And the winner is. . .

Poetry can be hard work. The writer has to take an experience or an emotion, or set of emotions, and boil it down to a few lines. Because poetry is a compressed form, there’s not a lot of room for filler. Excess words, and easy clichés, fall by the wayside as the poet tries to say exactly what he or she means in a pure, succinct and relatable form. Ideally, the reader will come across your poem and say, “Yes. I know just how that feels,” or “How interesting that this writer feels this way. I never thought of it like that.” This kind of response constitutes a success.

It is not only elbow-grease that is involved in the writing process—choosing words, manipulating aspects of the chosen form such as line breaks, rhythm, rhyme. Poetry is a right-brained activity and rises from the realm of the subconscious, from the subliminal impression, and from the world of emotions. Most of us shy away from sitting with feelings like sadness, frustration and anger for too long, yet these are often the same emotions a poet uses as raw material. While the result can be beautiful, like distilling gold from impure ore, it can be tough, emotionally, to “go there.”

The next step is even harder for some people: feeling that their writing is worth sharing, and feeling brave enough to expose vulnerabilities, “sappy” sentimentality, darkness and—yes—even weirdness. Poets can be a weird bunch. That’s alright, though. Poets help other people see that their own vulnerabilities, their darkness, their sentimentality and their weirdness in a different light. When you read a poem and say, “Yes. I know just how that feels,” you are having a shared experience between yourself and a writer, and between yourself and humanity. At the risk of sounding sappy myself, you say, “I’m okay.”

We had a poetry contest in the fall of 2007 and we got submissions from a great number of writers that are okay and more than okay. We couldn’t give prizes to every deserving contestant but we were grateful for all of the people who shared their work with Litrus and the Citrus College Community. Our contest winners helped remind all of us that poetry is alive and kicking at Citrus and among a generation that some call millenials, and that many call apathetic. This is a generation that cares about the touch of fingertips, about war and about waves. These are today’s writers.

And the winners are: “Finger Tips” by Amanda Bowser, 1st place; “War Song” by Aviram Elior, 2nd place; “Waves” by Alex Garcia, 3rd place; “A Hot Day” by Matthew Terhune, honorable mention; “Drowning Not Swimming” by Nick Bedolla, honorable mention; and “Covina” by Brittney Molina, honorable mention.

1ST PLACE

Finger Tips

By Amanda Bowser I want to follow each slender slip of your hair
and trace the path you've taken
until I end up next to you,
asleep in your secret eyes.

I want to take you inside me of,
callused guitar fingers and musician mouth,
rough and soft,
to read your face and breathe your name -

until I know the ridge on every tooth in your mouth
and I can taste the soapy clean ocean of your skin,
and grind the soft sand between us

as I pull sharply away from you -
and fall deeply into you
all at once.

2ND PLACE

WAR SONG

By Aviram Elior I'm going to disappear
for one year, in desert gardens
where bombs blossom and
heads roll off shoulders

I am going to disappear
for one year, into desert gardens
where turban clad men
with machine gun arms
drip bullets from screaming mouths

I am goign to disappear
for one year, into desert gardens
where prophets dwell undefined
by time and space, mumbling words
gathering corpses and eating flesh

I am going to disappear
for one year, into desert gardens
Away from you and your darlings
From glass houses and glass shoes
in parties and glitter blues

I am going to disappear,
Perhaps forever, perhaps
like an ice block melting in the desert sun
into the desert sand, scorching with
todays bloody mass

I am going to disappear
Against my will,
against my mind
against my soul
I am going to disappear
Like a shadow against the dark
like a shadow ripped from the light
I am going to vanish
I am going to die,
like a slave, like a black and white slave
in a prison
in a hole
in a fox hole of desert
in a pool of boiling oil
from mass market barrels
At the cheapest price

3RD PLACE

WAVES

By Alex Garcia Waves crash on the moonlit beach.
It is so close, yet out of reach.
Extend your hand, but too far,
You would much sooner reach a star.

Waves crash to errode the sand,
Leaving nothing left for me to stand.
Refreshing, replacing and taking,
The cycle continues never breaking.

As I stand there and try to reach,
Extending myself off the beach.
As I am left with nothing to stand,
And the waves still crash into the sand.

HONORABLE MENTION

A Hot Day

By Matthew Terhune The summer air has settled thick and sweet
in every pore, and drowned my sluggish thoughts.
Already weak, blood congealed by the heat,
they turned a lazy loop then fell like whiteflies
stilled by age, entombed in melted ashphalt streets
while time falls close like over-ripened fruit
left piled and rotting. Sticky mounds, wet heaps
of hours molding in the sun, and you,
the one for whom my fruit is sweet, away!

HONORABLE MENTION

Drowning, not swimming

By Nick Bedolla God, you have delivered your message
So very dull and ambiguous
We are not allowed to be living
The life we choose to live
We are just drowning, not swimming
People arive and are born into chaos
Leave into a threat of what’s to come
We’re supposed to give up our living
To follow some tedious laws
Held down to drown, instead of just swimming
God, you have denied me your message
Started speaking but decided to pause
Never specified just how I should be living
Now, I just sit here deep in sin
Inhaled the water, no longer swimming
God, take a moment to denounce me
Speak up loud and very clearly
Tell me my mistakes during my living
Hold me deep under
We are drowning, not swimming

HONORABLE MENTION

Covina

By Brittney Molina covina
he finally had come back.
after years of consideration.
he had left so long ago, with no hope or aspirations.
now he sees it all again in the town that he grew up in.
and he's trying to catch his breathe.
and hide the memories that overcome him.
and he's walking down the street.
he's familiar with the doors.
he's familiar with the pavement from having fallen drunk upon the floor.
and he's sitting in his car telling his daughter he thought he'd never return.
and she's thinking maybe this time,
he'll do better with God's words.
and he was unsure of the path that he decided to take
he had forgotten what it felt like,
to be comforted. to be safe.
and as he lay in bed that night wondering how it would be,
he realized he'd be alright,
he'd be happy,
he'd be free.