Four winners have been honored in the fiftieth annual Dudley Randall poetry contest, sponsored by Detroit Mercy’s English department.
Professor Mary-Catherine Harrison said the competition drew its most entries in recent memory.
Mary Elizabeth Johnson, an English major, won first place for her poem “a shoplifter in Amity, New York gets caught on purpose.”
Second-place honors went to Jency Shaji, a biology major and literature minor, for “Citizen.”
Third place brought a tie between Dante Lamb, a communications major and creative writing minor, and Savannah Sloan, a criminal justice major and literature and psychology minor.
All four poems are published here:
“a shoplifter in amity, new york gets caught on purpose”
By Mary Elizabeth Johnson
it’s 1975 and it’s so easy to pluck
a vial of nail polish from the shelves of the corner shop.
the owner had a tv by the cash register playing the local news: they think they finally got the shark that killed the naked girl, the little boy on the floatie, and the black dog.
the shoplifter sees chief brody’s nose,
sharp and sunburnt, sweat slipping
underneath the weight of his wire-rimmed glasses.
he says he thinks the fight is finally over.
summer has closed its jaws
and people don’t have to be scared of the water anymore. the shoplifter falls in love.
so she picks up a can of bud light, looks around (something only an amateur would do)
and puts it in her purse. she picks up another and drops it. she halfheartedly rushes to the doors and gets caught
as easy as that first shark, the red herring.
chief brody shows up and looks into her eyes,
all stern-like. she wonders if he’ll sing her a sea shanty.
she twirls her hair, wants to be like the dead naked girl,
like ophelia, wants to be caught, drunk,
in the heat of the night. but she’s not even the boy or the dog, she’s the one with the gills.
movies will tell lies about her
and hunt her down until her kind is endangered,
not knowing that she only took the nail polish
because she wanted to look pretty when the girl-killer came along.
“Citizen”
(Inspired by Claudia Rankine’s “Citizen”)
By Jency Shaji
The words out of your mouth and the fake smile on your face have no regard for the fear in my mind.
With skin like that and a name that can’t be pronounced, you should make up for it. Clothes must be American. Hair must be American. Accent must be American.
But am I not American? Not according to the color of my skin. Is it not the place of my birth?
I know the difference now:
I ate chicken biriyani at school once— a girl told me I smelled like it and looked like it too.
I was helping my mom with groceries— an old man pushed his cart in front of mine, condemning me for not speaking English.
I attend a class with all white students— they don’t see their privilege.
When I’m on the phone with my dad— a boy asks me if I speak Indian or Hindu.
TSA checks me for the second time— my hair could be hiding something.
I tell the class I am Indian— Are you Cherokee or Navajo?
I’m in my churidar, walking with my husband— Were you actually in love or was it arranged?
I get stopped every time I go on a plane—
when I ask why,
they look at my eyes but stare at my brown face.
“I am in the graveyard across the street from the McDonald’s”
By Savannah Sloan
I am in the graveyard across the street from the McDonald’s
I went to every Thursday to grab a chocolate shake
I could dip my fries in. In a sea of navies, blacks, and grays,
my friends and family mourn, mingling laughter with tears.
No two handle it the same, but each one places a white daisy
on the ground in front of the headstone, new beginnings
for all of us. My best friend comes up to me,
or where she thinks I am, to lay a flower down.
Eyes red, not only from crying, she remains the same
and I am dust and dirt and worms. Whole body trembling,
her mother leads her away, holds her close. I could not say with certainty
what brought my mother here, for we never saw eye to eye,
were never cheek to cheek. We did not even speak
after she found out what I had been up to
with the boy who came over on summer afternoons
to eat mint chocolate chip ice cream and watch cartoons,
but she must have felt something, even though I had lost God
and she had lost me. She prays, asking Him to forgive me,
begging forgiveness for herself
for raising a wicked little girl—a sinner. I am next to her
reaching out with hands that touch nothing,
calling out with a voice I do not have
and for whom or what I do not know.
“Moments of Monachopsis”
By Dante Lamb
If you want a sound: It is your name uttered
Softly
By someone you don’t know
The name new in their mouth
They play with the pronunciation
Like prey
Or say it like a mantra
Hyperaware of the lip movements made
Soon growing bored of it
Because it sounds weird
And they will ask you anew
Next time anyways.
If you want a smell: Take the hardened air of autumn
Fill it with an apple orchard
Post season
When the fumes of candy sickness waft through the gnarled branches
All of this
Quickly
As you pass by in a car filled
Too fast with body heat
Windows now down
Tumbling air
Whisking away the traces.
If you want a taste: The bitter of an unwashed English cucumber
Will coat your mouth
And make your chewing
slow
It will not be driven away by the first wash
of barely cool sink water
Instead it will make your breath heavy
And prompt you to scrape your teeth
Along your tongue.
If you want a touch: Don’t put lotion on for a month
Wash your hands four times a day
And tell your lover to put on corduroy pants and a velvet shirt
Run only your palms
Over their entirety with your eyes closed
As your fully clothed body
Warms
In a confusion of arousal.
If you want a sight: Look into the mirror
After a day where everything
Has gone wrong
Leave one light on in the other room
So the shadows are now heavy and one side of your face looks
Like a charcoal portrait
Stand there for a time alone and watch
The shadows stagnate
Here
In a moment of stillness.
