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Award Winning Poetry - 2020 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi-Finalist Ode for an Absent Student So many dramas have played themselves out: a girl who saw through us, our Scout’s-honor truths; a girl scribbling her own proofs on the walls of a cell; a girl singing Fado in a tilted café, her star-rise a perfect – a textbook – chandelle; or, a girl whose shrill call feathers the walls of a well. Well of knowledge, coins, half-lives; mortar and water, a god’s paring knife. For his warrior mettle, Aristotle made Alexander recite – not the songs of Ajax – but the chant of his mother’s midwife. How she crooned at the sight of his scalp. Quick breaths, short beats like a cuckoo’s heart in flight; later, a conqueror’s lullaby; an air in clipped verse for his trek across the east, for his rise and fall, for the sound of his troops’ flat feet. Airs like anthems we hear in our sleep; bright conquests or the dull retreat. This morning marks three weeks. Your peers – all of us – proceed because there is a map to walk, countries to Hellenize – or not. Seas, you and Alexander must have known, cannot be crossed with brute force, missiles and stone. There is the compass that is another rower’s heartache for his home; the crow’s nest call that it will not be long. Things you forgot when you set out alone. Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Semi-finalist, Naugatuck River Review's 11th Narrative Poetry Contest Published in the Winter/Spring 2020 issue of Naugatuck River Review . Previous Next

Index Previous Next Winner of the 2019 Folio Editor's Prize Ode for an Ode on a Grecian Urn Ode, let your sorrows go. Let brides be ravished, trees forsake their leaves, let lovers kiss and fade, daughters age. Let loss be the elixir that induces a new legend, new urn-dream: Forests that seed, mature, starve, and reseed without our overtures. Let wanting, waiting, pacing be the rings in carbon dating. A new museum piece. Imagine yearning bigger than an urn, bigger than god; desire out of bounds, desire crowned. Paint it fulfilled, the turning back of hounds. What good is song if not the end of one man’s wish, what-ifs? I died at twenty-five. So many do. Urn, make your story new: Beauty is truth when sung to a priest’s staccato voice and tone near a young marine’s too-heavy, too mature, burial stone; when love betrayed makes lovers stutter phrases – sweet clichés – that they used to say alone. Put it in stone: Beauty is truth when sung to the beat of a child’s quiet feet leaving home; when aging lovers sing to one another: Remember when we used to rock in one another’s arms and we knew god and the devil’s charms? . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Winner of the 2019 Folio annual Editor's Prize for Poetry . Published in Folio Volume 34, May 2019.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Forthcoming in Inventory , 2020 Prev 12 Next FROM LIBERTY TO LIBERTY Beauty by beauty poetry is made, stone by stone of light, image after image, in search of a rebellious language, to crush the loneliness and surrender. Barb, thorn, and wood, but also jubilation and rejoicing. Nothing impossible to our imagination, in poems restless and brilliant where the panther runs along verses and dreams. Disobedience by disobedience poetry is made. Wing and winged flight, until it becomes a rose of greater scintillation, to name creativity, the foundation of writing, in search of suicide comets and constellations in the work of the poem. Sirius and Cassiopeia. Oh, our language constructed with the rigors of unique words, uprising and insurrection. Enchantment by enchantment poetry is made. Navigation of verses to bring down frontiers rejecting blind obedience, and prohibitions, at times of darkenings and deceptions. To refuse principles of imposed acceptance and ruins, from which the dictators watch us, the wolves of cruelty, the censors and the concealed inquisitors, of the Apocalypse. Rebellion by rebellion poetry is made. Fighting darkness and dagger of insidiousness, tricks, handcuffs. With song, with odes and hymns of rebellious verse, armed with our poet’s words, sunset and sunrise. Fiery flight and contempt. Body by body poetry is made, in its unfathomable work of syllables and images, metaphors and rhymes, tumultuous and untiring heart, to fight the dark voices at the head of the bed. Grain and grape of clarity to save us, because poetry redeems but does not appease. Because poetry saves, but does not tranquilize. Dream by dream poetry is made, from utopia to utopia, equality to equality, by laying the poem on the table, on the bedsheet, on the knee, on the stubborn skin of the wrist. Our biggest weapon of liberty by and large. DE LIBERDADE EM LIBERDADE Beleza a beleza constrói-se a poesia, pedra a pedra de luz, imagem a imagem, na busca da linguagem indócil, a quebrar a solidão e a entrega. Farpa, espinho e lenho, mas também júbilo e regozijo. Nada é impossível ao nosso imaginário, em poemas inquietos e fulgentes por onde a pantera corre ao longo de versos e sonhos. Desobediência a desobediência constrói-se a poesia. Asa e voo voado, até se tornar rosa de cintilação maior, a nomearmos a criatividade, a fundação das escritas, em busca dos cometas suicidas e das constelações, no labor do poema. Sirius e Cassiopeia. Oh, a nossa língua construída com os rigores das palavras únicas, sublevadas e insurrectas. Deslumbramento a deslumbramento constrói-se a poesia. Navegação de versos a derrubar frontei- ras, negando-se às obediências cegas e às interdições, aos tempos de assombramentos e obscurantismos. A recusar princípios de aceite imposto e ruínas, de onde nos espreitam os ditadores, os lobos da crueldade, os censores e os inquisidores embuçados, do Apocalipse. Insubmissão a insubmissão constrói-se a poesia. A combater a escuridade e o punhal da insídia, as mordaças, as algemas. Com o canto, com as odes e os hinos de versos revoltosos, armados com as nossas palavras de poeta, poente e alva. Voo ardente e desacato. Corpo a corpo constrói-se a poesia, no seu insondável trabalho de sílabas e imagens, metáforas e rimas, coração tumultuado e incansável, a combater as vozes obscuras, à cabeceira da lonjura. Grão e bago de claridade de nos salvar, porque a poesia redime mas não apazigua. Porque a poesia salva, mas não aquieta. Sonho a sonho constrói-se a poesia, de utopia em utopia, de igualdade em igualdade, a deitar-se o poema na mesa, no lençol, no joelho, na pele ensimesmada do pulso. Nossa arma maior de liberdade em liberdade. Poem celebrating World Poetry Day 2013, done by the Directorate of the SPA. and set out on 21 March of that year in the Belém Cultural Center by initiative of the then president. Vasco Graça Moura . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Forthcoming in Inventory , Princeton University, 2020 Poema comemorativo do Dia Mundial da Poesia de 2013, feito a coiwitc da Direcção da SPA. e exposto em 21 de Março desse ano no Centro Cultural de Belém por iniciativa do então presidente. Vasco Graça Moura Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis. Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next Winner of the 1974 Emerson College Original Poetry Award On Rewinding I have been told that by wish and will I fell from His sheep- wool pocket into one dame's arms; and that was birth. I have been told that angels bowl; heaven opens up when the tenth pin rolls. I have been told of cloud-grazing mares— and twice it has rained cats and dogs. I have been told that Saint Peter saw a vision. I have been told that truth may be measured by the shade of one's tongue or the length of one's nose—and twice I have doubted my countenance. I have been told when 'neath the cornered quilt that the sand- man would alight and wave his sack of sleeping dust over my last Hail Mary. I have been told that woman is infamy; man sin. And I am the issue of both. I have been told to accept His rites and wrath. Yet, I have heard over grace and gossip. from bible and book, of womb-wrenching pain, of breached and blue-born, of original sin; and that was birth. I have heard of atmospheric pressure and tropical cyclones; and that was Hurricane Ann. I have heard that fishermen like their wine and all have visions. I have heard that the truth made Socrates stutter. I have heard that some men never sleep. I have heard that opposites attract (and gather ye rosebuds while ye may) I have heard that doubt is the stepping stone to knowledge, and knowledge is the end of man. I have heard too little of too much. And still as green as County Cork, I have but fingered man's seven selves. . Copyright © 2017 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the Spring 1975 issue of The Emerson Review . M.B., Weymouth North High School, Massachusetts, October, 1974 Contest judge - Charles Simic.

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Index Previous Next Trigger Warning We have art in order not to die of the truth. ― Friedrich Nietzsche This spring, as in previous springs we will have our themes: A young man will take his mother to bed – then blind himself with her dress pins when he learns the truth. Another mother will die yearning for her son’s lost youth – ten years in combat in some hell called Troy, ten more at sea, a champion of the gods, or a beautifully- carved chess piece. In our fifth week, the most promising student will stop coming to class – uncounted, unseen. Some of us will look for her in our dreams. In one, she will wave, relieved, as she sails away. In another, she will signal a code – fragments like shards from an ancient, splintered vase; runes like self-spun elegies which, as a class, we will read. A champion of the gods, or a beautifully- carved chess piece? In the tenth week, the quietest one will change his place from Enrolled to Audit – a jockeying for a Pass on this charted and uncharted course – or kiss and a roll of the dice. A look at his source. The same week a veteran marine will submit his term’s work – a dense, hard-copy, thoughtful, heap – then swallow and swallow and swallow and finally sleep. A champion of the gods, or a beautifully-carved chess piece? The rest of us will proceed. Like clockwork, carillon will ring. Gowns, assemblies, deans. Swallows will stir the clock tower – Lazarus-like – and crocuses will flower on the campus green. . Copyright © 2018 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Harpur Palate of Binghamton University, Fall 2018, Vol. 18.1.

Index Previous Next First Place - Lazuli Literary Group Is there a Final Exam? Sorry... currently embargoed until publication in February, 2025. . Copyright © 2024 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Forthcoming in A zure, February 2025. Winner of the Lazuli Literary Group's Fall 2024 Writing Contest. Editor's comment: I enjoyed the steady strain of brilliance and the profound sense of wisdom that runs through each poem, well-delivered through narratively evocative language and clearly intentional choices in poetic form! To cloak modernity in a sense of magic is difficult to do, and yet I feel your poems do so in a very useful way. I hope our readers find in these pieces the impetus for an examined life. - Sakina B. Fakhri

Award Winning Poetry - 2014 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi-Finalist The Bath For a foster child The slightest wrong move could mean tidal waves. Certain disaster to a boy with everything resting on delicate tissue – a bruised knee to which you command a corps of plastic ships – an austere but (you promise) heavenly beach where men may lie down in soft sand, a tiny fold in your thigh; write letters and find oranges to eat; plan the next battle. Hard that you know so much about these distances from home. A trumpet blast! You steam your mission out. Predictably bad weather and still another perilous gorge of falls and fleshy islands. The search resumes for citrus or, at least, friendly harbor. I wish you both -- and not another tour of calculations tossed or unchartered, and not this shadowy map on water. Copyright © 2014 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Naugatuck River Review's 6th Annual Narrative Poetry Contest Semi-Finalist. Published in Naugatuck River Review , November 2014. Previous Next

We have been together in Buddha’s gentle rain for days. Our robes are soaked through. I try not to long for things as your palm unwinds under my chin. You speak to me in the simplest language, Have a cup of tea. I sense your compassion but my ears are filled with water and the incense unnerves me. You cup my ears and whisper, Rozan is famous for its misty, rainy days, and, The sky is always the sky. I believe you, though I am not surprised. Perhaps the exchange should not be this intimate. The shadows near my eyes and across your shaved head make us tired and ordinary. You are an old man with dry lips. Perhaps your middle sags as you smooth my hair, my hair that was just so. Copyright © 1978 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the author's chapbook Advantages of Believing , 2015. Author's website: www.mbmclatchey.com Beginner's Mind

Award Winning Poetry - 2011 Winner of the 2011 American Poet Prize 1-800-THE-LOST The weight of the receiver in my hand: the down bird in my palm first lifting you. The counselor’s words: rehearsed, a burlesque bland. The shift in time, the shift to looking through her lens: today you are just one of two hundred lost. My eyes fix on our bright fence. I say your name, but you are no one new – caught in an ancient book that she’ll condense. I want her to discuss you in the present tense. I want the gods to stop pretending love calls the departed home. We called you with our various loves, had hope, hovered over still fields; made wind like the gods do before they come unhinged, let their rage loose on an unresponsive yield. Fields gone deaf and dumb; unshaken, fruitless ground, unmoved by a neighborhood of mothers who left their own to find you – tables, like mine, set. I want the gods to swallow their prayers whole. Choke up my child like the Olympians – a girl, unbruised by her journey down their throats. I want her at my table: fruit, alms that the gods, I see, can give or take – balm for the irritations I caused, or they caused; gifts between us or perhaps among themselves – a girl that they’ll barter away. I’m here. And I’m willing to talk, or trade. Copyright © 2011 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the American Poet Prize for 2011 Published in The American Poetry Journal , Spring 2012. Previous Next