2022 POETRY CONTEST
Congratulations to our 2022 Winners!
suckerfish
mutualist
By Alan Bern
when I ride our Devil Ray
with a Remora partner
down we travel our suction
increasing as we descend
what a fabulous spinplunge
down beside rocky Sea Mounts
unlike those skyview dreamtrips
this view is open water
and when we reach bottomshelf
and the fishing for plankton
is finished up from the cold
our Devil Ray travels quick
to embrace the surface warmth
again float atop even
jump up and out full pregnant
with a pup rippling under
her skin ready to be born
we hold on for future tours
we fit so well here side-
by-side to our Devil Ray’s
amazed and ample face
Bio: Retired children’s librarian Alan Bern has published three books of poems. He is also a published/exhibited photographer and is the cofounder with artist/printer Robert Woods of the press/publisher Lines & Faces, linesandfaces.com. Among recent awards: honorable mention for Littoral Press Poetry Prize (2021); first runner-up for Raw Art Review’s Mirabai Prize for Poetry (2020); and a medal in 2019 from SouthWest Writers for a WWII story. Recent/upcoming writing and photo work in HAUNTED WATERS PRESS, Aletheia Literary Quarterly, CERASUS, Mediterranean Poetry, Slouching Beast Journal, Feral, and Mercurius. Alan performs with dancer/choreographer Lucinda Weaver as PACES and with musicians from composingtogether.org.
mutualist
By Alan Bern
when I ride our Devil Ray
with a Remora partner
down we travel our suction
increasing as we descend
what a fabulous spinplunge
down beside rocky Sea Mounts
unlike those skyview dreamtrips
this view is open water
and when we reach bottomshelf
and the fishing for plankton
is finished up from the cold
our Devil Ray travels quick
to embrace the surface warmth
again float atop even
jump up and out full pregnant
with a pup rippling under
her skin ready to be born
we hold on for future tours
we fit so well here side-
by-side to our Devil Ray’s
amazed and ample face
Bio: Retired children’s librarian Alan Bern has published three books of poems. He is also a published/exhibited photographer and is the cofounder with artist/printer Robert Woods of the press/publisher Lines & Faces, linesandfaces.com. Among recent awards: honorable mention for Littoral Press Poetry Prize (2021); first runner-up for Raw Art Review’s Mirabai Prize for Poetry (2020); and a medal in 2019 from SouthWest Writers for a WWII story. Recent/upcoming writing and photo work in HAUNTED WATERS PRESS, Aletheia Literary Quarterly, CERASUS, Mediterranean Poetry, Slouching Beast Journal, Feral, and Mercurius. Alan performs with dancer/choreographer Lucinda Weaver as PACES and with musicians from composingtogether.org.
Metaba Uti
(Hot Country)
By Robert Clark
Numa afa ma chuco lico intela
(The afternoon sky is black and gray.)
Pufi leta aqe epata ma pia
(A fox smells the humid air)
ta chua bueta niocotela
(and runs to his hole.)
Numama elama cametela
(The sky swallows the sun.)
Ibine uti chucuma ibisotela
(Water anoints the Earth.)
Metaba uti atafi oso caqua intela
(Sweet old hot country is here.)
Ahanaye leta huquino afa ma bueta samotela
(An oak bathes in the afternoon rain.)
Chulufi leta yapicolo leta chicolota piquitela
(A bird hides underneath a palm frond.)
Nubala leta milicoma ocototela
(A lake hears the lightning.)
Napolama cache leta ofueno nihitela
(The thunderstorm dies after an hour.)
Elama pilutela
(The sun returns.)
Salobacare saloba uque arecoeqetabotela
(Bees diligently make honey.)
Itori leta Utina cuyucare bueta ituquamantela
(An alligator thanks God for fish.)
Metaba uti atafi oso caqua intela
(Sweet old hot country is here.)
Bio: Robert Clark is from Paterson, New Jersey. He has a B.A. in English from Rollins College. His first lesson in the Timucua language was at six years old from his great grandmother. He learned three words in that lesson: iti (father) and iquini (mother), and iso (mother). This language is a part of him. He encourages anyone who would like to learn more about one of Florida's beautiful original languages to go to: https://hebuano.wordpress.com
(Hot Country)
By Robert Clark
Numa afa ma chuco lico intela
(The afternoon sky is black and gray.)
Pufi leta aqe epata ma pia
(A fox smells the humid air)
ta chua bueta niocotela
(and runs to his hole.)
Numama elama cametela
(The sky swallows the sun.)
Ibine uti chucuma ibisotela
(Water anoints the Earth.)
Metaba uti atafi oso caqua intela
(Sweet old hot country is here.)
Ahanaye leta huquino afa ma bueta samotela
(An oak bathes in the afternoon rain.)
Chulufi leta yapicolo leta chicolota piquitela
(A bird hides underneath a palm frond.)
Nubala leta milicoma ocototela
(A lake hears the lightning.)
Napolama cache leta ofueno nihitela
(The thunderstorm dies after an hour.)
Elama pilutela
(The sun returns.)
Salobacare saloba uque arecoeqetabotela
(Bees diligently make honey.)
Itori leta Utina cuyucare bueta ituquamantela
(An alligator thanks God for fish.)
Metaba uti atafi oso caqua intela
(Sweet old hot country is here.)
Bio: Robert Clark is from Paterson, New Jersey. He has a B.A. in English from Rollins College. His first lesson in the Timucua language was at six years old from his great grandmother. He learned three words in that lesson: iti (father) and iquini (mother), and iso (mother). This language is a part of him. He encourages anyone who would like to learn more about one of Florida's beautiful original languages to go to: https://hebuano.wordpress.com
Full Moon Over Duck Key
By Joe Dahut
Tarpon roll under the moon, so as to say
they are happy, hungry, unbothered
by my watching from the old fishing pier.
One breaks its back over the bank
into sharp moonlight. A silver eclipse
against the black, hot tide; pregnant with life.
Tonight, there is little that bores me.
The sargassum stench in low tide’s exposure,
a candle flame’s fight against the wet air,
a starlit sky untouched by the clouds.
I should admit that even under this beauty -
this quiet breeze, this clear sky, this bouquet of life,
I write from a place of deep sadness.
You are far from any tarpon, any ocean,
any piece of me still in your air.
I do not miss the nights
we shared a full moon.
I just think of you, is all.
Bio: Joe Dahut is a poet and essayist living and writing in the Florida Keys. He earned his MFA in Poetry from New York University, where he taught creative writing. Joe's work can be read in The Drake, The FlyFish Journal, Clade Song, and Little Patuxent Review, among others.
By Joe Dahut
Tarpon roll under the moon, so as to say
they are happy, hungry, unbothered
by my watching from the old fishing pier.
One breaks its back over the bank
into sharp moonlight. A silver eclipse
against the black, hot tide; pregnant with life.
Tonight, there is little that bores me.
The sargassum stench in low tide’s exposure,
a candle flame’s fight against the wet air,
a starlit sky untouched by the clouds.
I should admit that even under this beauty -
this quiet breeze, this clear sky, this bouquet of life,
I write from a place of deep sadness.
You are far from any tarpon, any ocean,
any piece of me still in your air.
I do not miss the nights
we shared a full moon.
I just think of you, is all.
Bio: Joe Dahut is a poet and essayist living and writing in the Florida Keys. He earned his MFA in Poetry from New York University, where he taught creative writing. Joe's work can be read in The Drake, The FlyFish Journal, Clade Song, and Little Patuxent Review, among others.
Paynes Prairie
By Alex Gurtis
Do you remember back in college, when we saw
a herd of bison just south of Gainesville?
Bison!
In Florida!
After being hunted into extinction,
they were reintroduced
to Paynes Prairie in 1975.
That day tall grass bent in the wind
before a horizon of paintbrushes
dripping with water along dirt trails.
12-foot gators paid us no heed
as we tip toed by their midday naps.
In the distance, a herd of wild stallions
paraded through the marsh, brushing aside
gator, snake, and all manner of creature
that thought themselves atop the food chain.
That ground, once dressed in coral
and known as an ocean bed
then a grassland that gave birth to a lake.
Once a lake, then hollowed by a sinkhole,
today half grassland, half marsh.
Students search nearby streams for fossils,
calcium memories with the knowledge
of how to swim.
That afternoon, we watched the bison gird themselves
for the journey across alligator alley.
The calves moaned in anticipation.
Unwilling to nap when food was near,
the gators woke, lumbering into the water.
No meals that day. Alpha bison guarded the herd, trapping
us by the crumbling watchtower.
They flooded the trail, building up
into a rising wave of fur and momentum.
When the ocean inevitably comes again,
who will guard us from the horns?
Bio: Maryland born but Florida bred, Alex is a poet and journalist based in Orlando. His work has appeared in W&S Quarterly, EcoTheo Review, Rejection Letters, and others. Alex is a MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida and currently serves as the reviews editor for HASH.
By Alex Gurtis
Do you remember back in college, when we saw
a herd of bison just south of Gainesville?
Bison!
In Florida!
After being hunted into extinction,
they were reintroduced
to Paynes Prairie in 1975.
That day tall grass bent in the wind
before a horizon of paintbrushes
dripping with water along dirt trails.
12-foot gators paid us no heed
as we tip toed by their midday naps.
In the distance, a herd of wild stallions
paraded through the marsh, brushing aside
gator, snake, and all manner of creature
that thought themselves atop the food chain.
That ground, once dressed in coral
and known as an ocean bed
then a grassland that gave birth to a lake.
Once a lake, then hollowed by a sinkhole,
today half grassland, half marsh.
Students search nearby streams for fossils,
calcium memories with the knowledge
of how to swim.
That afternoon, we watched the bison gird themselves
for the journey across alligator alley.
The calves moaned in anticipation.
Unwilling to nap when food was near,
the gators woke, lumbering into the water.
No meals that day. Alpha bison guarded the herd, trapping
us by the crumbling watchtower.
They flooded the trail, building up
into a rising wave of fur and momentum.
When the ocean inevitably comes again,
who will guard us from the horns?
Bio: Maryland born but Florida bred, Alex is a poet and journalist based in Orlando. His work has appeared in W&S Quarterly, EcoTheo Review, Rejection Letters, and others. Alex is a MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida and currently serves as the reviews editor for HASH.
Mourning Until Morning
By Lauren Johnson
Scattered early-risers
wait.
Off-shore, waves curl
in liquid wood shavings.
A dead jellyfish
slumbers on the liminal sand
between the groaning ocean
and dry land.
I carve through the heavy water.
It rises around my legs --
a Shakespearean collar --
then collapses.
Mixed with cream-colored shells
lie the carcasses of crabs
killed in stormy swells,
no funeral.
My little brother runs,
sending offended seagulls
soaring over the shifting sea,
gray avian silhouettes.
The earth repents
turns to face the sun
darkness fades
light invades.
Off-shore, clouds bow
under the gravity of glory
as scattered early-risers
behold.
Bio: Lauren Johnson resides in Orlando, Florida with her family and her energetic dog Coco. Her poetry has appeared in Living Waters Review and The Fourth River, and is forthcoming in The Tiny Journal. When she is not writing, she enjoys reading retold myths, taking scenic walks, conversing with friends, contemplating the meaning of the universe, and baking bread. Her favorite Florida beaches are Cocoa Beach, where she learned to surf, and Daytona Beach, where she wrote this poem one storm-tossed morning.
By Lauren Johnson
Scattered early-risers
wait.
Off-shore, waves curl
in liquid wood shavings.
A dead jellyfish
slumbers on the liminal sand
between the groaning ocean
and dry land.
I carve through the heavy water.
It rises around my legs --
a Shakespearean collar --
then collapses.
Mixed with cream-colored shells
lie the carcasses of crabs
killed in stormy swells,
no funeral.
My little brother runs,
sending offended seagulls
soaring over the shifting sea,
gray avian silhouettes.
The earth repents
turns to face the sun
darkness fades
light invades.
Off-shore, clouds bow
under the gravity of glory
as scattered early-risers
behold.
Bio: Lauren Johnson resides in Orlando, Florida with her family and her energetic dog Coco. Her poetry has appeared in Living Waters Review and The Fourth River, and is forthcoming in The Tiny Journal. When she is not writing, she enjoys reading retold myths, taking scenic walks, conversing with friends, contemplating the meaning of the universe, and baking bread. Her favorite Florida beaches are Cocoa Beach, where she learned to surf, and Daytona Beach, where she wrote this poem one storm-tossed morning.
Miami
By Ayesha Raees
Bio: Ayesha Raees عائشہ رئیس identifies herself as a hybrid creating hybrid poetry through hybrid forms. Her work strongly revolves around issues of race and identity, G/god and displacement, and mental illness while possessing a strong agency for accessibility, community, and change. Raees currently serves as an Assistant Poetry Editor at AAWW's The Margins and has received fellowships from Asian American Writers' Workshop, Brooklyn Poets, and Kundiman. Her debut chapbook “Coining A Wishing Tower” won the Broken River Prize, judged by Kaveh Akbar, and is published by Platypus Press. From Lahore, Pakistan, Raees currently shifts around Lahore, New York City, and Miami.
By Ayesha Raees
Bio: Ayesha Raees عائشہ رئیس identifies herself as a hybrid creating hybrid poetry through hybrid forms. Her work strongly revolves around issues of race and identity, G/god and displacement, and mental illness while possessing a strong agency for accessibility, community, and change. Raees currently serves as an Assistant Poetry Editor at AAWW's The Margins and has received fellowships from Asian American Writers' Workshop, Brooklyn Poets, and Kundiman. Her debut chapbook “Coining A Wishing Tower” won the Broken River Prize, judged by Kaveh Akbar, and is published by Platypus Press. From Lahore, Pakistan, Raees currently shifts around Lahore, New York City, and Miami.
Golden Sunshine
By Madeline Riley
Glistening, tan, black, white shells,
blistered soles tiptoe along their backs.
Salty, crisp mist gently caressing
naked shoulders and masks ablaze.
Incandescent, white light engulfing
your entirety, inundating every inch.
Pine needles whistle past wobbling fawns,
as they dart from the canopies above.
Iridescent springs, colder than ice,
tranquilly usher paunchy gray bodies
back to the boundless Gulf.
Whetted stinging spires, the razors-edge from the zig,
not the zag of palmetto daggers.
Bright, acidic juice dripping from cracked lips.
Leathered hides of ghosts from summers past.
21.5 million diverging thoughts and ideas,
swirling around this state dripping in golden sunshine.
Bio: Madeline was born and raised in Arkansas, nicknamed the ‘Natural State.’ Through her outdoor-centric upbringing, she fostered a deep passion for all aspects of nature, ranging from the Ozark Mountains to the Buffalo River and the thousands of species that speckle the lands between. She moved to Florida to pursue higher education, earning her bachelor’s degree in Environmental Policy, while also studying coastal geology and political science. Currently, at USF researching for her master's degree in Food Security and Sustainability and Climate Change Mitigation, Madeline hopes to gain knowledge to safeguard natural spaces for generations to come.
By Madeline Riley
Glistening, tan, black, white shells,
blistered soles tiptoe along their backs.
Salty, crisp mist gently caressing
naked shoulders and masks ablaze.
Incandescent, white light engulfing
your entirety, inundating every inch.
Pine needles whistle past wobbling fawns,
as they dart from the canopies above.
Iridescent springs, colder than ice,
tranquilly usher paunchy gray bodies
back to the boundless Gulf.
Whetted stinging spires, the razors-edge from the zig,
not the zag of palmetto daggers.
Bright, acidic juice dripping from cracked lips.
Leathered hides of ghosts from summers past.
21.5 million diverging thoughts and ideas,
swirling around this state dripping in golden sunshine.
Bio: Madeline was born and raised in Arkansas, nicknamed the ‘Natural State.’ Through her outdoor-centric upbringing, she fostered a deep passion for all aspects of nature, ranging from the Ozark Mountains to the Buffalo River and the thousands of species that speckle the lands between. She moved to Florida to pursue higher education, earning her bachelor’s degree in Environmental Policy, while also studying coastal geology and political science. Currently, at USF researching for her master's degree in Food Security and Sustainability and Climate Change Mitigation, Madeline hopes to gain knowledge to safeguard natural spaces for generations to come.
Incarnation
By John Eric Vona
I’m looking for questions among trees
that stand like exclamation marks,
among these public park cypress
that fantasize about being a forest.
I wander from hammock to wetland,
boardwalk to canopy – past cell phone conversations
pretending to be nature hikes, past the joggers
and the black racers that scare the joggers –
until I find an unmarked trail
and wander to a clearing.
Finally, I cannot hear people.
Finally, I can hear the trees sway.
And for no reason at all, I recall that my wife
would like to be reincarnated as a grizzly bear –
her love of sleep and sushi transforming her
into a creature that hibernates and eats raw salmon.
The other night over nigiri she asked me,
What animal would you come back as?
sensing some inequality in our
encyclopedias of each other.
I responded, a male grizzly bear.
Maybe as a bird, I could at last appreciate
the silent sway of the trees,
but I’m afraid of heights.
My desire for solitude, makes me think:
Lone Wolf, but I think I lack certain predatory instincts,
and somehow, this seems more emo an answer than cat.
I’ve always admired dogs’
ability to not give a shit,
but I’m not one for leashes.
I like mushrooms, but truffle pig
seems a dumb answer.
I briefly consider aquatic creatures.
Perhaps a squirrel.
I can stroll through the whole child’s
alphabet of zoo animals
and find only my own phobias,
my hesitations, my doubts.
So, you be a bear, standing like an answer in the river,
and I’ll be the question, swaying like an unbothered tree.
Bio: John Eric Vona teaches writing at Steinbrenner High School where he is the faculty advisor to The Echo Art & Lit Mag. His fiction can be found around the web, and he contributes to Slate Magazine's Ask a Teacher advice column. Between writing daily and raising five kids, he enjoys gardening and guerrilla-planting trees with his absolutely perfect wife, Emily, whom the poem is about and for.
By John Eric Vona
I’m looking for questions among trees
that stand like exclamation marks,
among these public park cypress
that fantasize about being a forest.
I wander from hammock to wetland,
boardwalk to canopy – past cell phone conversations
pretending to be nature hikes, past the joggers
and the black racers that scare the joggers –
until I find an unmarked trail
and wander to a clearing.
Finally, I cannot hear people.
Finally, I can hear the trees sway.
And for no reason at all, I recall that my wife
would like to be reincarnated as a grizzly bear –
her love of sleep and sushi transforming her
into a creature that hibernates and eats raw salmon.
The other night over nigiri she asked me,
What animal would you come back as?
sensing some inequality in our
encyclopedias of each other.
I responded, a male grizzly bear.
Maybe as a bird, I could at last appreciate
the silent sway of the trees,
but I’m afraid of heights.
My desire for solitude, makes me think:
Lone Wolf, but I think I lack certain predatory instincts,
and somehow, this seems more emo an answer than cat.
I’ve always admired dogs’
ability to not give a shit,
but I’m not one for leashes.
I like mushrooms, but truffle pig
seems a dumb answer.
I briefly consider aquatic creatures.
Perhaps a squirrel.
I can stroll through the whole child’s
alphabet of zoo animals
and find only my own phobias,
my hesitations, my doubts.
So, you be a bear, standing like an answer in the river,
and I’ll be the question, swaying like an unbothered tree.
Bio: John Eric Vona teaches writing at Steinbrenner High School where he is the faculty advisor to The Echo Art & Lit Mag. His fiction can be found around the web, and he contributes to Slate Magazine's Ask a Teacher advice column. Between writing daily and raising five kids, he enjoys gardening and guerrilla-planting trees with his absolutely perfect wife, Emily, whom the poem is about and for.
Submissions are now closed for 2022.
Saw Palm: Florida Literature & Art in collaboration with the USF Botanical Gardens are seeking poetry submissions for our Spring 2022 Poetry Contest on Floridian flora and fauna. Send us your original poetry navigating the great expanse of Florida nature, from our sandy terrain to our natural springs, our humid swamps to our vast skies of sunshine.
Winners will be published on sawpalm.org and receive a free one-year membership to the USF Botanical Gardens, along with publication in their Shade Gardens.
Saw Palm: Florida Literature & Art in collaboration with the USF Botanical Gardens are seeking poetry submissions for our Spring 2022 Poetry Contest on Floridian flora and fauna. Send us your original poetry navigating the great expanse of Florida nature, from our sandy terrain to our natural springs, our humid swamps to our vast skies of sunshine.
Winners will be published on sawpalm.org and receive a free one-year membership to the USF Botanical Gardens, along with publication in their Shade Gardens.
