See the winners here.
Above is a recent photograph of Chateau Boswell, a winery, vineyard, and tasting room located in California. It has suffered terribly because of the recent “Glass Fire” in Napa Valley.
Write a poem based on the above photo and post it in the comments section below. You will then be considered for the $100 prize.
WHEN: Now until Sunday November 8, 2020 midnight EST. Winners Announced November 15, 2020.
ENTRY FEE: None
WHO: Anyone in the world, any age or background, may participate. From within the Society, anyone, including Advisory Board Members, not involved in judging the contest may participate. (If you are outside the United States, you will have to have a PayPal account or a bank that accepts U.S. checks to receive the prize money if you win.)
WHAT: Each entrant may submit up to two poems of any length. Entries are expected to be classical in style, meaning that they must have a regular meter. Rhyming and other traditional techniques are of course good as well.
WHERE: Post your poem in the comments section below.
PRIZE: $100.
JUDGE: Evan Mantyk
“Only in Name”
A French castle
Or Chateau
Being a male lover
Or a beau
Courting women wearing bows
Namely
Names are simply identifiers
Even Juliet knew this
Because a rose by any other name
Would still smell as sweet
Chateau Boswell in its Shadow
It stands destroyed, indeed charred and burnt down,
A home, shadow of the former past days,
Struck down, stripped off its essence after fiery days,
The wine vineyard and the winery all gone,
Plethora of them with sweet exotic flavours,
So much to give lasting feel one savours,
Wild fire didn’t leave any of its kind just alone,
Losses are the aftermath clearly ever seen.
An Unexpected Call
Nothing much left of its splendid splendour,
The mastery and skillful ardour,
The very reason for its existence,
Made worthless by a fire so intense,
The vineyard and winery in ruins,
Can call to mind its labourers’ melodious tunes,
As they move across the field in column and row,
The wine stored in crafted bottles for a show,
Chateau Boswell a shadow of its old being,
Let’s pool resources to bring it back,
To the way it has indeed been,
Even adding more with nothing in lack,
As we earnestly hope and pray,
That further occurrence is kept at bay.
I was looking for a home
When I stumbled upon you
Soon, I knew I won’t be able to afford
But it’s an open house
Thank Heavens
I can stroll anytime I want
And so that’s what I do
Maybe, if I make an offer
You will let me in but I can’t maintain it
Plus I’ll mess it up
And it’s too beautiful to get messed up
So, I would be walking bare feet
Around the torture and the treat
Touching the walls and everything
Leaving just when I am about to ruin
The vibe with my sin
Let me know when you find someone suitable
To hold you intact and incredible
At least, a chaser deserve to know
When the prize has been taken
How Quickly
As dew-clad spring renews the thirsty land
The live oaks stand serene on green-grass hills—
A rolling landscape shaped by God’s own hand
Where golden poppies dance with daffodils.
The summer leads to fall, as contoured rows
Of vineyards bear the fruit of nascent wines.
As dry hills die, each grape and cluster grows
And ripens on the gnarled vintage vines.
Above the aging casks of Chardonnay
And Pinot Noir the Chateau Boswell burns—
Its legacy consumed and swept away;
Its vine-clad walls now crematory urns.
“How quickly,” Jesus said, “as in a flash,
“Are lilies of the field reduced to ash.”
A Winery, a fire, and an old rose
Upon a time came grapes
They were green and red
They grew happy and
Turned to wine.
On an unexpected day
A wind so strong with
Red and hot fire
Burned the winery
The old barrels
The thing that stood
Was the entrance to the winery
It had a rose bush
And the rose colored
Bricks to this day stand together
Brick by brick
Waiting to see the return of the winery
The folks who owned and loved her will bloom with hope
As the summer returns
And the earth brand new
Will give birth to new grapes
And the winery will again
Be a place of birth, joy, and great wine.
By Norma Okun
October 8, 2020
Though Charred and Wilted as a Rose
The Silverado Trail on fire;
The Chateau Boswell in its grasp,
Stretched out as on a funeral pyre
As flames inhale its final gasp.
Though charred and wilted as a rose—
Its beauty scarred and etched with pain—
Within the stem, a new bud grows
That, phoenix-like, will rise again.
Rosebud
What thunder grace safely sweetly wrapped is this
I see in the flash essay shock proem of your eyes,
Prized Orb, a bushel from your kiss,
While I drink in your liquid skies?
You spinning rain sun dance subtlest alchemist,
The telepathic crystallographic mitzvah flights
Lifted in the ninth biosphere mist,
And your beads colour blinding lights
Binding me to your astral body beats,
Spark-tossed, unruffled multiple deepening
ballet quantum leaped rhythms
Into the space of you far beyond mathematical feats.
I taste your voice in my midnight dreams
And the liquor fragrance of you is dearer.
You colour me with your poetical eyes of thunder.
A Rose Lament
I bowed my head, when sad I felt,
The burn and singe, which had been dealt,
In tandem with redemptive love:
Far worse was suffered, far above.
The Burnt Chateau of California
(A Mythological Interpretation of the Glass Fire)
Apollo rides the chariot of the Sun,
Full gay and melodious is his song,
September halts his wain and stops its run,
The dying summer dupes Apollo’s throng.
The Muses follow him and love his lyre,
But they are jaded by Sun’s gloomy rays,
While Bacchus, god of wine, fumes with desire,
In Chateau Boswell spends his tipsy days.
His turquoise eyes and corrugated hair
Attract the frenzied ladies to a sport,
A game of youthful passion in his lair,
Which makes Apollo envious of some sort.
The Muses have forsaken long his trail,
While his half-brother danced with ladies’ train
In the plush grapevine of the Napa vale,
So well nourished by Californian rain.
Apollo brandished thus his bow one day,
And aimed a burning arrow at the green,
From Helicon he launched his lethal flay
That kindled thunderous fire unseen.
The serpentine flames poached the Rose’s life,
She dropped her charred red petals in death-throe,
While the vineyard that the other day was rife
With purple grapes, is struck by a god’s bow.
The elixir is dead and now forlorn
Within Boswell, smouldering, effete,
What if a new hope springs from death, reborn,
From nature’s cradle yielded to defeat.
On the Glass Fire and the Chateau Boswell Winery
If with a firm assurance I could state
Those now scorched roses will come back
A brighter red and those stones now charred black
Will look as clean before a mordant fate
Conspired with wind and fire to conflagrate
Your vines in blazing storms of hiss and crack,
The claim would any worthy meaning lack,
No sparrow spare, nor set the crooked straight.
Although they sometimes cast a magic charm,
No words can conjure pleasure from past days
Or undo heedless nature’s wayward harm.
No rhyme or well-turned providential phrase
That might by an auspicious chance be mine
Can with pale lilac soothe a burned-down vine.
The Rose of Mourning
Walls of stone are much more prone to fire than fragrant roses,
Though one is soft and vulnerable: the other’s strength imposes.
For when the rose’s scarlet clothes give way to black of mourning,
We know in spring new buds will bring fresh flowers with the dawning.
The walls, of course, have no recourse to self-regeneration,
And every crack beneath the black begins a degradation
From which there is no turning back without the intervention
Of masons with a mortar mix for crumble circumvention.
So view anew the rose which blooms from scenes of conflagration,
Without the slightest bit of help, in blatant celebration
Of Life and Love, blue skies above—whatever takes your fancy
While sipping True Course Chardonnay beneath walls slightly chancy.
Standing Still
Within your frame,
my mind supposes,
were spent countless days
of wine and roses.
Upon your verdant,
well manicured grounds,
delighted patrons have
made their rounds.
O Chateau de Boswell,
of strongest stock,
with skill you were hewn
from solid rock.
Though by fierce flames
you’ve been impinged,
your stalwart visage
now scorched and singed,
one gaze upon you,
our hearts still inspire.
You have withstood
your trial by fire.
10/11/2020
a will to live
Rose comes
four seasons,
Rose blooms
striving in no need
of one’s impression,
Rose lives
tasting lush as wine
& scorch as fire,
Rose withers
but is stubbornly scarlet
even beneath the ashes,
so goes Rose—
whispering: it feels
great to be
alive,
again.
Cool poem.
But I Swear To Stand
When in love fifty ways my flesh
could bleed, like grapes loose grapevines thresh,
and Good God knows the dead don’t bleed
what life I am striving afresh.
For gifts and praise, don’t miss, don’t miss—
a heart ablaze, remate to peace
full of footsteps with spring rebirth,
a sacred bliss like a soul kiss.
Unlike roses that overlook
their prickles, I care to unhook
by hook or by crook the color
of my thirst from a prayer book.
Feel it, feel it, Bartimaeus—
that particles of light so pious;
when lingering summer’s divine,
let your senses be not confused.
Ο, of old castle and fine wine,
the impatience of fire that whine
like lust, but if I must pick one—
you, I pick for I charm what’s mine.
In me, you free peacock belike;
what your love anthology like
I really don’t mind, and it can
not change what it is—what I like.
Whisper what womb am I supposed
to pledge my seeds if as lost cause
I am marked by self-blinded fool,
yet to woes I let none expose.
this is the wall that haunts the maiden
this is the wall of thee
of horrors come lords
torments for never end
seldom have crossed in peace
come forth, dear one
as your bravery shall ring true
though i must warn
you must come without hopes of won
for only the weak ones break through
this is the wall that kills the girl
for she, is the almighty
her resistance is honored
though her rebel belongs to another world
the dream that let’s her dream
face this wall without obedience
for that gift is never free
defy the dead they prize
wither not, great one
run long away, this way
Chateau Boswell
A withered rose crowns a stem,
Having seen far better days,
Erect standing proud behind,
Chateau Boswell clear of haze.
The sandstone bricks emanate,
Timeless beauty of an age,
A rounded doorway now burnt.
Making news on the front page.
The structure was touched by fire,
Surrounded by burned terrain,
Wonder if the rose will live,
And produce flowers again.
Vines Still Have Their Roots and Stems
Once there stood Chateau Boswell
now in ruins burned away;
Private estate of vintners
of Bordeaux and Chardonnay.
The steep hillside vineyards
of volcanic soils, ash and clay
are next to Glass Mountain
where three fires joined and burned today.
No one knows the cause,
but they say dying vegetation
promoted the “Glass Fire, “
and the chateau devastation.
The Chateau Boswell legacy
will outlive the fire.
The healing vines of time
with lava soil will soon conspire.
Vines still have their roots and stems;
The soil was made more fertile.
The chateau roof will be restored.
Sturdy walls remain the girdle.
Burning has never conquered
What the rest of nature does.
Vintners will restore Boswell
To the glory that once was.
A half-burned rose in front of
The chateau is half alive;
Symbol of the soul of mankind
That staunchly will survive.
Napa Valley Vineyards Cringe in Terror
Napa Valley vineyards cringe in terror.
Consuming blazes racing down the hills.
Harvested grapes in vats of the vintner
Dissipating drops as each barrel spills.
Chateau Boswell feels the wrath of nature
Untamed because of man’s mismanagement.
Vegetation dried the greatest danger
Feeding a conflagration imminent.
Bordeaux bottles burst as do cabernet;
Favored by the sommelier tasting set.
From roots, vines regenerate some spring day
To face again California’s threat.
Undaunted stands the half-burned rose in pain
Surveying destruction as fires wane.
I am the man who bred the Rose,
That by the Chateau Boswell grows,
Obliterated by the flames,
While my creation there remains.
This Englishman of wealth and fame,
With many letters to his name,
Produces roses, strong and bright,
By growing in Vermiculite.
Or “Hydrous Phyllosilicate,”
(It’s proper name I have to state)
As used in many industries,
For fire-retardant properties.
This rose, I called, “The Desert Star,”
The finest I had bred so far,
I tried to light it with a match,
But not one leaf or bud would catch.
So now the wine has ceased to flow,
And connoisseurs refuse to go,
While all around is ashen blight,
My “Desert Star” is shining bright.
A Fiery Kiss
A fiery kiss did this
No this was no union of bliss
A place where wine and taste did exist
There came an unwelcome guest with a fiery kiss
The house the vineyard dear lord there’s no quick fix
Let replanting begin from the destruction of a fiery kiss
The Wine Glass Shattered
The wine glass shattered
The people of Napa scattered
By a fiery wall they were battered
The joy of wine and song indeed mattered
We were made sad as the wine glass shattered
Nanditesh Nilay
16-10-2020
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover ,
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
The fire around
The fire outside
You tasted both
You tasted might
You burnt within
You lost the sight
Oh Grapes, dear Grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover ,
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
The fire around
The fire outside
You tasted both
You tasted might
You burnt within
You lost the sight
Oh Grapes, dear Grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Nanditesh Nilay
16-10-2020
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover ,
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Oh Grapes , dear grapes
The fire around
The fire outside
You tasted both
You tasted might
You burnt within
You lost the sight
Oh Grapes, dear Grapes
Your green cover
Your black cover
Why undraped
Why looking fade
Oh Grapes, dear Grapes
Nanditesh Nilay
16-10-20
Bring that rain
Chateau Boswell
Not looking well
The winery
The vineyard
All looking pale
The Napa Valley
Disrobed again
Inside the door
The lonely den
Tasteless and dry
Listening to your cry
But emerge again
Which brings back pride
And cools that pain
Oh! Napa Valley
Bring that rain
Rebirth
By Kelly Okoniewski
A door I open to a better version
Of the greatness we have lost
To this task complete immersion
Of my heart, my sadness tossed
My flower singed and drooping
But my stem is strong and steady
Gather myself; regrouping
For rebuilding, I am ready
I look through a broken window-pane
And see the vast potential down below
From this loss we will gain
A new love that we will grow
Good morning, Frankincense
I think of you, of fields of roses, and brooks
of undiluted wines,
Of new seasons, of poets and lyrical splendid lines.
I think of your luster form, delicate spells,
the rubric lights, the eyes
Of graced, rainbow nectars and the thunder
that fill up my skies.
In a throbbing verse, of mild pomegranates,
becalming winds and soul flights
There I hear a woven jazz fluttering in sheer delights.
I think of galbanum, of that unfolding scent,
the falling rains, the screen movies
Of our loud longings, of spinning body musical scores,
and climatic kiss.
I think of that mirthful summertime touch,
and the vine-dews
You formed as you pulled aside your clothes and
your sacramental self melted away my flues.
I think of that poetry, of those easeful words, and I know
The same many passions of the piano.
I tell you of granaries; I speak of wines
(and brooks bubbling more)
Of jazz, and poetry with no broken score.
Lamenting Chateau Boswell
Red was the rose, blushing and perfuming.
Choice was the wine they were consuming.
Sad was the day winds became unruly
and flames torched the vines with a fury.
Nature unleashed a season of pain.
Now only silence and secrets remain.