18th Mudfish Poetry Prize
To be judged by Vijay Seshadri
Entry Fee: $20
Cash Prize: $1,200
A prize of $1,200 and publication in Mudfish is given annually
for a single poem. Winning poem and two honorable mentions
will be published in Mudfish 25.
ALL POEMS CONSIDERED FOR PUBLICATION.
Deadline: January 15th, 2025
We are proud to announce that Vijay Seshadri, Pulitzer Prize winner, author of 3 Sections, will judge. Submit up to three poems of any length with a $20 entry fee ($3 for each additional poem).
We are proud to announce that Vijay Seshadri, Pulitzer Prize winner, author of 3 Sections, will judge. Submit up to three poems of any length with a $20 entry fee ($3 for each additional poem).
Past Mudfish Judges
Mudfish 9 – Thomas Lux
Mudfish 10 – Charles Simic
Mudfish 11 – Jorie Graham
Mudfish 12 – C. K. Williams
Mudfish 13 – John Ashbery
Mudfish 14 – Charles Simic
Mudfish 15 – David Lehman
Mudfish 16 – Deborah Landau
Mudfish 17 – Mark Doty
Mudfish 18 – Charles Simic
Mudfish 19 – Edward Hirsch
Mudfish 20 – Philip Schultz
Mudfish 21 – John Yau
Mudfish 22 – Erica Jong
Mudfish 23 – Marie Howe
Mudfish 24 – Deborah Landau
MUDFISH 24 Order Now!
An amazing, surprising issue with the winners of the 17th Mudfish Poetry Prize (judged by Deborah Landau), Tim Nolan, Doug Smith, and Francis Klein. Also featuring poetry, fiction, and art by Stephanie Emily Dickinson, Paul Wuensche, Alexander Iskin, Dell Lemmon, Amy Carr, Paul Schaeffer, debut writer Joyce (Chunyu) Wang, and many others.
THE WINNING POEM OF THE 17th MUDFISH POETRY PRIZE
JUDGED BY DEBORAH LANDAU
Tim Nolan
MEMOIR
There were days when I was worried—mostly about money
sometimes about love. Days when the sun lit the snow
and I thought I would burst with the joy of the cold. Days
of brilliant blue skies and soft casual rain. Days travelling
across the country during a heat wave racing above
a soft road. Day-in/day-out days when nothing special
happened—when I just barely survived—when I was
full of possibilities. Summer days in New York City—
a kid dancing by with a boom box booming. Days of death.
The days when the kids were born. A day devoted
to an old friend. Thanksgiving Days and Christmas Days
and Good Fridays when life seemed on a pivot point.
Those perpetual days of summer as a kid—down at the lake
for the whole day. Not-so-special and very special days.
Days made for no good. Days made of only good.
Sacramental days along with those birthdays and death days
that seemed to mark some passage, as if from here on out
it would all be different. A couple of days in Paris.
I wandered around by myself. I stopped when I wanted.
I sat down at a café table. It seemed endless, for the moment,
that the days would go on and would always somehow involve me.
Comments are closed.