ONLY poems listed here or in the current printed anthology are eligible for the 2017-2018 competition.
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— ...
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,...
It was a picture I had after the war.
A bombed English church. I was too young
to know the word English or war, ...
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped—In vain, vain, vain! ...
“I am playing my oldest tunes,” declared she,
“All the old tunes I know,—
Those I learnt ever so long ago.”...
Dumped wet and momentary on a dull ground
that’s been clear but clearly sleeping, for days.
Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light...
Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things...
Before the moths have even appeared
to orbit around them, the streetlamps come on,
a long row of them glowing uselessly...
Do nothing and everything will be done,
that's what Mr. Lao Tzu said, who walked
around talking 2,500 years ago and ...
I don’t say things I don’t want to say
or chew the fat with fat cats just because.
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