First Division (Grades K-8)
First Place: Karina Bursch
"Water's Myriad of Forms Present Themselves to the World"
Rain pearls containing
miniature rainbows
descending swiftly,
pelting the driveway
like out-of-control
marbles,
walls of water thundering
down rocky steps
and craggy ledges,
gathering into a
lake below,
serene rivers
and streams winding their way through
the world, surfaces
twinkling diamonds.
I especially like the use of sensory details in this poem and how the narrator experiences the element of water in different ways. I could “see” the miniature rainbows and “hear” the pelting marbles. I also like the use of alliteration: “walls of water” and “winding their way through the world.”
Leslea Newman
Second Place: Joshua Rozelle
"You Trot up to the Worn Batter's Box"
and dig your cleats into the loose,
stirred-up dirt.
The tall, lanky pitcher starts his wind-up,
stands on one leg like a flamingo,
and releases the ball.
It is inside,
so you start your swing early
and barely connect
on the handle of your bat.
You use all your strength
to push off of your back leg
and sprint to first, the windswept baseline
under your stomping feet, but the umpire
calls you back because it
is a foul ball.
The pitcher starts his wind-up again
and you hit the ball very solidly,
you dart to first, and then turn
your gaze to center field
to see the ball on its long voyage
over the fence.
I enjoyed the use of second person, which made me feel like I was right inside the poem. The image of the pitcher as flamingo was fabulous! Excellent adjectives (“windswept” and “stomping”) and strong verbs (“push,” “spring,” “dart) make this poem a winner!
Leslea Newman
Third Place: April Hill
"White Roads and Lab Coats"
I consulted a map
on how far away my cousins lived.
The bright blue triangle drawn in crayon
hovered over the spot
where our imaginary medical clinic resided.
I shook my head
because the map's intertwining white roads
bored me more than black and white movies.
My cousins arrived a few days later.
We never knew the rules of playing doctor
Those little reflex hammers checked our ears
and a tweezers was used to trace the violet veins
that made it seem as if a map
had been hidden in layers of skin.
Gauze and tongue depressors
were wrapped around our foreheads
to keep our temperatures down.
We bandaged clear wounds and paper cuts,
I prescribed Smarties
to bring down the swelling of a finger nail.
We traveled in our imaginary clinic
from Grand Rapids to Alexandria.
We tried to trace our path in red pen on a map,
but it looked more like blood clouds
had risen above the United States.
My cousins left for home on gray roads.
The doctor kit lay neatly on a shelf in plain view,
like a promise that Hill Clinic
would stay with us forever.
This poem celebrates cousins visiting from afar and joining in shared play, using a doctor’s kit to diagnose and treat imaginary injuries. The poem’s much more than this, however, tracing the journey and play through the metaphor of the map and the subtle use of changing color. “Where Roads and Lab Coats” thus celebrates the moment, but it also moves from the boring black and white, the abstract map, to find the map “that had been hidden in layers of skin,” the violet maplines of veins, tracing the journey back in red and fading, once the cousins have left, to gray roads. The poem ends with a poignant conceit: the promise “that Hill Clinic / would stay with us forever,” at once affirming that time and the stages of life do move on, while keeping the clinic with them forever—in the poem. Well done. (David Cope)
Second Division (High School to Undergraduate)
First Place: Kara Talen
"The Companion"
She hasn’t been herself for days.
After he left,
She bought a parakeet and let him live on the piano.
She pounded life into the keys, the melodic vibrations
rattled the metal of its cage, and fed him music notes.
She stopped drinking coffee because
it made her dream in oil paintings:
a grassy knoll, a slick pool of water, sprouting dandelions,
the curvature of an old man’s spine, a scream.
As if splashed with small tosses of water,
the images became increasingly muddled in the nightmare.
Morning after morning, she’d wake into paranoia,
pat down the empty bed and find he was missing.
She would breathe heavily on the edge of the mattress,
drowning in the memory of that afternoon.
His limbs and the rapids both white
and thrashing, her cries echoed over
the desolate river bank surrounding them.
She held his flannel coat around her
on the way to the grocery.
Her fingers shook, as she pinched the zipper
and spilled out a copper constellation.
“I have to feed my bird,” she said to the cashier.
Finally at home
her songbird companion closed its eyes,
bowed respectably, holding her finger in its feet.
This poem kept surprising me and catching me off guard as more and more was revealed. I love the notion of dreaming “in oil paintings” and the description of money as “copper constellation.” The last two lines which hold the emotion of the poem are absolutely gorgeous and knocked me out. Well done!
Second Place: Rachel Talen
"What I Must Look Like Falling Asleep"
My eyelids seal that barrier
between light and darkness,
reality and nonsense.
An ending, a new beginning.
The midnight struggle begins:
punching my pillows,
the constant escape from the sinkhole,
which my body brought upon itself,
the need to stretch my bones,
their joints, puzzle pieces
scattered across my mattress.
Sleep, my reward upon fitting them,
kicking, fighting off the covers--
sometimes friend, sometimes enemy.
I try to even out my mountainous hips with a pillow.
Cool spots temporarily relieve burning skin,
body parts dangling off the edge of the bed.
Side roll is too much effort--like asking a bear,
"Move a little to the left, please?"
Stomach hugs the bed. Flip.
Feet look awkardly perpendicular.
First position, second, third fourth, fifth.
Exhausted from trying to sleep,
as peace filters to my muscles,
I horizontally stand on one leg;
it is much easier after dark.
Now in passe, about to pirouette,
arms gracefully curved above my head,
the ballerina I can be in my sleep.
This poem completely captures the experience of trying to fall asleep. I admire its specificity and humor and its use of metaphor, especially seeing the body as puzzle parts and the phrase “mountainous hips.” The ending image of the graceful ballerina, after so much description of awkwardness is perfect.
Third Place: Olivia Ezinga
"One Morning's Rehearsal"
As if you've been playing all these years,
life flows from your fingers.
When you lift a violin to your shoulder,
you take the bow on a journey
across the strings.
The baton raises in my head,
and my inner orchestra accompanies you.
“Moonlight Sonata” runs in your veins,
flats and sharps mix with your blood
and lend your heart its beat.
While I take in mere oxygen
you inhale a cadence
and lurch into an adagio waltz.
I'll test your tempo
and run away with the melody:
a dolce dance of
violin, viola
as a symphony joins in my head,
rising in a grand crescendo,
while you sweep the solo
off the page
like leaves in an autumn breeze .
I love how musical this poem is, especially all the “o” sounds in lines 2-4 of
the first stanza, and the lovely use of alliteration in the final stanza “dolce
dance: and “violin, viola.” I also especially like the line “flats and sharps
mix with your blood.” A great tribute to a musician all around.