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Dudley Randall Poetry Contest

The Dudley Randall Poetry Contest, hosted by University of Detroit Mercy's English Department, has been a tradition for more than 40 years that encourages and recognizes student creativity and excellence. We congratulate our Dudley Randall Poetry Contest winners:

2018 Winners

  •  

    1st place: Jasmina Cunmulaj, "She Loves Him, She Loves Him Not"

    She Loves Him, She Loves Him Not
    by Jasmina Cunmulaj

    He held the delicate daisy
    as he would have held her hand,
    between his cracked hands
    after years of work.
    Dirt found a home underneath his nails
    and between his calluses,
    and the white petals stood bright
    against his dull earthy palm.

    Pluck,
    one petal floated to the ground.

    She loves him not.

    There was something about
    the darkness and ache in his gaze,
    that made me tired.
    The way the years
    had carved fine lines into his skin.
    Like the way water marked the earth,
    and formed rivers.
    And the hollowed crescent skin
    that turned upward underneath his eyes,
    rung with familiarity,
    inviting me in with a feeling of home.
    Smile wrinkles hugged his gently pressed lips
    and glanced down

    Pluck,
    as another petal floated off.

    She loves him.

    And I can’t help but wonder,
    if he had longed for his other half
    for she had taken the color
    out of his grey cheeks,
    and left him
    for her longing of another life elsewhere.
    And as she left,
    his bright eyes followed her,
    full of hope,
    full of love,
    then became flooded with a bleak gaze,
    which replaced the vision of his bride.
    Twirling,
    floating,
    in her own field of daisies
    dancing under the gleaming sun.

    Pluck,
    the last petal floated down,
    down.

    She loves him not.

  •  

    2nd place: Indira Edwards, "When I Am Young Again"

    When I Am Young Again
    by Indira Edwards

    When I am young again I ride my bike.
    Mud painted Sketchers turn the pedals like time, a caterpillar in eternal rotation,
    Oily gears pumping a metal heartbeat, held down by the animal’s gravity.
    There is a heaving, dancing tree at the end of the block
    Cornered off by a frizzy hedge, and if you wanted to keep it a secret
    All you would have to do
    Is brush your open palm to the other side of its locs,
    Close your eyes, and seal the memory. I remember in this moment
    I am young and religious--
    I say a prayer while passing below the bough on two wheels and god grazes my chin upward, an index sprouting past her offshooting thumb. Toward an angel
    She lifts me with gossamer wings; I approach the eudicot’s venation with scorpion’s pincers (you see that’s a description i learned later on, when i was older and did know that when i was younger i did not know things that i do now)
    Well, I am still here, suspended from my bicycle, this angel’s wings a part of mine.
    I observe the broad, milky specimen where light hits;
    I observe that I’m a fish and this is the sun filtering through the crest of the tide’s music.
    The trunk of the brooding, clay cast tree crashes through a whitecap and whispers to me a loud ocean’s SHHHHH!!!
    She does not need to yell at me.
    The tree faces me, blood creaking, gurgling through raspy vasculature:
    “You remove what once sits upon this earth, yet you are foolish enough to believe that it does not sit upon the earth once removed.”
    I watch with beady eyes, tense for her to elaborate--
    But trees do not need elaborate.
    We are what elaborates upon the veins we seek our blood to reach,
    To understand that time and leaves are one in the same--
    Not 5 minutes later did I mold to the breast of my home with the ghost of a leaf in my palm,
    And not 10 more years later did I molt to the present moment
    A breath that the tree had left-- much more than that leaf I believed I had suffocated.
    That leaf that never died
    In that moment remained in this world
    For nourishment, a gift
    To birds and mosses and molds and worms,
    To all bodies of cotyledons, new venations to groan upward through the soils,
    Plucked off, new life and life alike.
    I am young again and I ride my bike;
    A fresh leaf flutters into an upturned palm,
    A secretive, zig-zagging string dangling ceaselessly, embalmed.

  •  

    3rd place: Antony Nedanovski, "m--y"

    m---y
    by Antony Nedanovsky

    “babe, here’s something i just wrote—i think you might like it! it goes like this:

    ‘the truthful glance you cast upon me felt like concrete poured into a casket
    .it crushed me.
    crushed me into a pulverized valentine’s card,
    you know, the ones with sweet nothings smothered on a canvas donning a bleeding heart;
    but this valentine’s card dared to push through to the other side of the cuckoo house nest—
    that damned rib cage within this punctured chest.
    a noble, humble pursuit
    so i then draped that valiant, valentine heart onto the shoulders of blessed pallbearers,
    each convulsion of the sealed casket a decree from the tomb:
    i love being nothing for you.
    and still, my oldest love lives young.’”
    she paused, never being one to first speak without thinking:
    “hmm, baby, it sounds quite poetic. its meaning is completely lost to me
    but it reminds me of a cherished line my mother always said to me:
    ‘you know m---y,
    there’s nothing unsettling in our substance of being nor our being of substance.’”

    i stirred from the magnitude of that message’s power—
    christ, even in my daydreams the girl’s modest.

  •  

    Honorable mention: Mianna Gonczar, "Reflections on Almost"

    Reflections on Almost
    by Mianna Gonczar

    It’s amazing how life happens
    And you don’t even realize because
    You’re too busy hoping
    That you’ve done enough and
    You spend all this time
    Forgetting that you are still
    Doing right now
    But in our defense
    To live in the moment is not
    As easy as it sounds
    Because, do I look good in the moment?
    I should’ve done my hair this morning
    So that all my moments were good
    And how do I know which moment
    I should live in?
    Moments are a minute, a year, a day
    I let the moment pass.
    I always regret when moments pass
    And the regret is always more tangible
    Than the moment itself
    But I really miss that moment
    I knew it would’ve been a good one
    Sometimes I spend so much time regretting
    A moment that passed
    I go on and let the next one pass too
    This happens all too often because
    Life is just a string of moments
    And sometimes I forget that
    It’s not like watching a movie twice
    A second chance is really just
    A different chance
    A sorry doesn’t take back the hurt
    And even if I buy a new car
    It doesn’t take back the fact that
    I crashed my first two
    But I’m working on it
    I’m working on noticing when a moment is
    One worth noticing
    And understanding that not all moments are ones
    To be remembered
    But most of all, forgiving myself for letting moments pass
    The next one is sure to happen soon

2017 Winners

  •  

    1st place: Alexis Carlisle, "Honey, I love you"

    Honey, I Love You
    by Alexis Carlisle

    She bleaches her hair as if she is trying to bleach away the past;
    And even though my roots have grown long
    I can still remember the burning sense of rebirth.
    She soaks in the first blush of the sun
    Like a cat bathing in the rays that
    Run their fingers through her hair; Long and tangled
    With past stories that only come out
    On late night drives home from the bar.
    She doesn’t remember telling the story.
    And when she asks if I’ve heard it before
    I always say no
    Because when she speaks, it is the spring
    Not the cruelest month, nor the one that comes after or before.
    She is the month in between.
    Skipped in calendars – Bleached out – Lying in the sun –
    – Laughing – She is actually laughing –
    At all of the things about me that my mother rolls her eyes at
    And in that moment I start to understand what love is
    She –
    – is the month of love
    The protector and the keeper
    And I wonder why I do not protect her as she does for me
    But I’ve learned there has to be a teller and a listener
    I let her tell
    Because out of her mouth sprout flowers and perfume
    And I am just the schoolboy
    Who forms his first crush on Persephone
    Not knowing she is the eternal spring
    She melts in the passenger seat of my car
    With the seat warmer on she melts like honey
    The weather is most unstable in spring
    But she doesn’t know, the voices she hears
    Are just the bees at work building honeycombs in her hair
    Lightweight, but stronger than you could ever imagine
    The man outside the bar told us that spring is here
    And she will not back down
    She is two swords and no armor
    She is honey with arsenic
    The month that no one can see, nor can they pronounce,
    She is the first blossom and the first crush,
    She is as unstable as spring and twice the beauty
    But will slap the mouth that calls her beautiful
    And tell them “I. Am. Smart.” Brighter than the sun.
    But also, right now, asleep like the moon.
    Behind me I can hear her purr with golden strands,
    Basking in the sunlight.
    And it is all of this that is stored in the body of a girl
    And the underestimation of such feminine power is punishable by damnation
    That pulls Persephone back down.
    But please, be cautioned, because like the sun,
    She will rise again.

  •  

    2nd place: Jasmina Cunmulaj, "A Note to My Father"

    A Note to My Father
    by Jasmina Cunmulaj

    You placed your hand
    over mine
    that grasped the fishing pole
    so tightly,
    as you whispered
    the winning strategy
    and performed
    a rhythmic jerk
    like a marionette,
    playing his puppet
    and danced the invisible line across the pond
    that reflected
    a shadow
    of a moment in time.
    And as the line pulled
    and rippled a crack
    down the middle,
    a silver-breasted fish soared out, like a newborn
    wailing for a first breath
    of oxygen.
    But quickly delved back
    into the one-way mirror,
    and released our connection,that was held simply by string. Just as the ripple calmed,
    the shadow of our bond that once casted over the grey waters, vanished with the sun.
    And with every sunrise overlooking the pond,
    I hoped it would return
    with you,
    once again.

  •  

    3rd place: Jazmin Nevarez, "I wonder"

    I wonder
    by  Jazmin Nevarez

    I wonder what it’s like,
    to live in a house
    That doesn’t chip from the ceilings,
    Into our Holy Water bottles
    That Tita uses to bless our doors, daughters and foreheads.
    I wonder.

    I wonder what it’s like, to live in a house
    Without missing shingles on the roof,
    walls that are finished,
    fresh paint-covered plaster
    Scratch-resistant, bulletproof.
    I wonder.

    I wonder what it’s like
    To not live in fear of the Red Line.
    Especially on summer nights alone,
    In one ear-headphone. Waiting, watching
    Cityscapes with high rises too pretty to see
    My South Side home,
    I wonder.

    I wonder
    I wonder what it’s like to permanently live in a house
    Where the windows and doors have molding
    And white picket fences are in view.
    A bedroom to myself,
    No urge to record silver badges on front lawns
    Just in case another Black and Brown life
    Is taken too soon. I wonder.

    I wonder what it’s like
    To live with a deep, dwelling security.
    Not having to fight
    consistently for equality.
    A tiring effort, unfortunate example of timeless
    Time and again.
    I wonder.

    I wonder what it’s like
    To live with peace of mind.
    Without the thought of my 9-year-old brother
    Wearing a transparent backpack to school.
    Walking through metal detectors before class
    Because, maybe, just maybe
    His classmate’s father left his nine
    Unlocked, easy access
    To protect himself, his family, his pride–a true Sugarman, in his prime.
    I wonder.

    I wonder what it’s like to live
    Outside the confines of condensed, cramped
    Almost-sweltering poverty.
    Polluted danger forced upon us,
    Away from suburban and lavish properties
    That unsuccessfully attempt to suck the soul from what is left of our woods.
    Moving in on us.
    Capitalizing off our soon-be-gentrified neighborHoods.
    I wonder.

2016 Winners

  •  

    1st place: Alexis Carlisle, "Things I've Found While Cleaning My Room"


    Things I've Found While Cleaning My Room
    by Alexis Carlisle

    1. The band aid you gave me when we were in 8th grade when I thought we were going to get married, I never took it out of the wrapper and for some reason I’ve kept it in the same box I keep money.
    2. A pearl necklace that my dad added a pearl to each year on my birthday; it is now a complete never ending loop.
    3. Anna Nicole Smith’s biography where most would keep a bible, I know her holy words better than Father Joseph knows the scripture.
    4. A receipt that slipped out of his pocket and I shoved it into mine to remember a time when I loved him.
    5. The stereotypical half eaten rotten apple that only the grossest people keep under their bed.
    6. A student written postcard from Alma College I received as a junior, I kept it not because of an overwhelming interest in the college, but rather because I felt like Cody class of 2014 really cared even with no picture on the card I cried because I loved Cody class of 2014 so much.
    7. A 16th birthday card from my dad, the inside said “I will always love you, no matter if we are together or apart” it was the first time I realized he completely understood what 16 meant.
    8. The picture I was drawing in math class the first time I ever pierced my own skin on purpose it was only half finished and some things are better incomplete.
    9. A miniature pin from a miniature bowling set I threw away during a panic attack I threw away 2 garbage bags full of things that day and I cried the entire time as my mother kept on saying “you don’t have to do this”.
    10. A very tiny pencil...You snapped my pencil in half the day you didn’t have one and you then sharpened the half with the eraser and gave it back, I taped it to my wall in memoriam of the senior boy who put the sad sophomore girl first.
    11. I found some notes that I took when while talking on the phone to you when were best friends and you were telling me about how you wanted to become a pilot because you were chasing the crash and you said “it will be sunny and I will go down quick” as I continued to cry you told me it would be fine, that you would die quickly and it wouldn’t hurt that bad.  I couldn’t fall asleep that night.
    12. A spider that I was going to kill but started to appreciate the mutual comfort we both felt living together.
    13. A water bottle with her chewed gum stuck to the side of it I kept on my bedside table for weeks as a reminder that she had been in my room, she had been in my bed.
    14. Ripped nylons that I promised my mother would last me until New Year’s but it was only November and they were very ruined.
    15. Diamond earrings my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday, I held them in my hand for a minute wondering why he gave them to me.  I was turning 16 years old not 23, and that’s when it hit me, that my dad understood that he would never see 23 or 46 or 17.  He understood how everything happens suddenly and at once and I didn’t even understand the situation enough to write a goddamn eulogy.
    16. 16 will mean more to me than 21 ever could, more than a 21 gun salute and the bullet shell casing from the ceremony on my nightstand there will always be a weight on 16 and goal on his 66. I finish dusting off old memories and shove most of them back under my bed and as I leave no matter how many times I try the switch, I can’t turn off the light.
  •  

    2nd place: Patrick Redigan, "Bradley"


    Bradley
    by Patrick Redigan

    I remember the dashboard,
    the trashed ashtray woefully
    overcrowded with
    discarded bubblegum and
    lipstick-pinched Camels

    Beside lay a royal blue sticker:
    simple and shiny reminding her
    “one day at a time”
    the fever mantra, the
    words she pledged her life to.
    Her gold medallion
    hung from the rearview mirror
    but we knew there was no sense
    in looking back.

    Ten years clean, or so it seemed
    I never could tell when she closed her eyes
    and hid her hands beneath our table.
    A high-strung junkie for Jesus, watch as she
    drowns her sorrows in his blood,
    stained like the glass, the depiction

    of the blessed mother that
    hung on the living room wall
    beside my 7th grade portrait made
    crooked by my clumsy fingers.
    The gaze of the virgin caught me
    dead in my tracks, my heart was
    hers to hold. The features were soft and
    her shawl was the shade of a dream,
    a creamy bluish-green like the little eyes on
    my little face. I close them
    for my nightly prayers,
    but when I wake, I want to face my fears
    and no longer force my smiles. To
    speak my mind, love my enemies and to
    test the waters of a fiery lake and
    cool my tongue with the serpentine
    mercury of ceaseless self-discovery.
    I want a puppy.

    I want to be someone new, someone cool
    too free to be me, too true to be you.
    I want creation.

    But placed beside expired plates,
    a grey and faded sticker pasted
    hastily long ago:
    a word, a whimper

    One last commandment heard
    high above the demon hiss of the
    rusted exhaust pipe, fuzzed slightly
    by a ghostly sneeze of smoke.

    It spits in the face
    of my mother’s embrace,
    murmured into ears too
    broken to be bothered:
    coexist.

  •  

    3rd place, tied: Antony Nedanovski, "My Ladybug Queen"

    My Ladybug Queen
    by Antony Nedanovski

    “Antony,” even after all these years of having heard my name, I know that this word—out of all the
    words she may say daily—will bring out that accent. “Antony, leave those girls alone.” I couldn’t
    help it. They wouldn’t move, and neither would my eyes, which had been transfixed on them
    momentarily. I was trying to derive some meaningful lesson from their spotted shell when I nudged
    one with my finger. With sunlight illuminating its underbody, glimmering between its tiny wings, it
    flew down towards my feet. Despite having witnessed the climactic descent of their sister, the others
    continued to rest on the window. I thought of the times I had accidentally crushed them under my
    feet; the absolute terror of thinking what lay beneath my sock. Or the times when I found them at
    the windowsill, already resting. I wondered with fates like these, and no outcome other than death,
    why my mom loved these little critters. Sometimes their shell was attractive to the eye, a smooth red
    with black dots; but then there were the bland, light brown shelled ones that roamed the basement
    tiles and found themselves under my feet. She viewed them like they had just married into the
    family—she wouldn’t kick them out, but then again, she didn’t want them to be at the table when we
    ate. So on her finger, or sometimes on a napkin, she’d pick them up and place them at the
    windowsill. They were her girls, because with three sons and no time for company, she found them
    comforting. Uninvited visitors, but a gracious host she was—and a very clumsy tenant I was,
    uneventfully ending their lives time to time. Then came my nudging finger, rudely making this
    ladybug soar against its will. At my mom’s insistence, I let the others be. Sitting at the mahogany
    table, cluttered with books from past semesters, I watched the other girls remain steadfast.

    “Just leave them alone, they’ll bring good luck.”

    I could tell without looking that my mom was in her chair, doing her Sudoku and shaking her head
    at me. She was always superstitious.
  •  

    3rd place, tied: Erin Stein, "Frustration While Watching the Evening News"


    Frustration While Watching the Evening News
    by Erin Stein

    “It’s about the children here, Huel.”

    The News shares a mini-documentary on how

    Michigan let toxic water corrode pipes

    and how it has seeped into people’s bloodstreams,

    as if they need more negativity in their systems.

    “88 schools were closed, how does that help the children?”

    A fancy(ish) man in a cheap looking suit, (let his dress define him)

    paired with an even cheaper tie— pipes in to remind the three social justice soldiers that strikes

    are unconstitutional. And that it’s immoral to stand up for better rights.

    The Suit must have never read Jeremy Bentham or Martin Luther King Jr.

    “Were any of the members involved fired?”

    Of course not, they kindly stepped down, because resigning

    looks more noble than getting ripped of one’s title.

    But then again, teeth falling out because gums can’t hold

    bone anymore doesn’t look that noble either.

    “You should let the parents know if another sick out is planned, it’s only fair.”

    The term fair seems to bite a little,

    it is filled with ironic venom that does not go unnoticed.

    When the textbooks used in these ancient ruins of schools don’t include the last

    two presidents, nor the Recession, that seems to ring more to the hymn of unfairness.

    What’s unfair is daydreaming in class and looking up to see the bleak

    heavens poke out between the cracks in the ceiling, while rocking in a desk that has barely two legs.

    It’s walking down a hallway and seeing bits of nature take over the cracks were the

    Foundation (ha!) of the building meet dirt.

    But don’t worry Suit, this picture of history will make its way into books

    that hopefully everyone will get to read.

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