Now that I’m living in Portland, I decided to become a member of the Oregon Poetry Association and entered their Spring contest. What a wonderful surprise to be one of the honorable mentions for my first ever Ghazal poem. Congratulations to all the winners:
Traditional Form. Judge: Ruth Harrison
1st Place: “Yellow Moon” by Michael Hanner, Eugene
2nd Place: “Puck Unrequited” by Kelly McDowell, Waldport
3rd Place: “Year of the Swine” by Marjorie Power, Corvallis
Honorable mentions:
“Dimensional Dementia” by Jean Adams, Winston
“When Summer Rises” by Donna Hein, Eugene
“Safe Distance from the Flame” by Shawn Aveningo, Beaverton
Judge’s comments:
Kudos to every poet who tackled this challenging and somehow off-putting form. It’s a form calling for courage, syllable-counting patience, and persistence, along with inspiration, to make it happen successfully. Everyone who attempted it is solidly grounded in her craft, and honors his medium.
#1 earned that spot with masterly use of language, fine imagery, telling details, paying unobtrusive heed to all the rules, and finally, dealing with the identifier-couplet in an unusual way.
#2 offers excellent sensory appeal as well as colorful images, to satisfy the old form in new ways.
#3 offers an engaging back-story and a pleasing stretch of the language to create a strong poem.
All three honorable mentions push the boundaries of the form to fulfill its potential, and present lively, memorable details and phrases: sinking ship, “when summer rises,” and the unforgettable charred broom.
–Ruth Harrison
Here’s the poem . . .
Safe Distance From the Flame
A safe distance from the flame, one length of a broom
away from nightmares – Dad holding a charred broom.
Visions of him sweeping ashes, our burning home
“Please Father,” I begged him, “Please drop the broom.”
When I was six, Dad took me to the movies –
Walt Disney’s debut of Bedknobs and Broom…
A poet once spoke of his father’s funeral pyre,
guiding body into flame with the handle of a broom.
Could cremation deter a happily ever after-life?
Returning only to sweep our own ashes with a broom?
After Dad’s funeral, his old buddies tell me a tale –
an old apartment up in flames, Dad grabbing a broom.
After volunteers pick up Dad’s clothes and golf gear,
Daughter will sweep the garage with her father’s old broom.
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