2013 Ode to a Dead Salmon Winner!

The votes have been tallied, and congratulations go out to Kelly Robinson, winner of our 2013 Ode to a Dead Salmon contest, with "This is Just a Text to Say." Thanks to all for reading and voting in this fishy competition!

THIS IS JUST A TEXT TO SAY

by Kelly Robinson

i 8

the salmon

that wr n

the fridge

& which

u bought

@ Costco

4 KT’s thing

after bookclub

4 give me

they wr delicious

so pink

& so salmony

Vote today! Ode to a Dead Salmon 2013

Our judges have spoken, and now it's time for the public to decide which Ode to a Dead Salmon represents the best of the worst.

From the three finalists below (in reverse alpha order by author), cast your vote in the sidebar poll. Hurry - voting closes at midnight Alaska Standard Time on Monday, Aug. 19. We'll celebrate the winning entry on Aug. 22.

Here's to dead fish!

RIME OF THE ANCIENT TROLLER

by Lesley Thomas

It is an ancient Mariner,

And she stoppeth one of three.

“By thy long grey locks and putrid coat

Of slime from ten days on a boat,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

A tipsy party on the way

from happy hour on the quay,

Blithe and donned in rich array,

No thoughts of Salmon on this day,

Landlubber jobs far from fillet.

She holds him with a skinny hand,

“There was a Fish,” quoth she.

“Hold off, unhand me, grey-haired loon!”

Eftsoons her hand dropt she.

She pierced him with an eagle gaze

Marked by chase of countless days,

Of midnight sun, and fog and haze.

“What is your saga dire to tell?

Let me by, you scaley hag –

The socioeconomic role you played

Under our eight-starred indigo flag

Of lengthy tale no Fish is worth,

So keep it quick and give us berth!”

“Water, water, everywhere – “

“No, about the Salmon, please?”

She fixed him with that glittering eye,

His comrades muttered, ill at ease.

Unhappy guest, he beat his breast,

Yet cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient witch,

The bright-eyed Mariner:

“My hooks are empty now of King,

Bottomfeeders are the thing,

In nets made out of plastic string,

Whilst circus ships as big as towns

Teem with prostitutes and clowns,

On decks the million tourists cram

To snap a pretty Instagram,

My troller now quaint museum piece,

I’ll sell it off, or maybe lease…

But an Ode to Salmon I can sing.”

“Let me by, you fearsome Dame!”

She held him yet with eyes of flame.

“Or prophesy of doom I’ll give

Fast forward from the times we live

Two decades hence, acidification

Prevents the tiny shell formation

Of the foodchain bottoms’ krill,

 And thus the mighty Humpy kill.

“On DHA the world was fed,

Until the last Sockeye was dead.

O Paean to Salmon I can chant,

Of poisoned waters I can rant,

Though I see you are a shill,

Who came to live here post oil spill!”

“Unhand me, Crone, I have no time,

For odes or rants or any rime. “

“Then, Brother, can you spare a dime?”

He went like one that hath been stunned

By gaff hook on the deck forlorn,

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

THIS IS JUST A TEXT TO SAY

by Kelly Robinson

i 8

the salmon

that wr n

the fridge

& which

u bought

@ Costco

4 KT’s thing

after bookclub

4 give me

they wr delicious

so pink

& so salmony

O SALMON, MY SALMON!*

by Geoff Kirsch and Libby Bakalar

O Salmon! My Salmon! Your fateful trip is done;

Spent all your milt on every egg along your salmon run;

The end is near, your stench is clear, some would say revolting

With hollow eyes and languid tail, mottled scales a-molting:

But O fin! fin! fin!

O king, silver, chum, pink, red,

There on the banks my Salmon lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Salmon! dead Salmon! Rise up and take my bait;

Rise up—for you the table’s set—and I must put something on the plate;

For you briquettes and marinades—for you some cedar planking;

For you they call, my dinner guests, hungry now from drinking;

Here Salmon! dear Salmon!

This hook inside your head;

I’ll pass it off that at my hand

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Salmon does not answer, his hump is pale and still;

My Salmon does not feel my snag, he has no pulse nor will.

Manhood anchored safe and sound, the voyage closed and done;

From angling trip, I still return a victorious fisherman;

Relax, O self-respecting Alaskans (who wouldn’t dream of serving spawned out salmon, not even to out-of-towners)!

I’ll just bring back the head,

For in the cooler store-bought decoy Salmon lies,

Filleted and cold and dead.

* With apologies to Walt Whitman and inspired by this past summer’s release of “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter,” a real dead fish if ever there was one

2013 Entries

Newest entries show first; scroll down to view all. To enter the contest, click here. Entries must be received by Aug. 5. Finalists will be posted on Aug. 12.

ODE TO A DEAD SALMON: TWO PERSPECTIVES
(with apologies to James Russell Lowell)
by Susi Gregg Fowler

Mine

Oh, what is so foul as a midsummer day?

Then, if ever, the putrid reigns,

when the wind brings a stench

that will make your teeth clench,

and even the atheists pray

for a wind to blow in that does not smell of skin

and the fetid, raw scent of decay…

and the faithful, on knees,

beg the gods-pretty please

take this godawful smell far away.

My Dog’s

Oh, what is so grim as late summer time? 

Then, if ever, the crazies reign.

I cannot comprehend

why I seem to offend

when clearly, dead fish smell sublime.

When I’ve rolled (ah, delight) in dead chum, it’s not right

to condemn me as if it’s a crime.

First she screeches, “No! No!”

Then comes the real blow—

She scrubs off all that glorious slime!

ODE TO AN INTERESTING NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE FOR A SALMON
by Clint Farr

The salmon looked at me.

And both of us could see,

One of us would die that day.

I caught her on the fly

Sure it was she who would die.

What happened next, only I can say.

There was that first inkling,

My day would be stinking,

When the hook let loose into my face.

To my short lived but lasting regret,

A bear became understandably upset,

By a scream to wilt a wedding bouquet.

Alas my end did not come

At the claws of a mighty bruin,

But an attack of a swarming wasp gang.

See, my still heart relaxes

Less bear; more anaphylaxis.

The bastard bumped the stingers’ hideaway.

So dead as glass I lay.

Not fish - but me - that day.

The salmon a free and pristine piscine runaway.

The salmon looked at me.

And both of us could see.

One of us, would die, that day.

THIS IS JUST A TEXT TO SAY
by Kelly Robinson

i 8

the salmon

that wr n

the fridge

& which

u bought

@ Costco

4 KT’s thing

after bookclub

4 give me

they wr delicious

so pink

& so salmony

 
ODE
by Barbara Belknap

Her dorsal is ripped,
The adipose in tatters,
Clutch of eggs long gone,
Nothing really matters.

 

ODE TO DEAD SALMON

by Barbara Waters

O salmon, my salmon

You rush upstream

Seeking space

Homing in by

An innate sense

Of place – of time

O salmon, my salmon

Your urge for mate

Meets my urge to

Fill my freezer

Who will win this day?

Who will last longer?

O salmon, my salmon

Tasty with lemon

And dill

A touch of horseradish

Your nobility reduced

To gastric pleasure

ODE TO A DEAD AND DOOMED SALMON

by Lou Lehmann

It was a dark and stormy night in a Transylvanian castle

When Dr. Frankenstein said to Igor, his vassal

“That corpse that you purloined  had a defective head

So I sliced it off and decided as it bled

That you must venture forth and get a replacement

For the monster that  I’m making down in the basement”

So Igor descended to search in the village

Hoping to find another body to pillage

But alas, he found none and knew not what to do

When a peddler appeared and said “I can help you -

For I heard that you searched and no corpse did you find

But I have an alternative, though not of mankind

And it may not be just what Frankenstein might  wish

But tell him to consider making his monster part fish

Because  I’ve got a  big dead salmon stored in my cart

Whose head he could have because that doctor’s so smart”

He could attach it with ease to that poor headless chump

Sewing it ever so securely to his bloody neck stump”

Well, poor Igor was desperate so he purchased that  head

And then told Frankenstein what the peddler had said

The good doctor screamed and ranted and raved

“ I have  no human head for the corpse that I’ve saved

Just a glassy-eyed head from a salmon now stinking

What the hell, Igor, could you have been thiniking?

But the storm was now raging, it was ever so frightening

And Frankenstein knew that he needed the lightning

Which would appear only briefly, his monster to zap

And his experiment he surely did not want to scrap

So the headless corpse they brought up from below

And upon it that salmon head they then did bestow

To a table they  strapped that thing with no feeling

And apprehensively opened the castle’s ceiling

Then the monster was struck with a lightening bolt

Surging life into its body with every volt

Part-salmon, part human, the creature then rose

Breaking its bonds, then scratching its toes

“What have you done to me?” the monster then cried

Do I have the soul of a man or a fish deep inside?

Should I be on the land or should I be in the sea?

But that’s not the worst that you have done to me

Far worse than this body, I now have no home

And I’m doomed  to be remembered in this atrocious poem.”

AN ODE TO SPAWNING BUCK SALMON

by Kersten Christianson

Oh, Buck Salmon, you mighty leaper -

king, silver, sockeye, chum and pink – tasty meat!

Anadromous being and populous ocean creeper,

finding your natal, freshwater stream is quite a feat.

You dodge the teeth of orca, the speed of sea lion,

and the crafty ruse of humans with fishing line and puppet herring.

Transformative in nature, your return to river makes you a new man

blindly following the hens with your flashy kype, shiny like Orion,

almost shape shifting with strong color-change bearing.

Egg fertilization and fellow salmon-littered bank stink is all part of the stock generating plan. 
                                                                                

RIME OF THE ANCIENT TROLLER
by Lesley Thomas

It is an ancient Mariner,

And she stoppeth one of three.

“By thy long grey locks and putrid coat

Of slime from ten days on a boat,

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

A tipsy party on the way

from happy hour on the quay,

Blithe and donned in rich array,

No thoughts of Salmon on this day,

Landlubber jobs far from fillet.

She holds him with a skinny hand,

“There was a Fish,” quoth she.

“Hold off, unhand me, grey-haired loon!”

Eftsoons her hand dropt she.

She pierced him with an eagle gaze

Marked by chase of countless days,

Of midnight sun, and fog and haze.

“What is your saga dire to tell?

Let me by, you scaley hag –

The socioeconomic role you played

Under our eight-starred indigo flag

Of lengthy tale no Fish is worth,

So keep it quick and give us berth!”

“Water, water, everywhere – “

“No, about the Salmon, please?”

She fixed him with that glittering eye,

His comrades muttered, ill at ease.

Unhappy guest, he beat his breast,

Yet cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient witch,

The bright-eyed Mariner:

“My hooks are empty now of King,

Bottomfeeders are the thing,

In nets made out of plastic string,

Whilst circus ships as big as towns

Teem with prostitutes and clowns,

On decks the million tourists cram

To snap a pretty Instagram,

My troller now quaint museum piece,

I’ll sell it off, or maybe lease…

But an Ode to Salmon I can sing.”

“Let me by, you fearsome Dame!”

She held him yet with eyes of flame.

“Or prophesy of doom I’ll give

Fast forward from the times we live

Two decades hence, acidification

Prevents the tiny shell formation

Of the foodchain bottoms’ krill,

 And thus the mighty Humpy kill.

“On DHA the world was fed,

Until the last Sockeye was dead.

O Paean to Salmon I can chant,

Of poisoned waters I can rant,

Though I see you are a shill,

Who came to live here post oil spill!”

“Unhand me, Crone, I have no time,

For odes or rants or any rime. “

“Then, Brother, can you spare a dime?”

He went like one that hath been stunned

By gaff hook on the deck forlorn,

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

O SALMON, MY SALMON!*

by Geoff Kirsch and Libby Bakalar

O Salmon! My Salmon! Your fateful trip is done;

Spent all your milt on every egg along your salmon run;

The end is near, your stench is clear, some would say revolting

With hollow eyes and languid tail, mottled scales a-molting:

But O fin! fin! fin!

O king, silver, chum, pink, red,

There on the banks my Salmon lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Salmon! dead Salmon! Rise up and take my bait;

Rise up—for you the table’s set—and I must put something on the plate;

For you briquettes and marinades—for you some cedar planking;

For you they call, my dinner guests, hungry now from drinking;

Here Salmon! dear Salmon!

This hook inside your head;

I’ll pass it off that at my hand

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Salmon does not answer, his hump is pale and still;

My Salmon does not feel my snag, he has no pulse nor will.

Manhood anchored safe and sound, the voyage closed and done;

From angling trip, I still return a victorious fisherman;

Relax, O self-respecting Alaskans (who wouldn’t dream of serving spawned out salmon, not even to out-of-towners)!

I’ll just bring back the head,

For in the cooler store-bought decoy Salmon lies,

Filleted and cold and dead.

* With apologies to Walt Whitman and inspired by this past summer’s release of “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter,” a real dead fish if ever there was one

 
LIMERICK
By Robert Jaro
 
I once had a girlfriend named Nellie
One day she turned up quite smelly
She ate some old fish
It was quite a dish
It was the end of poor Nellie.

RECYCLED
by  Marilyn E. Wheeless

Seagulls screech and argue over

dead and rotting salmon, vying

for the victim's choicest sections

and bantering with stomachs full.

Ravens chortle from the tree tops,

ragged wings attest to scrapes over

what the gulls reluctantly

relinquish after gluttony.

Eagles sit in silent judgment,

droping like stones among the

crowd below, setting off a cacophony

of noisy protest but no real dispute.

Silvery salmon, mottled and bruised

by life.  To such an end, spawned-out

prey for vicious beaks and talons,

returning, ultimately, to earth.                                                                           

LIFE GOES ON

by  Marilyn E. Wheeless  
                                                    

Seagulls cry, wheeling, flapping,

a tempo matched by

salmon flopping.  Gasping

one last breath before

seagull's beak, bone-hard, yellow

twitches flesh from

slender bodies.

Feeding generations yet unborn

from generations ending.

Spawned-out salmon,

dying.  Life goes on.

HAIKU
by Barbara Waters

The reds are coming

Caught by hook or by dip net

Smokers are smoking

Annual "Ode to a Dead Salmon" bad writing contest accepting entries July 23 - Aug. 5

Summer's in full swing, the fish are running, and you know what that means: the hugely popular "Ode to a Dead Salmon" bad writing contest is back for its fourth season. Take a look at last year's finalists, sharpen your pencils and follow that smell. We want your best worst writing, submitted to runningfoxbooks@gmail.com between July 23 and August 5, 2013.

The idea for the contest, which began in 2010, came from a 49 Writers interview with Alaska's former Writer Laureate Nancy Lord, who said that in her early years of writing she realized that she needed to get beyond mining the same myths - 'odes to dead salmon,' poet John Haines once called them. This year, the good folks at 49 Writers have bequeathed the Ode to a Dead Salmon bad writing contest to us at Running Fox Books. We think it's a perfect fit. Our office is in Alaska, and we like to think we have a nose for bad writing, since it's what we've set out to conquer with a venture that aggregates quality books.

In past years, the Ode to a Dead Salmon contest has attracted bad writing from all over the world. No matter how stinky, every submission gets its day in the sun, posted here for the world to enjoy. And our rotten winners have gotten some great press, including a write-up in Alaska Magazine.
 
So it's time to do it all over again. We want your best tongue-in-cheek "Ode to a Dead Salmon" bad writing, poetry or prose, fiction or non. We'll publish all entries at our Ode to a Dead Salmon webpage so the world can read them, and we'll post the finalists here, with links from the Running Fox website and all the usual social media places. And yes, there's a prize: the winner receives a Ray Troll t-shirt of their choice. But the main goal, of course, is to have fun.

The rules:


1. We reserve the right to exclude entries deemed unfit for posting. (But if you don't receive an email confirmation of your submission, do let us know at runningfoxbooks@gmail.com.)
2. We need your real name and real email address. If you want your entry to be posted under a pseudonym or left anonymous, make that clear in your email.
3. No more than three entries per person.
4. No more than 800 words per entry (shorter is just fine with us: limerick, haiku, opening lines). 
5. Entries must be your own original work.
6. You keep the copyright, of course, but by entering you're giving us permission to post.
7. This is our contest. We make the rules (that's the beauty of blogging, folks), and the rules may change as we see fit. We'll let you know if they do.
8. We accept only Word documents or submissions embedded in the email text. Submissions MUST be single spaced, Times New Roman, with NO paragraph indentations; instead of indenting, please space between paragraphs. If the formatting is not correct, your submission will not be considered.
9. All entries must be emailed to runningfoxbooks@gmail.com by midnight on August 5, 2013. Finalists will be posted on August 12, and voting ends August 19, with official recognition of the winner on August 22..