CHARM: Shelter

CHARM: SHELTER

SHELTER

(C) CHARM and authors, 2023

FOREWORD

For many, a shelter is a place where you are free to live your life and vent out your frustrations. Your shelter could be a hobby, a place, or a person. However, in the case of several pieces throughout this issue, shelter can cause disconnect. For example, in Jenna Nesky’s Goat Farm, the speaker does not feel at home. On the other hand, in Devon Reown’s Pomegranate Tea, the speaker feels sheltered by their friends. Or even in Aldrin Badiola’s The Thousands of Islands, shelter is an indefinite place.

CHARM: Shelter aspires to be a safe space for Baltimore youth to discuss how they live and feel comfortable.

In this issue, CHARM: Voices of Baltimore Youth invites you to explore your definition of shelter. So pick up a cup of pomegranate tea and get ready to enjoy!

- The CHARM Summer Editorial Board.

Part II

PART I

ARS

POETICA

MayaWalker CollegeFirstYear ChathamUniversity

& we start with poems paved in cement, crushed shells & bare feet alongside the edge;

an ugly combination, distorted urban planning that makes the poet wonder: was this city built to last?

Of course, it was not even build for poets, not for the pens used to write. Later, it will become

a city of technology, each building a surplus of machines. Each line in this poem is intentional –

I type this from a machine. I end lines where I see fit. Do not see meaning where there is not, or perhaps

see meaning in every corner, at every lamppost. I am the speaker. I am the poet. & one day, I will leave these sharp concrete tiles for shards of broken glass. One day I’ll leave for cobblestoned sidewalks, one day for rotting wood that creaks as you walk. But for now we pour cement above pages of poetry

& hope to what we have is good enough to be spared, saved, untarnished, lasting.

CONSTELLATION ENERGY

Photo by Nakiya B.

Grade12

CRJ

PEER MINISTRY RETREAT

Photo by Nakiya B.

Grade12

CRJ

WHAT I FOUND CLEANING OUT MY CHILDHOOD BEROOM

KhiraMoore CollegeSophomore EmersonCollege

An old middle school yearbook

Metal mouth, four-eyed

With hair so wild, the kids called it a lion’s mane

When I was just a black girl on a rainy day with no umbrella

On the bottom shelf of my bookcase

There are mornings spent at the scholastic book fair

Every reader’s favorite day of the year

The only day, it was cool to be me

While others bought dinosaur erasers and glow-in-the-dark sticky putty

I left with eight new paperbacks and 20 dollars less than when I started

The boys who taunted me had the nerve to ask for handouts

On my side table, there’s a pink jewelry box

Circa Christmas 2010

The ballerina used to twirl and sing the tune to Twinkle Twinkle Little star

She lays in the drawer with 3DS games

And old friendship bracelets from girls I haven’t seen in five years

Sometimes when it’s dark and the monster under my bed is asleep

I can hear her cry, her tune muffled by a horrifying shudder

A graphic explosion of agony

Begging to twirl again

I wish I knew how to fix her I’m older now, the world has opened its arms A great, beautiful life farther than playing with dolls So I tossed her away With the remnants of a childhood, now dead to me

Now it seems the monster cries too Like I, the monster mourns the dead

THE WALTERS ART MUSEUM

PhotobyMayaWalker

THE NIGHT IN THE CORNER IN THE SMALL CLOSET

AldrinBadiola Grade9 BaltimorePolytechnic Institute

Each limb of my resting body laid soundly asleep; unmoving, as they set into the rough carpet of a room much too familiar to those who shed the weight of wide grins on their mouths as the universe expands to hold together the breadth of the worlds it is on the verge of collapsing for.

I laid deeper, further into the fibers of the nylon carpet that found itself in every corner of my house. I laid deeper for the rough, tough feeling of not only wanting, but needing to be more than I could be.

The fraying ends of the carpet peeled back, its rough edges caressing my tanned arms, its loose threads twirling in a tango with my hairs.

CENTER STAGE

Photo by Nakiya B. Grade12

CRJ

LOOKING UP

AldrinBadiola

Grade9

BaltimorePolytechnicInstitute

Pupils pointed upwards stared up and asked why it was made to be this way; a five inch goldfish in a cage.

Born to be traded away, stargazing fish who fail to look where they go, they live but don’t know where they could be next.

TOWNHOUSE PARKING LOT

Photo by Nakiya B.

Grade12

CRJ

I’M TOO UNCOMFORTABLE TALKING ABOUT MY HOUSE

by Anonymous

I’m too uncomfortable to talk about my house. I don’t need people to know where I live.

It’s not like I was abused there or anything, it used to be a safe space for me when I was a kid, but instances from the outside just made it so it affects the way I live. I like my home, feel nostalgic living in the downstairs room.

My room was the biggest, and it was full of color. The walls were green, and sometimes the only light that would come in is the window since I’m scared of bright light.

But, I’m just not there anymore, my room had to be trashed for reasons, it’s something that would give my parents traumatic memories.

I don’t even know if I can be upstairs. I want to to my homework, but I’m so scared to sleep, Sometimes I just can’t eat.

Sometimes I use the bathroom for too long and it just gets to me.

When I was younger I was a lot more comfortable, I could sleep on my own and do things, but now I need to be around my parents because I’ve been taken and ridiculed from the outside countless times.

I just don’t want to describe my home since no one needs to know about it and I don’t need people to set expectations.

Home might be my safe space, but it’s best for you not to know about it.

MY HAPPY PLACE

Nakiya B. Grade12

CRJ

Alone in the house

As God’s watchful clouds Hover above, protecting me. I breathe, Releasing my unspoken worries.

I am able to walk on my own time, Finishing work at my own pace, Which is not a lot but enough. It means I have time to dive Into ideas kept in my headspace.

My bed embraces me. As I scroll through Pinterest, My heart fills with serotonin. It squeezes as I squeal At the sight of adorable fan-art.

Sheets tangle when I leave my bed Into my spinning chair, Which squeaks like a mouse. Paint stains my wooden desk, Signs of the many colorful messes I’ve made.

Music plays, giving my voice life. It hits notes low & high With vocal high fives. Books threaten to take my shelf down Into the soft brown waves of the carpet.

I grab one and pages flip While rain drops fall on the glass, Heavy as tapping fingers, As if eager for me to continue reading.

I gasp as the story twists and turns me around like a merry-go-round. Though thunder still looms, Calm creativity swirls throughout the room.

So, whether you call it a hut or a house, What you love, Or what you’re all about, For me, the fact remains, This is my happy place.

LA CASA ENCENDIDA, SPAIN

Photo(opposite)byMayaWalker CollegeFirstYear ChathamUniversity

A PASSING LIGHT

AnnCullinane CollegeFreshman HollinsUniversity

The whale-oil ran dry in its cage of glass, And the lighthouse flickered in time with the thunder. Clouds circled like vultures, picking at the shore with beaks of rain.

The keeper stood among the rocks, The ocean a dog at his feet baring teeth the color of moonlight on the water. Raindrops coiled around his hand which coiled around a match Whose dim glow grew dimmer, The flame and water sharing a deadly kiss, ash spilling over the edges of their lips.

The keeper struck one after the other, Letting them live to watch them die, Or for the pinprick of light to catch some sailor’s distant, lost eye,

Or to light the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

INNER HARBOR

THE THOUSANDS OF ISLANDS

AldrinBadiola Grade9 BaltimorePolytechnicInstitute

Sweat drips from my furrowed brows onto the lenses of my glasses. I’d woken up– not in my bedroom, but in front of a house I was quick to recognize, yet not know whose it was. But I knew exactly where I was.

I never thought it would be possible. I was back to a home that I have never known. To a world I have never explored; to lands uncharted by the map that my parietal lobe has in its grasp. I had made it to the Philippines.

Who knew that even in dreams I could be chased by my own lack of experience in existence? In existing in a world where I am not welcome; a place where I feel so distant from people I should love; should want to love, because of the divisions of language and culture? I am a Filipino person; I simply just live in the United States. But I am as American as Asian immigrants get.

The house I was in front of flew the flag of the Philippines on a pole beside its entrance door. That wonderful flag terrorizes me everywhere I go; I show it off with pride, yet its loud whispers interrupt any sense of connection to who I could have been to who I actually am. All I can hear when I wear that flag is the taunts of Filipinos that are older than me about how I can’t speak Tagalog.

I had awoken in my bed, a reinvigorated passion to eat more Filipino food, learn Tagalog, or even travel to the Philippines for the first time since I left on an airplane as a one-year-old. But I was not aspiring to achieve those things because I wanted to reconnect to the roots I could’ve had or to prove myself to anyone. The thousands of islands I might never know in this life will never welcome me as I wish it would.

ASP RETREAT

Photo by Nakiya B. Grade12 CRJ

NOT A GOOD IDEA

byAnonymous

When I Get to be Famous and Successful

I don’t know if I can tell people what I’ve been through

Of course I don’t think Baltimore is a bad city...

There’s just bad people

There’s misunderstood people

We’re a misunderstood city

I’m not going to act like there has been successful artistry around here

I mean there’s CHARM, there’s authors like D Watkins, there were people like Tupac, who were all successful and are probably one of the best artist

There’s seriously beautiful murals and paintings on the side of the road

There’s some personality to it, but I hate when the news ignore it

Of course despite the diversity, we’re misunderstood and all people care about us is violence

So much gun violence going on so when someone talks about it in an artistic form, they’re getting in trouble while we allow guns and that stuff to roam free

We blame the children and imposes curfew when higher ups behind the scenes won’t give us budget on our education just cause

No one could understand who’s good and who’s bad, and of course that will affect a good

Police aren’t trained to do anything and we put stricter laws on the innocent when there’s much more danger going on in the world

We’re not dangerous, the police and higher ups are

People worry about drugs and drug dealers and put them next to murderers and rapists

For every fun event, there’s tragedy.

We all love music and parties and art, and this is the best city to do so

It’s just .... The more stricter things are, the harder it is to express myself

Of course I love the city, but even celebrities here had to move on

When I get to be successful I could encourage people to be in the city, but when the police interrogate

you.... Leave you don’t want to remember that part

PEER MINISTRY RETREAT #2

PhotobyNakiyaB.

Grade12

CRJ

PART II

MY HAPPY PLACE Pt. 2

Nakiya B. Grade12 CRJ

Boom!

The thunder has blown a fuse, A petty attempt from the Enemy.

My eyes drop in a puddle of annoyance. He thinks I can be toyed with.

“Oh, dang it!” I say, unable to see. The light has been stripped away from me.

Sometimes, I hear the smallest creak And jump, wondering what lurks in the dark deep.

I shake off the thought like a wet dog, Praying my fears away.

For I know the house is the source, Old and sore from its past owners.

It is only my imagination.

Speaking of which, When was the last time I tapped into it?

Oh, God! That long?

“Candles, I need candles,” I think as I scramble, Hunting for a source of light Along with a match to bring it to life And restore my sight.

Little by little, lights illuminate the space, Glimmering in the dark And easing my shaky heart. “Well, now what?” I wonder, Hearing loud claps of thunder.

Chairs gather in communion Around the couch, Hiding under a series of clips With blankets in their mouths. Pillows gather under their shade.

They hold my weight As I lay down, Cuddled in God’s comfort. Meanwhile, my mind eats every word with curious eyes.

Inanimate yet alive, Rivers of words take my mind To another universe

Separate from mine

Through genres of several kinds.

My mouth becomes a crescent moon. I have defeated the darkness With nothing but scented candles, My faith, and the stories I crave. Not even darkness can take those from me.

That is the truth.

SOUTHLAND HILLS, TOWSON

I WAS AN ARTIST

by Anonymous

I Was an Artist

I have a confession to make….

but I don’t know if I’m too safe to tell anyone my problems

I was a musician….. but I don’t know if I can tell what genre I’m in

I was an Artist

I loved to draw

I used to Paint

Watch Bob Ross

I could sleep comfortably with his paintings and sounds all over my dreams

Art was a relaxing life

Music was a stressful life

I wanted to innovate

Bring something new to the table

I draw doodles and make beats and recordings on my phone

I liked listening to rap music

I can relate to artists struggling

It used to be my comfort zone to solve all my problems

Learn something new

Advocate for me

It was a hustle that unfortunately had to end

I hate to be a victim of circumstances

Life used to be colorful

I tried wanting to paint realistically and loved the color

Now the colors scare me

They remind me of instances

The good things and memories in my life altered due to my attitude

Remember the sunny sky?

What was once a beautiful scenery to paint now triggers a memory I never needed to be in People want to invade that space for something unnecessary

They say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel

What was once an easy way out to ease my problems became a burden

Now the light is something I’m uncomfortable to see again

They say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel

What was once an easy way out to ease my problems became a burden

Now the light is something I’m uncomfortable to see again

It was educational, learning fun ways to rhyme and have different meanings

Freestyling to kids in my school and people recording me

Maybe because I’m autistic and everyone would misunderstand what I say

…THAT’S WHAT I HATE

I wanted a voice, yet being in the public spotlight means I’m constantly ridiculed

How come a rapper can write something and not get trapped, but get respecte for their stories

Yet when I do it….people tell me

“DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT DRUGS AND GUNS!!!”

My mind says

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

I’m paranoid

Why can’t they understand this was my passion

Why can’t they leave me the fuck alone?!

I’m paranoid about looking at colors or listening to words

I can’t write as I want to

Having to produce was sleeping on a couch listening to relaxing soul samples on youtube

The music, the beats, the soul of my life is taken away from me

… everything is silent for me, life’s too uncomfortable and unbearable to live in

This is the reason why I’m not writing rhymes in this poem

I thought life was a canvas

Like I’m the fluffy paintbrushes on what to make the world

Every wall or obstacle was a mural,

Now it’s all black for me without the saturation or sounds

But just reverbs of my voice popping up in my head

Music and art were my houses, but now I’m homeless with raindrops and tears heading to my doorstep waiting to get evicted

My parents tell me I can’t pay the rent

I was an artist

I was a musician

….but recent events in my life coerced me to quit

DEVON’S HOUSE

Photo(opposite)byDevonReown Senior McDanielCollege

GOAT FARM

JennaNesky

Grade12

GeorgeWashingtonCarverCenterfor ArtsandTechnology

Summer, and I want to stop writing about despair.

I want my poetry to play at the stern nothing in the bright free eyes,

though I’ve never seen a goat before, only imagined.

Hear me out: what if I am all of the people who’ve hurt me?

How many times can I say Look. Look what this home has done to me and still not be at home?

BLACK GOAT

PhotobybySarahPobee

Grade 9

BaltimoreCityCollege

I MISS THE OLD SUMMER

SaniyahLarkins Grade11 WesternHighSchool

Summer always gave me comfort

I miss the summers when break didn’t go by so fast

When I used to forget what day it was while on vacation

The days when I used to see my brother run away from the waves Because he was scared of them

I miss the days during the summer thinking High School was so Far away

That it would take forever for school to start

And for me to finally see my friends

I miss the summers when I used to not worry about what is happening In the world

Or how cruel it actually was

I miss the summers when I used to be with my grandmother

And hearing her say “Saniyah Zain” while I was sitting next to her In her room

My favorite place was with her

I miss the road trips to Jersey before Covid hit seeing my aunts and cousins While I was there

Maybe my “new” version of summer is a part of me growing up

Maybe the breaks getting shorter

And me becoming more self-aware of the world

Is it just me getting older

pomegranate

DevonReown Senior McDanielCollege

tea

on the floor of a friend’s dorm room; them, me, their roommate three mugs passed between us filled with pomegranate tea laughter fills the room as we drink

perhaps this is the life persephone dreamed of when she accepted the fruit from hades a gift a shared meal untainted by cold deception unchained from home’s embrace but there is no god to chain me to this carpeted floor tie me to this wooden bed no deception brought this mug to my lips only love a promise warm and kept a home beneath the surface

when the earth spirals into eternal winter they will find me here warmed by love and pomegranate tea

POMEGRANATE TEA

PhotobySarahPobee

Grade 9

BaltimoreCityCollege

ACCEPTING REALITY

Traci Grade12 CityNeighborsHigh

My heart races so much, I sometimes think it’s about to explode out of my chest. My lungs are full of smoke, yet I hope that one day the race car will just stop and finally be done with pushing on its last engine. As I look at myself in the mirror, messy hair falling down past my shoulder as the dark bags grab at my eyes; I can’t help but think “Where do I belong?”

In the wild like a lion, hunting for food, fighting for shelter, changing who I really am for dominancy and respect. Or locked away in a cage like a parrot. Forced to dance for others' amusement and only speak when spoken to, I leave the cage just to be met by a bigger cage, but this one has a bed and a refrigerator. I want to be a lion. Free from the unfairness and harmful doings of the world. But I also want to be the bird. I can be protected from the toxins being spread outside. A poisonous gas that is killing people by the day. But there’s one certain blanket that allows me to create my own person all the while protecting me.

He treats me like a lion and a bird. He’s my escape. The person that opens up the gates and lets me be the free, independent lioness that I know I am; but also the shy and quiet parrot that is frightened of the thought of the world bringing her to her end.

My blanket is one of a kind. It warms me when I’m cold, shields me from the toxicity of the world, and soaks up the water that floods my cheeks repeatedly.

He acts as my heart when not enough blood is flowing to it. He holds me as long as my body needs to return to normal temperature and prove that there are kind people in this toxic world. The world is a dangerous place filled with hate, violence, and negativity, but he shields me from as much as he can.

And if I get caught in the crossfire… he will nurse me back to health with his soothing voice and lovable embrace.

MayaWalker CollegeFirstYear ChathamUniversity

“They sat there, feeling happy together.”

- Arnold Lobel, Frog and Toad are Friends

Because sea is only a shelter to those afraid of love,

I cry crocodile tears for the first frog to break my heart. They say I’m over my head

in water, that all I need is a good cry, for my tears to touch sea,

but I know better, know these lilypads like the back of my webbed feet.

On land, someone tells me not to kiss a toad, that if I do warts will erupt from my mouth

and I want to tell them how toads cry the same salty brine of the ocean, how when I say I cannot love

again, what I mean is I cannot love yet. I want to tell them that if desire means warts, perhaps we all deserve to be marked by love. Toads know

what it means to be marked, and perhaps that is why she loved me. We are surrounded by rain, under shelter despite our skin when she first kisses me, and I discover what it means to be amphibious, to exist in two places at once.

ASP RETREAT #2

PhotobyNakiyaB.

Grade12

CRJ

SHELL/TER

AssataMakonnen Grade12

BaltimorePolytechnicInstitute

Do you ever wonder why the caged bird sings?

Idk, Angelou had her theories but maybe it was just nice to be somewhere safe. Maybe it was just nice to be somewhere comfortable, somewhere where you didn’t have to think because thinking is dangerous, y’know?

Like, things start to unravel when you take a closer look, y’know?

Like how a melody might wind around your soul & whisper nothings so sweet but come to find out that the saccharine was just meant to hide the fact it was actually empty.

But a song is still a song. Just as much as 4 walls make anything a home. It is safe to stay with what you know.

Aiming too high is a disaster

when you are struggling against the air with clipped wings. So might as well keep your nose down now before you nosedive on your way out.

So, let’s stop chasing the stars

And settle for The Black Nothingness of space in between

Tricking ourselves into thinking we are satisfied

But there ain’t no hunger like a dream

Ain’t no itch like the panic that your life is almost over but

You’re still singing.

There is nothing like the way a drug will masquerade itself as a habit

& promise to love you

There is nothing like the taste of metal bars against hot skin

It’s easy to cheap out on dreams if you forget your heart has a stomach

That your soul has a mind

That your brain speaks a language that can only be answered by a home with no bars

a sky with no holes

a sun dripping free down your back

Now how ‘bout that?

Or will we stop chasing...?

At some point, cold becomes our love language, & we sing it softly. Never knowing, perhaps, that We keep out growing. Demanding new wings, Instead of simply asking for the key.

PhotobySarahPobee

Grade 9

BaltimoreCityCollege

CHARM Editorial Intern Bios

Nakiya B. is currently attending CRJ High School and will be a senior starting this fall. She is new at CHARM, and her hobbies include drawing, painting, journaling, watching anime, reading, and creative writing. Recently, she received a Grad at Grad award from her school for asking questions when needed and keeping up with her schoolwork. She had been inducted into the National Honors Society for her high GPA. Through this internship, she intends to practice her writing and editing skills while presenting creative ideas and stepping out of her shell.

Shubhan B. is a sophomore at UMBC. In 8th grade, he won a poetry competition which led him to have a poem for a CHARM publication in 2018 finally. By 2019, he joined as an editor and made poems for publications such as Filters and Love, also doing the cover art for Love. He has a passion for writing poems, stories, producing music, drawing, and painting.

Stephanie Jeghede is a sophomore at Towson University. She is new to CHARM. She received several awards while in JROTC in highschool. Her hobbies include reading, crocheting, and she hopes to learn a lot more at CHARM and contribute however she can.

Ju’wonte Jenkins is a rising freshman at Connexions: A Community-Based Arts High School. This is his first time working with CHARM. Ju’wonte loves dressing up, watching movies or You Tube, and his favorite day is Halloween. He also loves school and his favorite subject is in fact math. He’s 14 years old and his birthday is June 9.

Jenna Nesky is a poet and a senior at Carver Center for Arts and Technology. She was a finalist in the Narrative High School Contest, and is published in journals including Eunoia Review. As she enters college, she hopes to study creative writing and poetry.

Sarah Pobee recently graduated middle school (Mount Royal EMS) and is excited to attend Baltimore City College in the fall. Due to her interest in writing, she participated in CHARM’s virtual writers workshops and won 3rd place in a citywide writing contest with the Enoch Pratt Free Library. Other than writing, Sarah enjoys reading, dancing, baking, writing, cooking and spending time with her cats, Mu and Rho.

Devon Reown is a senior history major and studio arts minor at McDaniel College. When they were in elementary school, a poem that they wrote was published in CHARM Magazine. Their interests include art, creative writing, acting, and they’re slowly getting into graphic design. Devon hopes that, through working with CHARM, they will be able to continue improving their skills as a writer and as an artist.

Maya Walker is an incoming freshman at Chatham University who plans to study creative writing and Spanish. From Towson, she is fascinated by the intersections of language and writing, particularly poetry. She is the founder and editor in chief of Fulminare Review as well as an executive editor at Spiritus Mundi Review and a staff writer for Immortal Journal. Over the past year, Maya interned at Mason Jar Press and wrote a poetry book which she is currently trying to find a home for. She is excited to continue working with literature through CHARM’s internship sites.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Thanks to OZ Sanders for leading the graphic design process and for sharing your expertise with our student editors.

Thanks to editors Shubhan Bhat and Devon Reown for creating the cover art for this volume.

Thanks to Lynn Hade for the back cover photograph.

Thanks to Rob Dickerson at Work Printing and Graphics for another beautifully printed publication.

ABOUT CHARM:

CHARM: Voices of Baltimore Youth is a literary-arts organization founded on the belief that kids’ voices matter. We are on a mission to support young people as they develop as writers, and provide a platform to amplify their voices.

CHARM magazine was founded by a group of teachers and their students in 2013, and has since published 20 publications that feature the poetry, fiction, essays, and artwork of over 1,000 students from more than public schools in Baltimore City. CHARM magazine is curated and produced by a dynamic student editorial board, which consists of middle and high schoolers from across Baltimore City.

We also offer a host of other programming designed to support young writers and amplify student voices, including in-person and virtual workshops. Check us out at www.charmlitmag.org for more information, and follow us on social media @charmlitmag.

Want to get involved? Want to support our work? We welcome your contribution on our website (above), and your gift is tax deductible. We also offer monthly subscription options at www.patreon.com/charmlitmag.

CHARM: SHELTER

-NakiyaB.

“For me, the fact remains, This is my happy place.”