Iris N Spencer Awards Previous Winner

2011 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

Red Riding Hood

How could she skip along without a sense
That something grave had happened in that place?
The door ajar, the air of hushed suspense,
Beneath Gran’s cap, that gaunt, unblinking face.

How could she think the figure was the same?
The warmest grin could never mask those teeth;
And when she heard the whisper of her name,
How could she miss the threat that lay beneath?

I wonder if she felt the growing dread,
Took stock of gleaming eyes, the teeth, the snout,
And was it then that foolish Little Red
Let out, unheard, a sharp and desperate shout?

For how could she, so innocent, and good,
Know of the wolves who shrewdly prowl the wood?

Jule Coppa

2010 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

 A Woman Like

"A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future."--Coco Chanel

Strut down the street, only wear couture.
No man on earth wants an unfashionable woman.
A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future.

Around older men, always act more mature.
Occasionally flip your hair over the shoulder.
Strut down the street, only wear couture.

Speak at least two languages, have some culture.
Prepare to talk to foreign diplomats, bat your curled lashes.
A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future.

Always leave a fragrance upon your departure.
Everyone remembers a sweet-smelling woman.
Strut down the street, only wear couture.

Never lose youth, get some acupuncture.
Healthy rosy complexion is another must for a woman.
A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future.

Seek out worthy men to enrapture.
Men may control the world but women control the men.
Strut down the street, only wear couture.
A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future.

Emily Yoon

2009 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

Morrissey in the Morning

Stephen Patrick Morrissey takes his tea
every single day at eight-fifteen.
One teaspoon of milk, no sugar at all,
he stirs, licks the spoon, and stares at the wall.
Yet in his mind drone ever-grinding gears,
grey hair and trembling hands confirm his fears.
He thought his vow would bring him inner peace,
but solitude won't grant him sweet release.
Getting on alone, what was he thinking?
Celibacy can't stop him from drinking.
He's just as corrupted as any boy,
just older, sadder, void of simple joy.
And so he sits there, morose Morrissey,
adding a splash of whiskey to his tea.

Molly O'Neill

2008 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

But Not the Moon

Breezes are a lie. Only a small cradle
exists, in the attic,
that remembers everything.
And the moon.
But not the mooon.

-Federico Garcia Lorca

Shadow-stamped, trampled by the feet of gods
who climbed into the sky because we're not
all meant to walk the ground... a star at odds
with sea, pulling the waves apart... white clot
in ink-blood... terror of the old wolf hound...
how many years has this been going on,
And the moon, but not the moon? A full face, round
as cherubs of the Dionysian son--
but not the moon. Never the moon that stands
plain, alone. A dusty lightbulb, a fist
in clenching fury, then the drop of hands.
The moon is forgettable. It won't exist
unless the sun trumpets morning, until
we recall moonlight on the farthest hill...

Robert Whitehead

2007 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

On the Edge of Night

The dogs are barking at the edge of night.
The trees are black. The sky a frosty gray.
We are no longer sure of what is right.

Our prayers can only reach a certain height.
They struggle in the air and go astray
While dogs are barking at the edge of night.

The church's spire is not a welcome sight.
The preacher's sermons have become passé.
We are no longer sure of what is right.

God's angels fold their wings and hide their light
From those who listen for their harps to play
But hear only dogs at the edge of night.

We wonder why our lives have lost their bite.
The past is gone, so broken, so far away.
We seem to have forgotten what is right.

Yet still I come back to my desk to write
My songs, though they die in the mouth of day,
Though dogs are barking at the edge of night,
I have not lost my thirst for what is right.

Luke Stromberg, West Chester University

2006 Iris N. Spencer Undergraduate Poetry Award Winner

Interior Design

In a house made all of afterthoughts, where
dusty cupboards block each other's moves
and sockets brood unused while afternoons
hold sullen bookshelves in their glare;
in a house made all of surfaces, like papers
on a desk after colliding at the edge,
filth spills through the caulk's white wedge
to fill in cracks, cement stray hairs.
In the heaving jumble's even grime,
things lose their hum of smooth design;
and some uncaring understanding made
of a pair of wandering ants intrudes
to scatter blindly in the light and lose
the way back to the slowly fading fray.

William Welsh
Swarthmore College