In the Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2022, the California State Poetry Society is pleased to publish the prize-winning poems from Monthly Poetry Contests held so far in 2022 – from January to April. Congratulations to the poets and many thanks to Alice Pero, our Monthly Contests Judge. Our Featured Poet this time is Frederick Livingston and our guest artist is poet and photographer Andrena Zawinski. In the email version later to be posted on our website, we also present three book reviews and a reminder about our Annual Contest with poems due by June 30, 2022. The reviews will be posted on the blog next wee. Meanwhile, enjoy the wonderful poems by inspired poets!
FEATURED ARTIST - ANDRENA ZAWINSKI
Andrena Zawinski is a poet, fiction writer, and shutterbug whose photos have appeared as covers and on the pages of many print and online literary publications including Copper Nickel, San Francisco Peace & Hope, Caesura, Levure Litteraire, and others.
WINNERS OF CSPS MONTHLY POETRY CONTESTS IN JANUARY-APRIL, 2022
■ January 2022 - Theme: Nature, Seasons, Landscape. First Prize: □ Pamela Stone Singer, "Forest Air" □ Second Prize: Jane Stuart, “On the North Side”
■ February 2022 - Theme: Love. □ First: Jerry Smith “Lovers" Second: Jane Stuart, “Crossing the Moon”
■ March 2022 - Theme: Open, Free Subject. □ First Prize: Jeff Graham, "(A Certain Day’s Every)"
■ April 2022 - Mythology, Dreams, Other Universes. □ First Prize: Debra Darby "Awaken"
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JANUARY 2022 – FIRST PRIZE
FOREST AIR
You cannot see
but know yourself as light.
Wings hoist you to the top of a tree.
You see meadows’ waves
and luminous wildflowers.
Touch tongues of birds.
Swallow night air.
Cleanse your lungs.
Let forests’ darkness wrap your body.
Open your mouth to stars.
Geese fly into autumn.
Their flight brings lavender sky
and iridescent feathers.
Soon branches will bend with winter.
Pine and wind-scented air
remind the forest is near.
Pamela Stone Singer, Occidental, California
JANUARY 2022 – SECOND PRIZE
ON THE NORTH SIDE
Walking through darkness
-another sleepless night—
my foot hits a star
But the wind blows shadows
across time…
and in the distance,
the moon sighs
and earth,
a painting,
comes to life—
shells in a bowl
flowers,
still-life fruit
made of wax
The sky quivers.
I reach for
my bow and arrow—
nothing is there,
just the owl
and moss that grows
on the side of trees
Jane Stuart, Flatwoods, Kentucky
FEBRUARY 2022 - FIRST PRIZE
LOVERS
She hikes to the
waterfall twice a year
once when
new-greens leaf the alders
and again as
redbuds flame amber-pink
At dusk she lights a candle in the rock
for wind from the falls to flicker
She splits dark pools, gliding
Somehow together
again, they
float the lips of
the cataract
tumble down torrents
Her breasts engorge at the flood of him
She suspends breath
shallow murmurs
Lying on black
basalt beneath stare of stars
she rubs her skin
with sage and slumbers
in the sand to rhythms
of the roar
At dawn she drops the dying candle
into
the dark, murky depths of that
River-of-Might-Have-Been
Jerry Smith, San
Luis Obispo, California
FEBRUARY 2022 - SECOND PRIZE
CROSSING THE MOON
We met on a ship crossing the moon,
a cruise of moments
made of steel and glass
through deep blue seas
and mountains hard as sand
that has been packed
by hands in icy gloves—
Oh love is wild!
and this was our romance,
a foxtrot played and danced to
by the stars.
We moved above earth
in chiffon veils
and vests of champagne corks—
Our glitter crownsshined in the shadowsof a thousand tearsbecause this was pretendand love moved on,leaving us a world of indigoand fading light.We don’t know whybut the ship docked at dawnand we became firefliesin sudden flighton tomorrow’s wingsthat bloomed tonight.
Neither late
May rain, nor memory of,
nor memory of
such scent,
but scent’s
cataloging of recollections.
Rain as timely
as late May.
Late May as
sudden as rain at such a time.
*
Everything has
led me yet ill-prepared me for this:
the sound of
water taking in itself,
hybridized with
the sound of the taking in of itself
of water,
which lands
into a backlash of rising,
to mix in with
its mixed within.
*
Rain round and
about rain,
falling as
fallen-upon mid-fall.
Drops just
amply to hear,
scantly such so
that impacts dry
before spaces
between connect.
Not too much,
yet just enough
to linger with
and within
without the
want for more,
for more than
enough.
*
Light rain
landing on light rain landing.
Rain between
rain’s between,
forming course
mid-fall, fall-formed,
following
through its follow-through
on-to-wards
leaf to leaf to
loam to the ever silent
symphony of the
seed, the sweetest
brutalities of
the seed’s destitchery.
*
Rain and the
scent of rain and the taste of rain
slides round
and down partly parted lips
to fall to,
land amid, and settle with(in)
what buried’s
soil of making and taking,
tilling the
grave’s cradle of what was –
existing as is,
becoming what come.
*
Of the hundred
things I wanted to say,
nothing came
out of my mouth.
After that came
after that, and after that
came the day cradled
in soft though ceaseless
rain.
APRIL 2022 - FIRST PRIZE
AWAKEN
Find the strings
Ride the gleaming scales of the fish
blazing melon, gold, scarlet
nocturnal sapphire
before vanishing into the ocean at dawn.
Mooring the dreamless
dream remembering in tow
listen to the tides of morning.
The fishtail reveals its secret.
Awake to awaken
In waves of shimmering water,
The mystical call of the whale
beckons.
Awaken
Find the strings.
Debra Darby, New Hope, Minnesota
FEATURED POET - FREDERICK LIVINGSTON
CSPS is pleased to present the Featured Poet for Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2022. Frederick Livingston lives in Mendocino, California and often writes about the natural world that surrounds us. The following poems have been previously published in other journals: “Gnat Creek” – Garfield Lake Review, Spring 2020; “Pear Blossom” – Bacopa Literary Review, October 2021 and "Changing Names" - Writers Resist, March 2022.
PRESENT
three blue jays
take flight from limbs
of red alder
just as my eyes
alight on them
let me never say
I made up a poem
but if I listen
I might catch a few
and write them down
before they elope
with the boundless sky
CHANGING NAMES / NAMING CHANGE
after how many years
does “drought” erode
into expected weather?
and then what name
when the rains do come
startling the hard earth
the exhausted aquifers?
we’ll sing to the deep wells
the quieted fire and clean sky
“winter” brittle in our mouths
holding vigil for rivers elders
insects lovers lost forever
when will grieving season begin?
what one word could walk
between delight of sun
hungry skin and unease
in receiving unseasonable gifts?
what of the breath we held
together as cold certainty melted
whispering “who burns this turn?”
when the broken record
record breaking
dips into new palettes
for our purple summers
cycles tighten
into teeth clenched
against unwavering anxiety.
in which season do we open
our jaws lungs ears hearts
speak our fears
how it feels to be alive
on Earth still
blooming and unraveling
naming petals
as the wind claims them?
PEAR BLOSSOM
this tree could be dead
or dreaming
dark gnarled bark
ringed in rows
of holes where
long-flown birds
searched for worms
in depths of winter...
until sudden flush
of blooms consume
lichen-crusted branches
with white five-petal
promises of summer
swollen eat-me sweets
well before
glee-green leaves
greet sun
spun into sugar
proving dreams
precede the means
where is fear
of late-season frost
shattering this frail unfurling?
where are the rations
siloed inside against
lingering winter?
here instead is
chirping of birds returning
laughter-yellow daffodils erupting
at the tree’s feet
and a question
whispered low on cold breeze:
what would the world look like
if all of us had such courage
to offer our most tender selves
not only when spring is certain
but when we can no longer bear
our hunger for a more fruitful Earth?
GNAT CREEK
This is no
imperceptible wind showing its course
in shifting smoke rising
from our fire
No this is
plunge into river bringing mountains
down to show us
what cold is
This is no
opalescent dew collecting on
artist conk underbellies
No this is
fistfuls of bright huckleberries
ornamenting the understory
This is no
subtle poem
No this is
waking up in your arms
