The Awakening, by William Wantling

 I found the bee as it fumbled about the ground
Its leg mangled, its wing torn, its stinggone
I picked it up, marvelled at its insistence
to continue on, despite the dumb brutething that had occurred
I considered, remembered the fatal struggle
the agony on the face of wounded friendsand the same dumb drive to continue
I became angry at the unfair conflict suffered
by will and organism
I became just, I became unreasoned, I became
extravagant
I observed the bee, there, lying in my palmI looked and I commanded in a harsh and angry shout – 
STOP THAT!Then it ceased to struggle, and somehow suddenlybecame marvellously whole, and it aroseand it flew away
I stared, I was appalled, I was overwhelmed
with responsibility, and I knew not where to begin

The Francis Ponge Poetry Prize Winners

PLEASE NOTE:  WE ARE RE-POSTING THE FRANCIS PONGE POETRY PRIZE WINNERS BECAUSE WE LEFT OUT THE LINK TO CLARE CHU’S BEAUTIFUL POEM – “SMALL GEORGE”.  PLEASE CHECK IT OUT!

Francis Ponge

(click titles to read)

The Potato, by Dara Elareth (winner)

The Dim Boy, by Logo Wei (first runner-up)

Small George, by Clare Chu (runner-up)

< >, by Mathew Weitman (runner-up)

Absent Monuments, by Howie Good (runner-up)

The Animal Communicator, by Robert Keeler (runner-up)

Ashes, by Oliver Mestitz (runner-up)

Jungle Rope, by Renee Bailey (runner-up)

 

The Francis Ponge Prize for Poetry Winning Poem

The Potato
by Dara Elerath

The potato is afraid of light and movement. It would like to stay hidden forever, fattening slowly in its soft cocoon of soil. Its life is a life of sleep—do not begrudge it this simple existence. It is kin to stone in shape and nature, but softness betrays it. If a worm, seeking moisture, tunnels through, the potato, uneasy, says nothing. Its eyes are scars, they do not shift or lift their lids to note the damage; they do not try to understand. This misshapen lantern dangling from roots has no wish to illuminate anything at all. It is no use unearthing the potato before its time. The vegetable goes slowly. It does not tremble at the pressure of feet aboveground. It does not pray picturing the spade or the farmer’s rough, indifferent gloves. Rain falls, sun shines—the potato does not miss these things. Sweetness pours in through its stem, smoothing, straightening the brown paper of its skin.

The Walt Whitman Poetry Prize Winners

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Wining Poem – “Stereoscope:  Pioneer Cabin Tree” by Jill Bergantz Carley

1st Runner Up – “Browsing” by Sarah Oso

2nd Runner Up – ” Zubiri” by Alexandra McIntosh

Runner Up – “the cigarette burns my body alive into a cherry” by Emily Ellison

Runner Up – “In The Marketplace” by Joseph M. Gerace

Runner Up –  “Tappahannock” by Kim Harvey

Runner Up – “Little Spoon” by Logo Wei

Runner Up –   Faith and The Silver maple by Sandra Kolankiewicz

Runner Up – “My Chosen Bestiary” by Tassyln Magnusson