling from their stems
were
they harvested
where
do his birdwings go
do
I imagine their existence
on
this day embalmed by the sun
~Donna Best)
Thank you to everyone who sent a poem this
month. It was a pleasure to read them. Please watch for next month’s challenge
and enter again.
Bios:
L. Shapley Bassen is a
native New Yorker now in Rhode Island. Her collected
poems were indie-published this year: What
Suits a Nudist, by https://www.claresongbirdspub.com/featured-authors/l-shapley-bassen/ . She was First Place winner in the 2015 Austin Chronicle
Short Story Contest for "Portrait of a Giant Squid" and now is s a
poetry/fiction reviewer for The
Rumpus, etc. and Fiction Editor at https://www.craftliterary.com/, a prizewinning, produced, published playwright: http://www.samuelfrench.com/author/1158/lois-shapley-bassen, and three-times indie-published author novel/story
collections. You can check out her Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/ShapleyLoisBassen/?modal=admin_todo_tour and website at
Donna
Best is an aspiring poetry
creator who revels in the sounds words make especially when they cluster
together. She has left her indulgence in poetry until almost too late and is
trying to catch up now, writing poems in their patterns every day. A few of her
pieces have been broadcast on radio, published in small literary magazines and
revealed at spoken word events Spoken word is a big influence on how she
writes.
