Photo by Lois Nantais
Uproar invites writers of all genres to submit their works written in consideration of our monthly theme. Once per month the moderators will select the best submissions and publish them here. See “About Us” for submission criteria. We are limiting the number of times we will publish work by the same writer to three per
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 that reminds me of Carmen’s poetry: the partnering of nature to the human condition. Of life to life and finding a home in naming these experiences.)
2nd Prize: Renee M. Sgroi, in metamorphosis https://lawrencehouse.ca/in-metamorphosis/
(Rhonda: “in metamorphosis” clearly describes the transformative nature of spring, especially when seen through the eyes and thoughts of a poet.)
3rd Prize: Karen Kerekes, Tree of Life https://lawrencehouse.ca/tree-of-life/
(Ryan: “Tree of Life” is a captivating poem, conveying Carmen’s spirit through its harmonious nature imagery.)
Honourable Mention: Moni Brar, Morning Miracles https://lawrencehouse.ca/morning-miracles/
(Ryan: “Morning Miracles” sets a wonderful scene with its perceptive sensory details.)
Honourable Mention: Adrienne Stevenson, Re-wilding https://lawrencehouse.ca/re-wilding/
(Rhonda: “Re-wilding” demonstrates the beauty of nature gone wild in vivid detail, reminding me of how Carmen cried when the city cut down the cherry blossom trees that she loved so much!)
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;
We’re pleased to present seven selected pieces reflecting a range of departures, from dreamt to remembered to acutely felt: relationships, life cycles, memory itself. We thank everyone who submitted and look forward to future submissions. Click on the link to go directly to the following poems: Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews, “Leaving” https://lawrencehouse.ca/leaving/ Joseph a farina,
Leaving We are so much like the trees. We mistake their stasis for imprisonment. Our mobility for freedom. But we too are deeply rooted. Bound in place. Conglomerates of electrons. Atoms spinning ghost-like Within the predetermined orbits Of our hearts’ metaphysics. On the door of my house There are no metal bars. Unlike the trees,
departures in the rain almost broke down almost spoke your name she was on the cross town bus wearing her hair like yours stopped at erie and ouelette as i walked by one misted night in windsor under a winter rain— she was sitting by the window half obscured by condensation her breath visible like
In Memory of My Memory Okay, so this happened on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Wait… Was it Monday? What day is it? It was Sunday. Yes, it was Sunday because Sunday means I get to drive up north and say hi to the maple trees. I like trees. They are nice neighbours. They are always standing
My Father’s City Reminiscing about growing up in the west end of the city, he never took me there. Cables of streetcar avenues sparked as whales on tracks passed by and made each building shudder, There on a rainy night, lights reflecting on the sidewalks, and the stores that once led different lives, a theatre
Within this husk dwells a timeless essence. Trapped within Einstein’s monstrosity, bonded to his time/space milieu, pulled toward an untimely end. Trapped with eyes that do not close. Forced to watch intimate familiars thrash against the force of time’s relentless current, pushing this form through space’s infinitude. Time is no friend, stealing your youth. Leaving
Anthropic Principles – the universe appears as it does because if it were different we would not be here to observe it – Random House Word Menu. I fail to see you, your sun dog’s counterglow blurs my horizon the chaos that is mine bends the light curvatures of time blue shifts into tears, orbiting
Ordinarily the lightest of sounds Woke him: A car turning the corner Half a mile away; A cat racing across the lawn; A silent scream from Somebody else’s nightmare. But that night of all nights he didn’t stir, Didn’t roll over in a last ditch effort to Escape the disturbance, As if that’s all it
Aanii! Boozhoo! A welcoming salutation to strangers whose long sojourn by jiimaan , driven by billowing clouds, has brought them to our shores. Come, rest upon our mats, shelter yourselves in our lodges, renew your strength with food, quench your thirst with clear, pure water. Creator’s gifts are yours as well. No! Not ours as
Dear Friends, What to be made of situations like these, With precedence most refused to see? When righteous anger now takes place. Where were you when wolves (viewed as sheep) were crying for wolves? Why is it we get acknowledgement now – when their bodies are no longer even cold? How to reconcile from this
Deciduous 2020 In North Hollow we know it usually happens this way. September meanders. A solitary maple in Hubbard’s meadow transforms red before we detect any changes in the canopies hovering the Hollow’s dirt roads. The air chills. In creeps October. Kaleidoscopic colors stain the Hollow’s sky while the maple in the meadow taunts us,
The World is On Fire It’s Hotter Than It’s Ever Been British Columbia’s forests are ablaze burning centuries of growth killing innocent animals threatens the communities the very fabric of the civilization that produced the pollution and caused the greenhouse gases which raised the temperature of our planet. The wind blows plumes of acrid smoke
Atmospheric Pressure Let forgiveness come in like breath I did not mean to draw. Let it flow, propelled by the pressure of the entire atmosphere being greater than that of my own lungs. Let forgiveness draw into me by force, thrust and crammed in like a deep, satisfying breath like a yawn mid-sentence that you
They say there was a time when the weather was always good and no one got sick. Animals were strong and plentiful. Was it so because they believed it? They say white man’s magic is stronger than Inuit magic. They say the animals no longer have power. They say the shamans have gone, have spirit
To my exes and estranged, yet to budge from a grudge – to those who are absent to those who resent, to those who are distant with distaste: I would like to invite you to tea forty years from now when we are old, wrinkled and wringed out by the world by those things that
(for MT) You teased, when we were girls, That my love of books and daily mass Over boys meant that I must Like girls. And I despaired for my baby soul For a week; Begged my bemused pastor For forgiveness; Tried holy water to rinse The wrongness away, Til I begrudged you The joke. Someone,
https://youtu.be/DAP59RPZoMg *Shorter version: https://youtu.be/iZ1Q9J4EBIw *Written in honour of the many children who never returned home from residential schools in Canada. “it was the land” by pj johnson Poet Laureate of the Yukon. it was the land no one knew the evil men could do behind closed doors no one spoke of it no one said
Look It Up They were always there the rumors, the stories Look it up Hundreds, no Thousands of children choices expunged, futures erased Look it up thousands of children who never came home dying alone and afraid at the hands of their protectors The ones who came to save their souls Look it up They
That Which Is Not Said By Chitra Gopalakrishnan 977 words, fiction, original and unpublished Akhila, a midwife, in her small village of Pugalur in Tamil Nadu, knows of the promiscuity of making, animated, animalistic, noisy, agonizing and even violent sometimes as it is, just as she knows of the assaults of unmaking, of its unspeakable
I Won’t Tell You Where This Place Is You’re on the logging road, extracting here from where. The dump’s a steam table for the bears, all-inclusive heads below the sneeze guards. The snowploughs are berthed in the works department yard, overgrown monkey bars hard by are a tetanus factory. Here a field with wooden crosses