Prism Quarterly Congratulates the Winners
of the 2006 Dancing Galliard Sonnet Contest!

The 2006 Grand Prize goes to CHRISTINA LOVIN for a group of five sonnets

Rest Stop

I phoned because I wanted him to know

that I was going to be gone for just

a day or two (for he might worry). So,

I made the call. His voice draws tense across

the mapped and measure emptiness between

that junction (where my turning right had left

him stalled before the light that never greened,

but flashed bright caution over signs that read:

“No Turns,” “Dead End”) and here, where pavements stretch

away, and I have pulled aside to call.

I wave off flies that rise from empty flesh—

it rots beside the road. My cup is full.

“I bought two Playboys.”  Pause.  “The coffee steams.

“It’s not the same,” he says. I add more cream.

―Christina Lovin

Love Needs the Dark

The strongest bloom cannot endure the sun

without relief of cloud or shade or night.

For even cactus blossoms come undone

if not for respite from the burning sun.

The life that waits inside the scattered seed

is scorched when cast in its uncovered plight

and dies, save for the somber soil of need,

the evening dews. Love needs the dark to grow

as well it seems—like any other weed

would stretch its face toward the brightest glow

of light to find its stalk drawn thin and feet

unsteady in the soil. Desire to know

me then in blackest moods, in rage, defeat,

and learn: without the dark love dies, my sweet.

―Christina Lovin

Inheritance

I eat the food my mother cooks and serves.

At ninety-three, she waits on me and death

with equal patience and expenditure

of energy, measuring out the breadth

and height of every breath. Her days slice thin

as apples for the pies she knows by heart:

the spices stale within the dusty tins,

that pinch of salt that livens flour and lard,

shrunken fruit as wizened as her face,

the circle that she rolls without a tear

and mothers into her mother’s granite plate.

Her table, like her life now, is small and square.

Her shuddering blade divides the weeping pie—

the lacerated pastry seeps and sighs.

 ―Christina Lovin

"Inheritance" was previously published by Finishing Line Press as well as in the anthology Susan B & Me.

Love Bite

“A pinch,” she claims.  Then, glances down to where

two stigma, like an exclamation point,

have spread their shame into the shoulder

flesh, so tender where the arm and torso join.

She shifts the straps of bag and bra apart

as if to prove mechanics of the injury:

the perjured witness of that biting smart

of teeth: sweet suck between the lips of sigh

and moan, and blood that stains like when the moon

has pulled the salt sea higher inch by inch

then slips away to leave the shorelines strewn

with evidence. She swears, “It’s just a pinch,”

(that pervading proof of passion’s purple art)

and lays her hand across her liar’s heart.

―Christina Lovin

Eclipse

Faced raised to darkening moon—a twilight sky

due to the shadowed sun—small crescent burned

into the unlit mirror of the eye

recalls to me a childhood lesson learned

too late: Don’t look! Don’t look! My mother’s hand

a brand against my cheek, my father’s stern

and searing glare, his voice a hot command.

And that dark heat that surges from your eyes:

the deadly light, coronas that expand

around the shield you raise between us. Wise,

a woman turns away but I mistook

for passion what would come to cauterize

my innocence and leave a scar. I shook

myself, demanding this: Don’t look! Don’t look!

―Christina Lovin

Our 2006 Galliard Sonneteer Award goes to
ELLEN SAUNDERS for the sonnet below.

Honorable Mention:

Laundry Day

When Mondays break with morning sky as clear

and blue and wide as were my mother’s eyes,

I think about the times when I would hear

the screen door slam, then hear her pensive sighs.

How piece by piece she picked and snapped the clothes

she stretched and pinned across the line to slap

the sky like sails let loose in wind. Lord knows

how they were tied within a mother’s trap

so tightly wound no storm could break the hold

and set them free. One winter day she tried

to leave them there to stiffen in the cold,

as if some dream inside of her had died.

But evening came and in her flannel gown

she walked outside and took the laundry down.

―Ellen Saunders

Tea for Three

My two dolls sit in wicker chairs and take

their tea from cups and plates with rims of pink

with crust-less sandwiches and fancy cake,

at which they stare with eyes that never blink.

It seems to be a perfect way to pass

an afternoon, while dressed in lace with socks

of silk. Their hats have bows as green as grass

with little flowers, and perch upon locks

of curly, yellow hair. To think that they

will never have a worry or a thought,

or know how things can change from day to day,

or whether it is cold or very hot.

If I am ever missing, you might see

a little table set with tea for three.

―Ellen Saunders

YAKOV AZRIEL takes the the Journeyman Sonneteer Award
His poems as a group came in very close as a contender for the Grand Prize as well.

The Hour of Dinah’s Rape

“Dinah, the daughter of Leah whom she had borne to Jacob,
went out to see the daughters of the land. When Shechem,
the son of Hamor the Hivite, the prince of the land, saw her,
he took her, lay with her by force, and violated her.” 
―(Genesis 34:1-2)

This is the hour when Temple gates are burned,

When altars are profaned, when Temple priests

Become the sacrifice instead of beasts;

This is the hour for which the rapist yearned.

        This is the hour when heaven is overturned,

        When sunsets in the west are now the east’s

        Last hope of light, as darkness eats its feast;

        This is the hour when all her pleas are spurned.

This is the hour when hours are scorched to death

And time itself is buried under sod;

The present has no life, the past—no power

        To move its limbs, the future has no breath,

        When all she sees is the hidden face of God.

        This is the month, week, day. This is the hour.

―Yakov Azriel

Honorable Mentions

Mount St. Helens

A crouching, headless, jagged-throated beast,

Brindled black and white with ash and snow,

Looms above the forest to the east.

It blew itself apart some years ago.

The mountain steams into the clear blue air

And builds its dome; the ridges that it gnawed

with avalanches still are mostly bare.

The silence is profound—the air, stilled awed.

The rivers flow away, their valleys green,

Their floodplains full of thick volcanic mud.

Splintered stumps remain. This place has seen

A blasted wood, a steaming, roiling flood.

Perhaps God reaches down when no-one sees

And strokes the healing land’s soft pelt of trees.

―Emily Burns 

Outbound

Seeping into the concourse through slits of glass,

Daylight collects like green water in a tank,

Suspending us. He talks to make time pass,

I stall for it. “Tickets, money—don’t thank

Us you earned it, change planes in Norita, write.”

He goes, each step a multiple in miles

From home, walking then running for the Bangkok flight.

The girl who waits there, sure he’ll make it, smiles.

The girl will vanish out on the China Sea,

Fever nearly kill him, alone in Beijing.

One comrade will rob him over Russian tea,

Another buy him fries in a Moscow Burger King.

Starting out, how could either of us know

The distance, boy to man, he’d have to go?

―Dan Wormhoudt

The Question

“Doc,” I said, “it’s so confusing now.

My life . . . my family . . . I can’t make sense . . .”

He stopped, looked up, all ears, a furrowed brow.

I went on. Had to. The pressure so immense,

Words spilling out. “I mean, I’m 46,

And all my dreams, I don’t . . .” Took a deep breath.

No good. Began to cry. “I just can’t fix . . .”

Sob, “ . . . Anything, and so afraid of death . . .

So many things I never meant to say . . .

Mistakes, I mean . . . and all the loneliness . . .”

Regained control and tried to laugh.  “Hey,

Not to mention the world’s a total mess . . .”

X-rays in hand, puzzled, he said “I see . . .

But aren’t you here to talk about your knee?”

―David J. Rothman

Family Picnic

Life hasn’t been easy for Betsy since she turned

thirteen—just look at her, the sniffy way

she sits all by herself, wincing with scorn

at her noisy cousins lining up to play

a pick-up softball game before the day

runs out. Childish, she mutters from the chair

in which she lounges, tossing back her hair.

But now, two uncles and a favorite aunt

are filling in at right field and third base;

Betsy’s breathing quickens, but she can’t

stop buffing her nails, sucking in her face,

keeping her careful distance—just in case

we take her for that splendid child Betsy,

who left us only very recently.

―Marilyn L. Taylor

Cover Letter

Dear Sir or Madam: In this envelope

please find some poems that I have written.

I send them to you in the earnest hope

that you will read them and be wildly smitten.

In fact, you’ll jump up, cheering, from your chair

and holler out, Hey, get a load of these!

We’ve got the poems of the decade here,

We’d better print them in our journal! Jeez,

Is this a little miracle, or what?

And then you’ll fax or phone me right away

to tell me that you’re breaking out a split

of Taittinger, to toast your lucky day

and call me back to say you might as well

FedEx my check this minute, what the hell.

―Marilyn L. Taylor

Self-Portrait as Eve

I never use a peeler. I prefer

the frisson of a paring knife

chasing my thumb around the equator

of a red-green globe. I’m a risk-starved wife,

peeling apples for a son who insists

on naked fruit. I eat a snakey coil of skin

and he says I’m disgusting, then kisses

me on the mouth.

                              I’d do it again—

marry the man, carry the sons, I’d eat

the whole McIntosh, seeds and all.

But I keep an eye peeled for that serpent.

I’m yearning for another Fall

and watching for new fruit to grow—

there’s something else I need to know.

―Debra Wierenga

Poet’s Obits

So often in the N.Y. Times obits

I’ve read some out-of-context, virguled lines

buried in stories of the lives and works of poets

who’ve died and left a lot of words behind

like bread crumbs on the forest floor for us

to follow. I have gathered up my share

and felt lucky as some wealthy heiress

who’s willed a whole estate from God knows where—

out of the blue. I’ve used each polished gem

of poetry they’ve left behind and tried

out poems of my own inspired by them,

for which I thank those poets who have died.

I wonder: Which of my lines will they quote?

Or will it even say in my obit, “She wrote”?

―Gretchen Fletcher 

Transfiguration at Tanglewood

Ozawa’s mighty arms spread out like wings

to bring a symphony across the lawn.

The orchestra’s broad brass and sustained strings

fling out gold stars that light the sky like dawn.

The Mahler echoes out across the hills

and drops like rain from Berkshires’ massive pines

down on my ears until my whole soul fills

and makes me feel as drunk as though from wine.

Our picnics packed so carefully lie shut

lest opening them would break the music’s spell,

and stop the train of Mahler’s powerful thought.

While in my hear the music starts to swell

like a balloon too large for me to hold.

It bursts and I become those stars of gold.

―Gretchen Fletcher

Why Fo’?

Why fo’ dat bitch Katrina she don whump

& stomp & howl dat she bring down de house,

uproot de flo’, & den uprear de swamp,

den tro’ dem on de roof dem kids, de spouse,

den tron’ my sweet coon ass rat top dat tree

rat by dat street dat ain’t no street no mo’,

down where dem niggahs floats dey boat, ongree,

& counts dey dead what never had wha’ fo’

to git & go? Why fo’ dem empty suits

what on tv dey mou’t dem pretty words

den not wit shit do dem what rapes & loots,

‘dem what’s sick & damn near drown?—Dem turds!

& what’s wit dis: dem folks what say de Prez

don’ tak a “fly-by,” den haul ass—dat Whizz!?

―Larry Lyall