Kudos to my managing editor Alice Pope for sending along the following press release from the Poetry Foundation:

CHICAGO — Poet Gary Snyder is the winner of the 2008 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Established in 1986 and presented annually by the Poetry Foundation, the award is one of the most prestigious given to American poets, and at $100,000 it is one of the nation's largest literary awards. Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry magazine and chair of the selection committee, made the announcement today. The prize will be presented at an evening ceremony at the Arts Club of Chicago on Thursday, May 29.

In announcing the award, Wiman said: "Gary Snyder is in essence a contemporary devotional poet, though he is not devoted to any one god or way of being so much as to Being itself. His poetry is a testament to the sacredness of the natural world and our relation to it, and a prophecy of what we stand to lose if we forget that relation."

Raised in the Pacific Northwest, Snyder began writing in the 1950s as a member—with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac—of the Beat movement. For most of the 1960s he lived in Japan and studied formally in a Zen monastery. Blending physical reality—precise observations of nature—with insight received primarily through the practice of Zen Buddhism, Snyder has explored a wide range of social and spiritual matters in both poetry and prose.

The judges issued the following statement in making the selection: "Gary Snyder is a true nature poet: there's no sentimentalism to his work, and he never uses the natural world simply to celebrate his own sensibility. A deeply learned and meditative artist, an impassioned ecologist, and a poet of great scope as well as intense focus, Snyder has written poems that we will be reading for as long as we've been reading Robert Frost."

"The selection of Gary Snyder as this year's winner of the Lilly Prize does honor to the tradition of excellence and importance that the prize has stood for since it was established over 20 years ago," said John Barr, president of the Poetry Foundation.

Snyder is the author of more than a dozen books of poetry, essays, and translations. His poetry collections include Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems, The Back Country, Regarding Wave, No Nature, Mountains and Rivers Without End, and Danger on Peaks. His essays are collected in Earth House Hold, The Real Work, A Place in Space, and Back on the Fire.

A committed environmental activist who has received the John Hay Award for Nature Writing, Snyder has also been recognized for his contributions to the theory and practice of Buddhism. His many honors include the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for Turtle Island, an American Academy of Arts and Letters award, the Bollingen Prize, a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, the Bess Hokin Prize and the Levinson Prize from Poetry, the Robert Kirsch Lifetime Achievement Award from the Los Angeles Times, and the Shelley Memorial Award.

Snyder was born on May 8, 1930, in San Francisco. He is professor emeritus of English at the University of California, Davis, and lives in northern California.

Judges for the 2008 prize were poets Eavan Boland, Sandra M. Gilbert, and Christian Wiman.

***

The Rabbit
A grizzled black-eyed rabbit showed me

   irrigation ditches, open paved highway,
            white line
   to the hill.
   bell chill blue jewel sky
         banners
Banner clouds flying,
The mountains all gathered,
   juniper trees on the flanks
            cone buds,
      the snug bark scale
         in thin powder snow
      over rock scrabble, pricklers, boulders,
   pines and junipers,
      singing.
The trees all singing.

The mountains are singing
To gather the sky and the mist
      to bring it down snow-breath
            ice-banners,
      and gather it water
Sent from the singing peaks
      flanks and folds
Down arroyos and ditches by highways the water
The people to use it, the
      mountains and juniper
Do it for men,

Said the rabbit.

First published in Poetry, March 1968. © Gary Snyder

***

About the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize
American poetry has no greater friend than Ruth Lilly. Over many years and in many ways, it has been blessed by her personal generosity. In 1985 she endowed the Ruth Lilly Professorship in Poetry at Indiana University. In 1989 she created Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowships, for $15,000 each, given annually by the Poetry Foundation to undergraduate or graduate students selected through a national competition. In 2002 her lifetime engagement with poetry culminated in a magnificent bequest that will enable the Poetry Foundation to promote, in perpetuity, a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture.

The Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize honors a living U.S. poet whose lifetime accomplishments warrant extraordinary recognition. Established in 1986 by Ruth Lilly, the annual prize is sponsored and administered by the Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. Over the last 20 years, the Lilly Prize has awarded more than $1,000,000. The previous recipients are Adrienne Rich, Philip Levine, Anthony Hecht, Mona Van Duyn, Hayden Carruth, David Wagoner, John Ashbery, Charles Wright, Donald Hall, A.R. Ammons, Gerald Stern, William Matthews, W.S. Merwin, Maxine Kumin, Carl Dennis, Yusef Komunyakaa, Lisel Mueller, Linda Pastan, Kay Ryan, C.K. Williams, Richard Wilbur, and Lucille Clifton.

Yay! So many of you have made it past the sestina! And I'm still alive, though I'm sure many of you no longer consider me your friend. ;)

It's nice to put in a very tough exercise every so often (don't worry, the final two days should be a little more relaxed). In fact, with the weather getting so nice around Southwestern Ohio the past week or two, exercise (the physical kind) has been big on my mind.

Way back in March, I must've known I'd be in an exercising mood, because the first "Two for Tuesday" prompt is to write a poem about exercise. For most people, you either love it or hate it. If you do exercise regularly, it would be interesting to know whether you do it for the end result (that is, good health, a trim physique, etc.) or the process itself (just because it feels good to move).

Prompt #2 is a little more open-ended for people who don't have any emotions whatsoever attached to exercise. For this prompt, I want you to write a poem in the 2nd person.

Here's my poem of the day (combining the two prompts into one poem):

"How to go running on an August morning"

Start off with some stretches. Do your legs
first, then your arms. Walk to your starting point
and begin with a light jog. Let your muscles and
lungs ease into a rhythm. Focus on keeping
your wrists and hands slack. Relax your shoulders
and bottom lip. After the first mile, lengthen
your stride while keeping your breathing balanced.
Listen to the birds. Keep your head straight.
Relax your shoulders, your hands, your bottom lip.
Focus on your next step, not on the finish line;
stay within yourself. After the fifth mile, pull
off your shirt. Feel the sun on your skin as it begins
to warm the earth. Imagine you are winning a race.
Imagine someone is only a few steps behind;
lose that person. Relax your shoulders but keep
up a fast pace. Do this through the finish line.

 

On Day 14, I asked you to write a poem with the title "This is how (blank) behaves" where you fill in the blank and go from there. Many people wrote about their hearts, their minds, their pets, and two people even wrote about Mr. Monk from that one TV show that I've never seen, though I've always thought it looks very interesting.

Enjoy the highlights.

*****

 

How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves

 

This April weather behaves

Like some mysterious stranger

Not willing to let you know

Who he is or what he’s up to.

 

Or like a naughty kid

Having a temper tantrum

With thunder and lightning one minute,

Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,

Then mischievously tricking you into

Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.

 

Or like an over-motherly mother

Telling you to put your sweater on,

The next moment telling you to take it off.

 

Or like a brooding teenager

All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.

 

Or a flirtatious tease

Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine

When there’s work to be done indoors.

 

Or like an irritating boss or teacher

Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when

You try to have a picnic, but the blustery

Wind blows your plates and cups away.

 

This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,

Many personalities all wrapped up into one.

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How my Pen behaves

 

About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring

at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from

the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two

in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write

sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why

clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators

that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge

I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…

 

 

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

 

*****

 

How My Computer Behaves

 

Like a stubborn child,

my computer won't respond

when I click the mouse.

It's chomping away at

those binary bits, strings

of ones and zeroes

flickering faster than

my fingers can type,

turning on and off

and on again,

while I continue to click,

grind my teeth,

and swear.

 

 

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

 

*****

 

How My Left Ear Behaves

 

It doesn't, never has, there is

no use in trying a hearing aid

or cochlear implant or anything

else exciting science might dream up

because there is no nerve

within to transmit sound

so at concerts and ballgames and

when my husband revs up the

lawnmower motor, I have just

the right one to protect

and pamper, be extra nice to

and avoid damage; but

the "bad ear" gets treated

like a boring party guest.

If I ask you to sit on my

left at dinner one night, it might be

because I want to tune you out.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How My Genes Behave

 

Cancer coarses through my bloodline.

And where we all once stood tall-

as anxious and eager as newly

planted trees, reaching out

with tiny arms to be cared for

and lifted up by Mother Nature-

we are now half of who we were.

 

When I was born I remember light

and life but then the divorce

epidemic struck. All the men fled

to drugs and death and the women

were too young and thin

and could hardly carry

milk in their breasts.

 

Someone twice-removed died

in the South, falling off a cliff

on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot

by his ex-wife's new boyfriend. An uncle

tried to live by heart surgery

but then died of disease

in his blood.

 

The addiction to medication, self-help

and drink caught on early

for depressed cousins and brothers. Some

caught up in a cycle of sobriety

and relapse. Some of them

will die peacefully

in their sleep.

 

How sickness and the end

of everything

finds us while we are trying

to get through a day

destroys me with anger. But

anger is a disease with which

I refuse to live.

 

 

Leigh-Evelyn Martin |leightakescareAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How Waldorf Salad Behaves

 

In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar

and lemon juice

 

The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery

and walnuts

 

Crunching with delight the flavors blend

to make a most delectable impression

 

 

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How My Cat Behaves

 

She naps in the hall

I peek around the wall

She sees me

I duck back and hide

And she comes prancing

Around the corner

To find me;

The excitement

Of a three-year-old

Dancing in her eyes!

 

 

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

How My Hips Behave

 

As I was growing up

I put my hands on my hips

Loved the way the roundness

Would feel

 

And when the children

were babies

I’d swing them on my hips

Just to hear them squeal

 

Oh, how my hips

behave

 

They swell

With each sweet I eat

 

So I sway them

to tantalize

each man I meet

 

On future nights

they will cradle

my love to sleep

 

And during each day

He’ll think of me

rave about, and crave

the way my hips behave.

 

 

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How my hands behave

 

Watching them work

is like discovering

a new species

at the ends

of my arms,

strange and curious,

like some form

of blind sea anemone

escaped from the depths

of the ocean

and attached itself

to my wrists

while I slept.

 

They seem restless

atop these warm keys,

nervous and twitching

between typing these words,

wanting to curl around

the cold comfort

of a bottle

and the familiar

movement of embracing

numbness.

 

Often it seems

as though they move

independent of my mind,

idly twisting a lock of my hair,

scratching an itch

I didn’t realize was there,

bunching into fists

or stretching,

popping knuckles

to relieve the stress

of arthritic over-use,

searching the contents

of my jacket pockets,

tracing the contours

and textures of a Zippo lighter,

wiping the gunk

out of my sleepy eyes,

or digging the extra skin

out of my inflamed ears.

 

They must love my beard,

for I find them there

most often

tangled in the coarse

black and gray,

massaging the jaw-line

of my stoic face,

probably sick

to death

of having nothing better

to touch.

 

 

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

How Canadian Geese Behave

 

Eight thousand feet up.

Fifteen hundred miles a day.

Sixteen hours at a time.

 

The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,

making the flock 70% more efficient.

When he tires, another takes his place.

 

If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff

or a board meeting or a coup, they merge

seamlessly and keep on flying.

 

When a goose is injured, a few comrades

stop flying and stay until it gets better.

 

They mate for life.

 

They honk, my pastor says, not to toot

their own horn, but to encourage each another.

He urges us to honk a little more.

 

 

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

How Plastic Wrap Behaves

 

Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,

it clings to everything you don't want it to,

especially your fingers.

And no matter how hard you try,

it refuses to hold onto the important things,

lets go, calmly watches them slip

from its grasp.

 

 

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How my lusting eyes behave:

 

Green like grapes cut in half,

forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten

how it felt to gaze

Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.

so on introduction

they move of their own accord

not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,

but that third finger on the left hand

with its circular symbol of rebuff.

 

 

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

 

*****

 

How My Memory Behaves

 

Like aged lovers, too many years together,

we bicker over the details.

I learned long ago you have your faults,

but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.

 

We take walks down that proverbial lane

and you dawdle, you lollygag,

you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar

but you won’t tell me the name.

And when I call you to my side

with a question, sometimes

your eyes glint—impish elf!—

and you withhold. Other times,

not so proud, you pull

the answer from a dusty shelf.

But my favorite times are the ones

when you close your eyes, you know

you knew once upon a yesterday,

but can’t for the life of you

recall when. Later, you’ll wake me

from sleep, eager, smiling, to give

the answer to a forgotten question.

 

We will grow old together—

sit on the swing swaying forward

and back, back and forwards again,

laughing at how much we can’t remember.

 

 

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How the Bird Behaves

 

I saw a bird go flying,

Flying through the air,

Riding on a morning breeze

Without a single care.

He glided through the sunlight,

Landed on a tree,

Pulled a song out from his heart

And chirped the melody.

I stood beneath the branch,

Admiring him there,

When the happy singing bird

Put droppings on my hair!

 

Damn, bird!

 

 

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com