Christal
Cooper 985 Words
On December 13, 2014 the F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum (http://fitzgeraldmuseum.net),located
at 719 Felder Avenue, in Montgomery, Alabama hosted its second annual 2014 The Mad Poet’s Poetry Contest Event. Executive Director Willie Thompson, presented
the winners who were present with cash prizes. There were six winners in this contest.
In this feature we are presenting the
winners, the place his/her poem was placed, the winning cash prize amount, and
the poet’s contact information.
1st Place
$50
The 1st
Place Winner wishes to remain anonymous and not have his/her poem included in
this feature.
2nd
Place Winner $150
MP
Jones IV
*Fish
Tale
was previously published in Harpur Palate
and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize
My brother died with a trunk full of
fish
and beer bottles crashing
together—
in
the Mother’s Day darkness—
I am endlessly returning
as
if to a worn photograph,
a lure drifting along the lake’s rim
in
Vermont,
a place I’ve never seen, and so
can only imagine some dim shore
growing certain
in torn threads of afternoon
light.
I go back to those improbable stories
he would tell, eyes alight with the
consuming
fire of beer and bourbon,
like the one where he is driving
through the desert
all night,
just driving through the sand, until
finally he stops
at noon—perhaps in Arizona,
perhaps
nowhere at all—
on a waterless sea of solid glass,
supposedly the wake of some explosives
test.
Walking over the burnt sand-lake’s
surface, breaking apart
frozen
waves and currents
beneath his boots,
crumbling like some hopeless metaphor
for certainty.
I listen as he wavers—wanting only to
fix some narrative
over the near end—
recounting
as his slurring sways,
circling to the moment just before the
hooks are set,
before the surface quivers,
the bottles break,
and everything is finished.
And everything is finished:
the bottles break
before the surface quivers,
circling to the moment just before the
hooks are set,
recounting as his slurring sways
over
the near end,
I listen as he wavers, wanting only to
fix some narrative.
Crumbling. Like some hopeless metaphor
for certainty
beneath his boots,
frozen waves and currents.
Walking over the burnt sand-lake’s
surface, breaking apart—
supposedly the wake of some
explosives test—
on a waterless sea of solid glass.
Perhaps nowhere at all
at noon, perhaps in Arizona,
just driving through the sand, until
finally he stops
all night.
Like the one where he is driving
through the desert
fire of beer and bourbon.
He would tell, eyes alight with the
consuming.
I go back to those improbable stories
in torn threads of afternoon
light,
can only imagine some dim shore
growing certain—
a place I’ve never seen—and so,
in Vermont,
a lure drifting along the lake’s
rim
as if to a worn photograph—
I am endlessly returning
in the Mother’s day darkness
and beer bottles crashing
together.
My brother died with a trunk full of
fish.
3rd
Place $100
Peter Huggins
The Harpist Plays Romeo and Juliet
In Prokofiev’s Romeo and
Juliet
The dancers become the lovers
they play.
I marvel at their ability to
slough
Their age and inclination and
assume
The role of that pair.
They glide together, unite,
Separate, and meld once more.
They whirl and spin but not
for long.
These lovers must have each
other to be
Who they must be. Then I play
my part.
I pull my harp to me, run my
hand
Along its curve, and pluck
Its strings which hum and
vibrate.
In this pit and hall
These lovers are the music I
play.
I play until the music and
the body are one,
Until the music and the body
are at rest.
4th
Place Winner $75
Maya Perry
1921
We are the electric youth
of a lost generation.
With wedding rings placed
delicately on our fingers, we frolic with friends and turn
a revolving door into an
infinite merry-go-round.
Drunk with happiness and
pregnant with child,
our favorite hobby has
become wrecking hotels.
Missing spoons here,
stolen pin cushion there,
a putrid Armenian goat
skin thrown lackadaisically,
An ice cream bowl left out
in the sun, and postcards filthy with neglect.
We have a torrent zest for
life.
Our daily amusements were
at will to our capriciousness.
The love between us spins
like a whirlwind.
So, give us the gold
painted filigree and the summer wines!
Immerse us in the tales of
men drowned in their own sorrows because the war was
too much to bear.
Then show us to
Hemmingway; he’ll lead us there.
We will only die
when we have lost it all
and that tearful eye on
the wall gazes upon us.
Until then, drinks are on
us.
*This poem was inspired by
“Show Mr. And Mrs. F to number-“ by F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald
5th
Place $50
The 5th
Place Winner wishes to remain anonymous and not have his/her poem included in
this feature.
6th
Place $25
Laura Hanna
Scott to Zelda, July 1918
“I love her and it is the
beginning of everything.”
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
If fear like the train tracks
came unbolted
and all the silence
inside me became the words
of a poem and words
I want to hear myself speak,
I would tell you
when you touched even my
hand,
it was sweet electricity
like black sparkling hose
against carpet in cold
midnight.
I would tell you
something so simple
that there is no way
to put it gently,
that I would give you
every word every poem I have,
tell you each one is about
you,
that no words are enough
I would tell you that if you
cracked open my longing
from these strictures,
it would be enough
for a thousand years,
enough to set fire to my
blood,
to give it life again,
but there are no
words for this
except yourself
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