Subscribe by RSSRooftop Poetry Club Announces Earth Day Poetry Contest
Posted by Lisa Forrest on March 23, 2009
The contest is closed. Thank you to all who participated and special congratulations to Irene Sipos!
Ah, the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming. Is there anything better than spring in Buffalo? It’s been a long winter, so join us in celebrating by writing a poem for our first annual Earth Day Poetry Contest. Interested in entering? Here are the contest rules:
1. The contest is open to all Rooftop Poetry Club members. If you’re not a Rooftop member, but wish to enter a poem, e-mail Lisa Forrest at forresla@buffalostate.edu (and she’ll tell you how to become a member).
2. The poem must be nature/earth themed, and preferably about Buffalo, New York.
3. Only one poem per person please. Please submit your poem via this blog post. Submission deadline is April 15th.
4. Winner will be announced on April 22nd via the E. H. Butler Blog.
5. Your entry may be put on display in the library for the month of May.
Mark your calendars for our upcoming spring themed open mic!
May 6, 2009: April Showers & May Flowers
Spring Themed Open Mic
Gather up your spring themed poems and join us for our last event of the spring semester.
International Students Reading Area, 3rd Floor, SE Quadrant, Butler Library, 4:30 p.m.
(If the weather permits, we will meet on the rooftop of the library!)
Karen Lewis said
What I Would Not Unravel
To lift what is shed
a strand of horse hair
to bend it between branches enveloping air
creating a boundary a hem an axis
that swirls like water on a drain’s edge
To return to the horse the earth
the brown horse the grey horse the Clydesdale
to coil their long threads into delicate rings
that sing from a common center a weightless vowel
rising and falling
To bow to work like a song
sparrow weaving a cradle two inches diameter
to dwell within a clear circumference
to lay children there for safekeeping
wrapped in a horse’s mane or tail
that will dry quickly after a storm
that will fly when the wind is right
To walk towards me offering this
graceful whirl in the palm of your hand
what the world has loosened
you have gathered in me
our infinite fragility
embedded in the course of days
love a retreat
source of our belonging here
this is what you have given me
what I would not unravel
Karen Lee Lewis
Lisa Forrest said
Thanks for your submission Karen!
Dana Barish said
Spring
We are but prey
to life.
As hunger feeds
on the lion
at his kill.
We are in the belly
of the beast.
We are its claws
as it digs the earth.
We are its teeth
as it chews
the mountain peaks.
Curling up to sleep
it spans the plains,
oceans as well.
And as we seek,
perhaps to flee,
it springs
even unto the stars.
george t. hole said
Two Kinds of Butterfly Paintings
Imagine, the rock shore, eroded banks
And nude trees at Evangola State Park
Plastered, as if by a mad wall-papering dervish,
With reddish-orange and blacks, using lots of glue
To hold, almost impossible to believe,
Tens of thousands of monarch
Butterflies everywhere, on rocks, on trees.
Weary ones ride the brief surface tension of water.
All wings are fluttered by the wind and exhaustion.
Like the daughters of Danaus fleeing incestuous marriage
They have crossed Lake Erie and temptation
To be knelt down in this place, before they must
Rise again to find the nectar-home they never came from
In Mexico for mating. On their return
Following the sun and the lure of milkweed,
Living slightly longer than one circuit of the moon,
Will a second generation of chrysalis-awaken children
Find this Lake edge again, and pray for a tail-wind crossing?
Will they have breath enough to fly and pray
For their future family of six-legged children?
Burchfield’s wind-blown asters’ eyes are almost
Blown off the canvas, as are the other
Flower-eyes with their eyelashes on
The verge of amazement. Everything arches backward
From the pulse of Heraclitus’ fiery-desire shimmering down
To the roots that hold them without the help of god. In disguise
Two butterfly wings waver not, not feeling doubt
As do the worms and other eyeless dirt eaters below
Who share dark-matter with the jabbering jawbones of Socrates.
Lisa Forrest said
Even the Sidewalks
Even the sidewalks
are in bloom
I find you
crouched bare ankled
in the dim hollow elm
folded clear
of winter’s
wither
and whip
the owls unseen
quavering
distant above us.
Ben Bedard said
MULCH
–for Jonathan Skinner
Beneath the mounds of Tift’s Preserve, buried under
the mud and brown grass, is the landfill,
the garbage of Buffalo, sufficiently toxic
for the run-off to be tested annually.
On the site of the old Bethlehem Steel
Mill, just west of the hilltop,
eight electric turbine windmills face the lake,
their roots digging deep into iron and steel
slag Bethlehem dumped there over 80 years
production. The white blades turn slowly
in the wind off the slate blue of the lake.
To the north, looking over Tift’s Preserve,
which J. Skinner termed a tarmac
for migrating birds, Buffalo’s husks
of grain elevators sit like massive
cargo ships on dry dock. Turkey vultures
now nest in the abandoned cement.
The ice from the river crowds offshore
enlivened by the wings of the gulls
who on the chilled breeze soar
over the spring field on a current
of wind. Volunteers pick garbage,
the tidal flat of the highway
whose hum swipes the landscape.
Over the season more than 250 species
of birds will visit this 264 acre Urban preserve.
There will be natives like the red-winged
blackbird and the chestnut-sided
warbler; there will be immigrants
like the starling, introduced into Central
Park by Shakespeare enthusiasts who
wanted NYC to have access
to every bird mentioned by the Bard.
(From Henry 1, the mouth
of Hotspur, “I’ll have a starling
be taught to speak,” so that language
and nature knits together so finely that
what we whisper in ink cries Mortimer
over a new continent hundreds
of years later.) The new and old
mix with violent repercussions
which can be witnessed
by the battle lines of cat tails
and the non-native phragmites
along the wetlands of Tift’s.
Olson said it, on these rejectamenta
the mud and garbage of us, in the chaos
of the kingfisher’s nest,
we grow up many. Niedecker also
knew the strange collusion
of ourselves and the mulch,
saying “a shell/Himself”
knowing the prospects
of death in the curled
pattern of shell, not as
memento mori,
but as possibility
of transformation
to the physicality of touch.
Being empty, the shell
is nonetheless a container
into which is spilled the liquid
of our future. Shell and human
both full of potential
and void of anything but sound
and the whirl of pattern.
The grass is stiff and beige. The silence
is still of winter. Only impatient gulls with black-
tipped wings, fill the sky with screech and call.
Ragged deer and Canadian geese pick and graze.
Tree swallows who, in a week,
will stitch blue the landscape, perch
now, waiting for the awakening.
Soon there will be dragonflies migrating
to Michigan and Wisconsin, green darners
and iridescent bluets. Butterflies
will come, flitting in a white and yellow
profusion over the green grass.
The pure products of America, WCW said,
go crazy for lack of a peasant tradition. But here
we are anyway—brownfield soil and deer
and the shallow beating of duck’s wing, pure
as woodpecker or passenger pigeon. The toxic
ground pushes against us, keeping us rooted
and branched in the freedom of our senses.
The absurd tragicomedies of life
rise again, the flowers and the nettles,
transplanted exotics, grasses
and Japanese honeysuckle
whose succulent flowers
not ours, will nonetheless
suck the pith of our refuse.
A single tern dips fish
into the pond
during flight
to entice a female
with silver-wet prey
leaving an arrowhead ripple
in his black and white wake.
Denise Amodeo Miller said
Ode to Earth Renewed
rich brown
how much depends on you
humble me with
coolness and piquant life
precious urban green
scented freshly cut
how sweet to turn you
over and over
in my bursting buffalo garden
crawl in my nailbeds
you with your sepia spirit
your tender flesh
cradled with
rain refreshed sweetness
of a great green lake
clouds pure white
no longer city dim
manufactured wrappers
removed from your moistness
as lychee peeled
earth becomes renewed
to supple clean beauty
in order to
refract my own
forever connected
in reoccurring
brilliance
Denise Amodeo Miller
Lisa said
Thanks for the submission Denise!!
Xiao Li Wu said
Four Seasons
When spring comes around
Colorful flowers fill the ground
When summer follows by
Seagulls sing all over the sky
When autumn comes near
Leaves scatter here and there
Not a long time from snow
Here comes cold winter
With the birds resting
In their warm nests.
David Lampe said
Death of a Tree
“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way
they have to live than other things.” –Willa Cather
I watched as long as I could
then asked, “Trimming or coming down?”
And the brisk efficient lady replied
“Down, they’re not historical, you know.”
“Just trees,” I shouted, “I’d rather
see someone cut down our county executive
and our foolish county legislators
than lose this much more valuable
member of my neighborhood.”
The brisk lady hurried into the
Darwin Martin office casting a
nervous glance over her twitching shoulder.
Mary A. Durlak said
Why I Stay
Beneath flat rocks the crayfish hid; Dad showed
us how to grab their waists, evade their pinch
at Chestnut Ridge. We’d gather apples there
in fall, and strawberries in spring, sweet small
red things. Mom watched us as we looked for shells
along the shore where small boats harbored cheap.
Our hands in theirs, we saw the Falls’ great spray
Writhe heavenward, like purgatory’s souls.
In Cazenovia Park, we buried birds
whose feathered death we cupped with anxious hands.
Mom’s old red rose climbed up the wooden path
that Dad kept painted white, forever new.
Grass blankets them where Stanislaus stands guard;
I meet them in the stream, the shore, the wings.
charles bachman said
Rustic Utopia
They burnish her forested landscape
with legions of lesions, deepening
blottings on the wound-clotting skin
of her gardens, hollowing out for another
sub-suburban “Deer Haven”
after erasing
the deers’ haven,
as houses in villages, cities
lie fallow.
After the last of many
trees has been sliced,
after the last of the
trunks has been
rooted out,
After the lesions have grown
to amputations of Earth Mother’s
flesh, hauled away
with the last
of the prairie grass,
and what is left
purified into
the deep gangrene of
lawn civility.
After this prelude to
biped paradise,
How long, O Mother Earth,
will you wait
to perform
on these fine surgeons
the same identical
operation?
Charles Bachman
bachmacr@buffaloste.edu
Yashaswini Patwardhan said
Captivity
Sprouting dandelions fill the landscape
Weeds of greed they encroach
Sowing their seed they encompass
every inch of open land
Taller and taller they get
with every passing moment
Transforming every surface
into a mirage
Holding captive in their wake
the planet by and large
the evidence is apparent
of a lack of control
Do we need a revolution
to save our souls?
Irene Sipos said
spring
seeing another spring is
a grand invitation to
a party, an annual gala,
you didn’t imagine this
year, you’d make the cut!
the guests are more charming
than you dare remember, the
conversation more intoxicating
than the last dark passage
allowed you to recall
dogwood bobs at forsythia,
jonquils nod to daffodils,
tulips captivate forget-me-nots,
patches of grass and mud court
sun’s audacious massage
spiders sprint across burgeoning
crocus, baby bees dance
with honeysuckle blossoms
buds of linden trees greet robins
who are winging home
you call to a neighbor, acknowledging
with a casual wave, that you are
looking for last year’s rake, inspecting
the sticks, cigarette butts, papers, string stuck in your bushes,
in fact, you are lightheaded, dazzled, dizzy
to be holding your invitation
in your joyful hand
Irene Simon Sipos
Josh S. said
Here is where he lay, here in this field with his back
softly pressed into the grass
The way a baby’s head softly indents a fluffy pillow
A comforting feeling embodies him, as if today he can make a
difference, and today the world is his
There is no anxiety and no signs of stress, no thoughts of
what he has to do this week, or in the months to come
For these few moments he is free and unclouded, clean and
innocent
The wind gently blows across the field whistling him his
favorite songs
And the sun covers him, providing a feeling he hadn’t
felt since his childhood
It is the feeling he used to imagine, a mother tucking him
in goodnight
But he is strong and never needed anyone, let alone a mother
As he stayed motionless, transfixed, the birds began to tell
him stories
The kind that another imaginary woman would read to her
children
And he begins to drift
Time moves by slowly, and the night begins to fall on the
sky like a curtain
And the show is about to begin
He looks up to the stars and tonight there are no clouds
It is beautiful and breathtaking, the way a woman is to a
man in love
It is the feeling that would make fairy tale characters be
jealous of
Right above the little dipper he sees an angel and he is
taken away
He wants to die so badly, to leave this world and forget the
pain
But his time has not yet come
He closes his eyes and thinks, even if this feeling would
only last a minute, it would be the one thing to chase after
for eternity, and this must be heaven
Mariam Abdo said
Everywhere
The wonderful sight
Of learners budding
Smell the excitement
Of colorful life
Soft hands rising
In the air
Tasting the happiness
Of knowledge
blossoming everywhere
Hearing the delightful
Laughter with sounds
that yearn
And children chanting
“LET’S LEARN”
The weather was sunny
And birds were singing
without cittern
Sniffing the florets mingling
With shining butterflies
Blooming everywhere
People walking all over
The echo of voices
Full of eagerness and noises
sipping the amazing
Side of wisdom
glowing everywhere
It is springtime again
The birdies chattering
Kids playing
Freshly mowed
Grass, lilacs flourishing
Preparing for graduation
Rachel Johnson said
My older sister, wants to be a Monarch Butterfly
For me, a Luna Moth exist.
Her brief life,
Green
Depending upon
The trees.
Changing through the weeks
From a caterpillar
Consuming leaves
To preserve
The rest of her life
To a moon moth,
Never developing
Her proboscis
From a caterpillar’s many weeks
To the one she mates.
From a male moth, flying excitedly,
Following her scent
From the female moon moth,
The eggs are ready to relieve her life.
In a Luna Moth’s life span,
There is no need
To metamorphose into
A butterfly.
david sipos said
Mars Day
On Mars Day
Martians celebrate
global warming because,
according to the brochures,
it’s so freaking cold.
Mars Day celebrations
do not take place
in picturesque parks under
shade trees because
the only green on Mars
are Martians.
On Mars Day
Martians dream of
an industrial revolution because
polluted air and dirty ice
are a small price to pay
for a little heat
and a car.