Third Prize: 2010 Novice Christian Poetry Contest $200
About this Christian Poet:
Alyson Kissner is currently a seventeen-year-old and completing her last year of high school. Apart from also receiving an honorable mention in last year's Novice Christian Poetry Competition, she has gone on to win the top overall prize for high school student writers at the 2009 Vancouver International Writers Festival, in British Columbia. She has also claimed first prize in the youth category for her poem, "The Lyre", in The Tapestry of Bronze. These achievements have been featured in both print and online articles. This year, she was awarded with the English Department award out of her grade of four-hundred.
Dye Testaments (in war)
Last night I had a dream
where the world had lost its colour
and everything was red.
The sky red
about a man who walked on—
all water, red
The sea, red, from labour pains
Where we evolved from its belly,
First as fish, swimming into
monkeys, ascending to be
sinners, falling down like
fathers, back when they were
sons, trying to be
teachers, who were
We are powerful, with our red hands and red feet.
Red fingers, with Indian war paint
smearing our red skin
We ride forward on cherry stallions. Muscles tight, as little warriors with our red weapons held high,
Refracting off pieces of pomegranate sun: seeds spat through—vomited through weaknesses in the red branches—Space between red leaves
in the winter
I have decided to become a monster
of sophistication and skill
in disposing of you,
your guts, squishing puss beneath
boots, sunspot worn just like
my mother, making cookies on a
coffin, a stigmata of our
victory, spitting cries out like a
child, broken bones pointing out
Heaven belongs to
I can smell the blood on your breath. Or is it the alcohol?
Drank a toast of nuclear glue:
jellied gasoline through a vacuum tube.
Swirling next to the fire.
Dancing gluttonous shadows over what remains of you:
All teeth—Half your face chewed off,
between the two of us.
I sit next to you and contemplate botany,
where there were once stars
that guided sailors, trying to
shepherd, lost and a
lonely girl, wondering about
philosophers, with their minds like
musicians, assigning songs to
runaways, who used to be
pretend princesses nestled and
in the crooks of ethic mothers' necks: Wishing on them. All in the shapes of circles, infinite,
Whereas now they are
bleeding into each other
like crimson candle wax
or the battle wound I will die from
Copyright ©2010 by Alyson Kissner