Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010

To A Poet Laureate

by Trayle Kulshan

Dear Sam, I once wrote eight page
letters to your son, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
your driveway lined with alder saplings.
I pumped my bike up one, two, three
straight hills to Sawmill Corner
hoping you and Sally
never knew that it was me.
A round faced nine, ten, eleven
year old, I once bound blank
diaries during art, which you
must have taught.
Boring holes through stacked sheets with
needles, the blunt end cut my finger
making it hard to tie thin thread.
Somehow three small bundles became a single
tome, glue beaten with a wide stubby brush
into paper we must have made
from fresh pulp.
Inside, I once wrote eight line
poems jotted in colored pens and
revised with wild insects flying round and round
kerosene lamps, flashlights and blue
computer screens
hoping you and Sally
might publish one.

Added: 25.04.2010