Summer 17: 12Poems

 

 

Put some lipstick on.
Get some blush, you’ve lost color in your face.
Oh my, is that a mustache?
Laser it away.
God forbid your legs are prickly.
You could fill a C
Just add toilet paper
I’ll show you.

 

 

.                                                                              How many times have you gone to the gym this
.                                                                                                                                                week?
.                                                                                                                    Eat more, you’ll bulk up faster.
.                                                                                     Hey baby, wanna come home with me tonight?
.                                                                                                                 She’s probably just on her period,
.                                                                                                                      That’s why she ain’t feelin’ me.
.                                                                                                                  Come on, you’re late for practice.

 

Are you done?
Can I come in?
Oh heavens.
What is that?

.                                                                                                                                               Open up
.                                                                                                                    Son, I’ve started the car.
.                                                                                                                                             Oh my god
.                                                                                                                        What are you wearing?

 

What is around your chest?
Put down the scissors.
Put them down.
I swear to God, not one more snip.

 

.                                                                                                                             Whose bra is that?
.                                                                                                                     I’m calling your mother.
.                                                                                                                          And the silk robe too,
.                                                                                                                                   And the lipstick
.                                                                                                            What did I do to deserve this?

 

Your curls
Your beautiful long curls
I’m booking a hair appointment,
We can fix this.

.                                                                                                              Alright, give everything to me
.                                                                                                               It’s fine, no one has to know
.                                                                                                               We can fix this.

 

 

Denise Rogozin is seventeen years old. She has always loved writing, whether it was her unintentional re-creations of the Harry Potter series in middle school, or spoken word poetry about gang violence during her sophomore year of high school. She loves being able to share her thoughts in a different kind of way with poetry, and hopes to share some now through one of her favorites.

being a black child living in America is an extremely difficult task

we are forced to deal with all the standards and stereotypes

that have been placed upon us for generations

we are the children who must bear the burden of our ancestors

we are also victims of racism, discrimination, and oppression

black women, specifically, have been lied to for generations

ever since we were children,

we were fed our daily meal of lies by a society that does not care for us

we are told that our skin is too dark, that we are too curvy,

that our bodies do not match the molds created by European standards

 

people tell us that we are “pretty for a black girl” or “pretty for a dark skinned girl”

although these may seem as though they are compliments,

the underlying truth is that they are saying that people of African descent are not beautiful

OR if we are beautiful, it is only when we are light skinned

why is white the only standard of beauty out there?

 

there are many variations of black people and black beauty out there in the world

it makes no sense that the only ones who are respected by society

are those who are lighter and have features like those of Europeans

what makes black not beautiful?

 

to me, black women, like my mother, exhibit strength and confidence

and do not let any obstacle get in their way.

i wish to be like them

they are my true inspirations

 

to me, black is not the color of darkness and hatred

but instead the color of

beauty, hope, and freedom

 

 

Kalijah is a tenth grader from California who identifies as a self-proclaimed chai tea enthusiast. It does not seem possible to her that people are able to get through a week without at least three cups of the stuff. She is a vivacious reader and does not think herself safe and content unless she is in the middle of at least fifteen books at the same time. In addition to this, she is also a feminist and a supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement.

 

I do not love you—your ringing laugh

or your big hair which holds a thousand

surprises. I do not miss those times—those

stupid wonderful times when we talked

about swollen knees and shot birds in the

back of my dusty little garage shop. How

could I have known that my little garage

still had room for you, whom I do not love

of course.

 

I wish the gears of my feelings worked simple

like the ones in cars.

I am a mechanic not a poet.

I do not love

not loving you, not having the words to say

what my lips bleed to say. Fear my heart

will be hammered open—shattered—

like the cases you so cleverly solve,

like the ghosts of a slashed mattress.

How I long to sing the bitter notes of your

past into a sweeter melody

but people can’t be fixed as easily as cars.

 

My love for you is a mystery only for you to solve.

It’s not like your other mysteries. It’s plain like the

tall African grass that smells like bush tea and

whispers hints so loud. No longer will I be

caged in denial like a lion roaming the

plaster white walls of his

stubborn pride:

 

I do love you—

even more than the infinite expanse of the

Kalahari, the swaying olive trees of my beloved homeland.

 

Cindy Song is sixteen years old and a junior at Richard Montgomery High School in Rockville, Maryland. Besides writing poetry and prose, she also enjoys playing tennis, drawing, and taking long walks in nature.

A writer writes
to rip a hole in a floor.
To find a bloom in a blight.

Because a poem startles the night
to puncture safety and its borders. It pours
into your dormant, furrowed brain to rewrite

patterns walked into the ground. Might—
vacant crucible —is like every board
rebuffing new blooms (the freight

of everything) and is exhumed. The tight
floor is safe and dying. Hoarded
seeds in the mind’s cabinet ripen

like sediment. The writer rights
pestilent fallowness. Then: words
that abuse vacant troughs with light

and uprooting hands which fight
with manic pain to erase borders
from the mind’s geography. At night,
the poem startles with fruitful blight.

 

Lucas Grasha currently studies poetry and German at the University of Pittsburgh. In his spare time, he reads books from his eclectic library with his wife. He proudly calls Pittsburgh his home.

 

in the almost broken black car

we are turning from Zaire street

onto Lilongwe avenue.

dad complains about the car

and the weather, and the doctors,

i am too excited to say anything

inside my soul is singing, for no reason,

except i                        am happy to be here

 

yes, i see that paint is peeling

off of buildings we pass like

teardrops slowly falling from the sky

but next to this slow death,

there are pink flowers peeking

out from the cracks in the walls

and because of that small beauty

i           am happy to be here

 

and yes, sometimes the sun

scorches my skin so i look more

burned marshmallow than delicious

chocolate, but here the boys don’t

see me as beautiful like an exotic

flower, but beautiful like their own

resilient mothers, and that comparison

makes me        happy to be here

 

and yes, i don’t like how some want

to see me but not hear me throw

my voice over the rooftops, and yes

i don’t like potholes and dumsor because

it’s scary getting lost in dark holes, and

yes i don’t like the fact that when adults

greet us we reply like a scripted Greek

chorus             i am fine

 

i want to say that i am eons away from fine

because i          am so happy to be here

and it may sound cliché or like forced poetry

but when i think of my mother’s ancestors

hauled across the dark blue sea, i think

that a few hours of silence just to pacify

the spirits of the elders are worth a life

out of chains, where i can walk where i please

history                        makes me happy just to be

 

Alixa Brobbey is a young writer living in Accra, Ghana. She grew up in the Netherlands and often uses the experience of calling two different continents home as an inspiration for her work, which has been published in Canvas, The Battering Ram, and others. Aside from reading and writing, her hobbies include running, acting, trying to retain her fluency in Dutch, listening to Shawn Mendes’ albums on repeat, and fangirling over Harry Potter. You can read more of her work here: http://lilaccheetah.wixsite.com/alixawrites