National Poetry Month Cento Contest

National Poetry Month Cento Contest Winners!

2011-04-30T20:57:00.001-04:00

Thanks to everyone who supported the 2011 National Poetry Month Cento Contest. I'm particularly grateful to The Academy of American Poets, and to all who followed my Tweets & entered centos--what a marvelous collection! This blog will remain available for the foreseeable future, so please feel free to link to favorites, use in the classroom, and otherwise enjoy.

Our judges agreed, there was much wonderful work to choose from. My thanks to them for their time, expertise, and donated books. Many of the poems received notice. After much careful consideration and tallying, we're ready to announce the winners.

Our three winners:

Winners are announced in alphabetical order. Each of these poets will receive a selection of our judges' books.

Two honorable mentions:

Each of these poets will receive a judge's book.

Seven other poems that received distinct notice:

While there's no prize for this category, we'd like the poets to know how much their entries were enjoyed!

We're no longer accepting entries. On to reading & judging!

2011-04-23T15:30:00.001-04:00

the heart astonished to find belonging
and thanks answering thanks.
a little sound of thanks--a zipper or a snap--
you thank it for that and return to the path.

-Li-Young Lee "Black Petal"
-Marvin Bell "Around Us"
-Jena Osman "Mercury Rising"

Thanks so much for your interest in and support of the 2011 National Poetry Month Cento Contest. We're no longer accepting entries, but please feel free to read and comment on those poems you enjoy. We've got about 90 centos in the mix! Please also feel free to share on Facebook and Twitter, and to spread the word.

Thanks so much to all of you who entered; it's a delight and an honor to have your fine words on the blog. Thanks to the Academy of American Poets, their Poem-a-Day project, and their 30 Poets 30 Days Twitter project.

Our judges will be devouring the entries between now and April 27th.
Between April 27th and April 30th, I'll be tallying the judges' votes.
On April 30th, I'll announce the 3 winners, who'll receive a dozen each of our judges' stellar books! Stay tuned!

Erin Murphy "Dementia Cento"

2011-04-23T15:09:00.000-04:00

"Dementia Cento"

Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull,
wired minefield,
implicit with stars in active orbit.

How fibrous and incidental it seems.

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.

How fibrous and incidental it seems.

Let silence drill its hole
in a carousel-sweet dress,
in the glaring white gap,
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams.

How fibrous and incidental it seems.

Cordelia Wright "Were they pearls"

2011-04-23T14:58:00.003-04:00

Were they pearls

Sleep-fallen, just jars of buttons spilled
recurring naked in your dark hair,
implicit with the stars;
plunge me deep in love,
the whole cathedral,
put out paper sacks stuffed full of orange
weighing the harvest
when my eye nearly failed.

You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage,
little corners of a kind of ham;
count out sherry, and ripe plates crash at your back---
and the trick is the pungent oranges and
bright green wings to make it personal.
It was not really necessary to eat the food:
one could breath it, the mystery of
---now I hear the clock snap just ten---
that. I became
hard to lift: my own bags were full of salt

which made them shifty in our hearts.
Learn to petrify it so.
Hoist their nets,
sleepily indifferent,
we’ll kiss a hundred times
kiss the kiss to open your tiny beak-mouth
each kiss other, consider:
what you’ve said that looks as if it would never open
the magnolias
and not April
the wild, protected, liminal woods
the naked man;

in the glaring white gap,
in a carousel-sweet dress
I’m drunk,
each one a treaty, each one a place
where, glisten’d with wet,
I stand on the porch,
the reflected gleams
myself conjectured.

Rob A. Mackenzie Untitled

2011-04-23T14:57:00.001-04:00

I’m drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night,
open my tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would never open.

The beards of the young men glisten with wet, it runs from their long hair.
Are the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
What they need from me, I have no idea,

each one a cameo appearance, a place where plutonium safely resides –
sad beds wide enough for planting.
A hundred times I consider what I must say.

The trick is to make it personal
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
the Avon Lady treks door to door.

Let silence drill its hole,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course,
step into the frontier where it is easy to hide

the chill of closed eyelids,
wired minefields,
candied limbs gone missing.

Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Someone counts out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
Someone is cooked into a codex.

My advice to young people is to like hats but not love them,
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice
in a carousel-sweet dress.

How fibrous and incidental it seems.
You have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
in the glaring white gap, the places cats won’t go.

The climbing out onto the banks, the naked man,
the whole cathedral crush at your back,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.

Katie Booms "April and the Magnolias"

2011-04-23T14:56:00.003-04:00

April and the Magnolias

I, just ten, became implicit with
all the wild protected liminal woods,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings

(the continent was clothed in trees,
in a carousel-sweet dress
and candy)

Ripe plates climbing out onto the banks

It was not really necessary
to eat the food;
one could breathe it

Stephen Caratzas "And the Lemon Flower is Sweet"

2011-04-23T14:56:00.001-04:00

AND THE LEMON FLOWER IS SWEET

What he needed from me I have no idea;
the pilot alone knows.
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents.

It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital—
for six months I arranged museum dioramas,

unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull,

all dopey in the glass—he wouldn't stand alone.

Let silence drill its hole,
not April and the magnolias.

I had children of my own,
then the terrible thing happened.

Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
The trick is to make it personal.

Anastasia Rodionova #2 "A Hundred Times"

2011-04-23T14:55:00.001-04:00

A Hundred Times

Where it is easy
limbs gone missing their
gloves, blame her!—impulsive or inevitable?
Then the terrible
gloves blame her,
the terrible thing

I stay at his place—his palace!—and share my room with two
A hundred times consider what you’ve said:
That I, just ten, because the mystery of
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
green trousers and purple velour sleeves,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
hot black dunes in the air
…my bathrobe,
each one a place where
plutonium safely resides.

I’m drunk in my bathrobe
sleepily indifferent
wired minefield—
Obscenely jewel-like, obscenely neck-like,
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest—
Sharks are people, too.

I have played tennis with so many animals
now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
when Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess’s baby,
it metamorphoses, into a pig, and runs away from her, runs away…
Count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham
is cooked into a codex
all dopey in the glass. He couldn’t stand alone
places cats won’t go. The climbing onto the banks
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse, course
the Avon Lady treks door to door my Advice
to young people is to like hats but not love them.
I stand on the porch,
deep in love, kiss the kiss, oh my bathrobe,
The trick is to make it.

Meredith Purvis "Plunge Me Deep"

2011-04-23T14:54:00.001-04:00

Plunge Me Deep

For six months I arranged museum dioramas;
now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday.
Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair,
sleepily indifferent, because the continent
was clothed in trees, just jars of buttons spilled.

My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
To drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
implicit with stars in active orbit,
let silence drill its hole.

I had children of my own.
Because I killed a snake the day she was born,
in a carousel-sweet dress
and candy limbs, gone missing, their
paper sacks stuffed full of orange,
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
green trousers and purple velour sleeves,
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone.

I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
what he needed from me. I have no idea.

The pilot alone knows
the chill of closed eyelids.
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out,
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
Not April and the magnolias in
sad beds wide enough for planting.

In our hearts, we learn to petrify it so
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest,
the whole cathedral crash at your back.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.

Anastasia Rodionova #1 "For Six Months in a Carousel-Sweet Dress,"

2011-04-23T14:52:00.002-04:00

For Six Months in a Carousel-Sweet Dress,

I.

You have lived and lived on, lived on every kind of shortage

It’s more of an artists’ colony than a hospital
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
all is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
How fibrous and incidental it seems, inside the skull!

Old brain inside the new brain, New brain inside the old; skull the skull.
I had children of my own
—a dog’s skull
is slightly thicker than our own.

For six months, in a carousel-sweet dress,
I arranged the day she was born; the Duchess’s baby
For six months, I arranged
the day she was born in a Carousel-sweet dress the Duchess’s baby

Sad beds wide enough
made by the passage of parents—
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring.
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe.

What he needed from me, I have no idea.

II.

The trick is to make it personal:
We’ll kiss each kiss, each other on kiss the kiss
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
something offensive: a revolver,

III.

The chill of closed eyelids. To open
open your tiny beak-mouth, That looks as if
it would never open.
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked, obscenely neck-like,
until my eye nearly failed, sleep-fallen.
Naked in your dark hair, unveil the mannequin’s
legs in glee. This is not
choking, okay mocha? ebony, ebony?

IV.

Sewing up the kinks in this film, I’m
the whole cathedral crash at your back
[ ]

V.

in the glaring white gap
glitches, gully pulley pitches, the reflected gleams
glisten’d with wet

The pilot alone knows Now,
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
and a refrigerator, wrapped in duct-tape lying
Someone stands and weeps in the Glass—

Only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide,
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.
Myself conjectured were they Pearls—
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,

My own bags were full of strong Poison with tiny shards,
shards of Silence, because the continent, americans,
was on the porch, each one a treaty, a frontier,
Then the terrible

terrible thing happened: I stand clothed in trees (not the magnolias)
their limbs gone missing their gloves,
too liminal the wild, protected, while all the—we slept

Metta Sama "The trick is to make it personal:"

2011-04-23T14:51:00.001-04:00

The trick is to make it personal:

When Alice steals
away and consoles
the Duchess's baby, it
metamorphoses into a
pig and runs away
from her, runs away
in the glaring white
gap while all the wild
protected liminal woods.

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

While all the wild protected
liminal woods, the beards
of the young men glisten'd
with wet, it ran
from their long hair.

[The trick
is to make it
personal]

:

The beards of the young
men glisten'd with wet,
it ran from their long
hair. (Were the scissors
impulsive or inevitable?)

[The trick is to make it
personal]

:

Were the scissors impulsive
or incidental? You have lived
and lived on every kind
of shortage—

Now I hear the clock snap
I swipe an ant

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

Now
I hear
the clock
snap
I swipe
an ant

:

To open your tiny beak-mouth,
that looks as if it would never
open in the glaring white
gap sleepily indifferent—
the whole cathedral crash
at your back— all is from wreck,
here, there, to rescue
one—

:

How fibrous
and incidental
it seems: paper
sacks stuffed full
of orange—

:

A hundred times consider what you've said:

When my eye nearly failed

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

Sleep-fallen, naked
in your dark hair not April
and the magnolias the chill
of closed eyelids.

The trick is to make it personal:

When Alice steals
away and consoles
the Duchess's baby, it
metamorphoses into a
pig and runs away
from her, runs away
in the glaring white
gap while all the wild
protected liminal woods.

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

While all the wild protected
liminal woods, the beards
of the young men glisten'd
with wet, it ran
from their long hair.

[The trick
is to make it
personal]

:

The beards of the young
men glisten'd with wet,
it ran from their long
hair. (Were the scissors
impulsive or inevitable?)

[The trick is to make it
personal]

:

Were the scissors impulsive
or incidental? You have lived
and lived on every kind
of shortage—

Now I hear the clock snap
I swipe an ant

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

Now
I hear
the clock
snap
I swipe
an ant

:

To open your tiny beak-mouth,
that looks as if it would never
open in the glaring white
gap sleepily indifferent—
the whole cathedral crash
at your back— all is from wreck,
here, there, to rescue
one—

:

How fibrous
and incidental
it seems: paper
sacks stuffed full
of orange—

:

A hundred times consider what you've said:

When my eye nearly failed

[The trick is to make it personal]

:

Sleep-fallen, naked
in your dark hair not April
and the magnolias the chill
of closed eyelids.

Nicole Cartwright Denison #2 "MotherSong"

2011-04-23T14:50:00.001-04:00

MotherSong

Because the continent was clothed in trees
in a carousel-sweet dress—
I had children of my own,
lived on every kind of shortage.

For six months I arranged museum dioramas,
sad beds wide enough for planting:
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
in the glaring white gap, all dopey in the glass.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
A dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.

Then the terrible thing happened:
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Implicit with stars in active orbit,
the whole cathedral crashes at your back.
I stay at his palace and share my room
with two other talents.

All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
while all the wild protected liminal woods
became the mystery of dark strong poison
with tiny shards of ice.
He wouldn't stand alone
because I killed a snake the day she was born.

A hundred times consider what you've said:
gloves, blame her. This is not
something offensive: a revolver, wired minefield.
How fibrous and incidental it seems:
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee.

What he needed from me I have no idea:
sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham;
perhaps only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Or, the chill of closed eyelids,
surely not April
and the magnolias…

The trick is to make it personal,
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so:
let silence drill its hole.

Nicole Cartwright Denison #1 "reel of spring day & travel"

2011-04-23T14:49:00.001-04:00

reel of spring day & travel

sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
into the frontier
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
in the glaring white gap
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
their limbs gone missing
while all the wild protected liminal woods
safe in the deep V of a weekday
where it is easy to hide

Holly M. Wendt "Midnight"

2011-04-23T14:48:00.001-04:00

Midnight

Then the terrible thing happened: The places cats won't go.
The climbing out onto the banks.
The naked man the pilot alone knows
because the continent was clothed in trees.

I have played tennis with so many animals,
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
in a carousel-sweet dress—

I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
implicit with stars in active orbit.

My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift—
only the steps into the frontier, where it is easy to hide:
let silence drill its hole, hot black dunes in the air—
the chill of closed eyelids: sleepily indifferent

Crystal Kile "Angry Bird"

2011-04-23T14:44:00.001-04:00

ANGRY BIRD

you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage
because the continent was clothed in trees
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
paper sacks stuffed full of orange
choking okay mocha. ebony,
sleepily indifferent
it is cooked into a codex
not April and the magnolias
hot black dunes in the air – we slept
implicit with stars in active orbit
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Then the terrible thing happened:

The Avon Lady treks door to door.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one –
in the glaring white gap
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide
gloves, blame her
in our hearts learn to petrify it so
in a carousel-sweet dress
wired minefield
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
A hundred times consider what you've said:
A dog's skull is slightly thicker than our own.
My advice to young people is to like hats, but not love them.
Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is not
something offensive: a revolver,
green trousers and purple velour sleeves.
When Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess's baby, it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away.

Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls –
It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital
the nearer she got the bigger she looked, until
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair
Because I killed a snake the day she was born
I had children of my own,
and candy their limbs gone missing their
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe it
while all the wild protected liminal woods
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night
let silence drill its hole

I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
the chill of closed eyelids
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling
sad beds wide enough for planting
When my eye nearly failed
For six months I arranged museum dioramas
each letter a cameo appearance, each one a treaty, each one a place where plutonium safely resides,
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
the whole cathedral crash at your back
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.
now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
I stay at his palace and share my room with two other talents
How fibrous and incidental it seems
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
count out the sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
To open your tiny beak-mouth that looks as if it would never open

That I just ten, became the mystery of
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
The pilot alone knows
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone
Oh, plunge me deep in love – put out
What he needed from me I have no idea
But no falcons in this green made by the passage of parents.

I have played tennis with so many animals
Sharks are people too.

Sewing up the kinks in this film, I'm
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
The trick is to make it personal:

Carol A. Stephen "Postcards to the Galaxy / across a Great Wilderness"

2011-04-23T14:43:00.001-04:00

Postcards to the Galaxy
across a Great Wilderness

Someone stands and weeps.
In the glass telephone theatre, I have
played tennis with so many animals,
paper sacks stuffed full of orange—
my own bags were full of salt,
which made them shifty, hard to lift.
My advice to young people is to like hats
but not love them.

The trick is to make it personal:
implicit with stars in active orbit
each letter a cameo appearance,
each one a treaty,
each one a place where plutonium
safely resides—

hot black dunes in the air.
We slept because the continent
was clothed in trees,
not April and the magnolias,
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring
sad beds wide enough for planting –

the places cats won’t go.
The climbing out onto banks.
The naked man let silence drill its hole
What he needed from me I have no idea.

The pilot alone knows I’m drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe,
the chill of closed eyelids sleepily indifferent,
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.

Eleanor Paynter "The Chill of Closed Eyelids"

2011-04-23T14:41:00.001-04:00

The Chill of Closed Eyelids

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
how fibrous and incidental it seems.
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
Something offensive: a revolver.
Let silence drill its hole.

Eleanor Paynter

Laura #2 "Time yet for a hundred visions and revisions."

2011-04-23T14:40:00.002-04:00

Time yet for a hundred visions and revisions.

A hundred times consider what you've said:
each letter a treaty, reflected gleams -
each kiss cooked into a codex.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.
How incidental it seems.
A hundred times consider what you've said:
each letter a treaty, reflected gleams.

Amanda Ven "This is not glass telephone theatre"

2011-04-23T14:38:00.001-04:00

"This is not glass telephone theatre"

How fibrous and incidental it seems,
to rescue every kind of sad
bed wide enough for planting
the wired minefield in active orbit.
You have lived and lived on
the frontier it is easy to hide the naked man
because the continent was clothed in trees.

The places appear to the Americans
on the chill of closed eyelids
while wild scissors naked in dark hair unveil
the glaring white beards of men
glisten'd with wet Beauty one could breathe —
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams:
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings —
the Avon Lady treks door to door,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse,
green trousers and purple velour —
The nearer she got, the bigger she looked,
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like…

The trick is to make it personal.
The trick is to let silence drill its hole
in each cameo appearance.

This is not glass telephone theatre.
Someone stands and weeps
jars of buttons spilled into a codex.

Sewing up kinks in the mystery,
a carousel-sweet kiss the kiss,
indifferent,
sleepily.

Krysia Orlowski "In liminal woods,"

2011-04-23T14:37:00.001-04:00

In liminal woods,

I have played tennis with so many animals.
For six months I candy their limbs gone missing,
arrange museum dioramas—
the chill of closed eyelids,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings,
old brain inside the new brain inside the skull.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice.
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre.
Someone stands and unveils the mannequin's legs in glee—this is
something offensive: a revolver, wired minefield.
The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man
sleepily indifferent
all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone
in a carousel-sweet dress.
What he needs from me I have no idea.
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
It is not really necessary to eat the food; one can breathe it.
In our hearts, learn to petrify it.
The trick is to make it personal—
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.

Linda Hofke "Cento"

2011-04-23T14:36:00.002-04:00

Cento

It's more like an artists' colony than a hospital.
For six months I've arranged museum dioramas,
the chill of closed eyes

sewing up the kinks in this film. I'm
just jars of buttons spilled, recurring,
old brain inside the new brain inside the skull.

How fibrous and incidental it seems
in the glaring white gap.
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.

Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday
implicit with stars in active orbit.
Let silence drill its hole.

Dahl #2 "Personal poem"

2011-04-23T14:35:00.001-04:00

Personal poem

The places cats won't go. The climbing out onto the banks. The naked man. Then the terrible thing happened. The pilot alone knows, that I, just ten, became the mystery of sad beds wide enough for planting not April and the magnolias, the chill of closed eyelids, the whole cathedral crash at your back, just jars of buttons spilled, recurring. Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable? Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night. When my eye nearly failed because the continent was clothed in trees. Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull. Because I killed a snake the day she was born. The trick is to make it personal.

Dahl #1 "A tennisgame"

2011-04-23T14:34:00.001-04:00

A tennisgame

I have played tennis with so many animals, wired minefield in a carousel-sweet dress sleepily indifferent. How fibrous and incidental it seems. A hundred times consider what you've said: the pungent oranges and bright, green wings, something offensive: a revolver, in our hearts, learn to petrify it so, you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage paper, sacks stuffed full of orange. Sharks are people too.

e.w. evans #2 "Song"

2011-04-23T05:03:00.001-04:00

Song

Pully glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
In the glaring white gap when my eye nearly failed
unveil the legs.
The naked man,
I stand on the porch
only steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
someone stands and weeps
I swipe an ant

climbing out on the banks
one could breathe bright green wings
But no falcons in this green.

One could breathe it.

I had children of my own
the day she was born
she glisten'd with wet
sleep-fallen, naked in dark hair.
I killed a snake, plunge me inside the skull, slightly thicker than our own...

Now I am silence in the deep.

Climbing out onto the green breathe bright green not necessary to eat
glaring white, the places cats won't go,
ebony palace, my room.

Kevin Corzett "Easy to hide"

2011-04-23T04:01:00.001-04:00

Easy to hide

Places climbing out
naked continent clothed in
what he needed.
Full of salt, hard to lift, to drink

strong poison, Light-head
mannequin's legs pilot alone
the magnolias in a carousel
implicit in active orbit.

In the air someone stands,
in the theatre closed eyelids
indifferent times consider
ripe plates of ham.

In the glaring gap
limbs gone missing
in the deep
gully pitches old brain

in the glass
weighing the harvest
with two other talents.
A cameo appearace
naked in your dark jars recurring.

I.A. #2 "Cento Quattro"

2011-04-23T04:00:00.001-04:00

Cento Quattro

pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
How fibrous and incidental it seems.

with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling,
It was not really necessary to eat the food; one could breathe it.

Sewing up the kinks in this film, I’m
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,

each letter a cameo appearance, each one a treaty, each one a place where plutonium safely resides,
only the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.

now I hear the clock snap I swipe an ant
count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham.
the whole cathedral crash at your back

paper sacks stuffed full of orange
you have lived and lived on every kind of shortage.

in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
Because I killed a snake the day she was born.
A dog’s skull is slightly thicker than our own.

Kathrine Keller "Grove Mother"

2011-04-23T03:52:00.002-04:00

GROVE MOTHER

When my eye nearly failed—
the chill of closed eyelids (sleepily indifferent)—
I had children of my own:
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams…
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?

The trick is to make it personal
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
hot black dunes in the air
something offensive: a revolver
When Alice steals away and consoles the Duchess's baby,
it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away…

The Avon Lady treks door to door,
the nearer she got the bigger she looked, until
green trousers and purple velour sleeves
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
hoist their nets, weighing the harvest

Elizabeth Shuler Untitled

2011-04-23T03:52:00.000-04:00

Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. This is
something offensive: a revolver,
in a carousel-sweet dress
sleepily indifferent
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
Green trousers and purple velour sleeves.
implicit with stars in active orbit,
the pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams
and candy their limbs gone missing
while all the wild protected liminal woods
appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.
Because the continent was clothed in trees
the Avon Lady treks door to door
in the glaring white gap
obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
sleep-fallen, naked in her dark hair
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice,
sewing up the kinks in this film,
in our hearts, learn to petrify it so,
let silence drill its hole.
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
The trick is to make it personal.

Jessi Joy Untitled

2011-04-23T03:51:00.002-04:00

When my eye nearly failed
Then the terrible thing happened:
something offensive
in the deep V

The naked man
naked in your dark hair
glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair
a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice

Unveil the mannequin's legs in glee.
sad beds
for feeling
kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course

we slept

Sewing up the kinks
Someone stands and weeps
the whole cathedral crash at your back

"DEGREES"

2011-04-23T03:50:00.003-04:00

DEGREES
by Mary Virginia Cooley

Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like,
all dopey in the glass – I'm drunk.
(This is not a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape.)
A hundred times consider what you've said:
   blame her.

The nearer she got the bigger she looked, until –
emerge, twitch, disappear –
something offensive: a revolver,
gloves, blame her,
   b-l-a-
each letter a cameo appearance,
   . . . Me.
each one a treaty in our hearts.

Kawita Kandpal "Not April"

2011-04-23T03:50:00.002-04:00

Not April

Not April and the magnolias
Wide enough for planting, we slept

In this green made by the passage
of closed eyelids;

Not April and the magnolias
That I, just ten, became the wild

harvest of spring, a hundred
continents of silence.

Joannie Kervran Stangeland "The Nearer She Got the Bigger She Looked Until"

2011-04-23T03:47:00.002-04:00

The Nearer She Got the Bigger She Looked Until

I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
implicit with stars in active orbit
wired minefield

only the steps into the frontier where
it is easy to hide
Disappear, emerge, twitch
reverse course

The trick is to make it personal—

the chill of closed eyelids
not April and the magnolias
sad beds wide enough for planting

A hundred times consider what you've said—

each letter a cameo appearance, each one
a treaty, each one a place
where plutonium safely resides
paper sacks stuffed full of orange

To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks
as if it would never
open
Count out
sherry and ripe plates and little corners
of a kind of ham

You have lived
and lived on
every kind of shortage

Sewing up the kinks
in this film, I'm
sleep-fallen, naked
in your dark hair

All is from wreck, here
there, to rescue
one—

the whole cathedral crash at your back
is cooked into a codex
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
pulley glitches, gully pitches, the reflected gleams

Old brain inside the new
brain, inside the skull
A dog's skull is
slightly thicker than our own

It's more of an artists' colony than a hospital
in the glaring white gap
in our hearts, learn
to petrify it so

Jackie "Cento: Ecclesiastes"

2011-04-23T03:46:00.002-04:00

Cento: Ecclesiastes

I'm drunk.
I stand on the porch in my bathrobe.

When my eye nearly failed
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks
as if it would never open,
(because I killed a snake the day she was born)
I had children of my own;
sad beds wide enough for planting.

All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—

Chelsea Rae Prax "Cento: Tonight No Rich Poetry Will Serve. All is from wreck, here."

2011-04-23T03:46:00.000-04:00

Cento: Tonight No Rich Poetry Will Serve. All is from wreck, here.

the naked man, hard to lift, was clothed in trees -
not april and the magnolias.
all dopey in the glass. he wouldn't stand alone.
sleepily indifferent
something offensive
in the glaring white gap
weighing the harvest.

then the terrible thing happened:
i became the mystery of a hundred times.
i'm drunk. i stand on the porch in my bathrobe
that looks as if it would never open.
unveil the mannequin's legs in glee. this is not
okay mocha. obscenely jewel-toned ebony, a dark strong poison with tiny shards of
hot black dunes in the air—we slept
the places cats won't go
where it is easy to hide.

naked in your dark hair
just spilled, recurring
limbs gone missing.
oh plunge me deep glisten'd with wet
it was not really necessary to eat; one could breathe it.

i have played with so many … which made them shifty.
sad beds wide enough for planting every kind of shortage.
wired minefield
with only the fakebook of Beauty for feeling.

sleep-fallen. a revolver,
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away from her, runs away.

climbing out, the trick is to make it personal: blame her.
in love—put out.
impulsive or inevitable?
while all the wild protected liminal woods.

what he needed from me I have no idea
the pilot alone knows.
my own bags were full. old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull.
let silence drill its hole.
now i am safe in the deep V of a weekday
how fibrous and incidental it seems.

my advice to young people is to like but not love them.
there, to rescue one—

Rachel Daley Untitled

2011-04-23T03:45:00.002-04:00

put out all
is wreck
just jars
the nearer she got the nearer
trekked
to the door
now I am safe
a hundred times
consider
and candy their limbs
share my room with two
and incidental
paper sacks
my eye nearly failed
in your dark

Isabel Shark "A Dog's Skull"

2011-04-23T03:44:00.002-04:00

A Dog’s Skull
for Vanessa Place

in our hearts
a dog’s skull
you have lived
a dog’s skull
learn to petrify
a dog’s skull
to rescue
a dog’s skull
how fibrous and incidental
a dog’s skull
when my tweet time’s up I’ll collect
a dog’s skull
something offensive?
A sleepily indifferent dog’s skull.

Let silence drill a hole in
a dog’s skull
When my tweet time’s up I’ll go for
a hole
in a dog’s skull

the mystery of
a dog’s skull in one cento
Something offensive?
a dog!
Something offensive?
skull!
When my tweet time’s up
a dog in one cento
When my tweet time’s up
I’ll collect
A dog
wrapped in duct tape

Let silence drill
a dog
Let silence drill
hot black dunes

when my tweet time’s up
the wired
dog’s skull
The trick is to make
One cento or
a dog
The trick is to make
a dog’s skull cento

CAW "Gloves, blame her:"

2011-04-23T03:43:00.001-04:00

Gloves, blame her:

Because the continent was clothed in trees what he needed
from me I have no idea (The pilot alone knows.)

My own bags were full of salt, which made them shifty, hard to lift.

Let the silence drill its holes; unveil the mannequin’s
legs in glee. This is not not April and the magnolias: in a carousel-

sweet dress: sad beds wide enough for planting. We'll kiss each kiss
other on kiss the kiss (because the continent was clothed

in trees.) The trick is to make it personal: Someone
stands and weeps in the glass

telephone theatre. In the glaring white gap count out sherry and ripe
plates and little corners of a kind of ha(r)m: only

the steps into the frontier where it is easy to hide.
A hundred times consider what you've said: and a refrigerator wrapped

in duct tape lying, and candy their limbs gone missing their—.

Hot black dunes in the air—we slept sleepily indifferent,
implicit with stars in active orbit. You have lived and lived on

every kind of shortage: the whole cathedral
crash at your back, paper sacks stuffed full of orange,

while all the wild protected liminal woods: just jars of buttons
spilled, recurring.

Monica A. Hand "In the glaring white gap"

2011-04-23T03:42:00.002-04:00

In the glaring white gap

Let silence drill its hole
We’ll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
In a carousel-sweet dress
Implicit with stars in active orbit

We’ll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
Hot black dunes in the air- we slept
Implicit with stars in active orbit
The chill of closed eyelids

Hot black dunes in the air – we slept
A hundred times consider what you’ve said
The chill of closed eyelids
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull

A hundred times consider what you’ve said
Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
Old brain inside the new brain, inside the skull
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like

Disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one
Obscenely jewel-toned, obscenely neck-like
The whole cathedral crash at your back

All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one
Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
The whole cathedral crash at your back
Choking okay mocha ebony

Paper sacks stuffed full of orange
Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable
Choking okay mocha ebony
Sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair

Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable
When my eye nearly failed
Sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
Let silence drill its hole

Monica A Hand