Rick Roberts, author of one of the March example poems
judged the Poetry Challenge this month. When I asked him if he would do so, he
commented on the subjectivity that is always involved in judging poetry, and
added, Quite often a better constructed poem lacks the emotional impact of one
that may be more raw and honest. . . . The words that move me, that
knock my socks off, will always carry the day with me.”
Roberts listed two poems as tied for second and third
place, saying, “Both of these poems are full of subtle and forceful imagery.
They were wonderful, each in their own way.” Here are the two
runner-up poems:
Dead
End Kid
The photo
on his bureau
is studio-precise: Knickered.
Eight years old. Shining Irish face.
I see my father hidden here.
Long ago, this boy was
posed in a fancy parlor
drawn down from a painted canvas roll—
He'd been dusted off, fussed over
like any robber baron's son
for this oddity-- a satin-lit vignette—
A boy standing beside a wooden chair.
Placed on the wooden seat there is
a small bouquet.
It was
slums that welcomed newcomers—
not Fifth Avenue mansions. My father's home
waited five floors up noisy tenement
stairs.
My father's tenement childhood ran with an
alley gang—
kicking cats and heaving bricks before
Rosary at bed.
His mother died sometime after her steerage
voyage.
The aunts lived on, old maids, polishing
the mahogany floors and brushing the
velvet
of an elegant age. They gossiped
over Venial Sins of both rich and poor.
But it was Mortal what they did to him—
They told the boy "The Drunkard" was
dead.
At eighteen, my father met his father
in a box at an Irish Wake.
My father's childhood hovers
in family shadows and the shallows
held by an antique camera lens.
I understand the Friday drinking and the Irish
Luck
that trapped him here, going silver
with the small bouquet on a wooden chair.
~ Francis Toohey
Francis Toohey is a painter and writer working in Mexico.
His chapbook, The Household, was published in 1989. Goodfellow Editions is
publishing a full volume of his poems entitled The Great Gods later in this
year (2013).
Paradise…Paradox
She stands in the midst of the busy road
all 40, maybe 50 pounds,
wind from passing vehicles blowing her threadbare dress.
Hair and skin the color of dessert and dust,
distant brown eyes
hardly seeing.
She stands in dry heat, diesel fumes, and danger
at the curve while
vehicles of visiting gringos slow, then motor past
her arm extended to collect
coins thrown her way
into a cup.
Every day I see her from my safe, soft seat
en route to that day’s adventure.
Our driver quickly passes
the same dress, same cup, same eyes.
She stands and
I wonder.
For months I’d saved my money to
Escape to Paradise!
Each day she seeks coins
and hope
and dreams to get away.
~ Katie O’Connell
Katie O’Connell is a writer, educator, and enthusiast
of all things creative. Having worked in the publishing industry as well as in
the classroom, she has always loved words and writing, but only recently
has dedicated time to refining and publishing some of my own creative works.
Now for the winning
Poem:
Mathare
A city water spigot at the end of a narrow alley
Rusted bucket, grey rag
She shivers, she is naked
No sunlight reaches her between the cement block buildings
At ten years old, she is the size of a six year old
Can this small bit of water clean her body?
Can anything ever clean her emotionally?
The scars of abuse? Can they be taken away?
Tonight she will sleep under the eaves of someone else’s
home
She may not eat until tomorrow
Yet now, now all she has is this bucket she found
This rag that she found which is as good as the clothes she
wears
Day after day
Mathare
He must be tough
He must laugh with the others
Money exchanged for a small plastic baggie
Running, running, running
To the next hit and the next
Tonight he will sleep inside at least
On the cement floor, wrapped in the thinnest of blankets
Tomorrow he will run and run some more
So he can eat a piece of stale bread
Mathare
Tears run down her cheek
And drip onto her baby
He does not notice, he continues to cry
She rocks him and sings to him
This will not ease his hunger but there is nothing else to
do
People walk by and don’t notice
Other babies cry today and no one notices
There are too many babies crying to notice
But, she thinks, this is my baby
My baby crying
A coin falls at her feet
And another
Thank you, thank you, thank you
She whispers
It has been days since she’s had a real meal
But now today her baby can have a bite
Tomorrow may not come
She can feed her baby today
Mathare
~ Chris Kincaid
Roberts said this poem "left me breathless." He described it as “Raw and amazing. Full of
immediacy and all the desperation and agony of its vision.”
Kincaid wrote, “When I was in Kenya on a
mission trip, one of the places we visited was Mathare Slum. The poverty there
was so overwhelming. What can one person do to help any of these orphans or
widows? So many pictures from that day remain vivid in my memory. The young
girls sell their bodies and the young boys run drugs. HIV-positive women who
have been widowed or abandoned by their husbands do whatever they can to find
food for their children.”
Her memoir of this trip, A Time for Every
Purpose Under Heaven, shares the efforts of those who are trying to make a
difference in the Slums of Nairobi. The book is available online at Amazon.com,
Barnes and Noble and Life Sentence Publishing. There is a Kindle version, in
addition to the paperback book. You can find out more about the author on her
blog at chrisloehmer.blogspot.com.
Congratulations to the three poet
winners this month. And thanks to Rick Roberts for judging the contest and to the other poets who entered the challenge contest. The poets published on this blog retain
copyright of their own poems.
Check back on April 1 for the new poetry
challenge.
© 2013 Wilda Morris
