The Griffin Poetry Prize June 5, 2009Posted by hyperboreapoetry in Noticias, Premios.
Tags: Canada, Griffin Prize, Moritz
Los galardonados con el The Griffin Poetry Prize del 2009 son C. D. Wright por Rising, Falling, Hovering en la categoría internacional y A. F. Moritz por The Sentinel en la categoría canadiense.
Algunos Poemas de los ganadores:
De: C. D. Wright
It is 2005, just before landfall.
Here I am, a labyrinth, and I am a mess.
I am located at the corner of Waterway
and Bluff. I need your help. You will find me
to the left of the graveyard, where the trees
grow especially talkative at night,
where fog and alcohol rub off the edge.
We burn to make one another sing;
to stay the lake that it not boil, earth
not rock. We are running on Aztec time,
fifth and final cycle. Eyes switch on/off.
We would be mercurochrome to one another
bee balm or chamomile. We should be concrete,
glass, and spandex. We should be digital or,
at least, early. Be ivory-billed. Invisible
except to the most prepared observer.
We will be stardust. Ancient tailings
of nothing. Elapsed breath. No,
we must first be ice. Be nails. Be teeth.
And It Came to Pass
This june 3
would be different
Time to draw lines
I’ve grown into the family pores
and the bronchitis
Even up east
I get by saying goddamnit
Who was that masked man
I left for dead
in the shadow of mt. shadow
Who crumbles there
Not touching anything
but satin and dandelions
Not laid his eyes
on the likes of you
Because the unconnected life
is not worth living
Thorntrees overtake the spot
Hands appear to push back pain
Because no poet’s death
Can be the sole author
of another poet’s life
What will my new instrument be
Just this water glass
this untunable spoon
Something else is out there
And I want to hear it
De A. Z. Moritz
Thou poem of lost attention and half try,
do you fear more the inner world or outer?
I do not love the self less than the others,
my name is legion and my mouth one cry.
Thou poem of the unwell, of the dry well and doom,
and the snake’s on your lip, in you the toad persists.
Did we come here just to read of what exists?
I champ at my winter bit to be in bloom.
But what’s the difference between you, poem, and the flower?
Don’t both break from the compost as long as it may be?
You are the one who knows what metaphor
and imposes it. Two dandelions are not similar to me.
Thou song of all-powerful individuality,
if only I could rest in you escaping me …
You would never again be troubled by the nudity
of the mother, or the Heart Fall’s killing roar
as you slid toward it, catafalqued on the fluid
descents of a new old world, shrouded in greenwood.
Thou ignorant epic of half-knowing ever more,
thanks in thought’s ruin for reminding me.
You That I Loved
You that I loved all my life long,
you are not the one.
You that I followed, my line or path or way,
that I followed singing, and you
earth and air of the world the way went through,
and you who stood around it so it could be
the way, you forests and cities,
you deer and opossums struck by the lonely hunter
and left decaying, you paralyzed obese ones
who sat on a falling porch in a deep green holler
and observed me, your bald dog barking,
as I stumbled past in a hurry along my line,
you are not the one. But you
are the one, you that I loved all my life long,
you I still love so in my dying mind
I grasp me loving you when we are gone.
You are the one, you path or way or line
that winds beside the house where she and I live on,
still longing though long gone
for the health of all forests and cities,
and one day to visit them,
one day be rich and free enough to go and see
the restricted wonders of the earth.
And you are the one, old ladies fated from birth
to ugliness, obesity and dearth,
who sat beside my path
one day as I flashed by. And you are the one,
all tumble-down shacks in disregarded hills
and animals the car on the road kills
and leaves stinking in the sun.