Introduction
In a poetry competition, there's more than a little of the absurd. It's like a
frog jumping contest, except that the frogs lining up to jump have no chance to
see the other frogs, or to measure their leaping abilities; no chance to see the
holder of the yardstick, or judge his/her honesty or integrity. The successful
frogs are notified of their feats; the rest must wait for the next invitation to
leap.
All judgment is, at its dark core, arbitrary. Even frogs have the benefit of
the judge's measuring stick—rigid, unchanging, commanding of trust. But the
poetry-contest judge doesn't own such a stick. She is the stick, an improvised,
one-off, single-use instrument made of perception and experience, applied to a
chance community of poems. And the jumping contest enacts itself in the
far-from-ideal circumstances inside her head.
So some luck must have come to the finalists, but we think the luck is all on
our side. To have Patricia Clark's winning poem "The Only Body," in
which "fields wave their grasses freshened by rain," and horses
"step carefully in their huge, slow bodies" is luck of the highest
order. Then there's Stephen Knauth's "Nightfall," in which "a
grainy ray of moonlight breaks through the pear trees, softly striking the
knuckles of my left hand." And Andrea Carter Brown's "45," with
its "Velvet black trees, a breeze sweeping the day clean"; Elizabeth
Kostova's "In Split," with its sky: "flat, rich, perfect in late
afternoon"; George O'Connell's "Lint," with its "scented
kiss of Cling Free" drifting its "negligee of filaments"; David
Kirby's "Sex Therapy" ("It's best kept to one's self");
Chard deNiord's visiting skunk, "so fearless, ill and strange," Jon
Erickson's philosophical tongues; the "columbine and nettles" in Aviva
Luria's "Sleep, Before Death"; Louis Mazzari's "fog-smeared
street of old warehouses filled only with night."
Here they are.
—A. B. |