Sol Magazine © 2001
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Our topics touch a variety of subjects about nature and the nature of humanity.  The purpose of our all-volunteer organization is to educate poets, and to foster the reading and writing of short poetry.  We are not a vanity press.  Not every poem submitted will be published.  We are a family magazine.  Do not advocate the use of alcohol or drugs in your poetry then ask us to consider your work.  Please read our monthly rules before sending us your work.
 

CONTENTS:

• WELCOME
• LETTERS
• "Hope and Light," a book review
• IN THE GARDEN
• FIRST POETS:  WHO CHOOSES
• THE BEST POEM OF MARCH

FIRST PLACE:  Winner of a copy of "Fire in the Garden," by Violette Newton.  Includes a packet of Basil Lettuce Leaf herb seeds.

Hops Horticulture unde CracklePopping

Come the long cold nicht of vinters blousing freeze
I sits upon mine cheeks, unde cloaks mine head from breeze.
Beyond the frosted vindow panes I peer unde beg His pardon
for I do miss and covet my little speck of garden.
Then logz in fire do crack vis mighty hiss unde pops,
I reach for crystal stein unde toast ze dew from hops.
Ze fire unde I do glow as varmth begins to spread.
Visions grow in rows within mine frothy head.
Tis time I sing, unde chuckle, as I prodz a sparking log
for me to get another Burpee's catalog.

Ron Blanton, Alpharetta, GA

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Microcosm

Purple Irishes have begun to bloom, and
Australian cat creeps through the garden.
The Span of the Yard is green with
Bermudan grass.
I'll need to Finnish the mowing soon,
But I'm not going to go Russian to get it done.
I am Hungarian for a sandwich, after all this work.
Viennese are growing up the Frenchposts, and
The Braziliant colors are all around.
Iraqi my brain, deciding what to Planet next.

Coke Brown Jr., Fort Worth, TX
EDITORS COMMENTS:  Lively puns, inventive wording, really plays with the language.  Favorite word:  Braziliant!

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Parental Pride

Kernal Corn's garden party turned into a medley as each row of parents
bragged on their sprouts.  Jack Pumpkin lifted Baby Boo with relish.
Mrs. Potato Head bragged on Spud's many beautiful eyes.  Tina Tomato
turned beet red saying, "Everyone calls my son Better Boy." Sue Snap
squashed all with, "My kids are Kentucky Wonders."
Silver Queen stalked out with covered ears.
Shaking his head Chubby Cabbage said, "Lettuce
pull together as Veg-Alls for the world."

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA
EDITORS COMMENTS:  Fun story, would be great fun to read to a grandchild.  Favorite phrase:  "Spud's many beautiful eyes."  Very, very cute!

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THIRD PLACE
Early Morn

Night sky boils its tender clouds,
the excess sloshes over silver rim,
tumbles down like the sigh of April longing.
Now Sun has broken open
like an egg, seeps through white slats
of gate and garden trellis.
The giant red disc of hibiscus shines,
hyacinth hums and the tiny crocus crows
Suddenly, you must rush out; inhale sweet inspiration!

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  Descriptive, lively, original.  Great closing line. Some lusciously lovely images here.  Joyful writing, full of spring itself.

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HONORABLE MENTION
Growing Salsa

dancing wildly in the sun
reddening tomatoes with fine thick flesh
ripen in my garden, ready for plucking

jealous onions stalk nearby
in rows, eyeing intertwining vines
climbing to the persistent sun beat

bushes of chili peppers, clumps of cilantro
sway to wind rhythms, waiting
as a lone lime tree watches -
the last squeeze in Abuela's recipe.

Deborah P. Kolodji, Pasadena, CA
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  Starting with the clever title, this poem utilizes wonderful imagery to build to the revelatory conclusion, that this  really a spicy salsa recipe!  Nice use of personification throughout, as well as the judicious use of adjectives to make the scene "pop."  Beautiful scene, great images, delicious sounding recipe.  The rhythms and cadence in this lovely bit of writing sway as if the wind were dancing through the poem, as well as the garden.  Well done!

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HONORABLE MENTION
I Do Not Understand

In my garden the crowded marigolds
nudge each other for more room,
the stately sunflowers follow the sun
adoringly until it sets,
ladyslippers and roses seek to find
the perfect shades of pink
that cause their constant blush.
I cannot understand why
the weeping willow weeps
with so much beauty at her feet.

Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  The poets were asked to write about their own gardens, and this poet not only described hers beautifully, she also questioned how any would be able to find tears with which to weep within a garden, even that most notorious weeper of all, the willow.

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SECOND PLACE

Hoe down

Petunia, Rose and Lily Sacheted their charms in front of the
Woodsmen, Elm-er, Ash-ly, Ceder-ick, each tall as Giants,
who softly Rustled to one another about the lovely
Stems and nice Buds decorating the Forrest Hill dance
hall floor. Men could be such Saps, however their Bark
was usually worse than their bite and each delicate Bloom
vowed that they would have their fella turn over a new Leaf
and Prune them into upstanding members of the Garden Club.

Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX

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Spring Garden

Crocuses focus as they play purple passion.
White and yellow daffodils fill the bill on the hill.
Stately English ivy climbs the garden wall, so tall
Red roses for a blue lady slipper make no promises.
Privets don't fidget with the farmer's widget.
Anemic yews beat around the bush.
The plants in my garden slumber silently.
But with spring's breathtaking warmth and charm
It's ready to bounce to life and step lively everyday.
The March calendar says, "Time to weed and feed."

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD
EDITORS COMMENTS:  Light and clear, with good images, and rhythm.

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From Amber Waves of Grain

They were gardens, forests, they were amber waves of grain
they were our killing fields, fields we walked, acres of grasses.
But, anger thundered through the valleys as we sowed our seed
in blue and butternut, in gallant flags and ceremony.

Crops grew tall: Shiloh, Antietam, Manassas and countless more
year after bloody year we harvested bitter, bitter fruit.
We stacked it high in endless stacks, all rotting in the sun
from amber waves of grain -- blue and butternut, all stained red.

James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  Somber, biting diatrabe against war.  Wonderfully written about the universal garden of war.

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The Boxer

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee
My garden's no place for Mohammed Ali
Lilacs and marigolds, they surround my ring
As vibrant as the bluebirds that hover and sing

My canvas is covered by the sweat of the dew
And reds like blood from the roses budding anew
But it's fragrance - not odors - wafting through my window panes
While Simon and Garfunkle sing, "The fighter still remains."

Andrew Verrett, Kenneth City, FL
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  It's a fight to the finish, as lilac, marigold, and rose punch it out via fragrance.  Nice comparisons, and great cadences fill this image-laden poem.

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Kudzu Beleaf It?

I seed my garden was violeted
when I came back from fir away.
Those little creepers bean puttin' down roots!
Suckers, yer thyme has come.
I'll kale ya all and s-petunia graves.
You'll vine and begonia kness,
but I'll beech ya at yer own game.
Chervil bee a battle, but azalea dead
befern I let ya take clover.
Hosta la vista, bay-bee!

Andrea M. Zander, Rochester, MN
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  Gangster style poetry, menacing with a smile, is  enhanced by the use of mock outrage, vows of vengeance, and suppressed smiles.  Fun to read, creative images.  Well done!

Winner:  Maryann Hazen-Stearns.  She receives a signed copy of "Indigo Avenue," by Craig Tigerman, our lead editor.
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Down the Old Road

Shallow and skinless
am I in your sight.
Believe I breathe
and bleed and break.
A little like autumn,
a lot like everyday.
Spattering spit
down a shameful shirtfront.
They come with guilt
and a basket of dried fruit
that can't be chewed.
Lidless eyes that barely blink
still shed some tears.
More often than not, John,
I duck, dodge and dwindle
this heart between beats.
So hungry am I
for that long mile home.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY

There were many wonderful entries in this contest, including these favorites of the editors:  "Alicia's McKenzies," by Diane M. Davis, Chelmsford, MA; "Song of the Potter," by Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY; "Grinding Corn," by James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX.

The following poems were chosen for many reasons, some of which are given in the comments after each.
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Et Tu

The woods in March are a consoling place,
New growth just now adorning the trees with grace.
Can you hear the brook babbling over the rocks?
Can you feel the daffodils tickling your socks?
Not so for Caesar who on the Ides of March said, "Et tu"
Thinking, "Brutus, I should have paid more attention to you."
A trusted one stabbed him at the head of the pack;
Death's icy fingers sent chills down his moistened back.
The sky now turns from purple to crimson as sunset looms
But I only feel damp air adding to my list of glooms.
The air - it's moister now that the sun has set.
Yet it's not the dampness that makes my eyes wet.
I cry thinking about the smell of her hair,
But as I turn on the log, alas she's not there.
Darkness now veils the beauty of the trees.
Frogs and crickets dampen the brook's melodies.
It was on the Ides of March, she said, "No more."
Her words like swords stabbed me to the core.
The bubbling brook and the daffodils don't ease my pain
Nor does the harmony of a frog chorus refrain.
In between sniffles, I smell the rich scent of fir,
Yet it does little to ease my memories of her.
She was my mate, my friend, and my life
For years I happily called her my wife.
The job took me away from the woods and my bride
The forest is still here, but she's abandoned my side.
"Maybe my love, I should have paid more attention to you."
As dew drops stab my back, I look to the trees and say, "Et tu?"

Andrew Verrett, Kenneth City, FL
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  This poem catches the imagination, giving something to see, to feel, to hear; there is even the hint of a mystery, finally answered in the next to last line.  The final words relate to both Brutus and the title, ending the poem with surprise.  Beautiful example of how poets may express their thoughts through classical figures.  Designed in such a way that the rhyme is felt, yet not "sing-song" in effect.  Imagery is strong with clear visual effects, in an almost magical setting.  The reader can feel the pain of the narrator.

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Seduction

It is, of course, that moment a man recants
his own death and begins a long descent
into memories bunched among mortal fiber.
With an earful of noise he begins
to count backward from infinity to zero

until one foot strokes the other, one hand
wonders what the other is doing.
Confusion, again and again, whispers
a litany of forgiveness. Words, as go-betweens,
perform in the manner of servants

anxious to please, anxious to tell a story,
even if it is a lie. Like rain draining
through empty flower pots, this is how we learn
longing. This is how we learn language.
No wonder we fall silent so soon.

Larry L. Fontenot, Sugar Land, TX
EDITORS' COMMENTS:  Memorable.  Word choices are exquisitely particular in this poem, using cadence and a slowly rising pace to bring the reader along, "anxious" to hear this story.  Excellent writing, beautiful poetry.  The "almost-entendre" of moral fiber is ironically placed to expose its fragility.  Wonderful ending lines, where the poet brushed in a hint of sardonic jeering, not at the reader, but at himself.  No wonder we could not pass up an opportunity to publish this poem; it is wonderfully written.
 

Sol Magazine will mail no book prizes to poets outside the United States of America.  Electronic book gift certificates will be substituted.  No exceptions.
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All poetry remains the property of the poet, except Sol Magazine reserves the right to publish all poems (once) at a future date, and/or to post them to a web page.  NONE may be reproduced without permission of Sol Magazine.  Electronic forwarding is permitted as long as no portion of this magazine is changed and all credits are given.
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Sponsors in 2001:  Lois Lay Castiglioni, Marsha Steed, Leo F. Waltz
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Angels in 2001:  Leo F. Waltz.
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Book donors in 2001:  Paula Marie Bentley, Katherine Elmore, Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Glynn Monroe Irby, Peggy Zuleika Lynch, Carlyn Luke Reding, Kathleen Elizabeth Schaefer, Craig Tigerman.

Corporate book donors:  Flying Cow Productions, Bookstop.  New sponsors and angels always welcomed.  Thanks for your support.
 

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