Poetry

 

 

 

When the beast of Seeonee jungle wakes, he is

convinced that his day will be as musical as the ripples

of Wainganga River by the wood. But by afternoon, he

hears only skeletons of cotton trees clatter to the

ground, and the cold whistle of the water and its winds disturb

him. So he lays supine on the silvery-white rocks, his lips

as lifeless as the rotten banana leaves, his eyes as dull as the backs

of the inky beetles. He watches the glassy reflection of the sun and

remembers the canary yellow fire that chased him on Monday.

The day started well: he pounced on the spiny legs of an elk,

feasted on its meat, red as a cocoa pod, dragged his long nails

through the wildflowers, and listened to the Bandar monkeys

trembling at his voice. But then Mowgli reduced the king of

the jungle to a loud, loud scream that was lost in translation.

Today, he is the haunted. The jungle is blind with music,

it drowns, stumbles through the finite air. Shere Khan listens

in a stupor, the ghosts of the thrums are too much with him.

How does Baloo live in harmony with the vultures, the water

buffalo, the golden jackals? Does he ever want to tear through

the eucalyptus and stalk the deer, fat and pink and sweet in places?

It would be only natural. Shere Khan wants someone to bring him

the angelfish gliding through the river, he will not hunt today.

Sometimes, the splashes of the smallest hearts flying away pierce

the stitches of his careful grin. He thinks maybe he’ll yank out

the ferns and their ferine light from his arch, the golden face

adorning the curve once again commanding the heady vines.

Maybe Kaa will emerge with his wide, too wide green eyes.

He sees a figure with a pale mouth far off in the fog,

hears its stunted breaths, hushed and tuneless.

But no voice, no warmth, no thrum, no song will stir him.

He can do without the fear, the jungle can do without a king, worn

in his own pain and the pain of those around him.

He rises for six short seconds and moves to lay beside the black rocks.

Now, he will not be disturbed.

 

 

 

Nikita Bastin is a junior at Saint Francis High School who enjoys editing for her school’s newspaper and literary magazine, blogging, and tutoring in her community. She is a recipient of a Silver Key in the Scholastic Writing Awards. You can find her at nikitabastin.com.

 

 

 

 

 

The wooden corpse of the ancient oak
lay sprawled across the sunlight dappled clearing.
Its exposed roots clung to clods of soil that crumbled away
as armies of termites marched through the rotting wood.

After decades spent sheltering squirrels and cradling bird nests
with its leaf-laden boughs spread wide in welcome
the tree’s barren fingers stretched parallel to the ground
to console the flowers surrounding its grave.

The tree could no longer feel the worms beneath it
as they tunneled through the dirt
nor could it groan as colonies of termites
bored through its flesh, devouring all in their wake.

The oak’s trunk served as a coffin
for the decomposing layers of cellulose
within its suit of bark; its inner rings
married its rotting cadaver to the earth.

The oak’s acorn born offspring continued to thrive
as they dug deeper into the compost on the forest floor,
unaware of the banquet’s newest addition
of their fallen father, now fertilizer.

 

Emily Dorffer is a current sophomore at Johns Hopkins University. She has previously had a short story published in Breath & Shadow.

 

 

 

 

How important and how conscious and how good we feel
When we crowd into the small independent theater and we settle next
To groups of diverse strangers in head scarves with NPR tote bags
And we watch the documentary that details
The horror of Women That Are Not Us.

We gasp and we cluck at the appropriate moments.
We “thank God that doesn’t happen here”
And we wonder what we can do to help
In between fistfuls of popcorn that leave our hands greasy,
Our tongues thirsting for the Diet Coke they paraded around in the ads.

We fantasize about fundraisers and we hash tag the tweets and for
The next twenty-four hours we lie in bed staring at the ceiling,
Prophesizing about what would have happened if that had been us,
Not them, and we feel guilty until the weight of our down comforters
Hug us to sleep and we are calm and we are safe and we are okay.

Then the details of our lives overtake us and oh god the grocery
List is so long and the laundry piles up and the assignments are
Coming due and the house is a mess and when did life get so hard?

I remember there are two types of people in this world, and I’m lucky
Because I get to be the spectator and not the subject,
The person who pays the $10.50 admission, a temporary redemption.

The women documented in the movie stood up to the Taliban
And I was too afraid to ask the people sitting beside me in the neat row
If they could just scoot so I could slip by and get a head start
On living this normal life that I, for whatever reason, have won.

The advertising posters begin to peel and are torn down until
Next week, when new movies are released and new injustices recounted.

 

Annie Ertle is a junior at John Carroll University. She is studying Communications and English.

 

 

Blue is the color of music.
The cool feel of ivory keys and the nimbleness of practiced fingers as they dance across guitar strings.
The perfect fluidity of a drummer who feels rather than hears the light, tinny whisper of wood on metal and whose limbs exist independently in harmony, moving separately as one.
Blue is the color of
a jazz musician
who sways to and fro like waves in a lazy ocean or
stubborn boughs of tall trees that playful gusts of wind persuade to dance.
Blue is the color of
contentment;
sitting inside on a rainy day and hearing the irregular beating of water on the roof coupled with muffled
slaps of feet on wet pavement far below.
Blue is the color of parting words and forgotten covenants-
the color of makeup that cascades down the faces of the broken.
Blue is the color that fills up empty spaces
and conceives the purest form of mystery.
Blue is depth,possibility, relief.
When the clock strikes midnight, the world becomes a deep blue, and everything is completely still.
Blue is the Witching Hour
laced with power
when fantasy becomes commonplace and the world is left to the imagination of the dreamers, who alter
it on the whims of their fancy and orchestrate it to the symphonies of the mind’s eye.
Blue is the color of the ones who exist where they shouldn’t and live in the brief moments between
today and tomorrow.

Along with her responsibilities as a student, Jenna is always looking for new opportunities to experience life through travel, literature, music, and all forms of storytelling.

IMG_2540-3

(*click this link to see Remardo run*)

 

Sprinting, hurdling, and jumping is all I know. When it comes down to it there’s no time to think just do it and believe. There is no room for doubt only room for winning. Don’t be too cocky there’s always someone better but that’s a good thing. Without competition there would be no way or reason to improve. So when you lose, improving is what you will do. When you’re on the line bow your head and breathe slowly, don’t be too anxious just relax and listen. When the gun goes off you drive out as hard as you can and slowly raise your body. You feed off the crowd’s energy. Based off their reaction you know when someone is gaining on you. So you reach deep down inside and find that last burst of energy. You speed up and not only extend your lead  you achieve your personal best. You can’t jump over hurdles you run over them. Always lean forward and bring your legs as close to your stomach as possible and whip your leg back down digging in to the ground. Don’t think or worry about falling but if you do get back up and finish the race. You walk away from the white line measuring your steps to prepare a close to perfect take off. You sprint towards the pit and leap off one leg swinging your arms forward pushing yourself further. You land in the sand with your legs in front of you. They measure your leap and it’s the furthest you’ve jumped yet. Winning is the best feeling but losing benefits you more. It’s all a part of being a tracklete.

 

 

Remardo E. Wilson Jr. is a young student-athlete from the far South Side of Chicago who graduated from Simeon Career Academy and participated in boys Track & Field. After graduating his senior year Remardo then participated in the 2015 USATF Junior Olympics, and has a goal to participate in the USA Olympics one day.

 

 

Spiral bound secrets,
words drenched in ink;
black and white mementos,
wash over me while I think.

Eyes moving rapidly,
on the hunt for inspiration;
painstakingly irritated,
overcome by exasperation.

A mosaic of memory,
eyes grow heavy, body unwinds;
as I dip into my dreamland,
you won’t believe the things I find.

Miles of imagination,
past memories left behind;
so I pick up my pen and paper,
and write whatever comes to mind.

 

 

Jacob Lindell is an eighteen-year-old aspiring artist, whose greatest creation is who he’s yet to become; still a work in progress.