POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

DHS 1st Place
Anushruti Ram, 11th Grade

the death of a sun

the world blurred away for him
when she came into focus;
eyes now blind of everything but
her smile (a sunbeam)

time rested its arms
just to watch their joy
for they all knew
that forever was so fleeting

the thread of fate unravels
unspooling at the ends
like telomeres;
both heralds of death

the reaper comes
to collect his due debt
but the broken souls
are unwilling to pay

the impossible becomes
but a bargain for time;
a game of luck where
one gambles for a hope

on the precipice of finality
doubt slithers round his lungs
and cradles his head backwards,
a snake bite into near success 

the clock works once more;
tears flowing into the ground
like rivers into the seas
(a great force unseen)

DHS 2nd Place
Cadence Moyston, 10th Grade

Spring fades violently, 

the cold comes in and you hear her mother mourn.
Persephone is going home 

The leaves rot off their trees and the long grasses and flowers freeze over. The birds sit quiet, songless, in their remembrance, their princess dies again.
You can see the sickness on her face, and in the weight on her shoulders, this is not the first time, 

     an internal death. 

Her eyes are heavy and they prepare for the burial of a goddess.
As her mother still gives the funeral rites, as tears flow and the earth shakes in grief,
he appears. 

Spring has gone while still clawing onto life, Fall has risen with peace, guided by a cold hand. 

She is beautiful and still dressed in her death clothes. Her husband is wearing a face unfit for the occasion but perfectly dressed to reunite with his wife. His arms are open and he is ready to welcome her home.
Fall has come softly.
There is a pain in her leaving, a darkness consuming her, but this is not the first time. Fall is impatient and she wants to go home. 

Winter is cold and warm, Winter knows of a greater good, knows of ends and beginnings, but winter forgets.

She dances with her husband and welcomes their guests, she is home, but Persephone is blinded with thoughts of a warmer home, Persephone forgets. 

The world above dies, it cries out, and pushes itself together, trying to dig its way down. It is trying to reach the underworld
Winter grows mean, harsher and harsher, she becomes distant, death longs to pull the warmth of the people down.
Hades grows spiteful, his wife misses home, and this is not her home. 

It is hot in the underworld, hot with anger, hot with frustration.
The underworld is humid and hot and each day it gets hotter.
Then it escapes, like a volcano they erupt. 

Persephone leaves and Hades waits
Winter comes to the underworld.
But spring comes to the world up above 

There is celebration, there is warmth, there is spring, but Persephone misses him
And when summer comes, she awaits him in fall as the leaves fall

He sticks his hand out the grave, and they begin again 

DHS 3rd Place
Hannah Eastham, 11th Grade

Eurydice

I will speak with my tongue of thorns
To bring words to this insatiable craving;
This candle wax melting beneath my skin
This quivering within my bones
This eternal refrain in the back of my min
This insistence of my infectious soul
This parallel of my intuitions
This magnetism in my eyes
Always drawing me
To see you.

I will swallow this metallic blood
To bring meaning to this uncompromising martyrdom;
Suffering at the hands of paradise,
Doomed to each word I write,
thrashing for words never said before,
Warring with symphony and verse,
Backward in my battle with time
And still only speak in sweetness
If that’s what it takes to hold you.

I will heal this broken body
To bring ease to your breathing
Spitting out the shrapne
Stitching my stigmata
Cauterizing each laceration
Reconstructing my flesh
Cleansing the scars
Alleviating the affliction
Rejuvenating my vitality
To love you.

BHMS 1st Place
Adeline Pendley, 8th Grade

The Odyssey: Entry #0

My days of wonder thus begin,
As I embark to see the world
Saccharine winds brush the crux of my ship;
She sails onward,
swaying with the seas.

Second-in-hand called for an anchor today,
No threats in the land could be found.
Edit: Lies, bloodshed, pain
Reassurance came free,
yet carelessness taxes crimson on the ground.

After weeks at sea, we dock on unsure soil
A gaping cave awaits, an eye hidden within.
We were blinded by presumption’s bounds,
Edit: It became blinded by my wit
Lamb to the slaughter after we stole mutton;
Ceaselessly, our losses climb like tide rushing in.

Today we settled and met a blessing,
With a god’s rare gift
We claimed a bag of tempest winds.
Edit: Guard it carefully come next time,
Edit: There is no next time

I now must brush hands with the Underworld
Send sacrifices of men and souls for sin
The toll to be paid to tides and gods alike,
For prophets know of monsters.
Edit: I’ve walked the path of hell;
Pray heaven shines upon me again.

Ithaca, motherland,
I return to you
Though I need not a hero’s welcome
For I’ve seen legends born and comrades fall too
Though a single task more is left to attend

Edit: The sea has come for me, far from home,
A lifetime’s glory slipping, slipping away
In my weak solitude,
I hear now the lost
Their names swallowed by sea and flame.

BHMS 2nd Place
Uma Raman-Baksi, 6th Grade

Everyone is afraid of death
That are afraid of the fact that one day, they won’t be here, standing on this earth
And that the ones they love will be ripped away from them and the memories that they hold so dear will be lost to time

I am not afraid of death.
When Thanos knocks at my door, I will simply look him in the eye and nod, for I have nothing left to lose. I have already lost the one I love most.
      When people ask, I simply place my hands on my lyre and channel my grief into the strings. I play the song of my pain over the loss of my wife over and over again until they understand. She was everything to me. Without her my music is not the same,

      And without her I have nothing left to do except tread down this worn path of grief, where many feet have walked before.
      To get her back. To split the earth beneath my feet and step into the darkness. To wander down into the lair of monsters and terrors and spare them no glance. To come before Hades.
      It is there that I place hands on my lyre and once again channel my grief into the strings. I play the song of my pain. I beg him to listen.
      So he tells me to forget. Leave it behind. Don’t look back.
      But I can’t. I tell him so.

“You may have her back, if you truly want.” He says. “But promise me this. From now on don’t look back. Just keep going.”
      Then he tells me to leave and I go.

I go past the darkness. I go past the monsters. And I walk towards the daylight.
 I can finally smile. My wife is okay. She is waiting for me. I can leave the darkness.
I look over my shoulder and glance at the Underworld. Goodbye Hades, I think, Thank you.

      And then I see her.
      And she sees me.
      And she smiles.
      And then she is gone.
And I must leave her behind.
All because I looked back.
      So nowadays when people ask, I simply place my hands on my lyre and channel my grief into the strings.

BHMS 3rd Place
Mackenzie Olson, 8th Grade

The last petal
Is falling
The last petal
Falling from the wilting rose bush
That lines the path
Leading to a door
That opens to…

I’m unsure
When we pass beyond redemption
What lies at the end
Of the street of suffering
Or..

Is there really an end?
Is there a way to break free?
Or are we too entrenched
Too deep to see the light
Illuminating our tear-streaked faces?

Once more
We are in the pit of darkness
Despairing
About the fact
That we…

What are we despairing about
The stuff we wanted that we never got
All the people who needed something that they never got
Some in more pain than others
Because of the way they’ve been treated
Wait…

I realize
We bear the blame
For all those we’ve mocked
And with that guilt comes a feeling of overwhelming sadness
Which brings us back to the rose-bush lined path
To understand, we need to pay attention to the detail
Specifically, the color
What might have been a pink blush
Is now crimson and bloodied
The dewdrops like tears of the fallen, and the people who mourn them
Or…

Are they our tears
Overflowing with guilt and broken promises
These are no longer mere dewdrops
They’ve become rivers
Oceans
Hurricanes

Filled with sorrow and guilt
Trapped in a bottle of shame and concealed pain
Our hidden struggles
The burdens we carry within
And suddenly…

The vial breaks

Talley Street Winner
Tatum Gibbons, 5th Grade

You don’t know if you’ll succeed if you don’t try,
But there is a chance that your plans will go awry.
If you don’t make an attempt, what will happen,
you won’t know if there will be cheering and clapping,
Or if you’ll end up failing
And you won’t be missed,
Or screaming and flailing,
Over an abyss,
So many things that could go wrong,
But you’ll never know if you don’t try at all.
So many things that could go wrong,
Over an abyss,
Or screaming and flailing,
And you won’t be missed,
Or you end up failing,
You won’t know if there would be cheering and clapping,
If you don’t make an attempt, what will happen,
Is there a chance that your plans will go awry,
But you don’t know if you’ll succeed if you don’t try.

F.AVE Winner
Clara Mall, 3rd Grade

hades fall to his knees
in the fall breeze
love is all he needs
as he falls to his knees
in the fall breeze
he cries as he says goodbye

Lynn Farmer, a native of Knoxville, TN, has lived most of her life in Decatur, GA, graduating from Decatur High. A career high school teacher, she received her Ph.D. in English literature from Emory University, writing on T. S. Eliot. Lynn’s poetry has been featured at readings in Teaneck, NJ; Huntersville, NC; Shreveport, LA; Philadelphia; Atlanta; and elsewhere, with an upcoming reading in Lexington, KY. Her work has appeared  in Lullwater Review; Kakalak; Snake Nation Review; Red Mountain Rendezvous; Poets, Artists, and Madmen; Chattahoochee Review; and others. Lynn has won the Byron Reece Award, the Chattahoochee Valley Prize, and the Warren Prize from the Academy of American Poets in NYC. Her collection, The Rare, Persistent Light, was the winner of the Charles Dickson Chapbook Award, and her 9/11 poem hangs at the Ladder 5 Firehouse in Manhattan. In addition to being a poet, Lynn is a traveler, activist, photographer, and singer.

A special thank you to Lynn for lending her time and expertise to our contest and for her continual support of Decatur Performs!