Claire Tinguely ‘03, of El Paso, Texas, won first place in the Nancy Thorp Memorial Poetry Contest for her poem “Poppies.” Her prize-winning poem—one of nearly 800 entries—will be published this spring in Cargoes, the Hollins University literary magazine. Claire has also been invited to attend the university’s 43rd Annual Literary Festival on Saturday, March 15, 2003, at its campus in Roanoke, Virginia.

Claire says that she began writing stream-of-consciousness poetry when she was 12. “It wasn't until I was introduced to my literary guru and coach, Mr. Connolly [English department faculty member], that I began to write anything that resembled decent poetry,” she says.

“’Poppies’ is a love poem to an immigrant woman who took care of my younger brother and me when we were younger,” Claire says. “Most of the imagery I use reflects my upbringing in the area of western Texas along the Rio Grande.”

The annual Hollins University contest recognizes the best poems submitted by young women who are juniors or seniors in high school. Awards are given in memory of Nancy Thorp, a young and promising poet who died tragically just two years after graduating from Hollins University.

In 2002, Claire won a Scholastic Art and Writing Regional Gold Key Award in the category of poetry. The nationalScholastic contest has been an avenue for young artists and writers, in grades 7-12, to earn recognition and rewards for their creative achievements since 1923. Adding to Claire’s list of literary achievement, "Poppies" and a short story were published last year in the Susquehanna Review, a publication of Susquehanna University, in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.

Poppies
Maria discovered them first.
Behind the mountain
behind our house,
they came like a great orange rash.
From the rooftop, my brother and I
agreed they were like the rust
that hovered in the air
to the south. We never saw
Maria’s home. We came only as close
as the river. During the hot
days, people died crossing,
pulled under by the current.
She was up before anyone else,
her tangerine gloves waving
like someone drowning
in the melody of mariachi.
Her breath was flat and faintly
metallic:
the scent of opium.
Drawn to the cracked beaches of earth,
they slept in shade until we picked them
for a table centerpiece. While sunshine
tweaked bloom and leather,
she fried onions until they caramelized.
Our dining table wood still smells of Maria
and our tears from the fumes.
The sting never burned her eyes.
And I wondered if she bled too.
The hot wind tugged like a fang in flesh
that summer when they first came to our side
of the mountain. Roots twisted in baked dirt,
waded in waves of heat. The air pinched
until everything cried, salt-licked and itching.
The beautiful ones die first,
she said, they give their life
and water to cacti. No longer
ripe, still they let themselves hang – stems
like needles in a dry vein. She wrung
out the linens in the morning and was gone
by night. Petals unfolded
in surrender to the winds. Soon they evaporated.
It took only five seasons