Whiting Award Winners

Since 1985, the Foundation has supported creative writing through the Whiting Awards, which are given annually to ten emerging writers in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and drama.

Insectopedia

With careless hands a child kills an ant. Flies are far trickier, though once caught, they have little chance. And, if darting birds don’t grab them first, butterflies die natural deaths; few people—collectors excepted—willfully still such tremulous beauty.

Far District
Poems

I know snow as soap opera, the comedy
of white heap shovelled into strophe
and anti-strophe for long blocks – snow
as envy, a shaken blanket making a lasting
echo over clean avenues.

The Silent Partner
Poems

Still half-asleep and often still half-drunk,

They bitch about their wives and trucks and work.

The Skil saws lurch. A hammer hits a thumb

Or bangs a nail over or splits the wood

At a crucial joint, which anyway was out

Of square or measured wrong; then bending down

To pull the thing, his butt peeps out above

His pants. Mostly that’s how things get done.

 

But certain afternoons, with men arrayed

Around the frame, the sun appears to gleam

In sawdust winnowing behind the blade

And catch the hammer cocked above a beam

In a still life of the legendary glamour

Of craft and craftsmanship the mind is given

Long since and far away, where the poised hammer

Doesn’t fall, and not a nail gets driven.

The Internationalist
A Play

SARA

I don't think $20 is much for a bribe.

 

LOWELL

Isn't it? American? I was hoping it was a whole hell of a lot.

 

SARA

Maybe. Guys who work in airports make a lot of funny money different ways.

 

LOWELL

Oh but, oh, well. Yeah. Fuck. Well it was my first bribe.

Autobiography of a Face
A Memoir

I stood there perfectly still, just as I had sat for countless medical photographs: full face, turn to the left, the right, now a three-quarter shot to the left. I took a certain pride in knowing the routine so well. I’ve even seen some of these medical photographs in publications. Curiously, those sterile, bright photos are easy for me to look at. For one thing, I know that only doctors look at them, and perhaps I’m even slightly proud that I’m such an interesting case, worthy of documentation. Or maybe I do not really think it is me sitting there, Case 3, figure 6-A.

The Weather Stations
Stories

We will rebuild our city, yes—we will, we will build a new city in the image of our old city, a city that will withstand whatever nature sends against it, a city that will rise up into the sky, our mayor said, pointing, his arm trembling, a city raised up into the clouds, a cloud city, a city of the air currents, of the jet streams, of warm fronts and cold fronts, a city that will harness the power of the weather and put it to good use, only good, constructive use.

Insectopedia

With careless hands a child kills an ant. Flies are far trickier, though once caught, they have little chance. And, if darting birds don’t grab them first, butterflies die natural deaths; few people—collectors excepted—willfully still such tremulous beauty.

Far District
Poems

I know snow as soap opera, the comedy
of white heap shovelled into strophe
and anti-strophe for long blocks – snow
as envy, a shaken blanket making a lasting
echo over clean avenues.

The Silent Partner
Poems

Still half-asleep and often still half-drunk,

They bitch about their wives and trucks and work.

The Skil saws lurch. A hammer hits a thumb

Or bangs a nail over or splits the wood

At a crucial joint, which anyway was out

Of square or measured wrong; then bending down

To pull the thing, his butt peeps out above

His pants. Mostly that’s how things get done.

 

But certain afternoons, with men arrayed

Around the frame, the sun appears to gleam

In sawdust winnowing behind the blade

And catch the hammer cocked above a beam

In a still life of the legendary glamour

Of craft and craftsmanship the mind is given

Long since and far away, where the poised hammer

Doesn’t fall, and not a nail gets driven.

The Internationalist
A Play

SARA

I don't think $20 is much for a bribe.

 

LOWELL

Isn't it? American? I was hoping it was a whole hell of a lot.

 

SARA

Maybe. Guys who work in airports make a lot of funny money different ways.

 

LOWELL

Oh but, oh, well. Yeah. Fuck. Well it was my first bribe.

Autobiography of a Face
A Memoir

I stood there perfectly still, just as I had sat for countless medical photographs: full face, turn to the left, the right, now a three-quarter shot to the left. I took a certain pride in knowing the routine so well. I’ve even seen some of these medical photographs in publications. Curiously, those sterile, bright photos are easy for me to look at. For one thing, I know that only doctors look at them, and perhaps I’m even slightly proud that I’m such an interesting case, worthy of documentation. Or maybe I do not really think it is me sitting there, Case 3, figure 6-A.

The Weather Stations
Stories

We will rebuild our city, yes—we will, we will build a new city in the image of our old city, a city that will withstand whatever nature sends against it, a city that will rise up into the sky, our mayor said, pointing, his arm trembling, a city raised up into the clouds, a cloud city, a city of the air currents, of the jet streams, of warm fronts and cold fronts, a city that will harness the power of the weather and put it to good use, only good, constructive use.