Why I Will Never Win a Poetry Contest

I have to say

I love you

in 40 lines

or less.

Space between

the stanzas

count as a line.

This is now my

10th—11th—

fuck I am in trouble.

I have no room to spare

for the schmaltzy

iridescence of your eyes, 

for the syrup

of your touch and your taste,

to reminisce

about our very first time,

sounding like a

bumbling incarnation

of cliché.

If I was smart, / I would have written / everything / like this. / And to hell

with the breaks of strophes.

But though I’m clearly

not too bright, dim-

witted in fact, I really am in love,

with you, and to prove it

I will disqualify

myself

from this vexing

competition,

which offers nothing but

remittance, publication,

some purported, to-be-fading

prestige;

sacrifice the lauds

I may have won,

some certificate

in my bedroom—

that supposedly

takes your place

and keeps me warm.

Andreas Gripp

November 19, 2024

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