ONLY poems listed here or in the current printed anthology are eligible for the 2017-2018 competition.
Retired ballerinas on winter afternoons
walking their dogs
in Central Park West...
I acknowledge my status as a stranger:
Inappropriate clothes, odd habits
Out of sync with wasp and wren. ...
Hardly a ghost left to talk with. The slavs moved on
or changed their names to something green. Greeks gave up
old dishes and slid into repose. Runs of salmon thin ...
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood...
The river stones are listening
because we have something to say.
The trees lean closer today....
To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed,
Scented and warm against my beating breast;
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;...
as if at its center,
god would be there—...
What I want most is what I deeply fear:
loss of self; yet here I stand, a “memsahib,”
all decked out in wonder, and still a stranger...
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