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Yes, it's that time of year again! And I'm glad my part in it is done. It's always a hard call. Read them and see for yourself. The unbound CONTENT Pushcart Prize 2012 nominees are:
Apples to Oranges (from At Age Twenty by Maxwell Baumbach)it is saidthat when two thingscannot be compareda case of apples to oranges existsbut those things can be comparedthey are both fruitsand like humansthey have skinand humans like treescan be cut downand trees like flowerscan bend in the windand flowers like hummingbirdscan astonish with their beautyand the hummingbird singsthe way all the earth doesin harmonious unisonPainting Czeslawa Kwoka (from Painting Czeslawa Kwoka by Theresa Senato Edwards)IIn Brasse’s black and white photos,you are a young girl with a round facedropped into a flat, grey world,26947 sewn on a striped wardrobe,naked beneath these numbers.What does color bring to you?In color you move through our minds.In color you are a movie star: Mia Farrow—slightly protruding upper lip, swollen bottomforms a dense shadow to your chin.In color you are a young womanbleeding from within: pale skinfilters red to pink. This is thegirl you are at Auschwitz, Czeslawa.You are not a criminal.IIYour full color portraitforces our reaction—your hair is the warmestfall in a dead winter, amberbackground sparks the short, mattedbristles: adolescent questionsquickly extinguished when a scarf addstexture, diagonal patterns, anotherlook of a 14-year-old prisoner.In color you transform: we cantouch your swollen mouth, feel thevoice beneath the left side of your face,where greys mix with pinks,a rash of illness.The contrast holds us.IIIIn a soft color profile,above and slightly rightof 26947, we see a tearfrom your right eye spilling down,just underneath skin transparent,thin from a bleak setting.We follow the contour of yoursmeared mouth, slightly opened,trace from lower lip to thebottom of your chin:this part of pinkish-grey fleshappears as number 7.This is not intentional.IVIn color we feel theblacks of uniformity,harsh marks of sufferingblacken the scratchedshadows below your nostrils.The black slit above yourgrey lower lip sucks usempty—your eyes, blackoval platters reflectingSS soldiers and worsewithin deep, grey carvings.Black is blacker in color.VPainted close-up: a brightyellow backdrop brightensthe scarf’s pattern, your hairhidden in black and whitebecomes strands of sunlight,movement on still life.Yellows warm your cheeks,your forehead clear of dirt,yellows remove the dark patchfrom the tip of your nose we seein each of Brasse’s photographs.Yellows plunge orange,settle on the center left of your chest.You can breathe them in.XVII (from A Strange Frenzy by Dom Gabrielli)Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.They’re in each other all along.—RumiXVII.i am the one in the serieswhom in you staysfinding the path to the chests in your souli am the one who came lastwho picked the fruit without handsand drank the juice with my hearti am the luck which i refused to loseall the anger and the pain has sense for youfor my silencefor all the empty bottles of poor winewhich sojourned but could not stayThe Feast of St. Catherine (from Saltian by Alice Shapiro)In our vacant lot the carnivalburst into town each Junelike a Verdi opera.Pink gossamer to eatmud-stomped grass beneath our feeta shrill Italian songemanating over children’s jeersthe aim to win, to beat old carnys’sleights against all odds.And the gambler’s vice begins.Day fades, lanterns light, a crowd wanderscircling tent-booths lined with wooden ducksdead to barrels aimed to kill.And the gun for sport dawns.We spin around on giant teacupsdizzy from the ridetake note of a faint, free mindAnd reach for sweet, indulgent wine.At dusk, painted horses gallop on everlasting turnshelp us grab the golden ringand if our sense is strong enoughA holy promise sings.Hurricane Season (from The Pomegranate Papers by Cassie Premo Steele)Facing southeast, I wait for the hurricane,feel the purple wind on my cheeks,know that nothing will be the same.I have ridden the air on an eastern rug,woven with blood and memory,and the colors still cling to my skin.I am not afraid of the seasons,not the mountains or rivers or night.I am one desert pink flower in bloom.And when my summer is over,I will return to the earth with gratitude,lay my petals upon her damp breast,and know that nothing is ever the same.I have lived, bloomed, given birth,died, all in my own name, all in my name.No Place to Go (from Elegy by Raphaela Willington)April 18, 2001No Place to GoLost in the wildernessof my parents’ house,my illness,I inherit:the bounce of a branch of hemlock,your embraceIf you like these poems and you haven't bought any of these books yet, remember that every copy sold sends royalty money to the writers and artists whose work we now celebrate. Browse our bookshelf here.
Please join me in congratulating the writers.To see the vox poetica nominees, please click here.