She writes, she knits, she yodels. Multitalented multitasker Marie-Caroline Moir pauses for a moment in Suzzallo Library at the University of Washington.

By KRISTIN DIZON
P-I REPORTER

It was written in the galaxy that Marie-Caroline Moir would never be a number cruncher or a desk jockey.

The winner of the Seattle P-I's inaugural poetry contest is her own font of creativity.

She graduated last May from the University of Washington's very competitive Master of Fine Arts program, with an emphasis on poetry. She designs and creates a line of hand-knit and crocheted women's wear, called Solis, with her mother, who is also a writer.

She's a classically trained vocalist who sang first soprano with the Seattle Girl's Choir and favors Schubert compositions, as well as Baroque music, which, "with all its trills, you can go nightingale on." But, she also likes Led Zeppelin, Jeff Buckley and funk bands. "I sing a lot in the car and the shower," she said. "We have a loft in our apartment, where I like to yodel."

Moir, 28, nearly majored in vocal performance as an undergraduate, but turned to English literature instead. To make ends meet, she tutors writing at UW, and this summer, she will teach at the Institute for Reading Development.

Moir, who grew up in Everett and now lives in Ballard, knew that studying poetry wouldn't lead to earning a living from it. "It's not like a vocational degree -- you are aware that no one can really make a living off of writing poetry. I think Seamus Heaney does it now, and historically, Longfellow did it. You know that you're going to have to teach or work for an agency or earn your living from another vein."

She always carries a notebook, jotting down poetic images, strings of thoughts and sketches. Two of her poems will be published in an upcoming anthology, but she's considering sending more out.

"They're my little treasures. I'm not quite ready to give them away. But I've started -- I bought some envelopes and stamps," said Moir, who's also performed her poems in readings, including at Richard Hugo House.

Moir's winning poem, "Bloodspell," is about new, combustible passion. "It's just your garden-variety unrequited love kind of thing -- just admiring someone from afar and thinking you're going to go absolutely apes**** if you don't get them."

"Bloodspell" -- the first piece Moir has submitted to a contest -- was selected from 876 poems. The preliminary judging was done by P-I managing editor David McCumber, who has written and published four books of nonfiction, one of which includes poetry, and has also had poems published in various periodicals.

"It was a really positive experience to have the chance to read this outpouring of Seattle poetry," said McCumber. "It's very reassuring that so many people in our city are moved to engage in the process of writing poetry.... Some people think of poetry as high-flown and distant and inaccessible. The opposite is true -- the process of writing a poem is incredibly grounding and constructive. And no matter what the form or content of the finished product is, all that positive energy can't help but be communicated to the reader."

First place: Marie-Caroline Moir

From The Judges: "The poem demonstrates a wonderful mixture of sincerity and surprising humor, alloying its various tones and moods into something completely its own. The language leaps energetically from one verbal register to another (we go from the arcane and serious 'augur' to the gross and everyday 'hair patties,' from the antiquated greeting 'ho' to unmistakably contemporary language), and the imagery -- pomegranate heart, hair patties, origami jockstrap -- is as original as it is vivid." Bloodspell Now just ho there, splayed peacock, and spare the poor girl but a ruby from your pomegranate heart. She's far goner than long and nosing that notch in your seashell ear (the mere thought of it!) just sends her -- wakes her daily with a tickle/thump before the shuffling on of sun, and the augur of hair patties from the mystic drain. Should you not want her, she may end up in rubber sandals and very loose pants, at some artists' commune stuffed up in the Ozarks. Making origami jockstraps and other gestures of homage.

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