New Jersey Poetry Ourselves is a program inspired by Poetry Out Loud’s National Poetry Ourselves program. In this first year, 12 of the 2024 State and Regional Finalists participated with the option to submit a written poem or a spoken-word poem. Over a 4-week process, students crafted their pieces with mentor Mannikka Rosa and sent their finalized versions in for judging. Over the course of 4 days, 5 judges intentionally reviewed and scored each of the twelve submissions on Structure, Voice and Style, Use of Poetic Elements, Poetic Diction, Creativity and Uniqueness. Each participant was invited to perform their submissions.
Students performed their poems on the stage on May 19, 2024. We’re proud of the participants for their courage to share their voice with the world.
Poetry Ourselves is a program of New Jersey Poetry Out Loud. New Jersey Poetry Out Loud is a project of the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the Count Basie Center for the Arts. Poetry Out Loud is a national arts education program, led by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Poetry Foundation, in partnership with the state and jurisdictional arts agencies across the country. In New Jersey, the State Arts Council and the Basie work with a growing network of regional partners to implement the program statewide.
CONTENTS
I Don’t Remember This Chapter of My History Textbook | 4
Yumna Juha
Your Faith Has Made You Well | 5
Gianna Escobar
Someday I Will become August | 6
Angela Huang
Trust is a Non-negotiable Promise | 8
Andrew Capran
The Morning of the Land | 9
Leah Seche
Do I? | 10
Ganeev Kaur
If Ghosts Could Speak | 12
Belqis Karimi
Erosion of the Heart | 14
Gabriele Marthone
The Coldest Winter | 16
Kaitlin Swift
Asked | 17
Kerene Simeon
roken porcelain. | 18
Sophia Padilla
I DON’T REMEMBER THIS CHAPTER OF MY HISTORY TEXTBOOK:
In ancient Mesopotamia, society was built on the backs of words.
A nation crafted as much by paragraphs as by palaces.
Verses flowing as often as the rivers.
I often wonder if the founders of the ancient tongue ever found themselves speechless. What they don’t tell you about literature, is that every letter etched into the page is written with tears as much as ink, with blood as much as ball point pen.
There are days when my body is merely a stockholder of my memories, when I am more haggler than hero.
I am not always a strong person, but I write like I have the power of the tides.
I can scribe till my bones have been worn down into points, until they are sharp enough to bruise.
In colossal Rome, society was mortared from the foundation of love.
A nation crafted as much by romance as by rage.
The very name reversing to spell amor, love.
I wonder if these violent romantics ever found themselves alone.
What they don’t tell you about love, is that not everyone receives it.
They tell you that love is hard, that it is beautiful and passionate, that it is gentle.
They tell you that love is a whisper, breathing life into a dying soul.
But they do not tell you that it’s not a patch of honor you can wear upon your armor.
It’s not something you can find from the plunders of war.
In ancient Carthage, society was centered around trade.
A nation of give and take.
I wonder if the merchants of their time found themselves, piled among riches, and yet, utterly empty.
When I tell you that I love you, know that it’s more than an arrangement of vowels.
I have given more than you can afford to return.
This does not come as a surprise.
When I tell you that I love you, this is not me throwing out a pile of words.
This is me begging, this me tattered and tired and tainted, begging you to return the favor.
I’m saying that I don’t need you to echo it back, I just need you to prove that this is a fair trade.
I’m saying that I need you to care enough to stay.
In ancient Macedonia, society was hinged upon war.
A nation whose declaration was written by their evidence of carnage.
I wonder if the warriors ever wept for a softer ending.
It’s so easy to be swept into anger, to let fury equate with fuel.
The switch is so simple.
You don’t even realize it until it’s your own soul lying in the body bag of your past.
So know that there is nothing weak about my kindness, there is only warrior learning to replace lacerations with laughter.
There is only girl, learning to write a new chapter.
“Your Faith Has Made You Well”
The world doesn’t know of a little girl who grew up with such a love for the stage but was always too afraid
The world doesn’t know of a little girl who loved to just run and play The world doesn’t know of a little girl who used to sit on her bed and pray for better days
The world doesn’t know...yet Jesus knows.
He knows the mistakes I’ve made
He knows the way I’ve lied to my parents
He knows the way I’ve used his name in vain
He knows the way I’ve put others before him
He knows the way I’ve struggled with trusting him.
Yet Jesus doesn’t see me as what I’ve done
He sees me as what I can become
He sees me as fearfully and wonderfully made in God’s image
He sees me as so much more than I could ever see myself
He sees me as that faithful little girl.
And yet I continue to question my worth when Jesus says you were enough to die for, child.
You were enough to be torn apart on that cross
You were enough to wear that crown of thorns
You were enough to give up everything for
You were enough.
So I’ll remember to give him praise
I’ll remember to worship his name
I’ll remember to pray even when those giants seem to big
I’ll remember to trust his name through those moments of temptation
Cause at the end of the day
I hope Jesus will say
“Your Faith has made you well.”
Someday I will become August
Did you know that the day I was born, Was two months earlier than it should’ve been? Lungs unformed, 4 to 5 pounds I came out something that should have died.
There was a boy once before me, That slept in the same womb as me. My parents nicknamed him frog, Since they used to call my brother shrimp.
Not because he was short or anything, I mean, he was only two, But just because he loved eating shrimp. They really were never good at naming.
And so, that little boy frog, Two years after my brother, five years before me, was not the first child but the second. But in the end he wasn’t the second.
Because he died, Right at his first breath. And there needed to be a second, So I lived.
Sometimes I wonder, What would have happened if that child survived, And if I had not, Would that have boy been me?
Have you ever wanted something that would never happen?
Has it ever grown like a weed, in the damp cracks of your mind?
Like a dream, a summer day, humid, sweltering.
Like a dusk-washed-out soda pop, crackling in your mouth.
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 7)
Someday I will become August (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 6)
Does it ever taste good? Did it ever linger in your mouth? Was it ever there?
How do you know it’s sweet?
Because it isn’t, and I’ll tell you, Only in your mind will it taste like syrup. Because it will taste like rust, It will sting like splatters of hot oil and shards of broken plates.
And even after it burned my tongue , After it turned the roof of my mouth raw, I still wanted it like the stupid child I was.
Only then would I realize, The day I become a man, Is when I am hit by another.
I know that to be true, Because he is the brother, And I am not. Because I know,
There was more to the difference between us, Than just “her” and “him”.
There was more than our middle names, That labeled us daughter and son.
There was more than growing up in the same household, A girl and a boy.
There was always more than that Because all those little things and more, Made the difference between us.
I hated my brother, Because he stole from me, By giving me my name, Because he didn’t want our parents to.
I hated him because he was the first child, And I would never know, If I was loved because I was the second, Or a girl.
I hated him, Because I hated myself, Because I was jealous, Because we were almost everything the other wasn’t.
But because he knew not to blame me, I knew I shouldn’t blame him. It wasn’t any of our faults after all, That the little boy died before he got to live
But maybe, some humid sweltering day, After many winters, springs, and autumns, When I am a man, Someday I will become August.
Trust is a Non-negotiable Promise
Oh the secrets we keep to ourselves!
The pressure of hiding them makes us feel as small as elves.
As we put on a mask and say “I’m ok”, we just hope we can make it through another day. The people around you can not comprehend the pain and suffering you bottled up to tell a friend.
Trust is something earned over time. You can’t just have it on a dime.
A person venting all they are feeling, is hurt badly, they need healing!
A person trusting in you, is the most validating thing they can do, to express how important you are in their life, for if you betray them, be prepared to strife!
Trust is a non-negotiable promise we must keep.
If you don’t, the other person will weep. Every night as they try to sleep, they will wonder why they ever took the leap to expose themselves plain as day to a person that will do nothing but betray.
Why would somebody ever be that way?
Don’t worry, it will get better some day. The pain will go away.
The Mourning of the Land
Ayiti cheri*
You are crying?
But you once stood fierce
In the face of men
Who dare enslave your children
You once aided your sisters
With the strength of freedom
But now, I feel your body
Shaking
The fruit on your trees decayed
Your translucent, blue sea
Now murky and gray
Your crowning hills chained
By your own offspring
L’union** is forgotten
They thieve people from their homes
Bodies bruised, rifles ringing
Blood is shed
Their piercing cries echo your ears
Seeping into your skin
Plaguing your heart
Your children flee your bosom
They trek to distant lands
Losing themselves in jungles
In search of dreams
Deferred by nightmares
Haunting your mind
They forget you
Their children forget you
Indulging in the land
That forgets them
That teaches them
To slander your name
Forget your name To uplift their own
Ayiti cheri
Cry no more
This child has not forgotten you
Will you call her your daughter?
She has trodden your land only once Never bathed in your sea of tears
But she is willing
Willing to fight for you
Willing to defend you
Willing to embrace you
Willing to love you
Willing to bring back l’union**
If it means that you come back
If it means that we come back
To life again
*Ayiti Cheri means “dear/darling Haiti”.
This name comes from a folk song sung in Haiti called “Ayiti Cheri”
**L’union means “The union” or “unity”. It is from the Haitian motto “L’union fait la force” which means “The union makes strength”
Do I?
‘‘I’m sorry’’I said, the first time, You smiled, and replied, “It’s okay. “
“I’m sorry” I said, the second time, You didn’t smile, but still replied: “Its okay”
“I’m sorry”, I said, the third time, You just nodded and told me, it was fine. “I’m so so sorry,”
I said, the fourth time,
But you weren’t here anymore to listen to my cries. Now, there is no compass left to point me in the right direction. I find myself overtaken by an infection, To which the bubonic plague could not compare, What I would give to be aware, Then, of what I am now, Somehow, if I could travel back in time, not to ancient Greeks or Romans, But just a few years to open, A portal before that final tear.
The last time your voice entered my ears.
“I’ll always be with you, even after I go up there”, you said Lying flatly on the bed,
But when I look around, I can’t find you. And now, everyones telling me to, “Move on,” just take this as a “lesson.“
Maybe try some antidepressants, Practice acceptance, The future is more precious, Live in the present, I don’t. I am sorry I cannot see how much is out there. I can’t. I cannot see how much I have. I can’t.
You try to convince a blind man of color, Or a deaf man of music, but all is dark, And all is-silent.
I’m sorry I cannot see beauty in life, For I see none within myself.
I’m sorry I cannot see the giants, Because without you, I am nothing more than an elf.
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 11)
Do I?
(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 10)
And I’m sorry I don’t have an answer for my despair. But I do not need to be given one, I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
But, I do.
Because in quiet moments, your presence still lingers, And maybe, just maybe, for today, that’s enough to guide my trembling fingers.
If Ghosts Could Speak
As I stared at my ceiling I fell into a sleepless dream
One of which involved a ghost who’s eyes mirrored me
She led me to this graveyard where all the ghost danced
And I stood there dumbfounded
As I stared at the wisps of smoke swirling
Where a mouth should be
I couldn’t stop a question from arising
If ghosts could speak, what would they say?
Would their words be soft and filled with grace
Would it be like a gentle song
That makes you sway in your seats
Like a lullaby
To rock your baby to a soft sleep
Maybe like hip hop and rap
Something that brings life to your body
Like the rhythm of their Drums
Like the Rhythm of their voices
Will their voices be a song that could bring tears to your eyes
Making you wonder how something could sound so beautiful
Like the beauty of the ocean crashing with the sand
Like the beauty of a hawk soaring in the heavens
Like the beauty of the sky blushing before it closes its eyes
Like the fleeting beauty of this world
If ghosts could speak, what would they say?
Would they talk about their dreams and hopes
Would they mention their bitter regrets,
Tell us the meaning of life
Core memories they built with friends
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 13)
If Ghosts Could Speak
(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 12)
Will they say about the last time they danced
The last I love you
Talk about the highschool experience
Would they tell us that everyone is right
And being a teenager is the best time of your life
Did the prom matter?
Was the money ever enough?
Are we ever going to be satisfied?
Will they answer the big questions of life
Or would they tell us
To stop chasing
No matter how much you run
The moon will stay in the sky
Learn to sit and appreciate the light.
Would they warn us that if we waste our time
Trying to find a meaning
We miss out on the life we are actually meant to be living
If a ghost could speak
Would they say anything at all
Or when they open their mouths
Out will come a song.
Erosion of the Heart
From the Heart of the Statue
When the day breaks and the boiling sun emerges, My skin does not burn, but flourishes. The sun nourishes me with her dancing flames and sparks alike. For she is a star, born to shine, like me, Who stands proudly over the waking world, Posing with grace and smiling down at life beneath my feet. And although this is a beautiful world, I’ve noticed some questionable creatures: the humans.
The fleshy packets of meat, Who believe they prevail, And bathe in their self-assigned superiority, When really all they do is Make lies, take each other’s dimes, take flight, And scour away like the thieves they are. Nothing more than a gull taking off with a man’s last meal.
But at least a gull only steals when it’s starving, Humans are constantly parched, Always wanting another’s skin, So they turn to me, Their creation, their reminder to themselves of their inferiority, And give me their imperfections. One by one, small and large humans alike, Run their hands down my figure, Slap my bottom and grin a little, Chip away at my perfect skin, Until all that’s left is bruises along my breasts, A battered body left to rot in a never ending sea of hands, And the worst part is that they’ve done it so slowly, so subtly, That they’ve eaten me alive, without ever really noticing.
But after the battle, I look to the sky, And hope my sisters are alive and well. Perhaps life has been more merciful to them.
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 15)
From the Heart of the Arid Lands
Over the horizon, I hear my sister’s cries, And pleas to end her life. I could never imagine living in the world of humans, Constantly chipping away at my beautiful skin.
For my body is vast and untouchable for humans, Stretching out beneath my solar sister’s favorite place to reside. The only creatures that tread upon my skin Are small birds and bugs alike, With some beautiful mammals and sly reptiles slithering about.
Until, I felt a cool pinch and a flake of my skin removed. All I could do was stare in awe at the wound. At that moment, I felt it was a scrape, a minor inconvenience. But day by day, that wound continued to grow, From a slice, to a slash, to a gash, to pure avulsion, Feeling the cold substance leak through my wounds, And open them ever wider until the liquid could flow right through me. During all those years, a river learned to run right through my heart, Leaving it shattered, And to think it only started with some droplets.
For I never thought this day would come, Writhing in pain, begging to be left untouched like my stone sister, As the chiseling intensifies gradually, Like my great sister of ice who melts ever so slightly.
My poor sisters and I must wear away slowly, From the inevitable poking and prodding at our skin,
Like a million mosquitos that you would never know are there, Until you see the bites of tomorrow, swelling and growing, As they lead you into an inevitable itch. And scratching them stings like the flames of hell locked into your very soul. Burning your heart away slowly and secretly.
From the Hearts of the Arid Lands and the Sun
But many years later, After my body was worn away, I asked my solar sister, Why can’t I be like you?
A grand illumination that guides and lights life, Without the world’s inevitable wear and tear. How are you still so beautiful?
But she told me,
“My beauty is nowhere close to yours, For you and your sisters have an undeniable perfection, That far outshines my own light.
Now, take a look at yourself.”
Upon her request I took a glance, Within my body were hundreds of curves and valleys, Stretching from one end of me to the other, Boasting a structure like that of my stone sister, With her magnificent shapes.
My solar sister then told me,
“When humans search for a spectacle, They do not set their gazes upon me.
I am nothing more than a blistering, blinding ball of heat, But you are a valley of dreams, With undeniable valor, The gate to another world, Where people can realize,
You have a stronger soul, Because you faced the erosion of the heart.
The Coldest Winter
His shadow looms over my stature, Invading my solace with a chill, That shakes the beautiful leaves, Until I am bare.
He is unwelcome, but still arrives. Crushes the leaves, stomping them onto the ground, With no sympathy for their broken state.
His voice wakes the park—the entire forest. A sound loud enough that we cannot hear, The screams of the willows and oaks.
I used to love winter, The goosebumps on my arm, The shiver of anxious delight when he looked my way. Noticed me, sat by my side, talked to me, A singular tree among thousands. I felt important, wanted, loved Until he iced me.
His frigidity caused all he touched to shrivel, Crumbling to pieces That he couldn’t care less about picking up.
It was never his fault, he said, It was simply the change of the seasons Desolation was simply a consequence Of Mother Nature’s brutality.
He had nothing to do with it, Sorry if that was the appearance of the situation, Arraigning the blame to assuage an audience, He’s allergic to accountability, The one thing that gives him goosebumps.
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Asked
My youth leader asked how am I doing
It seems like a simple questions with a simple answer
But I don’t know how I am I feel like a human being overwhelmed with emptiness
Emptiness I just don’t know where it’s coming from
Or maybe I’m just numb
It’s like I want to yell and cry
But every time I try
I get stuck
Tears flowing from the inside
Like I’m trying to hide
But hide from what?
The thought of having to leave
Or the thought of having to give my all to something
I just don’t know if I’ll make it to
But I guess in the end
My answer remains the same
Sometimes the answer brings me shame, but it’s true, l’m ight
roken porcelain.
I am a porcelain doll. I have a seat on the shelf of awards. My accomplishments laid out for all those who pass by to stare in awe.
My smile is forbidden to falter. My posture only allowed to be poised. My hair to be perfectly maintained.
When I fell off their mantle, and crashed on the cold wooden floor, I burdened a miniscule crack.
In a way, it used to reassure me; the more cracks there were, the more likely the pressure would ooze out of me.
So I continued to fall. But despite each crack, nothing changed.
The last one I endured, I broke open.
My shards razor sharp, sprawled underneath my pedestal.
I laid on the floor waiting, and eventually someone picked me up. My edges pierced their skin. Instead of throwing me in the trash, like the other unwanted items, they glued me back together.
They understood it was not my fault I was in pieces, it was the fault of those who put me up so high to begin with.
