Standout Poets Earn Accolades in Storm King Arts Festival
Hannah Coon '23 and Jason Weiss '22 have been named winners in the Poetry division of the 2021 Storm King Arts Festival. Hannah's poem, Animus, was noted for being a standout poem that explores rage, pain, and desperation while in its final declaration proves that poems and life will roar back. A judge noted that Jason's poem, I Am, upends the stereotypical male view of "strength" and acts as a primer for how one can reframe their own thinking. Enjoy their winning submissions below:
animus
by Hannah Coon '23
Strength is not deadlifting 400 pounds;
It's about going to school,
Knowing that that bully
Who calls you names,
Is waiting for you at the front door.
It's asking questions in class,
When you feel lost,
Even if the other kids think you're stupid.
Strength is not having a 40-inch vertical leap.
It's your big sister,
Looking your parents in the eye,
And claiming that the heterosexual life is not for her.
It's your older brother
Standing up to his cheating partner
And freeing himself from their cage.
Strength is not winning a ton of fights.
It's knowing how to walk away from fights
When the opponent keeps taunting you.
Strength is not curling 50-pound weights.
It's not allowing your body to be defined
By the people around you,
That forces everyone
To conform to its idea
Of beauty.
Strength is not defined
By society's preference for muscle and athleticsm.
It is defined
By each person
Based on their perspective.
You?
You are strength.
I am strength.
Back
animus
by Hannah Coon '23
writing a poem in a month sounded easy
until it wasn't
until this numbness slithered inside my skull
until this deadline hung in the back of my head
like an impending sense of doom
a phantom pain existing even before the context of trauma
this break, i am a ghost haunting a ghost
my body is a playground
it is april and i am out of time
though
this despair is a false bottom
my mother tells me i was born with a fever
somewhere underneath this grief lies a lifetime of anger—
so much rage i can feel it pacing the floor, waiting for me to loosen my hold
to let it become something greater
to consume
somewhere in history, joan of arc is fulfilling a promise in gilded armor
white flag in hand, an army at her back
somewhere in history, icarus is spreading his waxed feather wings, grinning
daring the sun to burn him
somewhere in history, someone is being put through fire
and out tumbles a seer
a survivor
a martyr
if they can make something remarkable out of all this pain, then good god, so can i
i am going to drag this monster of a poem out of the dark with my bare hands
grab it by the collar and pull
i am a thing from my poem's nightmare, all bloody knuckles and snarling teeth
(we are similar creatures)
the pencil in my hand has grown into a sword but i feel as if the weight has always been there
sitting in the heat of the forge for years, my fury is honed into a point sharp enough to cut out a beautiful, disgusting mess
i am a weapon, and weapons made this way do not break
there will be no coaxing this poem with pretty metaphors and teary eyes
i am going to climb out of this pit with this monster strapped to my back
shake it by the shoulders and make it look me in the eyes—
make it see this wild desperation to create something so fantastically awful
to chase a deadline that had once been chasing me
and so i take one step
another
two more
the ache is consuming
but i am succeeding in pulling something from absolutely nothing
and life
roars its way
back into this stitched-up heart
i am taking back what is mine
taking back the ruins of my backbone, my bite, and these words
i am letting go of what i no longer need
the fear of this anger, the fear of these hands
i am casting out the dark winter nights that have made homes inside my bones
and this—this what i have been asking myself forever
where is the shame in fighting with fists and teeth for what we have always deserved, yet failed to see?
there is none
and so here i am, stumbling into sunlight, more damaged than whole—victorious
i drop the monster at my feet, subdued
a nasty thing of claws and rot but with a beating, ravenous heart like mine
(all we both wanted was to devour)
in the end, i turn my face to the spring sun and breathe
and breathe
and breathe
each breath a victory rattle
banging its way around my body—my body
here is your damn poem.
I AM
by Jason Weiss '22 here is your damn poem.
I AM
Strength is not deadlifting 400 pounds;
It's about going to school,
Knowing that that bully
Who calls you names,
Is waiting for you at the front door.
It's asking questions in class,
When you feel lost,
Even if the other kids think you're stupid.
Strength is not having a 40-inch vertical leap.
It's your big sister,
Looking your parents in the eye,
And claiming that the heterosexual life is not for her.
It's your older brother
Standing up to his cheating partner
And freeing himself from their cage.
Strength is not winning a ton of fights.
It's knowing how to walk away from fights
When the opponent keeps taunting you.
Strength is not curling 50-pound weights.
It's not allowing your body to be defined
By the people around you,
That forces everyone
To conform to its idea
Of beauty.
Strength is not defined
By society's preference for muscle and athleticsm.
It is defined
By each person
Based on their perspective.
You?
You are strength.
I am strength.
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