By Editor Sharon Waller
Knutson
Here are my nominations for the Pushcart Prize from poems and flash fiction published in Storyteller Poetry Review from January to December 2024. Poets selected are named in order that their Storyteller of the Week was featured.
Marianne Szlyk
For Once She Was Good 1991
After “The Library” by Anna Lee Hafer, n.d.
For once, Mary was a good girl sitting in the library with her ankles crossed, ignoring the silly, vile graffiti carved into the chairs and table, doing her calculus homework on a Friday afternoon. As a reward, she planned to eat dinner off campus and then work on her art history project, a comparison between two portraits of the Madonna and Child.
Then Frankie stood before her as if he’d known where she’d be in the maze of bookshelves and worn armchairs. She suspected that his father had sent him to the library to “learn something,” as Frankie claimed he often did. Frankie had quit school, so his father assigned him little tasks. He was supposed to be watching a science program on Channel Thirteen, but the old man had caught him cracking up at Popeye kicking butt and taking names in deepest darkest Africa on some UHF channel. For the past week, Frankie had been laboring over a twenty-page paper on the cartoons’ cultural significance. Mary had offered to help him do research at the library, but he had shrugged her off. She wondered if he was finally going to accept her help.
“We got tickets for Chuck Berry tonight at the Apollo. Wanna come?”
“Yeah. Sure. Who’s we?” She whispered even though the library was empty.
“Me and Pops. Alicia has a big paper. So you’ll take her ticket.”
Mary closed her notebook. Alicia was Frankie’s younger sister who tagged along sometimes when they played music in the subway station. They let her sing backup and whack a tambourine. Once, during the week, she and Mary met to go thrifting. Everything fit Alicia, a slight girl, and nothing fit Mary’s curves. Alicia still went home with nothing, and Mary paid too much for a tiny purse.
“You’re gonna come, right?”
Frankie’s voice sounded so loud, but most of the librarians and the other students had left to go drinking.
He barely waited for Mary to slip her Calculus book and notebook into her backpack. As she hoisted it onto her shoulders, he led her out of the library.
“Don’t I have to change? Or at least drop off my backpack?”
Frankie interrupted his monologue about Popeye. “Yeah, sure.”
“Wait outside. Compose your paper about Popeye’s cultural significance. Wasn’t it due yesterday?”
He laughed.
Frankie’s father met them at the diner closest to the subway station. Mary didn’t recognize him except that he was a taller, thinner, older version of Frankie. The same black watch cap, the same wire-rimmed glasses, the same black leather jacket for the October chill minus the spikes and studs, of course. Except that Frankie was straight-edge and his father smoked throughout dinner, barely talking, just stubbing his half-smoked cigarettes into a heaping plate of French fries. They were not real food, he said. Not that he ate anything anyway, Mary noticed, as she chewed and swallowed the last of her bacon cheeseburger and then wiped the juice and ketchup from her fingers with a cloth napkin.
They took a taxi up to the Apollo. Mary shrugged. She and Frankie would have walked, but it was the father’s money, not hers. Then Jacob started talking. He had an audience, that is, the Haitian cab driver, a young man who rapped and played guitar. Mary listened a little. She couldn’t help it because she sat in the middle. She faced her friend, inching towards him as his father spoke loudly, even gesturing, brushing his hands against her arm, her hair once or twice.
Maybe if she’d been a good girl. . . but she told herself that this was nothing as she paid attention to Frankie, nodded firmly, added her opinion. She told him that her father adored Chuck Berry, had seen him a few times back in Texas. She could feel Jacob’s hand balance himself against her thigh as he shifted position. She told herself that this was nothing. Jacob was making a point about guitars to the driver. The back seat was cramped, sticky, uncomfortable. She’d rather walk with Frankie, let the old man ride and talk the cabbie’s ear off. She’d rather listen to Frankie’s stories about sneaking into ABC No Rio, the downtown venue where punk rockers and poets performed for free.
Maybe if she’d been a good girl, she would have begged off the evening, remembered that her mother was going to call her. She would have just taken her own taxi home, praying that her cash would cover the fare. But she didn’t want to disappoint Frankie. And she wanted to see Chuck Berry, to tell her dad all about the concert.
So she stayed and let Frankie’s father pay for her cab ride home. The music was great. She stood up all night to sway her hips and pump her arms, even when Frankie and his father were heckling the opening act. She was glad that they were riding in separate cabs. They were going in different directions. And he was just a boring old man, dropping names of people she didn’t know, moving around as if he were still a star in a limo. She hoped that she would never see him again. She hoped that she would see Frankie. That they would meet at the subway station tomorrow and play some more songs. She wanted to go alone with him to ABC No Rio.
Marianne Szlyk was Storyteller of the Week April 21, 2023. This poem was taken from Marianne’s Ekphrastic flash fiction series in July 19, 2024.
Marianne Szlyk
For Once She Was Good 1991
After “The Library” by Anna Lee Hafer, n.d.
For once, Mary was a good girl sitting in the library with her ankles crossed, ignoring the silly, vile graffiti carved into the chairs and table, doing her calculus homework on a Friday afternoon. As a reward, she planned to eat dinner off campus and then work on her art history project, a comparison between two portraits of the Madonna and Child.
Then Frankie stood before her as if he’d known where she’d be in the maze of bookshelves and worn armchairs. She suspected that his father had sent him to the library to “learn something,” as Frankie claimed he often did. Frankie had quit school, so his father assigned him little tasks. He was supposed to be watching a science program on Channel Thirteen, but the old man had caught him cracking up at Popeye kicking butt and taking names in deepest darkest Africa on some UHF channel. For the past week, Frankie had been laboring over a twenty-page paper on the cartoons’ cultural significance. Mary had offered to help him do research at the library, but he had shrugged her off. She wondered if he was finally going to accept her help.
“We got tickets for Chuck Berry tonight at the Apollo. Wanna come?”
“Yeah. Sure. Who’s we?” She whispered even though the library was empty.
“Me and Pops. Alicia has a big paper. So you’ll take her ticket.”
Mary closed her notebook. Alicia was Frankie’s younger sister who tagged along sometimes when they played music in the subway station. They let her sing backup and whack a tambourine. Once, during the week, she and Mary met to go thrifting. Everything fit Alicia, a slight girl, and nothing fit Mary’s curves. Alicia still went home with nothing, and Mary paid too much for a tiny purse.
“You’re gonna come, right?”
Frankie’s voice sounded so loud, but most of the librarians and the other students had left to go drinking.
He barely waited for Mary to slip her Calculus book and notebook into her backpack. As she hoisted it onto her shoulders, he led her out of the library.
“Don’t I have to change? Or at least drop off my backpack?”
Frankie interrupted his monologue about Popeye. “Yeah, sure.”
“Wait outside. Compose your paper about Popeye’s cultural significance. Wasn’t it due yesterday?”
He laughed.
Frankie’s father met them at the diner closest to the subway station. Mary didn’t recognize him except that he was a taller, thinner, older version of Frankie. The same black watch cap, the same wire-rimmed glasses, the same black leather jacket for the October chill minus the spikes and studs, of course. Except that Frankie was straight-edge and his father smoked throughout dinner, barely talking, just stubbing his half-smoked cigarettes into a heaping plate of French fries. They were not real food, he said. Not that he ate anything anyway, Mary noticed, as she chewed and swallowed the last of her bacon cheeseburger and then wiped the juice and ketchup from her fingers with a cloth napkin.
They took a taxi up to the Apollo. Mary shrugged. She and Frankie would have walked, but it was the father’s money, not hers. Then Jacob started talking. He had an audience, that is, the Haitian cab driver, a young man who rapped and played guitar. Mary listened a little. She couldn’t help it because she sat in the middle. She faced her friend, inching towards him as his father spoke loudly, even gesturing, brushing his hands against her arm, her hair once or twice.
Maybe if she’d been a good girl. . . but she told herself that this was nothing as she paid attention to Frankie, nodded firmly, added her opinion. She told him that her father adored Chuck Berry, had seen him a few times back in Texas. She could feel Jacob’s hand balance himself against her thigh as he shifted position. She told herself that this was nothing. Jacob was making a point about guitars to the driver. The back seat was cramped, sticky, uncomfortable. She’d rather walk with Frankie, let the old man ride and talk the cabbie’s ear off. She’d rather listen to Frankie’s stories about sneaking into ABC No Rio, the downtown venue where punk rockers and poets performed for free.
Maybe if she’d been a good girl, she would have begged off the evening, remembered that her mother was going to call her. She would have just taken her own taxi home, praying that her cash would cover the fare. But she didn’t want to disappoint Frankie. And she wanted to see Chuck Berry, to tell her dad all about the concert.
So she stayed and let Frankie’s father pay for her cab ride home. The music was great. She stood up all night to sway her hips and pump her arms, even when Frankie and his father were heckling the opening act. She was glad that they were riding in separate cabs. They were going in different directions. And he was just a boring old man, dropping names of people she didn’t know, moving around as if he were still a star in a limo. She hoped that she would never see him again. She hoped that she would see Frankie. That they would meet at the subway station tomorrow and play some more songs. She wanted to go alone with him to ABC No Rio.
Marianne Szlyk was Storyteller of the Week April 21, 2023. This poem was taken from Marianne’s Ekphrastic flash fiction series in July 19, 2024.
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/07/ekphrastic-flash-fiction.html
Joe Cottonwood
Best concert ever
Spread a blanket, edge of crowd
eat fried chicken not dancing
Jerry far away a tiny bobblehead on stage
flash of a beatific grin
Toddling child appears naked before us
says “Poop” a complete statement
parents somewhere dancing
the need immediate smelly
Selected by this child we
have no diapers no wipes
everyone oblivious dancing he has
black ringlets smudged cheeks trusting eyes
There are moments
—when you look into a lover’s eyes
—when a tree is falling
—when a child is in need
the world stops except that one thing
Jerry stops
the whole amphitheater silent
as we improvise with napkins
glug of white wine for cleaning fluid
dancing skeleton T shirt
folded and knotted as diaper
Saturn his name
stays with us we are Saturn’s rings
until mom and dad appear frantic and so sorry
We say we’re honored he chose us
They say thank you so much
but—no, the music never stopped
Joe Cottonwood was storyteller of the week in June 16, 2023. This poem came from the Celebrations series July 2, 2024.
Joe Cottonwood
Best concert ever
Spread a blanket, edge of crowd
eat fried chicken not dancing
Jerry far away a tiny bobblehead on stage
flash of a beatific grin
Toddling child appears naked before us
says “Poop” a complete statement
parents somewhere dancing
the need immediate smelly
Selected by this child we
have no diapers no wipes
everyone oblivious dancing he has
black ringlets smudged cheeks trusting eyes
There are moments
—when you look into a lover’s eyes
—when a tree is falling
—when a child is in need
the world stops except that one thing
Jerry stops
the whole amphitheater silent
as we improvise with napkins
glug of white wine for cleaning fluid
dancing skeleton T shirt
folded and knotted as diaper
Saturn his name
stays with us we are Saturn’s rings
until mom and dad appear frantic and so sorry
We say we’re honored he chose us
They say thank you so much
but—no, the music never stopped
Joe Cottonwood was storyteller of the week in June 16, 2023. This poem came from the Celebrations series July 2, 2024.
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/07/super-sized-series.html
John Hicks
Do You Know Why I Brought You to This Place?
It’s your first week in Bangkok. We go to Wat Pho monastery
to hear the chant of evening prayers.
With shaved heads, repeating words in ancient Pali, monks,
in saffron rows, sit
in lotus position on a platform along the room’s far side.
They live at the wat, not with their families.
Before you arrived, a Navy Captain invited me to a family
khao bodt celebration. A young sailor was entering a monastery
for a year—briefly setting his navy career aside.
I saw monks shave his head and give prayers,
and his family’s happiness as he faced them sitting
for the first ceremony for becoming a monk.
We’re on mats in the center of the room, listening to the monks
who, by their ordination have brought honor to their families.
Legs to the side, you sit
next to me on the floor of this public room, a bodt.
I try to look comfortable cross-legged as we listen to the chants,
and to distract from myself, I point to the Ramakien murals beside you.
September sunlight slips through windows along the room’s right side
illuminating the Buddha statue in front of the monks.
An elder with wire-rimmed glasses leads the chanting.
Near us, middle-aged women members of a family
have come to visit at the monastery.
A nun dressed neck to foot in a white robe sits
among them. Seeing a farang couple seated
nearby, she offers us tea from the pot beside her.
You wouldn’t see tea cups at home in our sanctuary.
Her close-cropped hair is unlike the shaved heads of the monks.
This generosity to foreigners is a lesson noticed by her family.
We smile our thanks. A small bell ends this chant.
A few words from the elder and they begin a new one.
In a circle of women, the nun shifts her seat
to direct attention of her family
across the room to the monks’ side.
Their level tones lift briefly as they
chant, a slight lift in the focused life in this temple.
You left home and family to be with me. Now, sitting beside me in this bodt,
listening to the monk’s chants, is it obvious I’m trying to make this fascinating?
Tonight I will ask you to make this life with me.
John Hicks was the Storyteller of the Week in Storyteller Poetry Review Jan. 2, 2024. This poem was featured in his love story series.
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/07/love-story-series.html
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
Advice From a Poet Father
It's quite simple, really,
So my poet father said:
Scald the China tea kettle,
Swirl hot water inside.
Toss the water out.
Place tea leaves, fragrant, waiting,
In the scalded teapot.
Pour boiling water over,
Cover with a cozy, simple or fancy.
Leave it to rest
In reverie
In calming solitude for ten minutes.
Allow it to achieve magical fusion.
Meanwhile,
Enter the adjoining room,
Pen in hand,
Craft a poem,
Let words blend like steeping tea.
Return to the brewed serenity,
Sip at the kitchen table or
Stand by the spiral staircase,
Watch the cat, lazily sunning.
Gaze at the lemon tree,
Its leaves lush, green and yellow,
In the garden below.
Tea tastes better this way.
Return to your poem.
Revise line by line.
Tea and poetry, hand in hand,
Flavors mingling with imagery.
Now you have a good poem.
Patience, Poetry, Pottery—
Fine companions, indeed.
Kavita was Storyteller of the Week March 22, 2024. This poem was chosen from the Tea series which will be published Nov. 29.
Lauren McBride
Help Wanted: Reliable Muse
Why do you disappear,
or seem only to appear
to lend a deaf ear
when I most need
help to proofread?
How it must amuse
you, my fickle muse
to frequently use
my rhyme-time
for your naptime!
Lauren McBride was Storyteller of the Week Jan. 19, 2024. This poem was chosen from the Muse series to be published Nov. 9.
John Hicks
Do You Know Why I Brought You to This Place?
It’s your first week in Bangkok. We go to Wat Pho monastery
to hear the chant of evening prayers.
With shaved heads, repeating words in ancient Pali, monks,
in saffron rows, sit
in lotus position on a platform along the room’s far side.
They live at the wat, not with their families.
Before you arrived, a Navy Captain invited me to a family
khao bodt celebration. A young sailor was entering a monastery
for a year—briefly setting his navy career aside.
I saw monks shave his head and give prayers,
and his family’s happiness as he faced them sitting
for the first ceremony for becoming a monk.
We’re on mats in the center of the room, listening to the monks
who, by their ordination have brought honor to their families.
Legs to the side, you sit
next to me on the floor of this public room, a bodt.
I try to look comfortable cross-legged as we listen to the chants,
and to distract from myself, I point to the Ramakien murals beside you.
September sunlight slips through windows along the room’s right side
illuminating the Buddha statue in front of the monks.
An elder with wire-rimmed glasses leads the chanting.
Near us, middle-aged women members of a family
have come to visit at the monastery.
A nun dressed neck to foot in a white robe sits
among them. Seeing a farang couple seated
nearby, she offers us tea from the pot beside her.
You wouldn’t see tea cups at home in our sanctuary.
Her close-cropped hair is unlike the shaved heads of the monks.
This generosity to foreigners is a lesson noticed by her family.
We smile our thanks. A small bell ends this chant.
A few words from the elder and they begin a new one.
In a circle of women, the nun shifts her seat
to direct attention of her family
across the room to the monks’ side.
Their level tones lift briefly as they
chant, a slight lift in the focused life in this temple.
You left home and family to be with me. Now, sitting beside me in this bodt,
listening to the monk’s chants, is it obvious I’m trying to make this fascinating?
Tonight I will ask you to make this life with me.
John Hicks was the Storyteller of the Week in Storyteller Poetry Review Jan. 2, 2024. This poem was featured in his love story series.
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/07/love-story-series.html
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
Advice From a Poet Father
It's quite simple, really,
So my poet father said:
Scald the China tea kettle,
Swirl hot water inside.
Toss the water out.
Place tea leaves, fragrant, waiting,
In the scalded teapot.
Pour boiling water over,
Cover with a cozy, simple or fancy.
Leave it to rest
In reverie
In calming solitude for ten minutes.
Allow it to achieve magical fusion.
Meanwhile,
Enter the adjoining room,
Pen in hand,
Craft a poem,
Let words blend like steeping tea.
Return to the brewed serenity,
Sip at the kitchen table or
Stand by the spiral staircase,
Watch the cat, lazily sunning.
Gaze at the lemon tree,
Its leaves lush, green and yellow,
In the garden below.
Tea tastes better this way.
Return to your poem.
Revise line by line.
Tea and poetry, hand in hand,
Flavors mingling with imagery.
Now you have a good poem.
Patience, Poetry, Pottery—
Fine companions, indeed.
Kavita was Storyteller of the Week March 22, 2024. This poem was chosen from the Tea series which will be published Nov. 29.
Lauren McBride
Help Wanted: Reliable Muse
Why do you disappear,
or seem only to appear
to lend a deaf ear
when I most need
help to proofread?
How it must amuse
you, my fickle muse
to frequently use
my rhyme-time
for your naptime!
Lauren McBride was Storyteller of the Week Jan. 19, 2024. This poem was chosen from the Muse series to be published Nov. 9.
Ethan Goffman
When My Wife Gave Birth
When my wife gave birth,
she gave birth to cats,
a feisty calico
and a tabby
who purred so loud
it about shook the world.
I said, Isn’t something the matter?
Don’t most women
give birth to human babies
and not cats?
She threw me a look
half glance, half glare
as if to say
What more did you expect,
you who could never give birth to anything?
In all likelihood
my wife and I will survive our children
leaving us lonely and alone
to live out our days.
Ethan Goffman was 'storyteller of the Week March 8, 2024. This poem was from that feature.
https;//stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/03/storyteller-of.week_38.html
