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Runners-up from the Poetry Contest for the Summer 2009 issue of the Phi Kappa Phi Forum:
Out of Many, One
Each place demands an image that speaks,
but does not tell. Ask the native child. She says
the place where skinned knees are nursed
in subtle strokes of Mercuricom.
Ask the foreign child—What is home? He says,
America. It is hard to count the visions now:
sudden warnings in swollen swoops;
the brazen bold of newspaper font; glutted
numbers on white ticker tape. Pick this country
in whispers only—anything more, and its center falls
(its ears sensitive to loud, full-sentences).
Daily stranger, worn slight as blue
skimmed milk at the bottom of a jar:
America, are you ready to return the people
taken for retail value? The production line looks a bit empty,
the purer products of America going crazy
oftener now than before. Market values decline.
This great depression is an internal affair.
Still, there are many impulses here: circuits writhe
lively, electric; birds serenade car alarms
because while industry changes, nature does not.
You ask the neighbor’s child,
Why are you not at home?
He tells you there is no food left.
Old wrongs smart anew; they need redressing.
You take a tumble hard, but without knees,
you've nothing to brush off.
Oh, America—where Mercuricom runs low, stripes
of red long distilled into brown-bottle glass—
your image now has no lips, no words.
It does not speak. It screams.
Christina J. Baptista (Fordham University) is a Portuguese-American writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Paradigm; Eight Octaves Magazine; Hobble Creek Review; Mannequin Envy; No, Dear Magazine; The Swarthmore Literary Review; California Quarterly; MARGIE, The American Journal of Poetry and The Baltimore Review. She is pursuing a Ph.D. in modern American literature at Fordham University. Email her at CJBHerdsofWords@yahoo.com.
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Looking for the Space Shuttle
Tonight, at midnight,
they said on the news,
and here we are
at ten minutes to twelve,
shivering in our coats
and watching the sky.
I mistake a plane in the sky,
a northern flight at night,
for the smooth metal float
I've seen launched on the news.
Up there, a freckled boy of twelve
wakes and asks, Where are
we? and looks out: We are
falling from the sky!
Ahead of the boy, twelve
rows, a woman turns her light
off and plugs into the news,
the back of her head resting on her coat.
We want to believe, to uncloak,
but unlike children, we are
getting more used to the news.
The unexplained magic in the sky
can be determined by night
times distance divided by twelve.
And we are truly no longer twelve:
the lining of our coats
now bristles against the cold night.
Brother, we are
not children. Our old sky
is very old news.
Tonight, waiting for the news
to come to life, for twelve
tiny flames in the sky
to shine down onto our coats,
we hold on for something far
more. Even the honest night
can't keep the sky completely afloat,
as the news keeps changing. Twelve
oclock is far from the start of this night.
Katherine Cottle (University of Maryland at College Park) received her M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Maryland at College Park. Her work has appeared in Poetry East, Willow Springs, The Greensboro Review, Tar River Poetry, Puerto del Sol, and The Cimarron Review. Her chapbook, My Father's Speech, was published by Apprentice House in January 2008. She is currently a distance education instructor through The Johns Hopkins University’s Center for Talented Youth program. Visit her blog at www.katherinecottle.blogspot.com. Email her at cottle_kathy@hotmail.com.
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American Voices
Tonally bereft without a voice to claim his heritage,
this Asian man becomes a Tongan priest.
Sans accent, this Turkish laborer is an Egyptian prince,
while Roman emperors may have existed only as the dreaming of slave men.
Without cadence, that white haired woman becomes a little boy
and with her eyes closed imagines summer.
The same little boy with open mouth sounds like a millions birds
and a humming bee is mistaken for a mountain bound yogi.
As you and I, voiceless, are all sound, boundlessness, internals become externals-
Yet with body and voice, We, becoming someone,
forget that all Others have been Us.
So in otherness residing, abiding by our own kind,
The evidence of unity is less manifest-
It is in a Country, or a room, within a fable, or a Nation,
In a kitchen, or a temple, or a laboratory,
Where one common thread becomes woven into a sturdy branch,
that we feel the urgency of acknowledging common roots
-which, spreading beyond our vision, embody an emerging tree-
-each leaf so gloriously formed to humbly offer its own beauty
for the sake of the greater foliage.
As we, alone, cycle through life’s short seasons
And still sometimes may glimpse our splash of color
As it merges into the immensely intricate design
Of our human web, home, community, country, world.
Hannah Johnson (University of Texas at Arlington) is a senior double major in international business and French at University of Texas at Arlington. She enjoys reading e.e. cummings and Rumi for inspiration. She plans to pursue graduate work after spending further time in Europe as an assistant English teacher. She also is completing a certification to teach yoga. Email her at hannahj1234@yahoo.com.
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Liberty
after the twin towers
I stand up
through your destruction
I stand up —Lucille Clifton
though our grief has not turned to ashes
the flag rises full staff
rant’s rage’s time has passed
with the moon that slithered into dusk
the heron banished
in the wild mist transformation
this nation must stand
on its human promises
taking the hand
perhaps of a child
making supper
a hearty supper
lentils & rice perhaps
with hot crusty bread
rich in onions, garlic, kisses
& the fragrant faith of steam
stranger if you were here
we’d dip the bowl for you
remembering our lost
who would have toasted as we do with gusto
our savory loaf & home-cooked broth
saying grace first to those
who lost their lives
who gave their lives
who will give their lives
for us Stand up Stand up as
we stand and raise the cup to you
brothers and sisters Stand
as She stands
upon this rubble of dust
Susan Militzer Luther (Louisiana State University) earned degrees from LSU, University of Alabama in Huntsville and Vanderbilt University. An experienced reader, presenter and teacher, she has published a monograph on Coleridge, scholarly articles and miscellaneous prose, two chapbooks, a full-length volume of poetry, and numerous poems in a variety of academic and small-press journals and anthologies. She lives in Huntsville, Ala., her home of many years. Email her at books@hiwaay.net.
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National Anthem
In the misty green of Appalachia
a voice croons a folksy ballad to the dulcimer's soft strum
I am an American
Through the steel and concrete of New York
the bustling, effervescent strains of jazzy Gershwin echo
I am an American
Under dusky frontier skies
a cowboy warbles a campfire song of wild adventure
I am an American
The South echoes with the blood and soul of Gospel and Blues,
a lamentation of unfettered power and unstoppable liberty
I am an American
A young band, ripped jeans and new dreams,
blasts electric freedom and "heavy metal thunder" to the walls of their garage
I am an American
Through the enchanted streets of New Orleans
ropey threads of savory jazz swell a blaze of color through the night air
I am an American
The spicy, fluid Salsa
The cantor's lilt, plumbing the depths of time
The enticing magic of a sitar
The throbbing rhythm of rap
We are Americans
Let freedom ring.
Arielle McKee (University of Texas at Austin), who recently earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Texas at Austin, works as a bill analyst at the Texas Legislative Council in Austin, Texas. In her spare time, she is active at A Spacious Place, a non-profit creative and spirituality center that seeks to provide opportunities for creative expression to all people, especially those who do not often have the opportunity to explore their creative side. Email her at mckee_arielle@alumni.utexas.net.
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Gratitude
Phosphorous flickered
in the wake of the ship.
Behind us lay darkness
Before us, light
beckoned with promise.
In our year of arrival,
the streets were not paved with gold.
We came with nothing.
On the day bombs
fell on Pearl Harbor,
our mother said,
children, be not afraid.
We were too young to feel afraid,
but we listened. She said,
never hoard money.
Your treasure is wisdom.
No one can take from you
what you own in your mind.
America will give you whatever you need.
You only have to say
Thank you.
Ilse Nusbaum (University of Michigan) was born in Austria. She fled to America with her parents after the German annexation, settling in Detroit. She earned her bachelor’s degree with honors in English and philosophy at Radcliffe College/Harvard University and her master’s in English language and literature at the University of Michigan. She studied creative writing at Harvard with Theodore Morrison and at the University of Michigan with Austin Warren. Employment as an English instructor at Ohio University was followed by a long career as the educational specialist at a clinic specializing in the care of patients with genetic diseases. Her publications include a novel, books for parents, a chapter in a legal textbook, and articles in medical journals. Email her at ilse.nusbaum@att.net.
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One Man’s Dream
Out of One Many
Loose change in his pocket
E Pluribus Unum
Forty one cents tarnished
grey, patina of the people
Out of One Many
Crossing oceans they changed his name
put a quarter in the jukebox Joe
E Pluribus Unum
Native words now whispered
replacing tooth with dime under her pillow
Out of One Many
He wants a better life where she
can wear penny loafers
E Pluribus Unum
Walking down the street he finds a
buffalo nickel and smiles
E Pluribus Unum
Five grams closer to his dream
E Pluribus Unum
Out of One Many
Joan Pavlinsky (University of Houston) is an emerging writer and painter whose work has been featured at numerous venues, small publications and galleries throughout Connecticut. She is currently the host of the Studio59 Poetry Circle in Torrington, Conn. In addition, she sings soprano with the acclaimed choral group, Gaudeamus. She often finds inspiration for her writing from her practice as a licensed clinical social worker with the Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services where she has received notable honors for directing the annual Service of Hope, utilizing music and the spoken word to promote wellness and recovery. Email her at japavlin@optonline.net.
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What Do You Think?
Ask an immigrant or intellectual: why hold two jobs: immigrant and intellectual;
Mail thank you notes to Florida: drive south across boundaries without papers; visit beach or museum;
Expect and receive fairness from the man or woman in black behind the bench
Read or write protests; choose sides or shake hands—either way
I live as a pronoun of identity: you, we, us.
Capitalism permits my pony-tailed little girl her spangled Gap tee-shirt: flash “Future.”
Anyone else losing hope? Choose your prayer—or not—and don’t.
Susan Spillman (Wichita State University) earned her B.A. in English from the University of Virginia and her J.D. from Case Western Reserve University. She practiced and taught law for several years and is currently completing her second year of WSU’s MFA poetry program. Some of her poems have been or will be published in Naked City and Mikrokosmos. Her poem “Intercession” was recently selected as a New York Times online Editor’s pick. Email her at svspillman@wichita.edu.
