We are on the lookout for that rare combination of creativity and clarity, excellence and evocation. The prize interprets “place” in many ways: A location may possess historical, cultural, political, or personal importance, and may be literal, imaginary, or metaphorical.

Our 14th annual winner will be selected by the Zócalo staff, led by poetry editor Connie Voisine, working in conjunction with a Poetry Prize selection committee. This year’s committee consists of ASU director of creative writing Sally Ball, attorney Rebecca Wiggs, and Inner-City Arts president and CEO Shelby Williams-González.

The winner will receive $1,000 and will have the opportunity to read their poem at the Zócalo Book Prize event in the spring. Zócalo will also publish the poem on our site alongside an interview with the poet. In addition, we plan to recognize our honorable mention submissions.

Screenwriter and philanthropist Tim Disney returns to sponsor Zócalo’s literary prize program, which also includes the Zócalo Public Square Book Prize.

Our past winners have found inspiration around the world, past and present, and from places and spaces they’ve seen only in their mind’s eye:

• Melanie Almeder, “Coyote Hour”(2024)
• Paige Buffington, “From 20 Miles Outside of Gallup, Holbrook, Winslow, Farmington, or Albuquerque” (2023)
• Chelsea Rathburn, “8 a.m., Ocean Drive” (2022)
• Angelica Esquivel, “La Mujer” (2021)
• Jai Hamid Bashir, “Little Bones” (2020)
• Erica Goss, “The State of Jefferson” (2019)
• Charles Jensen, “Tucson” (2018)
• Matt Sumpter, “No World” (2017)
• Matt Phillips, “Crossing Coronado Bridge” (2016)
• Gillian Wegener, “The Old Mill Café” (2015)
• Amy Glynn, “Shoreline” (2014)
• Jia-Rui Chong Cook, “Fault” (2013)
• Jody Zorgdrager, “Coming Back, It Comes Back” (2012)

Submission Guidelines

We will share submission instructions in November.

Eligibility

Poems must be original and previously unpublished work. We accept up to three poems from each writer as well as simultaneous submissions; let us know immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Judging

Entries will be judged based on originality of ideas, theme, and style, as well as how well their poem evokes a connection to place. Judging is at the sole discretion of Zócalo Public Square and our Poetry Prize committee. The winner will be announced in spring 2025, and the winning poet will receive $1,000, a published interview, and an opportunity for a public reading hosted by Zócalo. The winning poem will be published on zocalopublicsquare.org. We will also publish a selection of honorable mention poems; those writers will receive $100.

Conditions

The winning poem and honorable mentions become the property of Zócalo Public Square, but writers may republish their poems at a later date after crediting and receiving permission from Zócalo. By entering the contest, the entrants grant Zócalo the right to publish and distribute their poems for media and publicity purposes, along with the poet’s name and photograph. Poets will be contacted by Zócalo before we publish any submission.

The post The 2025 Zócalo Poetry Prize Honors Poems of Place appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

We are on the lookout for that rare combination of creativity and clarity, excellence and evocation. The prize interprets “place” in many ways: A location may possess historical, cultural, political, or personal importance, and may be literal, imaginary, or metaphorical.

Our 13th annual winner will be selected by the Zócalo staff, working in conjunction with a Poetry Prize selection committee. The winner will receive $1,000 and will have the opportunity to read their poem at the Zócalo Book Prize event in the spring. Zócalo will also publish the poem on our site alongside an interview with the poet. In addition, we plan to recognize our honorable mention submissions.

Screenwriter and philanthropist Tim Disney returns to sponsor Zócalo’s literary prize program, which also includes the Zócalo Public Square Book Prize.

Our past winners have found inspiration abroad and at home, in nature and on city streets, and from places and spaces they traveled to only in their minds:

• Paige Buffington, “From 20 Miles Outside of Gallup, Holbrook, Winslow, Farmington, or Albuquerque” (2023)
• Chelsea Rathburn, “8 a.m., Ocean Drive” (2022)
• Angelica Esquivel, “La Mujer” (2021)
• Jai Hamid Bashir, “Little Bones” (2020)
• Erica Goss, “The State of Jefferson” (2019)
• Charles Jensen, “Tucson” (2018)
• Matt Sumpter, “No World” (2017)
• Matt Phillips, “Crossing Coronado Bridge” (2016)
• Gillian Wegener, “The Old Mill Café” (2015)
• Amy Glynn, “Shoreline” (2014)
• Jia-Rui Chong Cook, “Fault” (2013)
• Jody Zorgdrager, “Coming Back, It Comes Back” (2012)

Submission Guidelines

For consideration, please send up to three poems to poetry@zocalopublicsquare.org.

Please attach your poem(s) as a single Word document to your email. Include your name, address, phone number, and email address on each poem. Personal identification will be removed prior to review by the judges. We will accept online submissions only, and receipt will be acknowledged at the time of submission.

Eligibility

Poems must be original and previously unpublished work. We accept up to three poems from each writer as well as simultaneous submissions; let us know immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Judging

Entries will be judged based on originality of ideas, theme, and style. Judging is at the sole discretion of Zócalo Public Square and our Poetry Prize committee. The winner will be announced in spring 2024, and the winning poet will receive $1,000, a published interview, and an opportunity for a public reading hosted by Zócalo. The winning poem will be published on zocalopublicsquare.org. We will also be publishing a selection of honorable mention poems; those writers will receive $100.

Conditions

The winning poem and honorable mentions become the property of Zócalo Public Square, but writers may republish their poems at a later date after crediting and receiving permission from Zócalo. By entering the contest, the entrants grant Zócalo the right to publish and distribute their poems for media and publicity purposes, along with the poets’ name and photograph. Poets will be contacted by Zócalo before we publish any submission.

The post The 2024 Zócalo Poetry Prize Recognizes Poems About Place appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

We are on the lookout for that rare combination of creativity and clarity, excellence and evocation. The prize interprets “place” in many ways: A location may possess historical, cultural, political, or personal importance, and may be literal, imaginary, or metaphorical.

Our 12th annual winner will be selected by the Zócalo staff, working in conjunction with a poetry prize selection committee. The winner will receive $1,000 and will have the opportunity to deliver their poem at the Zócalo Book Prize event in the spring. Zócalo will also publish the poem on our site alongside an interview with the poet. In addition, we plan to recognize our honorable mention submissions.

Screenwriter and philanthropist Tim Disney returns to sponsor Zócalo’s literary prize program, which also includes the Zócalo Public Square Book Prize.

Please read and enjoy the poems from our 11 past winners, which travel to San Diego, Ohio, and Mexico, to a kitchen, a beach, and a gas station parking lot, and to the landscapes of these writers’ imaginations, memories, and dreams.

• Chelsea Rathburn, “8 a.m., Ocean Drive” (2022)
• Angelica Esquivel, “La Mujer” (2021)
• Jai Hamid Bashir, “Little Bones” (2020)
• Erica Goss, “The State of Jefferson” (2019)
• Charles Jensen, “Tucson” (2018)
• Matt Sumpter, “No World” (2017)
• Matt Phillips, “Crossing Coronado Bridge” (2016)
• Gillian Wegener, “The Old Mill Café” (2015)
• Amy Glynn, “Shoreline” (2014)
• Jia-Rui Chong Cook, “Fault” (2013)
• Jody Zorgdrager, “Coming Back, It Comes Back” (2012)

Submission Guidelines

For consideration, please send up to three poems to poetry@zocalopublicsquare.org.

Please attach your poem(s) as a single Word document to your email. Include your name, address, phone number, and email address on each poem. Personal identification will be removed prior to review by the judges. We will accept online submissions only, and receipt will be acknowledged at the time of submission.

Eligibility

Poems must be original and previously unpublished work. We accept up to three poems from each writer as well as simultaneous submissions; let us know immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Judging

Entries will be judged based on originality of ideas, theme, and style. Judging is at the sole discretion of Zócalo Public Square and our poetry prize committee. The winner will be announced in spring 2023, and the winning poet will receive $1,000, a published interview, and an opportunity for a public reading hosted by Zócalo. The winning poem will be published on zocalopublicsquare.org. We will also be celebrating our honorable mention submissions.

Conditions

The winning poem and honorable mentions become the property of Zócalo Public Square, but the writers may republish their poems at a later date with Zócalo’s permission. By entering the contest, the entrants grant Zócalo the right to publish and distribute their poems for media and publicity purposes, along with the poets’ name and photograph. Poets will be contacted by Zócalo before we publish any submission.

The post The 2023 Zócalo Poetry Prize Celebrates Poems of Place appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

As with everything else Zócalo features, we are on the lookout for that rare combination of brilliance and clarity, excellence and accessibility. The prize interprets “place” in many ways: A place may possess historical, cultural, political, or personal importance, and may be literal, imaginary, or metaphorical.

Our 11th annual winner will be selected by the Zócalo staff, working in conjunction with a poetry prize selection committee. The winner will receive $1,000 and will have the opportunity to deliver their poem at our spring book prize event. Zócalo will also publish the poem on our site alongside an interview with the poet. In addition, we plan to recognize our honorable mention submissions.

Screenwriter and philanthropist Tim Disney returns to sponsor Zócalo’s literary prize program, which also includes the Zócalo Public Square Book Prize.

Please read and enjoy the poems from our 10 past winners, which travel to San Diego, Ohio, and Mexico, to a kitchen, a beach, and a gas station parking lot, and to the landscapes of these writers’ imaginations, memories, and dreams.

• Angelica Esquivel, “La Mujer” (2021)
• Jai Hamid Bashir, “Little Bones” (2020)
• Erica Goss, “The State of Jefferson” (2019)
• Charles Jensen, “Tucson” (2018)
• Matt Sumpter, “No World” (2017)
• Matt Phillips, “Crossing Coronado Bridge” (2016)
• Gillian Wegener, “The Old Mill Café” (2015)
• Amy Glynn, “Shoreline” (2014)
• Jia-Rui Chong Cook, “Fault” (2013)
• Jody Zorgdrager, “Coming Back, It Comes Back” (2012)

Submission Guidelines

Submissions for the 2022 prize are now closed. Please check back in fall 2022 for more information about the 2023 Zócalo Poetry Prize.

Eligibility

Poems must be original and previously unpublished work. We accept simultaneous submissions; let us know immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Judging

Entries will be judged based on originality of ideas, theme, and style. Judging is at the sole discretion of Zócalo Public Square and our poetry prize committee. The winner will be announced in spring 2022, and the winning poet will receive $1,000, a published interview, and an opportunity for a public reading hosted by Zócalo. The winning poem will be published on zocalopublicsquare.org. We will also be celebrating our honorable mention submissions.

Conditions

The winning poem becomes the property of Zócalo Public Square, but the writer may republish the poem at a later date with Zócalo’s permission. By entering the contest, the entrant grants Zócalo the right to publish and distribute their poem for media and publicity purposes, along with the poet’s name and photograph. Poets will be contacted by Zócalo before we publish any submission, either for the contest or on our site.

The post The 2022 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize Explores Place appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Since 2012, Zócalo has awarded the prize annually to the U.S. poet whose poem best evokes a connection to place. “Place” may be interpreted in many ways, be it of historical, cultural, political, or personal importance; the landscape may also be literal, imaginary, or metaphorical.

As with everything else Zócalo features, we are on the lookout for that rare combination of brilliance and clarity, excellence, and accessibility.

Our 10th winner will be selected by the Zócalo staff, working in conjunction with a poetry prize selection committee. The winner will receive $1,000 and will have the opportunity to deliver their poem at our spring book prize event. Zócalo will also publish the poem on our site alongside an interview with the poet.

Please take a look at our winning entries from 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020.

The poetry prize competition is hosted in conjunction with our book prize, awarded to the nonfiction book that most enhances our understanding of community.

Submission Guidelines

Eligibility

Poems must be original and previously unpublished work.

Submission

For consideration, please send up to three poems to poetry@zocalopublicsquare.org.

Please attach your poem(s) as a single Word document to your email. Include your name, address, phone number, and email address on each poem. Personal identification will be removed prior to review by the judges. We will accept online submissions only, and receipt will be acknowledged at the time of submission.

Judging

Entries will be judged based on originality of ideas, theme, and style. Judging is at the sole discretion of Zócalo Public Square and our poetry prize committee. The winner will be announced in spring 2020, and the winning poet will receive $1,000, a published interview, and an opportunity for a public reading hosted by Zócalo. The winning poem will be published on zocalopublicsquare.org.

Conditions

The winning poem becomes the property of Zócalo Public Square, but the writer may republish the poem at a later date with Zócalo’s permission. By entering the contest, the entrant grants Zócalo the right to publish and distribute their poem for media and publicity purposes, along with the poet’s name and photograph. Poets will be contacted by Zócalo before we publish any submission, either for the contest or on our site.

The post Announcing the 10th Annual Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

The submissions for 2020 (which came from as far away as Doha, Qatar) dove deep into the meaning of place to explore literal, fictional, and metaphorical geographies. Set in locations as different as Oceti Sakowin Camp, Standing Rock, and the lingerie department in Walmart, each poem demonstrated the power of place to anchor us in a shared conversation of what it means to be alive today.

This year’s winning poem, selected by the Zócalo editorial staff, won us over because of the way the poet’s distinctive voice guides us through the familiar scenery of the Southwestern U.S. The poem is a celebration of a person’s girlhood, and how it is shaped by such forces as family, religion, heritage, and location.

We’re thrilled to announce the Ninth Annual $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize goes to Jai Hamid Bashir. Her winning poem, “Little Bones,” combines specific places, such as a payphone in a gas station, with universal themes, such as childhood and growing up, the natural world, and family.

“Bashir’s work is beautiful, particularly in negotiating dichotomies—inner and external experiences, languages and landscapes, and feelings versus walking around in the world as a person,” says Zócalo poetry editor, Colette LaBouff.

Born to Pakistani-American immigrant artists, Bashir was raised in the Southwest and has spent many years advocating for climate justice and land conservation. A graduate of the Environmental Humanities program at the University of Utah, she is currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University in the City of New York. The recipient of the Linda Corrente Memorial Prize at Columbia University and an Academy of American Poet’s University Prize, she has been published by The American Poetry Review, Palette Poetry, The Cortland Review, The Margins, Sierra Magazine, The Academy of American Poets, and others.

Bashir will deliver a public reading of her poem during Zócalo’s 10th annual Book Prize Lecture, which will be streamed online on May 20 at 5 PM PDT. Her poem “Little Bones” is below, followed by a conversation with Zócalo associate editor, Jackie Mansky.

Little Bones

In a chlorinated morning. White, wet noise
is everywhere, so it is endless. After the pool, we echo
for the gas station attendant to use the phone,

Salam. Ma don’t worry. In song of bleach and sun,
we spent an afternoon earnest in the creation
of nests woven from tall grass, netted wrappers
from lunch apples. From palm—to—palm

passing a dying field mouse with the slow
understanding of boudins sharing a spring
in the desert. There was love moving us forward,

interveled like pangs before birth, asking us
to breathe in certain ways. We took it home
and fed it formula with an old baby dropper

in the backyard, until Ma called our names
before the hard vesper air of sunset, before
salat, we set the unsaved animal in the shade

of our family tree—lightheaded in our own
untold plans for eternity.

The post Jai Hamid Bashir Wins Zócalo’s Ninth Annual Poetry Prize appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Matt Sumpter.

This year, 417 poets submitted a total of 979 poems, transporting us to the San Gabriel Valley, the Blue Ridge, and the Salton Sea to granite mountain ranges near Yosemite, Mexican deserts, and unnamed cities of the mind.

Ultimately, Zócalo poetry editor Colette LaBouff and the editorial staff chose to honor a poem that takes us on a journey, mediated by memory and technology, to an Ohio urban winter-scape from which events ripple out to touch people living many miles away. We’re thrilled to award the $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize to Matt Sumpter, a native Ohioan who now makes his home in New York City with his wife and young daughter.

But he told us he still considers himself a Midwesterner “by sentiment and heart as well as birth.” Sumpter also lived in Missouri, Montana, and Oregon while working as an AmeriCorps service member, and earned a masters of fine arts at Ohio State University and a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at SUNY Binghamton, before relocating to Manhattan’s Morningside Heights neighborhood.

His winning poem ranges over a terrain that’s both physical and conceptual, sensory and imaginary:

No World

There is no world without end, no morning
except this one in Ohio where ice
smoothes itself over ice, and neighborhood cats

hunch on hoods of idling cars. They live
outside by choice, warmed by the kindness
of wasted gas. My neighbor cracks his upstairs door,

inviting them to survive, but they ignore it,
shying from anything human skin has touched.
My neighbor, too old to go beyond the Walgreens

or the CVS, bikes each day for groceries
and wobbles home with plastic bags
hanging from the handlebars like streamers.

Sometimes he just circles around the lot,
whistling to the cats every couple passes.
No world exists without him

greeting them and saying goodbye
with one small sound. Inside, I watch footage
from a traffic cam in Cleveland:

a city park, gazebo, benches, a boy and girl
who blurrily glide past. Then they return
as a police car runs into the grass.

There is no world in which they both
walk home alive, hang up their coats,
and rush to the kitchen at the smell

of soup, forgetting to wipe their shoes.
There is no world where this is the final winter,
where every poem finally says I’m here with you.

There is no world without Verona,
Shakespeare wrote, meaning
no world exists outside Verona,

meaning, sometimes, there is no other place
than this. We wake up early. We dress,
trying to believe there is no word for exile.

We spoke by phone with Sumpter about the inspiration for ‘No World’ and about why he became a poet.

Q: The speaker in your poem makes several references to Ohio, but seems to be physically somewhere else.

A: I grew up in Cincinnati, but I wrote this in Binghamton, in upstate New York. It was the middle of winter and there was like a foot of snow on the ground, when the sun is just this kind of urban legend that people vaguely refer to. So mood-wise, that’s a time for some sad nostalgia, maybe, or some reminiscence about other places and other times that are also a little lonely.

Q: The poem speaks about the idea of different, self-contained worlds. There’s the self-enclosed world of the television; the world of the TV cam; the world of Ohio; the world of wherever the poem’s speaker is; the world of winter, both as a landscape and as a state of mind; the world of possibility vs. the world of what actually happens; and the world of words—the world of the poem itself. What’s missing from this list?

A: You could include the Shakespearean world that’s mentioned in the poem, if you wanted to, I suppose. In the poem there’s basically two main scenes: There’s the neighbor, and there’s the lightly veiled recounting of the Tamir Rice shooting. And both of those incidents are worlds unto themselves, worlds that are perhaps more isolated from the speaker than some of the other worlds. Isolation is certainly a big theme within this poem. It’s not necessarily one that I set out to write about, but it’s certainly something that ended up being there by the time I was done with it. The things that the speaker is thinking about and interacting with are certainly more isolated conceptually, but at the same time, the speaker is reaching out to them and trying to make some connection with them. And that was something I wanted to keep in the poem, that within these moments of isolation there’s still this way in which they affect us and we can connect them, or they reach out and connect to us. We can’t really hide from them. The poem’s speaker is trying to navigate that boundary where he’s mediating between these worlds.

Q: Then there’s the word that ends your poem, “exile.” Did you feel you were in a kind of exile from your native state when you wrote this poem?

A: My wife and I were in different cities and we were commuting a lot. I think the isolation I felt at that time is an echo of exile, though it’s not as extreme. And I think that holds true for the poem as well. The exiles the speaker is witnessing are things that have happened to, or befallen, other people. But while isolation and exile certainly don’t feel good on a personal level, distance in general is useful for me as a writer. I think that being close to something is really useful in terms of experiencing it. But when you’re writing, a bit of distance sometimes is necessary. It may be a little reminiscent of the Wordsworth quote, “emotion recollected in tranquility.”

Q: How did you conceive the form of the poem?

A: Usually I start writing about something, whether it be an image or a sound or a metaphor or an idea or a situation that really sticks with me. And I’ll just keep writing and rewording it, until the first line or two seems to resemble poetry I wouldn’t be embarrassed by! And then I extrapolate from there: Does the poem go on in this way, or is there a turn in the poem that tweaks the form in some way—does the form change? And if it changes, is it going to be continually changing? Is it going to enter this dynamic, flux-y state where it’s a looser-form poem? Or is it going to maintain the current form, and is the content going to move and shift and be fluid within that form? This poem is closer to being a formal structure, because it’s pretty consistent tercets. But tercets have more instability than most regular structures. I think it worked for this poem, because a sense of incompleteness and unevenness was something this poem was trying to evoke emotionally.

Q: The poem frequently uses a short “a” sound—“cats,” “gas,” “cracks,” “plastic bags,” “passes,” “traffic jam.” These seemed to evoke the sound of cracking ice, or other sharp noises that can break through the muffled stillness of a snowy landscape.

A: Absolutely. Those short “a’s” have an abrasive feel to them. I think maybe one, by itself, would be a sort of puncture. But in larger quantities there is an abrasive feel to them, where something is being worn away, or shaken, or a placidness is being disturbed. The poem is sonically poking or jabbing at the silence around it.

Q: When did you start writing poetry, and why?

A: Reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” in 11th grade really got me started. That was the first time that I was struck by poetry as being something that was immediate and felt. It reached out to me in some different way. And, I thought, No. 1, that’s really great, and No. 2, I would like to do that also!

***

Zócalo has been awarding a poetry prize in conjunction with our annual book prize since 2012. Jody Zordrager won the inaugural prize for “Coming Back, It Comes Back,” a poem about returning home to Massachusetts. Our 2013 prize went to Jia-Rui Cook—prior to her joining the Zócalo staff as editor—for “Fault,” a poem about the shifting ground on which Southern Californians live. The 2014 prize went to Amy Glynn for “Shoreline,” about a place where we can sit back and watch the tide roll out and come in. Gillian Wegener won the 2015 prize for a poem that evoked the intimacy of a diner in a small town in the midst of change. And Matt Phillips won the 2016 prize for “Crossing Coronado Bridge,” which takes us on a journey across the span that connects the city of San Diego to Coronado Island, and explores our need to venture out into cold, black water—while recognizing there’s always a depth that is beyond our reach.

The post Announcing Zócalo’s Sixth Annual Poetry Prize Winner appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

This year, a record 443 poets submitted 1,016 poems, taking us to streets in South Korea, markets in Ecuador, and the river that runs through Minneapolis. We received quite a few musings from the desert—perhaps one of the more beautiful after-effects of the prolonged drought still desiccating many parts of the West.

Ultimately, Zócalo poetry editor Colette LaBouff and the editorial staff chose to honor a poem that takes us on a journey across the bridge that connects the city of San Diego to Coronado Island. We’re thrilled to award the $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize to Matt Phillips of San Diego, California. His winning poem explores our need to venture out into cold, black water—while recognizing there’s always a depth that is beyond our reach:

Crossing Coronado Bridge

He’s making ocean talk—says gnarly swells and stoked for summer, but I’m counting
retired sailboats anchored northwest: I invent names like A Total Catch, Love’s Revenge,
‘Bout Time, and I Win You Lose. His red Toyota rattles across road braille, catches
third gear, groans toward two hundred feet above black water.

I blink at signs every few car lengths: ‘Call the Suicide Hotline.’ Then we’re talking
shipwrecks off the coast, how to keep our bearings in the blackness of cold deep water—
tie a rope and unspool as you swim, follow the line back to its origin.

At the bridge’s apex, my eyes swell with Loma Peninsula; nearer, a loose association
of skyscrapers, straight as index fingers splinted with popsicle sticks—

the Toyota sighs with easy descent. I guess there are California myths I should tell, legends
conjured from memory’s undertow. I know one that says a bearded man caught three stingrays
with chopped white squid (fleshy as a tulip), cut them loose

while they made ocean talk beneath shiny-slick wings, their pink mouths whispering
soundless prayer —want for freedom in cold deep water.

Zócalo spoke on the phone with our winner about the poem and the poet behind it:

Q. What inspired “Crossing Coronado Bridge”?

A. It was a combination of factors. I was reading a lot of poems that have to do with the city, everything from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” and “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” to William Carlos Williams’ Paterson. And I had been doing research on the Coronado Bridge here in San Diego. I was thinking about bridging the dichotomy of these two bodies of land and the deadliness of the bridge. And then randomly I took a trip with one of my buddies, Vin, a real estate agent, to go fish beneath the bridge. So this is basically the moment of crossing the bridge with him in his little Toyota and reflecting on the camaraderie of going fishing with a buddy, and the idea of the poet being a flâneur, someone who goes around a city and takes everything in.

Q. If you had to have one poet’s talent, whose would you like to have?

A. Jim Carroll. Jim was a New York-based poet for most of his life, and was a punk musician, too. His work was made famous in the movie The Basketball Diaries, with Leonardo DiCaprio. His book Fear of Dreaming has been with me since I was 12 or 13. It’s here on my coffee table, all taped up. He worked within tradition and expanded things and created his own forms.

Q. What’s your favorite place to write poetry?

A. I write at a desk I built from an old pallet, sitting in my and my wife’s bedroom. Or I write sitting on an easy chair in the living room. I worked as a reporter for a while—I had an internship at the Denver Post—so I learned to write anywhere, even with activity going on. I don’t need total silence. I like a little noise.

Q. What subject do you find yourself returning to?

A. The subject I return to most is the emotional and physical landscape of being Californian from childhood onward. Living here in San Diego and growing up in the Coachella Valley, it’s the border culture and working-class people. Being Californian is being able to hike in the mountains and surf and run in the desert all in one day if you want, and a confluence of multiple cultures. It also means understanding that not everyone has same views as you. And it’s language—the things Vin says.

Q. How do you make a living?

A. I’m a grad student now, getting my MFA at the University of Texas at El Paso. I’m currently writing my thesis. So partly on student loans—and I have a fellowship. I also work as an editor for an admissions consulting company part-time. I help people write medical school application essays.

***

Zócalo has been awarding a poetry prize in conjunction with our annual book prize since 2012. Jody Zordrager won the inaugural prize for “Coming Back, It Comes Back,” a poem about returning home to Massachusetts. Our 2013 prize went to Jia-Rui Cook—prior to her joining the Zócalo staff as editor—for “Fault,” a poem about the shifting ground on which Southern Californians live. The 2014 prize went to Amy Glynn for “Shoreline,” about a place where we can sit back and watch the tide roll out and come in. And Gillian Wegener won the 2015 prize for a poem that evoked the intimacy of a diner in a small town in the midst of change.

The post Announcing Zócalo’s Fifth Annual Poetry Prize Winner appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

In conjunction with our annual book prize, we honor the writer of a poem that best evokes a connection to place. In 2012, Jody Zordrager won our inaugural prize for “Coming Back, It Comes Back,” a poem about returning home to Massachusetts; our 2013 prize went to Jia-Rui Cook—prior to her joining the Zócalo staff as editor—for “Fault,” a poem about the shifting ground on which Southern Californians live. Last year’s prize went to Amy Glynn for “Shoreline,” about a place where we can sit back and watch the tide roll out and come in.

This year, 350 poets submitted about 700 poems to our contest. They brought us to all sorts of places: from the Bronx and Finland to what we imagine heaven is like.

Ultimately, Zócalo poetry editor Stephanie Brown and the Zócalo editorial staff chose to honor a poem about a place here in California. We’re delighted to award the $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize to Gillian Wegener, who works on teacher training and curriculum development for the Oakdale Joint Unified School District and serves as the poet laureate of Modesto, Calif. Her winning poem about a small-town diner evokes the intimacy of its staff and regulars, and accepts the inevitability of change:

The Old Mill Café

Everyone knew where to sit.
Everyone knew what time the men from the dairy plant came in after the night shift.
Everyone knew when the all-night drunks would come looking for breakfast.
Everyone knew when Sandy’s girl ran away and why.
Everyone knew the size of the pancakes.
Everyone knew the windmill might really work, but then again, who could be sure.
Everyone knew when the junior college let out for summer.
Everyone knew when the talk was that the highway would be decommissioned.
Everyone knew when the hometown boy made good.
Everyone knew when the waitress was home sick and that she wasn’t sick at all.
Everyone knew and everyone commented when something wasn’t right.
Some folks commented with words and more words and some just nodded
and some didn’t nod.
Everyone knew that team didn’t deserve to win that championship game.
Everyone knew the goddamned hippies weren’t welcome.
Everyone knew the smell of fresh coffee and the little clanks of the creamer lids.
Everyone left that stool empty for a long time after Charlie passed.
Everyone clutched their coffee cups when the train passed through—could have
touched the train as it squeezed by—the truth then, but not now.
Everyone heard about the accident and then everyone knew or thought they knew.
Everyone knew wind from the west meant a little rain.
No one knew what happened to that kid who used to bus tables.
Everyone knew when the price of almonds just about dropped through the floor.
Everyone knew the overpass was coming and that the Old Mill would be razed.
Everyone knew the café would reopen way down the street and no one was happy
about it.
Everyone knew they would keep going to the new place, which they did
even though it wasn’t the same—eggs tasted different, couldn’t put a finger on it.
Everyone knew that things don’t stay the same and there’s no use in whining about
any of it.

We spoke on the phone to the winner, who wrote a piece for Zócalo last year about Modesto’s poetry scene—to tell her the good news and ask her some questions:

Q. Was the “The Old Mill Café” inspired by an actual café—and, if so, where is it?

A. The Old Mill Café is in downtown Modesto. It had a certain kind of mystique. I actually never went inside—but I used to go past it all time. It was on the Old Highway 99.

When I wrote the poem, I was imagining its history over the course of time—how the same people went there day after day, year after year. It was close to a dairy, so I imagined shift workers going there—people who’ve been at the heart of Modesto as a town over the years.

[In 2001], the city built an overpass and knocked down the old restaurant. The Old Mill was moved down street and it doesn’t have a windmill anymore. It’s a regular old diner now, but the same people still go: farmers, ranchers, and the occasional person passing through.

Q. What’s been especially rewarding about being the poet laureate of Modesto?

A. So many community groups have asked me to write poems for their events. No one needs to include a poem in an event, but people feel that a poem gives a sense of gravity to a situation. I’ve been honored to meet that need.

The most challenging poem I’ve written was for the Community Hospice, for the dedication of the Children’s Memorial Garden. I was writing for families who’ve lost a child, so I wanted to honor their experience without assuming that I knew what they were feeling. Having that kind of trust from them was an honor. It was challenging to write and also meaningful, hopefully.

Q. What do you do when you’re not writing poetry?

A. I taught 8th grade English for 22 years. I’m out of the classroom now and working on curriculum and training teachers.

Q. What subject do you find yourself returning to?

A. Sense of place. I moved around a lot growing up and didn’t have a home place. I moved to Modesto and got a teaching job. At first, I wanted to teach and then move somewhere more exciting. Then this became my home, almost in spite of myself. I’m fascinated by how home gets created around us, even when we’re not looking for it.

Q. Which English-language poet do you find especially inspiring?

A. Lorine Niedecker. She has an amazing sense of place in her work, and an amazing sense of history. She’s my go-to poet when I’m stuck, when I feel like I’m caught in little bit of a rut and need to go in a new direction. Sometimes reading her work generates ideas that have nothing to do with what’s in her poems. It’s always a pleasure to read her work and see what happens.

The post Announcing Zócalo’s Fourth Annual Poetry Prize Winner appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

For the past two years, in conjunction with our annual book prize, we’ve honored the writer of the poem that best evokes a connection to place—which we interpret quite broadly. In 2012, Jody Zordrager won our inaugural prize for “Coming Back, It Comes Back,” a poem about returning home to Massachusetts; last year’s prize went to Jia-Rui Cook for “Fault,” a poem about the shifting ground on which Southern Californians live.

A record 400 poets submitted 1,000 poems to this year’s contest. They brought us to places we love (drive-in movie theaters, swimming lakes) and places we leave (1970s Detroit, the family farm), places we know like the back of our hands (a childhood bedroom, the backyard) and places we only imagine (Noah’s Mount Ararat, a room in a painting).

Ultimately, Zócalo poetry editor Stephanie Brown and the Zócalo editorial staff chose to honor a poem about a place you can go to watch time and the elements collide. We’re thrilled to award the $500 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize to Amy Glynn of Lafayette, California. Her winning poem takes the form of a ghazal (originating in the Middle East and South Asia) and explores that place where we can sit back and watch the tide roll out and come in:

Shoreline

It’s not just submission, accepting you’re bound here, enslaved
to tide, lunar phase, run aground; it’s the surf’s job to pound, wave

slapping wrackline; it’s not about not-waving-drowning, or saved
from the big stuff, the depths we can’t sound, but hey, I’ll be around, wave,

no matter how you treat me now, you knave
rogue riptide. Never made or lost, we’re found, wave,

in change. Watching particles alters the way they behave
but so does the watcher’s desired outcome. We propound, wave,

that in fact we are asking to be caught inside, to be caved
in on. Each dawn the same long strands of littoral litter undrowned, wave

calcified into whelk, curl of the conch, saline-laved
corals bleached bone-pale, pulverized, ground by wave

and eon to sand, and you see what is meant by depraved
indifference, and equipoise. Surf surfaces, the compound wave

inconstant in amplitude and in velocity, rave
on, bury details, be inscrutable and deemed profound. Wave

from the breakers. We manifest what we expect. What we crave
is a whole other story. So skim or delve, let the rebound wave

suck you back to the dream-sea. See. Suffer sea-change. See, change saves
you: ride it out; undulate under the blankets of ground wave

and Love wave, the great seismic shudder. It’s so moving. Brave
as we must be to bear it: no permanence, just the inbound wave

and the outbound. And if we’re to take this with us to the grave,
make it matter. Light up every neuron, love; love me spellbound. Wave

off all else. No one sees us but angels, and they don’t care. They’ve
seen and heard every angle; that’s being part light-wave, part sound-wave.

We spoke on the phone with our winner about the poem and the poet behind it:

Q. What inspired “Shoreline”—any particular shoreline?

A. The shoreline I started out envisioning is a beach in Nayarit, Mexico, an area called Punta Mita. Although the poem is not supposed to refer to any specific piece of shoreline, it happens to be that one that was in my head.

Q. Why did you choose to submit this poem to our contest?

A. Because I felt like there’s something about shorelines as a place that is sort of uniquely magical. It’s the part of the planet where air and water and land all kind of come together, and there’s something magical to me in that. Beaches are a favorite place of mine.

Q. Where do you write?

A. I have a tiny, walk-in-closet-sized office in my house where I tend to do most of my writing. I have a little, tiny window, and there is an orange tree out the window, and occasionally birds and little butterflies and things come to visit it. It’s not bad.

Q. What subjects do you find yourself returning to?

A. I’m really interested in natural history, and that has been a vein of my writing for a long time. It’s a funny thing because I was a really uniquely crappy science student in school, and I avoided it like the plague. I have no idea why I find it fascinating now. There’s a lot of really rich and exciting language in things like taxonomy. I’m not a physicist, and the things I read are layman-level stuff, but I really like reading about quantum mechanics, and I’m interested in the role quantum mechanics can play in multiple meanings. I’m a late-blooming science nerd as it turns out.

Q. What do you spend most of your time doing?

A. Driving children around. I have had the privilege of being able to be a parent the last few years, and I write in the spaces that appear in there. I do some other kinds of writing and copyediting: I’m a hired gun wine writer, an essayist. I fix annual stockholder reports for an investment bank. I’ve done all kinds of weird stuff—intellectual property law research, working in Silicon Valley for a dot-com, a personal assistant to a politician. Everything short of a stint pulling espresso at a Starbucks. That, luckily, never manifested.

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