2009 Loft Poetry Contest

We have just completed our 2009 Loft Poetry Writing Contest. Thanks to all who participated. We received 29 excellent submissions - all of which showed a tremendous amount of talent and potential.

I would like to thank our panel of judges Elinor Appel, Steve Quig, Alice Gillette, John Newman, and LeAnne Laux Bachand for taking the time to read and consider these submissions. We would also like to thank Student Leadership for their generous and enthusiastic support as well.

Currently, we only have permission to share the first and third place poems online, so we hope you enjoy the work of these talented NSCC students.


First Place

Viaje Bien
Ryan Belcher

She’s gone, when did she leave?
She was here to keep the seat full,
to keep the untrustworthy sorts away from me.
She smiled at me—but not too long—when I got on;
I could trust her kind old face.
And now she’s gone.
The cluster of high schoolers (high scholars? no, schoolers)
joke about someone’s butt too loudly;
their cackling and hooting shake the bus awake.
They are the Indian peafowl, waving their plumage
shamelessly, making too much noise.
Use auriculares
I am the ostrich in the wrong exhibit.
One of these days I will be plucked for a duster.
I shuffle around in my seat, pretending to read real estate ads and poetry.
Obliquely, I confirm the vacant seat, but I dare not stare at it.
Strange people stare at empty bus seats. Everyone else stares at strange people.
The seat shouldn’t be empty; there are so many people here.
Are they saving it for some especially cruel tormentor—
someone who will breathe on my neck,
talk about my book, punch me in the head,
ask for my name?
No acose a otros pasajeros.
An old man boards at this stop.
A younger man, lanky and swaggering, gets to the only empty seat
(Is this the one they sent?)
and lounges—sprawls broadly upon it.
Haga lo Correcto, jerk. Viaje Bien!
I shout, but no, I could never never, not here.
My shifting disturbs the woman sitting on my coat.
Get off my coat, and quit smelling like sautéed onions, please.
The old man picks his way down the aisle, pole by pole,
fingers gripping like the tendrils of a dry beanstalk.
We lurch, he stumbles,
I clench my fists in my lap.
My neck is tight, my back is sore.
My jaw clamps tighter, and another piece of molar flakes off.
(What has she been doing all day? It can’t be foodservice, so why does she smell like onions?)
A grating whisper announces the cross-streets.
I pull the cord, and the yellow line is all that’s keeping me here.
Stop the bus. Come on, come on.
Stop.

Second Place

Tiananmen
by James Berglund

Not available yet

Third Place

After/Before
by Autumn Straker

We are (too) close(d).
I can see the (s)k(in)
ch(apt) on your (s)lips
\\of doc”u-ment”s
(and fin(e/ished) p((r(ed))ints)//.
You can see the hairs/hands
(se)ar(ch)ing [on/my]
eyebrows/forarm and neck.
We are (two)
({c)[los(e}/t)](s).
I can see you ((for))got to
(s)have this ((morn)ing)).
You can see my eye(lin [g]er/s)
(fa(ul)t)igue (a)t
its (little) ((black))
tail{s hin(g)[e/r] s}.

Who’s/its (to) c(h/l)ose when we(;)
can(‘t) (he)ar
each o(the)rs {w\d)eep
(b(r)ea(t)(h(in(g)))/k).
When we‘,re(turn) breathing,
in/out the same ex-hale.
This is why I hold my breathe
and close my eyes
Before/after we kiss
hope/fearing it might
(not) salve young
{sanguin
tumn Straker