“I Don’t Need I Love Yous” by Cindy Patrick  – Winner of the 2023 Lesley Strutt Poetry Contest

LSPC 2023 Cindy Patrick winner

Congratulations to "I Don't Need I Love Yous" by Cindy Patrick, winner of the 2023 Lesley Strutt Poetry Contest!

This poetry award carries a $500 prize, and is in memory of poet and friend Lesley Strutt.

Thank you to our 2023 judge, Carolyne Van Der Meer!

“There were so many fine poems submitted to the Lesley Strutt Poetry Prize that it was difficult to choose a winner—which is why there are several Honourable Mentions. 

But the winning poem, ‘I Don’t Need I Love Yous,’ met all my criteria for a standout piece. Above all, I loved its complexity—the owl, what its wingspan represents, the fact that, initially, we don’t know who the ‘he’ is to the speaker—and how she cleverly leads us to his identity. The meanderings about physical folds, squished and tweaked breasts, intestines, dragsters and quilted jackets offer a multi-layered story of an ‘ungrand’ grandparent. And the end, bringing us back to the wingspan, and the value, the power of belief in oneself—and that final unexpected rhyme—ultimately make for a brilliant poem that meets all the markers of good storytelling, while demanding of the reader to fill in the gaps, and feel what the speaker is not telling us.” 

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I Don’t Need I Love Yous We didn’t know what kind of owl it was. He told them the wingspan was so massive we could fit inside. Enveloping gray, downy arms. A wrap of warm fog. But I know he doesn’t do hugs. He doesn’t want to be told I love you. It’s a capital responsibility. So, I am needy for holding and telling. He can’t take the hurt of a physical fold. He loves me by convincing me his duodenum is swollen and his wingspan isn’t as big as I think. I got tricked by others who hugged me. Squishing my breasts to memorable distress. Thoughtless about my intestines. I was being “a miss”, taken for someone who gets a say. Just now, I didn’t express disdain for the 1953 dragster his grandpa built nor sadness about the mice tossed out on their asses from the field engine. Grandpa tweaked my tit. Everyone looked away. I didn’t squeak when he handed me flat root beer, no ice, because he said the family didn’t trust ice machines. There it was. The quilted jacket he bore. Data scraps rivetted hand to hand, by grand or un -grand parents. Welded so tightly he couldn’t raise his arms. Or screech higher than the family tree. He might never figure it out- but I just did. With my wingspan I can hug myself and never be uneasy. Fly away like the owl, without turning around. My wings not required to make any sound.

About Cindy Patrick

Cindy lives on Vancouver Island, observing Mother and human nature. Seeking no formal education, she is ever in her formative years. Her poems appear in magazines like Blank Spaces, Subjectiv, High Shelf Press, and Griffel. 

About our Judge

Carolyne Van Der Meer is the author of four published books: Motherlode: A Mosaic of Dutch Wartime Experience (WLUP, 2014); Journeywoman (Inanna, 2017); Heart of Goodness: The Life of Marguerite Bourgeoys in 30 Poems | Du coeur à l’âme : La vie de Marguerite Bourgeoys en 30 poèmes (Guernica Editions, 2020); and Sensorial (Inanna, 2022). Her poetry and prose have been published in journals internationally. She lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. 

 

Honourable Mentions

"Far from ocean mouth-grave, we are whatnots" by Ashleigh Allen   

"Ithaka" by Leah Bobet 

"Parc Ex Morning" by Marianne Jones

"Do You Know About the Flowers on the Corner of Saint-Antoine and Berri" by Misha Solomon   

 

I Don’t Need I Love Yous 

 

We didn’t know what kind of owl it was. 

He told them the wingspan was so massive  

 

we could fit inside. Enveloping gray, downy  

arms. A wrap of warm fog. But I know he  

 

doesn’t do hugs. He doesn’t want to be told  

I love you. It’s a capital responsibility. So, 

 

I am needy for holding and telling. He can’t  

take the hurt of a physical fold. He loves me  

 

by convincing me his duodenum is swollen  

and his wingspan isn’t as big as I think. I got  

 

tricked by others who hugged me. Squishing  

my breasts to memorable distress. Thoughtless 

 

about my intestines. I was being “a miss”, taken 

for someone who gets a say. Just now, I didn’t  

 

express disdain for the 1953 dragster his grandpa  

built nor sadness about the mice tossed out on  

 

their asses from the field engine. Grandpa  

tweaked my tit. Everyone looked away. I didn’t  

 

squeak when he handed me flat root beer, no ice,  

because he said the family didn’t trust ice machines.  

 

There it was. The quilted jacket he bore. Data  

scraps rivetted hand to hand, by grand or un 

 

-grand parents. Welded so tightly he couldn’t  

raise his arms. Or screech higher than the  

 

family tree. He might never figure it out- but I  

just did. With my wingspan I can hug myself  

 

and never be uneasy. Fly away like the owl,  

without turning around. My wings not required  

 

to make any sound.   

The Lesley Strutt Annual Poetry Contest

Launching in Summer 2021, the Lesley Strutt Annual Poetry Contest is a contest that provides a prize for the single best poem submitted to our judges. This contest is open to all poets (professional, emerging, and first-time) in Canada, and is run each summer in memory of poet and friend Lesley Strutt.