Congratulations to the winners of our First Poem Contest! The poems were selected by guest Judge J.D. Scrimgeour. The poems will be on the Mass Poetry Website ahead of the Festival, and come see the poets on Friday night, May 30th at our opening event! Thank you to everyone who submitted!
Winner
“love poem in the form of a lesson plan”
By Anna Deloia
welcome welcome!
welcome: there are snacks along the wall
and you can help yourself any time.
you can make any noises
that feel good. you can stretch
out like a planet on the rug.
are we ready? today, we are going to make
a road by lying in the grass
until it grows around our bodies.
it might take a while. you can take a nap
if you need to. do a little wiggle.
today, we are going to make 8.2 billion
pairs of glasses. we’ll start with the bottom windows
of the skyscrapers, and no one will notice
at the tops. we are going to unpick the maps
to find out who they serve. ask the borders:
what else will you be? what else will you be?
I’m sorry, I don’t have the answers. I have granola bars.
come with me to the bookshelf and let’s pull
everything down! you can make a mess.
you can say shit and fuck all this!
tell your neighbor they deserve the world
but not this one. I know you’ve seen the videos.
tell me: is what you remember most the child
or the gun? tell me: is there still a reason
for utopia? if we stuff it in a quilt, will it keep us warm?
if we shove it in the ground, will it form a spring?
this is not a test: you can ask your grandma. you can ask
a drag queen. you can ask the kid with eyes wide and hands
everywhere. do a another, medium-sized wiggle.
today, we are going to make the screens back into sand.
today, we are going to make the books back into birds. is it true what Wendell said: there are no unsacred places, only
sacred places and desecrated places?
there will not be any homework.
you can sing to yourself in whatever languages
you mourn in. you can run away.
you can yell at me; I’ll be here.
you can look at your phone – but try not to
doom-scroll. you can watch the planes.
you can ask them to stop shooting.
it might take a while. you can take a break
whenever you need to.
![avatar (2) Anna Lucia Deloia is a White, queer writer, educator, and researcher. She has a PhD from the Harvard Graduate School of Education, and she is co-founder of the intergenerational education initiative Imagining More Just Futures. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Rattle, Midway Journal, Paterson Literary Review and the anthology Love is For All of Us [Storey Publishing]. Her debut poetry chapbook, of god and merriment both, is available from Bottlecap Press.](https://festival.masspoetry.org/wp-content/uploads/avatar-2-500x500.jpg)
Honorable Mentions
“Afterlife”
By Theadora Siranian
I prostrate myself before you, world that has made me
mediocre. My face again peeled and left by the door, I am
down on all fours at dusk—the only animal in a darkening room.
In my twenties I once stepped from my apartment into the rain
and for a moment a crushed beer can on the sidewalk
was a dead bird, tiny and slick, and my guts dropped in terror.
I’ve been trying to write about it this entire time—that brief
moment when the uncanny overcame all sense. World, I acquit
my ego. I ablate myself, my silly little arrogant self. I am ugly
and I am humbled and I have finally learned to lie. I am nothing
but a creature ensnared, hobbled by my basest desires. When I
was fifteen my father and I walked into a beachside tourist shop
and straight into a table display of baby shark corpses encased
in jars. The memory makes me so sick I’ve never been able
to say it aloud before now. Language is insufficient. Watching
my father watch me—the indescribable look on his face.
At first sight I had thought they were only candy. I want now,
world, to be surprised by nothing. To not halt walking
to work the morning after the election in amazement
of the steeplejack still leaning his spindly ladder against
the tambour of the orthodox church, still preparing
for his climb to repair the onion dome painted the exact
aching hue as the crystalline heavens pinned mercilessly
behind. I somehow could not but stop and marvel. Damn you.
I am still beleaguered by ceaseless, wanton longing—
I do not want to endure this alone. This world estranged
from logic, so fucking inhospitable to love. And my heart,
once a thumping fist, now just a grimy palm begging.

“New Neighbors”
By Amy Rothschild
Scribbled with green milkweed and gold foxtails,
three purple flowers, uncommonly purple,
violet and magenta, open like delicate horns,
crane toward the street which is sunlight.
They come from next door’s scraggly thicket,
before that, bellies of ships and hulls of birds,
warm soil of pink and orange tropics.
Scientific name Ipomoea, family Convolvulaceae.
The stories the morning glories and I could tell,
generations thrust toward Eastern Massachusetts,
dry patch of yard, a porch green like dull ocean.
Small talk thick with the bristle of politics and religion.
A woodpecker harmonizes with a jackhammer.
At the end of our street, rusty dinosaurs
drop a grumble and plunk of steel beams
becoming office park, becoming biotech.
How to explain to the morning glories
the soon silver palace.
How people will pour into those dark startups
like sunlight.
How the startups will have names
like Ipomea.

Longlist
“Closer Than Skin”
By Janet Aalfs
Although they are
Only breath…
Sappho
I watched my sister at the ceilidh
embrace a woman closer than skin
home from college then gone again
she left behind in a book
three syllables that dared
though only breath to shimmer
like wind through a door ajar
blows it open to the scent
of ocean mist and beach rose
I could hear when she returned
born again to save me from
lesbian that burning
her silence shattered
moonlit waves on sand
when she chose to end her song
silvery cobalt sound between
the breaking not a sound
but an echo from her wings
softer than the softest flower

“Western Mass”
By Gray Davidson Carroll
Here I am again, unable to write a poem without putting you at the center. Unable to write anything without the feeling of water around me. Without the rotting leaf & fermenting apple, the backroads leading nowhere & dust kicked up from forgotten farm fields. I cannot write this poem without the clay I gathered from the creek bed as a child, without the sugar maples we tapped for syrup or the dark blue truck that became, for a few short weeks each year, the Sap Ship carrying us to the next tree. Here, the pawpaw, the raspberries picked into used yogurt containers and blueberries eaten straight from the bush. Here too, the asparagus stands at the end of every driveway, the air smelling always of manure and dirt. Here, the public library open two days a week for a total of ten hours, the used bookstore I would lose myself in every day of summer. Here, summer days so hot everyone decides to skip work and go swimming instead. Here, the nude beach where the queers can be found every day of summer regardless of work. Here, skinny-dipping in February and ice frozen in my hair. Here, the hills I biked down at 6:00 am singing at the tops of my lungs. Hear the river, where I first learned my love of water. Here, the woodstove where I wrote my first poem. Here, the ball field, where, under a full moon, because this is a poem and the moon has to have been full, I kissed a man and for the first time, did not call myself unclean. Here, the lake I have come to after every heartbreak, the woods where I first saw my father cry. Here, my love, who calls me to say, drop whatever you’re doing and go look at the moon, and who has, somehow, put up with me writing love poems since the very first date and reading to them for hours on end. Here garlic cloves crushed and eaten whenever someone has a cold. Here, the stinging nettles my mother and I harvested each spring for pesto and tea, the taste of pre-dawn coffee and the way morning lifts itself, like a shawl from the mountains. And I cannot end this poem without the squelch of mud between my toes, without the stink of skunk cabbage, fluff from the milkweed pods or the root-beer-taste of black birch between teeth. I cannot end this poem without the smell of woodsmoke in my hair, without the cattails and dogbane, hemlocks and oak. I cannot end this poem without running into someone I know in the grocery store and stopping to talk for fifteen minutes no matter how much of a rush I am in. I cannot end this poem without the graveyard where I laid my virginity to rest, or the singers who have gathered on the town common for an hour every day since March of 2020 to remember, together, how to sing the soul back to the body. And I cannot end this poem with the garden of my body only now bursting into bloom. And I will not end this poem

“I come from a line of women”
By Kristin Marie



“To my mother”
By Carmen Barefield
