The Lynn DeCaro 2024 Contest Winners
Judge’s Statement
With gratitude, I can proclaim that the future of poetry in the world is safe in the hands of high school writers. On my first pass of the roughly 150 poems, I'd checked off about 40 potential finalists! Winnowing to twelve was painful, and further down to placements and honorable mentions was excruciatingly enjoyable (enjoyably excruciating?). With all the trouble today's teens deal with, I'm so comforted that they can turn to the literary arts to express their anger, opinions, anxieties, depression, regrets, hopes, and yes, love. Each of them touched me differently and will remain with me. I encourage all the writers to continue reading, composing, refining, performing, and submitting for publication. The world needs your voices!
With gratitude, I can proclaim that the future of poetry in the world is safe in the hands of high school writers. On my first pass of the roughly 150 poems, I'd checked off about 40 potential finalists! Winnowing to twelve was painful, and further down to placements and honorable mentions was excruciatingly enjoyable (enjoyably excruciating?). With all the trouble today's teens deal with, I'm so comforted that they can turn to the literary arts to express their anger, opinions, anxieties, depression, regrets, hopes, and yes, love. Each of them touched me differently and will remain with me. I encourage all the writers to continue reading, composing, refining, performing, and submitting for publication. The world needs your voices!
FIRST PLACE
Julia Liu, Loomis Chaffee School, Windsor, CT
Fishbone
I.
In the quiet of the night, your hands fumble
for reassurance. I check for your pulse,
nestled under wrinkled layers of tissue paper
that cradle withering bone. Trace the ghostly hues
reflected by the moonlight across your
wrists. Tonight’s meal: steamed flounder.
Embellished with chili oil, scallion,
& soy sauce soaked prayers tucked into the gills.
I lift up threads of fabric that entwine stitched mouth,
I carve a patient smile for the last
cut up image in your scrapbook before
everything resets. Feel the hard wood of the
chopsticks in hand–remember
to breathe.
1. perform surgery on the marine vessel.
2. hold the fish, stripped bare of its prized gem; its tailbone.
3. delicately grab your chin–careful not to inflict damage
4. unhinge your jaw.
“鱼.”
II.
The summer of 2016 was harsh and unforgiving. I laid my hand over
the cacti outside your brick house and was carving out bloodied spines
for hours, hissing in the blistering sun as each tug stung my fingers purple. You walked outside and down went the plate of oranges you had carried, citrus remains merging with the gravel. 5 minutes later: empty Chinese medicine packets covering the sticky beige tiles. 10 minutes later: my eardrums filled with nothing but condemnation as I stumble over the only Chinese phrase I knew. “对不起. 对不起. I’m sorry.”
III.
“鱼,” you whisper back. Eyes close, drift
a thousand miles away as your jaws grant the
carcass of what was once a fish a new home.
Here, in the quiet of the night, scales dissolve
and leave only the forgiving roof of your
mouth to guard flesh as soft as snow.
In the quiet of the night,
we bled;
unskinned and raw.
鱼 - Fish
对不起 - I’m sorry
Judge’s comments:
This poem beckoned all my senses to a textural feast. And it also unleashed my imagination: the speaker, the fish and the dying one are so entwined that they blur. All are being ritualized; all are being consumed; all have done their share of carving. The scales fall off all three to reveal a chain of sacrifice. This poem will stick to your bones and you're going to crave re-readings of it.
Julia Liu, Loomis Chaffee School, Windsor, CT
Fishbone
I.
In the quiet of the night, your hands fumble
for reassurance. I check for your pulse,
nestled under wrinkled layers of tissue paper
that cradle withering bone. Trace the ghostly hues
reflected by the moonlight across your
wrists. Tonight’s meal: steamed flounder.
Embellished with chili oil, scallion,
& soy sauce soaked prayers tucked into the gills.
I lift up threads of fabric that entwine stitched mouth,
I carve a patient smile for the last
cut up image in your scrapbook before
everything resets. Feel the hard wood of the
chopsticks in hand–remember
to breathe.
1. perform surgery on the marine vessel.
2. hold the fish, stripped bare of its prized gem; its tailbone.
3. delicately grab your chin–careful not to inflict damage
4. unhinge your jaw.
“鱼.”
II.
The summer of 2016 was harsh and unforgiving. I laid my hand over
the cacti outside your brick house and was carving out bloodied spines
for hours, hissing in the blistering sun as each tug stung my fingers purple. You walked outside and down went the plate of oranges you had carried, citrus remains merging with the gravel. 5 minutes later: empty Chinese medicine packets covering the sticky beige tiles. 10 minutes later: my eardrums filled with nothing but condemnation as I stumble over the only Chinese phrase I knew. “对不起. 对不起. I’m sorry.”
III.
“鱼,” you whisper back. Eyes close, drift
a thousand miles away as your jaws grant the
carcass of what was once a fish a new home.
Here, in the quiet of the night, scales dissolve
and leave only the forgiving roof of your
mouth to guard flesh as soft as snow.
In the quiet of the night,
we bled;
unskinned and raw.
鱼 - Fish
对不起 - I’m sorry
Judge’s comments:
This poem beckoned all my senses to a textural feast. And it also unleashed my imagination: the speaker, the fish and the dying one are so entwined that they blur. All are being ritualized; all are being consumed; all have done their share of carving. The scales fall off all three to reveal a chain of sacrifice. This poem will stick to your bones and you're going to crave re-readings of it.
SECOND PLACE
Abigail Aggarwala, Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
i drowned in my car a few days ago
not literally
i guess
i screamed
just to see what it was like
i immediately cut off myself from making noise after the startle from the raw pain and depth of the sound
a moment of silence in shock that i was capable of expressing such emotion
then i tried again
i screamed the entire way home
my throat scratchy from the acid spurting out between the hot tears that i messily wiped away
i yelled my thoughts, my feelings, just noise
to make noise to no one
to let it out without the fear of someone hearing what i truly said
what i truly think
i kind of wanted someone to see me crying
just so maybe they would ask me if i was okay in a quick text
or maybe even to just have me like that in the back of their mind
so someone anyone knows i’m not holding it together
it’s so hard holding it all together i’m barely holding it all together i am not holding it all together it is spilling through the cracks in my hands and i am not quick enough to gather it back up before the dam breaks
i am no longer who everyone saw
Judge’s comments:
I love the tension of confession/take-back--the negatives of denying emotions in "not literally" and "cut off myself" and "just noise". That tension then literally drowns the speaker when the take-back efforts fail. The unstoppable gush of the last two stanzas drowns the reader as well in pain.
Abigail Aggarwala, Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
i drowned in my car a few days ago
not literally
i guess
i screamed
just to see what it was like
i immediately cut off myself from making noise after the startle from the raw pain and depth of the sound
a moment of silence in shock that i was capable of expressing such emotion
then i tried again
i screamed the entire way home
my throat scratchy from the acid spurting out between the hot tears that i messily wiped away
i yelled my thoughts, my feelings, just noise
to make noise to no one
to let it out without the fear of someone hearing what i truly said
what i truly think
i kind of wanted someone to see me crying
just so maybe they would ask me if i was okay in a quick text
or maybe even to just have me like that in the back of their mind
so someone anyone knows i’m not holding it together
it’s so hard holding it all together i’m barely holding it all together i am not holding it all together it is spilling through the cracks in my hands and i am not quick enough to gather it back up before the dam breaks
i am no longer who everyone saw
Judge’s comments:
I love the tension of confession/take-back--the negatives of denying emotions in "not literally" and "cut off myself" and "just noise". That tension then literally drowns the speaker when the take-back efforts fail. The unstoppable gush of the last two stanzas drowns the reader as well in pain.
THIRD PLACE
Iris Hida, Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
The Freedom I Held Does Not Compare to the Spring: A Golden Shovel
“How long do you moan and be silent, you miserable heart… This spring didn’t even bloom for you” -Genc Leka, January 1971
My father bleeds history tells me how
verses bled burgundy on paper, with long
ballads for change. How do
I feel their past agony? Where you
hold hands with grief, moan
at your own words and
suppress your spirit. Be
still at the round table. Silent,
pursed lips that curl when you
taste the citrus. That miserable
burn at the lick of the sickle's heart.
Judge’s comments:
This poem is a masterful example of weaving long observation of a loved one, the yearning to share and thus mitigate the father's grief and make a statement about the ruin communist authoritarianism continues to wreak. The poet accomplishes this with the specific line from a persecuted writer, the form of the Golden Shovel, and the subtle mention of the word "sickle." The poet didn't need to continue composing, because the present tense shows that spring is still not blooming for all writers interwoven here.
Iris Hida, Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
The Freedom I Held Does Not Compare to the Spring: A Golden Shovel
“How long do you moan and be silent, you miserable heart… This spring didn’t even bloom for you” -Genc Leka, January 1971
My father bleeds history tells me how
verses bled burgundy on paper, with long
ballads for change. How do
I feel their past agony? Where you
hold hands with grief, moan
at your own words and
suppress your spirit. Be
still at the round table. Silent,
pursed lips that curl when you
taste the citrus. That miserable
burn at the lick of the sickle's heart.
Judge’s comments:
This poem is a masterful example of weaving long observation of a loved one, the yearning to share and thus mitigate the father's grief and make a statement about the ruin communist authoritarianism continues to wreak. The poet accomplishes this with the specific line from a persecuted writer, the form of the Golden Shovel, and the subtle mention of the word "sickle." The poet didn't need to continue composing, because the present tense shows that spring is still not blooming for all writers interwoven here.
Honorable Mention
Len Valentino, Fairfield Ludlowe High School, Fairfield, CT
Sporus
The cars that I see from a distance, backed up at the light in the dark, sit lined up
on the hill like a staircase to heaven.
I am 4.
My great-grandmother is dead.
I took a cross and chain from her jewelry box because it is purple. It could
be amethyst.
I do not know what “dead” means yet. The chain smells like nickels.
I act
like the cars on the road are stars before slouching over. I hope my dad will carry
me into the house later.
The sun is hot and my shirt is heavy. I do not care how old I am; the weeds
in the outfield won’t pick themselves.
There is a scab on my leg I can’t wait to scratch.
Hair has begun to prick up around it: I feel like a she-beast, one with budding
boobs and disproportionate thighs.
I remember that my great-grandmother is dead.
I pray to be anywhere but right here. I hope God is listening.
The batter
strikes out.
I think God is listening.
I am 13 soon.
I don’t know why I feel like this. The muscles under my skin
itch.
In class, I wonder if suicide is a sin. I wonder if that would stop
me. At home, I am lonely in my room with God.
I want to ask if I should pray,
if I should hope, if hailing Mary enough will make girlhood less nauseating.
I don’t ask.
I pray to wake up as a boy, and if I don’t–if God isn’t here,
I pray to not wake up at all.
The cross sits flat on my chest, between the twin scars that rest near my fifth rib.
I am
freshly 16. The chain still smells like nickels.
I hope the scars don’t pale:
I hope to
keep the proof of my perseverance. My girlhood never did get easier. My
boyhood since then has been more optimistic.
The puffy scar tissue is purple.
My new body, chiseled from amethyst, sparkles in the sun as God intended.
My skin shines.
Judge’s comments:
Being a children's book author, I really appreciated the progression of the speaker's vocabulary, syntax, and imagery as they age in the course of the poem. Their skill in building the desperation and fear makes the reader itch and pray, too, for an optimistic ending. The narrative thread of the amethyst and its ascribed symbolism is lovely. What began as an innocent attraction to color and smell concludes with a more certain hope and faith. May the poet shine on!
Len Valentino, Fairfield Ludlowe High School, Fairfield, CT
Sporus
The cars that I see from a distance, backed up at the light in the dark, sit lined up
on the hill like a staircase to heaven.
I am 4.
My great-grandmother is dead.
I took a cross and chain from her jewelry box because it is purple. It could
be amethyst.
I do not know what “dead” means yet. The chain smells like nickels.
I act
like the cars on the road are stars before slouching over. I hope my dad will carry
me into the house later.
The sun is hot and my shirt is heavy. I do not care how old I am; the weeds
in the outfield won’t pick themselves.
There is a scab on my leg I can’t wait to scratch.
Hair has begun to prick up around it: I feel like a she-beast, one with budding
boobs and disproportionate thighs.
I remember that my great-grandmother is dead.
I pray to be anywhere but right here. I hope God is listening.
The batter
strikes out.
I think God is listening.
I am 13 soon.
I don’t know why I feel like this. The muscles under my skin
itch.
In class, I wonder if suicide is a sin. I wonder if that would stop
me. At home, I am lonely in my room with God.
I want to ask if I should pray,
if I should hope, if hailing Mary enough will make girlhood less nauseating.
I don’t ask.
I pray to wake up as a boy, and if I don’t–if God isn’t here,
I pray to not wake up at all.
The cross sits flat on my chest, between the twin scars that rest near my fifth rib.
I am
freshly 16. The chain still smells like nickels.
I hope the scars don’t pale:
I hope to
keep the proof of my perseverance. My girlhood never did get easier. My
boyhood since then has been more optimistic.
The puffy scar tissue is purple.
My new body, chiseled from amethyst, sparkles in the sun as God intended.
My skin shines.
Judge’s comments:
Being a children's book author, I really appreciated the progression of the speaker's vocabulary, syntax, and imagery as they age in the course of the poem. Their skill in building the desperation and fear makes the reader itch and pray, too, for an optimistic ending. The narrative thread of the amethyst and its ascribed symbolism is lovely. What began as an innocent attraction to color and smell concludes with a more certain hope and faith. May the poet shine on!
Honorable Mention
Amy Meng, New Canaan High School, New Canaan, CT
We Talk in Silence on Ocean’s Shore
¹ nǚér - Mandarin for daughter
July air suffocates, grasps cotton sleeves;
Thin glossy string, one pull,
collapse. What becomes of melted bubbles?
–Perhaps they conform to crack
imperfect mirrors–
Only ocean’s waters reflect us now,
toes caressed by fine sand. Your
words grind in the mouth
like crushed shells chewing through
bloody gums. You tell me the time
I thundered your womb, kicked a crack
in obedience’s porcelain jar with insistent limbs.
I was taught of decomposition, but
I saw your words
rot away too.
Moments pass and shards of ocean’s kisses meet
hot breath, whispered silence.
Seaweed ribbons: strangling the soft neck
of a mother’s nǚér¹
her breath slipping into gale
How does one speak without voice?
Lapping water
traps my conscience, sings a story
to be squeezed between my
broken promises.
Judge’s comments:
The speaker does a wonderful job of using the immediate environment's gifts of metaphor: the mother's sharp words are "crushed shells"; "seaweed ribbons" strangle the speaker's voice. The poet reminds readers that Mother's Earth's waters can and will swamp us.
Amy Meng, New Canaan High School, New Canaan, CT
We Talk in Silence on Ocean’s Shore
¹ nǚér - Mandarin for daughter
July air suffocates, grasps cotton sleeves;
Thin glossy string, one pull,
collapse. What becomes of melted bubbles?
–Perhaps they conform to crack
imperfect mirrors–
Only ocean’s waters reflect us now,
toes caressed by fine sand. Your
words grind in the mouth
like crushed shells chewing through
bloody gums. You tell me the time
I thundered your womb, kicked a crack
in obedience’s porcelain jar with insistent limbs.
I was taught of decomposition, but
I saw your words
rot away too.
Moments pass and shards of ocean’s kisses meet
hot breath, whispered silence.
Seaweed ribbons: strangling the soft neck
of a mother’s nǚér¹
her breath slipping into gale
How does one speak without voice?
Lapping water
traps my conscience, sings a story
to be squeezed between my
broken promises.
Judge’s comments:
The speaker does a wonderful job of using the immediate environment's gifts of metaphor: the mother's sharp words are "crushed shells"; "seaweed ribbons" strangle the speaker's voice. The poet reminds readers that Mother's Earth's waters can and will swamp us.
Honorable Mention
Helen Puskar, Greenwich High School, Greenwich, CT
Thrush
From her shoulders,
Down the hall,
In and out of choir class:
Elizabeth speaks hot
soup down your chin
She knows what’s between flesh and nail.
She has long screenplays and loves you to death.
Her fingers are
Longer
Than yours
And Für Elise never sounded so good.
Sparrows are in her way.
Judge’s comments:
What a perfect title for this poem of enthrallment. I hear the "rush" of young love's adrenalin, "thrust" of energy bouncing off the walls, and also the "hush" that Elizabeth's songbird voice and piano playing must inspire. The last line is such a fun hyperbole, that I came away from this poem laughing in delight, and couldn't wait to read it again.
Honorable Mention
Jules Kontozissi-Dahlstrom, Danbury High School, Danbury, CT
When They Find Your Skeleton
He said:
In 500 years,
when they find your skeleton
when someone digs you up
sniffs you out
drags you onto higher ground
all they will see is bones.
When they find your skeleton,
they'll know.
He said it like it was shameful. Like a mother
doing up your corset laces from behind,
tracing a long finger against where you're different; he said it like
I had something to hide. Really, he said it like
I had nothing to say. He said,
"When they find your skeleton," as though
I had nothing else to claim.
He said it like he was stupid. Like
we research the femur of James Baldwin
the skull of Leslie Feinberg
or the ribs of Frida Kahlo.
When they find my skeleton, let it be known
they will find it among miles of odes and verses
among photographs and clothing and CDs
collages and books and jewelry and,
really,
among
a life.
Helen Puskar, Greenwich High School, Greenwich, CT
Thrush
From her shoulders,
Down the hall,
In and out of choir class:
Elizabeth speaks hot
soup down your chin
She knows what’s between flesh and nail.
She has long screenplays and loves you to death.
Her fingers are
Longer
Than yours
And Für Elise never sounded so good.
Sparrows are in her way.
Judge’s comments:
What a perfect title for this poem of enthrallment. I hear the "rush" of young love's adrenalin, "thrust" of energy bouncing off the walls, and also the "hush" that Elizabeth's songbird voice and piano playing must inspire. The last line is such a fun hyperbole, that I came away from this poem laughing in delight, and couldn't wait to read it again.
Honorable Mention
Jules Kontozissi-Dahlstrom, Danbury High School, Danbury, CT
When They Find Your Skeleton
He said:
In 500 years,
when they find your skeleton
when someone digs you up
sniffs you out
drags you onto higher ground
all they will see is bones.
When they find your skeleton,
they'll know.
He said it like it was shameful. Like a mother
doing up your corset laces from behind,
tracing a long finger against where you're different; he said it like
I had something to hide. Really, he said it like
I had nothing to say. He said,
"When they find your skeleton," as though
I had nothing else to claim.
He said it like he was stupid. Like
we research the femur of James Baldwin
the skull of Leslie Feinberg
or the ribs of Frida Kahlo.
When they find my skeleton, let it be known
they will find it among miles of odes and verses
among photographs and clothing and CDs
collages and books and jewelry and,
really,
among
a life.
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Pegi Deitz Shea is the Lynn Decaro 2024 Contest Judge
Pegi Deitz Shea is an award-winning author of 17 books of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction for readers of all ages. A CT Teaching Artist, she's taught at UCONN, the Mark Twain House, and the Institute of Children's Literature. She serves on the Board of the CT Council of Poets Laureate, and directs the quarterly series Poetry Rocks. |
The DeCaro Contest runs from January 1, 2024 to March 15, 2024
The Lynn DeCaro Contest is a contest for Connecticut high school students that was set up in memory of Lynn DeCaro, a promising young CPS member who died of leukemia in 1986. It is made possible through the generous support of The Betty and Al DeCaro Family
Open to Connecticut student poets in grades 9–12 Prizes 1st $150, 2nd $100, 3rd $50
The Lynn DeCaro Contest is a contest for Connecticut high school students that was set up in memory of Lynn DeCaro, a promising young CPS member who died of leukemia in 1986. It is made possible through the generous support of The Betty and Al DeCaro Family
Open to Connecticut student poets in grades 9–12 Prizes 1st $150, 2nd $100, 3rd $50
The Lynn DeCaro 2023 Contest Winners
Judge’s Statement
Lynn DeCaro was the first poet I ever knew. We were friends and classmates at John Pettibone School in New Milford in the 1970s, and her talent and enthusiasm for poetry are key reasons why I became a poet and poetry teacher myself. It was a huge honor for me to judge the contest created in her name.
Over the past few months I have read hundreds and hundreds of your poems and been transported into worlds both new and familiar. Your voices are strong and clear, and your perspectives are important. You’ve made me think about poetry in new ways. There are far more brilliant poems among your submissions than there are awards to be given out. So if you didn’t win a prize this time, don’t think that it means that your work didn’t impress me. I fell in love with so many poems that I couldn’t give awards to this time around. I hope you’ll keep writing, keep telling your stories, and keep sharing your voices with the world.
Lynn DeCaro was the first poet I ever knew. We were friends and classmates at John Pettibone School in New Milford in the 1970s, and her talent and enthusiasm for poetry are key reasons why I became a poet and poetry teacher myself. It was a huge honor for me to judge the contest created in her name.
Over the past few months I have read hundreds and hundreds of your poems and been transported into worlds both new and familiar. Your voices are strong and clear, and your perspectives are important. You’ve made me think about poetry in new ways. There are far more brilliant poems among your submissions than there are awards to be given out. So if you didn’t win a prize this time, don’t think that it means that your work didn’t impress me. I fell in love with so many poems that I couldn’t give awards to this time around. I hope you’ll keep writing, keep telling your stories, and keep sharing your voices with the world.
First Place Winner: Athena Lavigne
Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
Rockville High School, Vernon, CT
Judge’s remarks:
This poem took my breath away. It plays with the form of a poem in masterful ways. The long, sprawling stanzas read like stream of consciousness, but this poet knows exactly when to pull back and exactly when to ask us to pause and when to give the reader more information. We are taken inside a lost world, one that the speaker isn’t even sure of themselves, but one tinged with questions and longing. In many ways, the story of the poem is the story of what poetry seeks to
do – to connect, to understand, and to honor one another.
This poem took my breath away. It plays with the form of a poem in masterful ways. The long, sprawling stanzas read like stream of consciousness, but this poet knows exactly when to pull back and exactly when to ask us to pause and when to give the reader more information. We are taken inside a lost world, one that the speaker isn’t even sure of themselves, but one tinged with questions and longing. In many ways, the story of the poem is the story of what poetry seeks to
do – to connect, to understand, and to honor one another.
Second Place Winner: Enfinity Glover
James Hillhouse High School, New Haven, CT
James Hillhouse High School, New Haven, CT
Judge’s remarks:
This poem does a fabulous job of revealing the experience of living between worlds and of carrying two cultures and histories in one body. The poet chooses their details with such specificity— “bachata into old box braids” and “Cayey born eyes” and “arroz amarillo”—so that we trust their knowledge and their voice. I appreciate that the poem doesn’t reach for easy answers. In fact, from the title to the closing lines, we come to understand that the tension of straddling worlds is both consistent, difficult, and a key shaper of identity. This is a poem of great insight and care.
This poem does a fabulous job of revealing the experience of living between worlds and of carrying two cultures and histories in one body. The poet chooses their details with such specificity— “bachata into old box braids” and “Cayey born eyes” and “arroz amarillo”—so that we trust their knowledge and their voice. I appreciate that the poem doesn’t reach for easy answers. In fact, from the title to the closing lines, we come to understand that the tension of straddling worlds is both consistent, difficult, and a key shaper of identity. This is a poem of great insight and care.
Third Place Winner: Caitlin Chatterton
Rockville High School, Vernon
Rockville High School, Vernon
Judge’s remarks:
I read this poem early in my judging process and my notes from that first review say it all: “What a beautiful poem!” It is rich in image – the “dark almond skin,” the “waves dancing,” the “breath still warm against my cheek” – but what strikes me most is the tenderness in the poem. The speaker is coming to know another person by following the lines of a tattoo and by understanding the father that tattoo honors. It is a poem of whispers and intimacy and one that takes the reader on a journey. And like all great poems, it rewards repeat readings, getting deeper each time through. This is an impressive accomplishment.
I read this poem early in my judging process and my notes from that first review say it all: “What a beautiful poem!” It is rich in image – the “dark almond skin,” the “waves dancing,” the “breath still warm against my cheek” – but what strikes me most is the tenderness in the poem. The speaker is coming to know another person by following the lines of a tattoo and by understanding the father that tattoo honors. It is a poem of whispers and intimacy and one that takes the reader on a journey. And like all great poems, it rewards repeat readings, getting deeper each time through. This is an impressive accomplishment.
Honorable Mention: Theo Mays
Westover School, Middlebury, CT
Westover School, Middlebury, CT
Judge’s remarks:
I found this poem just delightful. It plays with the odd and nearly impossible-to-say name of a city in New York State and uses it as a way of discovering another person in their own odd and idiosyncratic ways. I love how both maya and her hometown are revealed in the poem, and I love how the speaker lets the sneeze-like sound of Schenectady become an opportunity for showering their friend with blessings. It’s an intricate and surprising close to the poem.
I found this poem just delightful. It plays with the odd and nearly impossible-to-say name of a city in New York State and uses it as a way of discovering another person in their own odd and idiosyncratic ways. I love how both maya and her hometown are revealed in the poem, and I love how the speaker lets the sneeze-like sound of Schenectady become an opportunity for showering their friend with blessings. It’s an intricate and surprising close to the poem.
Honorable Mention: Aubrey Niederhoffer
Greenwich High School, Greenwich, CT
Greenwich High School, Greenwich, CT
Judge’s remarks:
This poem is deceptive in its simplicity. In its eight short lines it appears to be a poem that is just about a specific place. But as we read carefully we see that it is a poem about finding a view into a future, and about a “you” who never got to share that glimpse of life beyond the trees. I am moved by the speaker’s wish that things could be different and that they could go back and make it so. What a lovely piece of writing.
This poem is deceptive in its simplicity. In its eight short lines it appears to be a poem that is just about a specific place. But as we read carefully we see that it is a poem about finding a view into a future, and about a “you” who never got to share that glimpse of life beyond the trees. I am moved by the speaker’s wish that things could be different and that they could go back and make it so. What a lovely piece of writing.
Honorable Mention: Saturn Browne
Loomis Chafee School, Windsor
Loomis Chafee School, Windsor
Judge’s remarks:
This poem takes the reader so vividly into speaker’s experience of being a daughter. Many poems among the submissions expressed beautifully what it means to exist amid the expectations of parents and the shared longing for connection and understanding that we can have toward our families. I single out this poem for how the poet moves so adroitly between powerful details like “dates and gingko leaves” and a mother who sighs “and begins to clean” and then the larger
emotions of the speaker’s life. When the speaker addresses her mother directly at the close of the poem, my heart breaks for both of them.
This poem takes the reader so vividly into speaker’s experience of being a daughter. Many poems among the submissions expressed beautifully what it means to exist amid the expectations of parents and the shared longing for connection and understanding that we can have toward our families. I single out this poem for how the poet moves so adroitly between powerful details like “dates and gingko leaves” and a mother who sighs “and begins to clean” and then the larger
emotions of the speaker’s life. When the speaker addresses her mother directly at the close of the poem, my heart breaks for both of them.
Honorable Mention: Isaac Rivera
E.C. Goodwin Technical High School, New Britain
E.C. Goodwin Technical High School, New Britain
Judge’s remarks:
It’s hard to do a shape poem well, as we can get so caught up in making the shape from our words that we miss out on the opportunity to really say something. This poem does both things. It asks important questions of the human desire to domesticate animals, and it taught me things I didn’t know about sheep. Plus, the image this poet creates is beautiful in itself, and that little question mark at the end, making the delicate front hoof, is just genius. I love this.
It’s hard to do a shape poem well, as we can get so caught up in making the shape from our words that we miss out on the opportunity to really say something. This poem does both things. It asks important questions of the human desire to domesticate animals, and it taught me things I didn’t know about sheep. Plus, the image this poet creates is beautiful in itself, and that little question mark at the end, making the delicate front hoof, is just genius. I love this.
Honorable Mention: Iris Hida
Rockville High School, Vernon
Rockville High School, Vernon
Judge’s remarks:
This poem is so arresting in its specificity that I feel like I am there on the porch with the speaker and their father who watches the game and crushes out cigarettes. I appreciate how detailed the writer is in offering us the hands, the color, the immersion in the game, and finally the snippet of dialogue that says so much more than its few words. This is a vividly drawn portrait of a person and a place that is memorable and alive.
This poem is so arresting in its specificity that I feel like I am there on the porch with the speaker and their father who watches the game and crushes out cigarettes. I appreciate how detailed the writer is in offering us the hands, the color, the immersion in the game, and finally the snippet of dialogue that says so much more than its few words. This is a vividly drawn portrait of a person and a place that is memorable and alive.
Our 2023 Contest Judge, Vivé Griffith
Vivé Griffith is a poet and essayist, a teacher and educational leader and a builder of community. Her work centers on expanding opportunities for intellectual and creative community for a diverse cross-section of individuals and groups. From 2007-2016 she directed Free Minds, an affiliate of the Clemente Course in the Humanities, helping hundreds of adult students jumpstart their college education and explore their academic potential. She continues to work with Free Minds as its professor of creative writing and serves as Academic Director of Alumni Programming for the national Clemente Course. She holds an MFA from the Michener Center at UT Austin, an MA in English from the University of Cincinnati, and a BS in English and Economics from Vanderbilt University. She has taught poetry to everyone from kindergarteners to retirees, trained activists to write advocacy pieces, and was a volunteer mentor in the Veterans Writing Project. Her poetry, nonfiction and journalism have appeared in the Washington Post, The Sun, River Teeth, and Oxford American.
Vivé Griffith was a childhood friend of Lynn DeCaro, in whose memory this contest was established. She vividly recalls how they collaborated to solicit sponsorships in their hometown of New Milford, in support of a literary magazine which they launched as a pair of intrepid ten-year olds.
CPS is honored to have Vivé Griffith as judge of this year’s Lynn DeCaro competition.
Vivé Griffith was a childhood friend of Lynn DeCaro, in whose memory this contest was established. She vividly recalls how they collaborated to solicit sponsorships in their hometown of New Milford, in support of a literary magazine which they launched as a pair of intrepid ten-year olds.
CPS is honored to have Vivé Griffith as judge of this year’s Lynn DeCaro competition.
The Lynn DeCaro Contest 2022 Winners
The Lynn DeCaro Contest is a contest for Connecticut high school students that was set up in memory of Lynn DeCaro, a promising young CPS member who died of leukemia in 1986. It is made possible through the generous support of The Betty and Al DeCaro Family
Feel free to contact CPS Student Ambassador Caroline Osborn(caroline.osborn@student.region16ct.org) or Youth Outreach Coordinator Nancy Manning (nmanning@region16ct.org) with questions.
Feel free to contact CPS Student Ambassador Caroline Osborn(caroline.osborn@student.region16ct.org) or Youth Outreach Coordinator Nancy Manning (nmanning@region16ct.org) with questions.
Pit Menousek Pinegar is the 2022 Judge of the Lynn DeCaro Contest
Pit Menousek Pinegar is the author of three books of poetry, Nine Years between Two Poems, The Possibilities of Empty Space, and The Physics of Transmigration .For nearly twenty years, she was a teaching artist at The Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts and The Center for Creative Youth at Wesleyan University, the last several as chair of the Creative Writing Department. She directed the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival’s Urban Outreach Program for eighteen years. Pinegar has received the Governor’s Distinguished Advocate of the Arts Award and an artist’s fellowship in fiction from the Connecticut Commission on the Arts (now the Connecticut Commission on Culture and Tourism). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize six times and was a double-finalist in the Iron Horse Review’s Single Author Prose Competition. Her essays have been published in The Chicago Tribune, The Hartford Courant, and the Saudi Gazette, among other places. She is, too, a photographer, with special interests in candid portraits of artists and writers.
Pit Menousek Pinegar is the author of three books of poetry, Nine Years between Two Poems, The Possibilities of Empty Space, and The Physics of Transmigration .For nearly twenty years, she was a teaching artist at The Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts and The Center for Creative Youth at Wesleyan University, the last several as chair of the Creative Writing Department. She directed the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival’s Urban Outreach Program for eighteen years. Pinegar has received the Governor’s Distinguished Advocate of the Arts Award and an artist’s fellowship in fiction from the Connecticut Commission on the Arts (now the Connecticut Commission on Culture and Tourism). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize six times and was a double-finalist in the Iron Horse Review’s Single Author Prose Competition. Her essays have been published in The Chicago Tribune, The Hartford Courant, and the Saudi Gazette, among other places. She is, too, a photographer, with special interests in candid portraits of artists and writers.
Winners of the Lynn DeCaro Poetry Competition 2021
FIRST PLACE
At Gunpoint
Cindy Truong, Platt High School, Meriden
Before he shot Charlie between his eyes, he recognized:
Mud smeared yellow skin. His father’s vacant stare.
Last night’s boiled chicken. The camera in his peripheral
& the villager pressing banana leaves
to his gut. Mosquito netting. Baby teeth
in his breast pocket, men curling like shrimp
on cold fields, Americans soldiers invading
Vietnamese women behind tanks. A bloodless protest
by a burning monk. His father embracing him
and his medals. Firecrackers for New Year.
His captain and him sharing a whiskey. Lotuses
on ponds. Golden bones from the monk’s cremation,
incense burning, the son of an American officer
dousing himself in gasoline & after the fire
is extinguished, he can only say
I wanted to see what it felt like.
Judge’s Commentary
“At Gunpoint” displays, not just a masterful use of language and storytelling and a sensitivity to sound, but also an adept eye with an ability to see details that in a less skilled observer would go unnoticed. The poem immediately grabs the reader, placing them in the middle of a destabilizing event, “Before he shot Charlie between his eyes….” It then unfolds backwards with a careful presentation of scenes that are both unexpected and somehow oddly necessary. I was particularly taken by the specificity of the details and the beauty of the descriptions, some seemingly mundane, such as “Last night’s boiled chicken,” and others more poignant, such as “men curling like shrimp/ on cold fields, American soldiers invading/ women behind tanks,” all made more powerful by the use of restraint. I was also taken by the keen use of line and stanza breaks. For example, by separating “His father embracing him” and “and his medals,” with a stanza break, the medals take on greater importance. Finally, by placing the last line in its own stanza, the reader gets to take a breath and ponder before being left breathless.
SECOND PLACE
Envy
Kaylin Maher, Rockville High School, Vernon
I remember when Nana cooed tales of her longevity.
She showed us her rusted jades that managed
to withstand what our bodies could not.
We promised that our ribs would prod
through our chests before we let our jades tarnish.
I asked you to be my seamstress.
Make me your muse,
pluck the cellulite from my bones,
stitch my porcelain together.
The first time your spool and needle graced my thigh
I was twelve.
Even after you closed the seams
between my stretch marks,
I'd still pick at the parts
that spilled over my chair.
Don't let skin seep through the sutures.
You'd watch my fork waltz around my plate.
I´d still butter my toast and wash my untainted silverware.
I couldn't tell you how honey felt on my tongue,
what the tang of lemon tasted like,
or what was for supper last night.
All I could remember was
your calf was smaller than the leg of the kitchen table
and mine wasn't.
Judge’s Commentary
“Envy” is a heartbreakingly beautiful, horrifying, powerful, and important poem. The first line puts the reader in what is expected to be a warm and comforting place—a grandmother telling stories and sharing priced mementos, but this image is then turned on its side. Suddenly, the speaker is making a pact with an unidentified “you” to live up to an unhealthy, anorexic idea of beauty. In my mind, the “you” is likely a sister, though it could also be a mother, or some other female close to the speaker. At the same time, by the poet using the pronoun “you” in the poem, we, the readers, become more than just distant observers. We become part of the conspiracy that places undue value on a girl’s looks and conveys to girls that they must be unrealistically thin. However, the poem is in no way preachy. Rather, its strength lies in its delicate use of language and gorgeous, mostly traditionally feminine metaphors and imagery to convey its message: “I asked you to be my seamstress./ Make me your muse,/ pluck the cellulite from my bones,/ stitch my porcelain together.” While the girl’s thighs are being trimmed and stitched, the reader’s heart is unraveling. Like the fork around the plate, the language of the poem waltzes intensely from one scene to another, building on the speaker’s obsession, and the you’s con-conspiracy, to end in the speaker being dissatisfied that her calf is not “smaller than the leg of the kitchen table.”
THIRD PLACE
A Walk in Glacier National Park
Emma Blanchet, Rockville High School, Vernon
Pebble /ˈpebəl/ My thumb pushes over the smooth surface. The dead weight lifts off my hand, entering the air in its absolute perfection, just to fall right back in my palm. Water eroded away its jagged edges leaving only a polished ovular complexion. I’ll always search for how you ended up here. I place it back into its puzzle piece of others just like it & wade my way into the water.
Criticism /ˈkridəˌsizəm/ You’re barking at me. I am aware of my imperfections, you don't have to announce your reflection. No, I don't want to take your interpretation of my way of living. It’s mine, stop wanting to change it, to shape it like your own. You're corroding my curiosity. Every suggestion makes me tense. I like it the way it is. I’m not listening!
Inquisitive /inˈkwizədiv/ The mind wanders over the transparent lake. Past the cut mountains into the forest of wonders. Life lives behind the scenes. I want to explore it. I bet it is beautiful. A happy place full of promises & self reflection. I’m eager to discover what is within that life. Such a different one than I am living now. Each species lives their own way, following their own course. I’m dying to find out what it’s like.
Fixation /fikˈsāSH(ə)n/ I’m staring at a tree. The outline has such sharp edges. It’s cutting into the sky. Let the atmosphere be...Let it be. Let it be. The rocks on the wall. The rock wall. Why did nothing smooth you out? Why did the waterfall just let you cut it? Let the water stream! Let it be. Let it be. I can’t fix it, so why am I hung up? It would sting more if I were in the sea.
Majestic /məˈjestik/ I pluck a round pedal off the iris by the lake. I make a little pattern of yellow & soft pink. They float on the clear waters only moving a little. The great waterfall above me creates only small ripples. It's incredibly impressive how the lake takes the pain so beautifully. I’m proud of it, creating its own aqueous kingdom all by itself.
Fester /ˈfestər/ It ticks in my brain over & over. It won’t leave me alone. Planted & flourishing, attempting & succeeding to infiltrate every aspect of my life. I’ve neglected it for so long it has no choice but to nag me, to intensify it’s weep until I listen. I push it down into its wallows. I sit here scratching at the sore until the cut turns to a gash & it pours over.
Tranquility /traNGˈkwilədē/ The fall of the water silences all thoughts. Its rush tickles my toes as I saturate. My head rests against a rock. My hair floats on the seal of the water. Strands separate in their own silky way. Goldfish tails brush against my legs. I let them, they are no trouble. I am pleasantly surprised I am quiet enough from them not to be afraid. Yet again, I am not afraid of what is next in my journey. I am at peace with life. All is calm & I am content.
Valid /ˈvaləd/ You’re not good enough. Your problems aren’t real. Stop pretending like they are. You do nothing justifiable. The fact that you have to convince yourself of it will never be apt for the real world. All the evidence is in your head, you can’t substantiate emotions. Past that, the only one who can defend your argument is yourself. Shut up.
Satisfaction /ˌsadəsˈfakSH(ə)n/
Judge’s Commentary
A good poem stays with the reader and leaves them thinking. That is precisely what happened to me with “A Walk in Glacier National Park.” The day after reading it for the first time, I woke up thinking about it. There is so much to like about this poem. I was particularly taken by the poet’s use of form to create movement. The poem takes us, not just on a walk through a national park, but through parts of the speaker’s internal and external life. Each “vocabulary word” comes alive in fresh and interesting ways. Each definition takes the reader through a journey that doesn’t just apply the word to the immediate situation but goes beyond it. For example, the poem starts with the word “pebble,” discussing a pebble the speaker has picked up. However, when the poem says, “I’ll always search for how you ended up here,” we get the feeling that the speaker is talking about more than just a pebble. I was impressed with the way the poem meanders through smooth and rough patches, through calm moments, difficult moments, and happy moments, adeptly employing sound as well as metaphorical language and imagery to layer meaning, so that each time we visit the poem, we are able to learn something new.
HONORABLE MENTION
Her Baby
Shui Se Phoe, Westminster School, Simsbury
It must have started the night the house caught on fire
her baby alone inside
and she wondered if her baby even knew
what fire was
and the man who rescued her baby
sometimes I try to picture
what the burns on his back must look like
if the skin still itches sometimes and struggles
against the flames that had once embraced it
and if the veins have grown enough yet to form
the stretching branches of a young tree
she once told me a songbird must eat and drink
but it must also whistle and sing
and for that
it needs air
and now I think everything needs air
even a harp
after it is abandoned
waits forever for a breeze
to pass through and play it
bandaging a burn protects it for a while
but as the burn heals
even the skin starts to want
to breathe
Judge’s Commentary
A good poem needs to have a strong beginning, strong ending, and cause a shift in the reader’s mind. “Her Baby” does that and more. I was impressed by the musicality of the language, the beautiful images, and the journey the poem takes. Lines such as “and if the veins have grown enough yet to form/ the stretching branches of a young tree,” and “even a harp/ after it is abandoned/ waits forever for a breeze/ to pass through and play it” are just stunning. However, a poem requires more than just beautiful language and imagery, and “Her Baby” delivers with its strong beginning about a fire, then it takes turns in every stanza, going from the fire, to nature imagery, to the need for air, and returning to the concept of fire in a way that is now changed in the reader’s mind.
At Gunpoint
Cindy Truong, Platt High School, Meriden
Before he shot Charlie between his eyes, he recognized:
Mud smeared yellow skin. His father’s vacant stare.
Last night’s boiled chicken. The camera in his peripheral
& the villager pressing banana leaves
to his gut. Mosquito netting. Baby teeth
in his breast pocket, men curling like shrimp
on cold fields, Americans soldiers invading
Vietnamese women behind tanks. A bloodless protest
by a burning monk. His father embracing him
and his medals. Firecrackers for New Year.
His captain and him sharing a whiskey. Lotuses
on ponds. Golden bones from the monk’s cremation,
incense burning, the son of an American officer
dousing himself in gasoline & after the fire
is extinguished, he can only say
I wanted to see what it felt like.
Judge’s Commentary
“At Gunpoint” displays, not just a masterful use of language and storytelling and a sensitivity to sound, but also an adept eye with an ability to see details that in a less skilled observer would go unnoticed. The poem immediately grabs the reader, placing them in the middle of a destabilizing event, “Before he shot Charlie between his eyes….” It then unfolds backwards with a careful presentation of scenes that are both unexpected and somehow oddly necessary. I was particularly taken by the specificity of the details and the beauty of the descriptions, some seemingly mundane, such as “Last night’s boiled chicken,” and others more poignant, such as “men curling like shrimp/ on cold fields, American soldiers invading/ women behind tanks,” all made more powerful by the use of restraint. I was also taken by the keen use of line and stanza breaks. For example, by separating “His father embracing him” and “and his medals,” with a stanza break, the medals take on greater importance. Finally, by placing the last line in its own stanza, the reader gets to take a breath and ponder before being left breathless.
SECOND PLACE
Envy
Kaylin Maher, Rockville High School, Vernon
I remember when Nana cooed tales of her longevity.
She showed us her rusted jades that managed
to withstand what our bodies could not.
We promised that our ribs would prod
through our chests before we let our jades tarnish.
I asked you to be my seamstress.
Make me your muse,
pluck the cellulite from my bones,
stitch my porcelain together.
The first time your spool and needle graced my thigh
I was twelve.
Even after you closed the seams
between my stretch marks,
I'd still pick at the parts
that spilled over my chair.
Don't let skin seep through the sutures.
You'd watch my fork waltz around my plate.
I´d still butter my toast and wash my untainted silverware.
I couldn't tell you how honey felt on my tongue,
what the tang of lemon tasted like,
or what was for supper last night.
All I could remember was
your calf was smaller than the leg of the kitchen table
and mine wasn't.
Judge’s Commentary
“Envy” is a heartbreakingly beautiful, horrifying, powerful, and important poem. The first line puts the reader in what is expected to be a warm and comforting place—a grandmother telling stories and sharing priced mementos, but this image is then turned on its side. Suddenly, the speaker is making a pact with an unidentified “you” to live up to an unhealthy, anorexic idea of beauty. In my mind, the “you” is likely a sister, though it could also be a mother, or some other female close to the speaker. At the same time, by the poet using the pronoun “you” in the poem, we, the readers, become more than just distant observers. We become part of the conspiracy that places undue value on a girl’s looks and conveys to girls that they must be unrealistically thin. However, the poem is in no way preachy. Rather, its strength lies in its delicate use of language and gorgeous, mostly traditionally feminine metaphors and imagery to convey its message: “I asked you to be my seamstress./ Make me your muse,/ pluck the cellulite from my bones,/ stitch my porcelain together.” While the girl’s thighs are being trimmed and stitched, the reader’s heart is unraveling. Like the fork around the plate, the language of the poem waltzes intensely from one scene to another, building on the speaker’s obsession, and the you’s con-conspiracy, to end in the speaker being dissatisfied that her calf is not “smaller than the leg of the kitchen table.”
THIRD PLACE
A Walk in Glacier National Park
Emma Blanchet, Rockville High School, Vernon
Pebble /ˈpebəl/ My thumb pushes over the smooth surface. The dead weight lifts off my hand, entering the air in its absolute perfection, just to fall right back in my palm. Water eroded away its jagged edges leaving only a polished ovular complexion. I’ll always search for how you ended up here. I place it back into its puzzle piece of others just like it & wade my way into the water.
Criticism /ˈkridəˌsizəm/ You’re barking at me. I am aware of my imperfections, you don't have to announce your reflection. No, I don't want to take your interpretation of my way of living. It’s mine, stop wanting to change it, to shape it like your own. You're corroding my curiosity. Every suggestion makes me tense. I like it the way it is. I’m not listening!
Inquisitive /inˈkwizədiv/ The mind wanders over the transparent lake. Past the cut mountains into the forest of wonders. Life lives behind the scenes. I want to explore it. I bet it is beautiful. A happy place full of promises & self reflection. I’m eager to discover what is within that life. Such a different one than I am living now. Each species lives their own way, following their own course. I’m dying to find out what it’s like.
Fixation /fikˈsāSH(ə)n/ I’m staring at a tree. The outline has such sharp edges. It’s cutting into the sky. Let the atmosphere be...Let it be. Let it be. The rocks on the wall. The rock wall. Why did nothing smooth you out? Why did the waterfall just let you cut it? Let the water stream! Let it be. Let it be. I can’t fix it, so why am I hung up? It would sting more if I were in the sea.
Majestic /məˈjestik/ I pluck a round pedal off the iris by the lake. I make a little pattern of yellow & soft pink. They float on the clear waters only moving a little. The great waterfall above me creates only small ripples. It's incredibly impressive how the lake takes the pain so beautifully. I’m proud of it, creating its own aqueous kingdom all by itself.
Fester /ˈfestər/ It ticks in my brain over & over. It won’t leave me alone. Planted & flourishing, attempting & succeeding to infiltrate every aspect of my life. I’ve neglected it for so long it has no choice but to nag me, to intensify it’s weep until I listen. I push it down into its wallows. I sit here scratching at the sore until the cut turns to a gash & it pours over.
Tranquility /traNGˈkwilədē/ The fall of the water silences all thoughts. Its rush tickles my toes as I saturate. My head rests against a rock. My hair floats on the seal of the water. Strands separate in their own silky way. Goldfish tails brush against my legs. I let them, they are no trouble. I am pleasantly surprised I am quiet enough from them not to be afraid. Yet again, I am not afraid of what is next in my journey. I am at peace with life. All is calm & I am content.
Valid /ˈvaləd/ You’re not good enough. Your problems aren’t real. Stop pretending like they are. You do nothing justifiable. The fact that you have to convince yourself of it will never be apt for the real world. All the evidence is in your head, you can’t substantiate emotions. Past that, the only one who can defend your argument is yourself. Shut up.
Satisfaction /ˌsadəsˈfakSH(ə)n/
- noun fulfillment of one's wishes, expectations, or needs, or the pleasure derived from this. synonyms: contentment, contentedness, pleasure, gratification, happiness, sense of well-being, pride, sense of achievement, delight, triumph, self-content.
Judge’s Commentary
A good poem stays with the reader and leaves them thinking. That is precisely what happened to me with “A Walk in Glacier National Park.” The day after reading it for the first time, I woke up thinking about it. There is so much to like about this poem. I was particularly taken by the poet’s use of form to create movement. The poem takes us, not just on a walk through a national park, but through parts of the speaker’s internal and external life. Each “vocabulary word” comes alive in fresh and interesting ways. Each definition takes the reader through a journey that doesn’t just apply the word to the immediate situation but goes beyond it. For example, the poem starts with the word “pebble,” discussing a pebble the speaker has picked up. However, when the poem says, “I’ll always search for how you ended up here,” we get the feeling that the speaker is talking about more than just a pebble. I was impressed with the way the poem meanders through smooth and rough patches, through calm moments, difficult moments, and happy moments, adeptly employing sound as well as metaphorical language and imagery to layer meaning, so that each time we visit the poem, we are able to learn something new.
HONORABLE MENTION
Her Baby
Shui Se Phoe, Westminster School, Simsbury
It must have started the night the house caught on fire
her baby alone inside
and she wondered if her baby even knew
what fire was
and the man who rescued her baby
sometimes I try to picture
what the burns on his back must look like
if the skin still itches sometimes and struggles
against the flames that had once embraced it
and if the veins have grown enough yet to form
the stretching branches of a young tree
she once told me a songbird must eat and drink
but it must also whistle and sing
and for that
it needs air
and now I think everything needs air
even a harp
after it is abandoned
waits forever for a breeze
to pass through and play it
bandaging a burn protects it for a while
but as the burn heals
even the skin starts to want
to breathe
Judge’s Commentary
A good poem needs to have a strong beginning, strong ending, and cause a shift in the reader’s mind. “Her Baby” does that and more. I was impressed by the musicality of the language, the beautiful images, and the journey the poem takes. Lines such as “and if the veins have grown enough yet to form/ the stretching branches of a young tree,” and “even a harp/ after it is abandoned/ waits forever for a breeze/ to pass through and play it” are just stunning. However, a poem requires more than just beautiful language and imagery, and “Her Baby” delivers with its strong beginning about a fire, then it takes turns in every stanza, going from the fire, to nature imagery, to the need for air, and returning to the concept of fire in a way that is now changed in the reader’s mind.
Connecticut Poetry Society
The Connecticut Poetry Society is pleased to offer the following Poetry Competition
LYNN DECARO POETRY COMPETITION
In memory of Lynn DeCaro, a promising young
CPS member who died of leukemia in 1986
Made possible through the generous support of
The Betty and Allen DeCaro Family
Submission Period: January 1, 2021 to March 15, 2021
Open to Connecticut Student Poets in Grades 9-12
Prizes: 1st $100, 2nd $50, 3rd $25
Click this Link:
Submission via Submittable on line only- no paper submissions
Scroll down the page to Lynn Decaro
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Julie Choffel Judge for
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2019 Lynn DeCaro Contest WinnersWinners of the 2019 Lynn DeCaro Connecticut High School Student Poetry Competition
Judge: Laurel Peterson •FIRST PLACE Alan Kurdi By Skylar Haines You have one ear tilted towards the sky so you can hear heaven’s call, but the other ear remains pressed into the ground because you will never stop hearing the rattle of barrel bombs causing the world to shake or the waves of the Mediterranean Sea washing away the bomb-shells. Your arm presses into the pebbles and empty scallops, as your left palm lies open. What are your reaching for? You’ve made it Alan. You made it. Was it all that you thought it would be, troops welcoming you to shore with blankets and formaldehyde? Your small body is inflated with swallowed sea salt, but your mother would say she would rather have thrashing waves fill your lungs than tear gas invade them. There wasn’t a drop of blood when they found you because your blood never had the chance to flow. Life was taken from you, with the war sirens blaring the moment you entered this world. Your exit, was heard everywhere. All those you lost in Syria- they are buried deep in the soil among wreckage, but you are still above lying in the beauty of beach tides and the shutters of light. They try to capture you, bend cameras toward your toes pointing still toward the ocean, but you are rushed away with other bodies quickly, like the 5 minutes you were on that boat. 5 minutes. But you still made it, Alan. You made it. Note: This poem was written in response to the heart-breaking image of three-year-old Syrian boy Alan Kurdi, who drowned in September 2015 in the Mediterranean Sea, as his family was trying to escape the violence in their country. Commentary on “Alan Kurdi” by Judge Laurel Peterson: Many elements make this poem powerful, even without the context the author provides. Images like “you have one ear tilted towards the sky/so you can hear heaven’s call,” which contrasts with the shocking “rattle of barrel bombs”; “shutters of light,” which resonates with the shudders we feel from the horror of the poem; and “thrashing waves,” which captures our attention and break our hearts. In addition, the “shutters of light” image puts us firmly in the seat of a predatory observer, there to capture an image, there for the pleasure of the shock. We are indicted, simply by our passive observation. The contrasts the writer uses, such as “blankets and formaldehyde” show us what Alan Kurdi—and by extension all refugees—hope for and the end that many come to, which is reinforced by the irony of the refrain of “You made it, Alan. You made it.” Alliterations such as hear/heaven’s, barrel/bombs, presses/pebbles/palm and swallowed/sea/salt and war/world as well as the assonances of rather/have/thrashing/gas make the moment the writer portrays deeply sensory. That sensory experience makes us feel the writer’s indictment of our indifference to the plight of so many in our world who are desperate for peace and stability. This is clearly a talented young writer. I hope they pursue their love of language and poetry as they continue their education. Bravo. •SECOND PLACE: weightless by Kayla Simon i. you have cuts on your hands carved by your own fingertips and a burn from back when you could still stomach toast for breakfast, back when you could still stomach the image of your ribcage in mirrored glass. now you shake when your mother boils water on the stove and it’s been almost three years but you’re not doing better, not really. and it’s so easy to lie when someone asks if you’ve eaten that maybe you can convince your own body it’s not starving. ii. in chasing the absence of ourselves the darkness turns us into angels we don’t fear falling, no, we just want to know where we’ll land and will the ground shake and will our wings be heavy enough to weigh us down, and if God asked you if you’ve eaten yet today what would you say? Commentary on “weightless” by Judge Laurel Peterson: This sequential poem startles, saddens and horrifies us by showing us the experience of an anorexic. The lowercase letters show the lack of a developed identity in the observed, except for the desire for absence. We are introduced in the first stanza to all sorts of cooking language: carved, burn, stomach, toast, breakfast, boils, stove, eaten, starving. We are shocked that boiling water can be such a powerful trigger for the observed, and we participate in the obsessive nature of their thoughts in the run-on nature of the stanza’s language. As well, the writer is aware of form, contrasting the first section that is a paragraph, which has density and mass, with the second with turns into couplets with their spaces between them, showing us the weightlessness that is desired and that perhaps comes with being an angel rather than a human. The writer uses alliteration—breakfast/back, still/stomach, burn/back; cuts/carved/ absence/angels, fear/falling—as well as the final ending rhyme of today/say to reinforce the intense imagery. The second stanza takes us into death. Anorexia ultimately results in death or “absence,” but the author here plays on heaviness versus lightness: the ground shaking, the weight of wings, falling, God’s question about whether or not “you” is caring for Their creation. Finally, the author leaves us with a powerful question about the anorexic’s willingness (we think) to lie not only to self but also to God to achieve this weightlessness. The power is a powerful exposure to the pain of this illness, and leads us to compassion, which is what we hope good poetry will do. •THIRD PLACE Revelation by Krista Mitchell In the snow, there are streaks, footsteps where no one has gone. She is not home yet, so I know that the well will freeze over. If the gray sky was to turn, I know it would fall in seeds of wheat and fractals of glass into mahogany wine. Rhythms, ebbing tides, pulsating in confined, tense patterns, dictate the cynical magnets that stretch the ocean under my every move, so I know I am watched. Like a tissue on a silver bell, the security of reality could be drawn away to bare me to the rawness underneath at any minute, second, now. I see, in infinitely random patterns, the pinpoints that flutter in the sky, and someone sings Cielito Lindo, Cielito Lindo over and over again. Alone, a blackbird rises into le ciel. I know the day will rest its shoulder on me, that this moment of bitter stillness will soon be over, blind in my eyes, seared by the sun. I stand up and drag my red sled up to the house, and the world begins to move again. •Commentary on “Revelation” by Judge Laurel Peterson: This poem starts us off lying on our backs in the snow with the persona, looking upwards at the sky after falling off a sled; from this vantage point, the author provides a meditation on aloneness, a moment where the world is falling apart, sort of like the fragmentary snowflakes falling all around them. The writer effectively uses elements of form such as the internal rhymes of snow/streaks, gone/home, fall/fractals, bitter/blind seared/sun; as well as the double-spacing which gives us a sense of the momentarily suspended nature of the thoughts drifting through the persona’s mind as they watch the snow fall and feel themselves disembodied, fractured from the real world. By the end of the poem, the world has righted itself, but we experience the persona’s terror at the rending, especially through images such as “the well will freeze over”; “I know I am watched”; “like tissue on a silver bell,/ the security of reality could be drawn away”; “the day will rest its shoulder on me”; and the lonely blackbird rising into the sky. A lovely depiction of a moment. HONORABLE MENTION Moab Postcard By Liza Freeman Sandstone proofs like dough, thousands of years poured into the half-baking of arches that fracture and rise like bubbles on the sunburnt desert crust. I rest here, breathe in sunscreen rather than flour. I could be the only person for miles, though you are here with me, staining the hem of my new leggings, clinging like the brick cinnamon dust we know to take hours of fruitless scrubbing to fade neat and rosy. There is no coming back, not to the same place it was before, not when we have cracked and matured under the clementine sun and been left to bleach colorless, our souls to whet the insatiable desert’s ruby appetite. Do you remember the sagebrush, the thistle, the cacti, how we held hands with the only green seen for miles, terrified of letting go? The fear is reduced like the wine we nicked; now it is lukewarm water that graces my lips. I’ll wait for you at the crest of the next rise, until my skin crackles, until the bloody sky darkens and peers at me through eyes forged by loops of stone that are anything but delicate; until I understand the true meaning behind desert solitaire. •Commentary on “Moab Postcard” by Judge Laurel Peterson: This poem gives us a surprising opening image—“sandstone proofs like dough”—connecting initially through color rather than action. The writer keeps this metaphor of baking going through the first full stanza and into the second. In the third we get a turn from the current moment the persona is living to the poignancy of not being able to relive any part of our lives. Images like “rise like bubbles on the sunburnt desert crust”; “brick cinnamon dust”; “desert’s ruby appetite”; “skin crackles”; and “bloody sky darkens” reinforce how harsh the revelation is to the persona that we are all finally alone. HONORABLE MENTION La Esperanza By Michelle Mule Beside the old house in the dry wasteland, A brick hotel hugs The yellow wood: La Esperanza. Alejandro sits outside. His dark mustache cling Idly to a thick cigar; His hands hang low, His mouth ajar. Liquid darker than his ebony pickup Spills silently from the glass bottle Tilting carelessly off the truck bed. Suddenly he tilt his head; His parched senses Taste the thick gasoline Of an oncoming car—A passerby, a city man, He leans back into the flatbed. In the orange hour, His dark irises reflect The dimming sun Like gleaming wet roads Lit by soft city lights. Alejandro watches As the sun putters out Along the cold sloping hills. •Commentary on La Esperanza by Judge Laurel Peterson: This is a beautiful, precise depiction of a moment. We are given Alejandro, drinking his beer as the sun sets, his circumstances in the “old house in the dry/wasteland”; the car with the “city/man”; Alejandro’s hiding himself by leaning “back into the flatbed.” By the end of the poem, the sun is “dimming” and then it “putters out/along the cold sloping/hills,” and we come to understand “La Esperanza” of the title is meant ironically, because here there is no hope at all. This writer does a masterful job of communicating that lack of hope just through their images. Bravo. 2018 Lynn DeCaro Contest Winners
 Contest Judge Brent Terry
Judge: Brent Terry
Winners: Eva Familia, Molly Galusha, Eliza Browning Brent Terry holds an MFA from Bennington College. His poems, stories, journalism, essays and reviews have appeared in dozens of periodicals. He is the author of the poetry collections, yesnomaybe (Main Street Rag) and Wicked, Excellently (Word Tech). Among the honors he has garnished are a fellowship from the Connecticut Arts and Tourism Board and the 2017 Connecticut Poetry Prize. Terry has worked with writers of all ages and abilities, and currently teaches creative writing and literature at Eastern Connecticut State University.
Winners -Connecticut Poetry Society
Lynn DeCaro Contest 2018 •FIRST PLACE Bott’s Farm Benington, England Eva Familia The mud-speckled ‘Bug’ jogs to life, and we test the ancient engine with our weight, whizzing up and down hills into plotted farms. Sarah and I stand in the backseat, fingers curled white around the roof rack, the sunset’s great yolk haloing Thomas’ blond head, his hair whipping like a flag. Blotched by hay and freckled with sheep, the countryside races past, stretches a living emblem further than my eyes can follow. Oh, it could have been the three of us here, Milena, with your crisping curls, and, Dan, with your quiet assurance-- how we’d whoop and seize the land like conquistadors with rosaries round our necks, lay claim to the fields of harvested wheat, the open meadows zigzagged by hedgerows, the private airfield with the short runways for Cessnas, their props humming late into the evening. I want to show you the barn-- the horses huddled like crows, the calves licking mud from our wellies, and the tabby cat trailing behind us—small once we drove on, same as when we said our goodbyes: a place that led my mind back home, here on the road to El Dorado, searching for gold. I’ll bring some back for you. Commentary from Brent Terry, Contest Judge The winning poem, Bott’s Farm, begins, “The mud-speckled ‘Bug’ jogs to life, and wetest/ the ancient engine with our weight….” Say that line-and-a-half aloud, let your tongue andear share the pleasure your eye has already experienced, and you will already know a great deal about what makes this poem so exceptional. The music of these lines is pure delight, and everything that drives the poem sonically is evident in the first phrase, from the two quick, three beat volleys, “Mud-speckled ‘Bug’” and “jogs to life,” to the delicious-tasting consonants of “speckled,” “Bug,” and “jog” coming in quick succession, to the little cliff-hanger of a pause created by enjambing the word “test” at the end of line one. This attention to sound is what lays the groundwork for everything else that makes the poem succeed: the sly and surprising metaphors, (“sunset’s great yolk”) the delicious and totally unexpected verbs, (“blotched,” “freckled,” “zigzagged”) the specific details that bring a reader inclose and make the world of the poem seem real. Such as this section, “—the horses huddled like crows, the calves licking mud/ from our wellies, and the tabby cat trailing/ behind us—”which hums with not only that gorgeous music, but also a transfixing actuality (wellies!) that both grounds and liberates us, allows us to feel like we know these characters, allows us to join in the bittersweet mix of joy, regret and budding nostalgia that well up in the voice of the speaker and drive this heartbreakingly beautiful poem. Golden El Dorado, indeed! •SECOND PLACE Steep Change your form and you change your nature. —Louise Glück Molly Galusha Ribbons of steam unfurl from a ceramic mug. Color seeping from a teabag, the purple petals unfold into their own becoming. Disturb them and the ocean darkens, violet, fruity, no longer water, like the girl who said nothing but always listened until the day she told me her name. Commentary from Brent Terry, Contest Judge Our second-place poem, the glittering Steep,is an absolute jewel, a short poem that manages to ensnare and transport the reader to a place much bigger, much less ordinary than one would think possible, given its deceptive brevity. The construction of the poem is ingenious. It begins with four lines describing in vivid synaesthetic detail the cup of tea. The fifth line is transitional, a door of sorts that opens into the final four lines and the girl, once lost behind a veil of steam and silence, now revealed. A brilliant short poem is an exceedingly difficult thing to write. Every line, every image, every word is asked to do so much, is asked to be perfect. The words thatmake up this poem are very nearly that, not a syllable or image extra, nothing wasted. From the description of the tea itself, (“Ribbons of steam unfurl/from a ceramic mug,” “purple petals/unfold into their own becoming”) to the girl “who always listened,” every word is airtight. It is this attention to craft, this gem-cutter’s immaculate eye and steady hand, that allow us to become so quickly lost in the poem’s beauty, to arrive at the last line full of both a sense of wonder and a sense of inevitability. •THIRD PLACE Ophelia Eliza Browning Little sister, we are all grieving the loss of something unknown. Each morning you climb out fresh from slumber and whole from all the promises I have broken. When August came you wept over a dried fish, as if you couldn’t bear the loss of something that had swum in the same water as us two, bathed in the same fractured light. Little sister, do you remember how I first held your hands when you learned no one will love you while you’re still living. You lay back in the long grass and let the fields ripple around you like the stillness before death. In the deep end, drowning. Your voice in my head after all these hours and the crackle of streetlights like a surge of lost summer, vanished into bliss. Little sister, where we live radio static is as foreign to you as birdsong. I wander the streets all night and wake up to a different world. Rocks on a grave in the middle of nowhere, the different ways the living dream themselves out of existence. I have become used to falling, how I would pull you from the water again and again and swear to always let you go. Commentary from Brent Terry, Contest Judge Ophelia, our bewitching third place winner, occupies a shadow world, one that is part metaphor, part literary allusion, and perhaps, part real life. How much of the poem is actual, how much allusive, ceases to matter almost immediately, as the reader is drawn into a beautiful and tragic realm where the speaker carries on a conversation with her drowned sister. Or the drowned sister speaks to the living one. We cannot be absolutely certain, as both worlds are so convincingly evoked, blend into a hypnagogia where each world is equally present, equally real. Whoever is speaking, the conversation is an ongoing and exquisitely detailed one, as in these lines: “Each morning/you climb out fresh from slumber and/ whole from all the promises I have broken./ When August came you wept over a dried fish,/as if you couldn’t bear the loss of something/that had swum in the same water as us two,/bathed in the same fractured light.”The myriad specific details locate the reader, but they locate us in an in-between world, aplace dreamlike and hyper-real all at the same time, and the poem traps us here, disoriented, enraptured, and very sad, long after we have read the last word. A line from the poem itself shows best, perhaps, how a reader feels upon finishing it. “Your voice in my head/after all these hours and the crackle of streetlights/ like a surge of lost summer, vanished into bliss.” Lynn DeCaro Poetry Competition
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Judge for the 2019 Lynn DeCaro Contest
Laurel S. Peterson is a Professor of English at Norwalk Community College. Her poetry has been published in many small literary journals. She has two poetry chapbooks: That’s the Way the Music Sounds, from Finishing Line Press (2009) and Talking to the Mirror from The Last Automat Press (2010). She also co-edited a collection of essays on women’s justice titled (Re)Interpretations: The Shapes of Justice in Women’s Experience (2009). Her mystery novel, Shadow Notes, was released by Barking Rain Press (May 2016). A full length collection of poetry, Do You Expect Your Art to Answer You? was released by Futurecycle Press in 2017. She is the current poet laureate of Norwalk, CT. Contest SponsorshipsConnecticut Poetry Society Lynn DeCaro Contest 2018 •HONORABLE MENTION Woman’s Way Arielle Belluck תשובה (Teshuva) The truth is, I am not sorry. I will not apologize For the skirt that hangs above my knees Or the lipstick tinged with feminism. I will not sit shiva For your pride And the angelic little faces In your wallet-sized photo album. You say, “Honey, a little teshuva never hurt a soul” But Grandma, Teshuva does not mean “repent” It means “return” And I am not sorry for moving forward. You can toss all the breadcrumbs you want Into the stream With a “Baruch atah Adonai” for each damn one. My woman knees refuse to buckle Even for a god. So you are welcome at my Seder. But know that in my home The gefilte fish are seasoned with rebellion And we do things just slightly Out of order. •HONORABLE MENTION My Walnut-Half Parents in Spain Sophie Collins Streetlights, I’m a shepherd, got little ones reluctant and buzzing, mostly two-footed With some swinging arms Pied piper peeping somewhere down the line but I’m here For a thread between us all, silken lustre taut and winking Makes its way to tie; make that piping dissonant and far, far off, Like safety does I do I wander too And in some space I speak to Self like plaza walker one of many Battered light on well worn stones of time Dappled with streetlight butter Constituent of unity smallness in brevity Of first-meetings shallow time for love before sinking into spacetime’s heaviest I speak to Self and excite loopily when Someone speaks to Me, like horses buck when flies flutter right into their wet eyes Otherwise, staunchly whipping tails with only perfect twitches; meditative reflex of independent thought Little one words shudder in their sound waves Susurrar, to whisper, sounds like a whisper, victory for Spanish phonetics On a dim light streets where my walnut-half parents hold hands, Attentively unaware enraptured a rhapsodized Hyperactive stillness tranquil vibrant Where are they wandering? We all walk “home” And they have wandered together to that place of longevity Enduring youthfulness in love; trim life contentedness My mother’s love is colored deeply warmly I know because she runs her hands through my father’s hair and deposits all the love His hair doesn’t gray in love Inside of love A state of mind In a streetlamp hums another mundane world of plaza particles with affinities Magnitude of magnet love, a shock of love and light flickers on a street tempered shortly short tempered forever bulbs of Love •HONORABLE MENTION Moose Ashley Fischer A little girl swings from the antlers of her friend, His horns holding up her world. It isn’t too late, though a little cold. Does her hat and coat keep her warm? He stays still as stone, eyes following each swing. The moose is there to protect, And be sure she does not smell the smoke or the filth of their breath. Her parents came home drunk today, So he knows to keep her safe and away. A girl swings from the antlers of her friend. •HONORABLE MENTION The Sum of a College Party Julia Somma If I learned anything from tenth-grade math, it's that everything is an equation. Arms out plus palms wide equals saying sorry like you hadn’t planned to do it. But now I go to uni, and take Advanced Calc III, so the problems get harder to solve. My senior mentors tell me, “Balance the equationplug in zero for X,” so I give X a bottle of zero and watch the equation solve itself. Watch the small fraction of open eyes close. Zero over zero, slowly diminishing until it is simple. The only variable left is me- I take her to our study room. No one pays attention to a solo cup with a baseball hat. Invisible because I do not want to be seen. Pushing her down on the green beanbag, smeared lip gloss and limp hands, I stand proud, knowing I’m going to get an A on this test. Commentary on Poems Receiving Honorable Mention from Brent Terry, Contest Judge The four poems chosen for honorable mention exemplify the many different ways a poem can work, the musics they can make, the places they can take us. Each of these poems is radically different from the others, but each does its own thing terribly well, while collectively they exhibit just what contemporary poetry is capable of. There is, for example, the horrifying (horrifying because the speaker is humanized; we are forced to relate) The Sum of a College Party, a persona poem from the point of view of a stressed-out math student on the verge of committing date-rape: “Balance the equationplug in zero for X,” so I give X a bottle of zero and watch the equation solve itself. Watch the small fraction of open eyes close. Zero over zero, slowly diminishing until it is simple.” Or take the deceptively simple Moose, a short ekphrastic about a girl sitting on a swing, imagining she is swinging from the antlers of a gentle moose, a strong and loyal friend who helps protect her from the ravages of an unbearable home life: “He stays still as stone, eyes following each swing. The moose is there to protect, And be sure she does not smell the smoke or the filth of their breath.” The three-part A Woman’s Way, a discursive, allusive journey of a poem, wears its feminism quietly and insistently on its sleeve: “My woman knees refuse to buckle Even for a god. So you are welcome at my Seder. But know that in my home The gefilte fish are seasoned with rebellion And we do things just slightly Out of order.” My Walnut-Half Parents in Spain is a wild ride, a delight-filled monologue in the voice of yet to be born speaker on vacation with his perhaps unsuspecting parents. The sprawling lines andhappily curious tone of the speaker invite us into a world of a unique and enduring love. “I speak to Self and excite loopily when Someone speaks to Me, like horses buck when flies flutter right into their wet eyes Otherwise, staunchly whipping tails with only perfect twitches; meditative reflex of independent thought Little one words shudder in their sound waves Susurrar, to whisper, sounds like a whisper, victory for Spanish phonetics On a dim light streets where my walnut-half parents hold hands….” On the surface these poems have little in common. What they share is an awareness of the world, an attention to craft, a willingness to ask “what if?” and the courage to find out the answer. And all of them leave us, the reader, a different person than we were before these poemsfound us. —Brent Terry 
Lynn Decaro Poetry
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