AUM's High School Poetry Contest
The Department of English and Philosophy hosts a high school poetry competition for students in River Region high schools, grades 9-12. The subject of the poem should be tied to the yearly theme of Common Thread, and first prize poems are featured in the printed issue of the magazine.
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First Place
Cursed
By: Jamesyn Williams
Booker T. Washington Magnet High School, Grade 11
Trials her name calls for
Coldness, her presence summons
Though at the blink of an eye she leaves
So be careful of who you accuse in your town
​
Tied to the motherland
Hand in hand with traditionals, rituals
It begins...
​
Whispers
Rumors
Speak about her if you dare
​
The wind bellows, the crows flock
Be weary before God because it is your judgment day
Don't you dare be called one
Lest you be burned with fire
Don't you dare object
Or else they'll ask for a float test
​
Heads up you never win with them.
​
It's her
It's her
It's her
​
A crooked finger points,
On the other side lies a man
Because the pimples on my face represent warts
My nose doesn't fit their standard so I'm an outcast
​
My anger is loud
So it must be vengeance from my ancestry
My tears aren't proud
Because if they drop, I'd be melting
​
It's her
It's her
It's her
​
It begins...
​
In the town, played upon like a game
Once someone calls you her name
You'd be better off in a ditch.
​
For no woman escapes the accusation
Of being called--
A witch.
​
Artwork: "Lost" by Angela Caver
Second Place
The House that Granny Built
By: Daryl Ramon Thomas Jr.
Booker T. Washington Magnet High School, Grade 12
Granny Franklin's spirit
blankets the family house.
A sweet woman,
she stuck in her ways;
she stuck in her house.
​
Auntie Meisha
is scared white
by Granny Franklin's name.
​
Auntie Meisha
doesn't do dishes
in case Granny Franklin
is hiding in the sink.
​
Grandpa Franklin
--he outlived her--
told kids
to live like Granny Franklin.
​
Cousin Jerome
spoke to Granny Franklin
as a boy.
​
She told him
"be a man."
​
Cousin Jerome
is a bad, bad man
by his domestic wife's word.
​
He told the judge
"It won't happen again" (it did).
​
Nana said
not to mention Granny Franklin's name
even though her face
​
invokes Granny Franklin the most.
​
Good luck to Momma
is Granny Franklin's old room.
So, she braids Sissy's hair
sitting on the bedstead,
and licks her finger
before each braid.
​
Good luck to Momma
is Granny Franklin's old words.
So, she sings the diaries
to the tune of Amazing Grace,
and hums
when it's not appropriate to sing.
​
We sweep before dinner
to get Granny Franklin
out of the room.
​
The last time
we didn't sweep
Grandpa got shot.
​
I hide from Granny Franklin--
I don't want to touch her room.
​
Artwork: "Sanctuary" by Angela Caver
Third Place
An Occasional Dream
By: Isabella Pappas
Saint James School, Grade 10
In the stagnant, hushed breath of a nighted world
​
A day after the end, the echo of a gong, the silence after the nightingale's song, I find myself here yet again
​
Where her tattered screams can't quite find me, but I feel their memory in my ear
In which the snap of her neck is synonymous with a crackle
Made by feet which very well may be my own plundering bounds of bark
This state, an Occasional Dream.
​
I have been melted under the curse of her sapphire eyes on my caressed face
I know the shriveled lips which cracked open around the scene of rope and leaves
The image tortures my mind, which I can barely find, shriveling and expanding around this Occasional Dream.
​
I saw the Turul flash past me in this Occasional Dream,
Which purges me when all the lights of the world stop as they did, the very last time I heard the croak of a witch
​
Blood temporarily streams my veins, but I strain it from my heart
Screams which twist and strangle a clouded pain of thought become my own as tears from sapphires to rubies flood
the forest floor
​
In an Occasional Dream I might be able to find what was myself again
Yet here I must exist until death collects the last thing I have
​
I remain in the day after the end, the echo of a gong, the silence after the nightingale's song, my Occasional Dream.
​
Artwork: "Tied to Lustful Endeavors" by Niyah Hollis | Celestial Lens
Honorable Mentions
Wendigo is Near
By: Gracie Niolet
Pike Road School, Grade 10
A monster lurks within the winter night of Minnesota.
It stalks its prey, ready to pounce at any moment
For it is no longer human, it is the beast
With eyes glazed like milk, and teeth
Ready to tear into flesh and bone
Its own skin rotting and decaying like leather.
Legends say that you can hear its wretched cry
When all is silent, except the winter winds amidst the air.
The Wendigo is the one true hunter within its lair.
​
Don't dare try to approach,
For it will sense you and your warmth.
You must stay wary, and keep your eyes peeled
And you mustn't go near where it is sealed.
Limbs bare of muscle and blood
What once was there is now gone.
Cannibalism has now taken its mind
And its eyes will forever stay blind.
When someone says they hear an echo
Just know that it is the Wendigo.
Evergreen Forest
By: Haley Hust
Saint James School, Grade 10
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
you were always supposed to stay green.
Sway, not snap, when the wind blew hard.
Whisper only without rustling the house of cards.
​
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
do you ever wonder where falling left me?
Your body can't stand without a strong trunk,
and I can't breathe without air to my lungs.
​
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
I never knew that your leaves fell so easily.
I never would have put back the bark,
if I knew you would leave after one small spark.
​
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
it is getting harder to breathe.
Rain swells not only your roots,
but my mind and eyes have fallen to your pursuits.
​
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
at least that's how they diagnosed your disease.
Your limbs will become weak,
and the sticks become memories of past antiques.
​
Dear evergreen forest of trees,
your leaves have died even after my pleas.
Only whispers of our old lives,
because I never realized sticks can also make knives.