Summer 17: 12Poems

 

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

How do you get your words

To sing jazz

And taste like chocolate?

How do you get them

To breathe fire like a dragon

And yet fill the room

With a honey-scented voice

That paints ripples of light and dark

Across the walls?

How is it

That you can coax them

To fall in love

And persuade them

To dance together

Across the page

Eternally?

 

 

Marisa Moran is a junior in high school.  In her free time she enjoys reading, writing, and participating in her high school’s theatre department.

 

 

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.