Winter Poems 2022

today and i didn’t plan time to wallow
in your absence, so i was splattered with

the lack of you again, bathed in loss so sweet
i almost mistook it for your hands

running down my chest. i can’t help
the cringe my face coils into when i hear

silverware scraping against porcelain.
or the way i dig my nails into my tingling

calf to coax it out of numbness. i flinch
when the walls crack their knuckles.

i don’t have a reflex for you. i’m stuck

in this hellhole where phantom hands
send chills down my body in the way i always

wanted you to touch me. when the white of
the snow sheets slapping against my window

catch my eye, i prepare to converse with
the ghost of you. the hairs on the small

of my back rise in the outline of your
handprint— my body still a snow angel

you keep coming back to make.

 

 

 

Nila Narain (they/he) is a queer Tamilian poet and creator studying computer science and creative writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. They have previously been published in Serotonin Poetry, giallo lit, and perhappened. In their spare time they like to sing, dance, and stress-craft.

I sit back and lean into the turn
urging her forward with my hands.
We turn and weave down the black and white poles.
She takes advantage of me and edges into the lope.
I half halt her to bring her back to the trot,
but the damage is done.
Disappointment flickers across my face
but I won’t let that ruin my run.
Loping is forbidden in the kingdom of walk/trot.
One stride and you’re out.
Last pole on the row, and we swing wide.I guide her back to the poles, and
we turn sharp, and head home.
We trip the timer
I hold my breath hoping.
The announcer calls out my fate.
“Unfortunately, that was a no time for Clara Harden.”
I lean forward, pet her and
walk out of the arena thinking who cares.
It was a good ride.
She did great,
But even now I still long for that shiny ribbon.

 

 

Clara Harden is a student at St. Patrick’s School, in Rolla, Missouri

 

I am a simple painter, though I do not feel as such;
I see things no one else can see, that no one else can touch.
The crinkle, crinkle of dry leaves evokes a satin grey;
The sunlight on my skin tastes like an exceptional sirloin filet.
When music plays, I see the scenes that write out just for me:
The cello’s rich hum is sticky sap, an amber filigree;
A clarinet can conjure smells of lovely cinnamon toast,
While a cryptic triangle reminds me of a ball hitting a goalpost.
A wild violet sky erupts as a tuba gives a blahhht
And a smooth glass window is a grand piano’s coup d’etat.
Round and round the instruments go, kicking up whirlwinds
That transfers to my humble brush, from which the art rescinds
To the blank canvas on my easel. Oh, what a beautiful sight!
But art is not enough to feed me or keep me warm at night.
I am a simple painter, though I do not feel as such;
I see things no one else can see, that no one else can touch.

 

 

 

Savannah Carmichael is a sophomore Creative Writing major at Truman State University. Previously she was given a Dishonorable Mention in the 2020 Bulwer-Lytton contest. In her free time, she enjoys acting and being scared senseless by a good piece of horror.

image: a boy and his void. atlas shouldering a burning chaos.
is this not punishment enough? i think i’ve seen all there is
of darkness, and then, the universe expands—a kind of joke?

the world’s dark ink spills into pain—more, and even more
pain—as if to say: roaming ghost of a boy, what do you know
about living to think you could write poems about survival?

image: a boy in the mirror. a baby wood-louse heaving a load
of sorrow on its head like a curse. i look into the looking-
glass, and like one crazy bird, grief has made a nest of my hair.

wash. how we rebuke fire. rinse. how we rebuke pain. repeat.
grief, if you won’t fall off, won’t you, at least, soften a little?
drown. to put out a small fire, I cover my body with a flood

 

Timi Sanni is a Nigerian writer, editor and multidisciplinary artist. He was the 1st place winner of the 2020 SprinNG Poetry Contest, the 2020 Fitrah Review Short Story Prize, and the 2021 Anita McAndrews Award Poetry Contest. He was also the 3rd place winner of the 2021 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in magazines such as Black Warrior Review, New Delta Review, Palette Poetry, Lolwe, Lucent Dreaming, and elsewhere. Find him on twitter @timisanni

On Wednesdays, the city turns up its collar
Not rough, never vindictive
Subtle as a new chill against your cheek
Or a mist that dims the eyes
Stray thoughts stow like orphans into fastening sleeves
Shadows slimming on the concrete, bereaved by twilight

Today, dusk was an ebbing tide; we drained from school like water through a sieve
I buried my coat in my bag, arms bare and ponderous
Even bowing my head, I sensed your approach, you with your fraying maroon cuffs,
face a study in angles, your gaze like charcoal
softening everything it lights upon,
your hand nudging my hair

I thought, I want a conversation in polychrome
I thought, I want a riot
To lean my head on your shoulder, thread our hands into latticework
Startle you into laughter until your hood falls away

But the cold was biting and my arms were bare
I could only smile, trembling with unshed words
In the interregnum between sense and sensation
I thought, maybe that’s why they say to wear your heart on your sleeve.
If it breaks, the shards slit the fabric and not your skin.

What I mean is: we all crave love, we are all soured by it
Hands cup loose change, hands build barricades
The wind is a lone rogue across the flat sea
Mourning the missing things she will never seek
We are too fragile for this, this restless imitation,
this plundering of ruins for a scrap of our salvation

 

 

Allyson Ye is a high school senior from Hong Kong. She writes prose to vicariously experience the lives of others, and poetry to romanticize her own. Beyond writing, she is a passionate genre fiction advocate, budding fortune teller, and a capella enthusiast. You can find her on Instagram @sunnygally. She hopes you have a very nice day.