My nisei mother wept the moment Her mother’s soul winged In West Hiroshima from her body. Who knows the circuitry Of dream-time, Stitchery of omens, Coordinates of a dream-province, Secret topography of wishes and fears? This is the planetary skin Easily cut, easily abraded: A half-crucifixion in the dark.
Short story winner: Dru Richman for “The Rite.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/the-rite/ Poetry winners: Richard Oyama for “Inscape.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/inscape/ Sherre Vernon for “Late Spring Rites of the Middle-Aged Apostate.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/late-spring-rites-of-the-middle-aged-apostate/ Perry Wyatt for “The Path.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/the-path/ Dr. Ronja Vieth for “Mother of Pearl.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/mother-of-pearl/ Joseph Farina for “ritual of fire.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/ritual-of-fire/ Jenna Scott for “transition.” https://lawrencehouse.ca/transition/
Winning Entries Short Story Winner The Rite By Dru Richman The Rite The twelve-year-old boys and girls sat on the ground in a semi-circle with their fathers sitting behind them, facing the king. The king was seated on the royal throne in full regalia — leopard-skin cape, lion-tooth necklace, golden bracelets encrusted with jewels
“None of us understand what we’re doing, but we do beautiful things anyway.” ― Allen Ginsberg The beat generation changed the world in their honest attempt at expressing their lived experiences. For August’s First Friday, August 5 from 6:00 – 8:00 pm, please join us in the courtyard of the Lawrence House for a sign-up
We’re delighted to present the three winning poems plus two honourable mentions. Our three judges (Lois Nantais, Rhonda Melanson, and Ryan Gibbs) have provided brief comments about each. Click on the link to go directly to the poem. 1st Prize: Tanya Jane MacIntyre, Conceive of a Circle https://lawrencehouse.ca/7030-2/ (Lois: There is a sensory intimacy to this poem
letting trees grow unchecked runs counter to our quest for order weeds in front lawns meet disapproval and pink work-orders from city council prodded by offended neighbours the weed-and-feed crowd, who stroll past our wilderness, noses pointed skywards, unobservant of the inhabitants of our park easier to love our yard in summer when all visible
slender moon spills milk at mother’s feet as peacocks’ rustle settles into silence yesterday’s mandarin sun swung low and lush lingers on earthen floor offers tender warmth jasmine scent casts a spell on those asleep mouths open like half blooms mother throws handfuls of grain to rooftop skirmish of feathers and vibrant plumes daybreak crouches
a tree is planted humble and graceful it stands, boughs stretch upwards as roots grasp earth’s rich, dark soil the eternal foothold that breathes new life awakening buds blossom eager to bask beneath sunlight’s warm rays and misty morning showers slender limbs unfold into nature’s sanctuary where squirrels scurry and bird’s nest among weathered,
the Buddha says everything changes: spring light widens into evening, snow falls, melts, falls again, a caterpillar chews through leaves, becomes sole occupant of chrysalis as if taking back misspoken words, transforming curses from turgid grubs into yellow-dotted fritillary fleetness in metamorphosis, speech opens, thoughts are butterflied, and eye and silent tongue in mouth
In the palm of my hand, I hold seeds: vervain, hyssop, bergamot, vetiver, elegant signatures in ink, as yet invisible. I take every care as they grow, every gentleness, moving them to slowly larger pots. From the beginning, each are distinct, each particular in its gesture, pattern, order, color; each scent, its own elusive landscape;