The theme of the most recent White Mice Poetry Contest\u2014Islands\u2014invokes a paradox. “No man is an island,” the Anglican divine John Donne proclaims in his Meditations<\/i>, reminding us how connected we are and must be to other people and life forms around us. Nothing can be truly separate. And yet we also long to stand apart, to find a place of escape, of solace. In the famous Simon and Garfunkle song, the narrator intones, wistful and wishful, “I am a rock, I am an island.” The poems submitted to this contest sponsored by the International Lawrence Durrell Society explored many dimensions and colorations of islands, both figurative and actual. The judges awarded joint first prizes for the first time ever.<\/p>\n
The speaker of Michael Colonnese’s “Stray Goats on a Barrier Island” views an isolated barrier island, “this inhospitable place,” as a striking home for stray goats, who manage to live with a kind of freedom. Kateri Kosek’s “Night Crossing,” by contrast, takes place in Maine and at night, offering a “how-to” approach to human survival through water transit, where “danger is colorful” yet the “silvery wings” of a night heron catch “residual light.” Kosek’s other prize-winning poem, “Storm at Sea,” begins with the microscopic then pulls back to an island, part geographic, part metaphoric, of two people enveloped by music and the flickering sounds of isolation.<\/p>\n
Katharyn Howd Machan’s “On Skyros: Grey Stone Beach” is a rhythmic sonnet set in “a hidden place, away \/ from easy path,” where “to come here all alone is to touch dream.” “Two Worlds” by John Laue contrasts the sense-awakening magic of Hawaii with the more down-to-earth yet worthwhile commitments back on the mainland. Michael Colonnese offers in “When Demolishing a Beach House on Pine Island, Michigan” an entirely different narrative: a detailed imperative about tearing out “worn linoleum,” “the last stubby pieces of pipe,” and “rotted joists” of an old beach house in the upper Midwest. The poem ends with sleep and renewal.<\/p>\n
These poems taking us north and south, east and west, inward and outward, portray islands as loci of both enchantment and isolation. That is a compelling metaphor for the human condition: our desire to be separate, calm, healing, and our need to engage the ever-changing world that washes against us with its sometimes dangerous waves.<\/p>\n
David Radavich<\/p>\n
<\/a><\/p>\n What they live on I can’t say\u2014 winds carry from the mainland or by digesting the bitter inner bark on salt-sprayed dunes, where it’s doubtful collects in broken bottles or plastic cups So I’m certain that they suffer but to wander wild in this inhospitable than two hundred yards across. some waterspout that lifted a small to miraculously deposit them More likely some tender-hearted abandoning them to hunger and thirst Michael Colonnese<\/p>\n Michael Colonnese lives in Fayettteville, NC, where he directs the Creative Writing Program at Methodist University and serves as managing editor of Longleaf Press. His most recent book is a mystery novel entitled, Sex and Death, I Suppose<\/i>.<\/p>\n <\/a><\/p>\n First of all, don’t leave much. ~<\/p>\n To bring yourself home, ~<\/p>\n Someone must hold ~<\/p>\n Near the dock, cut ~<\/p>\n When the boat Kateri Kosek<\/p>\n Kateri Kosek’s poetry and essays have appeared in Orion<\/i>, Creative Nonfiction<\/i>, Terrain.org<\/i>, Crab Orchard Review<\/i>, South Dakota Review<\/i>, Third Coast<\/i>, Rhino<\/i>, and other journals. She teaches English at Marist and Northwestern CT Community Colleges and pens a birding column for the Poughkeepsie Journal<\/i>. She holds a B.A. from Vassar and an M.F.A. from Western Connecticut State University, where she also mentors in the M.F.A. program.<\/p>\n <\/a><\/p>\n Within an atom, I hear, Kateri Kosek<\/p>\n Kateri Kosek’s poetry and essays have appeared in Orion<\/i>, Creative Nonfiction<\/i>, Terrain.org<\/i>, Crab Orchard Review<\/i>, South Dakota Review<\/i>, Third Coast<\/i>, Rhino<\/i>, and other journals. She teaches English at Marist and Northwestern CT Community Colleges and pens a birding column for the Poughkeepsie Journal<\/i>. She holds a B.A. from Vassar and an M.F.A. from Western Connecticut State University, where she also mentors in the M.F.A. program.<\/p>\n <\/a><\/p>\n for Richard Layzell<\/p>\n Lion-hearted Achilles left sadly In afternoon the light is careful here Katharyn Howd Machan<\/p>\n Katharyn Howd Machan, Professor of Writing at Ithaca College, has published poems in numerous magazines; in anthologies\/textbooks such as The Bedford Introduction to Literature<\/i>, The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2013<\/i>, Early Ripening: American Women\u2019s Poetry Now<\/i>, Literature<\/i>, Sound and Sense<\/i>, Writing Poems<\/i>; and in 32 collections, most recently H<\/i> (winner of the 2013 Gribble Press competition) and Wild Grapes: Poems of Fox<\/i> (Finishing Line Press, 2014). In 2012 she edited Adrienne Rich: A Tribute Anthology<\/i> (Split Oak Press).<\/p>\nCo-First Prize<\/h2>\n
Stray Goats on a Barrier Island<\/h3>\n
unless on sprouted thistle seeds<\/p>\n
or on rotting strings of seaweed<\/p>\n
of whatever twisted scrub survives<\/p>\n
even half enough rainwater for drinking<\/p>\n
that pleasure boaters leave.<\/p>\n
wonder how they came to be here,<\/p>\n
place\u2014a quarter-mile long and less<\/p>\n
Perhaps a hurricane marooned them\u2014<\/p>\n
scraggly herd from a lowland pasture<\/p>\n
on this stretch of salty grit.<\/p>\n
farmer ferried them out here,<\/p>\n
but imagining he’d set them free.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nCo-First Prize<\/h2>\n
Night Crossing<\/h3>\n
A quarter mile of water
\nis enough
to make the island
an island,
and they are dark
twisting roads
that lead back to water.
In Maine, a coastline
is a tattered thing,
not as obvious
as you might think.<\/p>\n
descend the plank
to the dock. The night
cool and still,
\nfog so wet
you can taste it.
Step into the stern,
let the engine down
with a heavy plunk<\/i>.
Breathe deep
of fog, get drunk
on salt. Don’t
take the last rowboat.<\/p>\n
the light, the bay
is full of buoys\u2014
you don’t want a lobster line
\ncaught in the engine.
Go slowly. Shine the light
ahead of you, sweep it
back and forth. The beams
will vanish into fog
until they hit bright green,
faded blue, striped red
or white or yellow.
Danger is colorful.
Keep the light on each one
until you are safely past it.<\/p>\n
the engine, come in
quiet. Let momentum
take you the rest of the way.
A night heron erupts
from the dock with
a harsh croak, silvery wings
catching residual light
and the quiet
buckles
\nthen softens:
take note of
the dark space,
what it takes to fill it.<\/p>\n
bumps gently against
the dock, jump out
and tie it off. Your hands
know how to wrap the rope
in a figure eight, twist it into
a loop, cinch it tight
around the metal.
That, you’ll never forget.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nThird Prize<\/h2>\n
Storm at Sea<\/h3>\n
particles may form, smaller
than quarks, so small that they
blink in and out
of existence\u2014
like when I stood late
at my upstairs window
light still on, straining
to hear your guitar
over the night\u2014
the ocean uneasy
around our island,
pulling in all ways
at once, leftover
rain\u2014
and if you turned,
whether or not
you would see me
watching there
depended on the winds,
my existence
flickering
as they moved the curtains.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nHonorable Mention<\/h2>\n
On Skyros: Grey Stone Beach<\/h3>\n
the island of unpredictable winds\u2026.<\/p>\n
to silver softly, giving this old land
a quiet way of being, calm and clear,
rocks rough and pebbles smooth to human hand.
Waves push and pull, to careful listening ear
a lullaby of hush on glistening sand,
cool comfort strong enough to calm long fear
and ask the heart to venture what’s unplanned.
To come here all alone is to touch dream
when dream needs art’s embrace; to walk with one
well loved is to discover secret gleam,
and sharing this small shore with more, the sun
sets stories free: a hidden place, away
from easy path, where Thetis whispers stay<\/i>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
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