Winners announced in National Poetry Month "Break The Line!!" poetry contest

Article Date

April 25, 2018

After weeks of poetry submissions from teens and adults, the Charleston County Public Library and For The Scribes is pleased to announce the winners of the "Break The Line!!" poetry contest.

In the Teen category, LuLynn Dancer won with her poem "Down on Bohicket," and Penelope Duran was named the runner up in the Teen contest with her poem, "Breakers on the Seaside."

Ashley Collins won the Adults division with her poem "Shadowboxing." There were a pair of runners-up in the Adults category: Pannaga Malalur with "Sunshine for Sale," and Geraldina Visconti's "isn't rain romantic?"

An Honorable Mention in the Adults category was given to Nancy Ancrom's poem, "Painter and Poet."

Read all of the winning poems below.

The winners have been asked to share their poems at an all ages wrap-up celebration for the competition on Monday, April 30 in the Main Library Auditorium. The festivities begin at 6 p.m.

Entrants had to be 14 years old or older to have their work considered, and were limited to submitting no more than two poems.

Teen Category
LuLynn Dancer, "Down on Bohicket" The salty cool breeze Of a suggestion long ago Calls to me For reasons I do not know The green metal I see Spells out Bohicket Road I wonder if there is tea on porches Down on Bohicket Drive And children laugh and people wave And smile as they pass you by I wonder if it’s a happy place Down on Bohicket Road If families gather and eat off platters In every humble abode Down on Bohicket Everything seems nice But I if that’s a façade I see In the darkening southern nights	Penelope Duran, "Breakers on the Seaside" Rasping wooden floorboards murmur about the humdrum, Beach house stretching in the sun, casting off its glum, Left looking at my school book, will not to spring succumb, Ignoring the sun’s laughter; tabbing pages with my thumb. Can I abide the sunny storm that draws me with silent sound? Tuning out the beachscape, which does the house surround, Will walls and windows prevent distracting noises that abound? Silence and reality forgotten as the noises swirl relentless ‘round. Through storm windows, I hear salty waves licking at the pier, And soaring seagull feathers brush the sky, and far away I hear, Porcelain shells sound the ocean’s echo, loud and true and clear, Distant palm trees tapping against the glass, music to my ears. A babbling of tourists; their brightly colored shirts are shouting, Whistle of winds pushing the waves in an infinite pounding, Violin melody strung ‘cross fishing lines that the dock are crowding, Roaring steamboats join the symphony of nautical surroundings. Hear the crunch of footsteps, tracking and pressing in the sand, Countless flavors from the ice cream shop beckon with commands, Somewhere a rope raises anchor as it rubs through calloused hands, Must brace against the chorus of sounds that sing from the strand. Yet another glittering welcoming as the silent sands do cry, Then chiding and rebuking me because I remain inside, So rising from my alcove, with a yell and smile, I do fly, Fleeing the beach house, I join the breakers on the seaside.
Ashley Collins, "Shadowboxing" After "Shadowboxing," Ruth Madievsky Here are the ambiguous footsteps on the ceiling of this building’s top floor, here is a carnation yellow droplet of nail polish you left here, before, here is the sound I made when I fought the battle of Life and Death, here are the hummingbirds aflutter in my chest. Here is the sidewalk and here is what happened on the sidewalk, a police barricade, a cigarette butt, an old chalk etching, graffiti. Here is my body at arms distance from its shadow, lips and neck pure, a tree whose fall went unheard. a clean tennis ball, unopened beer bottle, here are the unclaimed identities hanging like apples against the vast, open sky. Here is Charleston begging someone for nourishment after it purges a carriage tour, a plantation, a church with blood for mortar between its bricks. Here are the cracks in my skin, bleeding for penance, begging for an answer. Here is the city answering: a gull’s cry somewhere in the night, a girl’s bedtime story coming to life. Here, damsels are lost and do not get saved. Here is a reflecting pool. Here is me falling into the reflecting pool. Here is the question of whether I will drown or swim.	Pannaga Malalur, "Sunshine for Sale" She stands silently among strangers who flow around her like effervescent sparks, buzzing with hopes and dreams and conversation. She watches as the lights fade beyond the horizon, waiting to begin until the world is steeped in sleep. With the moon in her eyes and constellations in her hair, she seems a shimmering illusion. She has no lamps or candles; her stories are sunshine for sale. All through the lonely nights and busy days, the storyteller weaves tales of gossamer, a dance of light flying between her fingertips. Thoughts diffuse into the unlit sky, filling hearts and igniting minds of eager readers. Eventually, the lights are extinguished one by one. Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing is as steady as the clockwork rhythm of her heart, but her dreams are gushing with tales yet untold. A few heartbeats later, the sun rises yet again.
Geraldina Visconti, "isn't rain romantic?" nestled in my cocoon of pillows I pull the covers over my head… five more minutes please! my eyes are closed ~ my mind and my heart are open ~ the melody of rain drops dancing on the roof, the chorus of birds singing, the symphony of wind chimes blowing in the gentle breeze, your breathing ~ my heartbeat ~ the stirring begins slowly, then ripples into a full crescendo ~ I sink into your arms	Nancy Ancrom, "Painter and Poet" painter who captures strands of milkweed arranges small stones on the sill becomes entranced by the pattern of a cattleguard cries 'but we need you we can't find the words'

Teen Category

LuLynn Dancer, "Down on Bohicket"

The salty cool breeze
Of a suggestion long ago
Calls to me
For reasons I do not know
The green metal I see
Spells out Bohicket Road
I wonder if there is tea on porches
Down on Bohicket Drive
And children laugh and people wave
And smile as they pass you by
I wonder if it’s a happy place
Down on Bohicket Road
If families gather and eat off platters
In every humble abode
Down on Bohicket
Everything seems nice
But I if that’s a façade I see
In the darkening southern nights

Penelope Duran, "Breakers on the Seaside"

Rasping wooden floorboards murmur about the humdrum,
Beach house stretching in the sun, casting off its glum,
Left looking at my school book, will not to spring succumb,
Ignoring the sun’s laughter; tabbing pages with my thumb.

Can I abide the sunny storm that draws me with silent sound?
Tuning out the beachscape, which does the house surround,
Will walls and windows prevent distracting noises that abound?
Silence and reality forgotten as the noises swirl relentless ‘round.

Through storm windows, I hear salty waves licking at the pier,
And soaring seagull feathers brush the sky, and far away I hear,
Porcelain shells sound the ocean’s echo, loud and true and clear,
Distant palm trees tapping against the glass, music to my ears.

A babbling of tourists; their brightly colored shirts are shouting,
Whistle of winds pushing the waves in an infinite pounding,
Violin melody strung ‘cross fishing lines that the dock are crowding,
Roaring steamboats join the symphony of nautical surroundings.

Hear the crunch of footsteps, tracking and pressing in the sand,
Countless flavors from the ice cream shop beckon with commands,
Somewhere a rope raises anchor as it rubs through calloused hands,
Must brace against the chorus of sounds that sing from the strand.

Yet another glittering welcoming as the silent sands do cry,
Then chiding and rebuking me because I remain inside,
So rising from my alcove, with a yell and smile, I do fly,
Fleeing the beach house, I join the breakers on the seaside.

Adult Category

Ashley Collins, "Shadowboxing"
After "Shadowboxing," Ruth Madievsky

Here are the ambiguous footsteps
on the ceiling of this building’s top floor,
here is a carnation yellow droplet
of nail polish you left here, before,
here is the sound I made when I fought
the battle of Life and Death,
here are the hummingbirds
aflutter in my chest.

Here is the sidewalk
and here is what happened on the sidewalk,
a police barricade, a cigarette butt,
an old chalk etching, graffiti.

Here is my body at arms distance from its shadow,
lips and neck pure, a tree whose fall went unheard.
a clean tennis ball, unopened beer bottle,
here are the unclaimed identities hanging
like apples against the vast, open sky.

Here is Charleston
begging someone for nourishment after it purges
a carriage tour, a plantation, a church
with blood for mortar between its bricks.
Here are the cracks in my skin, bleeding
for penance, begging for an answer.
Here is the city answering:
a gull’s cry somewhere in the night,
a girl’s bedtime story coming to life.
Here, damsels are lost
and do not get saved.

Here is a reflecting pool.
Here is me falling into the reflecting pool.
Here is the question
of whether I will drown or swim.

Pannaga Malalur, "Sunshine for Sale"

She stands silently among strangers who flow
around her like effervescent sparks, buzzing
with hopes and dreams and conversation. She
watches as the lights fade beyond the horizon,
waiting to begin until the world is steeped in sleep.

With the moon in her eyes and constellations
in her hair, she seems a shimmering illusion.
She has no lamps or candles; her stories
are sunshine for sale.

All through the lonely nights and busy days,
the storyteller weaves tales of gossamer, a
dance of light flying between her fingertips.
Thoughts diffuse into the unlit sky, filling
hearts and igniting minds of eager readers.

Eventually, the lights are extinguished one by
one. Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing
is as steady as the clockwork rhythm of her heart,
but her dreams are gushing with tales yet untold.
A few heartbeats later, the sun rises yet again.

Geraldina Visconti, "isn't rain romantic?"

nestled in my cocoon of pillows
I pull the covers over my head…
five more minutes please!
my eyes are closed ~
my mind and my heart are open ~
the melody of rain drops dancing on the roof,
the chorus of birds singing,
the symphony of wind chimes
blowing in the gentle breeze,
your breathing ~
my heartbeat ~
the stirring begins slowly,
then ripples into a full crescendo ~
I sink into your arms

Nancy Ancrom, "Painter and Poet"

painter who captures
strands of milkweed
arranges small stones
on the sill becomes
entranced by the pattern
of a cattleguard cries
'but we need you we
can't find the words'