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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Winter Poems 2017

From the Editor

By Molly Hill

Dear Writers and Readers,

It’s been pretty gray and slushy in our part of the world. Monochromatic. Lots of old snow and black ice—typical January. Not to worry though, we’re bringing you a collection of poems  this month that’s arriving just in time.

While we don’t have theme issues, we’d like to dedicate this particular issue to the concept of escapism: the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy. (Merriam-Webster)

There’s so much change happening this month, and for those of us in the U.S., well we’re having a significant “administrative” change. It’s hard to know how to be and lots of suggestions: mindful, resilient, resistant—the list goes on.

Enter our ten creative poets and one incomparable artist. Farah, Vivian, Maya, Arah, Melody, Emily, Katrin, Moira, Peter, and Rachana—thank you for your wit, vulnerability and imaginative poems.  And cover artist Karen Ahn (karenahn.com) sent us artwork saturated in color, magic and talent.   This is a slimmer issue but we think you’ll agree there are gems here. Our gratitude to these contributors and to all of our submitters. The future looks to be in good hands.

Enjoy the escape.

 

Molly Hill

Editor

Words for Feelings We Can’t Describe *

By Katrin Flores

Ruckkehrunruhe

 

I forgot

how the hot, sticky wind of

a hundred passing metro buses and jeepneys

felt on the shins–

the pleasant aching of feet

at the edge of a crosswalk–

when my legs were swept up

by the velvet lining

of a living room recliner.

 

I lost

the New Orleans roar–

the steam of a fresh jambalaya

and greasy oyster po’boys–

caught in the fibers of a shirt

when I stuck it in the washer

with a cup of

mountain fresh

 

And all the morsels of

the world I’ve captured in

a photograph

fade each time

I scroll past it in a

two-thousand memory

digital photo album

 

ruckkenrunruhe-  n. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness

 

 

 

Monachopsis

 

The garden holds like

the surface of water

until the gate swings open

and I,

with the careful smack of

yellow flip flops against

stepping stones,

arrive in New Gethsemane

 

But the crabapple tree

whispers to the bitter gourd

the mustard greens

the cherry tomatoes

the chickweeds

and with a thin, spotted finger

points

 

I cannot be the ant

on the ochre fence

with them–

only a thoroughbred

among them

 

monachopsis- n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

 

Katrin Flores, a student in the School for the Creative and Performing Arts program, is a junior at Lafayette High School. Besides writing, she is passionate about Jesus, hoards lipstick, plays the violin, and occasionally writes on gum wrappers when she’s desperate.

 

*poetry inspired by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows*
www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com

Dismantled

By Rachana Hegde

 

I am whittled down to eight years old: all shaky hands and

fingers stunned numb. There’s a muted street & a house

 

hiding behind a lamp. The gutter overflows with pre-dawn light and

the manhole is a wound cauterized, awful in the way it droops.

 

A bedroom lies dismantled. I rest a hand against its underbelly,

learning how a house moulders. My parents are cluttered, scuttling

 

around an orphaned home. This place looks like the still life of a fruit

covered in soot, hijacked & rotting in the palms of our hands.

 

A year passes. And still, there is an awful light in my

mother’s eyes when she looks at the sky. It is different.

 

I know her fears intimately: contorted & swarming.

 

Ten years later, a pheasant couches me, in a bland sketch of

sakura trees. Cherry blossoms scale the mountains of my childhood.

 

I am looking through a window & seeing my parents dappled

with moonlight. Distance is coiled in the strands of our hair.

 

I reverberate with antiquity;

& each place is a second chance I will not miss.

 

 

 

Rachana Hegde collects words and other oddities. Her poetry has been published in Alexandria Quarterly, Moonsick Magazine, and Hypertrophic Literary. You can find her reading, drowsy-eyed, or at www.rachanahegde.weebly.com.

Ursa Major

By Farah Ghafoor

“While he was hunting wild animals… he came across his mother [Callisto, a bear], who stood still at sight of Arcas and appeared to know him. He shrank back from those unmoving eyes gazing at him so fixedly, uncertain what made him afraid, and when she quickly came nearer he was about to pierce her chest with his lethal spear. All-powerful Jupiter restrained him … and set them in the heavens and made them similar constellations, the Great and Little Bear.”

  • Metamorphoses Book II

 

 

The evening like a frozen bell. The silver, ghostly

mouth of Callisto as she looks for her son. A spear

tucked into dark, mute hair, she now hunts

 

the idle mothers. Warns: Carry your children

between your teeth, your nails. When the sky veils itself,

do not let them be moonflowers to be picked by men

with fingers like thick wooden pipes.

 

Give them more than birth: This distance is as faceless

as a beast. You will know when they become only a slash

of heart, a blackened window. You will know

when every morning echoes a tinkling light

 

for what you will have lost.

 

 

Farah Ghafoor is a sixteen-year-old poet and editor-in-chief at Sugar Rascals. Her work is published or forthcoming in Ninth Letter, alien mouth, and Big Lucks among other places, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Farah is the recipient of the 2016 Alexandria Quarterly Emerging Artists and Writers Award. She believes that she deserves a cat. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com.

 

 

 

Mouth

By Arah Ko

 

I.

Tonguing suckers

until the end has slickened to a sharp

edge and you have cut your mouth

over and over in search of residual

sweetness. Red dripping chins;

I do not know syrup from

blood.

 

II.

The park is stiff with new

cold. Your mittens hang like ruby rags

from their clasp on your coat.

Eating junk food on the bench, a dying

wasp creeps in your straw, stings

your lips, over and over; you cry

until dad pries the stinger from

your gums.

 

III.

The dental students say

one tooth wants to come out.

You shrug, brave apprehension

crinkling your rosy, round cheeks,

for the first time losing fat. You leave

the office, three milk teeth in a

ziplock bag, gauze cottoning the wound

in your young jaw. Your face is swollen

but you smile at me,

over and over.

 

 

Arah Ko is an English Major in the Chicago area. When not writing, she can be found frequenting open mic nights, explaining her name pronunciation to coffee shop baristas, and contemplating the meaning of life, other than 42.

 

Family Hike

By Vivian Tsai

We march out—so early I can’t even see—

till Meg has a headache and John has to pee,

and Ruby is swearing she’ll die of despair

if another small nature bug lands in her hair.

 

“Now, camping’s a great way to spend time together,”

says Dad as we groan about grime and the weather.

“Just humor your father,” our mom chimes along,

but none of us join in her hiking trip song.

 

Come noon, I discover the map’s upside-down,

and Ruby and Meg both wear permanent frowns.

The lunches have melted, a PBJ puddle,

and even Dad’s beat when we do our group huddle.

 

On campground, we’re weary and beading with sweat

at the peak of what Dad says we’ll “never forget.”

He can’t pitch the tent, so we lie on the dirt

and the earth is so bumpy, our spinal cords hurt.

 

But the six of us match with our sore limbs and yawns

as Mom sings and I squeeze between Ruby and John.

We marvel together as stars come to peep,

and I’m grateful to Dad as I drift off to sleep.

 

 

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.

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