We here at TuDiabetes are delighted to announce the Week 1 Winners of our “No-Sugar Added Poetry” Contest.
We had 17 submissions this week (which can be viewed on the contest’s member page) and our judging panel has selected the following winners:
1st Place: “The Girl” by sohair
2nd Place: “That is until her next meal of course.” by Senna arshad
3rd Place: “Prick” by Travis
Honorable Mention:
“Determined Face” by Devon
These submissions are included at the bottom of this post, for your reading convenience.
This week’s prize winners should email Manny at manny AT tudiabetes DOT org with your complete mailing address so that you may receive your prizes!
Round 2 judging ends February 1, 2009 at 11:59 pm PT, so please keep your submissions rolling in. For additional details, follow this link.
Honeyed or unsweetened, let’s get those poetic juices flowing! 
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
—Mark Strand
1st Place: "The Girl" by sohair Shoug is a little adopted girl, puzzled by her surname Her adopting Dad's name does not match the name they call her at school.
Shoug is puzzled
She is irritable
She hears things
She cannot understand.
She asked her adopting Mum,
Does father has two names?
Her adopting mother said yes,
And when
proudly the seven year old girl
told the whole school about
her dad’s two names
The school teachers wickedly laughed.
Shoug had diabetes few months back,
she did not tell the school about it
She heard her mother
tell her father
behind closed doors,
My dear tell no body
or no body will ever
marry our dear little Shoug
So Shoug kept the secret
Because she loves like all little girls
to get married
one day
Shoug was admitted in DKA
The teacher,
would not
let her go to the bathroom
Shoug, who is diabetic
wet her self in the class room,
and she became
the outcast of the school.
Lying in bed
with her back to me
her sadness was too much for her,
her despair was bigger than her
My heart sank
Her depression was ahead of mine.
As an old woman
it is ok for me to feel depressed
But as a little 7 year old
It is killing to feel that way.
I gave Shoug a hug
I taught her how to face the world
I gave her my very cherished
Teddy bear
Shoug came yesterday to my clinic
with a beautiful present for me
A valentine red bottle of girlish perfume
I could not say no
I bought her another teddy bear
from the flower shop
And she gave me a hug
17-1-2007
2nd Place: "That is until her next meal of course." by Senna arshad In it goes. Long, thin, shiny. Impacts every one of my skin cells and then your hear it, click click cli-ick, The noise hangs in the air, along with the tension Why me? The bitter, painful and salty droplets, NORMAL people of the World call tears, roll endlessly down her cheeks.
In that corner, in that house, in that city.
Sits, as the long, thin, shiny withdraws from the stomach
and as it pours out, sticky, red blood.
It doesn’t gush, but does have a trickle to it.
Like a small tributary, just trickling.
Then her hand reaches, slowly
For a tissue, pure and white as if it were
A fluffy cloud,
As it touches her skin, it stains
With the sticky blood, mopping
it up.
Then off she run’s, away,
Leaving the tears and tissue,
stained with the sticky substance
Behind.
That is until her next meal of course.
3rd Place: "Prick" by Travis Prick. Nothing. Prick. Now it flows. Finally some mockery of knowledge for all the holes and misfires that always sting, regardless of any yield.
To a street corner hugging junkie
I compare the similarities we share most often…
One of habits.
Two of shame.
Three of this redundant hope to feel the best I’ll ever feel in my life again.
Four on the floor in a cold sweat.
I’ve seen the light that blinds me,
but not that which is translated by dilating pupils…
It’s the kind that comes from within.
The kind that scares you worse than an interrogation
in the presence of fearful, uninformed, power-hungry men.
Feed me. Feed me.
So I give in…
Just a taste.
I’ve missed you.
It’s only been 180 minutes, but
I craved you more than the thought
of longevity itself.
It’s sad to know that my own lover
could be the death of me.
It’s maddening to know that my death could
come from this hand to mouth life that loves me more…
Exhausted.
Complacent.
Manic, anxious.
No…
Endless lists of adjectives
could still never describe properly these
defining moments that wake me up in the middle
of my sloth at midday, just to announce that I’m hung over.
But, I don’t drink…
I’m an untied shoelace
waiting to trip myself.
I am the loosely laced shoe choking my ankles
until I can’t feel the ground.
I am the socks on these legs, too numb to think that
making moves now will take me anywhere safe, before the gates close.
I am the limb that holds me down now.
Prick.
Honorable Mentions: "Determined Face" by Devon Thirst. Fatigue. Sallow-faced. Far away eyes, Without appetite Animated youngster, Gradually fades away.
Tests.
Doctors.
Drawing blood
From feeble arms.
She’s a petite frame,
With a determined face
And watery grey-blue eyes.
Soon,
Results.
Tide of shock.
With Mother’s words
“They’ve found a disease”
Her young mind cannot grasp
A sickness that never leaves.
Change.
Mourning.
Muddled days.
Learning anew.
Frustrations come.
Worried eyes, trembling lips
She holds that determined face.
Live.
Adapt.
And mature.
She flourishes
In courage and fright.
On this turbulent road,
She keeps a determined face.