First Triolet Contest Results
Winners and Honorees, Theophany 2025
My sincere thanks to all who participated in the Verdurous Glooms First Potentially Annual Triolet Contest (VGFPATC). I hope this has been a rewarding process for you.
I firmly believe the good opinion of a qualified individual is often more valuable than the averaged esteem of a “selection committee,” but I will not arrogate to myself the status of such an individual. I am only a man who, according to what judgment and experience he possesses, is willing to award his money and attention to poems whose merits fall neither above or below his appreciation. I will not, in false humility, suggest that I have no judgment or experience, but where I fail, please forgive me. Regardless, please take note of the talented poets below and consider both the gift their work may provide to you and the gift your future attention may offer them. I’ve done a little to introduce the poet and provide some thoughtful commentary.
Long as this post is, you may wish to skip my remarks, but please read the poems, follow the poets, and feel free to name your favorites in the comments below.
My Top Three Picks
Prize winners in no particular order:
, ,D.A. Bishop
The Swan Maiden’s Comb Sweep your golden comb, my love, Through all my sleeping hair. With milk-white hand in feathered glove, Sweep your golden comb. My love Would summon swans above Glass hills if you would dare To sweep your golden comb, my love, Through all my sleeping hair.
Frankly D.A. Bishop’s submissions were all good. Here is a poet of both technical ability and artistic ingenuity. Subscribe or follow if you do not already (and, no, I am not being paid to promote his Substack). I wanted to include one more of his below, but this post will run long, so I am hoping he’ll publish more of his efforts on his own account. I am choosing this one over his also-worthy efforts partly due to its felicitous musicality, splendid imagery, and formal execution. Incidentally, if you ever visit Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-upon-Avon, you’ll see hanging inside the sign for an Inn that once occupied the same house: The Swan and Maidenhead. If this fact influenced me at all, it was only subconsciously, I assure you. Rather than provide some sort of analysis, I’ll let the poem speak for itself. I only invite you to consider the Burns-like power of the vocative address and the clever use of enjambment to shift the final refrains from imperative to subjunctive. That sixth line, as another participant noted, really is the hinge upon which a triolet is likeliest to succeed, and here it works beautifully to reframe the concluding lines. You can see similar constructions in something like Dylan Thomas’s famous villanelle “Do Not Go Gentle,” where the imperatives of the first and last stanzas are rendered indicative throughout the intervening reflections. Well done, Mr. Bishop.
Anna Vander Wall
Remains of the Day Of all the things we might have said, we said them all but one. I keep a list inside my head of all the things we might have said. We might have said (before we’re dead)... But what’s undone is done. Of all the things we might have said, we said them all but one.
Aside from being a great writer, Miss Anna Vander Wall is also a talented visual artist. Check out her page when you get a chance. This example, for me, captures the spirit and tone proper to the Triolet. I am reminded both of Wendy Cope’s wry verse as well as Sylvia Plath’s somber refrains (cf. “A Mad Girl’s Love Song”). The allusion in the title is an effective way of contextualizing a theme that is nevertheless applicable to anyone who has experienced regret over a missed opportunity. The meter is spot-on, and the sixth line lands beautifully with a sublime paradox—we cannot break a bygone silence. The preceding ellipsis works well to capture the ineffable expression of love that never found voice, setting up the resignation that follows. The shorter lines (2, 6, 8) reflect the variation in Frances Cornford’s famous example, and here too the heterometric quality works with the syntax to lend the form an alternatively attractive cadence. Excellent work, Anna!
Olivia Marstall
In Eden Leah sweetly sings And gathers flowers for her crown. Eunoe’s gracious current springs, In Eden Leah sweetly sings, And angels flash their em’rald wings. While Dante burns to learn to drown, In Eden Leah sweetly sings And gathers flowers for her crown.
Ms. Olivia Marstall appears to have established herself as an accomplished poet and essayist, and as far as I can tell from my brief tenure on this platform, she is also an earnest teacher and an obsessive Plato fanatic. Let me begin with this: Although I acknowledge Dante’s Divine Comedy to be indisputably among the greatest works of literature ever written—a spiritual allegory brimming with poignant stories, vivid imagery, and profound moral insights, I have always lamented that its timeless virtues should be marred with outdated political disputes, personal grievances, and various problematic theological convictions (from my perspective anyway). Imagine if the beatific vision itself were interrupted from time to time by commercials. Imagine if Hawthorne’s magnum opus were interspersed with random details about whale biology—oh wait, never mind. All that to say, I chose Olivia’s poem even though I am plainly a philistine incapable of overlooking a few blemishes upon an otherwise ravishing poetic canvas. Regardless, this triolet’s own virtues commended it. First, there is its aural lushness. Read it aloud. The assonance is so satisfying and seems to reflect the very environment of Dante’s vision. Second, these moments from Purgatorio are the opposite of a blemish; they are true and beautiful gems. The concept of the Eunoe river is such a powerful one—that we need not only to forget our failures (via the Lethe) but to remember and dwell within our moments of love and selflessness. (I actually believe this is partly what Lewis is doing in Till We Have Faces—the painful learning to see and to be the person, the life, the psyche that one really is—arguably with some subtle references to Dante throughout.) Olivia’s short poem provides a beautiful glimpse of that hope, and the form helps provide a heavenly echo, a vision of the eternal intersecting the temporal realm. Upon submitting the poem, Ms. Marstall confessed she was not quite happy with it. If I had to guess why, I’d say the diction in line six feels a bit forced and the assonance is overdone compared to the refrains. Perhaps there is a more elegant way to capture Dante’s part in it. Still, if it is a blemish, it is one (in this case) I am capable of overlooking—at least it wasn’t a reference to a squabble in some Italian city-state. Thank you for this, Olivia.
Also-Worthy Examples
Honorees deserving your attention:
, , , , , , , and .J.Z. Schafer
Throw you a penny in the well, And hear the voice of God reply; The heart’s an ocean; wot you well? Throw you a penny in the well, And if you please, please close an eye. And do not, do not ask me why; Throw you a penny in the well, And hear the voice of God reply.
J.Z. Schafer submitted a couple with clever breaks in form and some compelling imagery, but in the end, the tidy execution of this one was more gratifying to my sensibilities. I enjoy both the simplicity and ambiguity here. Wishing wells are familiar images, and with them the idea that sacrificing something of little value—irretrievably to a dark realm—might somehow bestow a disproportionate blessing. Here, however, there is no mention of a wish. The small gesture is said to evoke a response from God Himself (something, most days, we may not actually wish—which may explain the partial concern/hesitance implied by “[closing] an eye”). The reference to the heart as “an ocean” is an effective contrast with the smaller image of a well, and without wishing to squeeze too hard for meaning (as we literary types sometimes do), I am reminded of C.S. Lewis’s idea in his essay “The Weight of Glory” that our desires are not too strong, but too weak. If a mere penny offered to a dark well can elicit divine favor, what might ensue if we offered up our oceans to the Spirit that long ago hovered over the deep. At any rate, nicely done J.Z.
Robert Charboneau
Caesar Divi His star was flashing in the sky, and no one, then, had found it odd. We saw it on the day he died, his star was flashing in the sky. He sits upon a throne most high. Render unto Caesar what is God. His star was flashing in the sky, and no one, then, had found it odd.
With a mind as sophisticated as his surname, Mr. Charboneau has become one my favorites among the Substack literati. Here as elsewhere, he demonstrates his capacity to mine the ancient Roman milieu for fresh spiritual and philosophical insight. A fairly straightforward historical moment is turned on its ear when the sixth line lands. The reference to Christ’s words in the gospel (and their almost blasphemous alteration, but for the irony) reframes the whole meaning. At first, I wasn’t sure about the jarring switch to a trochaic line, but it is a kind of smack across the face, so to speak, that keeps the reader from sliding blithely into the final refrains as if they have the same purpose as the opening. In one of the most profound and poetic inversions of God’s unfathomable narrative, He did not elevate the emperor to His son after death, but through death elevated His Son to be King over all. Caesar gave his image to a coin, but God gives His image to mankind, even to Caesar himself, and the Incarnation (marked by its own star) “began” (so far as we mark time) the process by which Man and God find unity in the true Image—not by political power or prestige, but love, humility, and sacrifice. I suppose I’ve drifted a bit in exploring the theme, but if I’m not mistaken, its all packed in there. Thank you, Robert.
Brit McReynolds
Grief the Knife sorrow strips me down to sinew gratitude threads once more the cloak of joy and I am once more renewed sorrow strips me down to sinew grief the knife that from the bone would hew what strength more abled limbs would soon deploy sorrow strips me down to sinew gratitude threads once more the cloak of joy
Dang, Brit, this poem is itself like a knife. I especially love how it captures the very real pain, the fatigue, the frailty that grief imposes while still moving toward hope and healing. At risk of proving myself a hopeless traditionalist, I’ll admit that I’ve always been a bit curmudgeonly toward the complete abandonment of punctuation and capitalization, but here it seems to fit the idea of being “stripped down” and perhaps “threaded” together again. The lack of metrical regularity is certainly divergent from strict formal considerations, but that too might be regarded as an extension of the theme. The trochaic meter in the opening refrain imparts the quality of an incantation (contra the more typical iambs), and I like how that matches the hostility of sorrow (reinforced by delicious sibilance). However, for me, the third line is too irregular and abrupt. Still, take nothing away from the imagery here: strength hewn from bone, joy threaded in an inversion of the stripping away—the needle versus the knife. I love the idea of joy as a cloak—something that clothes, warms, protects—and indeed, gratitude is the way to foster joy. Thank you Brit; this is lovely.
Ron Hickerson
Entmoot Let’s not rush things so we can think Before we talk, before we act. Allow your heart and the woods to sync. Let’s not rush things so we can think Before we move. Before we drink From the rapids, we’ll make this pact: Let’s not rush things so we can think Before we talk, before we act.
Naturally I’m a big fan of Tolkien, but this submission from Ron Hickerson does more than allude to the slow, contemplative temperament of the Ents. His triolet, despite the quick and fluid nature of the form, manages to avoid being hasty itself by using enjambment and punctuation to great effect. Consider the way he breaks several of the lines down the middle with commas (or the period in line five) forcing us to take a breath. In this way the medium and the message are in harmony. Overall, I find this to be well executed in tone, structure, and import. I look forward to reading more from Mr. Hickerson.
Joe Terlisner
Et verbum caro factum est Et habitavit in nobis. Noctem semis transitum est Et Verbum caro factum est. Nonne auditis pastores? "Puer natus est vobis," Et Verbum caro factum est Et habitavit in nobis. Terlisner’s own rough translation: And the Word hath been made flesh And with us made His dwelling Half the bitter night is fled And the Word has been made flesh: Come with us to Bethlehem And hear the shepherds' tidings, For the Word hath been made flesh And with us made His dwelling.
This is a beautiful Christmas poem. I am no Latinist, but even someone with a cursory knowledge of Latin roots and pronunciation can see that this is well done. The translation too is good on its own, though the “shepherd’s tidings” provide the near rhyme in place of “unto us a child is born.” Of course, I have no suggestions on how to make that line match the form in English, which means probably that we ought to read it in the original. My bias for the vernacular was perhaps a factor in choosing “winners,” but this indeed a worthy poem. Bravo!
Chris Craft
A Walk in the Sun I want to walk in the sun with you Birds chirping as we chatter Making plans to start anew I want to walk in the sun with you Love as endless as the sky is blue Nothing else seems to matter I want to walk in the sun with you Birds chirping as we chatter
Though we philosophers, as they say, can go down deeper, stay down longer, and come up drier than other academics, and that no doubt applies to me at times, I am nevertheless still partial to simple, clear expressions of love and beauty. In his triolet, Chris Craft, shows precisely how to use this light and lovey form to good effect. I wouldn’t mind the occasional punctuation, but of course, I also understand the desire to let the unfettered lines speak to each other as they will. The meter here varies nicely, avoiding anything too rigid, but also flowing with comfortable regularity. More importantly the tone, imagery, and message simply work. I am eager to see more of Chris’s craft in the future (pardon the pun).
Nik Hoffmann
Chance to Burn When splendor rains it often pours, A chance to burn and die again, When breath has left and lifeblood roars, When splendor rains it often pours. To shelter from a mounting storm, Unlatch your door and ask me in, When splendor rains it often pours, A chance to burn and die again.
Nik Hoffman is an active and engaging poet, and I’ve been especially pleased and inspired by his constant support of other poets on this platform. Indeed, my hope even for this little competition was to contribute to and help expand the kind of support he shows. Nik’s triolet begins with the wonderful phrase “splendor rains.” I love it, and indeed the image of glory raining fire, so to speak, and inviting transformation is a powerful one. The phoenix, the holy light, the loss of life—all evoked within these short lines. Then add the fruitful ambiguity about shelter: is the speaker suggesting that alone we are vulnerable to the “mounting storm” or that he himself seeks shelter? I lean toward the former. The mounting storm, perhaps, is inside, and to ask him in is in some sense to find, in him, some shelter—a presence perhaps by which the “chance to burn” becomes salvific. We say “when it rains, it pours,” usually to convey the notion that “when sorrows come they come not single spies, but in battalions.” The small shift here to suggest that splendor (beauty, divinity, apocalypse, etc.) “pours” with similar ruthlessness is creative and insightful. I read it, of course, with Christian eyes, but the range of potential meaning is broad enough for other interpretations.
Caelyn Snyder
The footsteps echoed in the court As they sat waiting for the rain From ‘cross the sea came grave report The footsteps echoed in the court Of those who’d storm the prison fort Spilt wine foretold the bloody stain The footsteps echoed in the court As they sat waiting for the rain
Caelyn Snyder is a gifted sonneteer and an excellent writer more generally. One of my favorite poems of hers is “A Restless Quiet,” which should be read by all. In addition to this one Caelyn also submitted a pair of triolets about Sydney Carton, the moving and memorable character from Dickens’ best novel, one that I have taught for many years and still very much enjoy. The triolet that I have chosen is also derived from that text. Perhaps a relevant title would help a reader less familiar with the story to grasp the more general context, but I think it still works on its own. The reference to “[storming] the prison fort” is all an educated reader needs, perhaps. Dickens’ motif of echoing footsteps is well suited to a poetic form with refrains. The rain is both literal and figurative; they are waiting for the rain to stop, but they are in another sense awaiting the arrival of a storm—distant in both time and location, but inevitable. The meter and organization are solid, and the sense of waiting in anxious anticipation comes through nicely. Thank you Caelyn; I hope you will share the other submissions at your own publication.
Reading and engaging with submissions was a delightful privilege this holiday break. Congratulations to the winners and honorees. Your submissions, as noted in the competition guidelines, remain absolutely yours, and I encourage you all to share them according to your own purposes and for the edification of this burgeoning network of writers and poets here on Substack. May God bless your endeavors.
BLOWN away by the these pieces. Well done everyone!
Those are very kind words, thank you J. Your commentary on these poems is excellent (my own included.)