Winter Poems 2017

“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.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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.

The day after things changed

It rained buckets

Bubbles floating across mirrored puddles

 

I woke in grey violet

And left my dreams in a hurry

A flurry of heartbeats

Racking the dreary room

 

I took a drag through the rain

To count my words

 

To spread

Water from the

Crease of my cheek

The bridge of my nose

 

A silent story of sorrow

 

I warmed a can of

Salty metal soup

Til it hissed at the corners and

Overflowed the bowl

Cloudy liquid growing cold

As it clung to my throat

 

I could not stand

Inside my skin

I could not stand my head

 

Through years

Of shifting loss

The same prayer flags still

Drip from my doorframe

 

Still tangle on the synapses

That lie between wake and dream

 

May I never settle

May I always have a song to sing

 

 

 

Maya Rabinowitz is a sixteen-year-old lover of music and avid reader of anything poetic. She lives in Philadelphia, PA, in a quiet neighborhood with her two moms and her dog Ollie. She spends much of her free time writing, and her work has also been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

 

After I die,

I will wander the world

the way I’ve always wanted to,

see the cherry blossoms in DC

and the broken ground of the Berlin Wall

and the barren earth of the DMZ

where the voices but not the souls of the others gone

linger.

 

And eventually

I will tire of the earthly things

that tower but do not speak.

Somehow I’ll find my way back home,

where I’m sure my grandmother will be waiting

sunlight warming the joints that no longer ache

watering her aloe plants

and a bowl of my favorite fried rice on the table.

 

 

Melody (Mel) is a high school junior from New Jersey. She has been writing poetry for about two years and has won a number of awards, including bronze in the NJCTE competition and a gold key in Scholastic Art and Writing. When not procrastinating and worrying about her upcoming exam, Mel reads, sings, and volunteers in and with her school (PS: her favorite ice cream flavor is Ben and Jerry’s  “The Tonight Dough with Jimmy Fallon).