Connecticut Poetry Award
Winners Connecticut Poetry Award 2023
FIRST PLACE: Kaecey McCormick
Bruin Walk
On Bruin Walk at the edge of UCLA’s campus
a squirrel, fat from stolen bagels and chips, dropped
from the gnarled branches of an oak to the pavement.
It twitched and twitched as blood pooled beneath
its tiny skull and we all, rushing to the dorms or with
friends to eat or on our way to meet a lover, stopped--
pulled by the gravity of the tiny being’s last moments
on earth. We inhaled and watched, the way years before
we stood side by side in a classroom, watching a space shuttle
explode; the way, a few years from then, we’d watch as first one
and then another plane turned skyscrapers to dust; the way in middle
age we’d watch a mob break our capital. We were all watching--
the basketball players, the loners, the math geeks, the art
students, the fraternity brothers already buzzing. We couldn’t
look away. We could feel a life leaking out, lifting us out
of ourselves for a moment, joined in a collective sigh until
one girl, long, braid swinging, drew closer than the rest.
She approached the squirrel slowly, hands out, and kneeled
by it, stroking its soft sides, looking at it the way you,
no matter your years or your religious beliefs, hope Death’s
angel looks at you, like you were the prodigal returning
home at last, like you were the first star against the dark.
All of us gathered there, even the birds above and the rats
moving through the bushes, stilled, each of us becoming
for a moment the squirrel—comforted by a steady hand
on our body, a welcoming gaze on our trembling eyes,
soft words of assurance in our ear as we paused, then
exhaled our last breath.
Judge’s remarks:
The author evokes a busy outdoor space, then stops time for a campus crowd as a thoughtful young woman extends a hand to comfort a dying animal. Skillful changes in scale hold the reader’s interest from everyday life to bloody death, from global news to local particulars. These quatrains move with deliberate grace.
SECOND PLACE: Laura Rodley
Perfume of Childhood
Hay dry and crackly under sneakered feet,
crunch of dried stalks and tang of crushed clover,
bite of creosote on railroad ties,
the burnt grass besides the rails
after new creosote has been applied,
sulfur in the air just before a thunderstorm,
metallic smell from sun-baked outside faucet
at a friend’s house as you washed your hands,
cupped water up to your face and drank it,
the dank stink of skunk cabbage broken
as you crossed the stream by the short wooden bridge
that was caved in, uncrossable, yet
you crossed the creek, made it home in time.
Cotton candy, the cloying sweetness,
you so rarely ate it, mesmerized by the spin,
its gathering wool on the paper cone,
the cigarette haze lingering on the server;
holding paint upside down, squirting it on the card
that spun on the wheel, the paint oily,
the resulting painting blaring but beautiful,
sun hot on your hair and your new sneakers,
the shoveled dung of the pony that sat
on its haunches at the Arden Fair.
I do not remember being born there,
but I remember the dark rush of the creek water,
the mallard ducklings that paddled their feet
with no fear of snapping turtles,
only the crisp coolness cast
by the shade of the hemlocks overhead,
encircling The Green in greenness,
its everlasting swift scent sharp,
the spongy-red yew berries that dripped clear sap
that were poisonous, never-to-eat,
but we tasted the sap just the same.
How did we ever make it out alive?
Judge’s remarks:
The author evokes childhood adventures in a breathless list poem emphasizing smell, with lines like “the dank stink of skunk cabbage broken.” A sharp collage moves toward an edge of danger that enhances the list, “the spongy-red yew berries that dripped clear sap.”
THIRD PLACE: Diane Hueter
Stranger at the Door
He knows I want to read this letter, I need it like water, like salt, like bread.
He offers it up to me, crumpled from his pocket, unstamped, addressed in ink
with only my name in the script I’ve seen so often on grocery lists and birthday
cards, incredibly precise, finely legible, upright letters familiar as fingers.
The stranger has a face as pale as oatmeal, a suit as dark as oil. He assures me
my father promised me this letter when he called last year, when I watched
my gray phone buzz and buzz, dancing over the tablecloth’s map of memory,
until finally my father spoke to the electronic cellar. Months and moons went by,
went from warm to cold, cold to warm, large as a plate, small as a smile. Left me
counting my pulse in the throbbing thumb I cut slicing melons. Left me
holding my years like bags of candy. Is this man a messenger? Is that
his calling? What does it matter now? My father has died. I can’t see
the moon because I broke my teacup, I can't read the tides because I'm lost
in a wheat field, I can’t hold the paper because my fingers are covered in gilt.
Judge’s remarks:
Before email, people wrote to family members and friends. With this missive, delivered in person, the poet plays with handwriting, “upright letters familiar as fingers,” on an unstamped letter that “Left me/holding my years like bags of candy.”
Bruin Walk
On Bruin Walk at the edge of UCLA’s campus
a squirrel, fat from stolen bagels and chips, dropped
from the gnarled branches of an oak to the pavement.
It twitched and twitched as blood pooled beneath
its tiny skull and we all, rushing to the dorms or with
friends to eat or on our way to meet a lover, stopped--
pulled by the gravity of the tiny being’s last moments
on earth. We inhaled and watched, the way years before
we stood side by side in a classroom, watching a space shuttle
explode; the way, a few years from then, we’d watch as first one
and then another plane turned skyscrapers to dust; the way in middle
age we’d watch a mob break our capital. We were all watching--
the basketball players, the loners, the math geeks, the art
students, the fraternity brothers already buzzing. We couldn’t
look away. We could feel a life leaking out, lifting us out
of ourselves for a moment, joined in a collective sigh until
one girl, long, braid swinging, drew closer than the rest.
She approached the squirrel slowly, hands out, and kneeled
by it, stroking its soft sides, looking at it the way you,
no matter your years or your religious beliefs, hope Death’s
angel looks at you, like you were the prodigal returning
home at last, like you were the first star against the dark.
All of us gathered there, even the birds above and the rats
moving through the bushes, stilled, each of us becoming
for a moment the squirrel—comforted by a steady hand
on our body, a welcoming gaze on our trembling eyes,
soft words of assurance in our ear as we paused, then
exhaled our last breath.
Judge’s remarks:
The author evokes a busy outdoor space, then stops time for a campus crowd as a thoughtful young woman extends a hand to comfort a dying animal. Skillful changes in scale hold the reader’s interest from everyday life to bloody death, from global news to local particulars. These quatrains move with deliberate grace.
SECOND PLACE: Laura Rodley
Perfume of Childhood
Hay dry and crackly under sneakered feet,
crunch of dried stalks and tang of crushed clover,
bite of creosote on railroad ties,
the burnt grass besides the rails
after new creosote has been applied,
sulfur in the air just before a thunderstorm,
metallic smell from sun-baked outside faucet
at a friend’s house as you washed your hands,
cupped water up to your face and drank it,
the dank stink of skunk cabbage broken
as you crossed the stream by the short wooden bridge
that was caved in, uncrossable, yet
you crossed the creek, made it home in time.
Cotton candy, the cloying sweetness,
you so rarely ate it, mesmerized by the spin,
its gathering wool on the paper cone,
the cigarette haze lingering on the server;
holding paint upside down, squirting it on the card
that spun on the wheel, the paint oily,
the resulting painting blaring but beautiful,
sun hot on your hair and your new sneakers,
the shoveled dung of the pony that sat
on its haunches at the Arden Fair.
I do not remember being born there,
but I remember the dark rush of the creek water,
the mallard ducklings that paddled their feet
with no fear of snapping turtles,
only the crisp coolness cast
by the shade of the hemlocks overhead,
encircling The Green in greenness,
its everlasting swift scent sharp,
the spongy-red yew berries that dripped clear sap
that were poisonous, never-to-eat,
but we tasted the sap just the same.
How did we ever make it out alive?
Judge’s remarks:
The author evokes childhood adventures in a breathless list poem emphasizing smell, with lines like “the dank stink of skunk cabbage broken.” A sharp collage moves toward an edge of danger that enhances the list, “the spongy-red yew berries that dripped clear sap.”
THIRD PLACE: Diane Hueter
Stranger at the Door
He knows I want to read this letter, I need it like water, like salt, like bread.
He offers it up to me, crumpled from his pocket, unstamped, addressed in ink
with only my name in the script I’ve seen so often on grocery lists and birthday
cards, incredibly precise, finely legible, upright letters familiar as fingers.
The stranger has a face as pale as oatmeal, a suit as dark as oil. He assures me
my father promised me this letter when he called last year, when I watched
my gray phone buzz and buzz, dancing over the tablecloth’s map of memory,
until finally my father spoke to the electronic cellar. Months and moons went by,
went from warm to cold, cold to warm, large as a plate, small as a smile. Left me
counting my pulse in the throbbing thumb I cut slicing melons. Left me
holding my years like bags of candy. Is this man a messenger? Is that
his calling? What does it matter now? My father has died. I can’t see
the moon because I broke my teacup, I can't read the tides because I'm lost
in a wheat field, I can’t hold the paper because my fingers are covered in gilt.
Judge’s remarks:
Before email, people wrote to family members and friends. With this missive, delivered in person, the poet plays with handwriting, “upright letters familiar as fingers,” on an unstamped letter that “Left me/holding my years like bags of candy.”
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CONNECTICUT POETRY AWARD CONTEST
In Honor of CPS Founding Members
Wallace Winchell, Ben Brodine, and Joseph Brodinsky
Made possible through the generous support of
The Adolf and Virginia Dehn Foundation
Submission Period April 1 – May 31
Opento All Poets Prizes: 1st $400; 2nd $100; 3rd $50
Click Here to Submit
In Honor of CPS Founding Members
Wallace Winchell, Ben Brodine, and Joseph Brodinsky
Made possible through the generous support of
The Adolf and Virginia Dehn Foundation
Submission Period April 1 – May 31
Opento All Poets Prizes: 1st $400; 2nd $100; 3rd $50
Click Here to Submit