Dudley Randall Poetry Prizes

The Girl I Used to Be
by Sam Gillmore

My mom said I’m a pretty crier.
I sit and watch her tears fall in my mirror.
I stare at my lips, salted with the memories of
nights drenched in smoke and stolen liquor bottles

and the deceptive freedom of having
nothing to lose.
I can’t hear the voice of God when
I see my own reflection.

I toy with the idea of one more rendezvous with
that young girl I hardly recognize anymore just to tell her
I miss her terribly and maybe just one more night together,
just us, for old time’s sake or for the love that used to be there

but I see my mother’s hands smooth my hair and I am reminded of
the pain that used to be there, too.
I miss when we pretended not to be afraid,
riding fury-spoked bicycles on the breeze of a summer prayer.

The haze of suburban glamour gave a teenager two swords and
stripped her of sight. The onslaught of springtime made me
a woman before her time and what else to keep your girlhood but
to die still a girl? I wish I could tell her that

I finally swept the sheared hair up from where
she left it on the bathroom floor, the same floor we
floated unconscious on when she pierced my ears. But
she is still running from us

so fast that her favorite shoes grew holes on my feet and
I am beating wings worthless of a butterfly. I try to tell her
how to love me but my words split into tongues and I try to write
how to love me but my language circles an unsayable drain.

I will love her, instead. With each turn of the hourglass, there is
nothing I can do to break her fall as the grains of salt slip
through the lonely neck.
She told me Jesus smelled the wood of the cross and

thought of home. I smell the smoke of burning leaves and
think of her. I try to meet the gaze of the prodigal son but
all I see is my mother’s foolish daughter. I think of
the things that pass for love and everything

I have allowed others to do. I think, too, of the Good Book
my grandmother palmed through and I try to imagine
the chapel that cradled my ribbon-haired mother.
My story starts when hers ends but

I have to learn things the hard way
to have something to call my own

Hungry
by Antajuan Scott

We were hungry when we met
In line for food
But what we craved was this
Our beginning
Lining up with life, getting grown
Destined for it all
Reminds me of the lemonade you drank that day
Bright and sweet

Your hair was long then
Mine was short
And overtime we’d trade
Longing for moments like that
Falling short, failing but keeping shape
We stood in line for this

Growing up, then apart
Was bittersweet, like the orange
Picked to soon, I still savor
That day we saw each other
Breaking bread and building
Our new world

Now worlds apart
Do you remember the hunger?
It never went away
Even though we did
Apart,
lives rich and full as we were the day
When we stood in line
Hungry, and ready to eat.

Gauze
by Mary Gagnon

We are daughters
born in the evisceration of ancient mud brick
perched like twin doves in the minaret
while the ardency of olive trees cry out against the collapsing skies
the hills can no longer carry the weight of the cathexis and the man with kindness
wrapped around his wounds sings out to the children
November catches the resonance of his shuddering voice
our uncles lay down their hand staffs and affliction and touch their foreheads to the dirt
to listen for signs of concord and origin
we whisper ‘what about us?”
the sky anoints our thirst
she paints torrents of rain and prayer across the deep gnash in our hearts
embroidered by silver slivers of steel we used to use for hemming pant legs with in September
now we use them to bring together folds of skin and sorrow
she sews our braids into place thick with fishing wire from our father’s row boat
there are no fish to catch
he too hears the call from the sea
the salt solders his heart into place
rooting his hope deep in the earth
we remember the knuckle kneaded platters
the flour dusted hands of our grandmother’s
at the center
of canyons of wheat
sectioning balls of oiled dough
to feed the starved dreams of boys who cling to their mother’s smocks
as they prepare to die without casket or ritual
they sort through dried beans careful to section the stones from the flesh
so we have something to throw at tanks that level roads we’ve been deceived into
believing are safe for escape
there will be no deep drums that hoist our grief through procession
only the wailing of women, the breaking of hearts for percussion
no fragile poppy petals blanket our final rest
where we will finally know rest
where we are final
we will not see the winter end
the fields of native flowers made for sisters to run barefoot in the spring
our mothers will refuse to wash our blood from their hands
there will be no sickeningly dry metallic scent
only musk and fields of life disguised as death
only untold stories of colonized wreckage and neglect
we remember the sun toasting our skin like sesame in its absolution
the shade of the Cyprus, when we believed we were children that help would come
that we would not be forsaken
We are sons of decent and stolen land pushing toy trucks through rubble
we used to share a room
a memory, a full stomach, a fire warmed pita of maggotless bread
we carry sheets of cardboard from concave to concave
where rockets have split open the layers of sand
we’ll all sleep together so we may die together on this makeshift bed
hearts free from doubt we heed what mama says
my brother’s gaze widens
I can see now he understands why
light bombs detonate in the hazel of his eyes
“what about us?” he whispers
it’s not the first time we’ve watched baba cry

The Shore of the Camp
by Andrew Bosah

The moon beamed broad,
dancing across the current.
There was something there
unbothered by the night.
Life was paused here,
what I left behind forgotten.
The next semester, the job,
the entire next year.
It wasn’t even remembered.
All that was known was
the crisp yet comforting air.
I looked into the waters,
where the land was absent.
Where I should’ve sensed fear
my heart was at rest.

who deign to play creator
by Katherine Mutschler

i told you it’s like trying to squeeze a very large something out of a very small hole
you chuckled and said, “try giving birth.”

what i should’ve told you is that’s it’s like trying

to capture the fragile rise and shudder of his shoulder blade beneath my hand
to choreograph the lapping silver river to writhe like a sea monster slipping under moonless waves
to ensnare the hitch in her laughter as she compares just how many bandits surround her with the waning sum of bullets in
        her cocked pistol

to balance the thin chill of shock with the balm of sweat under her arm as the slush melts, her nose runs, and an old friend
        asks if she’d like to accompany him to his sister’s wedding next month with a tenderness she didn’t know he
        possessed
to shred flesh as an open palm skids across concrete and seaspray sours the wound
to conduct eye contact cast across dimly gold-lit ballrooms
to crack your spine across rock and still barter the strength to lick the blood from your teeth and keep, keep running
to put a name to the primeval dread and desperation that snatches your veins as hair gets caught in the spit-soaked corners
        of your lips and the mountain’s summit stretches beyond even God’s reach before you
to will centillions of lives you’ll never live into existence
through the ever-trembling tips of your fingers.

but even that wouldn’t convey that epiphanic ache
of pressing a pencil to an empty page
or a sweating ear against the heavy metal of the door backstage
and catching scraps of chatter passed between couples strolling out of far too expensive bars, the cold clank of a train’s bell,
        the sobering scent of frying dough and wet garbage, the scrape of the turning earth against the infinite cosmos
and praying to whoever’ll listen for the discipline it takes
to march back onstage
and release even a gasp of air inherited
from every human who ever scaled and sobbed and searched and seized before you
since the first very large something was squeezed out of a very small hole.

Collin Schacht
Persona

Missing. As in a vacancy of the mind.
Like a ballroom empty of rhythm.
The beat that keeps the other alive.

Though others can move past and leave behind,
I am caught, strung up in a web of the unreal and dreams with him
Missing. As in a vacancy of the mind.

He’s missing as I’m missing a time
Of green grass, kept alive by sprinklers knocking back to their original position, before original sin. The
rainbow escaped its liquid prism.
That is the beat that keeps the other alive.

Moving in circles like a clock that slowly turns out of time due to the grind
Of a loose belt or a section of a single mechanism
Missing. As in a vacancy of the mind.

A rose against the backdrop of a blue sky.
The slurping of horrific cannibals underneath the dirt. Isn’t it
The beat that keeps the other alive?

Please tell me why. The realization through my eyes
That I am gone, on ice within a new, mechanical, self. The old organism
Missing, as in a vacancy of the mind.
The beat that kept the other alive.

Olivia Vitale
I Forgot Your Middle Name

How could I forget?
the feeling of your hand gripping my arm
so tight that I think I’ll never be released

How could I forget?
what you said to your mother
after I told you I wanted out of this

“I figured if I just kept pushing, she would eventually give in.”

How could I forget?
how little my objections meant to you
and the weight that my words could never hold

How could I forget?
that the entire foot of height and two years between us
meant that the fight I put up was for nothing

“You should have just pushed him off of you”

How could I forget?
the feeling that showers couldn’t rid me of
no matter how hard I scrubbed

How could I forget?
the way my skin crawled for years
when someone said your name

“Remind me, how long were you guys dating?”

How could I forget?
the feeling in my stomach I thought was butterflies
but now seems more like a sucker punch to the gut

How could I forget?
what I was wearing, the day of the week, the time of day, the sound of your voice, my age, my height, the way I wore my hair, the crushing weight of your body on top of mine, my favorite color, my favorite subject in school, how I took my coffee, how afraid I was to tell my mom why you wouldn’t be coming around anymore

How could I forget?

Well,

I forgot your middle name

So that’s a start

Lydia Chapman
Evening Bats

Her eyes trail the unpredictable
trajectory of the bats’ swift fluttering motions

For a few hours these glossy onyx katanas
mince hordes of floating midges
Tracing them as constellations
Highlight the dense amethyst sky

Commanding the evening like
black holes riding maverick wind currents
snagging all insects in their path
Only to dissipate with
the dawning of morning
scepter falling beneath the dust
dismantled from their aristocratic status
with a kiss from Liza
Who knows where else they reign in high rank when they ride
off with the glistening moon, and
night falls to day

Jeremy St. Martin
The Man In The Below Poem Has Become Aware He Is In A Poem

According to this author, I am currently standing in the rain at a bus stop and I am holding a bouquet of heliotrope or lavender or some such flower and I am looking out past the exhaust in some sort of Chopin-laden existential poignancy because that is what heartbreak is supposed to be. According to this author, I am supposed to unload some flowery Baroque language at the passing of the next bus, so everyone brace yourselves:
You appear in every cloud of dust that is quenched in petrichor as the 405 slowly lumbers east near our first date at The Fly Trap. The rumble of the engine is like the stubble of your 5 o’clock shadow brushed against my face. Christ, that was awful.
This author wants me to learn a lesson. And supposedly, there is no lesson more deep and meaningful than standing with flowers that I’m not going to give to anyone so I don’t know why on earth I have them in the first place, inhaling bus exhaust like it’s the ghost of my lover, and looking east as if there was some sort of direction of hope. Why not have a gray feather fall at my feet? Just to throw in some sort of tragic symbolism about mercy or the failing of hope? Even better, make it from a diseased pigeon. Or a dove with a complex.
I’m cold and wet and I look like an idiot.
I just want to get piss drunk at a Chuck E. Cheese on a weekday like any normal human being who is experiencing a simultaneous break-up and a mental breakdown. I want to eat food in bed. I’m not sharing these sheets anymore, so I will get Tostino Pizza Roll crumbs in them if I desire. I want to pull hair out from my drain or make an omelet or recycle or ignore laundry for another day because I am not Ryan Gosling with a single tear in my eye as much as this author wants me to be.
I am hurt and I am fragile and I feel like shit and that’s fine because that’s healing for me. But fine, I’ll indulge this author for a moment.

The wheels on the bus thrum and make cadence over each pothole, rhythmic like my heart. My chest aches and burns, not because of the milestones we pass--the library we met, the florist shop that yawned music as we entered, the streetlamp in the snow. My chest does not burn because of the moment I knew somehow in the corpus callosum in every synapse in every axiom that you were gone, that moment I replay again as the bus gains momentum. My chest aches and burns because I made the terrible decision to shame eat the entire leftover pan of day old enchiladas in my fridge at 2 in the morning.

Aly Porcerelli
Dearest Audience

Coming to the stage will be the boy who almost died.
No pictures, please, for he’s a bit camera shy.
He may not end up speaking much, as it’s easier to hide,
whether it’s how far he’s fallen or how far he’s climbed.

Prepare to salute the boy with the bad luck,
who trains for each moment yet still gets tripped up.
But for every time that this boy’s gotten stuck,
he has shared fifty laughs; from obscurity they’re plucked.

So make sure to applaud for the boy with the beating heart,
who feels too deeply for his explanations to start.
And his mind works too readily for memory to part,
lumping loss and progress into the very same chart.

But now give your warmest welcome to the boy who never breaks,
despite when his hands and his doubts begin to shake
or when his reality appears a bit more than fake;
there’s nothing in this world that the boy cannot take.

Now hush, he’s coming on any minute now!
Let’s see if he feels confident enough to take a firm bow.
We’ll wonder when he’ll learn he doesn’t need to act so strong,
for this boy, by existing, has been a hero all along.

Mehar Soni
The Crown Jewel

My mother used to braid my hair;
her seasoned hands untangling my dark waves.
The percussion of the rain against the window;
a perfect counterpoint to her lilting voice.

With each pass of the comb, she wove a fairytale.
Stories of how she met my father laced into my mane alongside
fresh jasmine, gleaming thread, and golden bells.

She talked fondly of my father’s love of pakora in winter,
the British pocket watch he carried by his breast.
She called him a young king preparing for the throne,
or better yet, a military captain saving Indian lives.

She said he’d armed himself with Mahatma Gandhi’s
words: Satya. Ahimsa. Tapasya. Jai Hind!
As if he could rub the crown jewel right out with salt!

Her palms glistened with coconut oil, the smell
of Darjeeling tea in the air, as my plait formed,
molded by my mother’s hands, like Lord Ganesha.

When I asked where Papa was, she sometimes
pulled my hair too tight or stuck a pin into my scalp.
Ouch, ma, you’re hurting me!

She never told me he moved to Bombay years before.
Childish,         what a fool was I!
My father                 everywhere but here.

Jeremy St. Martin
A Monologue in a Drive-thru

I think that will be it. Just rub the chip, sometimes the card gets fussy…there it is. Thanks. Hey, can I get a couple of napkins? Also, my dad is dead. Like just now, dead. We pulled him off a vent–it wasn’t Covid related, so don’t worry, although he was on a designated Covid floor so I apologize for handing you plastic that could be Covid affected. Do you give discounts to those who recently lost someone? Like 15 minutes ago, someone died in your arms so here’s a free donut type thing? I like y’alls donuts–especially the Timbits. Not that I’m pandering to you for free stuff. I understand you have to treat everyone fairly, and that there are a ton of other people behind me who haven’t lost anyone or maybe they have, or they’re having a great day, but regardless, everyone needs to stop and acknowledge my grief. And I know it seems weird that I’m ordering an iced coffee in the middle of a Michigan winter-like ‘my car hasn’t even fully heated up and I’m peeking out of the small crevice of the cleared windshield because I am that guy’ kind of cold, but I just needed that thing to clutch on to and iced coffee was it. I had shit coffee in the hospital and now I at least want familiar shit coffee. And make no mistake, that’s not your fault. The shit coffee, I mean. Not my dad’s death. Though that wasn’t your fault either. Did you know his last words were double-A batteries? Who says that? I guess I was expecting some sort of rage against the dying of the light sort of thing, but you want what you want and say what you say in those moments. Well, anyway, Kelsey, you’re doing a great job. Here–take my debit card and pay for everyone else behind me. It expires in 3 days, so live it up in the meantime, right? Bad choice of words?

Aly Porcerelli
What They Don't Tell You About Suicide

I’ve spent my life being easily impressed.
So when I overdosed on my bedroom floor
On lamotrigine, blood and tears
I couldn’t help but admire
The way the room started to shake
Or how my frail fingers could still dial 911;
How life only exists in patterns,
O, what a wicked cycle.
I laid weary in my hospital bed
Counting the ceiling tiles one by one
Like it was some sort of game,
Some figment outside of reality
Consuming my brain like bad TV,
Teaching me how to halt time.

When I first awoke from my coma
My father had surprise on his tired face
But me, I had plans in my thumping brain
To return to the life I knew;
Because the urge to do nothing, to move on
Overpowered any desire to get better
So I told my mind, “Be quiet!”
Between the concrete hospital walls
Until the doctor deemed me
Ready to go home.

What he didn’t tell me is that
This will never go away
That I’ll wake up choking on air,
Feeling as close to death as I did
On that June afternoon
And what no one told me is how
My mother will worry until she’s sick
And then worry some more
More than she did when I was small
And the world was large

What they will never tell anybody
Is that the self-help books lied
That it probably won’t get easier
That what doesn’t kill you almost did
But through all the suffering
There will be moments of ethereality
Of stardust and beacons of sun
Laughter and magic and hope.
So I’ll run, or walk, it won’t matter;
Until there’s no blood left in the cut
Because today I saw the sun
And it was shining in celebration

Sarah Ko
Red Packets

The Windy City blows against the red lanterns outside,
Tendrils from the awaiting hot pot waft through the air,
With withered hands, a thick crimson packet is handed to me,
Grandpa smiles, eyes twinkling.

A new day in San Francisco,
Perfect for a walk, thinks the stranger,
His eyes shining, oh how lucky to be here,
living so close to family.

Such a generous gift,
He said in his old age of 86, he found himself very lucky,
To share such special moments like this,
Safe, warm, with family.
Small, crinkled, rectangular paper cannot amount to it.

Tentative shuffles into the sunlight,
Exercise is important for old men like me, he thought.
84 times traveled around the sun,
a life that is blessed, prosperous,
--- unassuming.

Months later,
Grandpa did not travel around the sun for the 87th time,
he moved on to the stars.
Grieving, but at peace that he went forth,
from a tranquil place.

Pavement is cool in the shadows,
last moments,
a whirlwind of motion, the ground and sky realigned.
The cold, hard, unrelenting cement,
then nothing.

Both coming forth from the lands of their ancestors,
outlining new lives for their descendants,
only for them,
to be looked upon as a virus,
something of contamination,
lumped into an assumption,
rewarded with violence. 

 Friends,
may this be a year of resilience.
The lives they have sown like oxen,
rightfully exist in memory.
Brothers and sisters from all walks of life,
dignity and respect,
that's all we ask.

*In tribute to Vicha Ratanapakdee, his family, and those victimized by the recent attacks against the elderly Asian community. 

Taylor Bays
Ballad of Atlanta

Inspired by Dudley Randall’s “Ballad of Birmingham” and in response to events that took place during the Black Lives Matter movement in Atlanta, Georgia, 2020.

“Mamma dear may I go downtown
Instead of on my phone
To march the streets of Atlanta
With my boyfriend and not alone?”

“No, honey, no you may not go,
For the police are angry and hostile
And batons and bullets; smoke and fire
Aren’t good for my precious child.”

“But, Mamma, I won’t go alone.
Other people will be with me
To March the streets of Atlanta
For justice, in a land where we are not allowed to just be.”

“No, honey, no you may not go
For I fear tear gas will make you a crier
But you may watch from afar
And record what you desire.”

She marked down history in her footage
Then dressed to go get something to eat
And wore an oversized hoodie on her small brown frame
And brown Birkenstocks on her feet

Mamma smiled to know her child
Was capturing history from a safe distance
But that smile was the last smile
When she heard of the police’s unjust persistence.

For when she saw the video
Her eyes grew belligerent and riled
As she raced through the streets of Atlanta
Stomping for justice for her child.

She stormed through thresholds of metal and wood
And dodged remarks about calm civility
She demanded answers to questions
About freedom, when her daughter was not allowed to be free.

Nurzahan Rahman
Muslim Not Muzlum

Zindagi , life

a scarf wrapped delicately around my head
threatens your view of freedom
you say oppressed without knowing what oppression means

Oppressed ● noun
the exercise of authority or power in a burdensome, cruel, or unjust manner - dictionary.com

oppression doesn’t make

1. Daughters a blessing

4. Employment a choice,
every penny going to me

2. Education a right

5. Nothing is his that is mine,
but what is his is mine

3. Divorce an option

6. I will die with my maiden name,
I am not my husband’s property
like the west has painted. 

that is an ounce of the power I hold
but you make the grave mistake of seeing culture as my religion.

countries going extinct
facing humanitarian crisis
seeds planted in innocent lands strip them of their beauty and independence
they now stand divided : the only thing the west projects :
Where is our coverage?

are we that big of a threat?
that you have to ban a head covering in Belgium?
hate crimes are committed in France : dirty hijabi :
forbidden drawings of our holy prophet (ﷺ) pollute the country
where is the religious respect that you breathe at the mention of other religions?
hate crimes.

tik tok is our trusty informant
news stations too scared to report our reality
only when they are the victims will you hear a peep, even then it's still half the hospitality
social media feeding me more truths than ABC, CNN, and FOX
Where is our coverage?

the holocaust reborn in front of our eyes
Uighur Muslims in Chinese re-education camps

Raped, forced hysterectomies,
Forced intoxication with the wrecking smell of alcohol,
Forced consumption of bacon

what is being "re-educated"?
stripping the islamic flesh because they are different? because they are muslim?
history replays itself as we stay quiet just like 80 years ago

“One of the most horrific terms in history was used by Nazi Germany
to designate human beings whose lives were unimportant,
or those who should be killed outright:” - The Atlantic ⁽¹⁾
Uighur Muslims, Holocaust, Genocide. 2021.  

are we that big of a threat?
hiding in my car, worried sick for my friends,
is today the day? Will today be the day I go?
what attack lurks behind the shady corners in a world
where color and religion are worth more than someone’s life,

zindagi

don’t look suspicious tattoo it on my heart
living in fear is not the freedom promised to me in this foreign land.

1. Opening sentence of an Atlantic post. Taylor, Alan. “World War II: The Holocaust.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 16 Oct. 2011, www.theatlantic.com/photo/2011/10/world-war-ii-the-holocaust/100170/.

Mehar Soni
A Letter to Olga

Dear Olga,
I’m not one to put pen to paper quite often
I find the activity akin to patching holes in leotards:
a temporary cover, but never quite permanent enough.

In this way however, I hand in my resignation.

I know you found my skin a particularly gleaming fabric to display;
especially when the scene was suiting.

Ah but I’m never quite like Clara am I?
Not nearly as lithe and swan-like
her skin presented a unique translucent quality.
Almost like a little dancer in a snow-globe,

Quite useful to suit an array of scenes, tutus, and roles, don’t you think?

Anyway, I thought going to the Academy would be enough.
My toes playing tag with the x-ray machines.
I remember being told
my port de bras had never been so beautiful.

Your little Clara couldn’t stand it, so she found ways to break them.
Who knew your beautiful dorogoya
Was more like a Caliban en pointe!

From my time here I’ve learned one thing.
For some, the snow settles on stage once the lights dim.
For others, the dust remains dust.

But I know!
The aftermath is neither dust nor snow,
but the chalk one dusts pointe shoes with.

Thank you,
“The Nutcracker-Mouse #3”  

Mary Elizabeth Johnson
a shoplifter in amity, new york gets caught on purpose

it’s 1975 and it’s so easy to pluck
a vial of nail polish from the shelves of the corner shop.
the owner had a tv by the cash register playing the local news:
they think they finally got the shark that killed the naked girl,
the little boy on the floatie, and the black dog.
the shoplifter sees chief brody’s nose,
sharp and sunburnt, sweat slipping
underneath the weight of his wire-rimmed glasses.
he says he thinks the fight is finally over.
summer has closed its jaws
and people don’t have to be scared of the water anymore.
the shoplifter falls in love.
so she picks up a can of bud light, looks around
(something only an amateur would do)
and puts it in her purse. she picks up another and drops it.
she halfheartedly rushes to the doors and gets caught
as easy as that first shark, the red herring.
chief brody shows up and looks into her eyes,
all stern-like. she wonders if he’ll sing her a sea shanty.
she twirls her hair, wants to be like the dead naked girl,
like ophelia, wants to be caught, drunk,
in the heat of the night. but she’s not even the boy or the dog,
she’s the one with the gills.
movies will tell lies about her
and hunt her down until her kind is endangered,
not knowing that she only took the nail polish
because she wanted to look pretty when the girl-killer came along.

Jency Shaji
Citizen
(Inspired by Claudia Rankine’s “Citizen”)

The words out your mouth and the fake smile on your face have no regard for the fear in my
mind.

With skin like that and a name that can’t be
pronounced, you should make up for it.
Clothes must be American. Hair must be
American. Accent must be American.
  

But am I not American? Not according to the color of my skin. Is it not the place of my birth?
I know the difference now:

I ate chicken biryani at school once—

a girl told me I smelled like it and looked like it too. 

I was helping my mom with groceries—

an old man pushed his cart in front of mine,
condemning me for not speaking English.

I attend a class with all white students—

they don’t see their privilege.

When I’m on the phone with my dad—

a boy asks me if I speak Indian or Hindu.

TSA checks me for the second time—

my hair could be hiding something. 

I tell the class I am Indian—

Are you Cherokee or Navajo? 

I’m in my churidar, walking with my husband—

Were you actually in love or was it arranged? 

I get stopped every time I go on a plane—

when I ask why

they look at my eyes but stare at my brown face.

Dante Lamb
Moments of Monachopsis

If you want a sound: It is your name uttered
Softly
By someone you don’t know
The name new in their mouth
They play with the pronunciation
ike prey
Or say it like a mantra
Hyperaware of the lip movements made
Soon growing bored of it
Because it sounds weird
And they will ask you anew
Next time anyways.

If you want a smell: Take the hardened air of autumn
Fill it with an apple orchard
Post season
When the fumes of candy sickness waft through the gnarled branches
All of this
Quickly
As you pass by in a car filled
Too fast with body heat
Windows now down
Tumbling air
Whisking away the traces.

If you want a taste: The bitter of an unwashed English cucumber
Will coat your mouth
And make your chewing
slow
It will not be driven away by the first wash
of barely cool sink water
Instead it will make your breath heavy
And prompt you to scrape your teeth
Along your tongue.

If you want a touch: Don’t put lotion on for a month
Wash your hands four times a day
And tell your lover to put on corduroy pants and a velvet shirt
Run only your palms
Over their entirety with your eyes closed
As your fully clothed body
Warms
In a confusion of arousal.

If you want a sight: Look into the mirror
After a day where everything
Has gone wrong
Leave one light on in the other room
So the shadows are now heavy and one side of your face looks
Like a charcoal portrait
Stand there for a time alone and watch
The shadows stagnate
Here
In a moment of stillness.

Savannah Sloan
I am in the graveyard across the street from the McDonald’s

I am in the graveyard across the street from the McDonald’s
I went to every Thursday to grab a chocolate shake
I could dip my fries in. In a sea of navies, blacks, and grays,
my friends and family mourn, mingling laughter with tears.
No two handle it the same, but each one places a white daisy
on the ground in front of the headstone, new beginnings
for all of us. My best friend comes up to me,
or where she thinks I am, to lay a flower down.
Eyes red, not only from crying, she remains the same
and I am dust and dirt and worms. Whole body trembling,
her mother leads her away, holds her close. I could not say with certainty
what brought my mother here, for we never saw eye to eye,
were never cheek to cheek. We did not even speak
after she found out what I had been up to
with the boy who came over on summer afternoons
to eat mint chocolate chip ice cream and watch cartoons,
but she must have felt something, even though I had lost God
and she had lost me. She prays, asking Him to forgive me,
begging forgiveness for herself
for raising a wicked little girl—a sinner. I am next to her
reaching out with hands that touch nothing,
calling out with a voice I do not have
and for whom or what I do not know.

Mary Elizabeth Johnson
winter scars.

My father once broke a man’s hand
while standing on a dirty curb
outside a bar.

That’s what he tells us. Your dad’s hands
say something different each time you look,
changing in your eyes like you’re the funhouse

mirror and he’s the drunk kid paying too much
to impress his girlfriend. It will start with
teddy bears and elephant ears. When his hands

are gnarled with fungus
it’ll be child support. When his hands
are ashy and cracked, it’ll be mittens

for the kids. His hands will never break,
even though he won’t let me
give him a manicure.

Are my cuticles skin or nails?
They’re a part of my nails, but next to my skin. I held
my dad’s hand and asked, “Did you

know that horse’s hooves and elephants’ tusks
and bull’s horns are made out of the same thing
hair and nails are made out of? I thought

they were teeth.” He eclipses my hands with his
and says, “Teeth? Who has teeth on their hands?”
And I said, “The Devil?” And he laughed and laughed

but he never let go of my hands. I thought of hair and teeth and nails
in teratomas. I thought, just maybe, my nails might grow
like tusks through my father’s hands.

*Inspired by the title and first line of Larry Levis's poem "Winter Stars."

Hannah Tillman
S. Franklin St.

“A king’s design, he lived in the law. He wrote the book together with me.”

Saturday, S. Franklin St. behind the old Lutheran church
A white open wall beckons.
No windows, no witnesses. He calls me:
“Bring my bag” and flips the phone shut.
Summer, 2004, and the sun is beginning
To hit the brick, golden splashes like the Sahara.
I slip in, bag strapped, swing it over my shoulder, and toss it
At his feet. The St. of S. Butler—he turns tagging into aesthetic
Historic lecture. I sit back on the cool still-shadowed cement
And wait for the St. to perform his miracle.

A king’s design, he lives in the law of creation,
Mind melting and fluid like the waves of Monona
On the cusp of spring. Paint lids popped off
By young black fingers as he wakes the liquid up,
Exciting it to be born. Paint hits the wall, and he steals
The golden warmth from the sun.
I watch God create the earth then—
He starts with sandy plains flowing like water
Into cracked, craggy soil. I watch an acacia sprout
From the brick, fresh and damp, the Queen of the Jungle rests beneath.
Proud.
His works today a miracle of blood memory,
Buried, dormant, hibernating. In back-alley Madison,
He tagged: You’re it.

He wrote the book together with me
On guerilla graffiti. It requires
A message, a mission. Today he colonized
A small white church in a small white city.

We capped the bottles, packed them away,
And chased the sun to East Wash. The warden queen
Watched us go and languished in her stolen sun and space,
Ready to guard her turf tooth and nail.

She wasn’t going to be erased again.

Jasmina Cunmulaj
The In-Between

…The thoughts of a first-generation immigrant caught in between two worlds, unaccepted by both, neither as one or the other. Dedicated to the in-betweeners.

Somewhere in the in-between
dreams of picketed fences and overflowing
rose gardens disappeared
into pristine mowed grass boundaries
and yellow weeds that were close to being
flowers.

Close to

being an American,
like shooting off fireworks from your
cottage on the fourth of July.
Smoke of the barbecue fogged the night sky
and our vision.
Still, we were never close enough.

Close enough-

to see and smell and hear
the generations of
boxed-cake-perfect
American families,

who wrote their history on the cloth
ripped from the backs of their ancestors
tossed into an attic and sold off as antiques,

that we were close to
being.

Somewhere in the in-between
we found an identity that fit in the palm of a
pale hand
with just enough room for our
hard-to-pronounce
names and foods that were “exotic”
bringing us close to our new homes,
we found comfort in our cramped spaces
yet craved to stretch our limbs and tongues
when words and gestures became
too foreign,
too close,
to our neighbors.

Close to

becoming American
was like saying we can eliminate poverty
with a donation for just 2 dollars a month
and
identifying as precisely one nationality
was like saying humans need
not oxygen to breath.

Stuck in the in-between,
we were forever bound by the dirt from our
past villages hidden beneath our fingernails,
and the stain of American money that ran
through our fingertips,
reaching to get somewhere
close to the other side.

Jasmina Cunmulaj
She Loves Him, She Loves Him Not

He held the delicate daisy
as he would have held her hand,
between his cracked hands
after years of work.
Dirt found a home underneath his nails
and between his calluses,
and the white petals stood bright
against his dull earthy palm.

Pluck,
one petal floated to the ground.

She loves him not.

There was something about
the darkness and ache in his gaze,
that made me tired.
The way the years
had carved fine lines into his skin.
Like the way water marked the earth,
and formed rivers.
And the hollowed crescent skin
that turned upward underneath his eyes,
rung with familiarity,
inviting me in with a feeling of home.
Smile wrinkles hugged his gently pressed lips
and glanced down

Pluck,
as another petal floated off.

She loves him.

And I can’t help but wonder,
if he had longed for his other half
for she had taken the color
out of his grey cheeks,
and left him
for her longing of another life elsewhere.
And as she left,
his bright eyes followed her,
full of hope,
full of love,
then became flooded with a bleak gaze,
which replaced the vision of his bride.
Twirling,
floating,
in her own field of daisies
dancing under the gleaming sun.

Pluck,
the last petal floated down,
down.

She loves him not.

Indira Edwards
When I Am Young Again

When I am young again I ride my bike.
Mud painted Sketchers turn the pedals like time, a caterpillar in eternal rotation,
Oily gears pumping a metal heartbeat, held down by the animal’s gravity.
There is a heaving, dancing tree at the end of the block
Cornered off by a frizzy hedge, and if you wanted to keep it a secret
All you would have to do
Is brush your open palm to the other side of its locs,
Close your eyes, and seal the memory. I remember in this moment
I am young and religious--
I say a prayer while passing below the bough on two wheels and god grazes my chin upward, an index sprouting past her offshooting thumb. Toward an angel
She lifts me with gossamer wings; I approach the eudicot’s venation with scorpion’s pincers (you see that’s a description i learned later on, when i was older and did know that when i was younger i did not know things that i do now)
Well, I am still here, suspended from my bicycle, this angel’s wings a part of mine.
I observe the broad, milky specimen where light hits;
I observe that I’m a fish and this is the sun filtering through the crest of the tide’s music.
The trunk of the brooding, clay cast tree crashes through a whitecap and whispers to me a loud ocean’s SHHHHH!!!
She does not need to yell at me.
The tree faces me, blood creaking, gurgling through raspy vasculature:
“You remove what once sits upon this earth, yet you are foolish enough to believe that it does not sit upon the earth once removed.”
I watch with beady eyes, tense for her to elaborate--
But trees do not need elaborate.
We are what elaborates upon the veins we seek our blood to reach,
To understand that time and leaves are one in the same--
Not 5 minutes later did I mold to the breast of my home with the ghost of a leaf in my palm,
And not 10 more years later did I molt to the present moment
A breath that the tree had left-- much more than that leaf I believed I had suffocated.
That leaf that never died
In that moment remained in this world
For nourishment, a gift
To birds and mosses and molds and worms,
To all bodies of cotyledons, new venations to groan upward through the soils,
Plucked off, new life and life alike.
I am young again and I ride my bike;
A fresh leaf flutters into an upturned palm,
A secretive, zig-zagging string dangling ceaselessly, embalmed.

Antony Nedanovsky
m---y

“babe, here’s something i just wrote—i think you might like it! it goes like this:

‘the truthful glance you cast upon me felt like concrete poured into a casket
.it crushed me.
crushed me into a pulverized valentine’s card,
you know, the ones with sweet nothings smothered on a canvas donning a bleeding heart;
but this valentine’s card dared to push through to the other side of the cuckoo house nest—
that damned rib cage within this punctured chest.
a noble, humble pursuit
so i then draped that valiant, valentine heart onto the shoulders of blessed pallbearers,
each convulsion of the sealed casket a decree from the tomb:
i love being nothing for you.
and still, my oldest love lives young.’”
she paused, never being one to first speak without thinking:
“hmm, baby, it sounds quite poetic. its meaning is completely lost to me
but it reminds me of a cherished line my mother always said to me:
‘you know m---y,
there’s nothing unsettling in our substance of being nor our being of substance.’”

i stirred from the magnitude of that message’s power—
christ, even in my daydreams the girl’s modest.

Mianna Gonczar
Reflections on Almost

It’s amazing how life happens
And you don’t even realize because
You’re too busy hoping
That you’ve done enough and
You spend all this time
Forgetting that you are still
Doing right now
But in our defense
To live in the moment is not
As easy as it sounds
Because, do I look good in the moment?
I should’ve done my hair this morning
So that all my moments were good
And how do I know which moment
I should live in?
Moments are a minute, a year, a day
I let the moment pass.
I always regret when moments pass
And the regret is always more tangible
Than the moment itself
But I really miss that moment
I knew it would’ve been a good one
Sometimes I spend so much time regretting
A moment that passed
I go on and let the next one pass too
This happens all too often because
Life is just a string of moments
And sometimes I forget that
It’s not like watching a movie twice
A second chance is really just
A different chance
A sorry doesn’t take back the hurt
And even if I buy a new car
It doesn’t take back the fact that
I crashed my first two
But I’m working on it
I’m working on noticing when a moment is
One worth noticing
And understanding that not all moments are ones
To be remembered
But most of all, forgiving myself for letting moments pass
The next one is sure to happen soon

Alexis Carlisle
Honey, I Love You

She bleaches her hair as if she is trying to bleach away the past;
And even though my roots have grown long
I can still remember the burning sense of rebirth.
She soaks in the first blush of the sun
Like a cat bathing in the rays that
Run their fingers through her hair; Long and tangled
With past stories that only come out
On late night drives home from the bar.
She doesn’t remember telling the story.
And when she asks if I’ve heard it before
I always say no
Because when she speaks, it is the spring
Not the cruelest month, nor the one that comes after or before.
She is the month in between.
Skipped in calendars – Bleached out – Lying in the sun –
– Laughing – She is actually laughing –
At all of the things about me that my mother rolls her eyes at
And in that moment I start to understand what love is
She –
– is the month of love
The protector and the keeper
And I wonder why I do not protect her as she does for me
But I’ve learned there has to be a teller and a listener
I let her tell
Because out of her mouth sprout flowers and perfume
And I am just the schoolboy
Who forms his first crush on Persephone
Not knowing she is the eternal spring
She melts in the passenger seat of my car
With the seat warmer on she melts like honey
The weather is most unstable in spring
But she doesn’t know, the voices she hears
Are just the bees at work building honeycombs in her hair
Lightweight, but stronger than you could ever imagine
The man outside the bar told us that spring is here
And she will not back down
She is two swords and no armor
She is honey with arsenic
The month that no one can see, nor can they pronounce,
She is the first blossom and the first crush,
She is as unstable as spring and twice the beauty
But will slap the mouth that calls her beautiful
And tell them “I. Am. Smart.” Brighter than the sun.
But also, right now, asleep like the moon.
Behind me I can hear her purr with golden strands,
Basking in the sunlight.
And it is all of this that is stored in the body of a girl
And the underestimation of such feminine power is punishable by damnation
That pulls Persephone back down.
But please, be cautioned, because like the sun,
She will rise again.

Jasmina Cunmulaj
A Note to My Father

You placed your hand
over mine
that grasped the fishing pole
so tightly,
as you whispered
the winning strategy
and performed
a rhythmic jerk
like a marionette,
playing his puppet
and danced the invisible line across the pond
that reflected
a shadow
of a moment in time.
And as the line pulled
and rippled a crack
down the middle,
a silver-breasted fish soared out, like a newborn
wailing for a first breath
of oxygen.
But quickly delved back
into the one-way mirror,
and released our connection,that was held simply by string. Just as the ripple calmed,
the shadow of our bond that once casted over the grey waters, vanished with the sun.
And with every sunrise overlooking the pond,
I hoped it would return
with you,
once again.

Jazmin Nevarez
I wonder

I wonder what it’s like,
to live in a house
That doesn’t chip from the ceilings,
Into our Holy Water bottles
That Tita uses to bless our doors, daughters and foreheads.
I wonder.

I wonder what it’s like, to live in a house
Without missing shingles on the roof,
walls that are finished,
fresh paint-covered plaster
Scratch-resistant, bulletproof.
I wonder.

I wonder what it’s like
To not live in fear of the Red Line.
Especially on summer nights alone,
In one ear-headphone. Waiting, watching
Cityscapes with high rises too pretty to see
My South Side home,
I wonder.

I wonder
I wonder what it’s like to permanently live in a house
Where the windows and doors have molding
And white picket fences are in view.
A bedroom to myself,
No urge to record silver badges on front lawns
Just in case another Black and Brown life
Is taken too soon. I wonder.

I wonder what it’s like
To live with a deep, dwelling security.
Not having to fight
consistently for equality.
A tiring effort, unfortunate example of timeless
Time and again.
I wonder.

I wonder what it’s like
To live with peace of mind.
Without the thought of my 9-year-old brother
Wearing a transparent backpack to school.
Walking through metal detectors before class
Because, maybe, just maybe
His classmate’s father left his nine
Unlocked, easy access
To protect himself, his family, his pride–a true Sugarman, in his prime.
I wonder.

I wonder what it’s like to live
Outside the confines of condensed, cramped
Almost-sweltering poverty.
Polluted danger forced upon us,
Away from suburban and lavish properties
That unsuccessfully attempt to suck the soul from what is left of our woods.
Moving in on us.
Capitalizing off our soon-be-gentrified neighborHoods.
I wonder.

Alexis Carlisle
Things I've Found While Cleaning My Room

1. The band aid you gave me when we were in 8th grade when I thought we were going to get married, I never took it out of the wrapper and for some reason I’ve kept it in the same box I keep money.
2. A pearl necklace that my dad added a pearl to each year on my birthday; it is now a complete never ending loop.
3. Anna Nicole Smith’s biography where most would keep a bible, I know her holy words better than Father Joseph knows the scripture.
4. A receipt that slipped out of his pocket and I shoved it into mine to remember a time when I loved him.
5. The stereotypical half eaten rotten apple that only the grossest people keep under their bed.
6. A student written postcard from Alma College I received as a junior, I kept it not because of an overwhelming interest in the college, but rather because I felt like Cody class of 2014 really cared even with no picture on the card I cried because I loved Cody class of 2014 so much.
7. A 16th birthday card from my dad, the inside said “I will always love you, no matter if we are together or apart” it was the first time I realized he completely understood what 16 meant.
8. The picture I was drawing in math class the first time I ever pierced my own skin on purpose it was only half finished and some things are better incomplete.
9. A miniature pin from a miniature bowling set I threw away during a panic attack I threw away 2 garbage bags full of things that day and I cried the entire time as my mother kept on saying “you don’t have to do this”.
10. A very tiny pencil...You snapped my pencil in half the day you didn’t have one and you then sharpened the half with the eraser and gave it back, I taped it to my wall in memoriam of the senior boy who put the sad sophomore girl first.
11. I found some notes that I took when while talking on the phone to you when were best friends and you were telling me about how you wanted to become a pilot because you were chasing the crash and you said “it will be sunny and I will go down quick” as I continued to cry you told me it would be fine, that you would die quickly and it wouldn’t hurt that bad.  I couldn’t fall asleep that night.
12. A spider that I was going to kill but started to appreciate the mutual comfort we both felt living together.
13. A water bottle with her chewed gum stuck to the side of it I kept on my bedside table for weeks as a reminder that she had been in my room, she had been in my bed.
14. Ripped nylons that I promised my mother would last me until New Year’s but it was only November and they were very ruined.
15. Diamond earrings my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday, I held them in my hand for a minute wondering why he gave them to me.  I was turning 16 years old not 23, and that’s when it hit me, that my dad understood that he would never see 23 or 46 or 17.  He understood how everything happens suddenly and at once and I didn’t even understand the situation enough to write a goddamn eulogy.
16. 16 will mean more to me than 21 ever could, more than a 21 gun salute and the bullet shell casing from the ceremony on my nightstand there will always be a weight on 16 and goal on his 66. I finish dusting off old memories and shove most of them back under my bed and as I leave no matter how many times I try the switch, I can’t turn off the light.

Patrick Redigan
Bradley

I remember the dashboard,
the trashed ashtray woefully
overcrowded with
discarded bubblegum and
lipstick-pinched Camels

Beside lay a royal blue sticker:
simple and shiny reminding her
“one day at a time”
the fever mantra, the
words she pledged her life to.
Her gold medallion
hung from the rearview mirror
but we knew there was no sense
in looking back.

Ten years clean, or so it seemed
I never could tell when she closed her eyes
and hid her hands beneath our table.
A high-strung junkie for Jesus, watch as she
drowns her sorrows in his blood,
stained like the glass, the depiction

of the blessed mother that
hung on the living room wall
beside my 7th grade portrait made
crooked by my clumsy fingers.
The gaze of the virgin caught me
dead in my tracks, my heart was
hers to hold. The features were soft and
her shawl was the shade of a dream,
a creamy bluish-green like the little eyes on
my little face. I close them
for my nightly prayers,
but when I wake, I want to face my fears
and no longer force my smiles. To
speak my mind, love my enemies and to
test the waters of a fiery lake and
cool my tongue with the serpentine
mercury of ceaseless self-discovery.
I want a puppy.

I want to be someone new, someone cool
too free to be me, too true to be you.
I want creation.

But placed beside expired plates,
a grey and faded sticker pasted
hastily long ago:
a word, a whimper

One last commandment heard
high above the demon hiss of the
rusted exhaust pipe, fuzzed slightly
by a ghostly sneeze of smoke.

It spits in the face
of my mother’s embrace,
murmured into ears too
broken to be bothered:
coexist.

Erin Stein
Frustration While Watching the Evening News

“It’s about the children here, Huel.”

The News shares a mini-documentary on how

Michigan let toxic water corrode pipes

and how it has seeped into people’s bloodstreams,

as if they need more negativity in their systems.

“88 schools were closed, how does that help the children?”

A fancy(ish) man in a cheap looking suit, (let his dress define him)

paired with an even cheaper tie— pipes in to remind the three social justice soldiers that strikes

are unconstitutional. And that it’s immoral to stand up for better rights.

The Suit must have never read Jeremy Bentham or Martin Luther King Jr.

“Were any of the members involved fired?”

Of course not, they kindly stepped down, because resigning

looks more noble than getting ripped of one’s title.

But then again, teeth falling out because gums can’t hold

bone anymore doesn’t look that noble either.

“You should let the parents know if another sick out is planned, it’s only fair.”

The term fair seems to bite a little,

it is filled with ironic venom that does not go unnoticed.

When the textbooks used in these ancient ruins of schools don’t include the last

two presidents, nor the Recession, that seems to ring more to the hymn of unfairness.

What’s unfair is daydreaming in class and looking up to see the bleak

heavens poke out between the cracks in the ceiling, while rocking in a desk that has barely two legs.

It’s walking down a hallway and seeing bits of nature take over the cracks were the

Foundation (ha!) of the building meet dirt.

But don’t worry Suit, this picture of history will make its way into books

that hopefully everyone will get to read.

Patrick Redigan
beads

"hail mary, full of grace
I’ve been given this glorious rosary”
red threaded beads like Jesus blood
to assure she stays a good girl. 

a decade for the boys overseas
and one for johnny kennedy.
say a prayer for patty hearst,
saint catherine protect my purity

 the gospel according to luke-
who picked sunflowers and
bought her cracker jacks
a catholic and a gentleman 

he took her hand
she took his name
   slowly
   slipping
into suburban obscurity
though their love was real
and shapeless like the night.

she took a job as a secretary
he found work in Ford’s assembly lines
salt of the earth, middle of the pack
lord knows

three babies broke out, two boys
and a girl, I believe. They said their
prayers and avoided swears
and soon became soldiers of Christ,
cheeks slapped by the wicked bishop,
knuckles bruised by Sr. Sarah’s
yardstick

the children had children and
they were very good. The girl
(who, as a grandmother, ate chocolates
and watched televised mass
on her floral-print sofa)
closed her eyes
her wooden box was overpriced and
her bones were cloaked in a
matronly shawl
and her rosary
was wrapped around
her world-weary fingers

2024

• 1st - Sam Gillmore - The Girl I Used to Be
• 2nd - Antajuan Scott - Hungry
  
• 3rd (tie) - Mary Gagnon - Gauze
  
• 3rd (tie) - Andrew Bosah - The Shore of the Camp
  
• Honorable Mention - Katherine Mutschler - who deign to play creator

2023

• 1st - Collin Schacht - Persona
• 2nd - Olivia Vitale - I Forgot Your Middle Name
• 3rd - Lydia Chapman - Evening Bats
• Honorable Mention - Jeremy St. Martin - The Man In The Below Poem Has Become Aware He Is In A Poem
• Honorable Mention - Aly Porcerelli - Dearest Audience

2022

• 1st - Mehar Soni - The Crown Jewel
• 2nd - Jeremy St. Martin - A Monologue in a Drive-thru
• 3rd - Aly Porcerelli - What They Don't Tell You About Suicide

2021

• 1st - Sara Ko - Red Packets
• 2nd (tied) - Taylor Bays - Ballad of Atlanta
• 2nd (tied) - Nurzahan Rahman - Muslim Not Muzlum
• 3rd - Mehar Soni - A Letter to Olga

2020

• 1st - Mary Elizabeth Johnson - A shoplifter in Amity, New York, gets caught on purpose
• 2nd - Jency Shaji - Citizen
• 3rd (tied) - Dante Lamb - Moments of Monachopsis
• 3rd (tied) - Savannah Sloan - I am in the graveyard across the street from McDonalds

2019

• 1st - Mary Elizabeth Johnson - Winter Scars
• 2nd - Hannah Tillman - S. Franklin St.
• 3rd - Jasmina Cunmulaj - The In-Between

2018

• 1st - Jasmina Cunmulaj - She Loves Him, She Loves Him Not
• 2nd - Indira Edwards - When I Am Young Again
• 3rd - Antony Nedanovski - m—y
• Honorable Mention - Mianna Gonczar - Reflections on Almost

2017

• 1st - Alexis Carlisle - Honey, I Love You
• 2nd - Jasmina Cunmulaj - A Note to My Father
• 3rd - Jazmin Nevarez - I Wonder

2016

• 1st - Alexis Carlisle - Things I’ve Found While Cleaning My Room
• 2nd - Patrick Redigan - Bradley
• 3rd (tied) - Antony Nedanovski - My Ladybug Queen
• 3rd (tied) - Erin Stein - Frustration While Watching the Evening News

2015

• 1st - Patrick Redigan - Beads

2014

• 1st - Bethany Romish - Lindon Street
• 2nd (tied) - Mohammad-Yasser Ibrahim - Philosophy of Life
• 2nd (tied) - Eleanor Oster - Why Write
• 3rd - Allie Schmidt - Raindrops

2013

• 1st - Michael Basha - Tell Them
• 2nd - Angeles Gavia - Untitled
• 3rd - Ian Thibodeau - Middle School

2012

• 1st - Lori Allan - Absence
• 2nd - Estia Scott - The Blind Fold
• 3rd (tied) - Angeles Gavia - Mourning for Mexico
• 3rd (tied) - Jennifer Ross - The Nurturers 

2011

• 1st - Maria Ibarra - The Socia-lie-gical
• 2nd - Allison Bohn - Song of Myself: For Walt
• 3rd - Deonte Osayande - Gratefulness

2010

• 1st - Alex Jones - Crossing the Border
• 2nd - Deonte Osayande - Jesse Owens
• 3rd - Brandon Clark - Detroit Poem

2009

• 1st - Anjelica M. Armendariz - For Hannah
• 2nd - Jason D. Brown - Carpetbagger
• 3rd - Noel M. Rivard - Chest, Cave

2008

• 1st - Amy Thomas - Boats
• 2nd - Angelica Amendariz - Danae
• 3rd - Kemael Johnson - For Fall Brothers, Walking

2007

• 1st - Amy M. Thomas - The Donut Shop
• 2nd - Meghan Tonjes - Lower 9
• 3rd - Danielle Blasko - Photo from the Indypendent
• Runner-Up - Melody Owens - Colored Christmas

2005

• 1st - Elizabeth Reifert - Flying Lessons
• 2nd - Nicole Guevara - The Olive Tree
• 3rd - Alex Gallegos - Perplexed

2000

• 1st - Leslie Hogan Morgan - In Honor of Lady Gertrude Torrence Hogan 1883-1977, the Woman Who Came Before Me
• 2nd - John Freeman - Requiem
• 3rd - Scott Kennedy - The True Meaning of Original Sin

1999

• 1st - Rebecca Lopez-Kriss - Untitled
• 2nd - Tracy Irby - The North Star
• 3rd - Melissa Ames - The Cynic’s Nursery Rhyme

1998

• 1st - Amy Taraskiewicz - Prometheus
• 2nd - Althea Jewell - Grandma Had Boxes
• 3rd - Damien Neva - Labour Stops Press

1997

• 1st - Kathy Darrow - Lucky Devil
• 2nd - Rebecca Vonesh - Simplicity Art
• 3rd - Tonia Mohammed - Tonia Mohammed

1996

• 1st - Mary Henold - A Simple Man
• 2nd - Nina Jett - Madwoman
• 3rd - Madwoman - The juggler (with chainsaw)

1995

• 1st - Nicole M. Thomas - Ma Dear
• 2nd - William DeGenaro - Kentucky
• 3rd - Maria Santiago - Food for Thought

1994

• 1st - Maria Santiago - Woman
• 2nd - Mary Henold - Tears for Mother
• 3rd - Kevin Zajac - Summertime
• Honorable Mention - Russell Davidson
• Honorable Mention - Tim McElguinn

1993

• 1st - William DeGenero - To M. Ghandi
• 2nd - Karen Farrelly - Untitled
• 3rd - Scott Demaeght - To Pamela: February 14, 1993

1992

• 1st - Lina Farris - Children of Lebanon
• 2nd - Jeffrey Begley - Cool Jack Kirby
• 3rd - A. Merrill Howland - The Knoll
• Honorable Mention - Renee L. Naud - Morning Coffee With Mother On The Anniversary of My Father’s Death

1991

• 1st - Moira Kordel - Early Autumn Tears
• 2nd - Kathlene Barrett - Pandora
• 3rd - Anne Nichols - Untitled
• Honorable Mention - Francis A. Desiderio II  - Wake Up Call

1990

• 1st - Michael Fulgenzi - Posterity
• 2nd - Moira Kordel - 1956
• 3rd - Kathlene Barrett - Canticles

1989

• 1st - Thomas Dunne - I Poured Salt on a Slug
• 2nd - Ernest Sands II - Untitled
• 3rd - Michael Fulgenzi - Segue From A Vamp
• Runner-Up - Francis Desiderio - Francis Desiderio

1988

• 1st - Geoffrey Parkinson - Road Kill
• 2nd - Chris Huskin - 8am Cafeteria
• 3rd - Paul Sternberg - Dedication

1987

• 1st - Deborah Sattler - Autumn
• 2nd - Geoffrey Parkinson - Public Paces
• 3rd - Gwendolyn Hurtado - Ode to South Africa

1986

• 1st - Chris Farnum - Millions of Mischiefs
• 2nd - Deborah Sattler - Scratch
• 3rd - Patric Shaun MacFarlane - Untitled

1985

• 1st - Roger Heino - Social Paralysis
• 2nd - Jerome Fraeyman - Why Diet?
• 3rd - Gwendolyn Hurtado  - The Masquerade
• Runner-Up - Waleska Vazquez - Black

1983

• 1st - Maureen McLaughlin - Looking Sorrowfully At The Past

1981

• 1st Place Graduate - Barbara Toth - Portrait of a Conscience
• 1st Place Undergraduate - Gail Presbey - A Branch
• 2nd Place Undergraduate - Mary Sharnowski - Bitter Season

1980

• 1st Place Graduate - Judith Reed - Not as Birds Sing
• 2nd Place Graduate - Pegi Summerfield - Harvest, and After
• 3rd Place Graduate - Marcia Spriggs - Richard in the Natural History Museum
• Honorable Mention - Without Wax - Barbara Toth
• 1st Place Undergraduate - Marisa Petrella - Autumn Leaves
• 2nd Place Undergraduate - Cynthia Rojowski - A Glass Fish Mobile
• 3rd Place Undergraduate - Walt Turowski  - Salt
• Honorable Mention - Julia McDonald - Espial

1979

• 1st Place Graduate - 1st Place Graduate - Leaven
• 2nd Place Graduate - Pegi Summerfield - Volume
• 3rd Place Graduate - Raman Jalota - Absolute Freedom
• 1st Place Undergraduate - Linda Watson - All Ladies of the Night Are Not Shady
• 2nd Place Undergraduate - Waldemar Turowski - The First Polish Cosmonaut
• 3rd Place Undergraduate - Pamela Harrison - A Medieval Festival
• Honorable Mention - Thomas Hood
• Honorable Mention - Patrick Broderick
• Honorable Mention - Mary Durand

1978

• 1st Place Graduate - Patricia Conners, RSM - Graziella
• 2nd Place Graduate - Marcia Spriggs - The Heaven of Women
• 3rd Place Graduate - Pegi Summerfield - About My Pride
• 1st Place Undergraduate - Judith Reed - Another Dream of Death
• 2nd Place Undergraduate - Jennifer Conley - Patience
• 3rd Place Undergraduate - Rob L. Coleman - On Sleeping Till Noon

1973

• 1st Place Graduate - Mary Ann Cameron - Marketing
• 1st Place Graduate - Joseph Zink - Sestina
• Honorable Mention - Ursula Carlson - The Wise Unborn
• Honorable Mention - Joan Gartland - Van Gogh
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Michael Busse - Heads Together
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Karol Jackman - The Blood Remembers Long
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Joseph Kouri - Pick Up On It, Dammit
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Michael O’Mara - Waiting for God/Oh
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Michael Sparough - On the Effects of Ken Feit
• 1st Award Undergraduate - Terry Wolverton - Marilyn
• Honorable Mention - Tom Mahoney - Thru to Me: A Song
• Honorable Mention - H. Mallgrave - Omphalos
• Honorable Mention - Wendy Readous - Welcome to Harlem
• Honorable Mention - John T. Walker, Jr. - She Is
• Honorable Mention - Rob Wallace - Second Honeymoon

1972

• 1st Place Graduate - Joan Gartland
• 2nd Place Graduate - Michael Sparrough, S.J.
• 3rd Place Graduate - Veronica Sanitate
• 1st Place Undergraduate - Chester Wilson
• 2nd Place Undergraduate - Bill Pleas
• 3rd Place Undergraduate - Owen Wells

1971

• Winner - Pamela Famning
• Winner - Joan Gartland
• Winner - Mary Ann Cameron
• Winner - McLane Birch

1970

• 3rd Place - Daniel J. Misteravich - Bookstore Burning