The Healing Arts: The University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine Poetry Contest

Abstract

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Appendix

Illustration 1. Six-Word Poems. One of the categories in the annual poetry contest at the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine is the six-word poem. Below are examples of recent award-winning pieces (reprinted here with the permission of the authors).

Dropped Beats

“A broken heart divided, leaves two”

© Jasmine Dowell, 2014 First Place Winner

Solace

“Falling snow blankets her heart’s ruins.”

© Marc Robinson, 2014 Second Place Winner

Fear

“Alone, I see darkness.

Stay near.”

© Gini Fleming and Don Fleming, 2013 First Place Winner

Untitled

“A shaky hand in mine.

Squeeze.”

© Sandra Shi, 2013 Second Place Winner

Untitled

“They listened this time. Sans stethoscope”

© Kunmi Sobowale, 2012 First Place Winner

Illustration 2. Open Form Poems. The annual poetry contest at the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine invites poems of different lengths and structure. Below are examples of recent award-winning pieces in the Open Form category (reprinted here with the permission of the authors).

A Name

I ask her for her full name and the year that she was born,

I ask her where she lives and who resides at home,

I ask about her current health, of aching joints and belly pains,

I ask about her diet and the food that fuels her veins.

I ask of juvenile ailments, though she struggles to recall,

I ask about her parents’ death: At what age? And how?

I ask of sordid details from a youth gone past –

Times long forgotten, buried and forgiven, by most but not us.

I ask of her travels, her employment, and her sleep,

And bit-by-bit she offers up these pieces of her life

Because a body’s secrets are no longer hers to keep,

Now portions of a record, scribed by a stranger’s pen.

I smile politely and turn to leave, our encounter at its end,

But at the door I take pause, as something in me stirs.

I catch her eye and offer up one brief beholden look,

For it seems strange that in exchange for everything I took,

The only thing I’ve shared with her is a name she’d not quite heard.

© Alexandra Garnett, 2014 First Place Winner

This Is Just to Say

I have felt

the thrill

that flutters in

your chest

and which

you were probably

hoping

was just nerves

Forgive me

my voice trembles

unsteady as

I start to speak

© Wei Wei Lee, 2014 Second Place winner

One More Cut

Memory slits grimace, recalling days she was the clown

And days she sang the Morning Star with a voice that rang strong and clear as the morphine drip

Now pinned through flailing forearm thinned enough to show two bones.

Belly scars inscribe a life, of babies born, then ovaries torn, of kidneys lost and gained.

And with the newest cut, she’s lost a knee that bounced those giggling babes, a leg that danced the days she sang.

Where once that sturdy leg was bent fresh stitches stretch flesh ‘round bone’s end.

Drip runs dry, the Morning Star fades.

One grandchild on the phone, fighting doctors, calling home.

Saying 3 weeks left – unless they carve out something new.

Amidst murmurs of some-ectomy, anesthetized, she speaks her plea:

They just cut, cut, cut, it ain’t nothin’ new.

They just cut, cut, cut where the bad cells grew.

Doctor, no, I’m tired, I’m through.

One more cut ain’t gonna heal,

One more cut ain’t gonna do.

© Lindsay Poston, 2013 First Place Winner

Maybe

He slipped into a coma.

I never heard his voice.

I never saw his eyes.

I don’t know who he is.

Years translated into wrinkles

And I wonder who he was,

who held him as a child?

Who was the man who kissed his sores?

Who was the God that kept him still?

Maybe he awoke on Christmas

To see the bike he desired.

And maybe he wished and prayed

That spring would come early

To allow adventures to finally begin.

Maybe his father died at a young age,

Forcing him to be the man he was not yet.

Still a young boy, he didn’t have a plan.

Maybe he got drafted at the age of 18

To go to a war he did not yet understand.

And as he left he maybe begged to stay.

But America only kissed him good-bye.

And maybe in that war he lost his best friend

Along with the fears and hopes that still made him a child.

When he came back, he was made into a man.

He grew old with his children far from home,

Maybe his joints hurt with every step.

Maybe it was love: the only reason to live.

Of none of this I am sure.

I enter and leave as his chest rises and falls.

Today he counts on us.

He has neither words nor sights.

He may be a common man or a hero.

All I can do: honor this man

For the man that he might be.

© Julia Mosqueda, 2013 Second Place Winner

H.I.E.

You are G-tube, trach-dependent,

deaf, blind, devastated, orphaned,

forgotten,

and 2 years old today.

You are an incredible teacher.

You are

cerebral palsy,

septic shock,

multi-drug resistant organisms,

broad-spectrum antibiotics,

pulmonary edema,

acute renal failure,

fluid resuscitation,

epinephrine,

chest compressions,

epinephrine,

epinephrine,

sinus tachycardia.

I wonder… do you dream?

Of peppermint breezes and thrumming valleys,

burning bushes and albino woods,

bottomless sun and twisting caverns,

marshmallow clouds and rose petal rains.

Of swiftwater farms with slow-flowing trickles

over cotton rocks past hand-dripped castles

under deafening moonrises through endless time

without shadow.

Without a shadow.

Of a doubt.

You are neither a carrot nor a cucumber.

What gift can I give you?

I will still say “Good Morning” when I enter your room.

Good.

Mourning.

Happy Birthday.

© Joshua Tyler Williams, 2012 First Place

Two Tiny Feet

they named him Samuel

I always wonder

if they chose

that name before

or after

he rests

wrapped in a blanket

of lost hope and

a cruel sort of

innocence

only his two

slightly misshapen

feet peek out,

a relentless reminder

of what is gone

they are handsome

miniature ten-toed feet

capturing the

grace of the life

he never got to know

the rest of him

is hidden, he is

not a beautiful

baby nor can he

be called cute

his parents clutch

the minute bundle

unable to forget

this diminutive life

who had no life at all

the hospital room

is surrounded by

a sluggish seeping joy

that poisons this room

of despair

sanitized

unyieldingly,

cheerful, a place

for hellos, here

are only good-byes

genetics crushed

this boy- child

thorny trio replaced natural

duo

he struggled

all came to naught

a week later

we gather to sing,

a portrait of

adorable little feet

watching over us

a heart was given to

me

while theirs

shattered

made of fleece

a durable material

handmade, slightly

lopsided

carried in my coat

pocket, day in day

out, sometimes

held in my hand

just for a moment

pressed to my

cheek

listening for a silent

heartbeat

I remember a

boy named Samuel

I only ever saw

his feet

© Liese Pruitt, 2012 Second Place

Monday Morning Rounds

Making the rounds with the attending

We’re checking boxes

We’re sipping coffee

We’re adjusting medications

We’re writing undecipherable notes in

patient charts

We walk into an older lady’s room

Conversation with family halts abruptly

They are anxious to know

What will we say?

What will we do?

Are her kidneys doing any better today?

The attending strides over to her bed

Feels her edematous ankles

All eyes are affixed on him

He looks down at the chart

Shakes his head

Tells everybody to carry on

For a moment, her eyes catch mine

Careworn and tear-filled they search for

reassurance

Hoping for just a little more time

to be with her children, with her husband

The doctor could not provide any

reassurances, could I?

It’s not fair for me to give her a false sense of

security

All the news is bad

Her numbers look worse than they did the day

before

I can’t lie to her

I can’t tell her that everything’s going to be ok

Because it’s not

It’s just not . . .

In spite of this, I walk over to her side

Reach out to clasp her hand in mine

Our eyes meet again and she smiles

I’m at a loss for words, but I manage:

“You have a great day, Mrs. Smith.”

“Thank you, thank you,”

she chokes through the tears

I say goodbye and turn to rejoin the team,

Maybe, just maybe, things are going to be ok, after

All

© Brian Thurber, 2012 Second Place