Well, I asked you to prove that what you wrote is REALLY poetry and each of the 45 entries I received was –without a doubt — a poem! Some did not include the notations which I said were required to place. All the poets, however, put their hearts into their writes. I enjoyed everything that I read.
Many of the contests I’ve run in the past have not only placed almost all entries, but they also awarded multiple placements. The thing is that the ones who do not place feel neglected or singled-out. Out there, I mean outside of Soup, when you enter a contest, it’s the winners who are singled-out and the rest stand in unison, a big, ole ‘oh-well’ group and each does not feel like the guy who is picked last for awful game of dodge ball. WE stand, on mass, and read the winners stunning entries and most of us can see exactly why they won. We are talking a ratio of 3 : 2,000. If you are 1 of 1997, you have plenty of company. GOOD company.
My future Soup contests will use this same system of placement. Which is REALLY hard! One poet has six perfect lines, but then uses two clichés. Another poet has wonderful imagery, but the theme is too familiar. Someone uses PRISTINE line-breaks, blows me away with some ingenious word pairings, but then overuses alliteration. These are the type of things that the editors of poetry look for in the poetry that they receive. Poetry submissions are both rejected and accepted due to one line... or even one word (I’m not kidding)
My contests will be run as professionally as I can run them. I am still a developing poet, and I can only bring what I know to these contests. Some may say I expect too much from amateur poets who are only here to have fun. I want to say that I believe in Soupers. They are capable of more than they can even imagine. The work that I read for this contest? Several of these entries, not only the top three, are HIGHLY publishable and would be thoroughly enjoyed by the poetry editors of literary magazines! GOOD GOOD GOOD STUFF. So, if you did not make it to THIS podium, it does not mean that what you have written is fluff or not up to par! It only means that I have made some very laborious decisions and that I have reduced the winners spots to ONLY 6% of all entries, instead of 70% of all entries. I am keeping it real.
Now, that being said, I will occasionally host anthologies as either themes or as memorials. These will in NO WAY be contests and are meant to unify people and/or to show support or respect. I DOOOOO wish that TPS would simply add the term CONTRIBUTOR to the winners list so that if the need arises, we can gather our poetry together and keep ‘contest’ and ‘winners’ off of that page. Anthologies belong on Soup, too. I will say that over and over and over again. And I’m a lifetime member. LOL... maybe after another ten years TPS will cave?
*** Lastly, I am in no way slighting other judges for how they wish to run their contests! I have run my contests in different ways. What works for one person will not work for another. We are all different and there is nothing wrong with being different. ****
I will say this: this contest far excelled my expectations. And I truly thank all those who entered it. You guys rock and if you did not place, it was only because there are only three placements. You should feel proud of yourself.
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Now. The winners of this contest.
First Place
Lily On Instagram
by
Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Fragile Lily, tonight you tell me
you're hospitalized for the third, fourth time;
how your nights are blacker than treacle -
viscous dark, thick between stars -
stickier than your latest pastel-candy binge.
How your days are bleached bleak, whiter than bones.
They're drip-drip-dripping a sticky sap
of nutrients in the thin stamen of your arm.
Adrift, you drift through patisserie cosmos:
your buttery croissant crescent moons,
your spice-sprinkled lebkuchen stars -
sickly celestial bodies that float
in glutinous dark.
The dull-dun walls are splattered with food porn -
a sticky display, a syrupy splay
that says: come-and-get-me;
taste, savour, consume.
Though later the guilt-purge
will have you corner-pinned in a darkened room
with the tap's cold drip and a stench of sick.
You're watching TV to keep the evenings tear-free
(Great British Bake Off - they made a frangipane tart).
Your hunger is art;
mine's a sticky, sordid mess:
strawberry sink-slops, a sugar-pink drink
swilled then spat, to taste-grasp the sweetness I crave.
They call you My Sweet.
In their clamour for glamour
the voices grow more shrill still
and they're dotty for your dotted
Stella McCartney skinny jeans.
Your legs are style-spindly, but your style is envied.
Your this-way that-way poise and pose,
lips slick with Sugar Rose.
The shoulder scorch of a tattooed rose.
Hunger charcoals your face; your flimsy grace -
an angular bone-drape of clothes.
Thin-framed flashes of you,
moments shared in each lit square;
your life a frail flare, your skin petal-pale.
With frail flair you shake off the starving stigma,
the jittery calories, like shaking pollen from a stigma.
Oh, to grow into thin skins
easy and natural as flowers.
The hours are lean and gleam like bones.
I press hearts, :) at you, give cyber hugs,
smiling sisterly support, saying stay strong -
though I'm lily-fragile, just like you.
This poem wrenched me with its honesty, its openness. It shows that we can write with heart, truly emote, and yet fill each line with such CRAFT, such imagery that what disturbs us, what SHATTERS us, also enraptures us. I have read this poem dozens of times, and something new comes to me with each reading. Layer upon layer upon layer. It is reader-friendly, in the sense that nothing confuses. It has a profound clarity. The ambiguity comes from haunting, heartbreaking wordplay... celestial bodies.... Sugar Rose ... so many, many more. There is a gracefulness on how each line “feeds” off the other, a natural flow. Nothing feels forced or artificial. Though, as poets, and I do mean all of us here, can see that each line has been intentionally wrought, like a blacksmith knowing exactly where to strike that hot iron, the piece feels uncontrived—organic, natural as if it came to the page just as we read it. (I very much doubt this. Art is usually revised, but there are those who can do this.) The devices do not overshadow the work. Aliterartion is used sparingly. Just enough for mouth music. I feel awed that this poem was shared, here, on Soup, for my contest. I will write a full review of this poem and submit it to its author, first, for approval and then offer it as an article for soup on the art of free verse. Poet, you shine, OH HOW YOU SHINE. Amazing...
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Second Place
Innocents of All
by
Ruben O
Let's retro walk decades to the sun
dried affiches—its thick finger at us—
calling up: we want you. When wars began in
guttural tongues and used to wait. It
seems we've been trusting for so long in
posters—since the antennae, now pixels—
We-want-yous in circular ritual
a scheme of half-naked excuses
maximizing fear:
strings pulled to upset puppets
who run to slap bumper stickers
who, hand over heart, shake pom-poms or flags;
innocents of all. We seal clap while swallow
blurred chimeras, opportune abysses
abstract words circling up above our minds
in continence. We lie
down on concentric lies,
stretch our legs, pretend freedom, and live the same
day twice. Inside us, trapped in our flesh,
implanted wars distend, throb, march on
for the salt, for the sand, for the sake
of our Asian fetich. How many sequels?
Those masks we wore weren't ours.
I think I saw a pregnant nun—in her habit
of exhorting us
as voters, tax-payers, heroes. No matter
what our side has been picked for us.
Above ground, we belong below. Buried
beneath our uncritical support.
Manufactured wars,
from desks—behind them—cyclically reinvented.
Unocal, Enron, Halliburton wars.
I won't feel less terrorized.
Who would? Would you?
Defined by corners
rooms adjoin rooms of chronic echoes
broadcast live.
Sons return as heroes
in complimentary caskets—as crude
as it may sound—parts of them never do. Or
split in halves, lost somewhere in between,
longing to be rescued—somehow.
Walk with me
even if we tangle with strings and stripes.
Let's walk staring straight—into someday.
It is a hard thing to take a theme, run with a metaphor, yet ensure that the reader is not subjected to the overplay of one image and to keep the metaphor ‘just’ enough. It requires careful attention, an awareness of how much is too much. This poem with its theme of being caught in a loop, of the constant warring nature of man, does this brilliantly. Again and again, we are ‘returned’ to that RING. And the line breaks? Precise, chilling and cunningly placed to create ambiguity. WOW! Look at some of the end words... lie/lie. There are too many lines to pull apart, to hold up and say, “LOOK AT THIS.” Complimentary caskets and then to break at crude? Yes, we see that! Oh, and the unique word pairings! Dazzled me. The message is never so drowned-out that we forget what this poem is truly saying and yet the language is sublime. Then, THEN!, the poem goes from the loop-de-looping to end with a poignant STRAIGHT into someday! After all the hopelessness, leaving us with hope. Truly stunning.
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Third Place
Microscopic Windfall
By
Earl Mitchell
Perhaps I’m facing pogonophobes?
Apparently wore the wrong face.
Age-hardened wiry wisps forge
post-pubescent platemail -
protect strangers
from my truest fleshy pores, protect me
from the xenophobes of the Winter Conference.
It’s all pitching and coffee breaks
In a hall too grand for these meager mergers
Silent hecklers - likely clean-shaven -
likely Twitter-blasting about
an awkward pitch
and bitterness.
A beard grows opacity over my ebullient disinterest,
feigns sophistication amidst sophists,
and harbors microbes – an entire ecosystem –
Bored, I wonder;
Do they hold conferences as well?
Share stories around a follicle?
How uncomfortable
the itch of capitalism,
This profit pilgrimage
huddles us together
for that sickness to spread.
Free meals, networking with the estranged -
connect vacuously over downed drinks
and political action.
Shallow words spread thick
on the biological superhighway
bacterium feast freely.
The Winter Conference;
a microscopic windfall.
YES! This one shows that one poem can carry two tones and yet the confliction works. It is both playful and yet serious. Talk about a balancing act. And this poet kept it going. I loved this. It has a strong voice, each line holds weight, something to consider. I like the pacing of this piece. We zip along, reading, and then are posed a question which leaves us there, right there, for a moment. Silent hecklers shows what contrast can do for a poem. Who hasn’t felt those unspoken barbs? This almost reads like a rant, but there is a ‘quest’ in its undercurrent. Rants can deliver the goods, too, can come across as viscerally brilliant. BUT rants so often lack the depths, the emotive undercurrents that this piece contains. Perhaps, it is because the poet is laughing at himself as much as the world at large, money and posturing. WELL DONE. BRAVO!
Though I do not have HM’s or other placements, I need to put a ‘call out’ to some notable poems and just have to say a few words about the art I read. If you can let me know, now, who you are, others can visit these stunning poems. Hold your head up high! You are awesome!
OF PERMANENT DWELLINGS by Nette Onclaud
This poem has such beauty and I was floored by its unique word pairings, stunning imagery, suppleness and mood. The language is rich without being overwhelming, tender without being overly-sentimental. I love this poem. It touched me deeply and found it truly exquisite.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/_of_permanent_dwellings_749625
TIGHT by Catie Lindsey
This poem is incredible and I loved the repetition of the night line. Powerful write that made it to my “short list.” Haunting quality and this one will stay with me. LOVELY.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/tight_742208
JUNKIES INFERNO by Faye Gibson
ART! Both a poignant and gutsy write. Fresh lines. It rounds itself, starting where it began and there is a great deal of originality in this piece. Imagery is outstanding. Stunning work, really excellent.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/junkies_inferno___five_proof_contest_746737
PARATAXIS by Suzanne Delaney
Oh, this one RESOUNDED in me! I can easily see an entire manuscript OF THESE. I hope whoever wrote this poem shows up on this blog. Deep. Both thoughful and thought inducing, filled with insight and such GRACE. The lines are so beautiful. Truly incredible. As said, I can see this as the beginning of a poetry BOOK. THAT GOOD.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/parataxis_739431
LOST AND FOUND by Craig Cornish
Fantastic use of spacing. Wonderful format with good imagery. I also enjoyed the breaks... and the theme as a whole.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/lost_and_found_738885
ARCHIVES by Carrie Richards
Speaks to the heart and I loved this piece. All bookworms, those who believe libraries are more than a place to store books, will enjoy this poignant poem. Moving. Truthful.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/archives_742358
CHERRY TERROR by Timothy Jacks
Powerhouse in so few lines, just long enough, no words wasted. Deep and truly special. It reads like a cross between a eulogy and a rallying cry. Excellence.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/cherry_terror_742986
ANOTHER GENERATION by Frederic Parker
A stirring poem. Well rendered and shows considerable passion. Good use of allusion and I really liked the repetition in this one.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/another_generation_744009
And lastly,
Ian Guyler submitted a poem for my contest. I have decided to post the poem here, on this blog, because I feel it is excellently rendered and deserves to be read . I have his permission to do so.
OIL
by Ian Guyler
Soiled black lambs crowned as liars
and readied for the table of greed
more feasting for kings and dignitaries
a table under a table of scented lies
from hotter shores than these they swarm
swabbing and siphoning, the bloodiest donor
as black syrup oozes , earths menstruation ripe
birthing a nation with a menu of avarice
oil ripped from the screaming womb of a flower
eternally choking, on soot stained tears
puppets tirelessly excavating their guilt
“You want a tomorrow then shut up “
suffer momma, suffer for mans necessity
suffer she will , and she will nonetheless
her blood pulsed and was delivered
to a world, in vessels of black plastic gold
callous coined hands, pink, yet black rubbed
sand coloured sand , that sandals will shuffle on
pretense of a peasant , worn abacus now broke
angels or devils, dressed in bright white splendor
lay down with their lambs, and cry wolf-weep
another sacrifice for western appeasement
burning the soles of their feet, fit for brogues
cold clandestine decisions affecting our world
easing our sleep dreams…oh they are so kind
the kings weep, whilst fat dignitaries palm belch
licking fatter lips as cash registers chime
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So please, if you read this and your poem is mentioned above, let me know. I would like to post a direct link to your pieces.
xoxoxo
Cyndi