Poetry

(tiny) little girl; wait
bigger with others;
(not she)
little wait,
little looks toward bigger bigger (with friends)
little wants bigger little wants friends;
big joyous, (except for little)
a little wish
to be big

 

Sophia Baldassari is a Gold Key winner in Dramatic Writing at the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and also won first place at the Hoboken Library’s Playwriting Competition. She was one of the top poets for the month of August 2016 and received the Staff Pick for her poetry on Teenink.net and has had online articles published on teennewsnet.com. Sophia was also a finalist for Dramatic Interpretation in the Hudson County Regional Forensics Competition and will have her play, Jenna Meets Death, performed at Manhattan Repertory Theatre in March 2019. Her selected work as an award-winning actress includes the NYC premiere of The Great Holiday Debate, Meet Me In St. Louis, Twelfth Night, The Proposal, and A Midsummer’s Night Dream.

your name isn’t supposed to have layers
when you say it, the taste shouldn’t last longer than a moment
it’s the kind of sweet that lingers on your tongue
dances around and reminds you of your identity
and dissolves as soon as you lick your lips

but how do i taste the sweet when i possess
a glossy name punctured by two oozing, messy words
stuck at the top of my mouth, sticky with embarrassment
jeong yun. no matter how many times my friends tried to fish it out
i’d clamp my mouth shut and tell them it wasn’t important.

that was a lie. obviously i cared about the words that
carved out my existence, i just didn’t have the luxury
to break off and share like loaves and fishes
at least, not for a crowd eager to grind it all up into
something they could laugh at, gray sludge from
what was once a fragment of my heritage.

it coated my childhood, a membrane of syllables
not meant to be pronounced with a foreign tongue
but it always was, always butchered
its pink flesh pinned to your American tablecloth
each sound cutting it into pieces to fit a foreign palate
baptized with vanilla and cinnamon that drowns out
ginger, sesame, and soy

they wouldn’t just be laughing at me
but my grandfather, who dreamt of how
my name would carry the sky and the stars
walking on water across the ocean to America.
but when they mutilated my name with exaggerated syllables
and mocking tongues, i couldn’t carry the world on my back anymore.
i could barely manage the weight of the mess contained in my mouth,
colorful cultural flavors locked away—
i crucified them with my tongue,

saying it to an audience who’d never tasted it before.
a menu they don’t care to read but love to critique
arrays of names beautiful to all but the audience
each name got its own package, two sprinklings of preface saying
“i know it’s not a common name, i’m sorry”
i’m reassuring them that it will be over soon
and it is. i spit it out painfully, and as the name leaves my mouth
jeong yun — so does my comfort, everything spilling out
as i struggle to hold my mouth closed before
i vomit up my pride.

it’s funny how protective i am of my middle name
when for most of my life, it was my only name
leaving sticky residue on my official transcript, my passport,
and the standardized test that i hid under the fold of my elbow
worried someone would detect the alien sequence of letters
and make me seem more foreign than i want to be,
forcing me to swallow my name, whole.

 

Joanne Park is a junior at Archbishop Mitty High School in San Jose, CA who writes and performs poetry. She has previously won a number of awards for the Scholastic Art and Writing competition, been published in the Young Writers Anthology, and edits for both her school’s literary magazine and school newspaper. Outside of writing, she loves to compete in speech and debate, where she is exposed to both classical philosophy, current events, and critical theory.

 

Rain glances off the glass until I think
It might just break. The only other sound’s
The screech of tires, the whir of engines hot.
I’ve turned the volume down until I am
Alone, and daring thoughts to think themselves.
The only thought there is is one like this:
The cars look like they’re made of shadow stuff-
Like blots of ink and sketchy, shiny stars.
Headlights diffracted, bodies in the dark.
Not much like cars at all. If I would turn
The wheel a little farther to the left
And let the car drift into traffic lights
We might just crumple, origami fold
Or we’d pass through, dark specters in the night.

 

 

Grady Trexler is a senior at Maggie L. Walker Governor’s School in Richmond, Virginia. He will graduate in 2019. In addition to writing, Grady likes to listen to music and debate.

 

When Pandora opened her box
she left behind
my mother’s perfume
that bottles the shape of the sunrise,
the taste of rosemary and lavender
dandelion wine and jasmine tea,
and the sound of city lights
and of raindrops and hope
pattering
on our bathroom tiles

When the moon left the sky
it left behind the wrinkled sea
and the smoke of the stars.
It left behind
my sister’s mahogany piano
that plays in tune with the colors
of silk rustling through fingertips,
of cracked voices and late-night drives,
of radio static and dancing children,
of sun kissed laughter through silver tears,
and beautiful beautiful heartache

When the saints left this Earth
they left behind
their prayers and us sinners.
They left behind my father’s whiskey bottle
which is cursed with the grit
of cold apartment floors against flaming skin,
burning films and lonely pill bottles,
weary cigarettes and tired aching smiles,
empty promises and sunlight through
the church’s dusty windows

When the gods leave
We’ll be left behind.
The mother nursing
her pink faced child
The couple that sits
with their pinkies lightly touching
The bruised girl
curled on her grandfather’s lap
Our frothing rage and our foaming arrogance
Our shining hatred and our glorious truth
Our brutal wars and our crumpled innocence
Our tears and our pain and our faith and our love
We’ll be left behind.

 

Amelia Ao lives in Wayland, Massachusetts with her parents and sister. Art and writing have been a fundamental part of her identity, and she’s excited to be sharing her work.

I wonder how we stay awake?
I’m lying down on my soft bed;
I simply never close my eyes.

Your moonlight filters through my blinds,
Crickets chirping into the night.
I wonder how we stay awake?

Cosmic dust settles inside my lungs.
Just thinking about the stars,
I simply never close my eyes.

Only to yearn for your soft touch,
A gentle caress on my skin.
I wonder how we stay awake?

I think of how he looks at me,
I know he sees me differently:
I simply never close my eyes.

How much do I need you now?
I’m wrong about you once again.
I wonder how we stay awake?
I simply never close my eyes.

 

Jordyn Slavic is a sophomore Writing and Publishing major from Lincoln Park Performing Arts Charter School. She’s been writing from a young age, and  enjoys poetry and creative nonfiction.

In her new apartment my mother wears lipstick
the color of raspberries.
The record player gently siphons 60’s blues,
she is unapologetic when she sings off-key,
or smokes inside to ease the tension of new sheets.
She’s smiling, and its clumsy,
conscious of the gap between her front teeth,
but still, it’s honest.
She bridges a blue deck of cards forming,
a kaleidoscope of numbers and patterns.
Her beauty distracts, though she doesn’t know.
In my mind, she shuffles again,
each number counting the times she wished she were fearless.

 

Lexi is a first-year student at Denison University majoring in Creative Writing and Religion. This year she is a recipient of the Woodyard Scholarship and has been published in Dension’s literature magazine Exile.