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M I

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E Magazine’s

2013 Poetry Competition Winners’ Anthology

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2013 Poetry Competition

Winners’Anthology

Poems © Contributors Published by: Miracle e-zine http://miracleezine.wix.com/miracle-e-zine

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Introduction

This anthology is a publication by Miracle e-zine following the winners of its 2013 Poetry competition. The competition was held between February and June and the level of this contest was mesmerizing!

Poets from all around the world and of all ages took part and made the competition much more interesting. The winners of this contest are truly deserving and have been chosen after days of discussions, disapprovals and caffeine-filled nights by the Miracle team.

We hope you enjoy reading the anthology!

-The “Miracle” Team

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Table of Curiosities:

Maria Chung – Oh, how do you know Christie Suyanto – Entry Meg Tuite – I know a weapon when I see it Helen Victoria Anderson – Poisoned Orange Andreea Ciurea – Stitches Silva Baiton – Balcony Abigail Wyatt – Living Rememberance

Benjamin Hunt – If We Were

Janet Kvammen – Dream Weaver

Shalini Samuel – A fishy day at bay Serena Cooke – A waiting rose Andres Vaamonde – To be eaten Kathleen Morton - Do not be afraid Sophie Clarke – I have dreamt of high places

Jake Reynolds – Playground A.J Huffman – Forest of hope Jack Little – Away from home

Joseph Davison-Duddles – Crowberry Memories

Pippa Little – Buster Keaton risks his life again Ria Abbott – The Course Meet The Winners

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M A R I A

C H U N G

Oh, how do you know

brief contact; I become dessicated parts like the thumbs of the saint you keep in your shrine (all five of them) – but which ones are the real ones, oh, how do you know – I am persistent how do you know – cannot saints have many thumbs? – such inviolable implausibility devastates, the hand that ghosts over flesh burns and sanctifies five-thumbed me, I am the genuine article.

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C H R I S T I E

S U Y A N T O

Entry The sink says I always have something to cry about. In orange dawns, peach-hued skies I duck above water currents, gurgling needles, spitting papercuts. My shadows melt and disappear like sour milk down the rabbit hole. I face-paint intricate cobwebs in Sullen Silver and Beaten Blue. I choke on everything: printing ink, stray threads and the asteroid belt. Water and blood wasted on the glory-day gush. This isn't right, they call this madness. Madness brewed in a gold trophy. A textbook madness. I think I lost something. Money? Names? Faces? Coordinates? All forgotten. All washed down the drain.

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M E G

T U I T E

I know a weapon when I see it

deranged orange juniper trees sneeze neon pollen shaking me for months into a claustrophobic haven of sinus pathology I claw my way through spring like that season your rabid blue eyes bled right through me and raked in to another girl

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H E L E N

V I C T O R I A

A N D E R S O N

Poisoned Orange

I know the colours of this darkness. Through the glare-hit pane, there is no limit to the blue-brown, plum-grey, graded night smog, never black-black, but obstinately obscure, bleeding by degrees into sombre ground I know to be green. It could be the carrots I scraped until I was sick, dispatching plate after scratched, stained plate down that dumb waiter hatch: She ordered with her fists. I skulked around orange grocers and superstores, searching for anonymity in this tiny town as she felt her way beyond denial. It could be I’ve adjusted to the light conditions.

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A N D R E E A

C I U R E A

Stitches

The fabric of youth is ripped and frayed but worn by all. Thimble capped digits shake misplaced thread and stitches, like memories, Unwind. I am wearing a dress. Vanilla scented. Floral motifs that adorn misshapen knees which have fought with the ground and lost. My arms, fragile, are easily coloured; empurpled by youth, games and mud. They exhibit bruises like works of art left to hang in barren halls. Next, another creation; polka dotted. Alabaster specks dance amidst a blood background that half conceals slender knees which beckons boys. Missing button. Broken zip. Perhaps ruptured by false promises or long spells of smoky nights near cloudy, blurred streetlamps. Volatile silk, volatile shape, curving and curing innocence. Now, her plum-like eyes squirt bitter loneliness. Contrite in stasis she sleeps, un-absolved like a sinful doll. Her black lips, painted, are instantly reddened. Almost alive. Dress buttons, oak-like, strap uncertainties and lock skin in. She has buttoned her existence up with timber casket clasps. Her tragic, lurid velvet gown trembles, spills like ink against her Virgin exterior. Obscured beneath the hem of her dress is a skin partition, dull ruby patches lost their shine. But not the attraction of the guests. The dents, hidden gems in a macabre Treasure chest. Vermillion camellias and tender daisies are vase-less, scattered. Her funeral flowers await timed destruction. Her merciless beauty is still. They look at her, the guests, like they, in some unfamiliar grocers, observe strange fruit or rotten vegetation.

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Stitches, work of human hands,fasten time, whilst, unknowingly time unravels us. We, clothed by regrets and endless thoughts, become figurines, mannequins, embossed by half-livedmemories. Our stiches becomeunfastened and buried beneathpointed pins and terrible thimbles and mud. We, like stitches, come undone.

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S I L V A

B A I T O N

Balcony Realize all over again that she’s not coming back for you realize that this is enough for you Your skin is cold and you sing a broken hallelujah while on the purple horizon, the city in a haze showcases the apartment building with only one balcony blinking back Christmas lights A code, maybe, a message for her or someone else or a far-off Orca Somewhere, miles from these coulees Wait, isn’t that your sister?

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A B

I G A I L

W Y A T T

Living Remembrance I remember my grandmother's corsets, salmon pink and reinforced with whalebone , her huge, flabby breasts spilling over and over, her belly hanging white and jiggling free; I remember long Sundays when nothing stayed open and the radio sang something simple; and the peach tree I stripped of its spring-time blossom though my father, god bless him, never knew. I remember the lawn where I slept as a infant and the bumble bees buzzed among the hollyhocks; I recall the old AJ my father loved and motored through the mountains of France. I remember Miss Southgate, who wore her hair in waves, a girdle, and much too much make-up; I remember Mr Ford who came to school on a trike, and Mr Harris who splashed urine on his fly. I remember the day they called me a tart and put me on a train back to Thurrock; I remember the morning my father expired and no one thought to close his gaping mouth; I remember the graveyard where my grandfather slept and I stole some green chippings in remembrance; I remember the day that my innocence was lost and I shed my young blood on the stairs. I remember the hour that I gave up hope because the stars fell down down from the ceiling; and the day I knew that love had fled and the dreams that I had nurtured came undone. I remember the days, all these days of my life; I remember, I remember, I remember. Think not that the passion and the pity of the old derives from the loss of mere beauty: it is life defeats the wintering heart as it lays down its palimpsest of pain.

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B E N J A M I N

H U N T

If We Were You take me into your house It sparkles with snow, the land Rolls out over Yorkshire, white in The sun. We watch it together, you tell me Village tales, I sit and drink tea. Anglo-Catholic, ritualised rarity, Fascination over tradition, obsession with Obscurities and anomalies after the reign of Rome. Romanticism Envelops you, you’ve had Experiences with the same gender, I heard And you’ve smoked things, I heard And you tell me yourself, when drunk You’ll do anything. Yet not here. Not among the snoring hills Of snowy paradises, where paradigms Shift every time you walk into your own home. Quiet calm whispers wistfully of innocence Bids you blissful bidding prayers Binding you to a conservative calmness And not the romantic Renaissance that you and I could do. If we were, I would paint these valleys red. The green and gold would die in our intensity The birds would turn shrill, your house from Pastoral and peaceful to the Gothic grandeur That would herald us in, all would be grander Greater and grotesquely changed, and you would Revel in it Yet I find myself asking still If all this was, if you took to me Whether you would be happy As you are now? Light shatters Through this farm house’s windows in the snow While you chatter about village things And drink tea.

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J A N E T

K V A M M E N

Dream Weaver Life woven as a web; In the air the wind sits so very still; calm and tender it lies against the silk of dewdrop morn. Filaments spun throughout time; In the heavens our reveries silently wait; resilient yet delicate each forms the intricate pattern of life. Reflections of celestial intervention; In the sky, a mirror image of my soul shines; wisps of dream tendrils after a storm flow free where world collides.

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S H A L I N I

S A M U E L

A fishy day at bay blue wave, white foam, washing the long shore with its tender soothing hands, brushing away my fading memories, polishing men’s rock heart , at bay- akin to the pebbles, the bubbly kids search to store on a solitary rock, by the shore, a young man sits dreaming his untold future, the spluttering sprays banging the rock, returns back, filling water in pits sea retreats in agony, striking again angrily on her prey the candy man rings the bell, people run behind for a bite the balloons sway in his hands- bright red, blue and pink the shells, hiding an unknown craftsman, rests at the sales site, the groundnut covers, mango peels, the leftover snacks, stink sinking legs, wander aimlessly across the shore, holding hand sometimes alone, like two creepers intertwined, joy and sorrow guise the breaking dawn, sun rises, to the silent command of magic wand I look upon through the net, the arid faces, ripping hungry and fiery eyes enjoying weepily my solo day on shore; few hours afore, from the cold sea bed waving my friends, I had gone astray into the net, envisioning the shore gleam; suicidal I have been, caught in men’s glitters of a wonder world afar, held by cruel hands, I knew not, this isn’t my place; travelling back alive- just a daydream.

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S E R E N A

C O O K E

A Waiting Rose a strong whiff of apple cider drifted into her periphery enhancing this reverie or slumber-esque reality under a freshly starred sky inky she exhaled biting her teeth as the clouds swallowed their tears over wooden beams and sleeping suns shy moons and wise trees perfection broke against her veins collating in pores and cells spilling out onto her skin like orange juice freshly squeezed she put a hundred into the humming jukebox dormant at the back of her steaming mind and jazzed to the soft tunes carrying shockwaves of euphoria to her overused, but adroit, fingertips nimble at it’s touch she fell back into a daisy chain embrace with her eyes clenched open and envisioned a million tomorrows

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A N D R E S

V A A M O N D E

To Be Eaten I smell the hospital on his sleeves; the same ones that stick loosely enough to hide his recently fat(ted) arms. ‘it has been a long day for papa’ another has been eaten. he floats through the doorway a fleeting apparition flickering fluorescent by the television. i do know (young as I may be) that he is safe from the carnivorous virus he comes so close to knowing – and, yet, there is no solace for satan’s slayers. still sometimes when i find those eyes hidden beneath layers of time wrinkled flesh; i only see sun stained Miami beaches or light sprayed snow gripped mountains in Vermont. But long after i have fallen to bed the walls will watch him as he sighs into a glass of red on the couch the sound bounding back towards him liquor singing tightly coiled rhymes of forgetful bliss. if i were quiet i could maybe even hear his weeping the heaving of weak(ened) shoulders the wrinkling of tired eyes the frustration of vexed muscles the silent violence of a memory --

he will be sitting that way until the sun sets and the pale moon rises to kiss the worried to bed

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K A T H L E E N

M O R T O N

Do Not Be Afraid

I know what this looks like; an old hag with ruby, claw-like nails sitting in a forsaken carnival stall just outside the city. See the way the dust floats in the early Sun? It settles on the torn edges of Tarot cards, telling me your fate far too easily. That irksome nagging behind your eyes has guided you to me to fix your faith. To be clear, the Fool card stares up at me, reversed. What more do you want of me? All I own is a deck of cards with black borders. Your shoes are worn; your blue eyes are tired, judging your reflection. You are skeptic and grow weary of me, child. Come, let Madame Zephyr tell your fortune. Let me take your hand... Seek not the troubles of a broken home – your untidy trailer and untidy children will only run you ragged for a short while longer. Is that what you've been asking? Solace from the pains of two jobs, no husband, and no patience? You feel there is no other solution. The door will open when you are brave enough to close the other. The cards tell me you are only lost – what you seek is

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Wrong for what will be left behind. You have love. See it in the eyes of your blonde three-year-old. I regret to know the Path you are walking down – yet there is time to turn around. Do not

give up or walk away without knowing what you are capable of;

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S O P H I E

C L A R K E

I Too Have Dreamt of High Places My parents taught me how to climb up the north face of our three-storey house. They pulled the harness straps tight. In case you fall. I envied the lampposts their height, the window ledge shaling away in my hands. I couldn’t go up and I couldn’t go down. My chalked fingers might have split the atom. The rope burnt my fingers pink. I milimetred, inch-by-inched, tightroped the satellite dish with a steeplejack's ease, their voices remote, like sounds underwater. The rafters vanished in a cloud of slate. You're going to be a star! my mother cooed. Clutching the chimney breast, I looked up and gauged just how far I had to go.

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J A K E

R E Y N O L D S

Playground Cross a heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eye eat a poisoned humble pie don't let teachers see you cry this is the hierarchy of the playground. I remember how the chalked hopscotches would fade in both sun and rain but none of the girls cared. They lined up waiting their turn, Gestapo Girls, over and over, mastering the art to get ahead stepping stones on the academic river A floor painting of the United Kingdom was a late arrival. Nobody cared for it; paintings of Lebensraum is not Lebensraum at all. Once I recall two friends brawling foolishly on the floor, rolling like angry lovers on dirty sheets, fighting, grunting taken from Tekken when they watched their fathers play. As they battled over that map, we all felt a hollow metaphor growing inside us, not fully formed Injection, injection, you can't get infection. Play healthcare was vital not only to stay safe from germs but to stay at the top with the clean boys, clean air for clean Aryans, the boys who made the rhymes. Little has changed now. All leaders are poets with a childish sing-song voice. And I remember my reading age surpassing everyone in my class. By ten I was reading as sixteen. I questioned the reading ages of older boys; they sneered, ten reading as six, told me that thing was not important in the empire of the playground. Tig, home, being stuck in mud and inoculating ourselves from those we detested was fun, and fun rules the playground. Where is the fun in books?

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A . J

H U F F M A N

Forest of Hope I huddle where the groundhogs dwell, deeper than footfalls have previously followed. Isolation, the empathy my mind requires, has claimed this world. Constant green is encompassing, consuming. Its cloud-like teeth strip me of former skin. I am snake, reborn into this wild. I welcome newfound vertebrate malleability, weaving myself into background tapestry. I have become integral thread in this fantastical fabric of tomorrow.

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J A C K L I T T L E

Away from home

I’m an outsider now, foreign: a long forgotten Geordie boy: “do the big brother voice” And I would acquiesce, their Northern Monkey. But here they peck incessantly at ship wreck blue eyes like buried treasure they might kill for: I am the outsider. I am foreign. Not lost.

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J O S E P H

D A V I S O N

D U D D L E S

Crowberry Memories This is where the skylarks flew, he told us. So we went to find the land of our fathers. A woodman’s flower marked our arrival, leaning its grassy shoulder to the moor’s breath as we piled stones and roots into a new cairn. ‘This is the place,’ you said – and you took off your leather walking boots and shook them. They were soft from winter voyages you and I embarked on when we were children: the boots were now too small for you, as were mine. As was the moss that clothed the hills contouring around our stopping-place. The slopes seemed to rest unmoving like sleeping thighs. And yet, we were unable to see skylarks – the sky showed only the crowberries and flowering heather of the ground. I waited for you to lace your boots and we left, the roots of the cotton grass unraveling, blowing loose from the patchwork of the land. I thought: perhaps they were nested within the crowberry.

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P I P P A L I T T L E

Buster Keaton Risks His Life Again This is your house wafer-thin, all-American, nondescript – anyone could live here, anyone whose life drags on, fathered by scars, a grown man who never smiles I could have been happy here I could have been unmarked I could have been grateful. You do not rehearse: your life less to you than the next cigarette. Step, count, listen. The camera’s rolling. In that last second before the stunt you wonder if your sums were correct: that high window right over you black as leather, rectangular as a hangman’s drop might save your neck, or not - the trick is to step out into the abyss as if you could fly : and through I will go from the next world back into this. In ‘Steamboat Willie Junior’, 1927, Buster Keaton perfected the stunt of having a false housefront fall on him: his minute calculations were meant to ensure he stood inside the window space, unscathed.

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R I A

A B B O T T

The Course The threadbare blanket of trees Weep their fiery tears into the aged grey waters. Shedding fears, disappointments, inhibitions Then sigh contented, baring unabashed, Their naked branches To an old friend. The familiar river hugs tight to the bank, As promised. Holds its steady rhythm, Enduring the weight, gladly. They meander together, unhurried Burdened only by the thought of The Sea The slow-approaching but inevitable end. Everyone knows trees don’t float. * Yet the girls still sit, blissfully blind Hoping and jealous.

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Meet the Winners : Ria Abbott: I have been writing poetry for about a year and a half. Though initially it

was forced out of me on a school trip to Paris, poetry has since become a means of cathartic retreat. It was only after starting University that writing poems became a real art form for me; it remains a very personal experience as I write entirely autobiographically. I like to go old-school with a fountain pen and scribble-clad notebook.

Janet Kvammen: Janet Kvammen is a Canadian poet of many passions. She is a

photographer, artist and book cover designer. Her poetry has been published in “Sudden Thunder Anthology”, “Mind Paintings Anthology 2011”, “Royal City Poets Anthologies 2011 and 2012” and “between earth and sky anthology 2012” all by Silver Bow Publishing as well as“Honouring Our Veterans” 2012 anthology. A recipient of a Writer’s International Network 2012 Distinguished Poet and Artist Award, Janet has been featured at “Poetic Justice”, "Poetry in the Park” “Surrey Muse”, “Holy Wow Poets”, “World Poetry” and other local events. She is on the Board of Directors of the Royal City Literary Arts Society and an active member of New West Artists.

Pippa Little: I am Scots, born in East Africa and now living in NE England with my family of husband, sons and a labrador. I´ve been a teacher, editor and publisher and my collection Overwintering came out from Carcanet Press last year. My eldest son Jack who lives in Mexico City is also in this anthology.

Meg Tuite: I’m Meg Tuite and my writing has appeared in numerous journals including MadHatter’s Review, Epiphany, JMWW, One, the Journal, Monkeybicycle and Boston Literary Magazine. I’ve been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. I’m the fiction editor of Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press, author of Domestic Apparition (2011) San Francisco Bay Press, Disparate Pathos (2012) Monkey Puzzle Press, Reverberations (2012) Deadly Chaps Press, Bound By Blue (2013) Sententia Books, Her Skin is a Costume (2013) Red Bird Chapbooks and won the Twin Antlers Collaborative Poetry award from Artistically Declined Press for my poetry collection written with Heather Fowler and Michelle Reale, Bare Bulbs Swinging, (2014). I teach at the Santa Fe Community College, live in the desert with my husband, three cats and two dogs.My blog: http://megtuite.wordpress.com

Kathleen Morton: Hello! I'm K.M. Alleena -- but those who know me call me Katie. I'm a Creative Writing major at SUNY Oswego. I think my passion for writing started when I was a little girl. My uncle gave me his old, beat up copies of "The Hobbit" and "The Silmarillion" by J.R.R. Tolkien, and told me that one day they would be important to me. Turned out to be true. Tolkien is still my hero -- when I was young, I wanted to write so much, just so I could create worlds like he did. I haven't to this day lost that spark.

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A.J Huffman: Hello! I'm K.M. Alleena -- but those who know me call me Katie. I'm a Creative Writing major at SUNY Oswego. I think my passion for writing started when I was a little girl. My uncle gave me his old, beat up copies of "The Hobbit" and "The Silmarillion" by J.R.R. Tolkien, and told me that one day they would be important to me. Turned out to be true. Tolkien is still my hero -- when I was young, I wanted to write so much, just so I could create worlds like he did. I haven't to this day lost that spark.

Jack Little: Jack Little (b. 1987) is a British poet based in Mexico City where he edits The Ofi Press magazine online. He has forthcoming or published poetry in Wasafiri, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Barehands Poetry Anthology, Morphrog and New Linear Perspectives. www.theofipress.webs.com

Helen Victoria Anderson: I am a writer based in the North East of England and recently gained an MA in Creative Writing (with Distinction) at Teesside University. I have had a number of poems published in journals and anthologies and I won First Prize in the Bridgwater Homestart Short Story Competition 2013, judged by Dame Margaret Drabble. I am currently editing my first novel

Abigail Wyatt: Although born in Essex, I now live near Redruth in Cornwall where I have been writing seriously for about six years. During this time, my poetry and short fiction has appeared in more than seventy publications. I am one of the three editors of Poetry24 at poetry-24.blogspot.com and joint editor of 'Murder of Krows', an anthology of the work of emerging Cornish poets. My most recent publication is 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories'. I am currently working on two projects: firstly, a new collection of poems, 'The Frozen Moment', and, secondly, 'Tales of Little Grey Ted', a series of illustrated narrative poems aimed at children of all ages.

Shalini Samuel: I am an engineering post graduate from Kanyakumari. Due to my interest in writing I started a blog and that was the beginning. My poems have been published in the following magazines Tajmahal Review, Kritya, Fragrance,The Literary Jewels, eFiction, and New England Poetry Journal. Some of my poems have been a part of the following anthologies Inklinks, Moods and Moments, The Fiesta of Love, The 2013 Annual Poet's Showcase, The Haiku Treasury and Wordsmiths in their Verse. The poem "Passed Away Pain" won best poem of the month in Writers globe and "Lovingly I hate you" came as runner up in Writers Empire Valentine Poetry Contest. I also write in online forums like Muse India, Destiny Poets UK, Boloji, Voicesnet and Poemhunter. Apart from writing poems I currently edit poetry ezine Fragrance and also work as subeditor of literary ezine "The Literary Jewels". A collection of poems written by me has been published by Pothi.com as an ebook ("Sensible Scribblings").

Maria Chung: My first experience writing was as an angsty teenager who believed that no one could understand her. After reading more widely and participating in writing workshops and mentorships, I realised there was more to poetry than my personal feelings. Hopefully, my more current works reflect that. I write semi-regularly and hope to continue developing my style.

Serena Cooke: My name is Serena, I’m 17 years old and I’m currently studying for my A-Levels. At school, I edit my own artistic magazine called ‘The Little Green Journal’ so that students have a space to exhibit their poems, photography and short stories. I have won numerous poetry competitions and have been published by many magazines including Fur-Lined Ghettoes, Miracle E-zine,the Young Poets Network site and I recently performed my winning poem ‘Green Tears’ at the Cape Farewell and SWITCH celebration evening. I write my best pieces of work at dawn, but rain will never cease to inspire me.

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Sophie Clarke: My name is Sophie and I am currently studying for an MSt in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford. I have had poems published in various magazines, including Poetry Review, Popshot and Fuselit, and have poems forthcoming in the Tower Poetry Summer School Anthology and The Mays Anthology for Oxbridge students. Recently, I was accepted onto the Aldeburgh Eight Advanced Seminar, won first prize in the inaugural Poetry Book Society Student Poetry Competition, and was shortlisted for Oxford University's Martin Starkie Prize For Poetry. I am particularly interested in exploring themes of mountaineering and hill walking in my poetry, and have a feature on my work in the recent issue of national climbing magazine Summit.

Silva Baiton: I'm Silva, and I enjoy writing, literature, music, art, and tea.

Christie Suyanto: Hi there, Comrades. I'm Christie. I'm a writer, reader, poetry-addict and feminist. I also enjoy traveling, tea, good TV shows and terrible puns. My writings have appeared on a couple of magazines, including Miracle E-zine, 4and20 Poems, Young Adult Review Network, Cuckoo Quarterly and Crashtest.

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