Have you ever seen a 100 Danish Kroner note? If not, here is your chance. We’re running a poetry contest here on In Our Books, and the winner will receive a 100 Kroner note, as well as having their poem and a short interview featured in a future In Our Books post.
Write a poem in any form, of no more than one page in length. The prompt: Write about money – is money a token of love? Or is it just the opposite? Or something altogether different. You tell us!
Please post your answer in the comments for this post* by Wednesday, September 12th, 2012, 11:59 p.m. Pacific Daylight Savings Time [that’s only three days from now!]
We will post the winning poem and a short interview with the poet in a future post!
Thanks for joining in!
*if you prefer to enter non-publicly please use the contact form available by clicking the “contact us” link at the top of this page. Please note that if yours is the winning poem, the poem will be posted publicly here at In Our Books.
in our books 
Equity
Settling into my desk chair,
I find words frolicking on the outskirts of my brain.
“Pick me,” one shouts,
while another simply jumps up and down
longing for the attention it deserves.
Poetry or prose…
it doesn’t matter to them.
They just want to be written,
to be included.
Fingers twitching, ready to comply.
“Blasted money!”
I spit, looking at my agenda for the day.
Deadlines glare at me,
mocking the frolicking simpletons.
“Words are tools for making money,”
it tells me.
“Money is the key.”
I silence the frolickers
(surely they’ll understand)
and resign myself to the business of writing.
After all, the bills are not paid
by witty puns
or playful word pictures.
They simply have to wait until the calendar clears.
Hana Haatainen Caye
©2012
Great Hana! This is just precisely the kind of fresh air I hoped for – having my coffee.
I’m glad you enjoyed it! It was fun waking up to a poetry challenge this morning.
“this glamorous profession”
after Patrick Sokas, M.D.
Bill took an interest in my suit.
“Where did you get it?”
I looked at my feet and mumbled.
“I have one just like it.”
I glared. “This was my only suit, a mail-order suit.”
“You probably saw a picture on a model.”
“It looked good, though it was probably pinned up in back.”
“You said, ‘I want that suit.’”
“Actually I said, ‘I can afford that suit.’”
Bill took away my notebook,
and he played reporter for a while.
What an impressive poem. You have me going back to the good old days, my John Steinbeck age. I never experienced this feeling reading a poem.
EXCHANGE RATE
It causes happiness and sadness,
inspires charity and badness.
It can make people mean,
jealous and green.
It travels worldwide,
but stays by my side.
It makes people grin,
and often to sin.
We need it to live.
It enriches us to give.
It is dirty to touch,
but we love it so much.
Most labor for life,
For its dearth causes strife.
We must leave it behind.
Its worth is all in the mind.
What a title! And yes, here we are in an economic crisis needing the answers.
Hard Currency
It is like being back in high school, she thinks, clutches the smokes to her chest
Crushes the skinny pack of Benson and Hedges in the damp palm of one hand
For no reason, her eyes tear; she stares down, sees nothing
Knows well, crying for no reason is part and parcel of why she’s here, in the loony bin
A hard elbow in the side jostles her out of her trance; somebody steps in front of her in line
“Hey –”
She can barely summon the energy to protest, but she needs sanctuary
She needs to get into that insular little room, that room reserved solely for those who smoke
She is ready to fight for that crappy little bit of pseudo-independence, whatever the cost.
“I’m next,” she says loudly, to the back of the but-in-ski.
“Yeah?”
The biggest Native woman she’s ever seen swings around, stares down at her
“I don’t think so,”
The woman turns away from her with finality, brushes her off like lint
“I’ll give you a smoke,”
God, she hates how pitiful she sounds, but she knows how the system works; this costs
“Yeah?”
Smirking now, the woman turns, crosses massive arms across her chest,
“One?”
“Two, then?”
She’s never been much of a negotiator, but the door of the room is opening.
Panicked, she pulls four thin cigarettes out, quickly shoves them at the woman, slides past her
Caught off guard and stooping to catch the smokes, the woman shoots her a grudging grin through the filthy plexi-glass window of the smoking room,
The door clicks shut behind her; she settles back, lights up, draws deep.
S.E.Ingraham©
Thanks so much, Sharon! Lovely…
thanks! I wasn’t sure if it fit with the prompt – but of course, money comes in all sorts of forms … may a poet enter more than once?
Absolutely!
good “thinking outside the box”, Sharon. This could also work as flash fiction.
So many good ones already. Yay! This is going to be fun.
and challenging…
Definitely challenging, Mariya.
Yes, Claudsy, I am so glad. What inspiration! And yes, Mariya, what challenge!
The value of things
Coins pressed into palms like silver stigmata
turn hands into the heads of venomous snakes,
their poisoned fangs penetrating the flesh
of all that is touched or owned.
The whiter the teeth,
the better the slave,
to feed and to bathe,
to whip with the tongues
of black ties like nooses untied,
deciding who lives, and who dies,
distended stomachs, and mouths
full of flies.
These elections are for slugs squirming
under flags faded by light,
pushing past bearded and dirt-caked faces
perched above cardboard signs,
a trail of slime ten miles wide,
waiting for the ambrosia
to trickle down,
mistaking the salt for snowflakes.
These snakes swallow houses whole,
jawbones unhinged, mine mine mine
whispered between meals and flickered
fork tongues, dead eyes wishing
that the sun was for sale.
Money makes the world go around, the world go around, the world go around – only yes, what world?
so true. And those last two lines are great.
Uhm, OK – for several hours since early this morning I’ve been disputing with myself pro and con taking part here. Anyway, I have a … thing… that looks like a poem (thogh, I believe, it lacks the necessary characteristics of one), so I might as well put it down, or up, here for others to see 🙂
***
Money
That freedom is a matter of choice
would be a long-chewed-over lie
that all religions use
to dull our edge
and lull our spirit
away from revolution.
That revolution is a fight for freedom
is simply an illusion,
that leaders use
to lead the poor to believe
there will be
money
equality and freedom
for all.
Mariya, I’m so glad you sent this. It’s like a speech and flows so beautifully, slowing down displaying a clear cut conclusion.
Hm, Andrea, I also feel it like a speach. You, as a teacher-colleague, would understand me 😀
I do behave like a mentor at many times.
Thanks for the nice words.
Maybe The World Runs Out of Money
By: Meena Rose
It may well be a good thing;
If the world ran out of money.
It would make my heart sing;
It would turn my disposition sunny.
If the world ran out of money;
Life would set me free.
It would turn my disposition sunny;
It would fill my heart with glee.
Life would set me free;
I would pursue that which I love.
It would fill my heart with glee.
I would listen to inspiration from above.
I would pursue that which I love.
I would practice massage therapy.
I would listen to inspiration from above.
I would write for an eternity.
I would practice massage therapy.
It would make my heart sing.
I would write for an eternity.
It may well be a good thing.
I didn’t expect to see a pantoum here. This is really amazing.
Thanks Andrea 🙂
“The History of the World”
You are the history of the world—
folded, flapped boldly wrapped
inside front pocket, leathered purse and pouch.
How many thorned Nero’s must you embed,
how many hands must you pass through while
oceans roll over into new ages of ivy-laced gold?
Women will dance exotic for you in the company
of men who will lie for you—a tooth for a tooth,
a dollar for five under the table. You delight in the
mixing of silver and drinks passed from hand to hand.
You delight that even diamonds will bleed for you
as waves of Babylonians knit scarves to ward off
the cold while feudal serf’s hands grow old from want
of you, never once giving thought that you will
never love them as they do you.
Yes, we’ll dance (us, the women) and yes, this exchange, this history, is really so sad. Thank you for bringing us this perspective.
Love this!
good work
Poetic Fantasy (Limerick)
By Madeleine Begun Kane
Just imagine a job that would pay
Us to sit and write poems all day:
If that’s all that we did
For our buck or our quid,
Would we have something worthy to say?
I believe we would manage to find what to say. As long as it pays. LOL
LOL
A limerick!
For what more can we ask?
And yes, what is our story? I so often wonder why I need to tell it. Thank you so much for sharing this because yes!
Love it! Great limerick!
Reverence
Coins clinked in a bright floral purse,
she undid the latch, pulling out the first envelope…
tiny, copper wheat pennies fell upon the bedspread.
As I was flipping them over in my fingers
she pulled out the next envelope,
wee silver dimes fell with a chalky clunk unto the bed
“They don’t make these anymore”, she told me
as I flipped the coins over and over,
reading the dates of each one.
In the palm of my hand were two coins
about the size of our fifty cent piece;
They both brought my imagination
to the forefront of my thoughts…
One was a copper penny, dated 1942,
with a bounding kangaroo on one side
and a king on the other;
The other coin had a dragon on it,
and the words ‘Kiang-Soo’, ‘Ten Cash’
and on the flip side Chinese characters;
How did these coins travel from their countries
to my small mid-western town?
My love of coins was born and the collection begun.
Exotic animals, kings and queens, other languages –
tiny representations of their country,
within my fisted hand…
provoking a wellspring of stories
tumbling around my mind
one clink at a time.
Michelle, thank you for contributing! And I know that “wow how did that get here?” feeling, being a good Midwestern girl myself…
Thanks Ina! Happy to be here!
Very nice work, Mik. I like this one a lot.
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Priceless
Skinned-knee hugs and chocolate pudding lip kisses
The excited wagging of a dog’s tail when you come home
A friend dropping by just to say hello
Discovering a bundle of old love letters you thought were lost in the last move
Finding out your sister’s cancer is in remission
The sound of rain on the tin roof after days of drought
Acknowlegment for a job well-done
A sincere complement from a stranger
Unforgettable memories of those who have passed on
Uncontrollable laughter
A bouquet of flowers for no special occasion
and every day spent with you, my love
“Priceless” is right; thanks for coming by, Linda!
A Poor Man’s Triolet
If I won the super-dooper jackpot,
I would never be lonely.
I would have friends I now have not.
Every distant relative, long-lost pal and crackpot
would come running, hands out, to share a piece of the pie with me,
if I won the super-dooper jackpot.
I would never be lonely.
The Debtor’s Triolet
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I could pay off all those bills
and would refuse to play Mr. Big Shot.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I wouldn’t squander what I got
on unneeded belongings and regretful thrills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot;
I could pay off all those bills.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
I could pay off all those bills
and a piggy bank would be my mascott.
If I won a piece of the jackpot,
my debts would be naught,
my credit card totals nil.
If I won a piece of the jackpot;
I could pay off all those bills.
The Last Words he Heard
Money. Even if you had it, it wouldn’t change a thing.
There’s no chance in hell I’ll end up on your box spring.
Though you’re handsome and funny and full of life
I’m a female hitman just hired by your wife.
Okay, I shouldn’t laugh, but I’m gonna….
Ha ha ha ha! Funny Linda!
yeah, you know me…always have to write something funny along the way. I just can’t help it. I like to make people laugh.
Eight Year Old Shame
We walked the marble museum halls
My little skipping brother and I
Elder trusted sister of sibling
Proud guardian of the child and
A five dollar bill
For lunch to be eaten
Alone while
Our father
Painted
Naked model ladies
In an upstairs studio
Somewhere in the
Egyptian mummy corridor
rushing through the
darkness of ancient
wrapped spectres
Gripped fingers were opened
and that protected bill snatched
It must have been the spectres
Silent in sinister perserved stealth
Leaving only a palm emptied of all but
Shame
Shame for failing that hungry
small brother
Shame for irresponsibility with
entrusted wealth
Shame
that rang
through those marble museum
halls bouncing off vaulted ceilings
to ripple through
echoes of all time
Good work, Pearl.