January Poems 2025

every color of clothing is nude
when the moonlit spotlight falls upon me
unfolded across the bedroom floor
swan-neck limbs above my head
crescent palms cradle muted light

King Midas but it’s all ashes
sometimes it feels like everything I touch dies
the swan-neck droops and the cradle collapses
moonlight falls down from these parted fingers
past my collarbone to where this body becomes other

this body isn’t bad, I know
yet I can’t feel any of me below my neckline
they say love yourself, that’s how we live
but breasts & hips & curves of limbs
are not anything I’d call myself

they came upon this soul, unbidden
the only choice I made was to live with them & call them mine
although myself is somewhere tucked in a swan’s underwing
somewhere between the lines of a wordless soliloquy
somewhere he and she and the moonlight do not touch

every place of the world is a stage
and I am caught in the costume of this body
still, each time, I lace slippers onto false feet
and, each time, I watch as the curtains draw open
for the next performance

 

Thehara Ubayawardena is an essayist, poet, and prose writer from New York. They have won several awards for their writing, including recognition from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the John Locke Essay Competition. They are an editor for Scribere Literary Journal and an intern at BreakBread Literacy Project. Besides writing, Thehara loves psychology, Sherlock Holmes, and listening to Linkin Park.

 

my pappa so strong,

he stronger than yours, he strong like

he could pin pythons with his pinkie like

he could lug whole planets in two grocery bags like

he could stomp out the sun like

a cigarette, turn an orbit into an ashtray like

strong enough to rip the light from his own eyes like

strong enough to wrestle his own jaw shut like

strong enough to send me flying… and see im proud cuz like

a good friend of mine called me a metal cage and

the first thing i pictured was him, and it was like

he could die in all that strength like

a man’s bones can only hold so much history like

mortal muscle ain’t built for what he carries like

no wonder he got heart problems like

no wonder he cant sleep at night he’s busy

bench-pressing the sky like

no wonder we dont hug his arms are too full

of oceans, i wanna be big and strong like

him someday.

 

Shubhan Mehta is an avid writer and actor living in New York. He has always held a deep passion for the power of human stories and seeks constantly to expand his community of artists around him. He enjoys reading, playing tennis, listening to music, and volunteering.

 

From the moment of my birth

I knew I was meant to inhabit this earth

The creamy warm desert sand

Reassured me

that this would forever

be my land

From the moment my ancestors were free

They knew exactly who I was destined to be

This fearless, bold version of me

God blessed me and promised to show me the way

And be by my side

until I’m old and gray

Til my very last breath

and my dying day

I made a commitment to work hard

and be kind

And he promised

I will always find

Unparalleled success

if I continue to grind

The years on the plantation took their toll

On the hearts of my ancestors

and their collective soul

Some were strung up

and from lynchings

they died

For countless years

they suffered and cried

Many asked, why?

And looked for the answer

from the night stars in the sky

Was the direction to freedom

the way the birds fly?

God’s purpose

is love and unity

Not this division and dissension

We continue to see

 

All I know

Is that I will continue to be

This fearless, bold

brave version of me.

 

Arianna Shaprow is a poet and activist. Her poetry has been displayed in museums and featured on news outlets across the country, including ABC, Fox, CBS, and NBC.

 

I double over like the first fold of a paper plane.

In my bed, I clutch my stomach.
Autumn turns outside my window.
The leaves, sun-freckled and time-burnt,
threaten to spiral downward.
I watch them,
I dare them,
I trace them down a path that looks awfully like your spine.

When I dream about us,
we are facedown in the dirt
counting cicada corpses by fives; else I’m
waxpaper skin and crusty blue eyeliner,
sitting naked on the stovetop,
and you’ve got one hand on the control knob,
the other on my thigh.
Like the freckled leaves, I tremble under your palm,
and what was once a summer joke settles
into a familiar autumn ache.

Summer fades, and I am afraid.
The season turns, and nothing is over.

 

Race Harish is a seventeen- year-old writer and poet from Central New Jersey. Their work has been previously published in The Cloudscent Journal, StudentKind Literary Journal, Girls Right the World Magazine, and The Writers Circle Journal.

 

and i am lingering in the doorway
waiting for him to come down the hall
waiting for him to come
waiting for him

6 times in which i hide my mouth with my sleeve and choke on the past tense like it is poisonous

and i am watching shadows flicker
staring at the empty space shaped like him
staring at the empty space
staring

5 times i look through family photos like they are someone else’s

and i have this recurring dream where
he comes back and says it was all fake
waking up to the silence of absence
waking up to the silence
waking up

4 times i sit amongst my classmates, holding a tattered Father’s Day card i will throw away when i get home

and i think about that day a lot
like it just happened, like i haven’t changed
i remember and i don’t know if i want to forget
i remember and i don’t know
i remember

3 times my friends talk about dads and i hope i am not chosen to speak up
and i beat around the bush all i can
but sometimes i want to scream death
out of my window like a madwoman
i am not embarrassed or ashamed
i am not embarrassed
i am not

2 times where i consider making a joke about it but i know my tears will dampen the punchline

and i want to let it all go
but the past lingers and rightfully so
seasons change and i am alive and breathing
seasons change and i am alive
seasons change

1 time where i meet someone and they don’t know what i am and i don’t ever want to tell them

and i mourn someone i don’t fully remember
but maybe that’s why i am doing it
i don’t dream about him anymore
i don’t dream about him
i don’t dream

 

Ioana Bosneaga (she/her) is a sixteen year old writer living in Ireland. She enjoys things such as musical theatre and sitcoms. You can find her on Instagram: @heartshapedioana.

 

Heavy,
the ground with rain,
and I, with anxious grief.
October is still young.
Its weight has only begun
to settle in my bones.

In my cabinet lies
the recipe for cinnamon rolls,
too familiar to you.
When the yeast blooms,
give the dough space to rise-
an hour and a half.

In these afternoon hours,
the black sky hangs low,
and my heart
hangs heavy too.
When the dough has risen,
sticky and wet,
knead it out—
flat and thin, spread the
bittersweet cinnamon paste,
and roll it into a spiral.

A convoluted lump
sits before me,
dense and leaden.

Like grief,
it refuses to lift.
Prod it,
and it will cling.
Slice it, clean.

A draft slips in,
thick and unyielding.
The tick of my oven
too near.
The church bells
of October 1st
wake up my kitchen.
Grief curls beside me,
like a black cat—
quiet,
familiar.
The cinnamon rolls
are warm,
and soft, as I sometimes am,
Today,
I am not.

 

Snehal Bhadani is a twenty-year-old undergraduate student from Singapore. She writes to form connections between herself and the ever-changing society, and hopes that someone can find solace in her work. Her work has previously been featured in school magazines and the Write the World newsletter.