February 2018: Ten Poems

Father

By Stephen Duncanson

May I move your shovel from beside the door? Back when I was little, the street you’d clear stamping, damp layers shed, boots upon the floor; you haven’t touched it once this year.

Scrape scrape, oh how quickly you would move. My brothers too would press our noses against window glass to see what you’ve
cut through the snow, red hat and standing tall.

And now your hair gets more and more like snow; it’s melting off with every coming spring.
And grey, asphalt pebbles, where once was glow —do I need worry? Have you lost something?

Father, I moved your shovel from beside the door, now I brave the storm outside
and I need you, all the more.

Stephen Duncanson is a freshman at Southern Connecticut State University. He has been published once before in the Blue Marble Review as well as in Polyphony HS. In his free time he enjoys reading and weightlifting.

Solipsist

By Dana Dykiel

        Small towns grow big stories
in the cracks between the sidewalk, in the silence
between words, the ones we fill
with what we do not know.
        We have heard sirens call
from static, read novels
from paragraphs, built lives
out of fantasies.
        We have bloomed too bold
for tepid sunlight and gentle
breaths of earth-
        We are prodigies of steel
and sugar, the ghosts
of cities not yet seen and of
devotions not yet lived. Now,
        We find no stories left untold
and lie on our backs, sinking
into the ceiling, hoping to transform
through our own alchemy.
        An army of children, straining to grow up,
waiting for the world to move.

Dana is a high school senior who lives in Massachusetts. As a lover of language, she works as a staff member on Polyphony HS and Window Seat. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, as well as published on Kingdoms in the Wild.

Planet Blue

By Vivian Tsai

beneath the clear sky we are wide-eyed

and wee,

all dancing-and-dizzy

wherever we roam;

how lovely to spin

ourselves topsy-and-tizzy

on the brink of this marble

we like to call

home.

Vivian Tsai currently studies computer science and applied math at Johns Hopkins University. She spends her free time doodling, writing letters, and playing tennis with friends.

How We Talk About Juliet

By Amanda Lee

Botanically: as the blushing rose named

for her, vivisected into light-shy

petals. On the flower

-laced continuum of taxonomy

we scatter her somewhere between

inanimate object and heroine.

ii.

Linguistically: we assign her the word

“devoted” and move on to Romeo.

But shouldn’t we stop and debate if she, too,

can be strong? Debate if women can be

workers

breadwinners?

Only 2 women debate in parliament.

iii.

Mathematically: equate her relationships. Love

is the product of physical beauty. Is this

why my friends starve themselves?

Strawberry juice

is the colour of botched

skin after plastic surgery, blood

seeping through Botoxed smiles.

iv.

Artistically: paint her pale skinned, baby-

curled, trailing damask. We hand her

a button

for modesty. Then criticize her

for her short skirts, hot pink

binders and crop tops.

Astronomically: hold our hands against the same

constellations Juliet

looked up to when Romeo left her lost

and alone. We watch the moon wax and

wane, looking for a line of best fit

through this

star-crossed path.

Amanda Lee Siu Ching is from Singapore. Amanda is a student at Raffles Girls’ School (Secondary) and a Creative Arts Programme mentee. Her work has been recognised by the Torrance Legacy Creative Writing Awards and appeared in TeenInk.

Flush

By Rachana Hegde

I think of freedom as an empty vessel

singing about god’s mercy and how she

thrashed the skies, how the rivers flocked

to her bedside as god sang the mountains

into existence. I think of death blistering along

the underside of our arms or of stabbing

fresh meat until it ripens. I dream of the

release when milk spills from our mouths,

baby teeth gleaming on the rooftop.

I dream of an origami moth’s tongue

folding and bursting into flames.

I think of gulping the smoke billowing

from our cars and wonder how fish

can plunge down the toilet but wash up

on shore, glowing clean, dripping wet

onto the sand. You see, I want to learn

how to flush my sins like purging the

aftertaste from wine. Prayers slip down

the steps of a temple and I ask god how to

wring the sadness from my body. I dream

of scraping the salt from my silhouette.

Rachana Hegde is an eighteen- year-old Indian writer from Hong Kong. Her poetry has appeared in DIALOGIST, Diode Poetry Journal, and The Blueshift Journal. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and nominated for Best of the Net. Find her at www.rachanahegde.weebly.com.

The Pond

By Rachana Hegde

I fell into the pond,

body pearled and flickering.

A painless death would be a

miracle, something to bear.

The night pretended vulnerability

and even this was too much.

I collected my glossy truths;

I pretended this would not last.

I was still learning to live but then,

this happened and I want to know why.

My tongue lay trapped, lazy like a

frog boiling in its sweat.

I hungered for melted chocolate

as my fear stained the water.

The upturned faces of our mothers

shone in the light. It was hard to

apologize for this intentional mistake.

I had to tear apart the truth, maybe

dress it up like a ghost story.

I buttered my lips so it would slide

out easily. Late that night, I walked

back into the pond. Leaves swirled

around my ankles as I floated,

dress dragging me down.

Rachana Hegde is an 18 year old Indian writer from Hong Kong. Her poetry has appeared in DIALOGIST, Diode Poetry Journal, and The Blueshift Journal. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and nominated for Best of the Net. Find her at www.rachanahegde.weebly.com.