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  #1  
Unread 05-09-2002, 05:18 PM
Tim Murphy Tim Murphy is offline
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We've never had such fun on this board, not when Mr. Hecht advised us to memorize, not even when Rhina taught us the ovijello, or whatever rhymes with mellow. I won't tell you how many sonnets were sent me by email, all good poems. I thank everyone who submitted work, particularly those who had not the gratification of seeing their work praised or torn apart in this forum. Special thanks to Roger Slater, whose comments were invariably spot on. I am rushed by the Editor from Hell, who has been combing through this garland, so I open it up to the field. Between now and Saturday, feel free to opine on these sonnets, and tell our juror how to adjudicate this toughest of competitions. Finalists are welcome to vote for their own or their competitors' entries. But to save Dick the hassle of surfing through 14 threads, please vote here.

Richard Wakefield observed that we have created an opportunity for the best talkers to talk about the best poems, without the hurly-burly of the metrical forums, and I believe Richard's observations are just. I am particularly smitten by the observations of Professor Davis, le sonnetiere de son age, and I thank him for getting down into the trenches with all us amateurs.

your lariat, Timothy

PS. Of course Dick is perfectly free to ignore all of us and just pick Jim Hayes as the winner!
  #2  
Unread 05-10-2002, 08:40 AM
ginger ginger is offline
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As the least qualified to judge it seems almost crass that I should be the first to reply. My apologies on that score. What a treat to see so many excellent, contemporary sonnets discussed like this! My personal favorite though is Rhina Espaillat's "Moods" I am deeply impressed by the poem's intense focus on a single metaphor and its thoroughly modern diction. The poet is so in control of the form that it reads as if she opened her mouth to speak and a sonnet tumbled out. As for its content, this one really does find the extraordinary in the ordinary. I've read a lot of poems that try to do that, but are ultimately unconvincing. Here I don't detect the slightest hint of straining to make the metaphor work and so the observation seems almost natural and inevitable. Reading this one I think, "Yes, I see it too now!"

Of course, as an English major and foreign language junkie, I'm terribly biased, but the qualities I noted above are consistently present in Rhina Esapaillat's poems and I am just in awe of them.

My praise, of course, is prompted entirely by this piece, and is in no way a backward critique of the others. Many thanks to all for sharing such fine poems with us!

Ginger
  #3  
Unread 05-10-2002, 09:46 AM
Tim Murphy Tim Murphy is offline
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Ginger, thanks for being the first brave fool to rush in where angels fear to tread. It's an impossible decision. Were I editing a prestigious quarterly (and thank God I'm not), there's not a poem in the baker's dozen I wouldn't gladly publish. Those I like best are Wakefield, Hayes, Stallings, Juster, Espaillat, Anthony, and Tufariello. Of this glorious group, I'd probably give the nod to Rhina on the grounds that she has been writing sonnets longer than any other contestant has even been on the planet! Let me add, parenthetically to the Crawford thread, that Rhina and I both hate Robert Crawford. He's much too young and good-looking to ever amount to anything as a poet.
  #4  
Unread 05-10-2002, 10:09 AM
Jim Hayes Jim Hayes is offline
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Me, I'm still in awe of myself when I see my name amid that august assemblage of Tim's but my tip o'the hat, barely, goes to Alicia and that wonderful bat poem.

Jim
  #5  
Unread 05-10-2002, 10:23 AM
Robt_Ward Robt_Ward is offline
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Rhina’s poem gets my lead vote for its amazing virtuosity, the way it adapts such a “dry” subject as grammar to an expression of life’s universal themes. It reminds me that nothing of what we perceive, nor of how we perceive, it is irrelevant to the big picture. “Spiced and complex and tart” is magnificent, the last line is so poignant…

Crawford’s poem is exquisite in its expression of the pure tenderness of the common arts of living and loving, it does exactly what a sonnet “ought” to do. The closing couplet absolutely sings.

Catherine’s gem is technically stunning. It doesn’t fall short in artistry of course, none of them do, but her command of the language is amazing, the complexity/apparent ease of the rhyming is sublime.

That’s my two bits worth. A wonderful thread for all of us, my thanks to the big guns for giving it to us.

(robt)


Moods

I'm learning the subjunctive, mood of choice
once the indicative has slipped away
that seemed to say it all once. Active voice,
yes, all the tenses—I need those to say
act and remembrance, why and how we live—
but now, subjunctive and conditional
("If that should happen") and obligative
("Let this be said") feel truer than "I shall,
he did, we are." A ripening to speech
spiced and complex and tart, past what I'm sure
of—or was sure of—or set out to reach;
how to acquire a taste for the impure
provisional, that's what I need to know,
before the last imperative says "Go."

Rhina Espaillat

****************************

French Braids

While one hand is content to touch, admire
A balanced, careful weave—preserve for viewing
The beauty and the boundaries of desire—
The other hand is busy at undoing.
The quiet hand counsels restraint; afraid
To wreck the composition of composure,
It's wary of destruction just for fun.
The other wants to slip between each braid,
To tease apart the strands, let run, spill over,
Release, unbind, what was so neatly done.
Your urgent kiss decides which hand is played.
A gentle pull brings argument to closure.
Surprised, my hands attempt to catch your hair:
It falls the way the rain lets go the air.

Robert Crawford

**************************

No Angel

All that thou sayest unto me I will do. — Ruth 3:5

No angel stood there, only her mother-in-law,
Eyeing the bag of roasted grain and scheming,
Foretelling how she'd find him—sprawled and dreaming
Beside the barley sheaves, on bales of straw.
Like wings, she said, his cloak would cover them.
The plan risked everything. But as before—
While aisles of rustling wheatstalks whispered Whore—
Ruth walked alone through shuttered Bethlehem.
She stood above him. Started turning. Stayed.
The dozing reapers sighed but did not hear.
Watched by the neutral moon, she watched him stir,
Heard his stuttering snores, and was afraid.
A moment later, God did not appear,
And Boaz wakened to the scent of myrrh.

Catherine Tufariello

  #6  
Unread 05-10-2002, 12:18 PM
Clive Watkins Clive Watkins is offline
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At the moment - I could well change my mind: I hate these kinds of "games" - my vote would go to Rhina's poem. Fine though many of the others are, there are few where my deplorable impulse to tinker with the text of what I am reading is completely subdued. Putting that guilty reservation aside, of the rest my favourites are Alicia's, Catherine's, Jim's and Michael's.

My admiration for the courage of the "competitors" in submitting to this ordeal - and, of course, for their poetic skill - is considerable.

Well done, all!

Clive Watkins
  #7  
Unread 05-10-2002, 12:47 PM
Roger Slater Roger Slater is offline
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I can hardly imagine a better sonnet than Rhina's, whose subjunctive musings lead me to say "If only I could vote for them all!" But the bake-off demands the indicative, so I'll vote for Rhina while acknowledging that I'd be proud to vote for any of the others as well.

Thanks for the compliment, Tim.
  #8  
Unread 05-10-2002, 02:05 PM
Chris O'Carroll Chris O'Carroll is offline
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AFTER THE COMPETITION

The search for the best rhyme's a random quest.
Who knows if Judge X's eyes scanned 'em best?
Perhaps Judge Y's eyes. . . .
But who can surmise?
De gustibus non disputandum est.

That disclaimer out of the way, I cast my vote for this gorgeous sonnet by A.E. Stallings:


Explaining an Affinity for Bats

That they are only glimpsed in silhouette,
And seem something else at first—a swallow—
And move like new tunes, difficult to follow,
Staggering towards an obstacle they yet
Avoid in a last-minute pirouette,
Somehow telling solid things from hollow,
Sounding out how high a space, or shallow,
Revising into deepening violet.

That they sing—not the way the songbird sings
(Whose song is rote, to ornament, finesse)—
But travel by a sort of song that rings
True not in utterance, but harkenings,
Who find their way by calling into darkness
To hear their voice bounce off the shape of things.

(This is a secret ballot, right? The other poets won't know I didn't vote for them? Whew!)
  #9  
Unread 05-10-2002, 03:09 PM
Alan Sullivan Alan Sullivan is offline
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The women seem to be running away with the laurel here,
but I have a different top pick--Catherine Tufariello. Traditionally the sonnet was a love poem, and I think Catherine has honored the tradition in a wonderfully clever, wise, and contemporary way by bringing this biblical story to life in verse.

Very close runners-up for me (in alphabetical order) are Juster and Wakefield. Sorry guys.

I would like to thank Tim for his efforts organizing this competition and screening a very large number of poems to winnow out the finalists. What poetry magazine could attract such an impressive set of submissions? The web rules!

Alan Sullivan
  #10  
Unread 05-10-2002, 03:10 PM
David Anthony David Anthony is offline
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I'm happy my entry is a piece of fluff, not in real contention.
I vote for Alicia, or Michael; both of them.
Or maybe someone else.
On reflection, I'll leave it to Dick, with my sympathy.
Regards,
David
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