January & February 2020
Vol V No I
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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Better Than Starbucks 2019 Sonnet Contest Winners & Honorable Mentions
Congratulations to the winners of our contest, Tara Campbell, Sean Corbitt, and Barbara Loots, and to the runners up!
The following are our top ten. We hope you enjoy these beautiful sonnets. - BTS Editors
Love and Multiple Sclerosis
My swabbed arm cools. My husband waits while I
uncap the syringe that keeps my sight intact.
He guides the needle more by faith than eye,
and hates the sting he cannot see. In fact,
he’s almost blind, perceiving light and shapes,
color, contour, movement. All the rest
he must divine, traversing unknown space
from needletip to skin, and do his best.
I’ve plunged the syringe myself, time and again,
but nothing is so soothing as when I
can look away. And so he takes the pain
in hand whenever I can’t bear the sight
and blindly halves it, sharing it with me
through saving needles neither of us see.
Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe’s Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. She received her MFA from American University in 2019.
Imagine their tensed faces as they bent
to lift a heavy desk up stairs at work.
A test (how few they get) of physical strength.
Men’s faces, masking effort, twitch and jerk.
One greasy plastic corner weighs on the wall.
They huff the whole way up and never see.
The black scuff left extends, diagonal,
from floor two (sales) to marketing on three,
unbroken since they bravely took no breaks
but scratchy with the shake of great struggle.
This is the mark that all our struggling makes,
the sweetgum sticker balls of worry we juggle:
an upward slanting accident, a mess
made faint, then blank by a bleach-soaked rag’s caress.
Sean Corbitt is a poetry student in his senior year at the University of Maryland, College Park. This is his first publication.
Playing With Fire
Crumpled headlines make the fiercest heat
for kindling. Only half-a-dozen days
will start you on a satisfying blaze
to torch this season’s struggle and defeat.
Toss on a log. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
The structure shifts in unexpected ways.
Flame alternately surges and decays
as elements of earth and heaven meet.
Whatever burns you can incinerate:
yesterday’s trash, old stories, and the names
you loved or hated going up in smoke
and sparks, or falling through the grate,
reduced to ash the universe reclaims.
You give the embers of your life a poke.
First published in The Lyric.
Barbara Loots writes in Kansas City, Missouri, with the assistance of Bob the Cat. Her collections are Road Trip and Windshift.
As I, surprised, surveyed my kitchen table,
I saw a thoroughfare that ants had made
and traveled in an undulating braid
of coming and going. Each as it was able
passed the news across that living cable,
about the points of toast with marmalade
I had abandoned to their swift parade.
The boulders that they pincered up held stable —
each crumb a prize to take back to the nest
where an unseen queen parturient lay.
It was for her sake that they came and went
from dark to light and back the other way.
The Iliad and Odyssey were spent
on tasks no more momentous than this quest.
Lisa Barnett’s poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, Measure Review, Poetry, Snakeskin, the anthology Sonnets: 150 Contemporary Sonnets, and elsewhere. She is a three-time Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award finalist and is the author of two chapbooks.
Today the weathervane said west
is where it’s at. I didn’t go.
The busted lotus tree confessed
that emptiness and vertigo
are for the birds. I mixed a batch
of raspberries and peaches where
the walnut sage had killed the grass.
It wasn’t bad. I didn’t care
the bread had gone a little stale,
nor that the cattails hunched their backs
and purred. What is a holy grail
without a holy catch attached?
The sky was un-intense. Just blue.
I am so fucking over you.
First published in Measure Review.
Wendy Videlock is a self-taught poet living in Colorado. She is a two-time finalist for Colorado Poet Laureate. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry, The Hudson Review, The New York Times, Poetry Magazine, Rattle, and other literary venues.
The Haint Blue Lake
On purple mornings in my front porch chair,
I’m more contented than I’ve ever been.
All ghosts are laid, an earthly store’s laid in.
Regrets that once were agony to bear,
Dwindle to an egret in the air.
No private nightmare pulls a heartstring thin.
At ease in more than my capacious skin,
I tend a sunrise born in age, with care
And calm. Time mends, if only through the ruse
Of dimming what it never wholly clears.
Still, bless its pro tem remedy for pain
And praise its needle, though it’s brought a bruise
While blurring hurt from all those unmourned years
Of want, till now I want them back again.
Frank Osen lives in Pasadena, California, and works at the Huntington Library. He won the 2017 X.J. Kennedy Parody Award and the Best American Poetry series poem award. His collection, Virtue, Big as Sin, was awarded the Able Muse prize.
A Kind of Love
Perhaps surveillance is a kind of love.
—Jehanne Dubrow, Dots & Dashes
The doorbell cameras that record the thief
or vandal; database-matched DNA
that brings numbed kin (years later) some relief
by nabbing murderers who’d got away;
implanted chips for tracking down lost pets;
x-rays and sensors able to discover
guns and grenades in bags, or cigarettes
on airplanes; spycams to observe one’s lover—
how monitored we are! Each move we make
online leaves footprints that will never fade,
so even when we’re dead, we cannot shake
invisible snooping. We’ll live on, displayed
like butterflies. And maybe that alone
can slake our thirst for being seen and known.
Susan McLean is professor emerita of English at Southwest Minnesota State University. Her poetry books include The Best Disguise, The Whetstone Misses the Knife, Selected Epigrams (of Martial), and one chapbook, Holding Patterns.
It’s easy to forget they’d fought a war:
his father drowned, half-brother bayoneted;
her kilted sibling captured at Dunkirk,
locked up for five long years. But yes they met
in uniform, lost half their friends, before
the normal world re-started when they wed:
mortgage; children; grinding office work —
all I suppose they wanted when they set
out as a couple. We must have been a shock:
busting their rulebook; scornful of sacrifice;
mocking their past and their belief in ‘progress’;
too young, too smashed, too angry to unlock
their silence, or to understand the price
they’d paid for what they’d still call happiness.
First published in Dream Catcher.
Tom Vaughan is a currently London-based poet who has spent much of his life abroad. He is the author of two poetry pamphlets published by HappenStance and of a novel about post-colonial Africa.
I lingered long upon a Primrose Path
And dallied there as if there were no doom.
I mounted spiral stairs. An upper room
Awaited me as if there were no wrath.
The naked angel on the green bird bath
Held not a flaming sword. There was no tomb.
The thousand flowers that bless us as they bloom—
I smell them still. They bloomed on my behalf.
I see the tangerines upon their tree.
I hear the waters searching for the bay.
And was this paradise made just for me?
And did the sun for me send forth his ray?
I haven’t walked that path in thirty years.
Dead roses, now. Sharp thorns. A thousand fears.
Jeffrey Gordon is an English teacher born at the tail end of the sixties and living in Lyman, South Carolina. He grew up in Sarasota, Florida, and actually lived in a house on Primrose Path (hence this sonnet!).
Meddlesome Sun, does every morning need
This glaring spectacle of light and flame?
Lingering, lurking, jealousy and greed
light our bed and illuminate your shame.
You may be a star, the eye of heaven,
an almighty source of beauty and strength,
but your golden touch, unholy leaven,
is a cancer stealing our youth at length.
Please won’t you give me this moment to share
With the love of my life before I go?
You can watch her all day for all I care.
I promise you no one will ever know.
Just for a minute, look the other way,
And then go on with the rest of your day.
First published in poeticdiversity.
Frank Mundo is the author of The Brubury Tales, a modern version of The Canterbury Tales set in Los Angeles, and the poetry chapbook Touched By an Anglo from Kattywompus Press.
Many thanks to the editors who graciously accepted the tough job of reading and evaluating over 500 sonnets.
It was a challenging, as well as rewarding, process.