The 2021 Shann Palmer Poetry Contest | Illustrations by Briana Hertzog

The James River Writers/Richmond Magazine Shann Palmer Poetry Contest, named for the late Shann Palmer, a poet and active JRW board member, received 237 entries this year, submitted by 74 poets.

This year’s judge was Roscoe Burnems (aka Douglas Powell), Richmond’s first poet laureate, National Poetry Slam Champion, founder of The Writer’s Den art collective, educator and creator of the poetry and comedy special “Traumedy,” available on Amazon Prime. Burnems has published three poetry collections: “Fighting Demons: On Page,” “Chrysalis Under Fire: A Collection of Poetry and Writings,” and “God, Love, Death and Other Synonyms.”

Here, we present this year’s winning poem, “I Have Seen Richmond,” by Michael Jones, as well as two finalists, Laura Boycourt’s “Gold Ribbon” and Claudia Kessel’s “Sonata,” along with Burnems’ comments. 

Stately old city Sitting on the Falls of the James River Where river, roads and train tracks met Commerce flourished Human beings bought and sold Slavery: Virginia’s largest industry

I have seen Richmond I’ve seen it build roads and stores and even universities Over the graves of slaves and former slaves Over the places where they were bought, sold and killed I’ve seen the placards Tipping a cap to the inequities of slavery and oppression And in the shadow of the Auction Block Now stands the Justice Center: A great euphemistic monument To White Supremacy

I have seen Richmond Where scenic boulevards course through its neighborhoods And highways, meant to bring people together, Were carefully placed To isolate the black and poor

I have seen Richmond Where the privileged worry more about property values Than racial injustice Where an armed black man is a threat But an armed white man is a patriot

Yes, I have seen Richmond

A recently retired gastroenterologist, Michael Jones now spends his days indulging in the arts, including playing in a band, hosting his wellness podcast, “Consults Over Coffee," and penning short stories and poetry, which led him to enter his first poetry contest — and win. He was inspired to write “I Have Seen Richmond” last year during a bike ride around the city, stopping at sites such as the Robert E. Lee monument, the Richmond Slavery Reconciliation Statue and the Lumpkin’s Slave Jail site. He realized Richmond still has a long way to go in acknowledging its historic role in slavery. “I have friends with houses [on Monument Avenue who are] bent out of shape over concerns of what tearing down these statues will do to their property value,” Jones says. He says he can understand their objective concerns, given the large investment of homeownership, but he adds, “Not one of them ever said to me, ‘Cops in this country, they kill a lot of Black people.’ … It drips in racism and white privilege.” —Nicole Cohen

From Roscoe Burnems: This is a poem that the world needs to see and hear. It is an unfiltered narrative of Richmond without revisionist whitewashing. I deeply identified with the pain and hurt as this poet journeyed around the city. I love the approach and candor of this piece ... a lot. I know reading it may be uncomfortable for some, but if we ever expect to move forward as a city, we must reconcile its dark past and accept it for what it is.

When they met, she wore A gold ribbon in her raven black hair. That’s how he knew it was Her.

He placed the token in a drawer where she would not see.

Around her bouquet he fastened it, a streak of color Against the cascade of White lace.

In their new home, it encircled a vase that had been her mother’s. They cannot recall who placed it there.

When their firstborn arrived, without breath, she unpinned it from the receiving blanket. A keepsake that would not be Kept.

It graced the threshold As their boys Took their first steps, first dates, first flights from the nest.

It gently flapped in the breeze That skimmed the grandchildren’s pudgy fingers as they held the New fascination.

Now faded and tattered, it and them, The fabric rested on the bedside table As his mind struggled to Remember. As her body struggled to Fight the malignancy.

Two rooms, two call buttons. One love. One gold, tangible piece of their life Together.

Removing it from his pocket, He took her in his arms one last time for One last dance To the music coming from down the hall.

His feeble hands Tenderly tied it Around her snowy white Hair.

That’s how he would know it was Her.

From Roscoe Burnems: I love the storytelling of time through a single object. This feels like a fairy tale and captures some of the most important moments of one's life through the narrowed lens of the gold ribbon. I read the poem several times and nearly began weeping each time.

The reed at her lips, the strings in his hand, how making music resembles making love

in its energy and rhythm, the listening and watching, eyes and mind in tune, the flirtation, crescendo, the peak, the ecstasy, the release into joy of two bodies, two forms in sacred symmetry, harmonious elegance, encased in their oblivious beauty, their world only sound, produced by mouths and by fingers, by flesh and breath, let me follow your phrase to that place where the notes lead me, tumbling forth, as if by some divine plan, let me meet you in that place, that trembling triad, that vibrating fifth, that cavern of delight, take me to the cliff, throw me over its precipice, your suspension dripping from my bow, embrace me with your voice, with your body of wood, of string, we need to touch each other with skin, with sound, gentle, tender, then fierce and enflamed, our love cascading in a flourish of sixteenths, releasing into euphoric unison, we make love in cathedrals, in classrooms and concert halls, bars and bedrooms, discipline coupled with abandon, math and poetry, numbers and hysteria, an impassioned merging, blending our timbres, give me your tongue and your bliss so I know not myself, or you, or any other than this dance of delirium, we follow like hypnotic monks to the altar, blindly and without knowing our purpose, drawn toward it as the flame, as the sea, the cross, as the crimson sun, a manifestation of life’s energy, of our love for all that is, a celebration of our own beauty, the man and the woman, of the rapture of God, of all of it, of citrus sweat and crushed violets, of bruised petals and black waters, of the sparrow interlacing with clouds, spirit blown from our center, sculpted by hands, by mouths, by breath falling on the world’s ears mildly as the creek’s gurgling legato, as the locust’s leaflets fluttering in autumn descent, or abruptly as an arrow piercing flesh with stinging staccato, it births new life, potent and dangerous, delightful and delirious, for a moment not held back by fear, by shame, by doubt which colors our prosaic lives, we may for once be present and fall into a poem, breathe through it, this ecstasy of minutes, mind sharp as fire, yet a blurring of forms, of limbs, voices aching like gulls, roaring as the sea, the body knows what to do, where to go, the music lives in our muscles and our minds, my voice swells with my blood, with yours, with our blue rapture.

My heart—make love, make music, ravish me with those twelve tones, for soon we will be dead and buried in the solid and silent earth.

From Roscoe Burnems: This narrative unpacks the human experience in a way that we can all identify with in some way, through music. The imagery in this poem is spectacular and refreshing and makes you want to dance. While the poem doesn't feel linear, in 4/4 time it takes you through the entirety of life and love and rhythm and ends on this hopeful but somber note about the silence of death.

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