Poetry Contest
Poetry Contest Winners
The Donn Goodwin Prize - 2026
Awarded to
an Irish poet dies with his boots on
(for Donn, eternal rest grant unto him, o Lord...)
at first I thought
he’d had a bit too much of the liquid demon.
I mean, one minute
he was up there in his green shirt and cream colored
slacks, and the next he was
pitching forward off the stage
his body bringing the microphone with him
like a reluctant lover.
Nick, who worked at a hospital
and writes haikus about the airport,
leapt forward and checked his pulse. there was
a nasty bump
where his cranium had met the pavement
how do you SPLAT do.
help was called,
and the ambulance came at a leisurely pace.
my advice to you, if you’re going to have a stroke.
is not to have it during Irishfest. everyone
thinks the attendants are kidding. everyone
thinks the siren is a joke.
later we toasted him,
of course, praying for
his recovery which, of course,
true to form, never came,
he died four days later
and now there is a poet’s prize
named just for him.
but I couldn’t be sad.
think about it:
losing earthly consciousness
in front of a tent full of semi-loaded poets,
blowing the kisses of your words
into infinity as the light around you darkens,
surrounded by your kind,
the sun is shining,
the water is so blue,
you are doing what you love as you leave
the old sod, you are flying
above the bagpipes,
a handsome poet is holding your hand,
another is saying her Rosary,
what a finale,
you sly Irish dog you really
stole the show.
The Donn Goodwin Prize - 2025
Awarded to Alison McBain
Drought
(Séadna poem)
Bleak words are never suited
for a soul’s first loss: the brusque tone
of bereavement or mooning
melody of mourning. I’ve known
naively that a surfeit
exists only in synonyms for
rainfall: shower, squall, monsoon,
tempest, torrent, storm—sorrow pours
but not in floods that nurture,
only absence. It steals zest, seeks
spirits to crush, dries hearts to
chaff, bitter and hollow and bleak.
The Donn Goodwin Prize - 2024
Awarded to Katherine O'Toole
Knotwork
There was a song that my mother sang only once
As we drove home from my grandmother’s funeral
And never again.
It can be hard to sing
When grief stings your mouth
With the salty taste of tears,
When Killarney is an ocean
And many years away.
In the closet of my childhood home
Hangs a purple dress and a white sash
That both my mother and I danced in.
The lace on the collar has begun to yellow,
But within the winding knotwork
Embroidered by my grandmother’s best friend,
Are lines that have no beginning nor end;
Knitting together the past and future
With thread and memories.
Though the dust has gathered on the old accordion box,
The echoes of music played decades ago
Find me again;
Songs from the past,
Sung by people who looked forward,
Picking up, again and again, that thread
Of lilting notes and melodies,
Reaching out across time and distance,
To say - we do not know you yet,
But for you -
we will take the beauty we have known in this world
And keep it alive.
This is our gift to you,
For you to be so loved within this world,
That countless voices sang for you
Before you were even here.
We have held this thread,
so that you may hold it too.
In the closet of my childhood home
Hangs a white sash. On it,
Above a scene of cliffs and waves,
The words,
‘By Killarney’s lakes and fells’,
Were embroidered in purple thread
By someone who never knew me
And I think that perhaps,
The ocean is not so wide after all
When there is a thread to hold,
And a song to sing.
