sappho prize for women poets, held by palette poetry. read more about submission guidelines & apply here
[Text ID: Closes June 19, 2022. This contest only accepts submissions from women poets. ALL women are welcome to submit (cis and trans). The winning poet will be awarded $3000 and publication on Palette Poetry. Second and third place will win $300 & $200 respectively, as well as publication. The top ten finalists will be selected by the editors, and guest judge Jos Charles will then select the winner and two runners-up. /End ID]
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— "horoscope" by Maya Kikuchi (published in Palette Poetry)
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made a colour palette challenge thing
feel free to reblog and use for yourself :]
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if peace has a palette
*
if peace has a palette
not just above & beyond
various cloud types & shapes
projected on a reassuring blue sky;
it behooves us to look
from time to time
beholding the majestic backdrop
with the soul relief it occasions
& then transfer that gaze
to our earthly environ,
finding ourselves immersed
& let the backgrounds we see
remind us of our place in life's scheme:
enmeshed though untethered.
still privileged to be free enough
from basic Maslovian needs,
so some measure of luxe is no mere wish
even amidst the efforts of some
to diminish our prospects
threatening to make lack endemic
should we not pledge our undying fealty.
shades of blue-violet bruises
live 'longside bright yellow sunflowers
in any given meadow;
as blood-orange sunsets
shade amber the green fields
over which it beams
onto the envy & avarice over
like-colored currency, many places.
all within which we're charged
to make plain & pronounced
an enduring peace
permeating our promenade
over this precious, precious palette
in brushed stokes of benevolence
covering as many as possible
by life's creatives
who wholeheartedly reject
the artless artifice of war.
*
11/23 - lebuc - if peace had a palette
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"I put my heart and soul into my work, and I have lost my mind in the process."
-Vincent Van Gogh
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I’m making a blackout poem for every letter in the alphabet using the Encyclopedia as found text! Today’s poem comes from the entry for “Burns”. The poem reads:
Burns
In a normal
commonplace
wound
the face falls off
after it dries
It is particularly useful
loss and pain
may increase
scar formation
for grafting
limits the formation of
lost
loss
and so there is a danger
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Nature’s harlequin and phthalo blues . . .
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The Outcast
rows of women accompany rows of vines
as generations before had done, they picked the pink crimson berries
too young to understand the status quo,
she imagined
a palette of pink, crimson, seal brown, and black pouring from the sky
as the women became formless, saturated colours
all the colours falling, all the women unseen, and slowly
the women, the vines, and the farm dissolved away to be replaced by blues, greens, yellows, and greys
unlike the other women, she left the farm when she was old enough
she was an outcast
no berries touched her fingers
yet she saw all the colours in a new light
felt the sea on her feet
the desert sand touches her face
and she became free
Making your dreams a reality, and never settling for a limited palette of colours.
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something I did not expect from the current social-political climate is the implosion of the lit mag industry
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Looking Forward to Looking Back
sHe would be shocked by looking forward
sHe had no idea who that man was
It was a reverence with which he looked back
A simple child, knowledge sHe lacked.
He grew to love who he was.
sHe will grow into someone sHe does.
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Lament for the Four Seasons
But what does Spring signify? That underground, life in itself is nothing: an empty cup.
Then Summer's over and troths are broken. Love departs as hours decays.
Youth fades; and then the joys of youth. The chilling Autumn wind shall come.
And Winter dawn is the color of metal. The deathly guest had not been satisfied.
--combined from four poems. "Spring" by Edna St Vincent Millay. "Summer's Ending" by Andrew Lang. "The Autumn" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "Waking in Winter" by Sylvia Plath.
I'm just sad that the four seasons are sadder now.
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Our share of night to bear —
Our share of morning —
Our blank in bliss to fill
Our blank in scorning —
Here a star, and there a star,
Some lose their way!
Here a mist, and there a mist,
Afterwards — Day!
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but over here still lingering
are things my hands still clutch
because if I let go
of everything
life wouldn’t mean very much
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Rouge et Noir — Emily Dickinson
Soul, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.
Angels' breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.
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art is life, or is life, art?
Spring’s
palette of life
waited in the wing
on the tip of a brush
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