Poetry

Warm chrysanthemum
the same color as butter bled into strawberry jam

went limp two nights ago.
I sobbed and cut the stems,
filled a vase and arranged the blooms. If they were to die,

I might as well enjoy the show.
Is there a point to giving
a gift that dies like stop motion? Or are they the ultimate

gesture—here, a fragment of life—
trimmed from the life-source
of pulsing Earth—I trust you will try to preserve them.

This is my secret: it’s possible
to save flowers, for my
watered chrysanthemums flourished—turgid rebirth.

I awoke the next morning,
their discarded stems like
snapped chopsticks in the sink, new buds emerging.

 

 

Marina Chen is a high schooler from Washington State and member of the Seattle Youth Poet Laureate cohort. Her work has been recognized by the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Live Poets Society of New Jersey, the Hanging Loose literary magazine, and others. She writes poetry about everything she loves (and many things she doesn’t.)

I.

The day I became a definition, I sat
on white paper, cloaked in a gown

thin as my sinew and skin, shaking,
a mere apparition.

They call it
median arcuate ligament syndrome,

a name I can barely pronounce, its
harsh syllables impressed against

my lips. I wonder how the med students
wrap their breath around the words,

recite all the diseases with their
typewriter tongues, the terms that will

replace their patient’s names. Those
doctors always said I had tiny veins,

told me to make a fist the size of the
plums my mother peels.

She knives around the pits. Slices
golden flesh to reveal a whole seed.

I watch the juices slip down her forearm.
Waxed fruit splitting open, unearthed

like a wound.

 

II.

I am fourteen. My breath stammers the
number of times I’ve stayed in a hospital

like a voice dripping punctured
sonnets. Air grows stale when you’re

confined to four plastered walls,
caustic and calcimine. Back then,

I wanted liberation. To stop wearing
this body as a bone-house.

 

III.

I shiver on the table, my thoughts
the blood spilt on the blanched paper

beside me. With each prick I’m reminded
of the fleshy fruit, whose wisteria

hues I once let bleed in a pale palm
when I was no river thin wraith.

Here, I imagine peeling myself
from seven years of pain and needles

and false labels from sharp tongues
uttering empty syllables,

searching a skeleton in blinding light
for the things they can name. Here, I

allow knives to slit belly, like the fish
partitioned to the bone. Let hands take a

fraction of this body, birthing a scar
as proof.

Understand, I am no definition. I bite
into a plum, its juices forming veins

larger than mine. And hope that scar
doesn’t fade.

 

Rachel Brooks is a high school junior at Christian Heritage School in Trumbull, CT, where she is editor-in-chief of the literary magazine. She is also a Genre Editor for Polyphony Lit and writes articles for her local newspaper. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

 

*This poem was awarded a Gold Medal in the 2020 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and was previously published in their online gallery.*

I want to call your name,

the noise ricocheting sharply like a shot around the narrow walls

and fly down an alleyway filled with light to meet you

midnight-blue skirt pleats billowing like petals, breeze caressing my skin

I want to secretly slip my hand in yours for a fleeting moment

as we bob along, buoyed by an effervescent zephyr

separating and coming back together, weaving like singing swallows

across the gentle cobblestone waves

the rosy hint of morning sun on your lips

and the fresh scent of summer in your hair

I want to succumb to the pull of promise

and prowl the bustling shopping streets of Ginza at lunch break,

burning up with the thrill of doing the forbidden

and the giddy excitement of being free

I want to run and run and keep running forever

in a sobbing sky

the gray mist blooming over emerald rice paddies

splashing in puddles and feeling the wet, sinking, soaking chill

and watching you fling the shaking droplets from your limp, hanging hair

I want to laugh like there’s no tomorrow

the air squeezing out of my lungs in gleeful bursts

as we try, and fail, to snag a plushie from the claw machine for the sixteenth time

and walk away with empty hands, light wallets and brimming hearts

I want to lean against you on the subway ride home

reaching up to tightly clasp the oscillating handles

and not quite being tall enough, but that’s okay

I want to press a soft kiss to your cheek

as the sky dims around us

holding a cup of bubble tea in one hand and

the faded smell of leather and eraser shavings in the other

I want to feel the world grind to a halt

hearing the melodic chime and the rush of crisp, biting night air as the doors open

letting in a constellation of serendipity

idyllic, infectious, intoxicating, igneous, ichorous

I want to lie on a velvet carpet of viridity

watching the festival glow like an ember of hope

a village, a tradition, a home coming alive

tucked into the crook of silent, listening mountains

seeing “大” branded into the sleeping valley with apoplectic torches

and the fireflies performing their sacred dance

rising up, up, up into the satin curtain of darkness without a care in the world

and vanishing as soon as their light begins to shine

I want to discover more

in you

and in me

than we ever thought possible

cradling the strawberry moon in our hands

holding the orphic fire in our souls.

 

Emma Chan is a sophomore at Kent Place School in Summit, New Jersey, where she plays the piano for her school’s Chamber Orchestra. She is a page editor and staff writer for her school newspaper Ballast. She loves writing and hopes to pursue history, philosophy or literature in college.

Once time to travel to Wisconsin or go to the mountains.
Always time to play fun board games, like checkers and chess,
there was always peace and time to relax,
there was no hassle trying to travel to school in the morning,
And nothing to do in the afternoon.

Now,
I move from school to soccer,
soccer to home,
home to conquering homework,
and the homework to bed.
On weekends, I have games for my travel teams,
and I have to go get groceries more often.

I miss the days of peace and time to relax,
I miss the time I get to travel.
I miss the fun board games.
I miss the past as a child.

 

Tyler is a student at St. Patrick’s School in Rolla, Missouri.

for teaching me how to live with others

as “one another,”

Thank you, Grandma, for teaching me

Yoruba, answering my 

questions that I 

decide to ask while 

you were sleeping, like “Grandma, what is 2+2?”
Thank You, Grandma,

for teaching me that you are helping

Us prepare for 

Tomorrow.

Thank you for forgiving me

for the accidental slamming of

the microwave, kitchen trash, the fridge, and freezers,

pantry cupboard doors, the

spice cabinet above the stove, and

nearly everything in the house,

that has a door and can be shut.

Thank You, Grandma, for playing along with O’Ryan

And me whenever we call you

“Gam-Gam” and responding as

“Grandson-grandson.”

Thank you for all

 the fun laughs of calling

“SpongeBob” “Spongeoun-Box”

but Please…. DON’T stop.

Thank you for teaching

That we should always

Be T-R-U-E TRUE.

Thank you for always cheering

me up, when you 

Don’t mean to, like when I

 came home from 4th grade crying.

Thank you for tickling

Olivia, O’Ryan, and me

whenever we’re sad,

and for reminding us 

to be a child of God

ranks above all else

in the world.

Thank you for inviting

us to all of your church programs,

 Exposing us to

your beautifully amazing voice.

Thank you for teaching us

 discipline when we

 need it,

 and for the Bible 

“Meetings” that would

 often take place on

 Tuesday’s in the living room,

 while we sat on the beige couch,

 And teaching the Olusanya 

Grandchildren that it’s okay

 if the world mocks and spits

 at us for doing what’s right.

 God even tells us that the pain

 of Jesus isn’t easy,

 and you can’t take the easy 

road out, but the narrow pathways

and difficult pathways to life eternal.

Thank you for having us memorize 

Psalm 23:6, and helping me know that

“Surely God’s goodness and mercy

 Shall follow us all the days of our lives,

 And we shall dwell in the house of the Lord

 Forever and ever, Amen.”

 

Victoria is a student at St. Patrick’s School in Rolla, Missouri. This is her first publication.

Khayaban-e-Ghazi road:
Red light, stop.

Knock! Knock!
Can I have some money?
God bless you and your family.
Can I have some money?
At our window, the old man begs

AC leaks from the corners of our white Lexus.
The tan leather seats provide safety and comfort for our family.
The dam of privilege is broken.
Two limbs remaining.
Two wooden structures in place for each leg.
Mismatched foam flip flops.
A kameez dusted with mud,
stained with tobacco,
and absorbed with the stench of Pakistani gutters.

My eyes recede under the influence of shame,
body numb, clogged with feelings.
Please! Please! Can I have some money?
Crinkled change from a dinner outing,
converted to the old man’s meal for two days.

The red light of income flickers.
Pivot, wobble, limp.
Crooked teeth on display,
Squinting eyes filled with mirth.
Pivot, wobble, limp.
The dusty pavement has been reached.

His weak hand lifts up,
like a salute from a soldier.
At the dusty rocks he waits
for the light of income to shine again.

 

Nour Gajial, is currently a sophomore at Lakeside High School in Washington. Most of the time you might find her drawing, writing, or rowing on Lake Washington. In her free time she enjoys listening to music and spending time with her three-year-old brother.