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February 24, 2010

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Cover illustrat ion by Skillet Gilmore

Join us at the reading!

The winners and judges will read from their work

Friday, March 26, 7 p.m. at Flanders Gallery302 S. West St., Raleigh, 834-5044

Free admission, food and drink

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Special Issues » Poetry Contest

2010 Poetry Issue In search of lost time

The offerings ofthis year's poetrywinners have anostalgic orregretful hue.Two poems areexplicitly aboutvanishedfeatures of NorthCarolina; ourwinning effortcelebrates—in alight, clever way—the wild parrotthat once lived inNorth Carolinabut vanishedlong before mostof our ancestorsmoved here. Andanother poemtakes as its titlethe oldestmystery in NorthCarolina—and inthe history ofEuropeanizedAmerica, for thatmatter: the vanished settlement of Roanoke. Other poems also bring up memories: the hayfields of aMidwestern childhood, for example, or an imagined medieval dungeon of language, complete with"ledger, quarter bound in goatskin with moiré silk sides."

The diversity and strength of our readers' poetic efforts over the years in the Indy poetry contest isinspiring. Our preliminary judges Brian Howe and Dianne Timblin reviewed—blindly—a flood ofsubmissions and came up with a short list for our final judge, Raleigh poet and teacher ChristopherSalerno. Once again, we're left marveling at the strength of this ancient, and essentially private, pastime—it's a secret that gets revealed every year right about now. —David Fellerath

First place"Carolina Parrot"

by Robin Kirk

When Audubon drew them (parrots

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gorging on cockleburs), there waspeace in the Carolinas, a few years

before the war. Parrots spring from theprint, pop-eyed, iridescent. A quiet man'sinside joke, since parrots aren't

nice. Parrot: thief, pest, interloper,corn-stealer. At least, that's whatfarmers told us, what farmers say

in the mountains where we saw loros,raucous as teens, descend on ripe stalks.Their infamy is global.

Or this: she jabbers like a parrot. Heparrots words. "At least the wolfleaves us something. The loro

picks us clean." This, though, is memory,when "parrot" is not feather and hammeringheart, but that insubstantial thing, a thought

in a story or what I tell youabout the image of a parrot, the sadstory of this Carolina bird last

seen in 1904, in a Florida bog, an immense,green depth where there were no paths.Call this the parrot's end, or when

we left our loros behind, on the world'sother end. So many times, we've leftwhat we know. When memory strikes,

it is exuberant, loud as a parrot, sharp as itslivid gleam in this too-soft land, yellow and blue,in the quick, bloody bite of remembering.

Judge's Comments: In 1958, Chairman Mao declared sparrows enemies of the Chinese state. Hugecrowds spent hours keeping the sparrows from landing until the birds eventually died of exhaustion.There's richness in the effort to drive out (from our lands or our selves) the undesirable (howevermisguided). The emotional complexity of this poem covers that effort in a similar way, and findsresonance. Parrots are aesthetically beautiful. But the Carolina Parrot, to the American farmer, was a"thief, pest, interloper, / corn stealer." And yet, acknowledging this fact, the speaker in here laments,internalizes the loss of the birds ("when / we left our loros behind"). This poem is a response to theimbalance that can stem from eviction. We have our memory to prove it. The poem turns with the volta:"So many times, we've left / what we know. When memory strikes, /it is exuberant, loud as a parrot,sharp as its / livid gleam in this too-soft land ..." —Christopher Salerno

About the Poet: Robin Kirk is an experienced writer who has published widely—in nonfiction, that is.She spent years reporting from South America on human rights issues and has published books onColombia and Peru. "I went to Latin America to work as a stringer," she says. "But I discovered that partof my passion for writing had to do with injustice ... as a way to help people directly." A fluent Spanishspeaker, Kirk has lived in Durham since 1992, and she is the executive director of the Duke Human RightsCenter. Her poetic influences include W.S. Merwin, Wislawa Szymborska, Anne Carson, Richard Haasand Sharon Olds, as well as her Duke colleague, the Chilean polymath Ariel Dorfman. Now that she haschildren, poetry is a major writing outlet, something that can be productively pursued in 30-minuteincrements. "Carolina Parrot" came about, she says, when she encountered Audubon plates of this bird,which was indeed native to the Carolinas and points south until it was hunted to extinction.

Second place"Cross-section of a Hayfield"

by Julie Greenberg

I.The hayfield is empty.The wind shrieks in the window casing.

II.From the yard, the field is a field of teethand the sheets on the line, its playful tongue.Neither is aware of the rabbits' game.

III.Hiding behind the shed, the white aluminum becomesa sail. The wind tugs my hair. I wait

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Hello,

I was wondering do you have Host for this event? If not Iwould like to be involved …

by Church Da'Poet on 2012 Poetry Issue (PoetryContest)

That's my man!

by Emily Cooper on 2011 Poetry Issue (Poetry Contest)

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VISIT THE ARCHIVES…

Photo by D.L. AndersonClick for larger image • Robin

Kirk

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until dusk makes the discordant house quiet.

IV.That summer we found a rabbithidden in a corner of the hayfield.For three summers we looked for the dry bones.

V.Among the lines, white butterflies drift,affixing their eggs to the raw leaves.A traffic of wings and scepter legs.

VI.In fall, summer is still felt on ankles sharply.The hayfield insists on being held.

VII.At tractor's start, the crows rise on a series of caws.A new black ring for the gentle haze and aproper christening for the field.

VIII.A constellation of alfalfa blooms explode in measured intervals.I plant my tarnished coin beneath a stem.Nowhere else have I felt this sure of distance.

IX.The sun is setting and heavy duskbrings her rolling up the walk.The hayfield waits.

Judge's Comments: In "Cross-section of a Hayfield," the play of time across place ripples through thepoem, stanza by stanza, season by season, mirroring the light and wind that bathe and trouble thehayfield itself. Exquisite details—of butterflies with "scepter legs," of "a field of teeth," of the setting sun"rolling up the walk"—break through the hush of these stanzas and dazzle. Yet there is mystery here too,palpable and urgent. Near the "discordant" house, the speaker hides behind a shed; a rabbit hides in thefield. Then the ritual search for "dry bones." From this emerges a habit of measuring, of countingwhatever can be counted: seasons, years, intervals of bloom. And then a single line of iambicpentameter ("I plant my tarnished coin beneath a stem") bears us resolutely to the cross-section's core:"Nowhere else have I felt this sure of distance." To be certain, the speaker knows the physicalmeasurements of this field. But other dimensions of distance—the remove of time, the intractability ofisolation—are equally familiar. —Dianne Timblin

About the Poet: As her poem suggests, Durham resident Julie Greenberg has some familiarity withfarm country: She grew up in Dubuque, Iowa, and attended the University of Iowa in Iowa City, whereshe studied English, Spanish and history. She also studied writing at the famed writers' workshop.Although she's an Iowan, she didn't grow up on a farm. "Dubuque is different from the rest of Iowa—it'snot flat," she says. "But my father lived in the country," she adds, which aided her familiarity with theecology of the wheat field. "They're kind of creepy places," she says with a laugh. Greenberg is presentlyin her second semester of her master's degree studies in library sciences at UNC. She cites among herfavorite poets Robert Haas, Eugenio Montale and Michael Earl Craig.

Photo by D.L. AndersonClick for larger image • Dav id D. Marshall

Third place

VISIT THE ARCHIVES…Click for larger image • Julie

Greenberg

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"The Lost Colony of Roanoke Island"

by David D. Marshall

Springs follow runsTo brooks and rillsIn a land of ancient ferns

Stones made smoothAs shallow riffles meltTheir inconsistency

(Pines drum where starsAnd waters meet)

And a river to the sea spills outOf a forest into the skyVapors against a rising tide

The brack of boneAgainst the ebbOf a cerulean sky

(The crack ofA distant star)

A horse stands over its riderIn this moment at the edge of timeIn this strand of river and sea

Where wind sweeps backThe brackish watersBlack and white

(While waves drum out the loamTo sand and spray)

And pebbles smoothThe red ebbOf a flowing sky

The sun-dried sea grassBrine-cured bleeding brownInto the sandy white

("Where is the horse gone?""Where is the rider?")

Voices drown in the siltOf this lost ArcadiaBeneath the painted signs

Lapis eyes raisedIn supplicationNow house saddled crabs

(That flit and pause and weighSome imagined concern)

Judge's Comments: There's a certain point where an historically based poem can turn into a Wikipediaentry. Too many facts leave too little room for mysteries. Luckily, "The Lost Colony of Roanoke Island"isn't very interested in facts. It's more like a diorama. There are only calm, composed vantages ("Thecrack of/ A distant star")—that pierce a misted world, somehow at once tranquil and unstable, wherepines drum, skies ebb, a horse stands over its rider. There's little speculation, only a couple hesitantquestions and a continual, focused circling of the enigma. A colony could easily vanish into such deep,clear lines as these. —Brian Howe

About the Poet: With this prize, David Marshall has published his second poem; his first was in hisnative tongue, Spanish. Born in Panama, Marshall moved to the States when he was 18 years old. Nowthe holder of dual citizenship, he operates an international trading company while living in Carrboro withhis daughter, who also lives with her mother, a medical student at UNC. Marshall earned a law degreefrom UNC and is finishing up a master's degree in public policy from Duke; his résumé also includes twodecades in the U.S. Army, including post-9/11 stops in Iraq and Afghanistan. He also wrote a regularcolumn for the Chapel Hill News while a law student. Of his winning effort, Marshall says: "The creativeprocess is kind of weird. A lot of times I don't know what I'm writing or why I'm writing it. I have animage in my mind ... and I try to figure out where it's coming from. I think the poet Rilke said 'neverwrite about expansive themes...' I try not to do that. I know that whatever universal theme there is isgoing to be grounded in something. As it was developing, I realized what I was describing was an earlyexperience I had when I first came to the United States, when I took a trip to the Lost Colony island ... it

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was magical to me that these colonists from another world landed here and were subsequently 'lost.'What does 'lost' mean?"

Honorable mention"Lump"

by James A. Hawley

On the eighth day, we settle down to work the crosswords, noodlethe acrostics, search for all the possible anagrams in "OvercomingProblems", inscribe the names of all the people in all the villages& where they live & how much they earn & what they owe & whatthey have & what they haven't. This is called "qualitative easing."We keep the ledger, quarter bound in goatskin with moiré silk sides,in the cellar, along with the jars of pickled antecedents & shrunkenheadlines, seek the meaning of "dungeon" in the Old Norse "dyngja,"a pile of manure, a woman's workroom, a place of stench or sacrifice.We cut a bream into serving portions—solay! Another typo at theprinter's shop & de Morgan's theorem which states that the denialof a conjunction is equivalent to the altercation of the denials & thedenials of an alteration is equivalent to the conjunction of the denials,Shakefork. We are damaged goods & we know it, relegate in our new-found homeliness, tierced in pairie sable, gules & azure. The controltowers have been mistaken for observatories.

Judge's Comments: How often is finding a lump actually a good thing?Not very. But this small poem is rare in a number of ways. It's filled withexotic textures both linguistic—the Old Norse "dyngja," the gules and azure—and tactile, rustling with "goatskin" and "moiré silk." It cranks up justafter creation and winds down somewhere after the fall. Along the way, itsweeps up word puzzles, ledgers, typos and theorems in a babble ofhuman noise. "We're damaged goods and we know it," a state to which"Lump" responds by unleashing vigorous post-lapsarian energies. Solay!—Brian Howe

About the Poet: James A. Hawley is a repeat winner from last year'scontest, in which he took third place. The Wake Forest resident, who haslived in Arizona, California, Central America, New York and Chicago, hassince published more poems, including one written in Nahuatl, the present-day form of the Aztec tongue. Hawley lost his job at a sign company lastsummer and has since been using his non-job-hunting time to send outmore poems and apply for writing fellowships. "The longer I beat my headagainst these various walls, the more I realize that the writing is the easypart," Hawley says. "The hard part is getting this shit into print, and one can spend a helluva lot moretime trying to publish than the actual writing. And here you get into the whole capitalistic production andmarketeering aspect of the biz, which I abhor and revile and for which I have little patience or talent: Ifyou don't schmooze, you lose. I will add that that's the nice thing about the Indy's contest: It's allanonymous and the choices are based solely on the merit of the work." Hawley's recent work has beenpublished in spinewriters, The Salt River Review and a British journal called The Delinquent.

Final judge

Christopher Salerno is the author of Whirligig and a new book, MinimumHeroic, selected by Dara Wier for the 2009 Mississippi Review PoetryAward. His poems can be found in journals such as: The Denver Quarterly,Boston Review, Colorado Review, Jubilat, American Letters andCommentary, Carolina Quarterly, Octopus, Free Verse, Asheville PoetryReview and The Bedside Guide Anthology. He is co-curator of Raleigh'sown So and So Series, and co-editor of So and So Magazine. Currently, heteaches writing at North Carolina State University. He won first place in lastyear's Indy poetry contest.

Preliminary panel

Brian Howe, an Independent contributor, is a Durham-based journalist,artist and poet. His poetry and sound art have appeared in such outlets asFascicle, McSweeneys.net, MiPoesias, Effing, Cannibal, Octopus and SoftTargets. He is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including This is theMotherfucking Remix (with Marcus Slease; Scantily Clad; 2008). He's givenreadings at series spanning the Triangle (e.g. Durham's Minor Americanand Raleigh's So and So) to Brooklyn (e.g. The Stain of Poetry and BurningChair) and points outlying. He is a member of the N.C.-based LuciferPoetics Group and he edited a portfolio of their work for TheFanzine.com.He maintains his multimedia project, Glossolalia, at glossolalia-blacksail.blogspot.com.

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Photo by D.L. AndersonClick for larger image • James A.

Hawley

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Photo by D.L. AndersonClick for larger image •

Christopher Salerno

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Dianne Timblin lives, writes, and edits in Durham. Her poetry hasappeared in Phoebe, Rivendell, minor/american, Fanzine, Foursquare andother journals. Recently, she contributed to Kate Schapira's collaborativebook project TOWN, which has just been published by Factory School in itsHeretical Texts series. Among her various writing and research projects, arecent favorite was writing about Hessler Court, the last remaining wood-block road in Cleveland, Ohio, for Forest History Today, the magazine ofDurham's own Forest History Society. She currently works as an editor atDuke University Press.

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