ÍÃ×ÓÏÈÉú

The Howe Writing Center hosts a writing contest every fall, with the latest contest having a focus on works evoking autumn. The fall writing contest challenged writers to create a piece of writing with restrictions in place for which words could be used, similar to the popular word game Taboo.

Howe Writing Center consultants and staff chose four winners for the Fall Writing Contest:

• 1st Prize: “Demeter in 5 Stages (Acceptance)” by Anna Boyer, Finance and Accounting
• 2nd Prize: “The Radiator” by Caroline Laird, Arts Management (Major), Creative Writing and Digital Writing (Minors)
• 3rd Prize: “The Editor and The Poet” by Jessica Miller, AYA English Education
• Staff Choice: “Drifting through the Grove” by Jacob Bitonte, Kinesiology and Philosophy

Congratulations to all prize recipients! Be sure to read their work below.

“Demeter in 5 Stages (Acceptance)” by Anna Boyer

My darling,
you nearly walked out the front door
without your jacket—
here it is. Put it on.

Come with me, and I will show you
where the best roots grow
and how to build up the hearthfire
so that when the last of the blackberries are gone
you will keep a piece of the sun in your stomach still.

Put on your boots and double layer your socks:
today we’re climbing mountains and building calluses
as I teach you e n  d   u    r     a      n       c        e         .

How to take a firm hold of the sky
and wring every last drop of
blistering blue and blazing copper
into your cup of cider,
so that your veins will not know the meaning of bitter
but your heart will always remember victory.

You are setting off on a journey
which will ask the whole of you
(and, at times, more).

Here is a basket, a bag, a box
            of wicker and cloth and cardboard
full to the brim and tied with twine.

If I cannot go with you
I will send a bounty of my love
to sustain you
until you reach the end
until your bones find home again.

Here is proof of a mother’s heart:
provisions for the road ahead.

“The Radiator” by Caroline Laird

October curls into bed like a cat,
Creeps in on goldenrod paws.
She hisses and purrs, spits her fiery breath,
Claws out from permafrost days.

She chugs, she creaks, she yelps, she shrieks,
Flows from my heart to my fingers and toes.
Buried deep, she rips through the walls,
Hiding from spidery limbs of tomorrow.

Her laugh is a melody of bells and chimes,
Her hair smells of nutmeg and wood.
She crawled through the floor and pounced on my chest,
An embrace to combat my thaw.

October still visits with claws and a hiss,
But always brings me a gift.
A gift of softness, one of love, and
Comfort during the shift.

“The Editor and The Poet” by Jessica Miller

Murmuring revision,
the wind is whispering again.
Dancing circles around the block,
the earth is only breathless now and then.

Lifting thin-veined love letters-
leaving their poets’ grasp with ease,

daintily they float to the ground,
the hearts and lungs of withering trees.
Sweet smells of cinnamon
are caught between each gust,
a warm nudge from the editor,
as her pencil begins to rust.

“Drifting through the Grove” by Jacob Bitonte

When grand cheek turned way from the sun and all began to grow cold, she glimmered there - if only for a moment - in her sparkling beauty. Her summer tears dried up and stoic she sat waiting for her hiemal retreat. I knew her then, in that time, as an ambivalent woman; a woman who shone so brightly for the world that it concealed her retreating life: whose brilliant display quickly turned a frigid pallor. And in all the years of my short life, I always knew her to be fair. She knew the frost and ice were marching forth, and she cared so deeply for all that was that she attended to each tree, bush, grass and beast with delicate care.

When I saw her there in that grove unscathed, words of poet passed came to me:

Go forth, under the open sky, and list
            To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice

And surely it did.

To the trees she said, now you must rest, and I watched as she whispered some words to the oak of the land: gently they shook, trembling down to their deepest root. I watched as all color drained till they became a bitter brown. Then, like a firework with a second kick, they shot back with all the colors of a roaring fire: life uncaged dripping with nature’s beauty. The winds settled and gradually the forest floor dressed itself with the castings. In utter astonishment, I demanded why she dared to bleed the trees! And she laughed, gentle as the winds around her, her smile warm and kind as the colors of a setting sun, that she had not, in fact, hurt the wood: she saved them. For if they were not warned, winter’s frigid grip would snatch the life from their veins. With my warning, she said, they shall live to wake in Spring. Until then, we celebrate another year lived with a grand symphony of color. And so she repeated with the bush and the grass till all began to retreat as the frost marched forth.

Then she approached the beasts. To the birds she said, fly south where the water ebbs warm and the sun holds strong. There you will find solace in the trees lush and ripe for your arrival. To the squirrel, she said, build a nest and collect the fruit of the oak; for in the trees your home shall be, and there you will wait until the fertile days of spring. To the bear, she said, take your youth and sojourn to the hollows of the earth: that is where your respite waits until the river flows warm. And to the deer and bunny she gave strength, for she had faith they could weather the white barren and blessed them with beautiful coats for their valor. And then to me she turned, gently laughing at my wonder from what I had witnessed, and said: to you I give hope, hope that warm days will come, hope that the grass will green, hope that once again the world will sing its brilliant song.

And so again, in my 19th year, I walk with her. I hear her in the winds whispering to the trees. I see her shining in the dew that glazes the lofty plains. And soon I shall say goodbye, for all that is good surely does not last but makes way for better things to come. This I know in my heart where I hold the hope she gave me all those years ago. And with that hope I shall endeavor to see the world reborn in the Spring, even if it means enduring the ice and frost.