'Here Be Dragons Poetry Slam' Entries - $25 Best Written Poem Contest - post below by midnight, Sunday 3 Sept. See contest rules

8/31/2017

Contest Rules
1) Post by Midnight Sunday 3 September.
2) Mention dragons.
3) Must have performed during the 'Here Be Dragons Poetry Slam' event, either in the slam or the open mic.
4) You must come in person to the 28 Sept Zodiac Poetry Slam to collect your prize in person.
5) All forms and styles acceptable. Note: We are looking for work that performs well on the page.

4 Comments

Max Pasakorn Konwohrachet

9/1/2017 10:18:43 pm

A dragon mother

My mother was born in the year 1964.
The year of the dragon.
So she was a dragon mother.
And here is the thing you need to know
about having a dragon mother.

She will expect you to kick away your own egg shells and hatch flying. She will throw you mathematic problem sums 2 grades too high and expect that you know the exact date of Cheryl’s birthday. She will ask you to learn the piano, and expect you to hit the highest grade, but when you want to be a pianist in the future, she’ll say, “No, honey, you can’t make money out of that.” She will stare very closely at the two-digit grade on your exam paper, and ask you with bloodshot dragon eyes where the third digit went.

She will come 20 minutes late to your poetry recital, tell you she was actually busy catching dinner, so you can have smoked salmon fried with her dragon’s breath when you get home. She will go camping and dangle you on the edge of the cliff, ask you to scream your damned loudest so you learn to roar far into the skies, but makes sure you roar only safe words because a twelve-year-old should not be screaming the word ‘fuck’ into the forest.

When you accidentally fall, she will kiss your wounds, tell you that dragons have magic and the boo-boo will go away. And when you start believing, she will sheathe you beneath her wings, tell you a bedtime story so you can roost in her embrace. When you have a dragon mother, you’ll never want to wake up away from her body of battle scars. They remind you how strong a mother can be. Especially yours, the dragon mother.

rush my essay link

3/4/2019 04:57:19 am

I hate how poems have become very unimportant in this day and age. I mean, poems used to be the most amazing things in the world. Even now, I still believe that poems are amazing because of the sheer power that they have. Poems let us express ourselves in so many ways. We also get to understand the feelings of others through reading what they write about. We should continue to romanticize life through the use of poems and poetry.

Ang Shuang

9/2/2017 03:21:07 am

everyone says i have to
sit with the pain. so i do.

we share awkward
conversations over coffee
like the world’s most
terrible first date, where
the clock in this café,
for some reason,
just isn’t moving.

and neither is pain.

pain is just sitting there, a dragon
eating a goddamn panini, leaving
toasted crumbs all over the table.

i am looking at the clock telling pain
i have two hours to write three poems
for a slam i signed up for tonight,
and pain says here, have another cup.
i don’t even like coffee,
but pain forces me to down
it anyway, because the thing
about pain is that it doesn’t care.

so pain is here with me.

pain is looking at an okcupid question
that asks, do you have an ex that
you would really like to date again?

pain is the world cracking open,
dividing into continents, an unraveling
string that pulls and pulls until it snaps.

pain is the inevitable.

pain is your hands forgetting my hands,
my eyes forgetting your smile,
you forgetting to take the rain with you.

on our last night together
we slept in separate beds
in the same hotel room,
the carpet between us
a soft landing for this
foreshadowing.

everyone says i have to
sit with the pain, when all
i really want is to sit with you.

i think i broke the clock
trying to turn it backwards.

pain is, in the end,
a side effect, a civilian casualty,
collateral damage.

unintended.

unforgettable as
this shower of rain.

Cora Dean link

9/2/2017 10:50:59 am

The Watchman

The Watchman walks late on the street.
His feet tap out a sullen beat.
His short companions, Tick and Tock,
Have heads made out of fat, round clocks.
Though Tick’s runs backwards and Tock’s runs fast--
neither one can outrun Watchman’s angry whacks.
He’s trying to set them straight, you see,
But straight is what they’ll never be.

He prowls down alleys all through the night,
Looking for windows that shine out light.
Hope he blinks when he walks past yours,
Or at least be sure you’ve got bolts on your doors
Because Watchman’s hands are made of knives
And he lives to shorten foolish lives.

Tick and Tock are on your side:
Tock will run to help you hide;
Tick will get in Watchman’s way,
Confuse him, make him think it’s day.
Because by day the sun comes out,
And everyone’s a lay about.
The Watchman slinks back to the slumberlands,
And spends the day sharpening his vicious hands.

If you see him by sunlight, industrious and glad,
At first you’ll scream and then go you’ll go mad.
The Watchman will begin to grin
Each tooth in his head a pointed pin.
He’ll kick off his tiny shoes—see his pointed feet,
toenails gnarled into ribbons the color of wheat.
When ladies walk by, he doffs his hat,
And ladies, my dears, you don’t want that.

His scalp’s attached with a wire—when it flips
You’ll see his brain’s made of mechanical chips.
They’re all different colors, and when you lean in
You’ll hear that they make an electric din.
Armed with an alarm like angry ringing bells
He wants to chase your dreams down wells.
Louder and louder and louder they’ll scream.
He’s no man at all! He’s a time machine!

Though Tick and Tock know time’s a crock,
They’ll keep it running like a clock.
Tick and Tock will never leave him,
Even if they’re offered freedom.
Without them, he’d be at a loss--
He’d have no one around to boss.
But the deeper secret they know well
Is one the friends will never tell:

Proud Watchman claims he waits on no man,
But we hold him fast on our own right hand.
Without us he’d pass though time unrelated
His sharp fingers growing rusticated.
We give him power, we take it back,
We treat him like an anxious cat.
He’s not so frightening as afraid
We’ll remember how free we are one day.

You see, you don't need dragons
to come save you.
You just need a little courage.

'Here Be Dragons Poetry Slam' Entries - $25 Best Written Poem Contest - post below by midnight, Sunday 3 Sept. See contest rules

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