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Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, 18th year, free to Mid-Atlantic poets, cash, beer, book plus weekend at Inn, opens May 15, 2020

SUBMISSION PERIOD FOR THE EIGHTEENTH ANNUAL DOGFISH HEAD POETRY PRIZE OPENS MAY 15, 2020!  Submission Guidelines  The eighteenth annual Dogfish Head Poetry Prize for the winning book-length manuscript by a poet residing in the Mid-Atlantic states (DE, MD, VA, PA, NJ, NY, WVA, NC, and District of Columbia) will consist of $500, two cases of Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Beer*, manuscript publication by Broadkill River Press, and 10 copies of the book (in lieu of royalties).  The rules are: Manuscripts must be received by midnight, August 15, 2020.  Manuscripts received after the closing date will not be considered.  Eligible poets must reside in the above-listed states and be twenty-one years of age by the date of the award.*  The manuscript is to be submitted electronically in one MS Word document attachment.  Send to Prize coordinator Linda Blaskey at [email protected].  Snail mail submissions will not be accepted.  Two title pages are to be included in the one document submission: the first with the title of the manuscript, author’s name, address, phone numbers, and e-mail address; the second with just the manuscript title.   No manuscript is to have any author-identifying information other than the one title page and will be rejected if it does. Judging is blind and double-tiered. The manuscript must be book-length (between 48 and 78 pages of original work – no translations) and no more than roughly thirty lines to a page, including the poem’s title and two line-spaces between the title and the body of the poem.  A poem may be more than one page. One submission per entrant.  There is no entry fee. This year’s final judge is Edgar Kunz. The award will be presented to the winner on Saturday evening, December 12, 2020, at the Dogfish Inn in Lewes, Delaware.  The winner must agree to attend this event and to read from their winning book at a reception honoring the winner.  The prize will be officially awarded by Sam Calagione, Founder and CEO of Dogfish Head Craft Brewery and Distillery, or by another company official. The author of the winning manuscript also agrees to provide, within ten days of notification, a color head-shot photograph, with photographer’s credit, for the back cover, and a dedication page for the interior of the book. Also, an acknowledgment page of poems previously published, and in which publications and/or websites they appeared will need to be provided. The winner agrees to travel to Delaware at the winner’s expense for awarding of the prize.   Dogfish Head will provide the winner two nights lodging at the Dogfish Inn in the beach resort town of Lewes, Delaware. Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Ales retains the right to use any of the winning work in promotional materials. 

Co-workers of Dogfish Head and their families are ineligible to enter.  Previous winners of the prize are ineligible to enter. For questions and more information contact Linda Blaskey, Prize coordinator, at [email protected]

or at [email protected]

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17th Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, weekend at Inn, free beer, cash, publication. Free to enter. Mid-Atlantic poets. Bring the heat!

SUBMISSION PERIOD FOR THE

SEVENTEENTH ANNUAL DOGFISH HEAD POETRY PRIZE OPENS MAY 15, 2019!

Submission Guidelines

The seventeenth annual Dogfish Head Poetry Prize for the winning book-length manuscript by a poet residing in the Mid-Atlantic states (DE, MD, VA, PA, NJ, NY, WVA, NC and District of Columbia) will consist of $500, two cases of Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Beer*, manuscript publication by Broadkill River Press, and 10 copies of the book (in lieu of royalties).

The rules are: Manuscripts must be received by midnight, August 15, 2019.  Manuscripts received after the closing date will not be considered. Eligible poets must reside in the above listed states and be twenty-one years of age by the date of the award. *  The manuscript is to be submitted electronically in one MS Word document attachment.  Send to Prize coordinator Linda Blaskey at [email protected].  Snail mail submissions will not be accepted.

Two title pages are to be included with each submission: the first with the title of the manuscript, author’s name, address, phone numbers and e-mail address; the second with just the manuscript title.   No manuscript is to have any author-identifying information other than the one title page and will be rejected if it does. Judging is blind and double-tiered. The manuscript must be book-length (between 48 and 78 pages of original work – no translations) and no more than roughly thirty lines to a page, including the poem’s title and two line-spaces between the title and the body of the poem.  A poem may be more than one page. One submission per entrant. There is no entry fee.

This year’s final judge will be Joseph Millar.

The award will be presented to the winner on Saturday evening, December 14, 2019 at the Dogfish Inn in Lewes, Delaware.  The winner must agree to attend this event and to read from their winning book at a reception honoring the winner. The prize will be officially awarded by Sam Calagione, Founder and CEO of Dogfish Head Craft Brewery and Distillery, or by another company official.

The author of the winning manuscript also agrees to provide, within ten days of notification, a color head-shot photograph, with photographer’s credit, for the back cover and a dedication page for the interior of the book. Also, an acknowledgment page of poems previously published, and in which publications and/or websites they appeared will need to be provided. The winner agrees to travel to Delaware at the winner’s expense for awarding of the prize.   Dogfish Head will provide the winner two nights lodging at the Dogfish Inn in the beach resort town of Lewes, Delaware.

Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Ales retains the right to use any of the winning work in promotional materials.

Co-workers of Dogfish Head and their families are ineligible to enter.  Previous winners of the prize are ineligible to enter.

For questions and more information contact Linda Blaskey, Prize coordinator, at [email protected]

or at [email protected]

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Robert Verdun's "Windfall", from the archive, National Poetry Month

Robert Verdon has been writing for over forty years. He belonged to Aberrant Genotype Press in Canberra from  1998-2002. He was highly commended in the 2012 erbacce Prize, UK. His books include The Well-Scrubbed Desert (1994), Her Brilliant Career (1998), & Before we Knew this Century (2010).

Windfall

water-lacquered

leaves

glow through

a matchstick blind,

spangled with winter sun,

the ripe decades fall like cherries

the black beaks bayonet them,

thorns skewer berries not thrones,

the stone in the shoe of the new century,

shudders will spring to the scalp

as the child starves on charity crumbs

and the rill grounds down the alp.

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Shannon Connor Winward's "Sunny-Side", from the archives, National Poetry Month

Shannon Connor Winward’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pseudopod, Gargoyle, Pedestal Magazine, Star*Line, Strange Horizons, Literary Mama, and Flash Fiction Online, among others.  Her fiction placed in the semi-finals of the Writers of the Future Contest, and as runner-up for an Emerging Artist Fellowship in Literature by the Delaware Division of the Arts in 2014 and 2015.  Her poetry chapbook, Undoing Winter (Finishing Line Press, 2014) was nominated for an Elgin Award.

SUNNY-SIDE

I want to tell you that home fries and scrapple

are not love

that even this division of eggs

with a single fork

bursting the sun to sop up in turns

in the midst of dissertation

is just approximation,

but my mouth is full.

You top off my thoughts with a splash of cream

and anticipate my need for toast

but do not presume you know my heart.

These tears drying on my cheeks are just a function

of the warm November morning

this smile a natural progression

of Friday

inking through the windows.

And though I smear the ketchup with abandon

obscuring the line between your half of the plate

and mine

it is not a symptom of attraction, it is merely

hunger.

I will have to remind you

that the brush of my knees under the table

is accidental. As you pause for breath I am only

reaching for a napkin,

losing my balance

in the blue of your eyes. And yes, I notice

how much darker they are when you are happy

but it is only because

my mind is clearer in the morning

over breakfast.

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Lyn Lifshin's "The Mad Girl Dreams of Those Dawns in Morocco", from the archives, National Poetry Month

Lyn Lifshin is an internationally known poet and author, published in hundreds of journals. Visit lynlifshin.com

THE MAD GIRL DREAMS OF THOSE DAWNS IN MOROCCO

birds and roosters

days after the storm

of rice and flowers.

Roosters and dogs,

a bracelet of amber

thighs. Hers circled

your body like an

anklet of silver as

the light held them

like a cobweb and

the air doesn’t move

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David Kozinski's "Bringhurst Woods " from the archives, National Poetry Month

David P. Kozinski received Honorable Mention in Philadelphia Poets’  7th Annual John & Rose Petracca & Family Award. He won the seventh annual Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, which included publication of his chapbook, Loopholes. He conducted a workshop on poetry presentation at the Manayunk-Roxborough Art Center. More than 100 of Kozinski’s poems have appeared in print and online in publications such as Apiary, The Fox Chase Review, glimmertrain.com, Mad Poets Review, Margie and Schuylkill Valley Journal.

Bringhurst Woods

In another life when wolf packs

haunted the news and beat up kids

for gym shoes I concealed a hunting knife

in my bomber jacket’s deep pocket   

and was casually informed over a bottle

of Scotch it was illegal. Staying sheathed, it worked.

I don’t even carry a phone when I walk over here.

The lamp at the end of the bridge is out.

Stringed instruments in refugees’ scarred hands

might scrape oaths like these screeching, yipping sounds

of struggle between wild things. My hearing

measures them not large enough to cross me

but something in the troubled brambles and bleak trees

relights neglected coils of instinct.

A few nights ago, two pairs of eyes burned ice blue

in mostly moonlight, staggered my steps on the curved

trail – bodies big enough to wreck a car haloed

in shadow. There may have been antlers on the tall one

and it wasn’t giving ground, 25 yards

across the coarse, yellowed grass.

I went slowly, sideways.

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Larry Kelts' "Water Willow", from the archives, National Poetry Month

Larry Kelts grew up on a dairy farm in north-central Pennsylvania.  After a career as a research scientist working in magnetic resonance in Rochester, N.Y. he left the lab for literature and art, his lifelong passions.  He took an MFA at Bennington College and now lives in Newark, Delaware where he writes poetry and follows the art scene in Delaware and Philadelphia.

Water Willow

                     after Rossetti

Her husband slips off into the icy realms

of reason while she searches the wash

that sucks and sinks into muddy shores of willow

root and sway.  Wind stalks the bending reeds.

What illicit pleasures might we dare to stake

claim to from that summer painting en plein

air?  Sunning and sounding the currents willows

snap, break, and re-root in the flooded shallows.

So when the stirrings of Spring rouse them and they

can no longer stop the buds breaking

will you lift the curtains of yourself

and expose my soul wound in willow.

What they might recover here on their own—

once forbidden—we now forbear keeping

the silence that washes between art and life,

and when madness stirs him she bends to root again.

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Gary Hanna's "Escape On a Hot Afternoon", from the archives, National Poetry Month

Gary Hanna lives with his wife, the painter Anne Hanna, on an estuary off the ocean in southern Delaware. He has received two Fellowships and five Individual Artist Awards from the Delaware Division of the Arts and a Residency Fellowship to the Virginia Center For the Creative Arts from the

Mid-Atlantic Art Foundation. In 2013 he published two chapbooks: "The Homestead Poems" and "Sediment and Other Poems." both from the Broadkill Press. He is the manager of the Writer's Library in Delaware.

Escape On A Hot Afternoon

(After "The Pines" by Ethel P.B. Leach)

Who is not drawn

to the pinewood,

the sheltered seclusion

of a million sharp points

filtering the light,

stabbing the sun

into softness.

There, any two trees,

maybe four, make

a path to mystery,

to the loneliness of self

unbounded by form,

where pliant sands

give way like footprints

of time, broken

into a thousand tiny

crystals, each gem

a remembrance, a life,

imprisoned in glass.

There, dry bones

rust comfortably

at the base of each

tree, each vertical,

each tower, holds up

the sky, holds up

the clouds, keeps you

from rain. There,

the path sings, low,

in silence and shade,

an invitation to walk,

to walk as far as your

eye will see, to walk

into the past, into

the future of yourself,

alone, and at peace,

with the sun....before

the dinner bell rings.

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Ashley Capes "Odd" from the archives, National Poetry Month

Ashley is a poet, novelist and teacher living in Australia. He’s the author of six poetry collections and two novels and was poetry editor for Page Seventeen from issues 8-10. He also moderates online renku group Issa’s Snail.

odd

funny how odd socks

make me happy

but then, so does wind in my sleeves

or the printed word

and sun dried tomato

so do truly shabby

second hand bookstores

and a whole day without a phone call

so does chocolate that stings my teeth

rain on a tin roof

and your tattoo

funny how these things

are enough.

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excerpts from Jon Dambacher’s Green, from the archives, National Poetry Month

The following poems are from Jon Dambacher’s upcoming book of “green” poems: "Jon Dambacher (green)" A Jabber Publication, 2013. A poetry collage of two families that include an American WWII soldier, a French socialite, their liar & cheat of a son, a shy East LA girl, her angry cabdriving brother, & a murder.    Bio: Jon Dambacher is a writer living in Los Angeles, Ca.  His previous works of fiction are "Gyratory Jabber," "Sour Candies," "A Strange, Sickly Beauty" and "Anchored Disorder" a small book of poems with fellow LA writer Cliff Weber.

    “Want me to call you one?”

the prostitute asked

sitting on the busbench behind him.

    Several taxis had already past

when they’d slow, aiming for his arm,

they’d see her and dash off.

    “Guaranteed

they’d stop for me,” she says

“All men stop for me.”

    He walked a block east

to get away from her

one stopped rightaway.

    She cried out to him

from her busbench,

“Can I get in there wit’ch’you?”

    He called to her gently, 

“Not tonight, baby”

“That’s too bad,” was her response.

    Home in the bedroom bathroom

Zest bar suds bubbling, his wife asks,

“Why do you always wash your hands twice?”

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Liz Dolan's "Sister Dorothy Stang,72, Reflects on her Assassination By Loggers" from the archives, National Poetry Month

Liz Dolan, a retired English teacher who lives in Rehoboth, Delaware, has won numerous awards for her work, including five Pushcart nominations. As director of an alternative school in the Bronx, where she was born and raised, Liz helped increase attendance from 65 percent to 90 percent by initiating a daily program of writing across the curriculum. Mother of two and grandmother of nine--who "pepper her life," says Liz--she devotes several days a week to babysitting in between composing poetry, short stories, and memoirs.

Sister Dorothy Stang,72, Reflects on her Assassination By  Loggers

I came to Anapu, Para, forty years ago to teach

the dirt-poor peasants: manioc, first, cocoa,

then coffee and peppers. I will decay

like leaf litter, empty myself, nutrients weaving

into the under story of El Yunque. They call me Madre Mae.

Rose rings of light coil sinking through the umbrella

-canopy: alizarin crimson, ultramarine, viridian,

as rain runs off the drip spouts of leaves soiled

by filth we cannot clean. It is Lincoln’s birthday.

I should have feared the horns in the bushes,

the flat white face of death. Now the lianas vine

about my ankles, bromeliads and periwinkle

grace my requiem, blood speckles the rain

forest floor; bullets berry-stain my best blouse.

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Sid Gold's "Clear Intent", from the archives, National Poetry Month

A native New Yorker, Sid Gold is a two-time recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award for Poetry, and a first prize winner in the California Poetry Society contest. Poems of his have appeared recently inPoet Lore, Loch Raven Review, the Southern Poetry Review, the Cimarron  Review, Tar River Poetry, Free State Review. His third book, Good With Oranges, is forthcoming from the Broadkill River Press. He is the author of two earlier poetry collections Working Vocabulary and The Year of the Dog Throwers. He teaches creative writing at The George Washington University and lives in Hyattsville, MD.

CLEAR INTENT

The other night a storm

buzzsawed through & brought down

that 40-foot beech with a crack

like a hammer & chisel cutting stone.

A spear of lightning struck it

near ground level, splitting its trunk

along its height like a gutting knife

& now its limbs lay splayed

& bleaching like some monstrous skeleton,

the bones, perhaps, of an untold constellation.

Soon a work crew will arrive, men

of clear intent carrying chains & saws

like briefcases, their tongues

still sour with sleep. Hired for a task

of someone else's choosing, they may

have room for nonsense in their hearts,

but have been taught to keep it close

while on someone else's clock.

That towering beech, some of us

surely believe, still had much to say

about things for which we often

cannot find the proper words.

Others, living in some other moment,

prefer to turn a deaf ear.

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Wendy Morton's "Friend, I Want To Translate the Day" #CanadianPoets #NationalPoetryMonth

Wendy Morton has five books of poetry, and a memoir, Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast, in which her adventures as a corporate-sponsored poet are revealed. She has been WestJet’s Poet of the Skies, Chrysler’s Poet of the Road. She is currently sponsored by AbeBooks.

She is the founder of Canada’s Random Acts of Poetry. She is the recipient of the 2010 Spirit Bear Award, The Golden Beret Award and was made an Honorary Citizen of Victoria in 2011. In 2012 she was awarded The Colleen Thibaudeau Outstanding Contribution to Canadian Poetry from the League of Canadian Poets.  

FRIEND, I WANT TO TRANSLATE THE DAY

Are these words you knew?

Hellebore, swamp lantern,

bladderwrack, shellrock, tidepool?

We could talk this language;

bypass memory

and the fifty years of our words.

You could arrive in dreams

with a new vocabulary.

Catkin, you could say, cormorant.

And I would listen to your salmonberry voice.

Speak.

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Martin Willitts Jr's "Several Ways to Practice Silence and Attention", from the archives, #NationalPoetryMonth

Martin Willitts Jr is the winner of the 2012 Big River Poetry Review’s William K. Hathaway Award ; 2013 Bill Holm Witness Poetry Contest; 2014 Broadsided award; 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Contest; and, Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, June 2015, Editor’s Choice. His poems have appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Broadkill Review, Comstock Review, Turtle Island Quarterly, Bitter Oleander, and others. He has over 20 chapbooks, plus 11 full-length collections including "How to Be Silent" (FutureCycle Press, 2016). 

Several Ways to Practice Silence and Attention

The sprawl is headed this way, he warned,

and no one can escape it. I knew what he meant.

On a clear day you could smell manure fertilizer

from ten farms away. You could tell if it was aged.

We went out fishing because all our hard work was done

and waiting for farm results took longer, more patience;

might as well teach the fish real patience, out-wait them.

We rowed pretty far into the calmest part of the lake.

We sat a better part of a day,

not moving, more still than rock, more still than air.

I don’t feel so good, he admitted.  I had to admit,

he did not look so great with his face corkscrewed.

He died like a ripple.

I started rowing back wondering what I should say.

There are some people, who get a warning

like a lake where you can see the fish.

If we wait quietly we might hear what is coming.

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Two Haiku from ayaz daryl nielsen, from the archives, #NationalPoetryMonth

ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues), homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Shemom, Shamrock, and!   online at  bear creek haiku  poetry, poems and info 

January ice

catfish and bass

deeper and slower

blue-tailed salamanders

    everywhere. . .one

    in the living room

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Walter Bargen's "A Distant Theory", from the archives, #NationalPoetryMonth

Walter Bargen has published eighteen books of poetry.  His most recent books are: Days Like This Are Necessary: New & Selected Poems (2009), Endearing Ruins (2012), Trouble Behind Glass Doors (2013), Quixotic (2014), and Gone West (2014).  He was appointed the first poet laureate of Missouri (2008-2009).  His awards include a National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship (1991), the Hanks Prize (1996), the William Rockhill Nelson Award (2005). His poems, essays, and stories have appeared in over 150 magazines. www.walterbargen.com

A Distant Theory

I’m not much different from the Death Valley rocks

caught on time-lapse video in a bellied penitent migration

across the desert, so slow no horizon shows up

so the rocks declare themselves churches. Altars of stone

where the sun sacrifices eons of light and rips open

a relentless bleeding heat. A once-a-year rain is rebirth,

born again into going nowhere fast.

Not the horizons of religion, but a religion of horizons

that I’m driving into and can see as far as I want

though much of the time my wanting is small

while my longing is long as this interstate. No purple

mountains majesty to distract, to obstruct the view.

I’m driving west and east at once. No one direction

without the other, equal and opposite, and always

caught between. I slip easily, relativity to quantum,

even as the map’s names, Ft. Hays, Quinter,

Goodland, tumble west. Near Burlington, grass gone,

a few cows overgraze the dusty bushes.

\

Every thirty miles there’s a pullover with a plaque

declaring what happened here, or somewhere

near here: a stunned loneliness in the Cathedral

of the Plains, a garden of broken glass, the world’s largest ball

of twine, ambush and circling of wagons, a reminder

that there were a few people who stayed and beat

themselves and others senseless, and there still are a few.

An overlooked Burma Shave sign haunts the roadside

with a clean-shaven narrative cutting close to the wire

fence strung between limestone posts where the rags

of a coyote hang and are picked apart by ceaseless

wind and bullets. Just another body bleeding

in bad light and no salvation for anyone

on this side of the horizon.

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