I would like to announce the opening of this year's poetry contest.
The Charles Prize is awarded to the best poem written and submitted within the realms of science or medicine, as judged by a diverse and hand chosen panel of jurists.
Participating poets have included published authors, an elementary school science class, scientists, doctors, mathematicians, and writers suddenly finding themselves in the role of patient or humbled learner.
The main purpose of the contest is to provide a forum for the sharing and appreciation of poetry related to science and medicine. Due to a severe lack of free time, I will be making this year's contest very low maintenance. In order to submit a poem for consideration, please simply enter it into the comment field below, where it will be published after a brief review. Please include your preferred email address so that you can be contacted if your poem is judged a winner!
Prizes for 2012:
The Charles Prize is a metaphysical crown, abstract and immaterial in nature, and comes with a $100 honorarium.
Second Prize is no less respectable, and will be rewarded with a profound sense of accomplishment, and a $50 honorarium.
Honorable Mentions shall number three, and will be celebrated and remembered fondly for all eternity.
In keeping with the minimalistic approach to this year's contest, rules shall be simple as well. Disclose your identity only as much as you wish through the comment form. Submit up to 2 poems. Email me should you wish your poem be taken down at any time. Submit your poetry which has a theme related to science or medicine.
The contest ends at midnight 12/31/12. Winners will be announced in January, 2013.
Find inspiration, conjure magic with your written words, and shine light and life into the scientific shadows of your brain!
Poem number 1
ReplyDeleteTitle:
Newtonian reflection
Astronomers raise up their mirrored face,
Exquisite in its geometric plan,
To capture ghosts that fall from vaulted space
And turn them to the wonderment of man.
In splintered shafts, hypotheses emerge,
Like spectres exiled from some distant sun,
Sustained by hope that meaning might converge,
When reaching out to many by the one.
With artifice, the searching mind deflects
The orbit of the phantasms received
To sublimate, where guiding thought collects,
The vision that the scientist conceived.
Reflected on the finely crafted locus,
Philosophies, like stars, come into focus.
Poem number 2
Title:
The Waiter
A long, long, long, long time ago, and then an age before,
A wild and furious ocean beat its waves upon a shore.
Not yet the time for living things, the main and rock were lords and kings
Of all the Earth’s rich store of things from firmament to core.
And flash! and crack! and bang! and boom! great storms raged overhead
And from small atoms, tossed and torn, strange molecules were bred.
In endless cycles, water flowed from sea to cloud to rain then rode
In foaming streams, with solute load, back to its ocean bed.
And round and round the cycle turned while countless years passed by.
And rock, ground into clinging clay, in littoral pools would lie.
And strange new matter, rudely formed, by lightning strike, as heavens stormed
On clay adsorbed, by sunlight warmed, still stranger bonds would tie.
And on through pregnant æons turned the watery cycle round
Till strangely fashioned molecules in helices were wound.
And in the sea, which, year by year, had leached the mineralosphere
Of salt and clay-bound scum veneer, primordial soup was found.
At length within the fœtid broth, a metaform awoke—
Fair Gaia was the fecund maid the life force did betoke.
And, casting wide, she full surveyed what violent storms had crudely made
For light to strike where clay had laid in virgin brine to soak.
And all the while with patient grace a presence watched the scene—
A formless spectral sentient mind who’d marked what there had been.
And, bending low, he strained to see what further changes there might be
As Gaia, in her primal sea, became the planet’s queen.
“Sweet Gaia!” spake the watcher then, “Pray, what will come to pass?
For ages long I’ve waited here and watched your soup amass.
Come, tell me, wondrous parvenue, what can the future promise you—
What marvels lace the vast purview of such a fertile lass?”
“Dear patient friend,” she answered soft, “if low you care to stoop,
With keening eye you may discern one of a larger group:
See, Waiter, of the insects[1], there, you may so mark, if close you stare,
With legs, full six, and wings, a pair[2], a fly[3] is in my soup.”
—————————————
[1] Subclass Pterygota
[2] See [3]
[3] That is, a Dipteran, such as Musca domestica, whose posterior
wings have evolved into halteres
I. Diagnosis
ReplyDeleteWords that bear a heavy burden;
In shambles, they did leave me.
Hands of hope, torch burning bright;
From anguish they did lead.
II. Treatment
As darkness knocks, the body fights;
All wars cannot be won.
To restore the body mind and soul;
Healing hands to make me one.
III. Death
The time has come, life wears thin;
from tired lips, a final gasp.
My hand in yours, our journey done;
Carried here, to comfort last.
History; or His Story
ReplyDeleteFragility: you look
every one of your ninety-three years
lying here in this hospital bed,
this temporary holder of your body,
with your legs contracted in pain.
Ischaemic toes.
Your accent sounds Russian. You
describe it as ex-USSR.
You say White Russian
and, despite my knowledge of history,
I am distracted by thoughts of vodka
with kahlua and milk.
And yet, you fought for Stalin.
But who would I be to judge?
I was not there. I cannot begin to imagine
the compromises you may have been
forced to make in cold winters,
moons before I was born.
Captured by Germans, and held
against your will of course,
and forced to work.
I was a medic, like you, you tell me.
You volunteer no more about that time,
and part of me is grateful not to know.
Reinvention: after the war
you had to be something new.
A name change, different scenery.
Welcome to the Lucky Country.
I wonder if you were given the option
to remain a doctor, would you have?
You are proud of your promotions,
your achievements in your new role.
You have made something
of this life.
I wonder what haunts you,
and if you have actually been happy here.
Could you ever have imagined
lying here towards the end of your days,
in pain, helping future doctors learn
about medicine and life?
I wonder what you would change,
if you could start it all over.
Conrad Geller
ReplyDelete1.
Medical
How can I be late? I have been waiting
Right here, always on time, for my appointment,
Not even reading a magazine, watching
The door where a pretty receptionist might appear.
Now I see, the doctor is out, the heat,
The lights, have been turned off. Whatever treatment
Is appropriate will be administered,
Orally I hope, in another office,
By technicians unfamiliar with the case.
2.
Mandelbrot
In desperation he would eat sweet rolls
Of Guatemala, make shapes that made his life
Unbearable, because each flowering figure
Held a secret he could not explain:
The flowerlet within each flower, moving on
To some impossible infinity.
Violets on the lawn beyond control
Meant July. He knew that, knew as well
That nothing real recurs, that violets
Are fearsome, perfect, indivisible,
Nor could he stem these flowers of mathematics
From going on forever, always the same,
But smaller and smaller, until the meddlesome pattern
Foundered in the well of Limitation.
chemistry lessons
ReplyDeletethere is salt, and there is salt.
what's the difference,
my father asked me at dinner
t'other day, between sea
salt and table? and i said
sea salt is less strict, dad,
more complicated;
but i don't know if that's right;
don't know its bio-
chemical makeup, how late
it lets its daughters
out at night. chemicals aren't
all latch-key and angle, you know.
for instance, there are some in the brain
more sensitive to love
than to cocaine. i've heard this;
that, chemically, love is the most terrible
addiction. crazy women need brave lovers,
the poet said; this i know also
to be true; i've seen crazy.
but i don't know their chemistry, either:
not love OR crazy. my professor
used to wear unmatched socks;
his eyes were the color of sea glass.
he taught the break-up of salts.
he told my father once i
was the most impressive he'd ever had.
i could have loved him, then,
but i was addicted to my own heart-
beat. that rhythm is less biochemical
than electric: a crazy drummer
in my head banging morse
code to my chest. i hope he is brave,
or at least wears unmatched socks.
too much salt can fuck
it all up, cause heart-
ache. like breathing in sea glass.
how long can you hold your
breath underwater? my cousin
and i used to swim in the lake
by my grandparents' house,
catch turtles on cane poles
with bits of old bread.
the biggest one we dragged up
onto the shore, and my father
sliced her neck while
her jaws were clamped
onto the back handle of an old broom.
that was before i knew chemistry.
or love. or that guilt could be as addictive
as cocaine. i'm not sure if this
is true, but i have seen crazy.
turtles, the poet said, turtles
all the way down.
scheduled for publication in Caduceus, Issue 10. Feb. 2013.
field notes from the buried box of an almost-surgeon
i think i am in love
with little plastic needles, sterile
blues, the arrogance
of early a.m. overhead
lighting; size 6 latex
gloves that know
the thrill of a one-
handed knot
in 2-0 silk, over
and under
and over again;
back pockets
stuffed with blunt scissors &
stethoscope & note-
cards that read
like a map through
heartache:
"...the femoral nerve
courses laterally
to its artery as it passes
the triangle of Scarpa.
blood enters the liver
at 1500cc a minute,
primarily through the portal
vein, whose pressure
should not rise more than
5 millimeters of mercury
above the pressure
of other veins. neurogenic
claudication causes
pain on spinal flexion,
and comes from central
locomotor stenosis..."
other things too i
knew, that i would have
learned harder
had i thought they
could save you,
...
but some nights
i miss those mornings,
sunless & taped
into narrow tubing
with adhesive
that still pulls,
even now.
SNACK PACK PUDDING
ReplyDelete(nusserkd1@gmail.com)
I count twenty chocolate
muscle milk containers in the refrigerator
and six peach yogurts
he eats only peach not for flavor but to be consistent
by his television chair are thirty-six cups
of chocolate and vanilla snack-pack puddings in a box
the remote has a five foot streamer of yellow caution tape
so the grandchildren will not lose it when they visit
Dad thinks he is dying and wants to hand out his guns
to his three kids the next get-together
he had an idea this morning
each kid will write down his pick one at a time
and mom will keep the list
so if he dies first she can sell them
but if she dies first the kids can have the guns
This is the way my father thinks
he is a problem solver
I tell him it’s a good idea
because that is what he wants to hear
and at seventy-five positive reinforcement is kind
even though I have no use of a gun
the blood on my hands needs
just a scalpel blade and rongeurs
I drove down on my triumph
knowing if I waited til morn
the thought of a back and forth trip
would be daunting
best to separate the two
we watch the Olympics
I only wanted to see the bolting Bolt
my mom and I argue as we always do
heated but inconsequential
we know our biases
And then the retired retire before midnight
so I can read and write
they sleep in separate bedrooms and that is fine
I sleep in different addresses
I notice the change as I wander their place
Dad’s medicines are on his sink counter
mineral oil, preparation H, butt butter or was it powder
he also has a lovely post-it note on his mirror “shave”
he tried to explain it
but too cute to comprehend
I look for toothpaste
in my dentured Mom’s bathroom
and find orange aquafresh in the back of the left drawer
next to an opened jar of vasoline
didn’t aquafresh used to be blue green and white?
Outside there is a breeze and what sounds like
the rumbling of trash at regular intervals
maybe it is the water Dad turned on at ten thirty
to water his lawn
the only other sound is mouse scratching as I write
the crickets in my ear
and my Grandfather’s clock tic-tocing way
he got it from a torn down school he janitored
Dad wants me to have it as I am school worn
I am surrounded by his notes
and his gizmos
his prized mountain sheep head
stares down at me
the horns curled above the sixty inch television
I unroll a sleeping bag and fall into slumber
I awake in the morning at six
Dad has risen at four thirty
to shut off the sprinkler
his breakfast is the peach yogurt
Mom and I dine on ham eggs and toast
the drive to radiation is only fifteen minutes
we talk to a couple and talk of a past cruise
to hike the great wall and to revisit Vietnam
this time not as a soldier
the man just started and also has chemo and diarrhea
my dad is lucky
his chances are over ninety-five percent cure
He comes out the last day of radiation
wearing his radiation mask
it looks medieval and white
made to keep him firmly not moving
there is an ugly nurse
the hospital uses to get us out the door
who answers dad’s questions
about whether to gargle the spray
that numbs his throat of pain
or whether to spray only the back of his throat
he wants to know when his voice will come back
he only whispers now as talking makes him cough
he asks when he can drink a beer
and forgets to ask about drinking soda
The moments of life are precious
sweet small and packaged
like a box of chocolate and vanilla
snack-pack pudding
Christa M. Helms
ReplyDeleteCan pushing buttons lead to murder?
In the 1950s
a scientist implanted an electrode
into the brain of a depressed patient
then he gave her a button
she pushed the button
stimulating axons
traversing the midbrain to the striatum
the medial forebrain bundle
she is bald
small, quiet, a wry smile
clinically improved
pushing the button she is still
…pause
what do you feel?
nice, she pats her womb
I feel it down here too - sexual
I was not sick
I did not have surgery
but I found my button
I called my doctor and said
what the hell
this is bad contraception
I can’t sleep
my brain stem is one fire
and my uterus
my pituitary gland just burst
I stopped the pills
my button did not stop working
a gruff milky warm face
shuffling bird song
pushed it intermittently
for six months
surprise after almost six years
of stir-less acclimation
to habit and temperament
in brief daily interactions
sometimes under duress
at first, I tried to dismantle the button
the button jammed
the ape
kneeling before me, theatric
a pseudo-confession, “Will you marry me?”
I thought
about his own button being pushed
two crows bobbed
tapped synchronous beaks
a tiny bird drank by the pond
its partner vigilant
they alternated
then flew off together
everybody has a button
we bump into each other’s
randomly
we evolve by
cooperative pushing
the social contract of marriage
does not punish the pushing of multiple
buttons simultaneously
but it does punish copulation
with non-contractual button pushers
this explains
prolonged intermittent cooperative
button pushing
a long-derived strategy to
maintain contact with the source
the reward never came
we disconnected
after months of
anticipatory euphoria, thwarted
sickening depression
if we had not escaped
if we had not disconnected the buttons
…maybe
hatred
aggression
murder?
how else does it happen
Your Spleen
ReplyDelete"I’ll be late," to my office, "Nick needs help
with his spleen." Your spleen fills half
the patient’s belly. Massive splenomegaly,
ready to burst through the seam of your incision
like an old inner tube, or the bladder of a football.
Yes, a football, giant and glistening, like the one you caught
that foggy, Friday morning after Thanksgiving.
Everyone cheered, because no one else could see it
until it was in your hands. Now lifting your hands, you reach for a towel,
belly pools with blue-purple blood. Assistant calls for a retractor,
a hefty, metal question mark, then for suction, now clogged.
"I can’t see, can’t see a thing. Back bleeding, I’m sure. I think."
"Did you get the hilum, Nick?"
"Yes, I’ll show you in a minute. Maria! I need you,
here. Right…here." You grab my wrist, guide my hands
over yours. Our fingers slide like eels in the depths.
I’m holding back his guts.
You’re tying off the vessels. You reach around your spleen and deliver
all 24 pounds, won’t even fit in the bucket.
Everyone cheers, because no one else could see it
until it was in your hands.
Two haiku:
ReplyDeleteChild's wonder--gazing
At rainbows in a dirty
Puddle. Youth returns.
10 Dec., 2012
Walking through the marsh
After work, year after year.
The boardwalk sinking
10 Dec., 2012