SARABANDE STUDENT POETRY COMPETITION 2006 WINNERS
First Place
Picking Mushrooms
by Robert Campbell of Berea College
Dead things have
their own way of speaking—
crying out, breaking down
into the moldy, nourishing bits of life,
into little hands oystered
on top of one another, reaching up.
Descending out of a snarl of roots,
taut as drums, a waking orange,
the two of us stumbled upon
their huddled bodies
the day her grandfather died.
Laetiporus Sulphureaus. Found only
in dark place, hammered by rain.
That night we sampled
its quiet process of dying,
tasted its dull flavor the way a body would,
yielding to the earth, kneading gently
into that dark bread.
We lay still,
swollen bellied up, hands rested—
the way a body would.
Second Place
Breaking the Ice
by Janell Oliver of Bellarmine University
No matter how hard the horses huff and puff
above the water-troughs, the ice won't melt.
They wait for my brother, a tall hoody in overalls
as he trudges up the hill. Everything about him is hard,
from his petrified abs to his pointed shoulder-blades
to his stubborn chin. With one leap
he clears the fence, a 6'4" threat
shooting slush against the wet hooves.
He raises the pick axe above his head
and the horses shrink back, respectively.
Taking a breath, he swings, strikes center,
and turns away, already headed for the next field.
I take off my gloves and fish out the clumps of ice,
hearing a thud as they hit snow.
The horses watch him a moment before
dipping their noses into the water,
thinking what I'm thinking:
Would he crack if struck by an axe?
How my hands would warm if I could
dip them into his chest and find a heart floating there.
Third Place
To Be Wed
by Erin Bogle of Murray State University
It's crazy, all this stuff 'bout weddin's today
Flowers and fancy tables and who pays for what
You're still married just the same.
Some of them girls think they gotta pay
A thousand dollars for a dress. My daddy'd have a fit!
It's crazy, all this stuff 'bout weddin's today.
This one girl, Betty, and her man, Ray
They just went down to the judge in Carsnut
They're still married just the same.
My baby says we could just up and run away
Have one of them Elvis weddin's in Vegas, but
I don't know. Oh, all this stuff 'bout weddin's today!
My momma sewed up her dress all in one day
Then ripped off the sleeves cause she got so hot
And she still got married just the same.
I'm just happy I got me a groom, and I say
It don't matter how we tie our knot
It's crazy, all this stuff 'bout weddin's today
You're still married just the same.
Runner-up
Sidewalking Mortality
by Isaiah T. Watts of the University of Louisville
The rain in a Sudden October missed my cold hood-covered head.
The bottom back of my jeans were wetted to blue.
They were as wide as the past, bought too big, not lowly
and clinging to the wet creted walk.
The midtown end frayed SilverTabs ahead,
they probably looked like mine.
Mortality made me move.
So I wriggled up the rears and cleared the walk.
I tightly tugged my belt.
I think the woman walking by saw me,
saw her wetted shoes.
Mortality made her move.
She popped a heeling pace:
a right, left, a drop, a right, left, a drop drowning in time,
when the girl behind me coughed a sentence.
I heard it in my head, but held the cigarette
in the middle of my mouth,
and made a side walking move.
Runner-up
Fellow's Garden, Cambridge
by Ben Lesousky of Bellarmine University
Her boy she lays across newspaper
and replaces his diaper. She is young,
in her twenties—sweat silver, palpable
in this heat. Heat you would not call languid
but fevered, frantic comes to mind. It has
all the garden in a stir: the poppies have fled,
the roses have withered in on themselves.
Nearby I watch the young mother
bring in the diapered boy to her chest,
revealing herself only to him—
the swollen arch lose of its slip, the center
holding out for once while the milk
is channeled through. That said, this feasting
will last a year more. Pain and love
will pass into his life gradually at first,
then all at once. And as man he will call
several women—faint counterfeits of the first—
to his bed, where, frustrated by the failure
of the milk to flow, he will take from
them what he believes is his entitlement.
The hunger will not ebb. Now and again
the wind will bring back to his lips
the balmy taste of his mother's milk,
but he'll not recall the source of that sweetness,
or the garden where it all began.
Honorable Mention
How to Kiss a Boy
by Stacey Greene of Morehead State University
Wait 'till the sun surrenders to the patches of hills
Around an Eastern Kentucky hollow.
'Till the boy un-straps his boots and swallows supper,
And shadow's hand crawls across his face.
'Till the Mourning dove's chant fades,
And the cars scatter on the highway nearby.
The light is thin.
Soothe his aches with rest,
his calloused hands with hot water and lotion,
his body with the warmth of green tea.
He'll move to the porch swing
that hangs out back.
Nestle into the cup of his arm and body
outstretched and laid across the chair.
Before the scent of outside meets you,
that of cold autumn leaves that always seem to cling to his skin
powder your nose, white and untainted,
and redden your lips with rosy balm—
he'll like the smell of cherries
when you lean close.
Don't touch him.
Keep your hands idle but natural,
Your eyes soft and inviting,
Lips dainty and puffed out, faintly parted.
Mind his mouth,
Glimpse eyes,
lips,
eyes,
lips,
eyes,
and for a moment, tease him.
Let him feel you without his touch.
Breath in, move in, and lock shut
your own eyes.
Fall into his embrace,
Sigh.
The sun is down now.
Honorable Mention
In the End
by Bobby Deignan of Western Kentucky University
He withers in the sun.
Shadows along his bones
grow into canyons.
fingers cling to starched sheets
that fold between reddened knuckles.
His tongue is dry...
it has forgotten the wetness of words.
He traces the wrinkles under his eyes...
around his mouth
and can't remember when they appeared.
Each day, he coughs the cobwebs
out of his lungs
And breathes words into the empty spaces—
the name of his first love,
the number of grandchildren he had,
the song they sang for his wedding.
Each day, the list grows shorter and
the skin tightens around paper bones.
One morning, he tears open
and those memories spill out,
while he simply
disappears....
Honorable Mention
The Unborn Calf
for H. Barton
by Emily Ruppel of Bellarmine University
The cow that died while giving birth
lies beneath a line of sycamores
in the lowest meadow of the farm.
The breeze that floats across the grass
in waves touches the sycamore leaves;
rustling, they murmur of the cow's last
labored hours: were her hips too narrow?
Had the calf been tangled up inside?
The wind ceases, the trees are silent.
Days pass by, like ripples over rocks,
and in time, the earth reclaims
the mother's flesh, carves her into
a house of ivory bones. One morning,
sunlight will travel across the meadow
and filter through her ribs, lighting
the hollowed eyes of the unborn calf.
Honorable Mention
Young Oenophiles
by Joshua Fulkerson of Murray State University
We drink [yellow tail] merlot in bed
and make love through Sideways.
On our sides, we sprawl out,
like cats stretching on windowsills.
We study each other.
The light emanating
from the television screen
enlightens me with the knowledge
that gravity forces her bangs
towards the Bonnel coil mattress.
Her brown hair hides her eyes,
as if they are in the Dark Ages.
Her Korat cat, a pleasant distraction,
sleeps in the space between
the pillows and the headboard.
We sleep below him:
her backside presses against my front side,
like two wine keys in a drawer.
(I forget where she ends and I begin.)
Our heads sink into pillows, like poured wax into bronze,
forming a mold to be chiseled out in the morning.
These things do not happen anymore.
Our love is a wine spoilage.
Distance is the wine fault.
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