June Poetry Challenge Winners

Congratulations to Sondy Sloan and Peggy Trojan, winners of the June Poetry Challenge.

Sloan’s poem, “The Red Chair” came with a photo illustration. I like the way the chair and its inhabitant are integrated throughout the poem. It is obvious that the poet (or persona) could not even think of the chair without thinking of her loved one who sits there, “askew” as is the chair. I especially like the first line of the last stanza, and the way the ending shows us the feelings of the poet (or persona) at which she has been hinting throughout.

The Red Chair

Swallowed by its size, you sit barefoot
In your chubby red chair, my gift to you
From Big Daddy’s Bargain Basement.
And like you, the cushions
Are askew, indelibly warped
To shape your life of sitting sidewise;
A habit made more frequent by age and arthritis.

I grieve the original figure of rich velvet hues:
Mahogany, gold and hunter green, misshapen, lumpy.
Its skin worn shiny where you rest your bones
Most. After decades together, you have grown akin. Knots
Knit awry on your knuckles, feet, elbows, knees.

Do you want me to get the cushions reshaped?
No, you respond, spreading your lips wide
With snaggle-tooth grin, hushing my fidgety hands
With yours. I like it this way.
It fits me, eh? And it does.

You are changing form—gnarled
Like a twisted old olive tree.
Bones crackle like kindling in the fireplace,
Muscles like shrunken jerky.
Teeth a little yellow, toenails, too.

I share you with your padded lodestone.
But you are mine, even there, sitting cock-a-hoop,
Budweiser in hand, warning off ancient aches.
I straighten pillows ‘round your dark and musky form.
You touch my face, coo in serene syllables,
Who loves you, sweetie?

And all our years run upriver.
I lean my lips hard into your shifting cheek-skin,
Tasting the salt of your silvered beard, soaking
In the smell of your soul,
Sinking into you, into the tender red chair.

~ Sondy Sloan

The second winning poem will probably resonate with many people. It brings to my mind many family gatherings, celebrating holidays, anniversaries and birthday around a table expanded by adding leaves. The description is good—I can almost see the table. The ending shows me a family, like mine, which gathers newcomers into its warm embrace.

Gathering Place

The table was old
when we bought it
in the seventies.
Queen Anne, mahogany,
paw feet and elegantly carved knees.
It shares the dining room
only with its matching buffet
and chairs.
Seats eight without leaves.
When everyone comes home
we extend it into the living room,
moving the coffee table
and wing chair,
so we can all sit together.
Year after year, it expands,
like love,
to all who come.

~ Peggy Trojan

Poets retain copyright on their poems.

Watch for a new poetry challenge in July. YOU might be the next winner!

Also: I'll be leading a workshop ("The Nature of Poetry and the Poetry of Nature") at the Green Lake Conference Center in Wisconsin, August 19-24. You can obtain more information about the conference at http://glcc.org/Files/Conferences/2012%20Writers%20complete.pdf. I would love to see you there!

© 2012 Wilda Morris

June 2012 Poetry Challenge - a Furniture Poem

Thomas Hardy wrote a poem about “old furniture” and the thoughts it inspired in his mind. I have a similar reaction as I pass by my mother’s china cabinet or rocking chair (which are now in my house), or visit an antique store.

The chair, in which Mother was sitting when the picture above was taken has its own interesting story. Maybe I'll write a poem about it this month.

Old Furniture

I know not how it may be with others
Who sit amid relics of householdry
That date from the days of their mothers' mothers,
But well I know how it is with me
Continually.

I see the hands of the generations
That owned each shiny familiar thing
In play on its knobs and indentations,
And with its ancient fashioning
Still dallying:

Hands behind hands, growing paler and paler,
As in a mirror a candle-flame
Shows images of itself, each frailer
As it recedes, though the eye may frame
Its shape the same.

On the clock's dull dial a foggy finger,
Moving to set the minutes right
With tentative touches that lift and linger
In the wont of a moth on a summer night,
Creeps to my sight.

On this old viol, too, fingers are dancing -
As whilom--just over the strings by the nut,
The tip of a bow receding, advancing
In airy quivers, as if it would cut
The plaintive gut.

And I see a face by that box for tinder,
Glowing forth in fits from the dark,
And fading again, as the linten cinder
Kindles to red at the flinty spark,
Or goes out stark.

Well, well. It is best to be up and doing,
The world has no use for one to-day
Who eyes things thus--no aim pursuing!
He should not continue in this stay,
But sink away.

~ Thomas Hardy

A few years ago, I wrote a poem about a particular piece of furniture, the gold-colored recliner in which I rocked many of my grandchildren. When I see it, I often think of my first grandchild, Florence Irene Penrod, who died shortly before her seventh birthday. She was the first child I rocked to sleep in the recliner. So the chair often brings poignant memories of Florrie. Though the poem only mentions two grandchildren, there were several others I rocked to sleep in that same chair, especially Florrie’s younger siblings who spent a lot of days and nights in my home while their sister was in the hospital. This poem—with the chair as prompt—recalls a journey of healing from loss. The sorrow of losing Florrie will remain with me always, but in time, I recalled more of the beautiful memories and learned to smile when I thought of her.

The Gold Recliner

Does this gold recliner remember
how many times Florrie rested
her head on my shoulder,
how she giggled at funny sounds,
how I sang “Don’t Fence Me In”
and “You Are My Sunshine”
as we rocked and fell into slumber.
Does the recliner know
she’d have been twenty
this year had she lived?

Now Lucas climbs between
the recliner’s enfolding arms,
five-year-old hands grasping
this week’s favorite superhero,
curls his tired body
into the golden lap to rest.

Only a couple years ago
Lucas let me hold him
as we read the same books
each afternoon, and finally one day
I could sing “You Are My Sunshine”
to this other grandchild,
after all those years
it had turned to dust in my throat.

~ Wilda Morris

This poem was first published on the website of Highland Park Poetry, http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/, after winning in the adult non-resident division of their 2011 Poetry Challenge.

June Poetry Challenge

The challenge for June is to write a poem inspired by furniture. According to http://www.yourdictionary.com/furniture, “Furniture refers to moveable things like tables, chairs and sofas that are used to make a house or building a comfortable place to live.”

You may write a formal poem or free verse. If formal, please specify the form. The deadline is June 15. Poems submitted after the June 15 deadline will not be considered.

Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.

Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. As much as I would enjoy a sparrow-shaped poem, I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, you may submit it if you retain copyright, but please include publication data.

How to Submit Your Poem

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.

© 2012 Wilda Morris