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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 40-year tradition of encouraging and recognizing student creativity and excellence. We congratulate our 2016 Dudley Randall Poetry Contest winners:

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"

    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:


    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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