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Name Sort descending	Genre	Year
Taylor Johnson	Poetry	2024
Sarah Stewart Johnson	Nonfiction	2021
Denis Johnson	Fiction	1986
R. Kikuo Johnson	Fiction	2023
Jenny Johnson	Poetry	2015
Adam Johnson	Fiction	2009
R.S. Jones	Fiction	1992
A. Van Jordan	Poetry	2004
Dan Josefson	Fiction	2015
Rajiv Joseph	Drama	2009
Hansol Jung	Drama	2018
Cynthia Kadohata	Fiction	1991
Agymah Kamau	Fiction	2003
Ilya Kaminsky	Poetry	2005
Joan Naviyuk Kane	Poetry	2009
Seth Kantner	Fiction	2005
Mary Karr	Poetry	1989
Douglas Kearney	Poetry	2008
John Keene	Fiction	2005
John Keene	Poetry	2005
Brigit Pegeen Kelly	Poetry	1996
Randall Kenan	Fiction	1994
Randall Kenan	Nonfiction	1994
Brad Kessler	Fiction	2007
Laleh Khadivi	Fiction	2008
Sylvia Khoury	Drama	2021
Alice Sola Kim	Fiction	2016
James Kimbrell	Poetry	1998
Lily King	Fiction	2000
Linda Kinstler	Nonfiction	2023
Brian Kiteley	Fiction	1996
Matthew Klam	Fiction	2001
Kevin Kling	Drama	1993
Wayne Koestenbaum	Nonfiction	1994
Wayne Koestenbaum	Poetry	1994

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Selected winners

Gerald Early

1988

Tuxedo Junction

Essays on American Culture

It is not the primary thrust or purpose of these essays to serve as autobiography. The strictly autobiographical portions are to be approached with caution. This is not to suggest that they are not true, but veracity is hardly the issue or the point. The autobiographical parts often serve the same purpose as notes in a symphony or passage of music: simply to get from one place to another. The personage I am in some of the essays, to borrow Henry Adams’s metaphor, is simply a manikin on which I model some suitable clothes for the occasion… I am a critic and it is best for the reader never to forget that, even if at times I appear to be playing other roles.

Karisma Price

2025

I'm Always So Serious: Poems

The husband joins his wife near the olive
shaded lamp and quails

as his raving lover seizes the neck of
the fixture. I shudder in the passenger seat of

this city, far enough to not be heard but a light shines
bright and I am seen, sleuthing and serious. I know

close violences still form in the absence of want.
I keep walking as the husband shuts the blinds.

Shubha Sunder

2025

Optional Practical Training: A Novel

I paused outside Porter Square Station, in my wet clothes, to observe what a sign there called a kinetic sculpture—three elevated red objects shaped like tongues, tumbling about their axes and orbiting a tall white pole. My thoughts circled back to Theta’s shocked expression at my rent, which led me to review my predicted costs—food, transportation, utilities—and wonder if I’d overlooked something. After a brief trance, I descended a long escalator to the commuter rail platform and boarded the train to Wilton. Soon I was passing the same backyards and open spaces I’d sped by in March, no longer barren and covered with dirty snow, but green, with that profusion of young spring leaves I associated with Impressionist paintings. A pond slid into view, its edges blurred by clumps of reeds. The rain started again. It drew long diagonal streaks across the windows. Anyone want to get off at Brandeis? the conductor called as she strode up the aisle. That was a question, she added cheerfully. Not a threat.

Allegra Goodman

1991

Total Immersion

Stories

As Frankel muses on Progress in his Hillman Minx, Ed Markowitz wearily drives a rented Fiat to the Oriental Institute. He had not wanted to go on the day of his arrival, but this is the only time he can be sure to see Mujahid Rashaf, who is returning to Saudi Arabia within the week. Rashaf is an Oxford fellow and the son of a merchant prince. He will provide just the reasoned yet religious opinions that Markowitz seeks for his book, Terrorism: A Civilized Creed.

Randall Kenan

1994

Let the Dead Bury Their Dead

Stories

Am I sitting here amid boxes of chicken and snow-peas, beef and broccoli, gooey rice and the remnants of an eggroll dabbled in mustard and duck sauce, scribbling the thoughts of a madman? Or am I merely depraved? Are these the thoughts of a neurotic? A psychopath? Or am I just more honest than most? Smarter? Am I daring greatly? Or have I been cursed for violating a sacred trust older than Yoruba legend and Nippon lore? Am I the victim of the gods’ own jealous wrath? Eat of any tree in the garden, but you are damned if you eat of the fruit of the One Tree. Double-damned if you enjoy it. Triple-damned if you can’t get enough.

Damn.