Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, Here is where we write about Epic. But instead of trying to explain “Epic” in just the few words we have, we’ll say this. We offer a quote to remember: “Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences” ~Sylvia Plath. Epic is not a thing, and even if it were, we could never explain it. It’s just us saying things, and saying them well. We write, paint, draw, photograph, and at the end of the day, we end up here, within these covers. All we did was say something. And that’s all it took. More important than having a story is telling it. And that is what every individual in every edition of this magazine has done. Why are we telling you this? Because we know deep down we are all compelled to tell our story. We are compelled to be “epic,” and so we are. Sincerely, Catherine Eatherton and Claudia Udolf
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Table of Contents
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4. samantha dibacco 5. hope kim 6. poppy sheehan 7. molly papermaster 8. ryan albanesi 9. catherine eatherton 10. max bash 11. vivian goldstein 12. cole adams [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 13. max bash emily lowit 14-15. rose esselstyn 16. ben putterman 17. cole adams 18. ben roland 19. david lessard 20. tom fischer 21. benjamin lerman coady 22. claire halloran 23-24. anya delventhal 25. samantha dibacco 26-27. emma waldman 28-30. claudia udolf 31. luka mrvic [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 32. jeanna willis 33. natalie goldstein 34. lexi delucia 35. claudenique cousins ben putterman 36. christopher adamsons 37. hope kim 38. tom fischer claire halloran 39. holden white 40. hope nemirow max bash
41. benjamin lerman coady 42. kayla glemaud 43. aly brown 44. tom fischer [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 45. elinor kraus 46-47. hope kim 48. benjamin lerman coady 49. shreya karak rachel maselli 50-51. kayla glemaud 52. andrew lemkuil 53. ben roland 54. hope kim 55. hope kim 56. megan geier 57. kayla glemaud 58. jenna mick [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 59. claire halloran 60. noah stanton [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 61. megan geier 62. sarah zaidi 63. benjamin lerman coady 64. claudenique cousins 65. megan geier ben roland 66-67. max bash 68. kayla glemaud natalie goldstein 69. nicole demers 70. megan geier 71. aj greene 72. kayla glemaud 73. vivian goldstein & peyton moore 74. benjamin lerman coady 75. ethan levinbook [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 76. miranda bascetta 77. hope kim 78-79. max bash 80. shreya karak
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Blooming Sun [samantha dibacco]
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Feeble [hope kim] The frailness of a teenage heart would be almost laughable if it were not so painfully true. Her longing can only last for so long before it too becomes glass. Invisible to the eye, the hurt is all too real. Being overlooked for eternity, a silent promise is settled for. She hopes with every fiber of her being that it will bring her meaning. Don’t look now, but Mr. Meaning has just arrived. Eyes, don’t betray me now. His glance only lasts for a second, but as the way things are, time itself seems to have forgotten its place. Humans, I’m surprised we’ve made it this far.
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The Peculiar Bittersweet-ness of Cherry Tomatoes [poppy sheehan]
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I am in a farmer’s market When I come across Some cherry tomatoes As the vendor looks away I pop one into my mouth Suddenly I am not in a farmer’s market but In my daddy’s garden And I am a child again Amidst a tangle of vegetables That form a maze around me I can hear my daddy calling Last autumn’s leaves crunch Under my feet as I run to him He smiles and says Running to the saftey “Would you like a tomato?” Of his warm arms I take the tomato in my hand He picks me up It is soft and warm from the sun I roll it around in my hand Appreciating its form Then I place it on my tongue I can feel its skin burst As I bite down It tastes clean and sweet Like I have swallowed the garden Like I have captured the moment in a flavor But then I am not in my daddy’s garden I am in a farmer’s market One tear trickles down my face Then I tuck away my memories And continue to search for something that could compare
Personal Strangers [molly papermaster]
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Forgotten Summer [ryan albanesi] We laughed and we sat. The orange of the sun extended from sky to soul Brothers, cousins, For another summer All perched precariously over the sea On the reliably slippery rocks. Why did the breeze always taste of hope and not salt? Did you breathe as deeply as I used to? Can you smell it, even today? Hot dogs sizzled, but that was miles away Here, the fresh scent of the ocean ruled us all. The seagull’s sunset song Drowned out the irregular ploppings of snails peeling off our rocks. They were ours, weren’t they? The ocean used to speak in an emotional tone That we felt, but could never understand. Do you think it still does? With sand between our toes, And water on our shorts, With slime on our hands, And summer on our minds, We laughed and we sat. Can’t you remember?
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Charcoal Sky [catherine eatherton]
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Rose [max bash]
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Her [vivian goldstein]
From the moment I saw her I was doomed I’ve always been weak against pretty things She captured my heart. One-sided love bloomed She’s a balance: Cold winters and sweet springs Her green eyes warn me she is only sin ‘Gainst her demonic charms, I stood no chance I am hell’s loyal slave from now on in I join the devil’s quintessential dance One strike of her smoky smirk destroys me She is fire, too dangerous to touch One pout of her red lips unravels me She’s too tantalizing to never clutch Without her I’ll burn ‘til I’m dust and die With her I’ll surely end, isn’t that wry?
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Eczema [cole adams] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner i woke up mumbling about Araby and the Manifesto the backs of my hands smell like hydrocortisone it’s four in the morning and the past eight nights i’ve seen your face on the ceiling in my mind, i think i wasn’t meant to last as long as your tapeworms and white-tailed deer fetuses, i open my eyes and all i hear is why, why, why. there was a time when i looked at you like Jesus, i thought i could pray to you. i prayed to you. i’ve spent so much time trying to forget that i can hardly remember anything, there’s a mote in my eye and it’s like a brick. outside there’s a children’s choir singing the Internationale, the Red Book on my nightstand’s falling apart and it smells like graphite and mold, i don’t know who i am and i don’t remember how long it’s been like this. i feel my organs melting into a pool of sludge between my thighs and i think about failed Revolutions and riot police, how dry my skin gets when i think of you, how the fog on the mirror made your face so surreal, how the ghosts of your words still light me on fire; it’s five o’clock. my arms are throbbing, my skin’s cracked open, and my fingernails are caked in blood
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Enter at your Own Risk [max bash]
Lift [emily lowit]
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The Candle [rose esselstyn] I blew out the candle. My big sister’s candle. My absent big sister’s candle, that is. This time last year I felt as alone as the last leaf on a tree before the winter begins. My big sister and my big
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brother were moving away. Away to universities that didn’t include bringing along the little sister; therefore, I was left alone in the castle. A castle that felt even bigger being the last one left in it. The last kid at least. So alone that my parents got two puppies and another child to take the place of the two that had just left the nest. This was the best idea. This was going to be the best year ever. I just knew it. Hey, hey! This night I had a dream in English, she says. Hey, hey. Now where did she pick up the extra hey? Never just hey. Always hey, hey! She had been with us for a month by now and a routine was starting to fall into place. Things were going well. We got along. We laughed. We gossiped. We were sisters! I was her host sister and she was my brand new big Danish sister. But then… she lit the candle. Wow! This smells good. Yea… The aroma of Laguna Beach filled the whole upstairs for a good week. A smell that made me cringe. Not the candle. Not that candle. Not my big sister’s favorite candle that she left in her room that you now occupy.
You are being over dramatic. It’s just a candle. It’s just a candle. It’s just a candle. I force myself to remember this. But as the baby chick yellow-colored wax slowly gets lower and lower down the container, the constant reminder to myself that it’s just a candle…gets less and less constant. My new big Danish sister. My new big Danish sister who keeps me company when my parents are at work. My new big Danish sister who makes me laugh with her silly grammatical errors. My new big Danish sister who is the second best ice skater in Denmark. My new big Danish sister who lives in my sister’s bedroom. My new big Danish sister who lights my sister’s candle. My new big Danish sister who is at the rink practicing. Her new little American host sister, who blows out the candle.
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Cream Soda [ben putterman]
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Silver Oxide, Sulfur Dichloride [cole adams]
under the insectoid hum of an electric generator words move in schizoid vectors and so do you— and someone said i looked like you from behind. and all i can smell is this sulfur dichloride; i ran eight miles and tasted blood—your blood—like the salt of skin biting down; and now when i think of you you don’t have a face, and i look at the rocks around me that haven’t moved in years—they’ve sunken into the ground and rooted themselves deep; and i wonder if you ever think about my silver oxide, the way it stained your pale cold palms—because thinking of you is like scratching a mosquito bite raw; and when things get really bad i can’t help but believe that humanity’s just like a bacteria colony growing in the wet flask we forgot to dry
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Turtlenecks [ben roland]
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Open [david lessard]
Open, you are truthful as the tales of time. Loving, scarred, careful, hurt. You’ve fought your own wars, leaving you flawed. Open, you are like a book, for only me to read. Open, you are a friendly face, ready to greet. Your deep eyes pierce me as I find myself lost in them. Open, you are warm and gentle, Like a summer’s breeze. I cocoon myself in your warm embrace, For there we can stay protected, And only then can we both be open.
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Metaphors [tom fischer] If I told you that you are my Sun That you are my stars That you are my Moon And Earth That would be a metaphor
The Agony of a Chinese Warlord [tom fischer] Mountain walks and ocean swims, Lost forever, I am caged within My own castle
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String Prints [benjamin lerman coady ]
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Paraguay [claire halloran]
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To the Three [anya delventhal] To The Strong One A mountain who will not sway Yet never casts me in the shadows A voice that could crumble castles Yet never trips me over You are the strong one You watch over the whole planet For fear that someone there hates me You stand still and tall before me For fear that someone wishes to harm me You are the strong one A first born, an heir to inherit much Yet you will always offer me the world An ox, who will rage and strut Yet to me you will always be gentle You are the strong one To The Laughing One A fox who nips at heels Yet never makes me bleed A laugh like the strongest winds Yet never knocks me down You are the laughing one
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You trip and fall and grown and grunt Just to see me smile You howl at the moon at nightlong Just to hear me applaud You are the laughing one A child made of wind and air Yet who never lets me fall A smile full of imp-like mischief Yet to me you will forever be kind You are the laughing one To The Loving One A gentle smile and a kind voice Yet you never let me tremble A pair of strong arms full of warmth Yet you never cage me inside You are the loving one You hold me back from the edge So that I know how to fly free You whisper stories in my ear So that I know you will always be here You are the loving one A protector who can stand tall Yet who is always beside me
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A statue never moving and never quaking Yet who is always happy to take my hand and run You are the loving one
The Florida Sunset [samantha dibacco]
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Movement [emma waldman]
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Mr. Linden’s Inscriptions [claudia udolf] I’ve always wondered why. In high school I did everything I was supposed to do in order to get into the right college so I could then have the right profession. I was really good at obeying my parents and listening to my teachers. The plan they wanted for me turned into the plan I thought I wanted for myself. But I always knew there was something inside me that desired to rebel. I needed to. As per the plan, I made it to an Ivy League school and my parents proudly displayed the window sticker. I was offered a job immediately after graduation at a prestigious firm in Manhattan. They offered me a big salary and a corner office with a view. Everything we planned to happen, happened. I made my parents proud. I thrilled my grandparents. I gave the yentas something to yent about. At night, I would go home and wonder whether I was happy. It was autumn. I was walking home when I noticed a door I had never seen before. This was odd, since I thought I knew every retail store and every commercial building on Madison Avenue, and this was neither. Struck with curiosity, I approached the door and it started to grow exponentially. It grew and grew until it became the biggest door in the world. I was hypnotized. I could feel the static of my arm hair graze against the mahogany wooden frame. The din of automobile engines and horns, the siblings fighting over whose turn it was to play on their mother’s phone, the sigh of the girl as she held the hand of her first lover all faded into the Void. Silence is the loudest sound. I snapped back to reality just as the door swung open. Before me lay a scene of indescribable beauty: the most vibrant colors, the most mellifluous sounds, the most powerful aromas, all so pungent I could almost taste them. To my right was a beach with the whitest sand and the bluest sea. To my left, a rainforest garden filled with tamed tigers and pink frogs and unthreatening snakes. I looked up for the sun, but saw instead the brightest moon and felt the energy of a thousand electric stars. The mundane details of the world suddenly became spectacular. I reveled in the enchanted vision like a young woman window-shopping on Rodeo
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Drive. In the distance I saw a lighthouse and as the beacon rotated on its axis, I saw the silhouette of a sturdy man standing in the window. It was only then that I noticed I was completely alone. I was so used to the barrage of questions from my interns, the humming of cell phones and the ringing of landlines, and the incessant demands of litigation that I almost didn’t notice this special moment of solitude. The next thing I noticed was turning the lighthouse doorknob. Inside, millions of bookshelves swirled and spiraled in every direction around the expanding circular skeleton. I ran faster, stretched out my arms farther. My fingers skimmed the leather bindings of the books. I looked closer and each was inscribed with a name. The shelves receded, revealing a staircase for me to climb. At the top, I found the sturdy man. Moved from his standing position, he was now seated at a wooden desk. The kind of desk an artist would use, stained with paint and charcoal, cluttered with the tools of a thousand artists. His hair was a dark brown, lightly glazed with gel. His rugged button-down plaid shirt offset his soft jaw line. Glancing up, he noticed me skulking in the corner. I never felt shyer. “Hello,” he confidently said, sounding like Morgan Freeman. I questioned whether I was dead; God always sounds like Morgan Freeman. “Henry Linden.” “Eve.” “I know.” I stood there. He stood there. He was so beautiful. I was so awkward. How did he know my name? Why was he so good looking? Why were there so many books? Where was I? Why was I here? I needed to do something but I didn’t know what. I had so many racing thoughts, but I was paralyzed. He sensed my confusion. “This is my library. All the books downstairs are the stories of every person in the United States (each country has its own Human Library). When a child is born, his or her story is written and his or her destiny is drawn. The only pages written are the last. How the early, middle, and late chapters are filled is up to each individual, but the ending is always written in permanent ink.” I noticed ink stains on his huge hands. “Eve, your book is thick. Really thick. Really, very thick. You are taking the scenic
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route. You have always desired more from your life than those around you; you’ve always wanted to fill your pages with superlatives.” I wanted to run. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to be back on the busy sidewalk of Madison Avenue. I felt a sadness I had suppressed ever since I created—no, ever since my parents created—my plan. I wasted so much time. I don’t even know yet what I love. Or where my passions lay. I wanted to blame my parents; I wanted to blame my teachers; I wanted to blame my rabbis. I wanted to throw every perfectly bounded book from its perfectly dusted shelf. I saw my book. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel the leather in my hand. I wanted to rip out every published page. I wanted to skip to the end. Mr. Linden interrupted, “I advise against that. You need to discover your path yourself. You will not appreciate the journey if you already know how it ends.” I was impulsive and cared little for his advice. I snatched the book from the shelf like a greedy child snatching a cookie from the cookie jar. As I consumed each noun, each verb, each adjective, green ivy emerged from the book, surrounding me, supporting me, and then suffocating every follicle of my being. I never got to the end.
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The Village [luka mrvic] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner I walk through these alphabetic avenues, With a backpack accompanying me St. Marks and 1st The NYU art students overflow the streets while in line To get to the popular cafÊ they read about in The Gothamist John Coltrane; my soundtrack in one ear And the birds of Tompkins Square Park in the other. I walk past the expired punks who still think it’s 1992 Pink mohawks, cigarettes in their mouths The subways rumble beneath me As I look up past the Astor Place Cube Onto the colored Empire State Building My north star It pierces the blue sky that drapes over me And the other 8 million unknown faces who walk among me the music in stone the poetry in granite the prayer in steel I look south down Lafayette to the glorious Freedom Tower Oh how could you miss it? Although it is empty on the inside It is forever a constant reminder that what is dead May never die But rise again Harder and stronger Seeds walk amongst legends On these Second Avenue streets
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Keep Your Head Up [ jeanna willis] Keep your head up When you are an island, That no one will take note of, When you are shivering As if on the dark side of the moon Or as insubstantial as a ghost. Keep your head up When you’re drowning in a sea of your misery Struggling for every breath, When it seems as if the world is against you, And you can’t get back up. Keep your head up In the times you’re in a lightless abyss Contemplating life, And whether you have a purpose. Keep your head up To see the rainbows after a storm, To keep moving forward To see the flames of euphoria spread To watch the mesmerizing sunrise After night’s ink spills across the parchment sky. Keep your head up, Because there’s always something ahead.
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Styx [natalie goldstein]
Elysium [natalie goldstein]
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Forest [lexi delucia]
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Don’t Give Up Just Yet? [claudenique cousins] We will find ourselves, Sooner or later I suppose, The truth is we are a part of a lost society. “Refuse to believe that� But we still do (no matter what). The actuality, the kind that just hurts, is we are a part of failing society But you know what? The said reality, the one that is hard to believe, is we are a part of losing society
Untitled [ben putterman]
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The Hockey Life [christopher adamsons] I am home When I step on the ice It is quite nice I train my hardest day in and day out I sacrifice sleep to workout I want to play at the next level No one can stop me even the devil We are a family And group of brothers We spend our days with each other We win and lose together as one I will play hockey until the day the earth is done We take the hit and block the shot People say we are wimpy...not We do everything to win That included taking pucks to the shin We score goals And skate fast To play at the next level You can’t live in the past
The days go by We fly on that ice We win the game And soon hope to be in the Hall of Fame
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We live on the road And it is great No curfew We go to bed too late This is the life That I want to live I would do it with nobody else With my brothers I live
Float [hope kim]
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Haiku [tom fischer]
The sea’s blue water, the sun and its blinding flames, your beautiful eye.
Sunset [claire halloran]
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Find That Failure [holden white]
You’re not big enough, they said, you’re too weak, they said You will fail, they said, and never make it Failure can fuel you or it can destroy you You’re not smart enough, they said You’re not going to be sucessful, they said You will fail, they said, and never go anywhere I said, I will go somewhere I will be sucessful I will be the best And if all else fails I will cetrainly be the best Holden White I can be
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Brain Gone Rogue [hope nemirow] Blankets, pillows, Fade to black, Darkness turns to dream, Mind turns to solitude, The dreary, gloomy night, An endless abyss of darkness, While the mind is bright. I wish I could be a brain gone rogue While I’m awake. Instead, Mind is dull, Darkness doesn’t turn, Mind is complicated.
Infinity [max bash]
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My Teacher’s Lecture [benjamin lerman coady] Inspiration from My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke The coffee on your breath Could make a freshman perky; But I listened on eternally: Such focus was not easy. We heeded until the bell Went off with a ding; Then we packed up our backpacks And left in a zing. We stumbled over the legs That blocked the hall; At every step I took A senior slammed me into the wall. Then I stopped at EES 2 And went through the door, My teacher’s lecture Subdued me once more.
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5 Days a Week [kayla glemaud] shuffle with Shackles bound tight, Deep sighs staring at the Clock, pretend to force Time to go by the Hum of their voices, Degrading my Mind packs and packs, strewn about the grounds pray to be Not the Prey they hound no Touch, hardly a graze Fire in their eyes and Silence on their tongue stabs, cuts, pains, a Pained heart Ringing bells are church bells— Marking my Freedom since the start bound away, eyes to savior black, sleek, carried in mind, that Gladiator purr of the engine, no Look Back, hands with firm grip til Dawn shows her red finger tips— and awaken the Burdens of another interval— interval of Chains and Solitude furious with the Pen, growing hot, piercing attitude no Name for it— some refer it as “SCHOOL” I call it place, a place for the cool.
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To the Core [aly brown]
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Birdspeak [tom fischer] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner The other day I woke up to birdsong. Though I did not understand their words I felt as if they were speaking to me Though they could have easily been talking about me Behind my back. I could hear the birds laughing, colorful crowns and impossible tufts Adorning their tiny heads Looking down upon me from their high nests Pale thin eggs kept warm by their feathery bottoms I heard the blue jay cry, his sapphire crown Shimmering in the soft light The mockingbird hummed to the side Thinking of that strawberry of his Wrapped up by the sticky little fingers Giggling as the mockingbird mourned While all the other birds sang and spoke to each other that morning The hummingbird hovered blankly, intently staring at those Famous Georgia flower prints upon my wall Lost in the ink
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The Park at Noon [elinor kraus] you miss your childhood so much that you dress like you’re six again. sneakers and frilly socks. big t-shirts and overalls. you don’t mind getting your knees dirty or scabs on your shins. those pains don’t make you flinch. they don’t talk to you at night. those pains don’t really hurt. not the type of hurt that can’t be fixed with copious amounts of Neosporin. you bite the skin off the tips of your fingers like you’re aiming for the bone. because it’s all hitting you bone deep. it’s almost romantic sounding. but isn’t being broken such a romantic thing now? sad music doesn’t even phase you. it’s all you know. lullabies filled with acoustic guitars, lilting piano solos, and wavering, fragile vocals. you lay back in the long, dewy grass and close your eyes. you try forgetting about the city surrounding you. the heat rises from the pavement and grips your lungs like you wish you could grip anything at all. the sun beats down on you like you owe it money. but you don’t even sweat. this is the small stuff. you don’t worry about how you’ll feel in the morning, until the morning comes. smooth iced coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. start your day happy. fall apart at the end. repeat. things won’t get any simpler. they only get worse. three months of total bliss for three months of total shit. that’s the way life works right? it never gets easier you just get better. work on it.
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Repeat [hope kim]
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Dress Code Rule [benjamin lerman coady] Inspired by The Dress Code of Kingswood Oxford Upper School and the works of EE Cummings with my tie knotted tight and my shirt tucked in too i walked into school knowing i adhered to the d r e s s c o d e r u l e with a sweep of the non-male students i could see dress code violations everywhere from the pants to the shirt to the footwear no one seemed to care with my tie knotted tight strangling my throat i walked slowly to class as the girls pranced in tightyogapants why do i have to be in d r e s s c o d e r u l e teachers would not look to embarrassed to say no detentions handed out no girl had to change but I am yelled at for my tie not being tight enough or my shirt not tucked in too why should i got to school in the d r e s s c o d e r u l e when the girls get to go in thightyogapants and slippers too i say dress code equality for all and ALL must adhere to the d r e s s c o d e r u l e
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Reaching Out [shreya karak]
The Painful Days [rachel maselli] Some people feel the rain Others just get wet The accumulative pain builds and breaks me No medication No cure Can heal the wounds that have scarred my heart The memories of the torture play back in head like a scary movie The feelings fade The people fade Life begins to fade Slowly but painfully it gets dreary From dawn to dusk I am walking through a battlefield My armor has been broken The bullets sink deeper I know I cannot recover I got wet
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The Staircase [kayla glemaud] Loomed over like dark skies Smooth, slippery steps I could not travel by Anxious glances left and right Nothing nearby to grasp tight One step up, only to peer at the thousands that lay ahead Turned around and quickly fled Ages, ages til we met again New legs new eyes and I— Was more ready than the last One step, two— Stumble back to one Disappointment knocked and flooded my heart Felt it being torn apart I hadn’t taken the anticlimax easy “One day you’ll achieve & it’ll be breezy” One day, next age Leaning on the railing Precautious feet & shaky knees— pressing on the glossy wood Gradually believed it would become smooth sailing One step, two, three step Continuing strong— a smile gleamed as they watched Four step, five Cold wood, the new sensation greeted me The cold now subdued by damp Didn’t wear my fuzzy socks
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The ones with monkey print Yet I slid a slide that would give an all-star baseball player a run for his money Through sun and stars I stared Imagining ways to conquer Signs on each step screamed beware No way would I claim defeat, too much hunger Ages, ages, and ages We held our final match The most determined would prevail One step, two, three step, four step Pulse quicken along with the pace No stumbles— gliding as if in a race Almost there was the finish line 1st place goes to me, gold all mine The curve, the straight The years it took, this is my fate Filled with stumbles, handful of slips Yet finally got a good grip— On my support, I’ve done it Reached the summit A gazelle on the stairs, making beats Tap a tap, tap tap. Music with my feet Conquering stairs was made a game And for school, well, I could do the same.
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He Will Conquer [andrew lemkuil] He will conquer. 6ft 6 power hitter steps into the box A pandemonium breaks out as the fans know he is due for a big hit Although he has endured tremendously in the month of May He is still composed; poised. Staying calm and confident for the fans and himself. He knows he will break through and overcome his slump, He will conquer. Adversity, hard work, and suffering restrained his success. But that was the past, this is the now. This at-bat, this game. The fundamental swings in the cage In the cage will pay off. His swing will be natural; explosive. He will conquer. Bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th 0-2 count, fouling balls off to stay alive, hanging by a thread. He has to fight, he has to endure. The sixth pitch of the at-bat, A hanging curveball up in the zone A gift from God. He will conquer. The towering 6ft 6 frame of the power hitter Takes a barbaric, but fundamental hack at the meatball. He blasts the curveball As he admires the baseball grow smaller and smaller Until it disappears over the left field fence Relieving him of stress, frustration, and pain. He conquered.
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Flowers [ben roland]
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Rebel Beat [hope kim] I decide that today is the day to bend the Rules: Proceed to break off their fingers, one by one. They will be of no use anyway. Where is the fun in pointing at each and every “f(law)?” Pull at the thick braids that don their oh-so perfect heads. Every Single Strand. They will grow back in due time. Where is the fun in clinging to a stranger’s design? Pluck out their blind eyes. while they remain wide open. viciously. I doubt that anyone will miss them. Where is the fun in only seeing the white and the sometimes black? Once there is nothing left Leave the skeletons out to dry for all to see. In time, maybe history will repeat itself Because I, for one, don’t want the caution that comes with a skinny life.
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Discordia [hope kim]
I want to hear a symphony of uprising. Give me the rightfully wrong and the tiny imperfections That hide behind the mirror only to peek around the corner when the rules are long gone.
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The Lonely Chair [megan geier]
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Silent Endured Pain [kayla glemaud] America fought it Why couldn’t I? Twas just as strong Just as congruent when it came to stubborn. A couple months to bare til it all ceased yet they, you, America, will always fight won’t win, just an imprint in your past America fought it well aware that it was amiss been told all my life even the Big man and his guests spoke of such This one, no, this one was different My heart told me so. yet heart to heart, the rift enormous. wide-eyed, one could never be as wrong as now world— back turned to me red, hot, ashamed, and pained America fought it likewise, I did. But yonder you came— and grew my everything weak. Poured every ounce to fill that jar heart you called it beautiful, yet you smashed it. Berated me, astounded one could feel a way so many ways identical, how could this be any different? cause such a reaction? America is fighting it BUT I DIDN’T WANT TO. My secret no longer Is my love, your love? Oh darling, is it?
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People are Not Poetry[ jenna mick] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner you can write for hours on hours, of all the things that you wish you could be, but the truth of the matter is simple, people are not poetry. And I know that you wish you weren’t awkward, that sweet words could roll right off your tongue, but your time here’s too short just to worry, how each single sentence is strung, it’s okay to be rough ‘round the edges, to be bruised up and broken and scarred, but it’s not okay to let people tell you, that it’s a reason to change who you are, your hair doesn’t always sit neatly, the way a poem sits so neatly in lines, and sometimes you might feel like a word, that nobody has learned to define, you might not be a star that lights darkness, or a bird that can teach us to soar, but it’s okay, because you are too complex, to be crammed into one metaphor, it’s okay not to know what you’re doing, since your feelings don’t have to all rhyme though a poem once complete is eternal, you have the freedom to change over time, you’re much more than can ever be written, there is no title to say, “this is me” you can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook, because people are not poetry.
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La Llorona [claire halloran]
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Jumbled Compilation [noah stanton] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner The words I write are never quite so clear, A scribbled note of thoughts abound and wild; The world I see inside my mind I fear. With heaviness approaching at my rear, Its source a blur, its soldiers armed and riled, The words I write are never quite so clear. When pleasant dreams are spinning, and they veer Off into murky waters (warm and mild), The world I see inside my mind I fear. Through others’ ink I see a world so dear, Its dashing mindset expertly compiled. The words I write, are never quite so clear. I’ve spent too long just rifling through here, The time well-wasted, as I have not filed The world I see inside my mind, I fear. As sometimes sight can make the far seem near, My vision oft makes dreams become beguiled. The words I write are never quite so clear. The world I see; inside my mind, I fear.
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The Shiz23 [megan geier]
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Lady Fortune [sarah zaidi] Alas! I have been made a fool of, Yet again, For my past friend, Lady Fortune Has been off! Merrymaking, Yet again As my hands tremble Hers shall shake With those of us That can afford mistakes For I succumb! To my woes And I shall dine! With my foes And bury my head In SHAME My head shall rest In slumber. Remaining here In my eternal divine.
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Lady Fortune Shall not see my face For although Till my last breath She can take I Refuse To Die with grace
Still Life [benjamin lerman coady]
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Hurricane [claudenique cousins]
the stars were crying this evening because they saw you storm out last night and that is exactly what is brewing in the skies and in my eyes. you weren’t afraid of showing why they name storms after people I guess I know why now
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Patriot [megan geier]
‘Merica [ben roland]
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Perspective [max bash]
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Boiling Over [kayla glemaud] Creepily rising Steaming, burning with each second Alongside the ticks on the clock Going to reach that point Higher and hotter than ever Everything can and is seen Realization Thoughts race each other, lap for lap Quicker, stronger No turning back now Seen and marveled Not forgotten, a note I’ll cool down eventually But things will change Since I boiled over.
Skate [natalie goldstein]
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Shooting for a Birdie [nicole demers] As I walk down the glowing green fairway Into a pallet of fading yellows, reds and oranges I stop I take a look around and appreciate I appreciate the beautiful peacefulness the course brings me Standing on freshly cut grass, surrounded by trees, And a few geese lying on the green up ahead gazing into the motionless lake My body held by the warm summer breeze Putting me in a time warp No cell phone No computer No internet No people No noises…except for the pop of the ball being struck by my club I have not a worry in the world Even with a cluster of bunkers off to my right daring me to shank my ball into the seemingly black hole, just 100 yards away The pond sitting motionless waiting to swallow yet another white ball And the tree line looming in the distance warning me not to mess up It’s okay The course is my safe haven A place I can go and not be reached Separated from all the craziness of society With just me, myself and I It is filled with dangers and traps to fall into Just waiting for me to fail But it’s still okay Because if I go for the green in 2, I can finish the hole one-under
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Statue [megan geier]
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Working Words [aj greene] It would make sense for poetry to be an apt substitute for prostitution. The process is the same: tressing and dolling, painting thick the phony affection and metaphors, only to achieve some trite satisfaction upon completion, fleeting shortly after, replaced with regret and a fear of public impression, not of what it is exactly, but more so its potential: to be either elapsed or evoked eternally.
Return Recursion [aj greene] It’s become too difficult for me to think. I merely bounce from node to node, answering questions with questions, descending the branching, inverted roots of the tree; each child, a fraction of its parent, a factor to its form. Soon one will be my answer to a question I had lost on my journey. Rapidly, I return from the base, to a land only slightly altered, still dependent on the if. And I plummet once more.
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It Was Me [kayla glemaud] it was me the scent it left on the moist ground to the dew on the sharpest blades of grass shimmering and balancing, a trapeze act whispers to you as it taps on your window a hum that hushes the world, or a boom that frightens the overcast, the omniscient creating steady patterns i’m just there leave the ground shining like new better than any penny you’ve seen i’m like all the others we fall down together don’t hide from us under those colors, we don’t hurt dodging us, how could dodge ball be such a challenge for you? in those tight gyms packed with heat and sweat who knew you could run so quickly we are harmless but the faster the pace from the grey we drop yes, i’m a rain drop.
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Teachers [vivian goldstein & peyton moore] They tell you, “Sit down and do what I say!” And they ask you for the best you can give But then they commit a sin you just can’t forgive: “Go write an essay or poem due in 12 days. Make sure you write it about school, home, life Make sure you write it about XYZ.” It doesn’t matter what XYZ is, on this we disagree Writing is art, and they massacred it with a knife I don’t think they understand that poetry is expression I don’t think they understand that writing is a cleansing process And I don’t think they understand that they’re being obnoxious It’s about confessing your soul or rising above oppression But they box you in with these goddamn confines And they don’t understand that to give them your best It needs to come from the soul. It needs to be confessed. It can’t just be what they tell you to do, themselves they’ve undermined They don’t understand they’ve become dictators They have snatched your freedom and right to speak what you feel They’ve surrounded your imagination with structured prison steel And to what they’ve spent their whole lives educating, they’ve become traitors. Shakespeare didn’t write what he was told to Sylvia Plath wrote from her heart, her depression They wrote about something that would leave an impression They created something that would test all of time and make it through And this is how you know if a teacher is a teacher Do they know what they’re instructing is really about Or do they just know the grammar, the rest they flout If they were really teachers, they’d do more than follow boring, old procedure
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Oxygen [benjamin lerman coady]
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Untitled, #8 [ethan levinbook] 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Winner
I count the syllables of your laughter And wait For the breaks in your long, soft breaths. I may be a writer, but you are my poem And you Spill out, Like ink, Onto the fluttering paper of our days together.
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Sweet Sounds of Laughter [miranda bascetta] Laughing. Always laughing. Pushing aside the pain I know you felt. You warmed the room with just one giggle, At someone’s silly fault. Laughing, at the girls fixing their hair in the mirror, Taking life so serious. At the slang heard here and there that we tried to teach you. Laughing was constant. From capturing pictures with the peace sign, To the legendary “kissy face” Your laughing was contagious. When you weren’t laughing, The walls became fragile; A piece of my happiness became absent. A piece of everyone’s happiness for that matter. For a moment you became selfish, Sitting in your rocking chair all alone. Closing the world off. (As you should every once in a while.) You let the pain and fear get to you. But soon enough, you covered it up with laughing.
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Even though I’m not with you, I still hear your soft blanket outbursts. When I drown in despair, Or the world goes silent. I envision you laughing. You make it hard to shed tears of sadness When I learned from you to only shed tears of happiness. For now, I have said my piece. So both Gma and your laughing, rest with ease.
I Am Nephilim [hope kim] The left half of my heart resides in dangerous waters where the turbulent is but second nature. Unconfined, I wait for happening. I wait for the impossible to find its way through the surface, bravely sputtering to a life of its own. Diving into the unknown is to breathe rinse repeat breathe rinse repeat until the storm subsides. This is a perilous game, but I choose to dance with disaster and her erratic partners. The rush that comes with the waving of a fist, stone against wind, almost makes me forget that even mountains crumble under the weight of insecurity. The right half of my heart died a long time ago in a wilting cardboard box I left to my memories. Once in a while, I wait for happening. I wait for the forgotten to find its way through the spidery cracks, crawling back to a life of its own. Feeling nothing is my weapon of choice even if I must run run run until the warmth quietly returns. This is a game I do not wish to play, yet I choose to roam in the prison I built. The refuge that comes with an oath carved in stone, ever faithful, almost makes me forget about the unguarded door from which freedom stands with open arms. ‌ A confession: I was born to mismatched gods with loose limbs that I never bothered to fix.
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The Unsung Underpass [max bash]
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Bye! [shreya karak]
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