Summer Poems 2022

Let’s bible our mouths into shape.
Damn the demons beneath the

bridge of our minds. Scalpel our throats
& whiten the silent birds therein with

psalms. Let’s prose the story of the boy
who died in the bed of the ocean. Sound—

stretch his ribs into the strings of a harp.
Sing— patch the bullet holes on his chest

with grief so tangible, so sticky, the flood
of our eyes cannot erase it. Let’s canoe

to the shoreline of the ocean. Cast mourning
into the water in search of fish. But this

ocean knows more grief than we do.
Where I’m from, every boy is a bold font

at the beginning of a story, a strikethrough
in the middle & an empty parenthesis

at the end. My fada taught me to count
my days. & count my blessings. & count

my sons. & the stars above the sky. But,
before I learned numbers, I learned the genesis

of grief. I learned that a boy should be more
bullet than bone. Only then, would the war

boomerang into glory. Look —I don’t mean
to be talkative. Because, if this poem, was the

story of me, it would still end as an
empty parenthesis —(    ).

 

Chinedu Gospel is an emerging poet. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Nantygreens, Praxis magazine, The Rising Phoenix Review and elsewhere. He plays chess and listens to inspirational songs.

Thirty years on & still summer nights settle into
shared breaths. The moonlight dancing on your lips,

each syllable of air pregnant with want. Within these
naked walls, we are holy & that means selfish

& that means I confess I like my body more
when you’re inside it. This moving metronome rhythm.

 These shipwrecked hands that found a home
holding yours. God, how we have whittled our lives

down to this: newspaper coffee. Feet massages
on the living room couch. Your pillowed touch

braiding me to sleep. There are nights too endless
with weary & you would harness me back to shore,

the flesh of your name percolating the tongue
like we are everywhere & tomorrow all at once.

 

Conan Tan (he/they) currently lives in Singapore and loves writing poems on grief, love, heartbreak and trauma. When he’s not writing, he’s probably curating Spotify playlists or rewatching The Good Place. Their poems have been published in, or are forthcoming at, SingPoWriMo and Eunoia Review.

Helping my grandma take down Christmas decorations,
I help her sit and grab water as she places a soft hand
Over her heart. On the drive down, we are reminded
How we need to keep her in good spirits,
How we need her alive. When we arrive, I hug
Her extra long. I let go- I can tell she’s in pain.
I try to be good.

I try and sometimes I’m enough, usually adequate.
Someone is almost always better. So- I love my grandma
The most and hold her the longest and let her teach
me to play cards while everyone is sleeping.

She tells me how she was a hand model
and Miss Air Force Runner-up. How my mom
was trouble from the time she was born.
She tells me my soul felt familiar the minute
we met. She’d rock me all night,
but I’d stay awake, exploring and watching.
Now I am tired.

She can’t walk upstairs to her bed anymore.
She didn’t tell me this, but I can see.
The couch she sleeps on has a texture-smooth
and slightly tacky from her hairspray. I hate animal
Documentaries but she doesn’t know this. We watch
Them together most nights. My head is getting too heavy

For her lap. She doesn’t tell me this, but I can tell
By the way she inhales sharply when I’m drifting off
To sleep. So, with our mostly quiet bodies we watch-

The sunset over the Sahara and penguins shuffling
In their circles. She cries when elephants are born.
The African Bush elephant carries the calf for two
Years, and when it’s time for things to be undone,
They fall apart. And we weep.

 

Lucy Somers is a Midwestern poet who is deeply inspired by her natural surroundings and familial bonds. Common themes in her work are: grief, connection, and coming of age.

clouded
how do i find a mind scattered in pieces around a city?
been losing my head since the day i got here.
lost
but as close to heaven that i’ve been a while
how do i fix a life that feels so perfect?
mend a heart that isn’t broken, but isn’t beating anymore
the line between euphoria and self-destruction is too thin for me
i cross it often
i can’t think straight most days
my thoughts take over every waking moment until i exist in reality only in waves
not sure what reality is most days
most days i dance until my feet blister
other days i cry until there are no tears left
maybe the never-ending sun beaming has something to do with my emotions existing only in extremes
clouded
the city where there’s so much magic you forget to breathe
so much beauty you forget not to stare in the sun
so much opportunity you forget who you are
there are no homes here
just rooms filled with aspiration
corners plagued by desperation
studios filled with hope
hearts filled with longing
i don’t belong here
my heart can’t survive here
i want to go home
not sure home exists anymore
i gave it all up for la
for a shot at my dreams like the millions of others feigns itching to make it out
lost
the city where inspiration fills your lungs with every breath
the city where i found myself yet still feel
lost

 

Kyra Horton is a twenty-year old creator. Whether expressing herself through writing, performing, or painting, she strives to turn pain into beauty. Her identity as a young Black woman from Chicago shapes her work. She grew up being inspired by activism and solidarity in her community and the arts. Kyra is fearless in the avenues she seeks in order to create the emotions painted in her heart. The world is Kyra’s canvas, as well as her muse. Her primary medium of creativity is spoken word poetry. Kyra has performed at over 50 different events since beginning her poetry career 5 years ago. Kyra published her first poetry book called Cries of a Butterfly, wrote and produced her album of poetry called The Silencer, released an EP of poetry called Tears Of Gold, and published poetry for the Gate Newspaper and the nonprofit organization Sixty Inches From Center. She has led writing workshops as well as participated in journalism cohorts to cultivate her skills.

Laylatul Qadr whispers in the masjid
Like the soft ripple of breath and vowel.

A language, my quivering fingers weave
Between the quilted cotton of my hijab.

 A mellifluous dua, I etch in the blood
Of my veins like a carved promise.

A covenant, I sow in my heart’s flesh
Which blossoms between the fractures of angst.

Two words, I embrace like home
Between swollen lips and teeth.

Sabr. Patience. Hifazat. Protection.
Sabr. Patience. Hifazat. Protection.

 Two words, my henna-stained fingers
Trace on the saffron-hued carpet

Yet suddenly amongst these dulcet syllables
I hear the bitter beads of rainfall cascade

Seeking to drench this gift of hope
A relentless reminder of humanity’s ignorance
How the indifferent drown the voice of justice
With the bitter call of malice

And plant the ubiquitous germ of indifference
Corrupting the fertile lands of democracy

As the white man’s fist stifles my voice
With apathy in the name of justice

And exudes the sour odor of his privilege
Spilling his venom as if this heart can’t feel pain

Muffling my voice with his sallow knuckles
Because he fears my right to speech

But shall I remain silent?
But shall I remain compliant?

When my faith is stitched on my chest
As an emblem of my dignity

Or when a prayer of hope blossoms from my palms
Like a rose both battered and beautiful

And when sabr and hifazat roll across my molars
Like an anthem of justice awaiting to be sung

When Laylatul Qadr whispers in my ear
A message of hope, a message of power.

 

Defined Terms

1. Laylatul Qadr- One of the holiest nights in the Islamic calendar on which Angel Jibril revealed the Quran to Prophet Muhammad. The night is observed by Muslims through prayer, repentance, and reading the Quran.
2. Masjid- place of worship for Muslims
3. Hijab- religious head covering
4. Dua- Arabic word meaning “prayer” or “act of supplication”
5. Sabr- Arabic word meaning “patience”
6. Hifazat- Urdu word meaning “protection”

 

Rimel Kamran is a current junior and the Cincinnati Youth Poet Laureate. Her poetry aims to build community, celebrate diversity, and share her Pakistani-American identity. She hopes to share her love for poetry, especially with youth, and encourage them to seek the unheard poem within them. When she’s not writing she enjoys pursuing her interests in science and medicine.

I wonder
If there is a place
Where all our
lost
memories escape to.
A secret sanctuary we can never find.
I wonder
If the memories creep from our minds
In the middle of the night,
So silent that we do not
Even remember they were ever
Ours.
I wonder if they float through the bright blue sky
and whisper to us from up above,
Hoping we will notice them,
Hoping we will claim them
Before they
Vanish
to their
Secret sanctuary.

 

Liliana Colon is a twenty-year-old mentee in the Writing Works Program through Girls Write Now. She is from New York City and is currently taking a gap year from college to better explore her passions. She entered and was one of the winners of the My Simple Realization writing contest for her personal essay entitled “Sheltered.” Her poem “Soil” will be included in the sixth annual online spring issue of Girls Right the World. Liliana is looking forward to new opportunities for growing and cultivating her love of writing.