2011
First Place: “ikaros,” Julie Xing, Enloe High School, Raleigh, NC
Teacher: Amber Kulasingam
it’s not a love-song, it’s not on a t-shirt
it’s not when you build an entire city, out of shards of glass
out of toothpicks, of sugar-spun-ice
finding our reflections (pale ghosts with blurred faces) in puddles of oil, left over
from too many cars at a gas station (dirty streets of New York maybe Tokyo)
not the rush of wind, soundtrack music playing in the background (free falling)
or when you say you’re going to live that life, away from humdrum suburbia
wishing upon four leaf clovers and 11:11s,
origami stars and paper cranes
all time is tentative, restless, relative, waiting with bated breath
the television screen, a cacophony of revolution, fires and crimes
(King Minos would have been proud.)
about dreams, and wishes, and love, and hope, sitcoms about life in California
small scented soaps and chocolates in the shape of shells
I’m just hiding from shadows in my apartment (switches all flicked up)
they’re never going to catch me, I’ll fly away with the wings of light
but let you find me at Shangri-la, 888 Shangri-la Drive
(the only house that’s bright at two in the morning)
let’s say we’re in a labyrinth, caught in the maze of normalcy, a still-life
and you’re not Theseus and I’m not your Ariadne
but together we’re Daedalus and Icarus with our ink stained hands
heads filled with worlds, adventures burning midnight oil (on metaphoric wings)
building escape routes, tunnels to lose ourselves, oceans to disappear into,
trains, roads, and airplane lines to reach each other again
tell me that story of yours, when we’re dashed against the stormy rocks
flying too close to the sun and sea
tell me that story again, about the crane wife and swan queen
read to me of lychee nuts and of rain, of quests and doomed damsels.
teach me excerpts from your dream…
(and tell me how we’ll change the world)
charismatically, articulate the words (we have time to sit awhile) so that I’ll build my world upon
one single thought, one single idea (for ideas are feathers, breathlessly light)
spin a tale of one thousand words, lasting one thousand bright nights, maybe then I will believe it
and believe you
“Who do you believe in?” you ask me, bundled up in my twenty dollar jacket
it’s funny the things we invent before we go insane
and Janus is already smiling his two faced smile
(and we're half insane already)
but promise me something
that even as we tread along the thin lines between the sun and the sea
between the cliffs, the vertex of the city skyline
tell me that you’ll never let us go
Second Place: “You Are to Be Expected,” Charlene Francois, Livingston High School, Livingston, NJ
Teacher: Susan Rothbard
You Are to Be Expected
If you meant to surprise me,
I’m sorry but you failed miserably.
You tried to work your way from the soil
Trodden by my feet,
Through my calves,
Over the slight curve of my muscle,
Past my thighs,
Over my bellybutton,
Through the space between my breasts,
Around my chin,
And into the mouth you gave me.
You are choking me.
But I expected this.
I try to spit you out
And send you flying on your tailbone.
I send you with your curls and dark freckles.
I send you with your sweaty palms,
And I send you with your silent heart.
Each spring, flowers grow
In a netted web over your grave.
Life in death.
You are to be expected.
I know you love to play this game.
When you make your face appear in my mirror,
And I am forced to see you each day.
When you come into my dreams,
Take your hands,
And squeeze sadness from this rock
I want my heart to be.
You planned this, but I do not understand why.
How could you arrange for me
To sit here,
Twirling roses in my hand.
Third Place: “Lies and Locked Doors: after Meg Kearney,” Shannon Stocks, Livingston High School, Livingston, NJ
Teacher: Susan Rothbard
Lies and Locked Doors: after Meg Kearney
I believe in the sound of zippers
closing backpacks and the way
my desk jerks back and forth.
I believe in the secrets told in classrooms
too small to contain them. I believe
that lies are band-aids for mistakes.
I believe that, like the poem scratched
onto the chalkboard, I am a fraction,
a fraction of who I should be.
When you took a part of me, I believe
you were saying I did not need it.
You have no idea what burdens claw
at my chest or why I believe frustration
tightens the locks on doors quicker
than we can open them.
I believe I want you to be wrong,
but pointing fingers will only build
walls around forgiveness.
I believe this longing glows with
burning embers I never thought
I would want to touch. I touch the place
I believe my heart is. I believe in the shivers
I wish I could bottle up on the Saturdays
I pull out your photograph. Maybe then, I could
shake myself rid of this sketchpad of hell,
burning pictures into my mind.
I don't believe you wanted me to know
your shadow cast downward, that your life
was a tumbling cotton weed on a desolate plain.
I believe I noticed anyway.