Finalists for the MOA Poetry Jam 2017

Session I: 6:00-6:30 Jeffrey Subramanian, Dismissal of Hagar and Ishmael ............................................................ 2 Hayley Walker, Thesmophoric ..................................................................................................... 3  Noah Hickman, The Lemon .......................................................................................................... 4  Matthew Rudy, Two Metal Boxers ............................................................................................... 5 Jenna Rakuita, Prismed Light ...................................................................................................... 5  Cynthia Hallen, Christ in a Red Robe .......................................................................................... 6 Tiana Scott, Plexus No. 29 ............................................................................................................ 7  Will Finlayson, These Pounds of Flesh ........................................................................................ 7  Jessica Hamblin, Her Laurels Are Fallen .................................................................................... 8  Tatiana Rudolphi, Imperialism .................................................................................................... 9  Landon Dyer, Response to a Trumpet Player ............................................................................ 10  Matthew Wagstaff, Chopping Block .......................................................................................... 11  

Session II: 7:00-7:30 Emily B. Strong, Christ Washing the Feet of the Disciples ...................................................... 12  Catherine Jungheim, Premier Chagrin ..................................................................................... 13  Liz Peterson, After Sunlight ....................................................................................................... 14  Scott Porter, Paeonia .................................................................................................................. 14  Hannah Dixon, Kershisnik’s Nativity ......................................................................................... 15  Gabe Smith, Red .......................................................................................................................... 16  Spencer Brown, Light-Headed ................................................................................................... 17  David Shepherd, Proselyte of Light ........................................................................................... 18  Olivia Snow, First Vision ............................................................................................................ 20  Melodie Jackson, Statistics ......................................................................................................... 21  Alyssa Gunnell, Trumpet Player ................................................................................................. 22  

Session I: 6:00-6:30 Dismissal of Hagar and Ishmael Based on the sculpture by William Theed the Younger Poem by Jeffrey Subramanian Another single mother with her son Kicked out into the wilderness. A man In a dilemma, stuck between two women; An illegitimate child, and a legal one. Even back then we had this problem, A prophet’s problem, now every other man’s It seems. To think Theed cast this mess in marble: The furrowed brow, the authoritative hand, The naked babe, the cloak of manliness Behind the downcast woman, hand on breast. Can the provisions make up for this? The child looking back in innocence –

Thesmophoric Response to Thesmophoria by Francis Davis Millet Poem by Hayley Walker “A French-trained artist, Millet painted the mural from his English home in the Cotswolds. Models included his neighbors.” A line of English neighbor ladies stand in Millet’s living room, draped in table cloths and bedroom sheets, clutching at cups and cornucopias and the sense of regality they attribute to the goddesses of ancient Greece. The one assigned as Demeter stands in the center but appears only slightly melancholy, on her face hardly can the mourning of a mother who has lost her daughter to the Underworld (if even temporarily) be seen. The procession of these late-1800s ladies may be picturing themselves in Millet’s mural rendition of the scene, the parade of kids and white cows and the Acropolis in the background, just behind the blue-ish Grecian trees. But one of the neighbor women is kneeling, as if left just behind, wondering more about Hades towering over a young Persephone and the vegetation in a summer Athens dying and all the piles of weaving which were surely left in the kitchens to be finished at the festival’s end, as she buckles her sandal to her foot and bows her head a little closer to the bottom of the painting’s frame.

The Lemon After J. Francis Murphy’s “Sunlight (Setting Sun)” Poem by Noah Hickman It hangs behind the thickest branches like a heart, beating in echoes of the water lapping on the bank and of birds months away. If you look closely, you won’t see it, and that’s the point, the ochre green and brown trunks curved like branches left in the mud by children, the grass dipping its head to watch its roots grow deeper. The sun hangs low, the eye of a god, his long fingers rustling the branches, wind and tremble, breathing softly, looking for that heart he left hanging in one of these trees.

Two Metal Boxers Reponse to Mahonri M. Young’s sculpture Right to the Jaw

Poem by Matthew Rudy It is CSS Virginia vs. USS Monitor these two ironclads. Welded forever into defeat or victory, whomever of the two reflects you. Two brass boxers. Jaw melding to glove, “Lay the heavy leather, lay the heavy leather” a crowd might have called.

Screamed. Now silent and still. Still laying leather. Arching on muscles in a quiver and bodies brown glisten, sweat of stationary fighters.

Eyes wincing, gloves dropping, heels rolling, lifting from canvas. Defeat is arching back and low.

This side victory. Muscles lend forward, concentrating to the fist. Feet planted beneath hiked up shorts and a face in grimace. Victory in the clenched teeth

and defeat is slack jawed atop bending knees soon limp on the canvas except ironclad. Still standing

both bronze boxers. Prismed Light Response to Nativity, by Brian Kershisnik Poem by Jenna Rakuita A sea of faces extended above a woman clothed in white light Their ivory bodies intertwined, An intricate web of limbs—painted with only half of the palette. The angels are draped in paper robes that match the color of their flesh, And though I know my father must be there, I do not recognize his face— His hands are colorless. My veins house crimson rivers of my parent’s lineage, My father’s mother knelt by water pails—

Her hazel colored skin. I am the daughter of a traveler; a child of an immigrant. I sang the tunes of hope inside the chapel walls, And saw prismed light dance across the windows seals, I was taught that God dreams in hues that do not yet exist, Yet you strip me of my color and the pigment of my skin.

“Christ in a Red Robe” (to Minerva Teichert) Poem by Cynthia Hallen Beige – Cloud – Grey – Cast – Gold – Sky – Blue – Edge

Air – Halo – Aura – Nimbus – Pearl

Fair – Shadow – FACE – Gaze – Blue Bird – Haze

HAND RIGHT – Wide – Vermillion Sash – Gilt

Hands – Reach – Red Robe – Sleeves – Scar – LEFT HAND

Flock – Sheep – Scarlet Waist – Goats – Crowd – Down

Countenance – Crimson Torso – Crouch

White – Wool – Beseech – Rose Folds – Hide – Brown

Visage – Ruby Knees – Grovel – Crush

Shoulders – Cerise Fleece – Astound – Cauls

Chartreuse – Tint – Pink Garment – Arms – Ground

Hues – Maroon Raiment – Subdued – Fist

Head – Carmine Hem – Crawl – Twisted – Guilt

Signed – Veil – FEET – Dark – Hush – Shroud – Resigned

(15 March 2017, Provo, Utah)

Plexus No. 29 Response to Gabriel Dawe’s installation Plexus No. 29

Poem by Tiana Scott

There is no border between the colors, They simply ooze into each other and create

A gradual transition from red to yellow, yellow to blue. Displaying all the possible hues of the rainbow. With a tilt of the head the strings move and shift

Becoming a ray of light filtering through the window Filled with the playful enthusiasm of sunbeams. There’s wonder woven into the strings of color That have captured the playful rainbows cast

On the floor by the crystals I could never touch That hung from my grandmother’s lampshade.

These Pounds of Flesh Response to Trevor Southey’s Jesus and Mary: The Moment After Poem by Will Finlayson see this Christ, bodied and then unbodied. he can't remember: pale skin under the morning pall or a woman wrapping his limbs in a bloodied shroud. but he marks this familiar distance: untouched and still, touched. even the lepers in the harrowed crowd by the pool brush bandaged shoulders. but he can only collect this woman's words of prayer like tokens, place them next to these: fine linens, a crooked nail, vinegar.

Her Laurels Are Fallen Response to Julius Wilhelm Louis Rotemund's The Wise and Foolish Virgin Poem by Jessica Hamblin

her laurels are fallen

cast aside

forgotten

replaced by a circlet of foolish gold she turns away— hoping a guise of apathy will hide her shame look at her empty lamp and remember -indifference is never bliss

Imperialism Inspired by Lorna Simpson's Odds Poem by Tatiana Rudolphi We have turned her away from us Her face concealed, we cannot see Is she 20% happy, 75% Contemplative, That leaves 5%.... Of Nothing. And if you add 75% and 10% and 20% That's 105% Too much. Too much ignorance. Too much bigotry. Too much gone. Too many faces concealed. But take that 5% away, you've got 100% That's perfect, That's fine, That's good, That's what we like. 1 in 2 hate her, 2 out of 7 wish to see her face but do not act to turn her. One fifth die everyday And 99 and 44/100ths percent choose to stay in the dark Wait...that's too much again. Too much ignorance. Too much bigotry. Too much gone. Too many faces concealed. She almost turns, But is stopped.

Response to the art piece by Charles White called the Trumpet Player Poem by Landon Dyer In the past, Hands were subject to cotton collection, Knees scraped through the dirt, day after day, Eyes lowered under the scrutiny of no affection, Mouths were closed, but hearts did pray. In the present, Hands play the notes of free expression, Knees bend to bring some happiness and rest, Eyes gaze boldly ahead toward progression, Mouths now close after their pure, powerful protest.

Chopping Block Response to The Spectators by Hughie Lee-Smith Poem by Matthew Wagstaff A guillotine of flesh and brotherhood The grey monolith cools in the dying sun, Relinquished from its morbid duty. The triumphant arrival of night heralds freedom From the crimson rivulets caressing its sides. Light and dark dance in dusk’s embrace, Harmony leading to Nyx’s realm. She who blankets all, sees the stone scars. Steel on stone. Steel on bone. ‘Til one gives way. In falling darkness, the somber stone, recalls Standing as witness to the theft of one who once stood On its fissured frame with those he called friends. Silence wrapped him in its dreadful arms, A stranglehold while brothers spoke in feigned harmony. All pretended ignorance of the dried lakebed Of blood caked on the rocky gallows. Here, the man watched as the blade of equality Severed him from love. Down falls the razor.

Session II: 7:00-7:30pm Christ Washing the Feet of the Disciples, from The Small Passion By Albrecht Dürer, Woodcut, 1509-1511 Poem by Emily B. Strong written through the eyes of Albrecht Dürer When first I glanced at this brown wood, flat and very smooth, I ne’er foresaw a sure image. In faith I put my blade to edge. Sliver by sliver, chip by chip, this scene came to my view. I see a man most humbly clad, no beauty would desire. He kneels before a man and weeps, Head bent, as if for mercy seeks. I understood this man anew, I’ve bent as son to Sire. With tool in hand, compelled to seek the others who might come, I carve the place wherein he stays, A room filled with poor strays. Each face, revealed in humble hope, seeks mercy from the one. I sit in awe and wonderment. I ache to find a clue. Who is this man that holds such power To make men weep and long desire? A powerful man, a king mayhap who seeks the just and true? I chis’d, hoping to see this man appear with crowns of fame, A coronet upon his brow, Not etched with shame or bowed, My knife withdrew, twas just a man sat down, no glory’s claim. What was this scene? Not what I’d planned, as far as I recall.. First form still bent, His face still pleading, And then I saw the true meaning. This One I seek in humble prayer, He is the King of all. The men around for mercy seek, not from a king, you see, But from the one who suffered for them. He washed their feet, wiped with His hem, And with His tears and blood He spilt, He gave His life for these. I gaze upon the wood once blank, no aim for its motif, Just like my life, God took the time,

To create Life’s Plan of perfect design. For me He lived, for me He died, a Man acquainted with grief. Outside my door are children more, some are far less desired. He showed the way and sought the weak Within my heart I hear Him speak, “Now, little child, show forth my love for even the least of these.” Premier Chagrin Response to Premier Chagrin by Daniel Ridgway Knight (1839-1924) Poem by Catherine Jungheim As the Autumn sun plays on the golden head of youth the peaceful land betrays an untamed fire of truth A child is unused to grieving quite so heavy until the heart is bruised: Maturing's tax must levy A stranger's kindly hand infinitely so, a friend's, leads to a new, safe land to transcend, and then, to mend

After Sunlight (Setting Sun), J. Francis Murphy Poem by Liz Peterson Biting into a blood-orange sun is the quickest way to melt your teeth Like running your hands through evening chilled pond water Picking up stonefly larva, and Algal blooms. Wild willow boughs huffing after a long day of standing Buried up to the neck, their roots crawling out to find the water. Paeonia Inspired by Yubotan by Allen West Poem by Scott Porter My memories of home and the northern flowers—white clouds in a mountain storm.

Kershisnik’s Nativity Poem by Hannah Dixon Joseph half-sobs a sigh of relief As His coming, His wholeness, saves him For the first time. He doesn’t see the angels, Stretching forward, seeing for themselves That He has left them For the first time. He will return to them, and He will leave them again, And they will rejoice again at His leaving, Not deprived, no longer depraved, but saved. He nurses, wet with blood, and not for the only time, Perfectly new to the world, like He will be once more. He is sustained by the woman He will succor. Was I there? Was I one Who stretched forward, strainingly, To wonder at His birth, His tiny hands, As yet unmarked, to speed away Shouting the good news? Was I one of them, black and white, bond and free, Male and female, forever to be Made whole and new by His wholeness and newness? Will I be one now? Will I shout the word And take it in, Feel the relief? He strains to see.

Red Response to Teichert’s painting “Christian Converts”

Poem by Gabe Smith

They come. Red-skinned, Red-eyed in anger, carrying Red-stained machines of death, Tough, no red scar on their hearts Faster, and faster, gaining on us. We wait. Red with fear, the blood of Christ Red on our foreheads. All Red scarlet sins now snow. Christ’s red blood emanates their Change for good. We do not fear. We kneel, Red rashes on our knees, giving our Red desires to the Lord. Only His Red blood can open their heart. It is His Gospel; our example will Destroy their violent nature. We anticipate their arrival. They’re here. Slicing our Red skin, pouring our thick, Red blood, the green field now a Red pool of lost life. Destruction in their veins, continually Taking each innocent life. We accept it humbly. They stop. Red guilt stains their pounding Red hearts; standing in the innocent Red blood of their brethren. Anger leaves their mind, thoughts Open their humbled hearts. They join us.

They drop their weapons. Red anger dissipates while Christ’s Red atonement surrounds our bloody Red experience. Differences disappear, recognition Mounts our loving minds. We join again.

Light - Headed Response to Gabriel Dawe’s Plexus No. 29 Poem by Spencer Brown A room with no windows A room with no door Can have no light No face to explore Not a faded rose Nor poetic prose For there is darkness, no more? a soul tells of its truth new brightness in you a new lightness in you now not flightless are you doors open bring color it wraps and entwines, yet unbinds with an absence of crime, That Soul.

Proselyte of Light Response to St. Paul, Workshop of Viet Stoss, 16th c. Poem by David Shepherd I was not ever as I am today.

Eyes shut tight against the light

I thought I knew the way to go.

I thought I knew what light was.

But that I knew was less than a candle

Held to the Sun of the true gospel.

Radiating bright it blinded me.

But only then did I truly see.

His holy fire sealed my wounds.

Endowed with power, gifted with purity

The Sun had found his wayward lamb.

So I opened the blinds for my brethren.

To Thessalonians preached I work and sanctification.

In Corinth taught I unity and charity.

In Galatia preached I freedom and grace.

To my fellow Romans preached I righteousness and faith.

In Philippi preached I revelation and joy.

In Colossia preached I redemption and holiness.

To the Ephesians preached I destiny and preparation.

To Philemon taught I forgiveness.

To Titus and to Timothy taught I leadership and purity.

To all I preached Christ crucified.

In prison I suffered for Him,

Stoned and beaten for Him.

In perilous seas I journeyed for Him.

I sang, I preached, I prayed for Him.

I gave my will, my life to Him.

The light grew strong within me

Only lessened by my thorned flesh.

Yet always grace attends me.

Still that Satan's sword

Found my docile neck.

I was slain in the house of my friends.

Having fought the good fight,

I journey to the endless light.

So battered,

Bruised,

Broken,

But

At least

I am clean.

First Vision Response to Minerva Teichert’s First Vision Poem by Olivia Snow I lacked the wisdom that I thirsted for. With scripture burned into my breast, I prayed To God. I laid in lilies to implore Of Him who gives to men and not upbraids. The golden morn was tarnished by the woe That seized my hope. But light pervades the night, And in a pillar overhead, a glow Above the brightness of the sun. In white Two figures stood in front of me, and One Did place His hand upon the other's frame And uttered, "This is My Beloved Son," Inviting me and calling me by name. Upon both palms laid graven all my sin. Christ died for me so I can live again.

Statistics Response to Lorna Simpson’s “Odds” in the Embracing Diverse Voices exhibit Poem by Melodie Jackson Though covered through years Of ignored thoughts, truth The scars of oppression Are sunken in my roots Lest I forget those slashes And my mind be blank These lines speak boldly Of the bitterness I've drank The blood that they run And exude Black Death Cries pleading from the ground For the life somewhat left And if you listen just right Removing your stone heart You will hear their history And see darkness' art So, though my back be shown Without blemish or blain Concentrate your vision For my blackness bears pain And if you look again With eyes that are keen There will find standing Noble kings and black queens For they stand on the backs Of those that came first Their footprints like magic Breaking the Gentile curse Erected is their dignity Unbowed are their spines Men, women, humans even Divinity from the Vine

And as for me you ask? Whose face is without face? What are those numbers? Are they your place in space? Well. These numbers do NOT define me I am not the odds My face is NOT invisible- Shaped by the Hand of God. 1 in a hundred, I am I become 1 with THE 3 2 loaves of the 7 (Blood and Body) Was given, by Him-for me. Before earth's life I chose THE 3, out of 4 Not 1/5 nor 3/5 of humanity I'm divinity and more Grateful, I am the 1 in ten 99 and 44/100ths % Isn't enough, to show My love for what He's meant. 75% and 10% more Of my efforts, won't suffice So, 20% to my 85 Will ensure an eternal life Maybe the number DO define Who I am and my "Odds" Only different from the world But to the Living Son of God.

Trumpet Player by Charles White Poem by Alyssa Gunnell “How does one play that music? Is it the touch of the lips or the movement of the fingers? Is it the beat of the hand or the beat of the heart? Is it the color of the skin or the height of a man? Is it the green of the money or the will of the soul? Is it the love of music or the love of God? Is it the hate of force or the love of freedom? How does one play that music?”