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
No Loss
Alas for the sparkling wines
I am too young to drink
O tastes that I will never know
Tears not for me to shed
Alas! The pleasures of Paris are
Weak in the shadow of these doomed walls
Dionysus in his fury
Cleansed the land of this impurity
Clarity in the roses.
Sonnet for Chateau Boswell, Napa Valley
by Laura Olney
The blocks of stone hand hewn still standing tall
Her soldier half has perished, his helmet gone
Her body scorched she mourns the fruits of fall
The babies of the fields and a little one
An injured owl who nestled beneath the eave
Watched folks below taste grapes and fill the kegs
She kept him safe so he could one day leave
With mended heart and two strong skinny legs
Her manly metal doors and gates so fine
No longer welcome guests or watch the wine.
The mother’s tears cry with the rain to see
Her beautiful dress in tatters down below
Dead roses and black bones of mighty trees
But worse the news she does not want to know
As night grows cold, she mourns what she loved best
And dreams of beating wings in soft night glow
A beautiful owl come home to check her nest
Spring babies up above and down below
What is this sudden warmth on a winter’s night?
The owl, returning home in the pale moon light!
Ellonie Lamarre
November 2, 2020.
A Votre’ Sante
Farewell ami, we’ll cherish thee, ever forth our memories shall bloom. You’ve fed our souls with hymns of love no fire could deplume.
Beneath the earth your heartbeat dwells, these vineyards ever hallowed. Time remember thee my friend for as long as you lie fallow.
Endearingly your family waits and once again in time, you’ll be our blend of loveliness that grows upon the vine.
OOPS! It seems I submitted the rough draft, rather than final. Please forgive!
Sonnet for Chateau Boswell, Napa Valley
by Laura Olney
The blocks of stone hand hewn still standing tall
Her soldier half has perished, his helmet gone
Her body scorched she mourns the fruits of fall
The babies of the fields and a little one
An injured owl who nestled beneath the eave
Watched folks below taste grapes and fill the kegs
She kept him safe so he could one day leave
With mended heart and two strong skinny legs
Her shadow still brings coolness in the morn
She waits for buzzing, busy bugs to stir
And wishes that another child be born
In need to look so lovingly at her
While manly metal doors and gates so fine
No longer welcome guests or watch the wine.
The mother’s tears cry with the rain to see
Her beautiful dress in tatters down below
Dead roses and black bones of mighty trees
But worse the news she does not want to know
A helpless child she shielded many days
The wounded wing was on the mend it seemed
Another child to die with loving gaze
Not coming home to nest as she had dreamed
As night grows cold, she mourns what she loved best
She dreams of beating wings in soft night glow
A beautiful owl comes home to check her nest
Spring babies up above and down below
What is this sudden warmth on a winter’s night?
The owl, returning home in the pale moon light!
“Of broken glasses and spilled wines”
Your colourful presence was never in doubt
Your vineyard was fruitful in and out
Wines flowed from the crushing of grapes
And were drunk by those in special capes
The world knew you and revered you
It took one terrible light to disfigure you
A fire to burn the glasses and shatter the winery
The vineyard, once beautiful, is no more
Wines of centuries before
Wines of centuries to come
All spilled with no respite
Chateau Boswell becomes a name in history
A place now shrouded in mystery
Of broken glasses and spilled wines
“Broken but standing tall”
Many things have been broken in history
Some have remained so
Others have stood tall
Chateau Boswell was one of the broken ones
One lighted flame brought it down to its knees
It has remained a place once known for wines
It remains known for its lush vineyard
Its glasses have been shattered by the flames
Its gardens have been torched
But it stands tall as always
For cowards are not remembered
But the brave stand tall because no one forgets them
“Oh Chateau Boswell The Glorious One”
As the sun rays shone to kiss your petals
Radiating glory you spread to kick men like pedals
Perfect colour dished out to glasses
We could only pray for more to fill our glasses
Swiftly did the odd days blew
Dark vapours coming out of the blue
Side to side, shade to shade, all laid to waste
Just as the fiery flames rage to wage
Oh Chateau Boswell the glorious one
Charred bricks and ashes – you were torn
In the lips of men you shall be endured
From the ashes a budding shall be ensured
“Chateau Boswell The Great”
Chateau Boswell the great
Your grapes spawned out gold
Your exquisite drops quenched the taste of noble men
The insiders you provide with shelter
The outsiders you provide with ecstasy
The young men and women celebrate your flavours
Even the old adores your colours
The world renders an applause
Now, you can’t hear them
Pristine taste tossed to the floors
The wine that opened up doors
Strong and fierce you were, now broken
Now broken by nature’s anger
Fair colour melts to ashes
The scents that called out names
Captivating but now a shadow
Alive but stands delusional
Draw nigh, I say to the day you resurrect
The bird the rose and the turret
A bird was in the turret in the wood,
Where tangled briar rose climbed, barred the way;
I heard the singing falling where I stood
At dusk, as golden light faded away.
I heard the sweetness falling, saw the flight,
Brown-feathered flutter of the slender wings;
And at the failing of the dusky light,
I heard the song the turning season sings.
The bird has flown, and through the window bare
The north wind blows, the only gold the leaves,
Yet still the rose climbs red to scent the air,
And for the turret’s faded glory grieves.
Chateau Boswell
The taste of sweet
Now is dry
We will not retreat
Or say goodbye
Fill the “glass”
Of charred remains
This soon will pass
With winter rains
Think back, old times
Memories keep
Beauty refines
Remember, don’t weep…
Craig Cruise
November 3, 2020
A Stone’s Throes
If I could weep,
I would have wept such tears,
At the site of her withering,
The flames approaching,
That they would have been quenched.
If I could remove myself,
From this responsibility to my caste,
I would have rushed to her,
To be found in harm’s way,
So she would have been sheltered.
She who gave her beauty to me,
Upon a summer’s morn,
Her fragrance embracing me,
All stoic and crusted,
With nothing to offer her,
But silent adoration.
If I could speak,
I would have told her,
From my vantage,
Upon this wall,
She will ever remain in bloom.
Chateau Boswell
Sweet scorched rose singed to its withered heart
Blackened in grimy soot these staunch ramparts
Once dewy pride of beige unflinching walls
Your crimson allure courted nature’s call
Green grew lush vineyards of chateau Boswell
Till fiend fire dubbed ‘Glass’ torched heaven to hell
Alas! Our winery’s perfume wafting sweet
Turned swift to fumes of orange heat
The heroic men steadfast fought hard at last
To save what now remains of glory past
And now reader raise a glass to toast
The ravaged remains of Napa’s boast
The glass you raise of sweetest wine to taste
Become lips of prayer, savour my best.
© Amrita Valan 2020
Out of the Past
Anita J Peiffer
November 3, 2020
I stood there in her shadow
Beneath a pillar tall and proud
She sat silent and alone
Yet her echoes cried aloud
She filled my head with visions
That never belonged to me
The sound of days gone by
Drifted as laughter on the breeze
I heard the pop of corks
And the clink of many glasses
Conversation that was lively
Amid cheers among the masses
A melody in the background
Seemed to say without a word
Stay here with me awhile
Where such joyfulness is heard
Inside was the candle’s glow
The sun was bright outside
Colors were soft and subtle
The richness of wine aside
I saw myself about to sit
At a table dressed and charming
When a bird flew high above
His cry both loud and alarming
He pulled me from my reverie
From the beautiful and the grand
The sky was gray with smoke
Desolation was here at hand
I looked upon her stone facade
Saw the pride beneath her scowl
Pain she simply could not feel
I felt deep within my bowel
Between her youth and older age
I felt her agonize and struggle
She had no wish to give in
Nor lie amidst the rubble
Just as I searched for meaning
Amid the smoke and fallen ash
She too would beg to question
Was I not built to last?
I am a place of dreams
Of heart and grace and soul
How can I lay defeated
And let destruction take its toll?
I turned as if to answer
Amid the blackened bit of cinder
Where once there burned a flame
No one could manage to hinder
There within the hopelessness
I spied the greatest wonder
A rose with petals gently singed
Burned not completely asunder
A curious sight it was indeed
This reminder of life’s duality
That in a world so unpredictable
One could overcome brutality
Ah, appearances do deceive
This life was at its end
No, but have another look
Perhaps it was about to begin
I don’t know how I knew
As I stood below in awe
The picture wasn’t of the past
In the vision that I saw
It wasn’t an end at all
Or days of old gone by
It was a whole new beginning
She’d hinted of on the sly
This remnant of time and stone
This was not to be her end
Somehow I knew in my heart
Chateau Boswell would rise again
The Silent Weeping
When yellowing pulp turns to black
not at once but in stages
the sick have time to set a trap
in hope to seize salvation
bones are hollow
brittle and dry
lungs have turned to jelly
some of us
may wither and die
and glorify the telling
Love this poem, Laurie! Short and powerful and captured my soul…
Thank you Laura, I really appreciate your feedback! Hope you’re taking care and stay safe.
Cheers
LL
What Happy People Used to Do
Please come in and sit down
Forgive my haphazard scattering of kitchen witch twigs
copper pots and cauldrons that swing from savoury sprigs
they bind me with twine so blood tight around my finger
reminds me of the mossy brine sipped from silver birch
The kind that doesn’t leak
Please watch your step
As I sweep away the light dust of nostalgia
The tea-leaves from past romances reduced to rotting flesh
Ignore the nosey rubber necks who lurk
About the place as if they owned it
Their wistful glances speak louder than words
Please mind the cozy
As it tipples along the toadstool floor
Polka-dotted with a high thread count
Pine needle sewn with stony sterility
Like the gauze that binds the hurt
And distracts me from the slow seeping stain
What was
Is no more
What once grew on the vine
Was divine
And made wine
Now is still
Against its will
Beyond the window sill
Yet there was
Just because
A story of what was
And is no more
Tasting of the wine
So divine
Of the lost vine
Time moves on
The window gone
The rise of dawn
Continues on
The rose is dead
But just ahead
Is only dread
What was
Is no more
Chateau Boswell
Reborn
It was known for its beauty
When the sun is up
The flowers and butterflies
Are the fairies that showers you with love
Morning dews are like crystals
That glitters on the green spread of life
And rain is a blessing when the atmosphere is hot.
When the sun sets again
The house made of stone stand alone
It acts like a guard
For the beauty that serves as his home
No matter how you see the difference
In your eyes or emotion
It will always remain a beauty
That only needs to be reborn.
With no words, old tan stone loved by many
Filled with secrets, and dark present
Though nighttime falls above
Fear not, tomorrow comes
Night too fades to light
Dried walls and dried roses by light revived
Light from the soul creeps
Creeps onto the ancient walls
Illuminates the mighty castle again
Grow the grapes illuminated by spirit
Stored in barrels to be refined
With the tender heart filled with care beside
Over the hill and throughout the chateau
Grow grapes from spirit and drink to content
Filling the soul once more
And revived the castle strong
It was here where I first savored your name
And learned that love can either taste of tannins and Tobacco leaves
Or licorice and rose petals
It was here where I learned that love gets better with age
And though Jesus turned water to wine
The true miracle lies in watching the evolution from seed to grape
It was here where I first became intoxicated on embered romance
Landscapes of drunken desires that burn like wildfires in glassy eyes
It was here where I learned that too much of something good can become destructive
So it was here where we said our last goodbye
wonderful poem. not too much. just enough. lovely.
Thank you so much Laura!
Petals charred
Caught off guard
Fire’s rage
Cannot gauge
Damage done
In long run
Castle stands
Over lands
Once fertile
Now defile
Hope remains
Though it pains
The Singing
Before the warped carcass of the metal door,
where fire whispered its radiant lie to stone,
the dead feet of ash speak of how everything glowed
before it blackened.
Thorns were defenseless to protect
petals from the assaulting fingers of flame
but every leaf gleamed as it ignited,
glowed and sang its own dirge
to fill the thrashing air with the timbre of perdition.
Flame spoke to cloud, cloud to stone,
Everything called to angels deep within the soil.
Nothing stilled the forbidden voice of smoke
slithering through vines.
The strong-throated song of destruction cleaved
The silent, dark heart of Chateau Boswell.
Sunlight on a wall,
on scorched roses, stiffened limbs,
on a door pulled shut.
Glass Fire
A rose wrought of silica and smelted in kiln
of raging caladity couldn’t by far describe
Its ordeal as ably as one that sited
apace with charred ruins of chateau Boswell.
Withal owing hues and habit; it virtue
evermore noted, impelling pens to scribe,
the grief that befell on its precious valley,
whereupon fine grapes of wine graced as symbol.
Dismal remains of fire-depleted chateaux
hint citadels, which endured ultion of wicked.
Land and livelihoods undid by Glass Fire,
gift to legacy of the year that’s dismal.
Yet poise, Valor, promise of future ascribe
remnants beholding eclat of preceded.
Glass Ghazal
Night wildfire on the trail to cinnabar and wine,
flames engulfed chateau and gardens, but charred the rose.
Light scent of tobacco, graphite, leafy herbs – gone,
in smoke when blaze ‘roared round chateau, gardens and rose.
It took no lives though many fled their home and keep,
few stately as the chateau, its gardens, the rose.
A blackened turret now opens to sky, no more
black currant fruit nose in chateau or rose.
Relics offer clues to native tribes who once walked
lands, now the estate of chateau, gardens and rose.
Wagons, robbers, and miners once traveled the road,
volcanic soils held old growth, no chateau, no rose.
Fierce winds of wildfire have shaped the next phase after
gleaming chateau stones, clipped gardens, bushes of rose.
In the wake of dark skies, when glass became deadly,
flames destroyed chateau and gardens, but charred the rose.
Ember of the Hope Aflame
Still stands a rose as if it grows
yet fragile statue heaven knows
becoming shards of its demise
perhaps as fertile womb to rise
where seed that falls to ashen earth
finds cover to await its worth —
the destiny it cannot sense
inert in hollow of suspense —
perhaps the warmth and moistened soil
that wakes it to instinctive toil
or death to serve a nobler cause
as richer earth or fill of jaws
or ember of the hope aflame
that art for shell of stone will frame.
Glass Fire
A rose wrought of silica and smelted in kiln
of raging calidity couldn’t by far describe
Its ordeal as ably as one that sited
apace with charred ruins of Chateau Boswell
Withal owing hues and habit; its virtue
evermore noted, impelling pens to scribe
the grief that befell on the precious valley
Whereupon fine grapes of wine graced as symbol.
Somber remains of fire depleted chateaux,
hint citadels which endured ultion of wicked.
Land and livelihoods undid by Glass Fire
gift to legacy of the year that’s dismal.
Yet poise, Valor, promise of future ascribe
remnants beholding eclat of preceded