2011 Pushcart Prize Nominees
We are pleased to announce our nominees for the 2011 Pushcart Prize:
"The Rise and Fall" by David Wagoner
"The Would-Be Lepidopterist" by Lynn Hoffman
"The Heat of a Mother's Dance" by Frances Drabick
"Is it" by Russell Buker
"Exact Shade" by Melissa Carl
"For Elizabeth Bishop" by Timothy Dyson
The Rise and Fall
A marsh hawk over the field
holds, firm in her beak
a field mouse by the neck
as carefully as a mother
cat would carry a kitten
somewhere it couldn't go
by itself and the field mouse
is lifting all four legs
like a kitten who knows it's going
to be where it belongs
now in a higher place
where it will find again
(as it did under the grass)
how milk and fur and blood
and bones and feathers fly
and fall and rise again
and come to their nests together.
—David Wagoner, Lynnwood, WA
"The Rise and Fall" was published in the Summer issue, "Taming the Tides."
David Wagoner was chancellor of the Academy of American Poets for 23 years and edited Poetry Northwest fronm 1996 to 2002. Copper Canyon Press will publish his 19th poetry book in 2012.
The Would-Be Lepidopterist
You would have known more about butterflies
if you had killed them more and watched them less.
If you had used a killing jar and a scalpel and collected
the various, variegated genitalia
of Nymphs and Satyrs, Blues and Coppers.
You could have been.
But no, you only planted flowers for them to suck
and sheltered the weeds where they laid their eggs
And applauded when you saw them jump into the air
and wink their way along their next performance.
Applauded! (Who the hell were you applauding?)
No eternity for those bugs or you,
Just a messy, scaly, insect stew.
No dry forever on a pin,
Just vanished scale on a dusty wing.
So you don't know much about butterflies,
You even forget their names from time to time.
You can't tell a Painted Lady from an American,
Vanessa cardui from Vanessa whaz-er-name.
All you have left is that stupid, sharp indrawn breath
as you see the Mourning Cloak
(arrogant first-bastard of spring)
spread her wings and pump the April into them
to mark the end of March.
You would have known more about so many things
if you hadn't whooped and danced and shook your fists
as the chrysalis broke and gold wet wings appeared.
"The Would-BE Lepidopterist" appeared in the Summer issue, "To Trap the Sun."
Lynn Hoffman is the author of The Short Course in Beer and The New Short Course in Wine.
The Heat of a Mother's Dance
Two teen sisters gab on a rural porch, dividing the world's offerings
between them, as a younger brother stood behind with wooden matches.
Strike. Burn. Tossed fire in a lush green valley in the 1930's where
The air was moist but not moist enough to quench the thirst of girls in a rush
to cleave mother's apron strings. Somewhere else they lamented,
not here amid bushes of ripe raspberries speckled with ticks waiting
to draw their sweeter, pulsing pulp of life.
One sister brushed away a glow in her hair, kissed the burn to her hand.
Strike. Burn. Toss him off the porch. Stop it, sisters sang in harmony as
Flames needled a new hem on her light-as-air summer dress of cotton kindling,
as she slapped the bite of heat - she, now a sunrise on earth, rose,
as siblings fanned her behind like a naughty girl, urging on a crazy dance inside her dress,
until she became a glowing gypsy flailing in flight, as oxygen-ribbons of flame fired
and fed her frenzied twirls and whirls, until her ankles crossed and she tumbled
to beg on knees; her hands pounding her fervent chest for alms as
The screen door slammed above her wounded howls in a woods
as wings of a dewed bird, mother's wet-apron, descended
to swaddle a daughter once more; to cool her, to coo-coo her
until she no longer need dream of moving away, but she did dream;
and one day she left the ticks behind in their tangled bushes
and walked toward future embraces where
Her children looked upon her with each stuffing of her bra
after her warm baths and sweet smelling talcs. She did not fear
letting them touch her breast, transformed into flattened, gnarly, melted tangles
of skin decorated with lattice swirls and bumpy browns, crossed and woven
by thick paths of meandering pinks nestled in withered weeds of white, where
her little brown nipple centered itself in the inferno's landscape; a dry acorn
on parched earth, forever waiting for the fertile nourishment of milky soil.
—Frances Drabick, Eastport, ME
"The Heat of a Mother's Dance" appeared in the Winter issue, "Souls at the Gates of Paradise."
Frances Drabick lives on the island city of Eastport, ME. She received a Pushcart nomination for poetry in 2009.
Is it
It seems I have
Done this
All before. Probably
Dying,
Possibly died from
Watching
Flowers bend from
Yellow
Ball-mustard to brown
Eyed
Susans to the darker
Purples
Of fall asters that
Wave me
On, hurry, hurry
No more
Gold this way
Count all
The petals and please
Be gone
—Russell Buker, Alexander, ME
"Is it" was published in the Fall issue, "Everything Here."
Russell Buker, retired teacher, spends his time coaxing ravens to his feeder.
Exact Shade
TO: The CEO of the Crayola Crayon Company
RE: Renaming all the Crayon
Understand, I have nothing against melon, maroon,
or periwinkle, burnt sienna or sepia.
I'm rather fond of the newer additions
to the 64—the neon carrot and atomic tangerine,
the magic mint and razzmatazz.
Who wouldn't like to say "mauvelous?"
But colors should belong to taste, sound,
and texture too. Wind chimes
are a shade of blue. So are whispers.
Baby powder scent holds many pinks,
whereas the speech of bees is orange.
And, if you stop to notice,
the notes of cellos are quite, quite purple.
Picture yourself sitting at the kitchen table,
your bare feet hooked behind the rung of the chair,
with all the paper you could want
drawing circles in whale-song silver
and forgotten-dream green.
You pick carefully through the tin,
looking for the exact shade
of three doves huddled in the rain.
—Melissa Carl, York, PA
"Exact Shade" appeared in the Spring issue, "To Trap the Sun."
Melissa Carl published her first full-length poetry collection in 2005.
For Elizabeth Bishop
Now, I picture her as one of Yeats' white birds
Rolling with foam and pitch on the steel gray sea
Gliding, sturdy, the hollow-feathered mastery
Taming the tides with the precision of words
So unique, the common majesty intersects
The expanse of heaven and the cliffs of time
As the sun sets, the wings begin to shine
Silver against the dark edge of restlessness
On a rock ledge with bits of fish and thatch
There is shelter against headlands wind
Where mates for life find respite again
In a tender precision none can match
If on the morrow, you are near the beach
Look not for species but seek beauty out
In the sky, on the dunes, the tide moving about
Beautiful white birds just out of reach
—Timpothy Dyson, Exton, PA
"For Elizabeth Bishop" was published in the Summer issue, "Taming the Tides."
Timothy Dyson is a retired HR professional.