Judging the Poetry Contest

We were in the middle of clearing everything out of the house for the painters so at the last the floor was my desk and chair.

I read all of the poems several times, and I was glad that Sandy said I could pick three winners instead of just one and that I could pick several more for publication in this issue of Cirque. Thank you, Sandy, for your generosity of spirit to all of us inky wretches.

I apologize for whatever bias my selections or omissions may indicate, but I hope we all agree that writing, reading, and judging poetry is not akin to solving quadratic equations for a cranky teacher. It is not easy this thing we do, trying to make magic writing in the dark. Sometimes we do it better than other times, and so we keep writing hoping (metaphorically) to be struck by lightning.

At first I was struck at how grim most of the poems were. Not surprising, since we have been through recent dark times. (Since, in too many ways, we live in dark times.) There were many poems about death and the loss of loved ones. Often Alaskans wrote about rain; for west coasters, it was fire. Occasionally, there was a splash of humor—thank you, Jim. As I read and reread, I came to better appreciate how difficult it is to write about painful things without sentimentality that rings true and, yet, (oh my gosh) be fresh to the distant reader sitting somewhere on the floor. I feel admiration for all of you who faced the desolation of the blank page or screen and boldly began putting the words down, deleting some or all of them at times, and then putting down others, or the same ones in different arrangements. Again and again feeling your way along in the dark where our hands have important work to do—thank you Emily. And in this way we are singing, we are singing—thank you, Mary.

Thank you to everyone who submitted his or her poems. May the spark be with you.

Jim Hanlen

The people who believe their dog will run up to them in heaven, well, it's not for everyone.

Even your mom won't open her arms to you, all the people you insulted standing beside her.

Your Irish countrymen would vote you out and off the island. My wife said what do you expect?

What faith? Born saved you renounced what everyone around you believes. So why are you still here? Not even your brother and sister who came earlier won't hold your hand and walk you in.

It was a beautiful day. A front marched across the sky with nothing behind it or below it, just film and cawl over blue. My husband who does everything he does for me sat in a chair, his beautiful hands upon the arms and outside under their illusions I asked the thinning trees if they would be for me; I asked the hurt weather and the punched face of a homeless man I met at Walmart, its suppurating bruise blue as a poisonous plum if he could be for me, and a screaming baby dragged by its arm down aisles of soap and bread. I asked the mother, glowing like a tumor, if she would be for me, and sightless marchers radiant where they rub together or abrade against the guns of soldiers, marchers who all do everything they do for me, for something to carry: a smooth rock in my pocket, a sharp one in my shoe.

A bowl of warm milk made from wild grass. From Frog Hollow Farm: one silky rich peach. Garlic. Artichoke. One seductive olive. This is how much you should love your body.

From Frog Hollow Farm: one silky rich peach. You sit in the shade of an acacia, massage your own palms— yes, this is how much you should love your body. Make yourself a tender omelet: eggs, butter, chervil.

You sit in the shade of an acacia, massage your own palms: you smell garlic, artichoke. Seductive olives. Now, make yourself tenderness: with eggs, butter, chervil, with a bowl of warm milk, with these wild grasses.