Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue I by Brooks School

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine

Vol. III, Issue 1

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine

EDITOR Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair STAFF Suzanne Egertson Rachel Feingold Emma Gordon Renu Mukherjee Kyle Lawrence April Mendez

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.

DESIGNER Dan Callahan, Director of Communications Still Waters is committed to publishing original, exciting material from a diverse collection of Brooks student writers. While we actively pursue short fiction, poetry and memoir, we will consider any form of writing submitted. There is no maximum word count, and you may submit more than one piece at a time. Send submissions as an attached Word document via email to stillwaterssubmissions@brooksschool.org. Please include in the Word document your name, grade, hometown, and a brief 100-word bio. Decisions are made on a rolling basis, and once submitted, a piece will be eligible for publication in any future issue of Still Waters. Just because you don’t see your piece in the new issue does not mean it won’t appear in the next one.

― EMILY DICKINSON

CONTENTS Vol. III, Issue 1

Fiction 2

FLOOR 12 by Ben Shirley

THIRST by Thalia Garcia

LOBSTERING by William Kimball

The Int erview 16 with Renu Mukherjee and Suzanne Egertson

Poetry 6

A MEMORY OF ME by Claire Sheehan

ORANGE TREE by Max Shusterman

TO PABLO NERUDA: THE FACELESS ONE by Analiese Fernandes

MUSHY-GUSHY by Analiese Fernandes

THE MUSEUM OF FINE PLASTIC by Molly Alvino

THE SKY by Helen Bernhard

A BLOODY PICTURE by Molly Alvino

10 TEARS AND GIGGLES: A COLLECTION OF POEMS by Suzanne Egertson 12 STORIES FROM ROOM 304 by Renu Mukherjee

Brooks School

From the Editor

In his lyrical, magical novel Atonement, Ian McEwan’s young protagonist discovers the thrill of writing. “A story was a form of telepathy,” McEwan writes through this young girl’s eyes, “By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader’s. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.”

While McEwan is so right about writing in that astute quote, I have to say I disagree with his claim that no one stops to wonder at it. I, for one, can’t get through a day without being amazed at some turn of phrase or dizzying image I read in some unlikely place: a 19th century grammar book, a magazine, a short story, or perhaps most importantly, in Brooks students’ writing. Brooks School is fertile ground for writers. Our community – a collection of geographically, culturally and intellectually diverse young people – is a petri dish of imagination and creativity, a perfect storm for that most basic human urge: story-telling. We tell stories to each other over lunch, in the halls, in our dorm rooms, in class, in chapel, in school meeting – everywhere. We at Brooks are not necessarily unique; the oldfashioned Google search for ‘storytelling’ turns up over 36,000,000 hits. But we are unique in that we are built to make it easy to write these stories down.

Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 1

As an educational institution, we write. Lab reports, history papers, French homework, English assignments, and math. We write emails, letters, blogs, tweets, memos and notes. So, here we all are, pen poised above paper, fingers above keyboards, when inspiration strikes. And it strikes often. Our students scribble poetry late at night under a dim circle of lamp light, or short stories in a brightly lit English class, or memoir sitting on the dock by the still waters of Lake Cochichewick. Still Waters has become the place where those stories find their way to the public. Two years ago, we moved the school’s old illustrious and proud literary magazine, The Bishop, online, changed the name, and created a more visible, updated forum for Brooks’ student writers. This year, Still Waters undergoes another facelift, to what you see here. In these pages, you will find the best of our students’ writing: wildly creative, original, outside the box, moving and funny. The editorial staff has worked hard to make creative and content decisions, and they look forward to moving the magazine forward even further. We hope you enjoy what the Brooks community has to offer.

Dean Charpentier English Department Chair Editor

Brooks School

Floor 12 By Ben Shirley

“Hey Linda, the girls are going out tonight. Want to try that new Sushi place?” She poked her head out of the cubicle to answer. “No thanks, Sarah. I’ve got something else going on tonight.” She was back inside her workspace before Sarah could answer. Her coworker persisted. She appeared next to Linda. “You had something last night too. I don’t think I’ve ever been out with you!” Linda flashed a practiced smile. “Another time, I promise,” she said, returning her attention to the word processing in front of her. Sarah lingered, searching for another foothold for conversation. Unable to find one, she drifted off into the hallway. The problem with a cubicle, Linda thought, is that there’s no door to close. Besides her PC and a paperweight holding down a thin stack of memos, her desktop was barren. A couple of diplomas adorned the grey walls around her. It smelled like copy paper. An Ikea clock ticked on. Linda typed. Linda heard her coworkers preparing to leave for the night: the shuffling of papers, zipping of jackets, and resigned beep of a computer powering down. She waited until they were out of sight to slump in her chair, lacing her fingers together and stretching. With a yawn, she shoveled her work into a backpack and left her desk. She glanced at her watch. 5:05. Good. Plenty of time to pick up a bite on the way back. Her couch and TV awaited, just like they had yesterday and would tomorrow. She hit the elevator button and glanced out the window. Toronto was sheathed in early evening glow. The light slipped through the twelfth floor glass, materializing on her shirt. She chewed her lip. The elevator was slow. Finally, an apathetic ding, and the door slid open. Finally, she thought. She stepped into the metal chamber, and felt it dip slightly under her weight. As she reached for the lobby button, she heard faint 4

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footsteps approaching. Fingers drumming against her leg, she stared at the ceiling. The steps, muffled by the carpet, drew closer. Linda glanced down at the illuminated lobby button. It stared back at her. The footsteps turned the corner. Linda reached down and jammed the Door Close button. The doors sluggishly started towards each other. A foot just made it in between the closing doors. “Wait!” a disembodied voice insisted. To Linda’s dismay, the doors obliged, parting for the newcomer. A vaguely familiar suit and head of black hair stepped into the elevator. Linda looked away and mumbled something about trying to press the Door Open button. The doors shut. Everything went black, and Linda was weightless for a moment. The floor fell away. Then it rushed up to meet her and her knees buckled. Before she could get her bearings, the elevator jerked again, threatening to drop into the abyss. It must have free fallen at least six feet. Linda felt her heart pounding in her ears. It was deafening. She tried to stay calm. Her breathing grew erratic but she tried to take deep breaths, then panicked and nearly hyperventilated she is a dimply seven old, her pink dress out of place in the sterile hospital room. Not a word as they feed her headfirst into the machine. Alone. The little girl can’t move, can’t see. All she can hear is the roar of the machine. Her eyes dart desperately, her blood begins to boil. She beats her fists against walls that won’t give. Voices shout over the sound of the roar

telling her to stop, but she doesn’t care, doesn’t stop until the machine spits her out again the emergency lighting came on, creeping down from a single recessed bulb in the elevator ceiling. The glow was dim and sickly. Under the light, a mass of sweat appeared on Linda’s shirt like a bloodstain. None of the floor indicators were lit.

Linda’s pulse raced. Her knees went weak and gave out. She slumped to the floor, back to the wall. She could hear the sounds of the machine. “Please.” A hand clasped her shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be alright,” he said. She looked up at him, wide eyed. Bit by bit, the roar subsided, and he helped her up.

Thirst By Thalia Garcia

Mama has been gone for a long time. This is the second time this week she’s been gone. She took my sister with her. I don’t know where they go, but it’s a very long walk, hours at least. Pa is gone with the rest of the men. They are hunting for meat this week. Soon I will grow up and be just like Pa, and will be able to hunt. But now he chuckles at me when I say I want to hunt the biggest game there is. He says to me, “You must wait, son. You still need to get your running feet.” I always curl in my boney toes when he says this. They are a bit awkward if I stare at them closely. They’re too boney, my feet are too wide, and my toes are too long. It is hard to run with feet like mine. They are not like Pa’s, like a lion. In our hut my older sister starts to cook supper with what’s left of our water. I sit trying to crack the packed dirt of my hut. Mama doesn’t like when I do this. But I do it anyway. My sister tells me to bring the water jug outside. Holding my nose, I carry it out. The sun bakes on the other huts’ empty water jugs. Flies buzz around them and rest on the rims too. I don’t like flies, but they help me stay away from stinky things. I put the jug down and see Mama and my sister walking back to our hut with their own water. I run over to help them with what they are carrying but my feet tangle beneath me and I stumble. Pa is right. I need my running feet. Mama laughs and puts her jug down. She helps me up and brushes the dust off of my shorts. I want to help her carry the jug but there are flies, and that means it stinks.

“Are we going to get water that doesn’t stink, Mama?” I asked. She looks at me, smiles a little, and says, “This is all we have for now. We will make do with what God has given us. We’re still living. Right?” I say, “But this water is icky. It stinks. It’s brown and has stuff floating in it.” I crinkle my nose. The water is as gross as the animals’ watering hole on a really hot day. “It smells like dead animals, Mama!” She doesn’t respond. She frowns and keeps walking. I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. We eat yams again for supper. My sister has put a little spice in the yams but the flavor is the same, bland and not my favorite. But Pa says he’ll have meat to cook next supper. We hardly ever get to eat a lot of meat. Mama pours water into my mug. I Fiction

wrinkle my nose but Mama gives me a stern look and I have to drink it now. I look down into the mug. Specks of brown float on the top. I drink and feel something tiny crawling in my mouth. I scream and spit it out. “Ew!” I yell, “That was just in my mouth!” I want to beg Mama for permission not to drink it, but I’ve done that many times. It never works. I wish it would. I leave the table and head off to get ready for bed

That night I toss and turn. Pa wakes up and gets me another mug of water. I retch at the stink of it. “No!” I shout, and knock the mug out of his hand, “It stinks!” I feel sweat droplets run down my face. My sister is now in the room. She dabs my forehead with her shirtsleeve. She hugs me and lies down. I throw up on the mattress. Mama isn’t going to like that. But I don’t see her in the room. I hear crying. I whisper to my sister, “I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings.” She kisses my forehead.

Lobstering By William Kimball

Darkness still heavy in the sky, a well-worn, heavily dented, Chevy Pickup rattles down a dirt path toward the floating dock where a 16 foot Maritime Skiff resides. Sam lifts his head to see Logan swing open his rusted door. Adjusting the glasses resting upon his long nose, Sam shuts the heavily bound book on his lap. “Good morning Logan.” “Mornin’.” The pair gears up, and each pulls a cooler with lunch from his car. Ambling down the ramp, onto the float, Sam watches as Logan wobbles, still tipsy from the night before. They drop their gear into the skiff and Logan rips the cord of the 90 Horsepower Mariner engine. Once, twice. On the third try the engine roars to life. Grey smoke pours out, engulfing the engine as a healthy sheen of oil creeps across the surface of the water. Sam casts off and Logan knocks the engine into gear, propelling the skiff into the darkness. A few minutes after cutting into the light chop, the darkness begins to fade, an orange glow spreading across the great expanse of ocean. Logan guides the skiff gracefully through fields of traps, around unseen ledges and towards the pair’s prized pots. Logan backs off the throttle as they near the first purple and green striped buoy in the string.

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Sam hooks the first trap and runs it through the spinning block. The boat heels slightly as the line catches and the block works to pull the hefty lobster trap. Both men’s eyes drift downwards, staring, waiting for the shape of the trap to appear in the black water. The wait for the first pot is always the longest. Each man thinks different thoughts. Logan wonders if the time spent soaking will pay off. Will it cover the cost of the gas used to get to the float? Pay for the tab from last night? For Sam, this is a hobby. For Logan, this is his way of life, his living. First a shadow, then a dark shape, and then an outline. The metal lobster trap ascends from the depths. As the trap breaches the surface, Logan lights a cigarette dangling from his lips, marking the start of the trip. Over the years, Logan has gone from three, to four, to five, and now six cigarettes per trip. “I thought you said you quit last week.” “I started again.”

Sam takes the line out of the block and hauls the trap over the rail of the skiff. Pulling the clips off the bars on top on the trap, he swings the metal grate open. The trap is dead. Two starfish cling to the bait bags and an urchin rests on the netting. Neither of the men speak as they re-bait and reset. Logan revs the engine and they jump to the next purple and green buoy just fifty yards away. Once again Sam hooks the pot and runs it through the block. The trap splashes to the surface and this time Logan hauls the pot onboard. Throwing open the gate, Logan swears through clenched teeth. Three maroonish lobsters flap feverishly, but Sam measures and throws the juvenile lobsters back into the salty water. With fourteen lobsters in thirty traps, the trip is far from a success by noon as the two stop on the west side of Great Harbor for lunch. Logan devours his skimpy tuna fish sandwich while Sam takes a little more time enjoying his. Logan fidgets and Sam can see that he is anxious to get moving.

well, troubling. Logan kicks the throttle and before Sam is able to come up with anything to say, the dock is in sight. Standing on the dock is a single figure and as they near, Sam sees it is a police officer. He turns to look at Logan, but Logan just gazes ahead, as if he does not see the man. Logan kills the engine and cruises the last ten feet to the float. Sam ties the boat up with quivering fingers; both Sam and Logan listen as the officer speaks. “Afternoon, Logan. Is this your Chevy parked here?” “Yes, Sir.” “Then you’ll be needin’ to come with me to the station.” Sam’s eyes widen and his heart begins to race. He turns in disbelief to look at Logan, and then back to the officer again. “What did he do?”

“Something on your mind, Logan?” Not caring that Sam has not finished, Logan cranks the engine and guides them to the next trap. Logan slows to bring the pot alongside, and Sam hooks and strings the pot through the block again, sandwich still in hand. “Do you need money again? The block groans as Sam finishes his sandwich and watches the water droplets jump off the line as it exits the water. Logan pulls his pack from his jacket pocket and knocks the last cigarette out, tossing the box into the dark water.

“You struck a woman with your car last night, Logan. She’s dead.” Sam watches as Logan looks down at his feet and his shoulders slump. Then he raises his head, straightens his back and steps out of the skiff. As he stands on the float, he turns and looks directly at Sam. He dips his head again and follows the officer to the back of the cruiser. Sam watches as the cruiser fades into the cloud of dust kicked up from the dirt road.

“I don’t think money will help me right now, Sam.” Later, sun low in the sky, Sam watches the last trap sink into the gloomy depths. His mind is still turning Logan’s last sentence. Whenever Logan has an issue, it is almost always money related. Whether it is an unpaid tab, a bet, or rent, Sam has always been there to help. For Logan to not need money is,

Fiction

A Memory of Me by Claire Sheehan Someone will carry a memory of me If I died today what would it be? The smell of raspberry rhubarb pie? Maybe the sound of me playing the cello The notes slow and rich as honey Or the rare sight of me in a dress Looking like a girl Or the memories may not exist and I will fade To black text on a page.

Orange Tree by Max Shusterman I made an orange tree once â&#x20AC;&#x201C; It was simply divine. It came in a very small box From that man in brown. The dog did not care for him. Step by step I hammered it in Screwed all the bolts Bolted all the screws Plugged it in the wall And what do you know? I made an orange tree.

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To Pablo Neruda: The Faceless One by Analiese Fernandes Pablo Neruda was lost. I think of him as a faun, Half human, half not. How does he define himself? Faceless? Alone? A faun in a labyrinth, Like a girl who can’t find her shadow? Identity-less.

Mushy-Gushy by Analiese Fernandes What is it about poems that people love? Tell me. I genuinely want to know. I say I don’t like mushy-gushy But sometimes mushy gushy Is exactly what you need. So tell me about poetry. Does it make you feel better? If you write, I will read. But please, Don’t expect me to write back, The mushy-gushy levels would be Off the radar, And I Don’t do Mushy-gushy.

Poetry 9

The Museum of Fine Plastic by Molly Alvino I would eat plastic grapes if I was ever stuck in a museum with a fruit basket sculpture placed in the middle of a white room. Skip the bananas, apples, oranges, and go for the grapes. Strategically positioned, draped over the others, perched. The bunch would catch the light perfectly, highlighting the imperfections, only grapes. Only art.

The Sky by Helen Bernhard When I looked at the sky It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look blue. It looked like a baseball had Crashed through it. Why? My heart throbbed And it started to rain.

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A Bloody Picture by Molly Alvino Red races across the river Paints a deadly picture Fed by the setting sun On the horizon. Bed? asks mom. Not until it’s over! Not until it’s set! he replies. Head heavy, weighted by the Dancing hues – Rain: blending, smearing, diluting A settling watercolor.

Poetry

Tears and Giggles: A Collection of Poems

Charlotte Has a Toy But I didn’t mean to It was an urge I simply wanted a doll And she held hers With such pride I wanted that feeling My hand shot out And I let it Then the Glossy, blue marble eyes Pristine rose lips Blonde ringlets Like bouncing balls Was mine – At least I got to try it out For a moment Her eyes formed bullets of Disbelief I had her prized possession Pretended I owned Her triumph – I swear I didn’t mean to.

Jetskiing Strands of hair tickle my ears The wind outlines my saltwater skin I hammer the jetski into ripples Swallowed Only to spit back up Spray-blind Until all I can see Is the reflection of joy In the big blue.

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by Suzanne Egertson

A Poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note Words Can be Daggers They jab Into your Skin Their poison Entangles you In Insecurities You spend minute After minute Analyzing What they mean You are a skeptic In your own mind You let them Chew at your confidence until you are empty a bloodbath of words wounds the heart

Opening Night Blackout In through the nose, Out through the mouth I find my mark A plethora Of work Behind me lights that blind I live in a world of Undexpected Unrehearsed Beauty I give my soul And in return All I need Are your Hands Pressed together in thanks

Mouse in My Attic There is a mouse in my attic I can hear its tiny legs shuttle Refuge A chill creeps down my spine I cannot concentrate It is stuck in my head Waiting for a moment, exempt Longing to escape a dark world

Poetry

Stories From Room 304

by Renu Mukherjee

The Cupboard Under the Stairs Last week I revisited the cupboard. Inside there was a boy, hair unkempt, shirt untucked, pants two sizes too big.

Why Did I Want to Grow Up?

He lay flat on his bed, limbs sprawled across the warm mattress, green eyes closed, a hand clamped over his forehead.

Life was more fun When Tuesday nights called for Extended bedtime: 8:15 instead of 8.

I asked what was bothering him, but he did not answer. His body twisted and turned under eggshell covers. “Mum!” he howled.

But I never did see If the boy from Harlem Got his golden ticket Because every Tuesday At 8:10, I fell asleep In grandfather’s armchair Every Tuesday At 8:10 Dad carried me to bed, Just to wake me ten hours later, Banana pancakes in his right hand, Bent paperclip in his left.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood – I had forgotten him.

“Paperclips cut like swords,” He’d say, “Keep one in your back pocket In case you’re ever in trouble, Miss.” I’d grab a pancake, Tell him I’d never be in trouble; He’d protect me.

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But Momma’s Got Me: A Prose Poem I asked my momma why she did not dress up. All the other mommas dressed up, I said. they walked up and down the aisles of McCormick’s in shiny pearls and feathery hats and bright pink coats with round buttons. I wish my momma would dress up, I said. but I really, really wish I hadn’t said that. ‘Cause momma began to cry and cuss and said, “You know why I don’ dress up? It ‘cause your daddy at work from dawn to dusk an’ your sister out behind the stables with the Halls’ boy, an’ you, well, you needa stop askin’ so many questions!” So I asked momma again. I asked momma why she did not dress up. All the other mommas dressed up, I said. they drank tea in frilly gloves and red shoes, and used hand-ker-chifs. I wish my momma would dress up, I said. but I really, really, really wish I hadn’t said that, ‘cause momma looked like Skipper when he lost his rubber ball last December. ‘Cept momma could talk, and she said, “You know why I don’ dress up? It ‘cause I got no one to dress up for.”

How Did You Feel? How did you feel, during the first snowfall of February, On the outskirts of Dublin, With nothing more than A piece of wrinkled parchment Pop left for you Beside a stack Of Fisherman’s Daily, Three days before He disappeared To fulfill The desires of his Tempter?

Dancing in the Dark I can taste stars on my tongue, I whispered to Lydia as we swayed to Springsteen, a bottle of Jack on our left, a pack of my dad’s Camels on our right – oblivious to the sound of a black 1974 Camaro pulling into the driveway.

Poetry

Chronicles of My So-Called Life Monday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 60 mph Missyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ballet recital in four minutes. Tuesday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 50 mph Doug forgot to lock the garage door. Wednesday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 40 mph Joey unleashed Mr. Wilkinsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Rottweiler. Thursday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 30 mph Will left To Kill a Mockingbird beside The Good Earth. Friday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 20 mph George wanted Mexican for dinner. Saturday: drove past 144 Ray St. at 10 mph Mr. Policeman trailed behind me. Sunday: laid in Our bed I missed you.

The Gulab Jamun Seller Excuse me, Can I ride in your rickshaw? My bags full of gulab jamun: Mounds of wet sand The gray hairs under my turban: Bushels of curls.

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All in a Day’s Work I ordered: A supersized Whopper Everything on it, Sweet potato fries, Crispy, Curled, One mint chocolate chip frappe Extra thick. Mindy got the same Minus the frappe Plus a Diet Coke, Her fourth of the day. She left for the Ladies’ Room Right after. I checked my messages… …what if Paul called? Professed his undying love for me? I tapped the straw against my two buckteeth… …what if they shrunk overnight? I eyed the man in Booth 14 With the Passion Pit tee… …what if he noticed me?

Poetry

The Interview Still Waters sat down with juniors Renu Mukherjee and Suzanne Egertson, both of whom have collections of poetry in this issue of SW, to talk about poetry, the writing process, and why poetry plays such a big role in their lives. STILL WATERS: Why do you enjoy writing poetry? RENU: It's a way for me to share my thoughts, emotions, and ideas with the world. My poems allow people to get a glimpse at what goes on inside my head, without me having to tell them anything about myself...which is great because I'm not much of an open book. Through my poems, I can say who I am without actually saying anything at all. SUZANNE: It's a way to let people see snip-its of your life and to express emotions through images, maybe in ways you wouldn't normally say things. A lot of my poems are melancholy and though some are taken from personal experience, I don't think of myself as a particularly sad person. I can just tap into that character very easily when I'm writing poetry. SW: Do you have a process you go through when you write poetry? SUZANNE: When I write, I think of a moment or an image and then I think about how it makes me feel. I really like to free write my poems, because I feel like my best work is when somethingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fresh in my mind and I can just get it all on paper. Then, of course, I do lots of editing. RENU: I wish I was the kind of person who had a set method when it comes to writing poetry! But truth be told, I don't really have much of a process. Whenever I find something or someone who interests me, I write the idea down in a notebook of mine. From these ideas I make phrases and sentences, eventually forming them into poems, and these poems are never truly finished. I always go back to them, changing a phrase, trying to figure out what I was thinking when I first wrote the poem. SW: So is writing poetry different than writing prose like memoir or short fiction? RENU: I enjoy writing memoir and short fiction, but I prefer poetry. When I write poetry, I recreate exactly what I am thinking. What you see on the paper is what I see in my head. Except for a few words here and there, I leave my poems how they are. Memoir and short fiction, on the other hand, are less natural to me. I find myself focusing more on the classic rules of writing than my own voice. With poetry, it's like I'm putting myself on the page, and anyone who reads my poems can also read me. SUZANNE: Writing poetry is different than writing prose because you don't have to give all the background information. You don't have to explain what year it is or where you are. I feel like while prose has a pretty specific idea in mind, poetry can be interpreted in so many ways.

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SW: How did you get interested in writing poetry? SUZANNE: I've always loved writing and music. I like how poetry can have a rhythm to it, how it’s short and sweet and I don't have to stress out too much when I'm writing it. In middle school, I wrote my first poetry collection and I think that’s when I realized that I genuinely enjoy writing poetry. I remember how in elementary school, I would write about lip smackers and dessert, and I feel like now my poems are so much more meaningful. But I guess you have to start somewhere. RENU: Until recently, I did not have any interest in poetry whatsoever. I believed there was only one way to write poetry, and if you didn’t follow the rules you simply weren't writing poetry anymore. It wasn't until I read a book on contemporary poetry that I realized poetry could be whatever you wanted. The rules you follow are the rules you have created yourself. SW: Do you have any poets or poems that have influenced your own writing? RENU: Katia Kapovich, a favorite poet of mine, inspired me to tell stories through my poetry, but to do it with a twist. While many writers incorporate stories into their poetry, they tell their stories as they are. Katia, however, leaves a lot up to the reader; she invites the reader to use her imagination and read the poem as she sees it. I love when an author paints a picture in my mind, but allows me the opportunity to wonder: about the characters, the future, the poet. Katia's poetry does all of that. I hope mine does too. SUZANNE: There are many songwriters who I get inspiration from. I love lyrics by the Zac Brown Band, Avril Lavigne, and Ed Sheeran. I can relate to the lyrics very easily and I feel like they really capture the essence of so many aspects of life. I want my poems to be like that too, something that everyone who has had a similar experience can understand and relate to. SW: Where else do you find inspiration for your poetry? SUZANNE: Everywhere. I find it in my passion, which is performing, because I feel like I can’t say enough about how much I love what I do. I find it in loved ones and all of the crazy characters in my life. I find it in my fears and vulnerabilities. Though people may not realize it, I am opening up in some of these poems and saying things about myself, like Renu. Lastly, I find poetry in the places I go. Whether it’s skiing in Vermont, lounging in Florida, or hiking in Colorado, all of these memories give me ideas. RENU: I find inspiration for my poetry in my family, my friends, my experiences...in other words, my life. Every one of my poems is in some way related to an event I have either experienced or witnessed, and each poem is simply a retelling. I like knowing that none of those memories will ever be forgotten, since I’ve recreated them.

Interview

SW: Both of you tell stories, narratives, in many of your poems. Why do you think poetry is a good medium for story? Could these stories be told in the same way in a short story? RENU: Poetry allows you to express your whole self, and that includes all the stories you carry. You’re able to share your stories as they are, while in a something like a short story, I feel like you have to shape your story so that it fits certain guidelines. I believe that if you want to read a story as it was originally imagined, you should read it through a poem. To me, poetry is the most organic way of writing. SUZANNE: I think poetry is a good medium for stories because they explain things simply without too much unnecessary detail. Instead of a reader being overwhelmed with details, I feel like poems are a way to communicate a story through moments and short pieces. I feel like telling these stories in fiction would not be as significant, because in a story many times you’re told who is talking and what is going on, but in a poem it’s the reader’s choice. SW: What role does writing play in your life? Do you hope to continue writing in the future? RENU: Writing is my favorite thing to do. It's the one thing I will always have control over, no matter what else happens. I have a freedom to write for myself, to write what makes me happy. I think of it like the world's best security blanket; writing will always be there for me. I hope to write for the rest of my life, even if just for my family and friends. Writing is my passion, and it will be forever. SUZANNE: I do a lot of thinking. I like writing because it's a way for me to express my feelings without getting on other people’s nerves. It's a way for me to vent and think about all the experiences in my life that are important. I also feel like some of my poems have a lesson within them that is very important to me. I wrote a poem about how important it is that we are there for each other. "Charlotte Has a Toy" reminds me that jealousy is an ugly quality. My poems are kind of my diary, and I’m the only one who knows what the subtext is.

Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 1

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