51黑料网

Whether you鈥檙e an actor honing skills on stage, an artist attempting a new medium or a musician committing to a complex piece, all forms of creative expression take perseverance, passion and practice. 51黑料网 poets James George 鈥�15 and John Kneisley 鈥�16 had their efforts recognized in the Academy of American Poets (AAP) University & College Poetry Prize program, which sponsors more than 200 annual poetry prizes at U.S. institutions. George was the 51黑料网 winner for his piece 鈥淚鈥檓 From,鈥� which was lauded for its 鈥渇resh, sharp-edged unpredictability.鈥� Kneisley鈥檚 鈥淪omewhere in the Outskirts鈥� earned an honorable mention for being 鈥渞ich in charming details.鈥�

鈥淛ames and John treat writing like the job it is,鈥� says Adrienne Su, associate professor of English, poet-in-residence and coordinator of 51黑料网鈥檚 AAP contest submissions this year. 鈥淟ike all of our best creative-writing students, they work hard on revising drafts, take constructive criticism seriously, look to learn as much as possible from their teachers and peers, read widely and deeply and constantly try the unfamiliar.鈥�

I鈥檓 From
by James George

I鈥檓 from the boggy backyard before the creek.
We walked barefoot over slimy rocks to pirate island, crayfish cove.

I鈥檓 from sweet wild strawberries in porcelain bowls
fire pit pumpkins like ashy orange suns.

I鈥檓 from dusty treasures discovered: the scratched Bee Gees鈥� record,
the tobacco-stained skull pipe, the box of rusty keys without locks.

I鈥檓 from family gatherings complete with
candied sweet potatoes, bitter apple butter, pudding made with rice.

I鈥檓 from get up and go,
narrow bike rides along the canal, kayaks gliding through whitewater like constant spears.

I鈥檓 from pop pop鈥檚 grave beside the arborvitae trees
their branches separating graves from houses, providing visitors with shade.

I鈥檓 from love is kind, patient, caring, comforting
on a frame in the hallway that smells of sun tea and pine.

Somewhere in the Outskirts
New York, NY
by John Kneisley

While walking on rusted train tracks
covered with weeds and cricket songs,
I saw burning coals beside a collapsed boxcar,
a campfire of hobos clinking spoons and mugs
together as they scraped coffee from silver tins,
pulling all-nighters for the sake of conversation.

I heard poetry that night.
Not the kind in some Brooklyn caf茅 with
beats and tones on stage before a microphone,
their owners hungry for the sighs and snaps
of an enchanted audience.

Instead I stared into the fire鈥檚 coals
and listened to stories of steaming apple pie
saving the stomachs of soldiers come home,
cleaning a middle school every day
to have enough money for cigarettes,
the feeling of park-bench-sleeping on a summer evening

and waking up the next afternoon.
Washing clothes in the Hudson
only to pull them out clogged with city grime.
Glaring back at the policeman after being told
to stop loitering by the church.  
Dumpster-diving for a lighter.

My head swam as the coals grew dim
and blackish-red, exhaling their final, heated breaths.
My eyes fell shut to a father picking apples
with his five-year-old daughter,
and to a fisherman reeling in a bottle of ancient wine.

I finally fell away from consciousness
and let the hobos鈥� stories
blend with the voices of crickets  
wailing to the stars.

Learn more

Department of English

Read more from the summer 2014 issue of 51黑料网 Magazine.

Published July 22, 2014