Earth Day Poetry Contest
WVC holds an annual poetry contest every April in recognition of Earth Day and Poetry
Month.
Three co-winners of the 2024 Contest
Please check out the footage of our Earth Day reading!
Dead Lamb on My Bathroom Floor
By Aislyn Ross
rubber neck bowing as I lifted the form of you,
loose like the flaccid tentacles of an octopus
washed ashore. I never saw you move on your own.
the air was warm but you were warmer,
swaddled in a blanket as fleece as your fresh cream coat.
pale eyes dipped like empty snow globes
shifting away from the light.
as your mother's milk dripped down
your still muzzle,
did you even know you were gone?
quiet one, soft sleeping virgin,
what does it feel like to lose before you could ever begin?
Judge's Commendation: "The speaker's care and empathy for a life already gone in "Dead
Lamb on My Bathroom Floor" is admirable, and also tragic in its hope for a future
that cannot be. These powerful feelings are resident in the lamb's mother, too, who
looks onto the dead form along with the speaker and the reader. That the whole poem
unfolds in the speaker's bathroom gives the poem a sense of the urgency that unfolded
before the lamb died. The poet's heart is truly here on the page" — Kurt Caswell
Are You Watching Me?
By Ella Reynolds
My muscles felt it first.
When I became flexed and heavy
When my inhale fills with Black Walnut and Pine sweat
I'm reminded I'm in the wild
and it doesn't matter that the barn is below me.
When I flick my eyes three hills up--
I see You
And your dark fur that could blend in If your kind didn't stand out in North Carolina.
Large, yet quiet.
Yes, I see You now
and You are watching me.
The hooves from the cows and mules
Clump dirt
then fling the dust in different directions.
Their nostrils flare and snort
As you sit.
Unbothered
On your grass throne
In the property we bought
That you own.
How long have you been watching me
And what are the intentions in your eyes?
Those golden, illuminating eyes!
Are they uncivilized?
Or does your wild come without war?
I see You wondering that, too
In every black-satin-tail curl
That almost smacks
Then brushes the ground.
No one will believe me
A ten-year-old girl,
that I saw You
The Extinct Panther.
Judge's Commendation: "The question posed by the tittle, "Are You Watching Me?", is
answered almost immediately, and the poem moves on to other concerns. I admire the
speaker in the poem who acknowledges the panther's right to be, to exist, and to be
in North Carolina--the family's property is the panther's property. And the answer
to the question: "does your wild come without war?" is implicit in the question itself,
yes it does. The speaker's astonishment is the reader's astonishment that what was
lost long ago--"The Extinct Panther"-- was never lost at all" — Kurt Caswell
Evening
By Alex Fisher
I sit
in a corner light
which holds back
the creep of evening
faint rhythmic
cricket strains
slide past
the cracked doorway
filling space
already
embraced
by the silent
clean
unseen air
a harmony of life
throbs
shadows dance
on the fading silver wall
Judge's Commendation: "I love the way "Evening" envokes a moment in the passage of
a day in such space and clean language. Even as time flows in this poem, it is also
suspended as the speaker or seer in the poem looks and listens and feels. So much
of what is in the poem is present in absences: space, air, shadows. This is a place
I want to be and watch the evening unfold." — Kurt Caswell
Honorable Mentions:
Blossoms Resurgence
By Silas Keifenhiem
Looking west-deep in the forest of antiquity
I step into the chrysalis glow of pastel moonlight
beams blind me by reflected obsidian
Until a new world is revealed to me
Smoldered and Moribund trees, touched
by the blaze of human inferno-
A place that once breathed
Secreted to floating embers
Fire lit-but fleeting into darkness
Feet planted in charred leaves and calcined life
I look to the moon
Where she begins to speak to me-
In a soft voice, warm like the autumn sparrow song,
which echoes through the cities and the gollies-
And she says to me,
Remember, Wildflowers grow, after Wildfires
Soy tu hija, madre.
By Gabriela Pedraza Fraga
Diosa Cuerauáperi, mi madre tierra, la que engendra.
Mis ancestros me enseñaron a respetarte
a honrar tu nombre con ceremonias y rituales
a escuchar el eco de tu voz en el viento
y a sentirte en cada uno de los animales.
Pero mi realidad, me invita a explotarte,
a olvidar lo que mis ancestros me enseñaron
y de tu existente vida solamente se olvidaron
pero mi alma no cede, y no deja de pensarte.
¿pensarán que eres eterna?
¿Será que nunca morirás
y solo evolucionaras?
Aprendí sobre tus ciclos y tu renovación
pero lo único que observo es tu defunción,
como se desvanecen tus colores,
desaparecen tus animales,
y se secan tus manantiales.
Mis raíces purépechas
me hace llamarte madre,
soy tu hija heredera de tus riquezas
portadora de tus historias y tradiciones.
Me hieren tus ríos y lagos secos,
secos por la codicia humana.
Me arden tus bosques quemados,
testigos mudos de aquellos
que solo piensan en el beneficio propio.
Me mortifican tus animales extintos,
criaturas que ya no corren ni vuelan,
sacrificados por la ignorancia y ambición.
Y cada vez más extinguido tu corazón.
¿Por qué ellos no te valoran?
¿Por qué venden tu agua
y queman tus bosques?
¿Que no ven que al destruirte se destruyen ellos mismos?
Eres más que solo tierra
eres la historia de generaciones
eres todo lo presente y ausente,
pero el día de mi muerte,
serás la tierra que cubrirá,
con amor, mi humilde tumba.
Volveré a tus entrañas
y daré vida a cada brote
renaceré en cada flor que abre
y en cada niño que nace.
Para recordarles que eres arte
que eres protectora y madre
que cada raíz es un guía
de quien nos abraza y cuida.
2023 Contest Winners
I Met an Owl Once
By Isaac Day
Youth told me wander,
seek life’s old clay,
land of stories ages told,
land spoke of in hushed tones.
Land of night never end,
where trees hum melodies
with wind.
That is where I met him.
Feathers ash gray,
hooked beak, coal black,
sat on lowest branch
of dead wood's oak.
He heard my steps,
and turned to look,
in a cold voice he spoke.
Flame’s child, he called me,
words tinged with smoke, days old.
I laughed with new name,
naive, assuming some joke,
but the owl did not laugh.
With eyes born of night’s wisdom
and grave’s gray voice,
he told me how man came,
how the others all burned away.
When the story was told
I saw him too come ablaze,
ash, cinder, and smoke,
the golden eyes of a ghost.
Judge's Commendation: "I Met an Owl Once" stands out as a poem accomplishing quite
a bit of work with just a few stanzas. It tells the story of youth's exploration and
a coming-of-age realization of humankind's ability to destroy. The poem holds itself
tonally to the end, involving thoughtful use of assonance and a suggested rhyme scheme
that exists without overwhelming the reader. The diction, too, is consistent, allowing
the mix of details and abstraction to carry the reader through the allegory of the
poem, along with phrasing and suggestions of the gothic, something that contributes
to the mood of the piece, the dark, timeless, smoky wisdom that comes when we wander
and focus. " — Andrew Gottlieb, author of "Tales of a Distance"
the fly.
By Leo Perry
i’ve never really paid any attention to flies, but if i were any animal, i would be
a fly.
i don’t want to admit my resemblance to flies, they’re annoying and i get overwhelmed
easily by the monotonous buzz that their tiny bodies emit.
it’s too close, too loud, and too much.
but i’ve never noticed that they rub their hands together when stationary.
what i’ve seen are flies with their fuzzy bodies and little wings.
what i didn’t see, is that their wings are painted with intricate designs, ones that
i can only compare to fine line art.
i didn’t know that their fuzz looks like miniature tufts of soft cat fur. like the
fur of an affectionate maine coon, the ones that rub their head against your hand
any moment they're visible.
flies are complex, and have “a surprising mental capacity and emotional intelligence.”
i wouldn’t be a fly because of the movie starring Jeff Goldblum. the only media about
flies is grotesque body horror, by the way. which the point of, is that it violates
the most fundamental piece of human existence, the body.
i would be a fly because there is an unsettling relatability to them. i, too, am annoying
and have a body that some view as disturbing.
my likeness is also villainized like the fly is, just *usually* by different people.
flies aren't typically the focus of harmful lawmakers and bigoted people. flies don’t
worry about violent hate crimes or deep-rooted insecurities. they don’t have suffocating
depressive episodes or unstable relationships.
though, they might worry about their colonies. they might try to protect their young
and their little fly-friends.
they’re smart, that's for sure. flies can process more than triple what the average
human can. even though they're nuisances, their existence is vital for ecosystems
and can be used for biomedical research.
i would, undoubtedly, be a fly.
2022 Contest Winner
Breathing Grasses
by Eva Christine
Tall grass breathes peaceful
prayer sings in the clouded sky
Dusk falls in silence
Swinging back and forth
Daises and weeds between toes
Belonging lives here
Lemonade taste sweet
Upon her tongue and sizzles
Down her throat, she sings
With gazing eyes, love
Dawn became more clear today
Gentleness lies here
2021 Contest Winner
The System They Can't Resist
by Kaylee Nielson
i have a dream of a world,
where we all live in peace
helping each other, healing one another,
no war torn refugees
for this dream i'm ostracized
a radical to my peers
proving once again
this dream i have
is squandered by their fears
i dream of nature
life reclaiming land
but all they do is laugh
selling out the earth for a profit
with their cement paver path
they have the power to fix it
but until it suits their interest
the life of the earth will burn
in the system they can't resist
2020 Contest Winners
Cuba on the Earth Map
by Rosa Rajadel
You can go there, to that beach
where the wind sings its lullaby
and the waves burst against rocky shores
but the children don’t dream. Esa playa
You can go there, to that mountain.
Wield your machete or mocha, in silence.
Bleed on el marabu and la cana
and let the sun dry your wounds. La sangre
You can go there, to that river that dies in the sea
singing and crying, crying and fading
while washing tired black feet,
forgetting stories of freedom and Palenque. Libertad
You can go there, to that bay - white-blue deep grave-
where we la escoria embrace the sea.
No names, no hopes, no breath.
Say you're not alive or dead. Balsero
You can go there, but come back to me
with a big slice of island to quench my hunger,
to put in my mouth and spit out
millions of birds like fire fathoms. And forgive
(No quiero olvidar)
Notes for the Non-Spanish Speaker and Non-Cuban Reader:
Esa playa: that beach
Mocha: an instrument that looks like a machete but shorter
Marabu: parasite plant
Cana: (cana de azucar) plant from which sugar is obtained in Cuba
La sangre: the blood
Palenque: small hidden villages built by escaped slaves in the 1800s (they no longer
exist)
Libertad: Freedom
La escoria: the rejected people (because they don’t agree with Cuba’s policies, so
that’s the name the government gives them)
Balsero: person who ventures into the sea in a handmade boat (or anything that floats)
with the aim of fleeing Cuba.
No quiero olvidar: I don’t want to forget.
Flowers and Stars
by Karlee Norton
Wherever I go,
a forest,
the waterfront,
a school,
or my home,
I catch myself
pulling soft frail petals off flowers,
ripping the veiny leaves off trees,
throwing smooth rocks,
like a child,
I don’t know any better.
I fiddle with these pieces of nature through the lines of my palms
and leave a path of ruined beauty behind me.
Whether it be popcorn on the seats after a movie,
water on the bathroom floor from our showers,
or buildings so bright we steal the stars,
time still goes by
with an unwanted trace of us.
But sometimes we leave something wonderful
like sweet watermelon seeds on a summer day.
