mystery box contest
*** The 3d Mystery Box Contest is now CLOSED -
To view the current Mystery Box click here ***
New Mystery Box! New Format!
Two for One: This box I picked up from a junk shop (a.k.a. "antiques boutique") and low and behold inside of it was another box. The images on the lids of each of these boxes should be inspiring, but as a word of warning: neither are in stellar condition, but the interior box in particular has some damage at the corners. Nevertheless, I fell in love with images, especially the floating bowls on the lid of the smaller box. The larger box is approximately 3"x4", the smaller 2"x3".
The rules are the same as usual: Write a poem inspired by the box. The winner receives the box, plus winner's status and publication in an upcoming issue.
This time around, however, we would like you to post your poem to this page. The contest will remain open until September. While ultimately it will be up to the editors to decide the winner, readers will be able to vote on their favorite poem via a poll on Poemeleon: The Blog, so tell everyone you know to vote! We will take those votes into consideration when making the final call.
To view the 1st and 2nd Mystery Boxes click here.
To view the winner of the 1st Mystery Box Contest click here.
To view the winner of the 2nd Mystery Box Contest click here.
Good luck!
What she had seen and lost
and what she had known in fable,
what she approached over and over
in her mind’s eye, more vivid
at each 4:00 am visit,
each shining apparition
in the dark-pooled light
of the fruit cellar,
the schatzkammer.
This she might yet recover—
this seed enclosed in the rind
of a cloud-bound moon
or a root-tangled moon
caught in a mirror of
a well’s black face.
A man walks the path
to the shrine. His eyes
study the ginkgo leaves.
A woman follows, her eyes
upon the ground. They
do not travel the same
journey. The breeze
blows up that path; a wren
flies upon the breeze.
Neither travels the same
journey. Two monks
step from stone to stone
across the lotus pond.
One sings, the other chants.
Theirs is not the same
journey. A frog swims
alongside, trailed by
a koi. Each travels
its own journey. I hand
you another four-leafed
clover I have just found.
You point to the west of
the mountain where
the hawk circles. A hundred
poets open and close identical
boxes.
For now
safe. For now the pieces of you are pieces of me
and we swallow the same
music.
Late at night, no one but us in this
skin.
Hiccup and I will feel you, knees and elbows
of what is nested
within.
You double me, heavy us, double
and strange me till I am
beautiful and eerie,
formal and grateful
that you are still
safe.
rustling silk and rushing feet
to the shrine.
Inside, dark and still.
Candles lit...
Surrounded by flickering flames
and questions
caught in the shark's gaping maw.
Petitions like smoke float heavenward.
Outside, our thoughts float
in clouds, words out
of our mouths, but not ours.
Outside, our bodies float in silk
robes, dyed to compete with winter
sakura, ume, hill cherries.
Outside, we are like hanami
watched and appraised
for foreshadowing of fruitfulness.
Inside, my tongue gouges
the cherry pit from its flesh
keeping our salient secret
inside the cotton robes,
inside silk robes.
Inside two cherries: tongues
inside, only me, you,
the seagulls
know.
We share the flycatcher's fate, flocking to gardens
like keepers of peace bringing
ashes of prey for an offering
and sacrifice to the
unknown
god.
Honey
We have traveled together now
only eight months
the soles of our feet sometimes sunken into ebony depths
or gliding across an oyster shell of forgiveness
Sand never knows its path
yet in time
a pearl
may emerge
may not
Who knows
Our pagoda of pleasure
Our temple of pain now so exquisite
We can only let go
again
Breathe
Massage one another’s feet
Talk endlessly
Even that night we whined
Yelled
Spit criticism and contempt into the world
Like dozens of tiny daggers
Love
remains
Fragile as dragonfly wings
Powerful as iron
Healing as sunlight
Who are you?
Who am I?
We know everything about one another
Yet know nothing
We are just discovering that now
Perhaps one day we will recognize
That we are inside the pagoda
Of God’s will
No matter what
We can still drink from shared little bowls of joy and laughter
Like Jacob I wrestle though
Not knowing a blessing
Until it dislocates my hip
So many prayers
A holy trinity of triangular angels all around us
Some days we gasp for air
Others
I’d swear honey
We could fly
Does one ever really arrive
In love?
Too early now to answer that question
I doubt that anyone has ever fully known anyone else
Yet the smell of your skin
Just at the hollow of your neck
Where my lips always seem to find your beating heart
truth
I know one thing.
I will walk with you
Through ebony nights
Toward alabaster skies
Only to discover
You
Me
Transforming once again
Forever forged like raw silver into
A mirror
May we have the courage of those who travel in the dark
To honestly examine our lives
Tell our truths
Dream our dreams
Burn with desires
Express our needs
Risking, too, that with revelations
We may
Or may not
Fit together forever like pieces of an ancient puzzle
Meanwhile
May God hold our lives in the palm of his hand
Like a box
surrounding a sacred box
holding fine jewels
The trip
My dear
Is everything
Everything
Will you walk with me?
Here, the leaves are perfect as fans,
the pebbles symmetric
and shiny as birds’ wings.
Lake, sky, trees, the clouds
are framed, each frames another,
even the boxes are boxed in.
Life is not like this in Paris.
Bowls follow us, hovering, whispering.
We smell their green tea sloshing.
When you hear the gurgle,
cover your head with your heavy silk sleeve
before the swarming starts.
We seem mild and stately. No one suspects.
Our sleeves are heavy with offerings.
We hasten to the shrine,
not to meet secret lovers,
but to buy lottery tickets
[pour acheter des billets de loterie].
Numbers came to us in a dream,
written on a hundred bowls,
pearly as a hundred moons.
In Paris, we’ll drink café crème from bowls.
We will let down our long hair,
dye it manzanita red.
Behold the shrine!
In the distance,
Wooden and silent from afar,
But peer closer and see the marvels it bares.
It breathes life into those that look upon it,
Instilling hope in the souls of those who stand true.
Be careful not to intrude upon this tranquil scene,
The trees wave their glistening leaves,
And the wind whispers into your ears,
The birds soar through the air amidst the feathers and clouds,
Shhhh….
Listen closely and hold your breath.
Step lightly across the stepping stones,
Beware.
Do not tread upon the tender new shoots,
Whisper your prayers and let the spirits carry them away,
Amongst the birds’ wings,
They fly.
Just a corner of the world,
That seems to be the center at which life revolves,
The master and student gaze,
Pondering the scene.
Mouth open in awe,
Arms stretched out to grasp the scene.
The curved corners of the roof,
The tiles shimmering in the moonlight,
No words can describe the magic of the glowing picture.
So sacred is this place.
It is untouchable,
Nature’s divinity.
The question hounded
rustling silk and rushing feet
to the shrine.
Inside, dark and still.
Candles lit...
Surrounded by flickering flames
and questions
caught in the shark's gaping maw.
Petitions like smoke float heavenward.
Box in a box in a box
===Triple mystery
Honey
We have traveled together now
only eight months
the soles of our feet sometimes sunken into ebony depths
or gliding across an oyster shell of forgiveness
sand never knows it’s path
yet in time
a pearl
may emerge
may not
Who knows
Our pagoda of pleasure
Our temple of pain now so exquisite
We can only let go
again
Breath
Massage one another’s feet
Even that night we whined
Yelled
Spit criticism and contempt into the world
Like dozens of tiny daggers
Love remains
Fragile as dragonfly wings
Powerful as a iron
Healing
As sunlight
Who are you?
Who am I?
We know everything
And nothing
We are just discovering that now
Perhaps one day we will arrive
Inside the pagoda
Of God’s will
Like Jacob I wrestle
Not knowing a blessing
Until it breaks my bones
So many prayers
A holy trinity of triangle angels all around us
Some days we gasp for air
Others
I’d swear honey
We could fly
Does one ever really arrive
In love?
Too early now to answer that question
I doubt that anyone has a true sense of anyone else
Yet the smell of your skin
Just at the hollow of your neck
Where my lips always seem to find your beating heart
truth
I know one thing.
I will walk with you
Through ebony nights
Toward alabaster skies
Only to discover
You
Me
Transforming once again
Forever forged like raw silver into
A mirror
May God hold our lives in the palm of his hand
Like a box
Surrounding fine jewels
The trip
My dear
Is everything
Everything
Will you walk with me?
.
Box in a box in a box
--- Triple mystery
Like twins, the wizened pair
Tread slightly where they go
Through plains of two dimension
Through summer and through snow
When beauty full surrounds them
They hardly see themselves
Yet clear their introspect
When blades lay on the shelves
Strong they are as two
They’ll travel wide and far
And in the autumn leaves
They’ll bathe their winter scars
Like twins, the wizened pair
Tread forward, never back
The path ahead is orange
The road behind them, black
Our life is like two boxes
Containing right and wrong
And each of us, two people
Collaborating song
Like twins, we take our journeys
And live our Yin and Yang
And seek to relish nature
According to a plan
Like twins, the wizened pair
Tread slightly where they go
Through plains of two dimensions
Through summer and through snow
Stories of lives unfold
Hidden by my sleeves
Stone faced lest the word
Reach the world
At the second-hand store
in the center of suburbia,
she stumbled into a section
advertising BOGO.
Bargain Blast, belted the in-store stereo speakers.
Blindly bargaining through the bins,
she tossed aside Timeless Treasures:
a pirate’s chest of sparkling plastic gems,
Old-World Wonders:
the maiden Mayflower in a tiny bottle,
and All-American Classics:
a Campbell Soup can magnet,
a mangy Snoopy mini-doll,
a half-set of Coca~Cola coasters, crushed at the corners,
Little Orphan Annie missing a patch of hair.
She fingered to the bottom of the barrel
in her gallant quest for Beauty and Truth.
Truth and Beauty.
Profound. Her fingertips finally found
a black set of boxes. A bit banged up
but well worth the wear,
as well as the buck. She examined and inspected,
flipping and turning over and over,
considering the crystalline images imprinted on the tops.
What were those women wearing?
Where were they going?
And what could they be offering
with nothing in their hands?
And why, she wondered,
did they appear mildly
(mongoloid?) (retarded?) mentally (handicapped?) challenged?
No matter.
Cultural Awareness and Art Appreciation
(Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees. . .)
ran amuck her mind. And besides,
the glinting flecks of translucent flakes
would perfectly reflect the new
stainless steel fixtures in her bathroom.
She proudly paid by charge,
and charged through the doors into the lot,
lost amidst a concrete sea,
full of four-door, late-model,
hybrid-engine, recently-waxed,
glittering gold SUVs.
If we are here in the tornado
of blossoms, surely you can see
the sea-monster’s breath disturbing
a glass bottom pond.
My robes pull so infinitely.
Your voice is wooden
calling to me across a space that is millimeters
and feet, static and continuous.
Our home’s haunches
are satisfied. The fish we caught
said their prayers
alongside us. We light incense
for them, for your mother, for wings
disappearing in our old age.
The pupa of my thoughts are lacquered
with patience. Soon the beating
of such life will snap the case
in two: we can write on the paper
we’ve made. Surely you see
the ripples still forming.
from reflective pools
by the temple
1.
We carry mysteries inside of boxes inside of boxes,
never knowing what is inside of the box.
We cannot be curious or peek inside.
We have been told to open them would bring death.
We do not want to die when we are early in love.
We are early as a journey just beginning carrying mystery boxes.
2.
I am dangerous with curiosity.
I have been picking at the edge of a mystery box like a scab.
I have wanted to see what is inside.
I have been wishing to see the inside since I started carrying it.
It is a hard thing to be curious and carrying a mystery box.
It speaks to me with a conspiracy.
Lift me, it begs. Lift me, and all will be answered.
It is hard to be still with a mystery
when the spirit is so loud when it whispers.
3.
I could not help myself.
I had to know what was inside the box
I have been carrying like an egg
that cannot be opened.
I opened it.
Rice bowls flew out like cranes turning into stars.
They were magic bowls to feed all the hunger in the world.
They flew away, out of reach, and now we must starve.
It is my fault. It is my carelessness that has caused this.
It is my fault people have a reason to argue and strike each other.
It is my fault multitudes of bellies swell with hunger.
People will become thin as a waning moon.
Their arms will be chopsticks.
It is my error opened what was not mine to open.
4.
When I reach the temple, what will I say?
When the gone rings empty as a rice bowl,
what will I tell the monks that want to fed the needy?
When the world is a growling stomach,
what will I have to offer ?
I will have two open boxes, one hiding inside another,
like lies, like excuses small as rice.
What then can I tell the bones?
The empty barren fields begging?
Spears will emerge from the ground, gnashing as teeth.
Will I accuse my traveling companion
like some people blame their spouse?
Will they point and accuse me?
5.
I have confessed to the cherry blossoms.
This is why they cry pink flowers.
This is my shame for everyone to see.
My humiliation is a rice bowl that never fills.
I drop rice after rice trying to fill it.
It empties as soon as I fill it.
6.
When we began this journey,
we crossed the land like lover’s hands across a body.
We were a bowl of rice that could not spill.
We were told to do something which was to do nothing.
One obeyed. One did not.
We began as a secret inside of one box inside another.
We end as a box opened, its secrets no longer a secret,
promises betrayed, shame following us
and this is why people must have shadows.
It is to remind us that we all can fail if given a chance.
It is to remind us to keep to our tasks.
We are all traveling with secret boxes.
we have come together
in secret and sorrow
each step crosses a crevasse
deeper than all the starless nights
we come together as dawn
touches the meadow
to the shrine of sweet remembrances
here we place our offerings
in alabaster bowls
carved thin as a moon curve on the first
night of shine
away from new
we write the blessings
on paper soft as steam
all the words we are forbidden to breathe
we touch the candle flame to ink and paper
flame to glow to dim and fade
one thin strip folded seven times
burns stroke by stroke
words spiral up as jasmine scents the air
the bowls ash smudged we spin
in the cave of teeth
walk across white stones
out the other side of doom
tied together in our undoing
Two women walked to the river
carrying dirty laundry to their deaths
on a lovely spring day.
Slapping soiled cloth against the rocks,
wringing until the water ran clear,
sharing gossip they labored;
but on this day the clouds had ears,
the birds were spies, and excess dirt was sent
upon the whisper of the wind.
They returned to storm clouds swirling lies
overhead, unaware they had been hung
out to dry with the linen.
at one with clouds so bittersweet
pauses a moment so damned high
and races away incomplete.
I came in a box from China and I'm Chinese. That's why I don't know my colors. Only blue. Like blueberries. Too bad I'll never learn. Too bad for all us Chinese. We'll never go to Kindergarten. And there's no Kindergarten in Chinese anyway.
I came in a box from China. That's why I'm putting Cheerios on my pizza. Chinese people love Cheerios. And using chopsticks. That's why my pizza is stuck on the end of a chopstick. Chopsticks are definitely Chinese AND from China. If anyone asks you, you can say that to them.
I came in a box from China. That's why I can't say your name. I call you "Gerda Coo Coo Day Cereal." That's the Chinese name for Elizabeth. I guess it's hard to say if you're not Chinese. You can just call yourself Elizabeth.
I came in a box from China. I love it here in Chicago, and I love being a princess. I'm married to Sleeping Beauty. She's Chinese! She came with me in the box, and we slept together on the way here. I'm her husband, and my job is Go to Balls.
Sleeping Beauty and I have two daughters. They're Chinese! We couldn't fit them in the box. They're at home in China in their own box. You would like my daughters Gee Goo Bah and Boo Dee Bah. You can call them by their Chicago names: Bella and Cinderella.
They're perfect, and they never cry because they're Chinese, and they don't know how. If they feel sad, they just make their friends cry; they hurt them with their chopsticks, and then they feel better.