September 18-24, 2000: Robert Wynne, Alex Stolis, and Steve Norwood

week of September 18-24, 2000

This week presenting the winners of the
20000 (third annual) Poetry Super Highway Poetry Contest:

see the complete list of prizes here

Robert WynneAlex Stolisand Steve Norwood

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Robert Wynne
Robert_Wynne@tandycrafts.com

Bio

Robert Wynne is a new resident of Fort Worth, Texas with his new wife, new house, and no doubt, an amazing assortment of other new items He tied for first place in this years’ contest with his poem “Door ” This is especially noteworthy as two years ago, he took first place in this same contest with a completely different set of judges He has an MFA from Antioch University, has publication credits too numerous to list here, and has been featured on the Poetry Super Highway many times.


The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Door

Shall I compare you to Venetian blinds,
governing the light falling on my face?
How can these curtains possibly replace
your self portrait: the sun going down in lines
jailing even these walls that would hold your eyes Perhaps you’re the walls themselves, the way your
laughter suspends the roof, more proof that doors
gasp openly at God’s ease as He sighs
each moment into being No thinking
in this world can fix you in a single
filament of the sun’s great bulb No glass
can silver you back like my gaze Winking
stars sell the sky for a song Throat tingling
I sing you into a door that I may pass.


Alex Stolis
lexstolis@aol.com

Bio

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota His poem “Three Women in a Brownstone” tied for first place in this years contest He left his career in hotel management to stay at home with his two children He recently returned to school and writes during what little free time he has left Recent publications include Stirring: A Literary Collection, Morella, Black Bear Review, Templar Phoenix Review and Poetry Motel
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Alex Stolis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Three Women in a Brownstone; Apartment # 202

I An Immigrant 1924-1965

Katarine, nineteen year old It Girl, Clara Bow eyes
sepia skin , and lanolin hair that wraps the salt air
snug against her cheek One battered cardboard
suitcase over-stuffed with pearl white hope Twenty-four newly minted American dollars
enough to buy Manhattan, dour Ellis Island
shoots a cursory glance, knows what she will find
Two-thousand letters, scribbled Cyrillic on butcher paper
hand stamped by Postmaster McDevitt, IRA lieutenant
Folk songs to empty cradles, on one-coal winter nights
waking to the tubercular cough of her husband drowning
in coke ovens; his ashes on the mantle, tarnished crucifix,
faded postcard wedding portrait, souvenir of a boat trip

II A Teacher 1966-1997

Jackie, with dew-dropped blue eyes,
crush of lilacs scent her hair, chalkdust
skims the delicate calico folds of her dress The patient curve of her unmade mouth
whispers a song to first grade valentines
on her refrigerator, crooked alphabet poems

Summer bus tours, alone with Irish brogues,
day trips to the Louvre, pictures for class She reads Bronte, cries at the sad parts,
wants to wring words from the blackboard
spin them into stories she can call her own
Sleeps with her hair down; wakes, restless
in quiet autumn to the sound of playgrounds

III An Artist 1997-1999

Meg has chrome eyelashes, burnt red hair
and a knowing look that pirouettes about her lips On charcoal nights she draws me like water
from the well of her pallete, washes the canvas Pastel nights she’s a cat poised in Circe’s lap, 
tilts her head and listens to the city stretch and yawn
until the horizon is a thin copper eggshell

On pinto gray afternoons she paints children
Sunday school yellow in oval gardens ripe
with tulips, shaded by lavender elms in summer
Today she chooses to drive broad brush-strokes
of porcelain blue, carnival red; north on I-35, until
the sun’s overworn legs unfold like an easel in the west

Steve Norwood
scn64@hotmail.com

Bio

Steve Norwood lives in Lewisville, Texas His poem “Scar Tissue” took second/third place in this years contest He writes in between coffee breaks and petit-mal seizures His work has been displayed in the online journals Conspire, Mind Fire and Recursive Angel, as well as in the Austin International Poetry Festival’s second anthology, Di-Verse-City Too Steve has two chapbooks: Helen Could Waste Away and Because I Love You So Damn Much I’d Wait For You, and his two new e-chaps, SUBTLE REAR-VIEW GLANCES and PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN IN A DITCH

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Steve Norwood and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Scar Tissue

a woman in an automated
wheelchair
glides in, smiling at me
as easily as the waitress
the night before who
gazed at my face while
re-filling my water glass,
as easily as the hostess who
stared at my ass as we left
(or so my lady told me)

the woman’s chair moves without
any motor’s hum, without the
squeak of wheels on tile;
it is a fine piece of machinery,
compact and quiet with
shining metal and cool,
black fabric

I hear her carrying on her
conversation with the kids
behind the counter, and despite
her facial disorder, her voice
is crisp and clear, animated
and happy

I wonder if her smile
is a genuine reaction to
my face or the frozen result of
some hidden injury, some
scar tissue that has pressed her
mouth into a giddy lie,
and I wonder if she looks
that way
even when she feels like
giving up,
if she ever does

a small asian man, probably fifteen years
older than me, gets up from his chair
to leave, and as he passes in front of me,
I see where it looks like a shark has used
his left leg as a toothpick,
long scars running up the inside
of his calf

he walks smoothly, as if he were born
with it, no limp of memory, no
pause at all

I have several
paper cuts
on the tips of my fingers;
I got them
wrestling with art
on a page of broken glass,
razors and freshly sharpened
pencils

I’m one tough dude.