I just accidentally discovered that Bangor Metro, which is a glossy what's-going-on-in-the-region monthly magazine, has announced that a poem of mine, published last May, won its Best Poem of 2008 award. I wonder if I will receive a plaque, like, you know, those businesses that win "Best Mint Chocolate Chip Diet Shake" or "Friendliest Snowplow Sales Staff" awards.

If I do get a plaque, maybe I can post it beside my driveway; and then when people need a poem, they will know where to go.

This is the Best Poem, in case you're interested. It's a memento for my friend Jilline Ringle, who died of cancer in 2005, and will be in my CavanKerry collection that's supposed to come out in April 2010.

Litany for J

We planned to be old ladies together,

smirking for the camera, cuddled

side by side on a squeaky porch swing,

Alice-and-Gertrude style, modeling

 

our garden-party housedresses, our pin-

curled hairdos, our rhinestone scuffs.

We planned to marry handsome, good,

educated men capable of fixing broken

 

lawnmowers and discussing the emotional

weight of syntax, men who would grant us

children, freedom, respect, plus

grope us under tables at fancy parties.

 

We planned to be artists, driven and holy,

greatness flickering in our gut; we meant

to write, speak, sing like angels on moonshine—

like fire, like sin. We planned to prop

 

and admire, bitch and complain, exaggerate,

gush, tease, and fast-talk, drop literary allusions

like hot tamales, split a bottle of red wine

every night, and whisper rude personal

 

comments about strangers. We planned

to drink tea at the Plaza, stroll arm in arm

through Central Park, and be accosted

by elderly Armenians in shorts.

 

We planned to cure cancer through prayer,

dip our irreligious fingers in every holy-water

font in Rome, wear flowered skirts and picture-

frame hats, dissect heartbreak and age, worship

 

Caravaggio, lose weight, eat fresh tomatoes,

sprawl in the grass, compose sonnets, sing

novelty songs, and wear stiletto heels,

and it took us twenty years, but we crossed

 

almost everything off our list, yes, we did,

even if our attainments were admittedly half-

assed and fraught with unexpected chickens

flapping home to roost. So who’s to say

we won’t be sipping a couple of tall g-and-ts

on that swing—you and me, two blue-haired

old ladies, clinking ice cubes, spouting Chaucer,

craving another sack of ripple chips,

 

whistling Dixie at the fat white moon?

Can’t you picture us, large as life

and twice as big? Freshen that lipstick,

darling, brush those chip crumbs off your lap.

 

Cheek to cheek, now; and blow a kiss to the lens.

This snapshot, it’s bound to last forever.