We are pleased to announce the winners of the 1455 Teen Poetry Contest.
First, some numbers. We were delighted to receive almost 70 submissions (and almost 140 poems!) from around the country. The overall quality of the writing exceeded all expectations. On one hand, this made for some excruciating decisions; on the other hand, based on this sample of young writers, the future of poetry is more than promising!
(Note: all the poems were read blind. Per the contest guidelines, no author information was to appear on any of the poems, and the personal biographies of each were sent as separate attachments. When the judges realized that two of the poems on each list of finalists were by the same writer, it certainly made it easier to pick the grand prize winner.)
Grand Prize Winner Taylor Fang
Two Poems by Taylor Fang, Grand Prize Winner of 1455’s Teen Poet Contest
Solstice
I dress slowly.
In the kitchen, Mother cracks eggs
over rice. Golden
into white.
Grandfather called. He says
he’s sleeping well…
(A certain bitterness
in her voice.)
As if we could escape
what circles back—
the air, the day, bold cotton
and milk white,
slippery
as fine silt, slow rain
soaking my apologies
in lines.
How stupid I was
when we last visited.
Wearing a flimsy dress
in Grandfather’s dark house,
pressing fingers
to the sticky tape
on his windowsills.
What did I care
for his second wife,
the frozen meat dredged up
from the depths
of his freezer,
barely careful enough
to not dredge up
the wrong words,
tongue screened flat
behind my bright teeth.
The spring
continues, indifferent.
Lineage of color:
dark clay and sweet
plum,
undertones of brown.
Laid bare
to the sky, an ear to listen, clean
as a hand, a wrist
without a sleeve.
Yes, I thought the low clouds
could be shelter.
(Surrounded,
as I was, by air
like the inside
of the moon.)
When did I first
begin to understand?
Now, at daybreak,
(as at spring),
we are finally approaching
the other side of the sun.
Prehistory
In the ultrasound he’s Johnny Appleseed
in sneakers, seventh malted milk ball
from the sun. He’s a daisy chain
of good luck—think
a-boat it, boasts his dad
at the hotel, sipping
his paper cup of lukewarm tea—
someday he could be president
or better. Leader
of all the unborn sons, pope
though they aren’t religious, cardinal
saint to every big cheese.
And what else?
In the ultrasound you can’t tell
he’ll lie under the bridge
on Sundays, letting the sea break
against his temple. You can’t tell
he’ll kneel on the kitchen floor
to let the ants
search his kneecaps. Age nineteen,
he’ll load up red tubs
of noodles and rice,
and take night shifts that turn papery
and weak in his throat.
He’ll swallow pills
out of a Coke can
to clear the dust. He’ll shake
8-balls. Browse museums
for cubist paintings.
And the girl
sleeping on his porch steps?
They’ll slide down the fire escape
hand-in-hand,
like the weight
of summer, late.
