Atlanta, Georgia 2021-11-30 15:00:54 –
Launched in 2014 by former Georgia Poet Winner Judson Mitcham in collaboration with the Georgia Arts Council, the Georgia Poet Winners Award is an annual program aimed at encouraging the work of teenage writers. All students from 9th grade to 12th grade can participate. Click here for more information on its beginnings Then meet the following 2021 winners and finalists selected by the state poet laureate Chelsea Rathburn.
“When you want the stars”
By Aanika Eragam
In the backyard, it tears like an egg yolk on the sea in switchgrass in the evening.
A dandelion pops out of the pouch slats. Crush with a fist &
Blow. I’m thinking of my mother and my fetal sister.
About storks that hug their babies from the sky into their enthusiastic arms —
The house they missed, or an empty basket in the first place.
In the winter two years before I was born, my mother made a wish to the stars
I’ve been dead for a long time and that’s why I’m the eldest son
Instead of ultrasonography reeler
She is still in the shoe box.
My dad once told me what his elementary school days spent on roof scaling.
Everything to glance at the only TV on the block
A neighbor’s window like a wildfire.Now the action movie is a drone, and I imagine he’s watching
Supernova in all battle scenes, jaws breaking into one million constellations,
The space where his fist should have been when he collided with another person’s knuckle.
He says Pinning is useless But hurry to the theater every weekend
On a cold afternoon, you’ll be exposed to the glare of the screen like the sun’s rays.
Once a month, my cousin calls to ask if she can visit, she says she can’t stand
An empty cave in her one-bedroom apartment in Detroit,
A wedding ring that shimmers on her finger like a coiled python scale
Tightening around the prey will not kill it, but it will choke.She forgot the slope
Her husband’s face, my cousin. Like last year, his visa was denied.I draw them
Both as a mantis: The eyes are bulbous, pointing upwards, the fingers are clenched and reaching out.
Same sky, same prayer.
On the stairs on the balcony now, I thumb up the frayed line
Rooted in the palm of my hand, staring at the freckled nights.
Trace constellation: Orion. Ursa Minor.
I can’t tell which part of this poem I hate the most:
How they sigh or how they want, they
Hold my gaze like a promise, like something they are doing
Arnica Elagham I’m a senior at Milton High School. She is a young poet laureate in Atlanta in 2021, and her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Bennington College, and Vermont College of Fine Arts. Other than writing, she has a passion for history and enjoys making sweets. She appreciates the support of her teachers, mentors, and family.
Finalists (alphabetically by author’s surname)
“Letter to Monsters”
Inspired by Mary Shelley Frankenstein; or modern Prometheus
I’m worried that you never know love.
No, it’s not.
I think you are afraid to do so.
The world is a cruel place, you know, and it’s the cruelest for what it doesn’t understand.
I’m not saying they are right. But this kind of thing always happens.
That doesn’t mean you’re not special-8 feet all and scary, impossible, alive!
In short, your sight can faint a grown-up man with horror.
In a sense, you can’t really blame them.
They’re wrong, sure, don’t get me wrong, but have you seen yourself lately?
Society is a river. You are a rock
The rocks stick out, stand out and break the flow a little.
But the river wears them little by little. Softens sharp areas.
Then you can no longer see the rocks.
You — you’re sticking out, buddy.
And that’s what I’m very worried about.
I think you know love.
You will see a very big, powerful and very beautiful river.
You will see the river, and you will fall in love with it.
But you are a rock. I’m sorry, but that’s right.
You are a rock, and it doesn’t matter how sharp or strong you are.The world will break you
It scares me. Your scary face is much more than ever.
Even now, they still don’t understand.
They still call Frankenstein a monster rather than a man.
Josephine almonds I’m a freshman at Walton High School in Marietta. She reads and writes a lot (and vice versa), but when she’s not doing either, she listens to music and plays the cello in a school orchestra.
“The field of butterflies you can’t stop thinking about”
Feet for flowers land on your hands,
It’s not a bad thing to fall and hurt under the weight of 17 years old
You were 7 years old
The wings were the most important part,
NS confusion A sea of orange and black spots trying to hide all of the green
If you can’t see it, the grass is less green on the other side
(Why did you win?‘They let you see that? )
Is it as green as an apple candy? I hate you very much
Dead as much as the night sky You can’t help it??
I don’t know
Hundreds Writhing Flapping butterflies cover the ground
Cover your hands
Cover your mom’s camera flash,
Tell her stop Someday you will forget this moment, so make a good angle,
It’s nothing but the album page you won’t turn over
It ’s just a feeling of sorrow What you see when you look at the monarch,
There is nothing
You promised to remember so
Take a picture in your heart,
(do not Forget to do Make a sound, tongue Pull the mouth against the side teeth tight)
Pray to god you Don‘believe
I will never grow past this moment
Katie Griffin I’m a 17 year old student from North Springs High School in Sandy Springs. She loves writing poetry from junior high school and can’t thank her friends and teachers enough to encourage her continuation. When I’m not writing, I’m busy designing, creating, acting, and creating the best cheesecake for Troupe 4389. So far.Her poem is This time (Published by Eber & Wein) and an American high school poet “”Of faith and inspiration“..
I. The first collection of pigments —
Sky like chipped paint &
A small pointed rock to throw
Your brother’s best friend.
Seaweed and tobacco scattered on the coast,
Shackle the ankle and choke the pigeon
Crouch to eat a bite.
There are ants in the swimsuit.
Everything is noisy, followed by a gray horizon
Forever and forever
II.The second time is a sinful, raw dissonance
It hardened in the crumpled sea.
They say you can never find if you are lost,
& I suddenly realized that I also wanted to be able to do it
Become an oyster in the sea, my shell
The girl needs privacy, so I slammed it!
Please forgive me, salt came to my mind.
III. The third time is when I get used to it.
Because you always notice the failure first.
Don’t you remember this?Remember the plastic cup
Under the dunes?Don’t forget the volleyball game
Did you lose wonderfully?You have already inhaled
Conversations and laughter of everyone next door,
You are busyIn a rotten wooden hut with a leaking roof
The plaid curtain flaps in the breeze
Taste with your tongue.
I love you, i love you, i love you
I love you Starfish ornaments and glass masonry jars.
I love you Sand pepper hair and dead fish on the deck.
I love you Dissonance and folded paper plate.
I love you I want to meet you!
Isabelle Liu I’m a sophomore at Wheeler High School in Marietta. In addition to writing poetry and short stories, she loves playing the guitar, reading classical literature, and running. She is forever grateful to her teachers, friends and family for supporting her academic and writing journey.
“Familiar black mourning sound”
By Khayla Truitt
“Thanks to Almighty God for finally free, finally free, and finally free.”
Freedom: The ability or right to act, speak, and think as desired, without interference or restraint.
Freedom: Not imprisoned or enslaved.
Freedom: A state that is not physically restricted and can be easily moved.
FREEDOM: Unaffected or unaffected by (especially undesirable).
Freedom.It’s like making you sing aloud
FREEDOM is not a compromise
Not a low and high marathon
The only valuable thing that still costs
And we pay with the familiar black sadness sound
The sound of oozing from your ears to your pillow at night
The sound of asking if it’s worth the fight
We build ourselves
Just to demolish
And we are going around and around
In the endless battle of life
Countless killings of fathers, children and wives
bullet. rope. The fire burned up.
Their name will be remembered in the dark clouds of haze
Again, you will hear the familiar black sadness sound
It ’s deaf music.
So we wipe away the tears and say
“See how far we have come”
Just to play waiting for the next killing
“Who isn’t paralyzed yet?”
Khayla Truitt I’m a junior at Rainey McCullers School of the Arts in Columbus, majoring in creative writing. Her writing focuses on intersecting identities across all modes of writing (poetry-informal and slum, prose, and dramatic writing), including short films. No warning, free, Her Medical Humanities Course, and an essay entitled “AAVE vs. Internet Slang: Muzzling Black Voices,” won third place in the Susan Shree Gristina Literary Award at Columbus State University’s Carson McCullers Literary Awards. Khayla would like to thank Molly Kay Wright, three years of creative writing director, for giving us a great opportunity and a great deal of support for the process. When not writing, Khayla enjoys traveling with friends, babysittering, and making videos. She hopes to finish writing and publishing the poetry book by the age of 18.