Flest språkpoäng fick Edward Hirsch, Lag Chicago, för sin dikt "I was never able to pray". Den gick lite i samma anda som Cronins poem och språket kändes friskt och obundet.
Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.
Med M.T.C. Cronins nio poäng tog Queensland, Australia ledningen.
Score:
| Team | Content | Language | Day 1 |
| Queensland (Australia) | 7 | 2 | 9 |
| Amsterdam | 6 | 2 | 8 |
| Chicago | 5 | 3 | 8 |
| Vermont (USA) | 4 | 0 | 4 |
| Älvsborg (Sweden) | 3 | 0 | 3 |
| Toscana (Tuscany, Italy) | 2 | 1 | 3 |
| Kansas (USA) | 1 | 0 | 1 |
***
Andra dagen kör heat 5 med Sommar-tema.
ÄLVSBORG : ur Samlade dikter / Erik Beckman
Mitt i sommarn
kommer hästens morgonrodnad in i stallet
norrifrån; där sitter det ett fönster,
aurorans fönster,
kommer hästens morgonrodnad in i stallet
norrifrån; där sitter det ett fönster,
aurorans fönster,
känt från flera dialekter; oerhörda hänger sedan armarna i rosen och förkolnar
mot den dag de skulle gå och bära på; så är det
varje morgon när det går att prata
nästan fram till punkt.
KANSAS : from Vertumnal [excerpt] / Stephen Yenser
You dug pits for your rakings, grounds, rinds,
Wormy peppers, tomatoes simmered on the summer vines,
And apricots galore--windfallen, slug-gnawed, earwig-bored,
Daintily painted with snailglister and bird droppings,
Or chucked by squirrels who’d take a cheeky bite
From just-ripe fruit and drop the ruin at your feet.
Fruit ripe and rife, fire-dipped, as the poet put it,
And proved upon the earth. And it is still a law
That all goes in, serpentine, vatic, dreaming on the hills--
Lavender, vespid, vibrant--this evening’s hills of heaven.
mot den dag de skulle gå och bära på; så är det
varje morgon när det går att prata
nästan fram till punkt.
*
KANSAS : from Vertumnal [excerpt] / Stephen Yenser
You dug pits for your rakings, grounds, rinds,
Wormy peppers, tomatoes simmered on the summer vines,
And apricots galore--windfallen, slug-gnawed, earwig-bored,
Daintily painted with snailglister and bird droppings,
Or chucked by squirrels who’d take a cheeky bite
From just-ripe fruit and drop the ruin at your feet.
Fruit ripe and rife, fire-dipped, as the poet put it,
And proved upon the earth. And it is still a law
That all goes in, serpentine, vatic, dreaming on the hills--
Lavender, vespid, vibrant--this evening’s hills of heaven.
*
AMSTERDAM : Indian Summer / Judith Herzberg
Once shining champions, step by step
grown used to small loss, now gray.
'Ball over' he yells, and 'Love thirty'.
Sticky leaf and heavy shadow
blemish the court. The season
almost over, a pile of leaves
in a corner scatters in the wind.
*
CHICAGO : from A sunset of the city / Gwendolyn Brooks
Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls,
Are gone from the house.
My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite
And night is night.
It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer
Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.
It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.
*
VERMONT : from Vermont: August Fever / Syndey Lea
The town bells boom
The town bells boom
their final time at nine.
He dreams his bones
have blued, and whisper something
in atavistic
syllables. The first
fat drops tink counterpoint
upon the tin.
In dream, a boy
comes on the lawn to stand
and look up to
the skies. Now he sinks in
to sleep, his summer sickness,
blue, a kind of peace.
*
QUEENSLAND : from Surface to Air / Jaya Savige
A serene riot of bees, a pollen air,
A serene riot of bees, a pollen air,
one by one they zero in
on the bougainvillea. Our backyard god’s
a giant fig, downloading
gigs of shade onto the fresh cut grass.
Under the house, your summer dress
pegged by the shoulders
approaches and ebbs, a tidal apparition.
Pause on the back steps, Mona Lisa tea-
towel flung over your shoulder . . .
*
TOSCANA : from “The End” / Alessandro De Francesco
we are suspended on the stairs
above the water
in the center is the summer seen from above
the darkness of the city
passes from one headlight to the next
the surfaces of our arms cohere
and are shiny underneath
the blinking of a sign
each pore is an open expanse
the body dreams the hair
gives form to the possible
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