Weekly Contest

Poetry contest
9 competitors

Classic poem of the day

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Those who sit in the stye of contentment, meaning
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.


Read full poem

member poem of the day


In theory of gold required for the doing most
A light hand by the future
owed between this frozen lack of face

named well as that end was near
The same created it and at the time death held

Every pilgrimage waiting for land
ruling hours became held in want
opened for the hand had previously held nothing