Columbia Granger's World of Poetry®
2023 Student Poetry Contest Winners
WINNING POEMS
“Now There Is No Word for My People”
inspired by “There Is No Word for Goodbye” by Mary Tallmountain
The story of my people is one
buried in the sand, underneath
the blue waves overtaking Turtle’s shell.
Our sandcastle now a crumpled mound
Desperate for a passerby to rebuild its walls.
Wapshkyak**
Notice the Seas beat against the solid
Beach Rocks, from the east to west
flashing white stars.
Notice the Rocks
gradually weathering from
centuries of turmoil by the Seas.
Me’skwak***
The Seas pour red stripes, rashes to us fragile
Rocks. They wear at our people,
drowning Turtle Island in
sickness and pushing us
farther from home.
Notice the still shimmer of our mica in the light. While dry,
We are free, sifting through time. While wet,
We are drowned by a sea of white foam.
Waves crash our tower and wash our flag away.
We are left behind, now moist
Bendable
Brown
Sand.
* Blue
** White
*** Red
-------------------------
"Untitled"
by Mel Cort, Mercersburg Academy
inspired by “I’m not a religious person but” by Chen Chen.
God was doing their makeup in the metro bathroom and told me to shut up when I asked if they
needed my eyebrow pencil. The type of Shut Up you say when you definitely want the other
person to keep talking, a Shut Up interrupted by the clack of the pencil on the lip of the porcelain
basin. God had shaky hands as they powdered their nose, a gaudish purple that would’ve made
their veins stand out if I could point out any. I asked where they were going as I ripped open a
pad, partly to mask the sound and partly because I maybe cared, but not a lot. The six inches of
leg I could see from under the stall door were hairy and muscular and cajoled into kitten heels,
the same color purple if you squinted or were drunk. Both plastic wings were tucked into my
panties by the time they responded, saying simply Business in a voice silky smooth and lined
with twinkling harps and cigarette smoke. I liked the idea that Business was weighing my soul in
a pewter scale. I liked the idea that God did their makeup to balance my 30 percent tipping and
my turn-the-lights-off-when-I-leave-ing with my twitter account I only use for stalking and my
jaywalking. I’m doing this thing now where I only dwell on ideas I like, because otherwise I’d sit
on the toilet and freebleed as I thought about God being an insurance agent or an assistant
manager somewhere that maybe matters, but not a lot. God told me that I would die in 349 days
as they puckered their lips, sloppily applying a gloss that ended up mostly in their thin
mustache hairs, and I didn’t really believe them because I didn’t really like the idea. I still
called my mom as my train pulled away from the platform and said that I Had Found God, just
like she said I would when she pressed my knees to the pew legs in front of me, and she sounded
happier than I’ve ever heard her. Part of me hated how happy she sounded and I said I had to go.
Business to attend to.
-------------------------
by Mel Cort, Mercersburg Academy
inspired by “I’m not a religious person but” by Chen Chen.
God was doing their makeup in the metro bathroom and told me to shut up when I asked if they
needed my eyebrow pencil. The type of Shut Up you say when you definitely want the other
person to keep talking, a Shut Up interrupted by the clack of the pencil on the lip of the porcelain
basin. God had shaky hands as they powdered their nose, a gaudish purple that would’ve made
their veins stand out if I could point out any. I asked where they were going as I ripped open a
pad, partly to mask the sound and partly because I maybe cared, but not a lot. The six inches of
leg I could see from under the stall door were hairy and muscular and cajoled into kitten heels,
the same color purple if you squinted or were drunk. Both plastic wings were tucked into my
panties by the time they responded, saying simply Business in a voice silky smooth and lined
with twinkling harps and cigarette smoke. I liked the idea that Business was weighing my soul in
a pewter scale. I liked the idea that God did their makeup to balance my 30 percent tipping and
my turn-the-lights-off-when-I-leave-ing with my twitter account I only use for stalking and my
jaywalking. I’m doing this thing now where I only dwell on ideas I like, because otherwise I’d sit
on the toilet and freebleed as I thought about God being an insurance agent or an assistant
manager somewhere that maybe matters, but not a lot. God told me that I would die in 349 days
as they puckered their lips, sloppily applying a gloss that ended up mostly in their thin
mustache hairs, and I didn’t really believe them because I didn’t really like the idea. I still
called my mom as my train pulled away from the platform and said that I Had Found God, just
like she said I would when she pressed my knees to the pew legs in front of me, and she sounded
happier than I’ve ever heard her. Part of me hated how happy she sounded and I said I had to go.
Business to attend to.
-------------------------
“Where I’m From...And Where I’m Going”
by Jenna Xue, Upper Merion Area High School
inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.
I am a story, an artist, a song rising like a sunrise with the wind
Waves of audience members leaping in applause throughout the house
Paint strokes splaying across the sky, crying out in triumph
Birds perched on telephone wires like music staffs crowded with eighth notes
Songs reverberating off the walls as lips graze the booming head of a microphone
I am from the cold metal of autumn-chilled football bleachers
From the blaring harmonies and swooping melodies of marching band stand songs
The regal blue-and-gold uniforms with sky-high plumes, birds taking flight to the music
And the silver and bronze instruments that twinkle like stars under the stadium lights
From the dark late night bus rides home and the bustle of early-morning rehearsals
I am from the musical tones and gentle twang of Mandarin Chinese
Percussive beats of chopsticks going click, click as they tap upon porcelain bowls
From the sharp syllables of English, crafted into stories with the stritch-scratch of pencil
From the shoving nouns together to form the ultimate German Frankenword
The universal language of melodies bobbing heads as they sit on a field of harmonies
I am from the rhythmic pulse booming through a stethoscope
The rushed, swirling scrawl of notes on a clipboard, frantically capture the lab results
The sharp, crisp tempo of glassware clinking against the countertops
The musical “oohs” and “ahs” that sound at the flames of a chemical reaction
The scattered shrieks as the dissection scalpels slice against the pins
I am from a chorus of laughter erupting after a phone screen pushed before my eyes
The chaotic polyphony of overlapping conversations in group FaceTimes
High-pitched screeches and squeaking sneakers of students running amok in the gym
Melismas of sobs at the conclusion of a movie at the flick to the credits
The gentle softness of shoulder-pats and quiet talks in the mental health room
I am an epic tale, an artist, a sunset settling as the stage lights go out
The melodic, graceful swoosh of red fabric as the curtains draw to a close
The decresendoing vibrato of a final note, the last splotch of color on the canvas
Taking that first step of the thousand step journey
Each pace a word in the story that I will write until the end of my days
-------------------------
by Jenna Xue, Upper Merion Area High School
inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.
I am a story, an artist, a song rising like a sunrise with the wind
Waves of audience members leaping in applause throughout the house
Paint strokes splaying across the sky, crying out in triumph
Birds perched on telephone wires like music staffs crowded with eighth notes
Songs reverberating off the walls as lips graze the booming head of a microphone
I am from the cold metal of autumn-chilled football bleachers
From the blaring harmonies and swooping melodies of marching band stand songs
The regal blue-and-gold uniforms with sky-high plumes, birds taking flight to the music
And the silver and bronze instruments that twinkle like stars under the stadium lights
From the dark late night bus rides home and the bustle of early-morning rehearsals
I am from the musical tones and gentle twang of Mandarin Chinese
Percussive beats of chopsticks going click, click as they tap upon porcelain bowls
From the sharp syllables of English, crafted into stories with the stritch-scratch of pencil
From the shoving nouns together to form the ultimate German Frankenword
The universal language of melodies bobbing heads as they sit on a field of harmonies
I am from the rhythmic pulse booming through a stethoscope
The rushed, swirling scrawl of notes on a clipboard, frantically capture the lab results
The sharp, crisp tempo of glassware clinking against the countertops
The musical “oohs” and “ahs” that sound at the flames of a chemical reaction
The scattered shrieks as the dissection scalpels slice against the pins
I am from a chorus of laughter erupting after a phone screen pushed before my eyes
The chaotic polyphony of overlapping conversations in group FaceTimes
High-pitched screeches and squeaking sneakers of students running amok in the gym
Melismas of sobs at the conclusion of a movie at the flick to the credits
The gentle softness of shoulder-pats and quiet talks in the mental health room
I am an epic tale, an artist, a sunset settling as the stage lights go out
The melodic, graceful swoosh of red fabric as the curtains draw to a close
The decresendoing vibrato of a final note, the last splotch of color on the canvas
Taking that first step of the thousand step journey
Each pace a word in the story that I will write until the end of my days
-------------------------
HONORABLE MENTION
"Afield"
"Afield"
by Nehir Adilo?lu, Robert College in Istanbul
inspired by "The City" by C.P. Cavafy
inspired by "The City" by C.P. Cavafy
Little girl,
When you look into the mirror
You will see the locks of hair
That turned white with the tears
You cried over where you’re from
your home
Now you have your own space
And your own mirror to look into
But what you see does not belong to you
It is your homeland’s, that place
So big, yet makes you feel so little
A reminder of where you come from
And who owns the ages you’ve grown into
Young woman,
Look into your eyes
And ask what whitened your hair
You will know it like the palm of your hand
Spread your fingers and see the streets of your land
Scattered around the fragile skin like a trail
You escaped, you lived, you grayed
Now it is time for your hometown to take it back
Your blood that turned your locks into waves
Your mother that braided two long plaits
They were never truly yours
Though you were foolish enough to think that
You could take those from where you were born
Old lady,
Snow falls onto your hair, and it is time
For you to leave your chosen land behind
-------------------------
