The Shine Journal

 

 

 

 

Judge Adrian Potter says:  "This poem is a poignant expression of nostalgia, filled with vivid memories of a parent. It uses compelling vocabulary and wordplay that pulled me in from the start. When I read this, I felt the verses were literally singing, gospel choir style. The spirited use of color enhanced the eloquence of this piece."

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FIRST PLACE

 

Winner of 200.00 and publication in The Shine Journal Anthology

 

 

From Ink and Violet Memories

 

 

by

 

 

Juan David Romero

 

 

 

tonight is the night that I love you,
tonight is the night that I miss you,
tonight is the night that I remember,
that I understand your memories, dear mother.
 
Through the fragrant waters vested in avian imagery,
I saw you embrace the colors of flying—hues which,
alight in their individualized sense of departure,
refulgent in their reticent clamor,
become disinclined to dispense verities;
 
my friend once told me of her suppositions,
concerns of an irate serenade. And
drifting like the soft whisper of flannel 
the most ambrosial taste of amity,
hesitant in a tangible uneasiness of features,
she described your trials
of which I was ignorant;
                                        
in 1973 you had the airs to fall in love,
to adjust to the blooming casualties of
amorous encounters with my father.
Desperate dawns, unfathomable afternoons
of all types of insinuations;
and through the clairvoyant archetype
of your individualities,
of his individualities—
you gave him your eyes,
he gave you his nose,
then your smile, then your cheeks,
then his voice, then his mode,
-and later, said my friend,
-I came into accounts,
I knew about the ink—different
colorations, blossoming pigments
of repetitions in harmony.
a historical map of floating hues like
yellow, the profundity of blue,
verdant for the freshness of infinite
pastures and valleys.
deep purplish crimsons of humble
and ephemeral melodies.
and Violet. casting
its mellow tinge.
Violet. fear.
 
-one day, said my friend, I made her company.
“If you listen closely,” said your mother,
“You can hear the screech of loneliness.
Just listen and you’ll see it
gnawing on the floor. A life form on its own.”
 
-that night she stayed in my house,
you wouldn’t see your father for a long time.
and who knew of that horrible time machine.
sitting like a dark lonesome creature
crouched next to the stove,
taking abode in the kitchen,
swaggering about the household—
stopping to take a breath
as to continue swaggering
at temperamental intervals.
angry with itself. flustered.
alive. indescribable.
bottomless. dark. yet alive;
drinking from the nipples of fury.
and Violet. Violet, casting
its mellow tinge.
Violet. fear.
because.
 
you gave him your eyes,
then your smile,
then your cheeks.
and he gave you his fascination,
then his obsession,
then his arms,
then his wrists,
then his hands,
then his fists.
and you loved him still.
 
I once accepted my friends’ suppositions, and,
drifting like the soft whisper of the colors of flying,
I flew along with you.
just above the ocean:
-like Peter!
the air, the stars, and
all the nature was with us.
-here you can’t see the shore!
just above the ocean
ninety miles per hour,
you can see your reflection on the water:
 
-hold my hand!
tonight is the night that I love you,
tonight is the night that I miss you,
tonight is the night that I remember,
that I understand your memories, dear mother.

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Judge Adrian Potter says: "Well structured piece that comes off as introspective, yet written so that others can relate; somewhat abstract, yet grounded enough that it did not lose me as a reader. The poem appealed to the senses with phrases like “sepia-toned moments” and “the colors of my desperation.” There’s a subtle beauty within this poem that made it stand out."

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Second Place

 

 

Winner of 100.00 and publication in The Shine Journal Anthology

 

 

 I Do Not Talk to Myself

 

by

 

 Matthew Stalbaum

 

 I talk to black and white photographs,
to smiles frozen forever,
that whisper and sigh
the fresh air of yesterday,
and sepia-toned moments that will
be flooded in with the colors of my
desperation, before I light a match
and burn this patch of time
while I choke on the black smoke
as it stains my lungs with its ink.

I talk to air,
foggy and humid,
with thoughts, words,
ideas that were born and that grow and that
will not die, and from below
I inhale a sweet scent of
grass I would\'ve trotted on
and books I would’ve read
if all the atoms that made me
never existed.

I talk to a sky, ubiquitous blue,
and watch as night falls and
light gains meaning, accentuated
against nothingness in a trillion
tiny lightbulbs that burn and burn
and burn, until this giant spark fades
long after we\'re gone,
and the smell of cinder,
of grass that never was,
and words that were never read
float between the frayed edges of
a black and white photograph of
God's frozen smile.

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Motivation For My Poem: Honestly, I'm not entirely sure where this poem came from.  I often talk to myself when I\'m alone, and while I happened to be fortunate enough to be alone, thought of the title, and the rest sort of just emerged from there without any real guidance.  But I think about the past a lot these days for no real good reason, so that was an influence too.

Brief Bio: I'm a sophomore at NYU, majoring in English and minoring in Creative Writing.  and am one of the few people nowadays who has committed the folly of writing, trying to write, or failing to write, original prose and poetry.  I also enjoy jazz, red wine, and comic books.

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Judge Adrian Potter says: "I liked how this poem assembled the traits associated with a TV or motion picture policeman and derived a vivid sketch of a character that fans of detective and noir films are familiar with. It is the oxymoronic nature of this piece – clichés collected together to describe this character in a non-hackneyed, imaginative manner – that intrigued me."

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 Third Place

 

 

Winner of 50.00 and publication in The Shine Journal Anthology

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life in Film : Number 62

 

by

 

Jennifer Moore

 

 

 

To be a good cop you must possess
a dead son to keep in a frame,
to impact on your every case,
together with a long-haired ex -
model looks, patience of a saint,
she bakes a mean apple pie
and keeps the merest flicker
of a candle for you, still.

You’ll need a beard of two-day growth,
a half-drunk flask of whisky
in the top drawer of your desk,
lest there be any doubt
about your pickled liver
or those strange black spots in time
you cannot quite recall.

You can forget about sleep too
and that pretty blonde
at the liquor store -
you’ll only break her heart.

Forget about playing by the rules,
waiting for the warrant to arrive -
good paperwork never saves the girl in time.

Beware of shadows, shrinks and priests,
dead men whose bodies were never found.

Now follow your instincts and shoot to kill -
‘cause if the bullets don’t get you
the flashbacks will.

 

 

 

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Motivation For My Poem: Too many hours watching detective films and TV dramas...

Brief Bio: Jennifer Moore's poetry and short stories have appeared in a number of publications on both sides of the Atlantic, including 'The Guardian, 'Mslexia', 'South','The First Line', 'Pulp Net' and'Short Fiction'.  She was the winner of the Divine Poetry Competition 2006.  She lives in Devon, England, with her husband and two children.