Rattle Chapbook Prize
Deadline: January 15, 2025
The annual Rattle Chapbook Prize gives poets something truly special. Every year, three winners will each receive: $5,000 cash, 500 contributor copies, and distribution to Rattle's ~8,000 subscribers. In a world where a successful full-length poetry book might sell 1,000 copies, the winning book will reach an audience eight times as large on its release day alone—an audience that includes many other literary magazines, presses, and well-known poets. This will be a chapbook to launch a career.
And maybe the best part is this: The $30 entry fee is just a standard subscription to Rattle, which includes four issues of the magazine and three winning chapbooks, even if one of them isn't yours. Rattle is one of the most-read literary journals in the world—find out why just by entering! For more information, visit our website.
We congratulate our three winners from our 2024 contest:
- Eric Kocher, Sky Mall (Fall 2024)
- Denise Duhamel, In Which (Winter 2024)
- Kat Lehmann, no matter how it ends a bluebird's song (Spring 2025)
Please enjoy this poem by 2024 winner Denise Duhamel. It appears in In Which, published by Rattle this December.
Self-Portrait in Which I Am Not Polite
I'm not wearing lipstick. Hell, I haven't even
brushed my teeth. My nails are unpolished, ragged,
dangerous if you try to take my hand. I don't know
how else to say it … I just don't care. There's sleep
in my eyes, the gooey kind, dandruff on my scalp.
I have given up on deodorant and soap.
Say hello at your own peril. Sneer and I will whack
you, possibly throw an old stiletto—so duck!
I cut the line, honk my horn, chew with a full mouth,
then burp. The piercings in my ear lobes have closed,
my heart has closed. And my clothes? I've stopped
doing laundry. I've stopped the tedium of handwashing
my delicates. I've given up on bras. They hurt.
I've given up on doing dishes, smiling, shaving
(or crossing) my legs. I've given up on purses,
bangles on my wrist, any expectations of femininity.
No, you cannot sit here. No, I don't have a minute.
I've given up on the color pink and mirrors.
I leave splats on the floor and dust on the shelf.
I've never felt more like myself.
