Below are the winners of the 2007 Inglis House Poetry Contest. There
were two categories in this year's contest. Category 1 was open to all
writers and the poems had to have some connection to disability. Category
2 was open only to writers with disabilities and could be on any topic.
For each category a first, second and third place prize was given as well
as three honorable mentions. Once again, the competition was stiff and
many of the excellent poems that are not seen below will appear in a chapbook which will be released at the end of August.
Sheila Black
Las Cruces, New Mexico
PARKING LOT
The brick block of the hospital
is gone now, Lynette,
the cracked green tiles
of the basement swimming pool
where attendants dipped our limbs
into the tepid water, stirring
them around like spoons
in soup. It is a parking lot
now, ten floors of empty space,
marked like places where
the beds should go. The cars
in their slots, one on top
of another. Their dead lights
reflect the lights of the street,
the dull glass of the moon.
Such simple machines—a key
turns and they whir to life.
to piston, they whiz down
the asphalted lanes,
a maze that leads to the heart
of this place, the basement room
where the swimming pool was,
where we practiced our kicks,
planted our feet, learning to make
step after step. Twenty years
have passed, Lynette. I no longer
walk with a crutch. I have become
one of the others we spoke of.
There is nothing here than can
tell me what I have been.
Return
to Top
Second Place
Joe Fulham
Ratoath, County Meath
Ireland
WAVES OF LIGHT (sign language)
I am deaf and I am proud.
I express myself in waves of light, not sound.
The Holy spirit gave the Gift of Tongues;
Those spoken words shook babel to the ground,
But mine come out in waves of Light, not Sound.
My words are secret pathways through the air
That those who speak will never know; They stare
And wonder what it was I said; I am proud
To express myself in waves of Light, not Sound.
The Earth is both my challenge and my home,
I stand tall with who I am and do not hide,
The things I have to say I say with pride.
When I pray to God He does not speak
But shows me ways in Light the things I seek;
His voice is silent too, it does not need
an eye or ear to know; He sees inside.
So I stand tall with who I am- I do not hide-
The things I have to say, I say my way.
I am deaf and I am proud
My words are made in waves of Light, not Sound.
I celebrate and laugh for Life is short;
Too short for questions why or hearts to close;
Life comes to us in
waves of Light and goes.
I am deaf and I am proud
to express myself in waves of Light, not Sound.
Return
to Top
Third place
Marcia Gerhardt
Houston, Texas
TROUT FISHING
Looking out the hospital window
he sees a sky of gurney gray.
A flicker of blood
orange behind a wall of clouds
catches his eye.
He watches in wonder while the sky
splits in two—a crayon landscape
of red and yellow.
He hears the crackle of
early morning dishes
against steel trolleys
as they roll down the hall.
If he doesn’t turn his head
at the sound of her voice,
keeps his eyes out the window,
he won’t catch the shimmer of
pity that comes and goes in her eyes as quickly
as the iridescent belly of rainbow trout
in a swift moving stream.
Then the crush of knowing won’t flow
down his chest, out his arms and
weaken his resolve
to abandon plans that
keep him anchored ashore.
Return
to Top
Honorable Mention
Therese Halscheid
Haddon Township, New Jersey
MY FATHER'S CEREAL*
We wake on dry land where the sun works brilliant --
until a bib is tied about my father’s neck
a bowl is placed high upon books
and the largest spoon in the house is set in his hand
between two crooked fingers.
There is my mother creating this daily scene of events
pouring Cheerios into his bowl
adding the white milk before guiding
my father’s spoon down into it.
She leaves the room then and there is only myself
sitting across from him.
I have my own bowl but do nothing about it.
We are a pair, of sorts. I refuse how his face is unreadable
that his brain is damaged enough to believe he is eating
and he is blind to the point where he thinks I look fine.
When we move, we move as slow water moves
barely along because nothing can save us.
His spoon floats through air, is empty, is treading in space
my thoughts are all garbled as if made of liquid….
We remain this way, my father and I
as if under water
the Cheerios turn soggy, inflating like inner tubes
but it is too late --
soon we will drown in this moment
day will begin, and there will only be the strange surfacing
of our tragic lives.
*Previously published in Exit 13.
Return to
Top
Honorable Mention
Ed Northen
Hailey, Idaho
A PORTENT OF PASSING*
Standing in the doorway
My mother's body is thin
Frail as rice paper
Weakened by pneumonia
And eighty years of hardship
She survives her pilgrimage on faith
A Byzantine path
Of forgiveness
Endurance
And love
As she steadies herself
Hands on the door jam
Sunlight strikes her gaunt frame
Illuminating her hibiscus blouse
In the serene light
She is transfigured
From weary traveler
To immortal
Gazing intently
For a sign
Or someone
The natural eye does not perceive
She turns,
Steps out of the light disappointed
And the moment is over
Her gray hair
Arthritic hands
And shuffled gate return
The vision fades
Forever engrained
A portent of passing
Previously published in Ariel.
Return
to Top
Honorable Mention
Marion Cohen
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
PROGRESSIVE #5
He can still hold the jar
I position his hands
can still sit up
I position his feet
can still lie down
I position his head
still make love
I position his position.
He knows the place
but keeps asking the time
and what's for supper
and where are the cats?
And around seven
what movies we have
and are they funny?
he wants them funny
if they're not funny
he needs his head scratched.
He keeps renewing
old regrets
and keep creating
new regrets.
His old regrets
feel new.
His new regrets
feel old.
Return
to Top
Category 2
First Place
Ona Gritz
Hoboken, New Jersey
FIRST ANNIVERSARY
Once, as a child, I had my father
close his eyes for a surprise
then, distractedly walked him
into a wall. Now, guiding you,
I know to mention each curb, each
puddle to be stepped over, to place
your palm on the chipped rail
beside the subway stairs before
I follow you down. All the while,
the tip of your folded white cane
peeks from the side pocket of your pack
like something inner and exposed.
We’ve spent this year learning one
another. One night, you asked the color
of my hair then repeated the word brown,
an abstract fact to be memorized.
The dark strands were splayed
on your chest as I listened
to the beat beneath skin and rib
and thought about trust, your life
in your hand given over to mine.
Return to top
Second Place
Sharon Wachsler
Wendell, Massachusetts
PANIC'S BAGS
When Panic arrives for the night
he brings a suitcase of clean white shirts: your shames,
freshly pressed and ready to wear.
When Panic unpacks for the night he puts his teeth
in a glass, shined and smelling of mint. They grind
on the bed stand, inching closer.
Panic brings no clock. He counts on you
to wake with alarm as he slips under the sheets,
his breath on your cheek like sour wine. Panic's hands,
long as gallows ropes, lay loose around your neck.
You feel them tighten when you swallow.
When you open your mouth to gasp, Panic enters you.
Cold and dry he slides down your throat, comes to rest
in your chest, a silver blade of knowing One day I will die.
A blood clot advancing on your heart, Panic chokes you from within,
suffocating each chamber with secrets only you recognize: I am not
good enough; I am crazy; all I do is useless. Panic extends himself
like a spider, creeping toward your sex.
The pulse in your ankle thrums against the mattress; warm air
brushes your lips and you notice I am breathing
and force yourself
to list the spaces
Panic has not conquered:
the palms of your hands,
the soles of your feet, your eyes.
I am still me you whisper.
Panic shivers, shunting beads of pain
down your leg.
You send
your fingers
slowly, stumbling
across the blankets, to the lamp
on the bed stand, fumbling for the switch.
In the sudden light you see This is my home
and bring your feet to rest
on the still, smooth floor.
You stand.
Panic drains out the pores of your feet, slippery
and grimacing, the smell of gunpowder
rising with each sulfured wheeze.
Panic grabs his shirts, crumpled
and greasy. Replacing his glinting teeth,
he crawls out the door.
You turn off the lights.
Waiting for sleep, in the darkened
room, you know
Panic's bags
are tucked under
your bed.
Return
to top
Third Place
Patricia Fargnoli
Walpole, New Hampshire
ROOFMEN *
Over my head, the roofmen are banging shingles into place
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past autumn, and bright as copper foil
In the end I will have something to show for their hard labor-
unflappable shingles, dry ceilings, one more measure of things
held safely in a world where safety is impossible.
In another state, a friend tries to keep on living
though his arteries are clogged,
though the operation left a ten-inch scar
and, near his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms
like a deformed flower. His knees and feet
burn with constant pain.
We go on. I don't know how sometimes.
For a living, I listen eight hours a day to the voices
of the anxious and the sad. I watch their beautiful faces
for some sign that life is more than disaster-
it is always there, the spirit behind the suffering,
the small light that gathers the soul and holds it
beyond the sacrifices of the body. Necessary light,
I bend toward it and blow gently.
And those hammerers above me, bend into the dailiness
of their labor, beneath concentric curies: a roof of sky,
beneath the roof of the universe,
beneath what vaults over it
And don't those journeymen
hold a piece of the answer— the way they go on
laying one gray speckled square after another,
nailing each down, firmly, securely.
From Patricia Fargnoli's book Necessary Light
(Utah State University Press, 2000)
Return
to Top
Honorable Mention
Paul Kahn
Auburndale, Massachusetts
SACRAMENT
When I am dead these pages will be my Eucharist,
reading them my sacrament. Do this for me:
hold them. Hold the words in your mouth.
You know how much I longed to be held and known.
Do not be afraid because they taste of blood and semen
and remind you of how I suffered for my desires.
All that will be over, even what I desired from you.
You will have nothing to fear -- for me or from me.
When you're tired of me put me down
and go on with your life without obligation or guilt.
Return
to Top
Honorable Mention
Megan Webster
San Diego, California
THE BEAST
(San Diego Wildfires 2003)
Morning breaks lead gray
glazed with bronze, ash
strewn on the ground like frost.
I choke, wheeze, close
the windows tight, fear the end
of the world. A news channel
gusts fire in my face until
my cheeks scorch. I watch flames
leap along Descanso ridge,
swallow black-beetled oaks,
eucalypti, houses, cars, power lines,
spitting cinders into Santa Ana
winds. Each day a fresh blaze—
Crest, Alpine, Paradise, Cuyamaca, Julian,
until seventeen flares torch
the county. Firefighter Rucker
fights to his end...
becomes my brother.
As I mop my tears, I think
of Robert Frost's Fire and Ice—
how I'd use the poem to teach
metaphor. Now, I see the true
face of fire, and decide
without a flicker of doubt,
that to end the world
I'd favor ice.
Return
to Top