The Poetry for Peace contest was held from 15 September until 14 October 2011. The winners were anounced at a ceremony at UN headquarters in New York.
Below is one of the contest entries.
hibakusha— the broken doll in a huge smile - after the big bang - sweet roses can do nothing to a dead lover - A Gun and a Rose Gun is a gun and rose is a rose. The first is to kill, the other is to scent. If I must pick one, I'll choose the latter For I can easily give it to my lover. - Lines and Angles of My Town As a child, I walk in my slippers sod with lines and angles of my town, sleepless and full of smokes- oft drizzling down my thought, coating it in a multi- cultural haze. I am the child of a roseate womb and my breath smells milk, but I wear guns- cold like ice. I wonder if poetry can calm the shivers of blood in my tiny hands. - Space between Us Ev'ry verse of your breath that lives inside the sacred stone remarkably resounds in my hollowed heart, only to decipher not my faith, but the enigmas on how to ebb from its dawn. I stride back to my history, the one where you would never loom on its dreadful disciplines, and let bedazzled me swing as if by chic choice the snappy sound of gloaming that would numb my saint, the one I plucked out from you- believing. Did I not love you in your way, or in many ways that I could? Oh, peace in all its form is the absence of space between us! Leaving like fog is your option, which to a morning romance I can't compare, but maybe to an autumn leaf in such a rush, masterly losing its fruition from a life in the distrustful dance of a blue breeze, insinuating itself into your body and mind. Sorry, not the least we can do, and you know this is so true; tame me with patience, let not your gauntlet of ire be mine. Unlace your dignified dignity, so that I may see it in me too. Gone are the days- the flipping of us into the river of time. Ah, if you wore my skin that speaks my tongue, you'd better feel much like a budding poet, worthy of a poem in rhyme; fill me with a reasonable reason, not with a superbia, father! - walk in my sandals there were words painting images at the back of my head and everyday I plucked them out to share, yet I couldn't find you neither your shadow that I departed for the desert and took refuge in the shivers of my sandals
— Ernesto P. Santiago
All Poems Submitted to the Contest