Once again we had a wonderful selection of poems submitted for the above photograph by Chris Sims and I am getting really good feedback from visitors top the site. As one reader put it “it is lovely to see the challenge unfolding week by week”.
I am delighted to tell you that the winning poem is New York Shoe Shine by Corey-Jan Albert. In second place was The Company of Men by Elizabeth Schermund.
Poem 1
Company of Men
I’ve always enjoyed the company of men
the scent of shoe leather and
the flick of the polished rag.
Heavy briefcases that barely
contain those restless gazes
fixed on tomorrow.
I didn’t experience the rough
and tumble of little boys but
the slow pastoral of sisterhood.
My youth unfolded on the sloping
hills of England where
cows called to their calves
and nestled them to their milk.
With each new season,
another sister said her I Dos
and stole away to different births,
or perhaps the same: bellowing, crying, feeding.
It’s as if all the sensuousness of nature
had conspired to send me this message:
You’re not like them.
And so I fled trans-Atlantic.
Stuffing my valises with empty paper,
hiding under bowler hats and padded jackets,
knocking on doors that never opened,
although one finally did.
And I stepped through into lunch meetings,
shoe shinings, and the constant questioning:
Where’s your husband?
I live on the tenth floor now
with a view of the Empire and
a smattering of trees in concrete.
Age renders women invisible and
I’ve long awaited this happy obsolescence.
But I’ll tell you this:
the scent of leather helps my blood flow and
in my apartment there are
no cows, no kids, no husband.
Birth is a word for ideas or changes.
And after all of these years,
I think that’s all right.
Elizabeth Schermund
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Poem 2
shine
The eyes are polished smooth with this routine.
Smugness and dissatisfaction gleam,
Reflecting faces which are never seen.
The walking nightmare serves the stagnant dream.
Smugness and dissatisfaction gleam
In mirrors interlocked in space and time.
The walking nightmare serves the stagnant dream,
An emptiness contained in this design.
In mirrors interlocked in space and time
The meaning’s not as lost as it might seem,
An emptiness contained in this design.
Bright petals drown at midnight in a stream.
The meaning’s not as lost as it might seem,
Reflecting faces which are never seen.
Bright petals drown at midnight in a stream.
The eyes are polished smooth with this routine.
J.B. Mulligan
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Poem 3
Ekphrasis On Shoe-Shine
I learnt reading newspapers
on one of those chairs
as my shoes traveled from
darkness to the black shine.
From me, the shoeshine boy
learnt the news, annotated,
subtly defused.
My father sat next to mine.
My father’s father sat next to him,
the one chair that looked
as empty as a pair of sports shoe
left abandoned on the bench
as if it could master its own destination
but it would not do so by choice.
Kushal Poddar
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Poem 4
New York Shoe Shine
A shoe shine – eight bucks? Robbery. But sure,
I have a train to catch – don’t want to miss –
but this is better than a pedicure
with all that touching. Makes my skin crawl. This
will do. What’s that? Yes, it brings back the days
when these things were important. Clothes one wears.
A handshake’s firmness. Polished shoes. It pays
to notice things like that. But now who cares
about the niceties? You think this row
of three young men and this old broad – oh yes
at sixty-eight you think I’m old, I know –
you think we make it matter? Well, I guess.
Eight dollars? Let me give you twelve. You beat
the therapist I’ll take that train to meet.
Corey-Jan Albert
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Poem 5
Spick and Span
Spick and span
and a job well done.
A freed and wandering mind,
serving those who need a break
from doing a job well done and time
to give them a freed and wandering mind.
Spick and span.
The chains only there in their minds.
Chains for those
who follow the wrong gods.
I can be cheerful, quick and efficient
my god is contentment
The god of
Spick and span
and a job well done.
Watch me, watch me
don’t turn away.
I can teach you.
You can learn
From me
and my god of
contentment.
Spick and Span
and a job well done.
Angie Butler
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Poem 6
I can not shine the dirty pennies from your eyes
or clean the earth clogging up your ears.
I can not remove the stench of silver from your nose,
white cloths won’t cover up the stains at your table.
I can not remove the mark of blood from your finger tips,
the taste of indifference from your tongue,
or the child’s face from the souls of your feet.
I can not rub away the history that placed you in that throne.
But your shoes I can shine like stars
and you will walk with a piece of me,
mistaking my dignity in your own gleaming reflection.
Stephanie Arsoska
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Poem 7
Shoe Analyst
Look at them
I sit here
An exhibit
But an expert
At studying faces
Prim and proper Number 1
She has a seminar
She has to stay on top
She fought for women’s rights
In her day
But things have changed
Feminism
Does not mean
Femininity
Number 2
Of course
Plans to be president one day
By his words
And his wits
He has to plant a seed
In the electronic ear
Of all
That the Company
Is being bought over
He steps over everyone
With polished shoes
And smelly socks
Look at Number 3
He cannot take it anymore
He is going to stand on the bridge
And jump
When they find him
Floating
His shoes will be shining lights
I wish I could help him
Tell him
If you can walk
Run
Dear Mr. 4
Break time for him
Between Susan’s nagging
Kids screaming
Finances building
And the boss waiting
To run over him
Forever and a day
He survives
He always will
I sit on a bench
An exhibit
Rough tough
With
Polished toes
And hidden woes
Anita Pinto
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Poem 8
Those shoes of mine
Walking around nothing maternal
Notice I did those shoes of mine
Were not clean they were dirty
Onwards I headed shop in sight
In I marched inaccessible
Difficulty struck upon me
Those shoes on my feet
Still not clean they were dirty
I sat down reading the newspaper
Seat i sat in was unnaturally warm
In my ears ringing was a faint piccolo
Soon I felt my shoes vibrating on my feet
Looked down to see
A head between my knees
Uncomfortable I felt byproduct of my mum
Abruptly the piccolo ceased
Curious I dropped my newspaper
The head shot up he shouted “finished”
Excitedly I gazed at my shoes
They were now clean no longer dirty
Happily I jumped out of my seat
Paid him with my thanks from my pocket
Embracing the cold I charged out onwards
Strutting about incoherent
The puddle of mud and rain
I had not seen thou
nevermore I would walk unsighted
Of hazards as dangerous
As the suns rays
Back towards the shop I was
Those shoes of mine are dirty now
Anita Shitmypants
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