That's right, @LadyLizz will be competing for the chance to be crowned YWS' best poet so it looks like we're down a judge for at least another round.
That's just four people left in now and we're approaching the final week of the contest. I haven't updated the chart yet but I'll post a link to it again when I have but for now let's have another look at who our final four are -
You have until 10:00pm GMT on the 24th April to submit your next poem. Remember, it can now be a poem written any time in April, rather than just the last few days. Ready, Steady, Poet!!
who doesn't love a nice historical poem centered around one state with odd references? no one that i know of.
Spoiler! :
La Florida
the thoughts run smoothly, like the flowing suwannee river, next to an old plantation house. the oak trees gather to form a canopy, far apart from whatever scene may be happening. separately, cypress knees come up to haunt the shoreline, tripping hazards to the troupe that will soon be marching through.
the songs of the days talk about kentucky or virginia or texas. yet this place is sometimes ignored, for neither the union nor the rebels, viewed it as anything but that place called a 'paradise'.
when ponce de leon landed on the shores with the men in the boats, they looked towards the flowers for the name they would give this land. ignoring the creatures that may have lurked in the water or woods, seeing only the beauty that any beholder would be able to find.
it was praised first for the beauty of the landscape, and second for the resources it might bring. they had no thought for the others that may conquer, though they would soon learn of these dangers, as each new boat came into their harbor.
there was no expectation for the magnolia trees, for the pecan pies laying in the kitchen window, and the donkeys braying out somewhere in the lonesome farm yard.
no, for that singular moment of discovery, there were very few thoughts about what this land was, there was little recognition of what it may become.
only that they had found the land that may contain a path to eternal life. the sword placed by the sailors, had claimed this front in the name, la florida.
When they tore down the house, we (my sisters and brothers and I) found a pale white flower nestled beneath now-broken floorboards; we guessed it had been there for years, kept alive by the steady dripping of water from the leaky plumbing in the kitchen sink that had doomed the house in the first place (and so we suspected that the spirit of the house had gone to the flower).
We dug it out, stuck it in a pot, and passed it between us, so the flower would travel to a new pair of hands every year regardless of the distance between us, and each one of us painted a circle on a petal of the flower out of his or her favorite color.
We were young, but even we knew that it would have to die eventually. But when, despite the many times someone forgot to give it water or food, it survived and kept its faint white glow in the nighttime, we were elated - it was our nightlight, our green and white thread, our birthday gift and present.
It saw hats tossed into the air, stethoscopes lining the walls, the inside of airplane cargo holds, white-capped mountains spewing smoke, newborns placed in their tiny cribs, nursing homes littered with wheelchairs, and rested atop funeral casket after funeral casket.
It only watches over me now. I see their names and faces in each of the circles, and halos sprout from the flower's faint glow. It catches my tears and shakes gently in the breeze. Perhaps it's taken their souls too; perhaps they're all in the house now, in their rooms, waiting for the final pair of soft footprints to climb up the stairs, open the doors, and give an embrace to last for the rest of time.
I look forward to it.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero, senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Here's my entry. Good luck to the three other remaining participants!
Wanderlust
Spoiler! :
These are the names we call ourselves when the wanderlust from when we were kids lingers behind and inhabits igneous bodies. Blood vessels erupt as magma swells from the volcanoes burgeoning on your skin.
These are the names we call ourselves when the wanderlust from when we were kids waves a lighter in front of us, creating glints of naivety in our mesmerized eyes. The flame flickers from side to side acting as a pendulum to the oblivious.
There's a difference between watching an inferno and nurturing one; that's why adults say 'kids, do not try this at home'.
Apologies for the delay everyone! But I actually don't have enough votes in to confidently call this round yet so I'm actually going to ask all four of our semi finalists to please submit a poem for the final before the end of the month!
Gender:
Points: 5523
Reviews: 51