GOA POETRY BOOK 2015

INTRODUCTION Dear Poets: This has been an amazing ride. I’ve loved getting to know you across the globe. You’ve learned to write poems in a wide range of styles modeled on the poets we read each week. More than that, you made them your own. Honestly, it didn’t matter what the prompts were except to get you started.

Once you finished a draft, the poem was entirely yours. Poems came from what you experienced, what you felt, what you knew. And you gave of yourselves generously in peer critiques every week, some of those on Skype. You also learned to take criticism; for some of you that was far from easy.

But in the end, you all said that those responses helped to give you a perspective outside your own head. We write first for ourselves. That’s really important. But if we’re going to take ourselves seriously as poets, we share our words with the world and therefore need to think in terms of an audience who won’t have us in person to clarify what we mean. The poems, ultimately, have to stand on their own. In this course, you learned to pay attention to your process. With time in between drafts and revisions, all of you made decisions about your poems that altered and improved their meaning.

Those changes also made the wording more precise and invited you to examine every aspect of poems we’ve discussed in the course, from sharp imagery to tone, diction, line breaks, stanzas, and sound. It’s always been important to me that you’ve had many opportunities to write what matters to you. Poems can be playful and clever, but the ones that will mean most to your readers and to you will have something important to say. Where you took risks, your poems were the best. I’ve loved seeing your words and images every week. And I wish you well. Keep writing. Stay inspired.

Jeff Schwartz 12/20/15

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GOA POETRY BOOK 2015 CONTENTS

Cole Abram

page 4

Rob Chambliss

page 10

Paloma Corrigan

page 22

Elizabeth Dunn

page 28

Ahmad Freihart

page 36

Alec Frey

page 38

Gemma Gerst

page 44

Anthea Lovett

page 50

Will Mann

page 63

Adarsh Rachmale

page 70

Olivia Reynolds

page 76

Jeff Schwartz

page 86

Iona Tan

page 89

Claudia Teti

page 98

Katherine Thomas

page 104

Cover by Paloma Corrigan

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COLE ABRAM

My name is Cole Abram and I live in Seattle, Washington and I am a senior at Lakeside School. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being a part of this course and having the opportunity to meet my fellow poets. I think one of the coolest things about this course is that even though we may have never officially talked to everyone in the course, we still get to read their work every week and watch their work only get better. This course definitely broadened my knowledge of poetry and different poets! My favorite poet from the course by far, was Frank O’Hara and as the weeks have gone on I have tried to incorporate the characteristics I like about his work, into my own. However, I think reading the work of the many featured poets has helped me grow as a poet. All five of the poems I have included here I put a lot of work into so I hope you enjoy them! Thank you all for a great semester.

In good health, Cole Abram nacole.abram@lakesideschool.org

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My Seattle by Cole Abram It’s kinda like what I would imagine walking down the hallway as a popular kid might feel like It’s kinda like sitting in Cherry Street Coffee House before it was a chain as it was a small and cozy dim lit cave Like going to the library to check out books in the winter with a hat and scarf on in your Subaru Outback or going to the beach for the first time in the summer with big glasses on in your Volkswagen convertible slug-bug It’s kinda like a flashy fashion runway but kinda like a dusty vintage thrift store like yoga three times a week or training for a marathon It’s kinda like wanting to sleep forever and ever because you love sleep so much and can’t think of anything better to do although It’s also like wanting to change the world and seeing sleep as a deterrent like the bitter taste of 85% cocoa bars or the sweet smell of Molly Moon’s freshly made waffle cones Its kinda like getting dumped by your high school boyfriend on a Friday night but at the same time kinda like growing old with the person you fell in love with on a Tuesday while watching the sun set in a field with tall grass and dandelions

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Cotton Candy Sky by Cole Abram I think different thoughts when it is just this cotton candy sky and I And hide my secrets in little latched boxes in the security of the clouds.

The sky is my friend when I do not have one and she has ears when everyone else seems to only have mouths Only she and I know how many days I wanted to be my last, I played it over and over in my head sometimes the place or the method would be different but the outcome was always the same She is the only one who heard me when I screamed at the top of my lungs And only she felt the blow of my first as I beat my innocent pillow but the pain and the anger did not fly away like the birds do.

She told me I could let the clouds hold the weight of my secrets and the sun rays be the path to my future This cotton candy sky whispers things to me in the night That get me through the days, That get me through the weeks, And months, and years‌ She told me the quiver in my voice is gone and the pain in my eyes and the sorrow in my posture.

Only she knows the full story.

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Capitalizer VS. Consumer by Cole Abram We are not people: we are victims- No! We are casualties in this barbaric war we call “capitalism”where we are born at the bottom of deep blue oceans and told not to drown.

They told us they would tell us the truth and never mislead us, so we listened to their word like it was the word of our Creator.

They told us we should look like this, live like this, and buy these things but when we looked up we could not find ourselves, only the replicated reflection of someone we didn’t even know.

But to expect anything different would be insane-no?

As long as we stay in our place, As long as WE consume and THEY capitalize on us then ALL is well, right?

How can an eagle majestically soar when it is chained down? how can a country controlled by private interest be free?

We want to be free from these shackles but shun those who don’t fall in the assembly line of consumption

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Haimanot by Cole Abram I’ve always wondered why, of the people around me, the people with an appearance highly accepted by society are the ones that seem to enjoy themselves the least and torture themselves the most.

Well, I don’t know what is wrong with me, it just kind of happened.

Things used to be so easy, I got all A’s My sisters and I got along My parents still loved each other or at least pretended to.

But now it is all so hard.

And when I start to slip when things start to go wrong when I feel like I’m not in Control My being and its needs become the enemy become the reason become the blamed She told me this mind set had always been the case, it was just that things weren’t going her way as much as they once did, so it was affecting her more.

Well, I’m fat anyway so it doesn’t matter I’m killing two birds and one person with one stone.

I scratch and I claw and I stay stuck In this rut, in this hole, in this life.

It started off so small but every day it all just got deeper and now, I’m here.

Eyes wide shut living dead.

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A letter to My Unborn Child by Cole Abram Run. Run. Run Don’t stop for even the man Himself.

And when you are trying your hardest, baby you’re gunna need to try harder. And harder. And harder because twice as hard only gets you half as far.

Expect for them to hate your thick lips, your big breast, your round ass, your pigmented skin and your curly hair.

But don’t be confused when they strive. Strive. Strive to have all the same.

Keep your posture straight, your music down, and your movements slow. Slow. Slow and never mistakably aggressive.

Never raise your voice, keep it soft. Soft. Soft like snowflakes.

And remember to never make mistakes And to never get angry… You are not allowed to be angry.

And to never realize that this country was not made for you Never be weak. Weak. Weak but never let them think you can over power them even if you can.

And baby, don’t be fooled when they say we are equal or that our lives matter or that one day racism will be no more because even if they believe it, it does us no good until they show it.

And know. Know. Know that mama wants to save you from all this shit but I’m doing the best I can And try not to hate me. And try not to hate you. And try not to hate them…

And when you are trying your hardest, baby you’re gunna need to try harder. And harder. And harder because your life depends on it.

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ROB CHAMBLISS

Hey everyone! My name is Rob Chambliss. I’m a senior at the Westminster Schools in Atlanta, Georgia, and I love poetry. Over the course of this semester, I particularly enjoyed studying the works of Brian Turner and Patricia Smith. I’ve been published before on Teen Ink and I’m awaiting decisions from Blackbird and the Adroit – fingers crossed! I recently used the Poetry Anthology project we did in class to revive my blog, The Book of Cloud: Memoirs of a Runaway – check it out if you have time!

I’ve loved getting to know all of you in this class and read your work – it’s been an awesome semester!

Email: crchambliss33@gmail.com Memoirs: http://bookofcloud.blogspot.com/

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Hidden Haven I lost my voice And found it again Flitting past my eyes in between drops of rain Wedged in between the graffiti on the walls Hiding shyly in the whispers of cynical teenagers Laughing from headphones and speakers.

I lost my passion And I found it again Buried deep within your streets and your stories Frolicking within gently shaded parks Wondering I lost my heart And I found it again In gentle hands, beckoning me to the blackbox Gentle hands, shoving me onto the stage Gentle hands, thrusting a microphone before me Gentle hands, roaring with applause as I stepped down I found myself in the bright bursts of color Mohawks and tattoos, murals and sculptures Black, white, brown, yellow, the white of inclusive smiles The orange of basketballs, the green of willow trees A city of obscure light gleaming proudly Through the murk of an empire of ostentatious shadows You Cleverly camouflaged as a collage Of coffee houses and college kids Shyly sleeping In the beautiful buzzing hive Of restless workers and drones With dollar bills clinging to their legs Making poisoned honey Out of false pollen You My first stage, my second home, my seventh heaven The city of roses, the city of angels, the safe haven For artists and poets, life-livers and life lovers For dragon slayers and noble deed-doers, lost boys and little lost dogs.

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Hidden by tall flashy skyscrapers, gouged by fast flashy cars, you were the beautiful, unassuming artistic girl next door who forced me to fall in love with you Beautified by the strange, you are the place I call home.

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A Nightmare in Ten [one] And I'm driving, we're fighting.

You look cute tonight, you're wearing your black lace dress with black lace underneath, your hair light and airy and beautiful on your shoulders, your skin soft and smooth where it peeks out of the fabric.

And I wish you would stop touching my hand and smiling your "you" smile at me because I'm trying to be mad at you and you are not making it easy. [two] And I'm tired and I'm trying to be mad at you and I'm turning onto Heart street, an easy right and my eyes itch because it was a two-hour play and I've spent two nights every week for two weeks waiting up for you till two in the morning [three] And you always just say good night and go leave me alone with Oz and my thoughts, and a lit cigarette cherry, and I tell you that I'm beginning to wonder if you're seeing that blonde guy from Delaware and if you're touching his hand and smiling your "you" smile for him. [four] And we're picking up speed. [five] And we're moving past that bakery on Green Street, the one that uses a "distinctive maple glaze" on their breads and I couldn't say because you're the bread detective and the wine detective and the book detective and the cheese detective and I wait up for you with Oz and my thoughts and a lit cigarette cherry. [six] And you say "I'm sorry." [seven] And you say "I love you." [eight} And I turn left onto Harrington Avenue [eight] And the red car runs a red light. [eight] And I say "I love you t– [nine]" And we become a physics problem. [nine] And if Car A is red and traveling North at a speed of 94 miles per hour and Car B is traveling southeast at a speed of 29 miles per hour, and Car A collides with the front passenger door of Car B, how many times will your neck break upon impact? [nine] And your right arm shatters first, multiple comminuted fractures down the lenght of your ulna, radius, and humerus. [nine] And the impact sends your body flying forward against the seat belt 13 Global Online Academy Poetry

with a force of 300 Newtons. [nine] And the metal rushing in caves in your ribs and crushes the air out of your lungs. [nine] And the whiplash send your head flying forward and [nine] And [nine] And [nine] And when I'm looking at you, eyes wide open and seeing nothing black satin and red satin black lace and red lace white white skin and bone and red red blood and flesh and fractured arms and an exploded chest and a broken neck Will you ever hear me scream, "[ten] I forgive you I forgive you I forgive you I love you I forgive you I love you I love you I love " [ten]

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Xenophobia I can see you sometimes. You’re not as slick as you think you are.

You’re not light. You’re not soft.

You’re not white or fluffy, warm or sweet, like laundry fumes or teakettle steam.

You’re cold. Wet. Heavy. Thick.

You’re oily, harsh, sour and you stink of sulfur, plague, and melting flesh.

You scream, you sear, you seethe, you sneer, sizzling in stormily on sturdy hooves, or striding stiffly on stuck-up paws but never softly. Never softly.

I’ve gotta wonder sometimes: Am I all alone?

Are you only in my mind?

I’ve gotta wonder sometimes if others can see you, feel you, smell you, sashaying out of back alleys, hissing off of cold steel.

I’ve gotta wonder sometimes: Did Trayvon Martin hear you spewing from the barrel of Zimmerman’s gun before the bullet bored into his body and punched a hole through his life?

Did Eric Garner taste you seeping into his lungs, through the cracks in his crushed windpipe, as he struggled to throw off the choke, struggled to throw off the yoke, struggled to draw his last breaths?

Did Sean Bell see you spitting from the muzzles of the cops’ nines as he was shot one, two, three, four five six seven eightnineteneleventwelvethirteenfourteen Fifteensixteenseventeeneighteennineteen forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty times?

What about the tens, and thousands, and millions of black, brown, red, yellow, white boys and girls, of atheist, agnostic, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Christian boys and girls of gay, bi, and transsexual boys and girls or just those sweet boys and girls who just want to lend a hand?

Do they ever smell you creeping up behind them on dark roads?

Do they ever hear you roaring after them in poisonous mobs?

Does my family ever see you?

A mahogany matron and her two brown boys, ripe brown logs in the heart of a white-hot furnace, 15 Global Online Academy Poetry

Do they ever see you billowing like tear gas from the tear ducts of boys and girls with hate in their hearts and malice on their minds?

And what about the others?

The men and women in suits and ties, With well-groomed hair and briefcases – When they’re reading the paper or watching the news In their kitchen before they hit the office, do they see you On the screen, laced between the letters, off to claim another victim?

Or do they miss you? Can they miss you? Are their noses Immune to your stench? Are their eyes immune To your tears? Do they miss the corpses of your victims, the Shriveled, emaciated bodies carted away from the scene, thrown into A hole?

I hope they don’t.

Because I know I can’t, I see Every body of every boy and girl who looks like me Float down the river of anonymity. I watch killers get off scot-free, I watch you float innocuously into the clouds to go choke Someone else and I sit awake at night and I stare at my window and I wonder If that someone else is gonna be me, if that someone else is gonna be my mother, Or my baby brother and I wonder If we’ll all just be written down as another number in the end.

And I hear all the names you’ve made up for yourself.

Pride, there’s a good one. Pretention, there’s another.

Hubris, contemptuousness, presumption, overbearing.

Hell, I’ve even heard you speak humbly and call yourself envy, fear, and menace.

But I know who you really are.

Xenophobia. And I pray That should you ever strike again, the whole world Gives you the credit you are due.

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Notes from the Re-Birth I enjoyed Your Baptism in Blood I raised Your Cane to the Sky and whispered in Your Ear that You – had not made it Home.

I Watched from atop your Vacated throne.

I saw Your Lambs and Your Goats come Scampering forth and leaping Around Like Children come home to their Father.

I sat at the Head of your Great White table, And I raised My Mug to the Sinners – I raised My Hand against the Righteous who had Kindly and Cruelly raised theirs to Me. I held the Keys as the Bars swung shut on You. I Grinned as I saw You confined Within a Hopeless prison – The same one in Which You tried to confine Me. And I whispered in Your Ear that You – had not made it Home.

And I turned You to face My judgment as You – had Turned Me to face Yours.

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11-23-14 I see his smile first, and I know it’s about to get bad.

Gleaming white teeth spin forward from the matrix of my mind.

Suspended, solitary, the Cheshire Cat. He speaks.

But I know it’s not to tell me how to get out of the forest.

What are we doing here?

We’re better than this, man.

I’m better than this. You’re nothing.

I’m you, friend.

You’re no friend. I’m not your friend.

I better be your friend. We better be friends.

Because you do not.

Want me.

As an enemy.

I have my own life. Get yourself one.

You have your own life?

Get real.

You’re nothing without me.

What are you on your own?

You’re eighteen Shut and still letting people bash your UP! head in on a weekly basis?

You don’t belong in the ring any more than you SHUT UP! belong in that classroom with all those kiss-ass whitewashed sheeple.

Fuck what they think. And if you don’t like it, fuck you, too.

Get out. Now. You’re not welcome here. You’ve never been welcome here.

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I’m not going anywhere.

I’ll kill you, then. You lying [clink] low-down [glug] ruin-everything [rattle rattlerattle rattle] rat bastard – Yeah, swill that beer.

Throw in some rum. Vodka, we love that shit.

Risperdal. Ambien. Ibuprofen – Ibuprofen, really? – Adderall. Zyprexa. Haldol.

Abilify. Geodon. Seroquel.

Miles Davis can’t drown me out. John Coltrane can’t soothe me out.

Go on, bash your head against the wall.

Think you can crush me out? Shake me out? Rattle me out?

I’m here to stay, jack.

Go… away.

And if you think that anything you can do is gonna change that… …please – then you’re the one who’s gonna please…

– disappear. …disappear…

Disappear.

A volley of waves knocks me to the ground, clutch the loose sand and try to slow down, try to get my feet again but it’s fleeting, it’s fleeting and another rush sends me spinning spinning through water that stings my nose and throat desperately reaching for a handhold, a driftwood, a sanctuary and I’m and I’m “Mr. Chambliss?” in the white room again, and someone is talking to me.

“Mr. Chambliss? Are you with us today?”

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I’m supposed to answer a question. Question?

What’s the question?

“Did you have something to add to Alexa’s point?” a flash of his white teeth.

Hello, friend. …what did you do to me? a cocky wink of the eye.

Wouldn’t worry about that.

Not right now, at least.

You’re in APUSH. He’s talking to you. Wake up, can almost feel the sting of his hand across my face. dumbass.

Alexa. Straight dark dark brown hair. Smooth white white white skin. Eyes.

Nose. Plays hockey, I think. Cute? Yes. No. Help.

She’s in my biology class, gives me eyes sometimes when nobody is looking.

Does she like me? Yes. No. Help.

Was she talking to me? Yes. No. Help. sly, nasty laughter You’re staring again. Hell, you’re drooling.

Pathetic. Maybe if you stop acting like a dumbass and answer, she’ll give you the time of day. no…why are you still… a long finger across my lips the nail is crusted with red Shhh… pay attention in class.

“Do you think Herrenvolk democracy had a bigger influence on the South than did constitutional freedom and protectiveness of their women and property?”

Irritated. Annoyed. Help.

What? Yes. Why? No. Why not?

Agree. Disagree. Help.

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am I the only one who sees my blood on the wall? glass bottles under the desk? cylinders on the windowsill? snap snap impatient snap Well? What do you say?

I would definitely go with Herrenvolk democracy, by the way.

It gave rich and poor whites a common banner to stand under against blacks and Indians.

They could have rights because others didn’t.

You know this, dumbass.

I… needle-sharp teeth, fierce red eyes – Say something, you IDIOT! I open my mouth, vomit a pool of seawaterCoronaRisperdal.

“Mm, very good answer. That’s an interesting point of view. Very perceptive. Does anyone else want to comment on that?”

There you go. See? Good answer. Very good answer. And see? That girl noticed you.

What did I tell you, friend? I’ve always got your back, don’t I? …yes.

Yes. No. Help.

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PALOMA CORRIGAN

Contributor’s Note: It saddens me to acknowledge that this class is coming to a close. I feel that I have made new friends with pretty much everyone. It was an honor to work with such talented, passionate, and kind people. For future reference, I live in Stamford, Connecticut, USA. I am a senior at Greenwich Academy and am not exactly sure which college I am going to yet. My personal email is palomackp@gmail.com. My favorite poem from this course would have to be “A letter to My Unborn Child” by Cole Abram. This poem was so beautifully written, with such feeling and emotion, but thoughtfulness as well, it was such a pleasure to read. Lastly, after this course, I think my definition of poetry has changed from being a symphony of words sewn together in such a way that creates images in your mind and feelings in your heart, or something similar, but a bit more simple: poetry is the delicate yet strong bones of writing. It was such a privilege meeting you all and I will miss you! 

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Blue Skies Black Thoughts My eyes become glossy as they wander over the clear glass of the window here next to my Coach’s fridge.

At the same time, I replay the documentary I saw days before about weather, phenomena, in my head; going through every storm, every cloud, as if the storms were actually happening, but I am safe from their power.

Following the wispy shadows of rain drops’ tracks down the window, my sight focuses on the trees in their yard.

The assortment of craggily, Crooked, and broken branches sitting purposefully on trees in the backyard reinforce my feelings about nature that surfaced after watching the documentary: unreachable, untouchable, unreliable; Mother Nature’s angled joints pointing up in every which way at the sky.

So many consider it boundless, vast, but is it really?

If it were, how could it cause so much pain? providing promise with the caveat that not all dreams come true; so much fear? who knows what may lie beyond humanity's metallic, floating, satellite eyes up in space; and how could it have such lethal power? its capabilities ominously echoing in the hearts of those with loved ones lost to nature's fury.

But then again, sitting here inside my Coach’s cozy home, unaffected, I can’t help but to admire The Sky.

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Letter From Paloma in Stamford to Thea in Hong Kong Dear Thea: It must be so incredibly different there in Hong Kong, where you live. I sit here at my desk, swiveling in my chair while my little kitty tries to catch the zipper of my coat that is hanging off the back, and I can’t help but dream of being right there by your side.

Strolling into the palatial bookstore with all those pens and journals and immensely amusing knick-knacks at the tips of my fingers, seeing old men with wrinkle lines on his face like the creases of a book that is too full of precious knowledge for its own good everyday on the way home from school, and best of all, the worldliness of it – of being able to say, “I went to school in Hong Kong” to people who are already too busy planning their own lives just to have them pause for a second, a hiccup in their endless droning, because something that I was a part of is worthy of a second thought.

No, Connecticut doesn’t yield the same results when spoken about to other people. Neither does Stamford, the specific city that I live in.

Here the streets are lined with trees and cars that pass by the houses and condos like ants determined to please their queen, following each other one by one, going to different places but going blindly just the same. Who really does know where to go or where to be?

We can’t stop pain, we can’t stop ailments, or suffering, like anxiety or OCD. But I guess, like you and me, distractions are all we can hope for, all we have to calm our minds, no matter how much of a lie they may be. I know I sound cynical. I apologize. But isn’t that what it means to be an artist?

We both love art. The OCD and anxiety play a part in that I think. Both are incredibly intimate and personal conditions, and yet so universal, and that, to me, is what art is. How beautiful.

Just like Hong Kong must be beautiful, and not like plain Connecticut, where the most interesting thing I’ve learned so far about it isn’t even a fact really, just a trick to remember how to pronounce it: “Connect-a-cut”.

Oh how I dream of being there by your side, as I sit here at my desk swiveling in my chair while my little kitty tries to catch the zipper of my coat that’s hanging off the back.

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La Payasada de Las Chiquitas or The Little Girls’ Antics It was a fragrant Saturday morning.

While we snuck our way through town, I remember the sound of wives beating the week’s footsteps off of the entranceway rugs like every Saturday, cleansing them of the stagnant past – Of slumped shoulders with lulling heads because it was a hard day’s work, of little Paulito’s dust and dirt trailed in from hours of play in a world where a bill is just another word for a bird’s beak and the hardest part of the day is choosing whether to go to the town square to play, or to the grassy fields – all the beating was to make room for a new week, as we were just making room for trouble.

We were about 9 at this point – still considered “chiquitas” – but we were rebels, always trying to do what the older kids were doing, so my friends and I went to the river where the older kids played.

The copper red dust swirling behind us at our heels while the leaves on the branches above us stippled the sky, casting shadows on our faces so that the sun danced on different spots: cheekbones, eyebrows, lips.

We started laughing at the lightness in the air, tee-heeing all the way until the sound of water greeted us.

As we came to rest on some rocks near the water’s edge, the clay that lined the river mushed between our wriggly toes, our feet dipped just far enough under for the cool water to swirl against our ankles.

But Suzana (the daredevil of us all) wanted more; while the rest of us giggled about nothing, she inched forward, testing the waters while ignoring the danger.

SPLASH! Suzana had tempted the river too much and got pulled in to be swept away with the current like driftwood, Aucilio! Aucilio! we screamed to get the older kids’ attention, SPLASH! one of the older boys, newly dressed after swimming himself, dove in and expertly grabbed Suzana, asking what a 9 year old was doing playing around this river, while we were all smirking not because she was saved, but because she was saved by an older boy!

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The way we carry ourselves The way we carry ourselves throughout time – on Earth, with airs and egos of more weight than they are worth – with technology we’ve invented, a distinction between Animal and Human as futile a distinction as intangible for one could say to be Human is Savage – the way Love becomes synonymous with War and to live means to give up humanity for materialism – and to be Animal is to be Human, compassionate – Wisdom being the compass of their conscience, Selflessness the root to their desires, to see the way we carry ourselves – what Brutes!

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Squishy Bursts of magenta, orange, and black elastic plastic mesh with my hands, my index finger growing hearty pink, middle finger pumpkin orange, ring finger black, connected to me.

My stomach lurches whenever I don’t feel the strands of comfort amongst my fingers, brushing my palm with hundreds of reminders that I’m not alone.

But my worst fears came true that odd day: Friday, September 25, 2015, to be exact, when we had our first volleyball game of the season, against one of our rivals, “the unholy children” as we call them (entirely in the spirit of sportsmanship of course).

The crowd’s boisterous cheers filled us with surges of energy strong enough to power a beast, so a beast we became, beating our opponent with finesse and certainty.

And with a fluttering feeling of pride lifting me up higher every step I took closer to my Coach to get a high five, I was blissfully ignorant of what had happened; as I neared the chairs on the sides of the court, surrounded by a strangely familiar magenta, orange, and black confetti, my heart stopped.

Squishy was gone.

Shredded.

Destroyed.

R.I.P. Squishy, a good friend, brutally taken Friday, September 25, 2015

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ELIZABETH DUNN

My name is Elizabeth Dunn and I live in Greenwich, Connecticut. I attend Greenwich Academy and I am in the 10th grade. My favorite poet from this course would have to be Frank Bidart due to his fascinating poem, Ellen West. Bidart constructs a gripping story with complex characters through his beautiful narration and tangible emotion. I also greatly admire Frank O’Hara’s whimsical, conversational approach, particularly in the poem Having a Coke with You. My email address is edunn@greenwichacademy.org.

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Esi was sunshine

BY ELIZABETH DUNN When she spoke, her voice flew above the trees, and clutched onto the wings of swallows.

Her laugh pushed through clouds so that only blue blue sky remained When she smiled, you smiled – you couldn’t help yourself – Her eyes would crinkle like the unwrapping of a present, inviting you to share the gift Esi breathed fresh air She slept with her windows wide open and her curtains billowing in the wind.

Sometimes she abandoned the structure of her walls altogether, laying her mattress on scorched Californian grass, drifting to sleep to the harmony of the wind’s slurs and the crickets’ staccato screech beneath the light of the waning moon.

When she found out God was taking her sooner than expected, she chose to not resist His plan.

Esi looked at death as a gateway to eternal happiness As an opportunity to live with those we had lost I am so looking forward to dancing in heaven with your Jennifer.

At the arrival of the news, we all crumpled.

A dagger of startled pain thrust deep into my chest, twisting father beneath the surface of vulnerable skin as my tearful mother explained “cancer” and “a few weeks.”

We clung onto disbelief – God is so good, Esi will make it through…

But Esi’s conscience was clear and accepting – The concept of change had never frightened her.

Wherever she was, she would love and be loved.

We also will be dancing with my sister Eleen, my mom and Pam Denton (and eventually many more) Her undaunted words of comfort only spurred heavier tears.

Salty droplets fell freely down ashen cheeks blurring her flowery penmanship – Think of all of us dancing a beautiful dance while singing, humming, and laughing. It is going to be wonderful.

Joyous.

When she died the pain wasn’t raw, as it was when we received her diagnosis The pain had run deep, fermented in our blood Esi wanted those around her to love what she loved.

Her happiness was contagious, pure, powerful.

When hot sun warms my back I can still feel her hug When I smile I can still hear her laugh echoing out from behind my heart.

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Jenny

BY ELIZABETH DUNN It’s a July afternoon in 1969.

A week earlier the U.S. had sent Mr. Armstrong to the moon.

In a small town in Virginia Beach, Virginia, a lanky man with a well-kempt mustache hides clear blue eyes behind silver tinted aviators.

A young woman with strawberry blond bouffant hair and an easy smile lounges beside him on freshly trimmed grass.

Two young girls, one redhead and one burnette coo over a smiling baby with twinkling blue eyes and blushed curls, the color of her mama’s. *** Little Jenny’s curly hair grew redder and her eyes brighter.

She had an irrepressible laugh and two dimples on each of her velvet-soft cheeks.

After celebrating her first birthday, Jenny still struggled to stand.

She would pull herself to her feet but tumble back down beneath her own weight moments afterwards. Her mother would bite her lip, coaxing, with a wrinkled brow “Come on, dear, you can do this, Jenny” After nearly sixteen months all her lips could form was a soft gurgle Da da da Ma ma ma Degenerative Laize Disease, diagnosed by a tall, lanky man with salt and pepper hair. She has five years at most. I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. *** Jenny still loved being outdoors.

She couldn’t move her legs or arms any longer but her blue eyes still sparkled, and her laugh still rebounded against the sun. Julie loved to walk through the park with Jenny, pushing her wheelchair along as they discussed Brontë novels and the controversies of Carter’s campaign. Jenny couldn’t respond but she was always listening – Not just to Julie, but everyone around her Hands shielding lips as they murmured into nearby ears, 30

Pitifully discrete glances and mouths slightly a gape.

Ignorant children, Impudent teenagers “Why isn’t that girl moving at all?”

“Why is that girl in a wheelchair?”

“What wrong with her?”

Julie had learned to keep her voice steady and the conversation natural, letting the comments reflect off the durable shield she had built over the span of several years – a shield of optimism and indifference.

November 1977 The park is particularly beautiful when draped in a vibrant blanket of red, orange and yellow – when the air is new and fresh but not yet bitter or lifeless.

Jenny’s hair always shines brightest among autumn’s rich colors.

Julie pushes Jenny’s wheelchair swifter than usual as they eagerly discuss the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. I’m thankful for these walks, Jen, aren’t you?

It’s the only time we get just us two.

A group of boys, no older than thirteen in grey, woolen jackets knock a soccer ball around, nonchalantly.

As Julie and Jenny approach them, one of the boys stops the ball with his foot, reaches down, picks it up and secures it under the crook of his arm. All eight pairs of eyes turn towards Julie and Jenny.

“What’s up with the one being pushed?”

“She can’t even stop drooling.”

They’re not even trying to disguise their remarks.

“Yeah well what do you expect, she’s got some disease,” another one shouts.

Julie feels her fists clench until her knuckles are bursting at the skin. She sucks in her breath, counting slowly in her head as her pace quickens.

“Shut up Jamie, she’s right there,” the bickering continues.

“Whatever it’s not like she can hear us. She’s retarded.”

Julie senses her two feet rotate as her carefully constructed wall of control crumbles to the ground, allowing a outpour of volcanic rage to follow in its wake.

“Retarded?” she asks the boys, who are still smirking.

She thinks of Jenny, her surprise, her dejected heart at the sound of 31 Global Online Academy Poetry

three syllables of painful truth.

She wants to take her iron fists and pummel each sardonic smile to the ground. She takes a long deep breath, thinks of mother and her stolid assurance.

“Actually, my sister Jenny heard every word you said,” The boys grin sadistically, expecting a fight. But Julie’s heels turn defiantly and she walks back to the handles of the wheelchair, smiling at Jenny’s impassive stare with an air of victory. *** January 2000 Thirty-One tomorrow? I never would have thought. She looks stronger every day, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. Her cheeks are flushed and those eyes are still bright – and that smile. She was always a happy child.

“Happy Birthday dear Jenny, Happy Birthday to you!”

Her mother carries a coconut cake complete with thirty candles, each alight, blanketing the top in a flickering veil of flames.

Jenny’s smile radiates, and her musical laugh fills the room with glee. Shelly and Julie grasp each of her hands tightly as her father eternalizes the memory with a click of his camera.

Jennifer Wallace passed away the first Sunday of April, 2003. 33 years old, and surrounded by friends and family.

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A Child’s Evolution

BY ELIZABETH DUNN When you were three you wanted to be an astronaut.

You knew that once you graduated from school you’d be so smart NASA would seize you as soon as your teachers let you go, and in a few short years, most of which would be spent traveling in space, your own two feet would be touching Saturn’s soil.

A time came, however, when you looked up at our milky way and no longer felt a magnetic pull to the stars.

Earlier that morning you had passed your Fire Station and realized how talented you’d be at driving a glossy, red truck.

Plus, you already owned a Dalmatian named Leisel A few years later you blew eleven candles off your birthday cake and discovered your unquenchable love for baking The next few days you concocted muffins, sweets, pastries, declaring confidently that one cup of baking soda would make your cupcakes bigger and more delicious than a meager teaspoon.

(Your siblings gagged at the salty pungency but all you detected was a more fulfilling flavor) When baking grew repetitive, you saw yourself as a writer.

You sat at a picnic bench dappled with chipped, white paint beneath a willow that wept stories of lost heroes and wizards named Henry and John.

Your writing would be successful enough, and you’d cultivate a profit to support yourself and a family But, at thirteen it became quite clear that the time had come to start acting like a grown up Your class took a field trip to the New York Stock Exchange and you conceded that a life of educated guesses would have to do.

Surely, with time, a monochromatic desk would excite you.

As the sun rose you’d put on your formal suit your eyes still swollen shut from a night of little sleep And only once the moon hung tauntingly above your head would you be able to step out of your slightly scuffed shoes and pull off your black, striated socks

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Louisiana Summers

BY ELIZABETH DUNN Growing up, Louisiana summers meant Minnie guarding the door, the buttery smell of Coppertone permeating from her flour speckled apron as she dabbed the tips of our noses and ears with the thick, sticky whiteness.

We scampered past her protesting “Aw come on Minnie! Do you want us to be pale as ghosts forever?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Minnie would retort “That’s exactly what I want.”

The day I packed up our silver car Minnie had been bustling all day long in the kitchen, baking my favorites: peach crumble, two dozen pralines and a whole caramel cake.

She walked out of the kitchen at half past four and wiped her hair from her face, leaving a streak of flour and butter across her forehead.

I wrapped my long arms around her middle, clenching my fingers tightly together at her back and burying my head into the soft folds of her apron.

She rested her chin on my hair as I listened to her breathe in and out, in and out, real slow “Minnie,” I whispered, keeping my check pressed firmly against her.

“Yeah, honey?” she cooed. I swallowed my breath, as I gazed at the front door and remembered the sun beating down on its white wood all those summers ago.

“Minnie,” I said again, my voice rocking back and forth between childhood and adolescence as I pictured an empty room with four white-washed walls and a springy mattress one thousand and three hundred miles away.

“Minnie,” I croaked, but she hushed me with her soft, vanilla voice and stroked my hair “Don’t worry, honey,” she said, “I know, I already know.”

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Letter from Elizabeth in Greenwich to Gemma is Los Angeles

BY ELIZABETH DUNN Dear Gemma, Summer is quickly fading into Fall on this side of the country.

How does it look on your west coast?

The air is biting us now and I miss the warmth you surely still have.

Yesterday I drove down 287 and looking out my window the eyes of thousands of aspen trees flitted through my vision, their trunks drowning in a mosaic of bright red, orange and yellow.

Out my car window, I spotted with utmost horror a line of three or four raccoons, absolutely flattened to the ground. It was a terrible sight, but I couldn’t help but think of your unusual love for the creatures and their fluffy striped tails and dark glassy eyes.

Oh, It also reminded me of the story of your eccentric fourth grade teacher, which I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.

Did he really bring in animal sacrifices For the “sake of education?”

I honestly barely believe you!

Did you ever ask him (or was it a her?) – Why the Tongvas? What drove his ridiculous obsession? That he sacrificed weeks, months of learning math, science, history, allowed you to fall behind your peers, for the sake of carrying rat skulls on sticks and empathizing with the natives during the Spanish Colonization?

You quite genuinely wondered if it was a simple tactic of traumatization.

I guess we will never truly know as the teacher is long gone, only vivid memories of distressing moments during your year as Shasonga Falls remaining.

Sometimes, in the hope of some excitement, I wish my classes and teachers shared the insanity of yours.

Here, everything remains utterly the same. The weather is the only thing shifting.

Now, looking out my bedroom window, a flurry of warm leaves whirls towards the ground.

Your good friend, Elizabeth.

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AHMAD FREIHART Ahmad Freihart lives in Jordan where he attends King’s Academy. ahmadfreihat16@kingsacademy.edu.jo Consumption They place their nation within food The people are represented by food A lot of rice Small Tasteless Insignificant Given a façade of yoghurt A yoghurt they call jamid They call their own Given added flavor with meat and nuts Something all others use Because it works And then they eat it They devour with bare hands It and all it represents And that is mansaf.

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A Family The baby was most apparent.

Her name was Jida, an Arabic name.

The dad was Chris.

The mom was Ruba.

There was little linking the older ones except that they both focused their attention on the younger one and seeing her with either you could tell she was theirs but seeing those two together you would see nothing other than two of separate races together.

Baby danced and played.

The mother, her usual happy self, danced along with her.

The dad, a man many were intimidated by laughed along with her and one could tell she got her laugh from him.

Then they sat her down and they began to feed her and many in the dining hall stopped and played with her.

All laughed and she laughed with all.

I saw a family and now my literature teacher is missing and my dorm head is missing.

They left on a family emergency.

We do not know what.

Mr. Chris cannot grow frustrated at Amin when he doesn't do his home work correctly and Ms. Ruba can't get frustrated at Marwan for missing our dorm meeting and Jida can no longer rid them of their frustration.

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ALEC FREY

I live in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania and attend the Episcopal Academy. My alternate email address is freya17@zoho.com and my favorite poet from our course is Sylvia Plath (single- handedly due to “Insomniac”).

Some other interests of mine aside from poetry writing include fiction writing, though in poetic-prose, and bikepolo (an odd quasi-sport). I have a theory about poetry that it is meant to be as simply stated as possible while still conveying deep-rooted connections to humanity or the human condition— otherwise, what’s the point? An instructor of mine from a summer course I took in 2015 put it best when he said, “If your poetry is just a series of images, then it’s nothing more than an advertisement from a brochure. There needs to be a story, a motive, a reason.” That is both how I write poetry and why I write poetry today: to discover that reason.

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Jonah, do you remember the days when we would clamber up balconies and over tall picket fences?

We spent hours digging in the clay along the banks of the creek across the street and mere seconds sprinting home when we were too tired to play.

You were always my “elder,” as you liked to call it, and I was meant to “respect” you; not anymore. We haven’t exchanged words in over a month and Time moves quicker than ever these days.

It passes you and I by like a “too-far” train-ride from Boston, even during the holidays.

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My Father’s Foxtrot by Alec Frey {My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke} Did you know I almost went to jail for twenty years once?

His eyes brimmed with misty memories.

How could I possibly trust that the words coming out of his mouth weren't a bunch of moralistic lies?

My father and I, brown hair, blue eyes, and an inherent vice for anarchy.

I hopped a fence and helped them break into the car.

There he was, throwing half a grin to an unseen cameraman, unaware of how his night would end.

And I know more ways to sneak out of my house than I do ways to fall asleep at night, and that is why I got in the car with them.

A cop was waiting for us outside the lot, so we tried to outrun him of course.

A hundred and thirty miles per hour on twisting backroads in a tin can; or hands cuffed behind backs in backs of cop cars, prayers thrown up to a god I don’t even believe in.

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Letter from Alec in the USA to Ahmad in Jordan Dear Ahmad: It’s times like these that I think of our similarities. Haven’t spoken with my brother in two months, and I remember you too know what it’s like to be the youngest of a few brothers. What’s it like? Jordan? I know it must still be new to you, so much of your life spent in the south of the peninsula.

And to think our parents are so alike, however distanced.

They “got lucky,” and all went to University. Gave us a fresh start at Episcopal and King’s Academy. How lucky are we? Such is that without discountenance we agree, no food is quite as good as food at home. You’re like my mother, saying “No restaurant cooks as well as me, not even Sufra, with their “traditional” Jordanian cuisine.” You wouldn’t believe what came on the radio the other day— The Beatles I’m getting back to writing my book, it’s good to get back to writing fantasy. Kinda like Lord of the Rings. This is just a byproduct of Dickens after all.

At the end of the day, its just you me, a piece of paper and a pal-point pen. Best regards, Alec.

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the next shipment Alec Frey my heart is a brass faced po box marked 800 to it there are two keys one in my car and one on my lanyard both are always moving my heart is a plastic seal container triple bagged and smell proofed like my bathroom (workshop) i flush away green flowers on thursdays much passes through my heart Santa Barbara Gifts and Humboldt Technologies love failure im no repo rather a Robin Hood the only difference is that one of us is invincible and the other has a delivery date

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A Road through a— Ford Alec Frey Start the car— And Drive Past blurry greenery— A gamble made so Easily— Where cobblestones And rivers meet— Ancient basins— in run-down Places— He perpetually Seeks To find— another Time In another Place— To serve a Sentence Come face-to-face— But what I seek Is greater than Disgrace— It’s a frisson in an old Ford Focus—

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GEMMA GERST

I'm Gemma Gerst. I live in Los Angeles, California and I am a junior at Windward School. I have really enjoyed this class and loved getting to know everyone. My knowledge of poetry has expanded drastically and feel as though I know a lot more. I most enjoyed reading the poems by Marie Howe and Frank O'Hara and have learned a lot about my own writing style with help from reading their work. ggerst17@windwardschool.org

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He was mine - Gemma Gerst He was sitting in my living room, grabbing at my mothers hair.

He pulled a little to hard and I watched my mother wince.

I was 9, he was one.

I settled into my favorite chair, warm and comforting, listening to they story that I would remember as the moment of change.

My uncle was in..

Rebab? Resab? Rehab?

I’m not sure what that is but it has something to do with getting better.

That’s what Mom said.

Suddenly my life changed completely.

Late nights due to crying, mornings full of red-eyed, half-asleep parents, and another brother I have to protect.

Rhett talks, Rhett laughs, Rhett eats, Rhett cries.

I understood.

Rhett is mine, he’s my cousin, my brother, someone to protect.

I watch him grow.

Rhett crawls, Rhett eats, Rhett walks, Rhett talks Rhett is gone.

He is probably seven years old now.

I haven’t seen him since the day his father got out of rehab.

The day he filed for custody.

The day I lost my cousin.

I miss that little baby who pulled my mother’s hair a little too hard.

I miss the milestones occurring right before my eyes, I miss the laughs erupting from endless games of peek-a-boo, I miss the drugs that brought him to us in the first place.

I miss Rhett.

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photo by Gemma Gerst

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Bulimia - Gemma Gerst 4:02 am I roll over and pick up the phone, a groggy and unconvincing hello escapes my lips.

“Gemma, I did something bad.”

It’s Lucy.

Lucy Please don’t do this to yourself again, We have come so far.

We have been counting the days, Next Tuesday would have been 3 months.

Think about all the good..

Remember all of the laughs we have had, Tears filling our eyes due to countless inside jokes.

Remember the smiles you get from those around you at the dinner table every single night.

Remember that I am always here for you.

Remember this, You are not broken You are not alone You just made a mistake.

One we will make sure you will never make again.

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Flannigans There is one thing that really set the Flannigan’s apart There were nine of them.

Yes nine.

My Mother said it was because they were Catholic.

Irish Catholic.

I remember playing with them constantly as a kid.

The hot tar staining our feet black.

Eating popsicles during the summer, always cherry flavored, always half-melting into our hands.

Plenty of time to be a child, stress-free, exuding excitement.

There was never a dull moment with the Flannigan’s, Now when I think back, I realize that my memories with the Flannigan kids are completely untainted.

It was a time of good vibes, always has been. always will be.

photo by Gemma Gerst

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A Sound For The Ages I put the record player’s needle down onto my favorite album, Abbey Road 1969 A quiet room, a quiet house, no sound except for the soft tune of my record player.

The crackling as one song ends and another begins.

There is nothing quiet like the serenity that is released with the quite lull.

The melody washing over me, easing me in and out of focus. leaving me alone, yet I feel completely surrounded.

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ANTHEA LOVETT

I live in Hong Kong, and attend Hong Kong International School. My favourite poet I learnt about in this course is most likely Emily Dickinson - I loved the topics she used in her poems and how she melded her words to create the scenes. I hope to one day become a traveling poet, teaching at schools and helping to share experiences through poems to create a form of comfort for others. I enjoyed this class and meeting and reading everyone else’s poems - I’d still love to stay in contact with everyone, so feel free to contact me at 160539@hkis.edu.hk

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Umbrella Revolution by Carol Nyo

Umbrella by Anthea Lovett I remember once, Walking that street, Of so many steps And never once Did I think that that road, Queens Road - the heart of Hong Kong Would arise a fight of the future, I saw it, before I knew it, Being shoved left By a police officer He told me to leave, that I shouldn’t get hurt Afraid, I walked, with no money in pocket (I’d left it at home that day) To the east, And watched as Queens Road Arose alive against China The next day I came back 51 Global Online Academy Poetry

The first 100 steps afraid, The next 100 more secure, I watched the grins of students singing songs Songs of freedom they’ve awaited A man in a turban ran up to us with a smile “Somethings in the air, today, I feel it friends!”

He’d been in Hong Kong twelve years A cheer arose from the right 100 steps more, and there he stood Dressed in yellow, a mere two years older than me Leading a revolution, Standing on a cardboard box, Screaming into a broken microphone His shirt ragged, A gas mask on his face, And he was The epitome Of change Joshua Wong The police called him trouble The protestors called him hero I called him strong So I left 100 more steps A couple in wedding outfits 52

Standing by the tents Gas masks fastened to their faces “A marriage is a change in life. Why not make it a bigger one?”

I watched as a young man is taken by police He dropped his notebook full of notes for classStudying by night in the tents Against family wishes He spat at a policeman, and was taken away Against his wishes “You’re lucky you aren’t Chinese. White people would bring too much Attention.

Be blessed. But make your change too” A boy shouted across the street, his hand in the hair Of his girlfriend sleeping beside him In a spot where the cars would drive A bond they’d made over the Protests, strengthened by the tides Of the pull of the moon At night by the road by the ocean Where they slept and she’d dream Of that day, for years to come Maybe on their wedding day.

A banner of hope, Swaying above a police officer As I got closer, I saw the bags under his eyes The tiredness 53 Global Online Academy Poetry

The stress Perhaps he wanted this fight too To save his family from the future Perhaps he wanted to feed his family more To save his family from the now Did his duty to his name I kept walking, to the west Signed my name by the wall of sticky notes And was handed yellow ribbons by a group of boys, about 12 years old Every 100 steps, I tied one of those yellow ribbons To a post, or a sign, anything really.

To let people know The movement ran through the streets As much as it ran through our veins When I went back 100 days later It was still there Beside a sign “We will be back�

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Death and life by Anthea Lovett Dear Anxiety by Anthea Lovett January I felt afraid in September, but I couldn’t admit it to myself until January, how, when the blood dripped down my arm that time I fell, I felt how it would be to lay on my deathbed, in December, crying to the world how I wanted to live, knowing I wanted to die. How much I hated you.

February I lost myself in the winter breeze, when the cold burnt my lips, and the wind bought tears from the back of my mind to the front of my eyes, as they fell down my left cheek and left a freezing trail down my lips. I stepped into the doctors office, stood on the scales, and held my arm out for the needle, though it never came.

March I tasted your name on my tongue, as you spit fire from the eyes of my mother. My tongue let our lies, but you didn’t swallow them. You were a fact, brutal, in front of my face, where everyone could see. In March, I hated you, how you were but a defining phrase of me, a characteristic. Something that made people shudder, just by your mention, but made me want to curl up, just by your actions.

April I had an affair against you, last night, with insomnia. What a great lover - warm in your body, prodding your thoughts. He found out everything about you that night. He got jealous when I fell asleep and dreamt of you. I guess he won out though, when I awoke so lonely. I felt myself losing touch as I swallowed my pills. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. April was becoming warmer, but my body still felt cold.

May I was invited to a party, in May, and I knew what to expect. Red cups, red lips, red fire. My body cried red, that night too, as I thought about how those kids had nothing on me. In terms of addiction - I’m addicted to the internet, to the doctors dictionary. I got a headache in May, which meant I had cancer, and when I had a pimple on my arm, I was going to die in exactly two weeks. While all those kids were out partying that night, I was writing my obituary in my head, with the thought of not waking up the next day. I did.

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In June, my friend called me up.“We haven’t talked in forever! Oh my god, how ARE you? Oh, thats a shame. I hope you feel better at least. No? Its all in your head, you just need to relax. Of COURSE I understand, but I think this is all an overreaction. No, of course I want you to get better, but I’ve heard the side effects of the medication you’re taking is - no, no of course not. But you’re becoming so toxic. It’s so stressful to be your friend, you know. All you do is just have problems. And you never talk about them to me. It’s just - never mind, I have to go. I have so much to do. Feel better, yeah? I’ll talk to you later.” She didn’t call again.

July When I went to the shops this July, I tripped over my feet and my tongue, as I stared at the shoulder of the lady at the counter at McDonalds. Her left eye was bigger than her right eye, I noticed. Did she know that? I supposed my body is a bit uneven too - is it because you sit on my shoulder, whispering origami wrapped lies to my ear, folding careful paper cranes, and when you open them you, spill the truth of your ugliness?

August When I picked up my books at the school library today, my dad slipped a book onto my pile. “Tips for Dealing with Anxiety”. A look at the first page, and I knew - a doctor wrote about it. They must’ve never danced with you, must’ve just watched your steps from afar. Not felt how it was to have your hand gripping my waist a bit too tight, as you led me across the floor. Your intricate steps ignored by them, but I could feel it all, the twist of your left foot, a squeeze to my right side, they didn’t know you like I did. I thanked my dad, and I still read it anyway. Do you remember those jokes we shared? Laughed at how little the doctor actually knew? It was funny.

I have it back to my dad the next week, a promise on the tip of my tongue that it helped.

September If you were a cartographer, how would you draw me? Would you draw the journey of the freckles around my eyes, the path my tears made down my cheek like a river? Would you note the continetal drift of a scar above my eye? How my pinkie was a crooked bend in the road? The borders of my frown lines, that led to the corner of my ears? I think it must be kind of beautiful how you see me. But I still hate it. I think I’d like to find myself on the map first.

October I went to a Halloween party today. Do you not like costumes? Not like the idea of people hiding who they were?

I was a master of that. But you made me afraid when I stepped to the room, as a cool trail of sweat swam down my head, and tickled my nose. Did you hate it? Was that why you left, in the middle, hopped off to enjoy the party yourself. I forgot about you too, until I left my phone and it was time to leave. I can’t remember much of that party. Was it because you weren’t there? Do you help me remember? I hope not.

November I feel like a house where the lights are left on, but the families gone out for a fancy dinner. Where my mind was a window, and your hands were the shutters, wrapped around my neck, and you just could NOT stand the sun streaming in. The floorboards were my words, and your thoughts were the nails that held me down, and the yard outside was uncared for - with Novembers autumn leaves dying in a perpetual cycle. But I’m waiting for someone to sneak in the yard, rake up the leaves, and open the blinds.

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December Today I held my arm out, for a needle, and watched the doctor take a part of me. Watched my blood go into the tube, and with it, you left. I should feel lonely, sad our companionship is gone. It feels a bit like taking a warm shower, on a December night, and then putting on your freshly ironed pajamas, or like peeling of dead skin, how it’s satisfying and unnerving. But what lied beneath that dead skin, and what happened when you left - I feel more beautiful then ever.

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Secret flame by Rachel Vanduo

My Heart is My Hero by Anthea Lovett The first time it happened, I woke up on the floor of a vets office On a school trip with a dogs heart in a jar and my mind in a puddle.

The second time it happened I woke up in the toilet At the doctor’s office after getting my blood taken And I woke up in my dads arms, as he told me it would all be okay, And he knew, and I knew, and the doctors knew, It wasn't.

It happened since, each time followed by a heavy heart and side-eye glances, and a mind like a one way mirror, and a trip to the doctor’s office where they told me I was sick, With their hooks to my brain and their shocks As my heart grew heavier and our wallet lighter And a starry crown on my head and gel in my hair

It stopped when I was 13 58

After five years of a little purple pill, twice daily, down the throat, And a cup of water and an acknowledgement, Of the fact that life wasn't perfect, But that doesn't mean, that every night that I go to sleep, I kiss my parents goodnight with a heavy heart, And pray to God in silent that I will wake up the next day.

I wonder sometimes, what went on in their brains?

When they saw me on the floor twitching, Did their brains go on a journey to the moon, like mine?

Did they burn up in the atmosphere five feet from the edge?

What about when they opened their eyes?

Did they feel that relief of life? And that fear of thousand of eyes and the whispers And did their heart ache more than their body as they heard the names of the girl who was broken?

I wonder What did they think of me?

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Messy Room, Messy Mind by Anthea Lovett

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Flowers of Music by Jessica Cashker

Music Box by Anthea Lovett Amassing treasure, Of mimicking ornate tapestry, With abyss of complexion like that of the sun, A noise like calm grief on the disquiet horizon, Tearing dawn streaks in the moonlight, Golden knell falling apart to the mercy Against the ripple of the broken music box Nostalgia’s wave gripping beneath Almighty crumbling of the nebula The cocoon of heat breaking to breeze Blood on the teeth of the hurricane Amongst the harmony of silence And out they fall like glass, breaking Tinkling, singing, tapping, dancing While the music box starts again

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WILL MANN

My name is Will Mann, and I am a seventeen-year-old student at Buckingham Browne & Nichols School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My favorite poet from this course was James Wright, but I also connected with Frank O’Hara’s “Personism” manifesto and its condemnation of many poets’ tendency to force meaning upon readers. I can be reached at wmann@bbns.org.

The J Barnes always said that when two paths diverge in this choppy life the difference is a sliver The J is a thing when you properly deliver that glides and slices, leaving streaks of silver Dip - dip - and swing the Nantucket sleigh sways bounding into whitecaps held steady by the J The waves will beat choices will be made but in choppy waters the J keeps the prow in line

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San Andreas I jam the buttons on the keyboard squint my tired eyes and urge the character forward Pixelated smoke clouds the screen poorly animated fire licks the tops of monotone square buildings Kill Officer Tenpenny! the mission objective flashes in Grove Street Family script My middle-school self grinning at the words clicks the button that means “shoot�

That innocent gamer sat awake in his room rioting against brutality on the screen had no clue who Rodney King even was

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Grassroots Vic is ready, and so am I, so ready but we don’t have nets so we lay shirts on an island of grass in the sea of dirt and dust Jack shows up now, and there’s Liam, Lachie too, and Nik and Gabe don’t know where the park is but that’s alright, they’re subs anyways they live way too far away We kick off! neon cleats gleaming in the flickering flood lights watches beeping one AM but the cheering crowds in our heads keeping us up Reus to Müller, Götze shoots and goal! (not quite a golazo) But wait! What’s this! Hummels is hurt?

He’s grabbing the ball and oh no, no The game’s done, Vic’s going home.

And the name on my back fades

Natural Fit 65 Global Online Academy Poetry

I remember my dad’s suits blue and black tweed and cloth clean and smart We walk into the closet covered in relics and ancient photos mounted on the dresser It was funny, he says.

I tried a tweed one on The sleeves were long and the hem at my knees I take a hanger off the rack and pull on a blazer button it in the middle and straighten the edges My dad laughed My first was the same You’ll grow into it When I’m old and grey It’s too long and too wide The sleeves are long and the hem’s at my knees I wore that suit later at his funeral He was a great guy I wish you’d known him I roll up the sleeves And fold up the hem I do know him, Dad. You wear his suit And I know you.

The Bottom 66

Taylor’s house. All is quiet; he’s alone, pacing his room nervously in ragged shorts and a tee-shirt with the name of a famous athlete and his number on the back, and a plastic bag in his hands. Discarded food wrappers lay strewn across the floor, and half-dirty clothes hang on the edges of a radiator, a splintered table, and a chestnut dresser. A rap track plays faintly from an enormous, antiquated computer in the corner.

Depressed Taylor: You’re a pussy. Just do it already. Or is this just another thing you’ll screw up?

Optimistic Taylor: Think of the people that would mourn you! Why would you cause those that love you pain?

Angry Taylor: What people? Who cares?

Depressed Taylor: No one. No one cares.

Ambitious Taylor: But you’re so close to getting out of that stupid desk job! You never know, you could get lucky -- people get famous for music in like no time. You just need someone to play your shit or put it on a blog.

Negative Taylor: Don’t bullshit yourself. Do it.

Taylor, yelling: Fine!

Taylor abruptly thrusts the plastic bag over his head, tightening it around his neck. With every breath he takes, a loud crumple of the plastic going into his mouth. After a few seconds, he rips it off, breathing heavily, and falls back upon his bed.

The Bottom by Taylor Carraway Started from the bottom doesn’t mean shit When your floor is the ceiling of the sewers When your saddest moment to date is the album going double instead of triple Nah, the bottom isn’t something to brag about on a sweetly melodic track If you’ve actually been there, like me you don’t know until you’re back up You don’t know there’s nothing left until you’ve gained something to compare it with 67 Global Online Academy Poetry

You have no clue what grief is until you have something to lose again You don’t know what the bottom is until the voices in your head dragging you down into the depths get silenced by happiness stuffed in their mouths You don’t know that you’ve breathed in death’s stink until you’re up in the sweet, living air.

To: [schoolnews@northcentralhigh.org] Subject: Check out a Falcons alum on the news!

Hey Falcons!

Tune in to NBC tonight to see one of our VERY OWN FALCONS playing on THE LATE SHOW WITH JIMMY FALLON!!!!

TAYLOR CARRAWAY, as you all probably know by now, is debuting his NEW ALBUM!! He was here from 2004-2008, and we’re all SO EXCITED to support him!

Go North Central!

P.S: Please refrain from playing his music in the hallways.

(An intro set to a pointed hip-hop beat fades out: “in the morning, in the morning. Get the crust outcha eyes!)

Sway (donning a pair of enormous headphones and swinging a hanging microphone towards himself): Taylor Carraway, a new, up-and-coming rrrrrapper, is here in the studio, coming to you live on Shade 4-5!

(Applause from the studio crew. Taylor’s mouth curls kindly into a smile, his eyes slightly glazed)

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Taylor: Aha, uh, thanks man. Happy to be here.

Sway: Alright, my dude. We all saw you on that late-night grind. That song, what’s that called?

Taylor (gaze flitting awkwardly to his hands, then, scratching his scruffy chin): Ah, “The Bottom.”

Sway: My man, that was dope! You must have had so many girls comin’ up to you walkin’ out of 30 Rock!

Taylor (slightly confused): Uh… yeah, aha. Yeah.

Sway: So we all wanna know, bro: what was the first thing you bought when you got big? All that cash, that’s what you do it for?

Taylor (looking shifty): I, uh, ah, nah. Nah, nothing flashy.

Sway: Humble! Gotta get that Lambo, brother! That’s how you know you made it!

(The audience laughs. Taylor looks off into the distance.)

Sway: Come on man! You musta bought some nice shit!

(Taylor doesn’t respond. He seems lost in his thoughts, his hands fiddling nervously.)

Sway: Ay, Taylor!

Taylor (shaking his head, then absentmindedly scratching his neck): Yeah, yeah, my bad. Tired, that’s all.

Sway: Probably all the partying! We’ll hear about it after we go to break, Shade 4-5, Taylor Bennett in the hot chair!

(The audience claps. Taylor rubs his forehead, and then, turning away from the crowd and bending over, takes a deep breath.

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ADARSH RACHMALE

My name is Adarsh Rachmale, and I am a student at Cranbrook Kingswood Upper School (Detroit, Michigan).

While I am a math oriented person and studying computer science in college, a piece of me has always been in love with poetry. Mainly, I am in love with rap and hip hop music, which is heavily influenced by modern poetry. The Poetry Writing GOA course offered a great experience for me to step away from my typical schedule, and I learned about a lot of new poets I never knew before. Of them, I am particularly fascinated by Frank Bidart.

You can contact me at adarshrachmale@gmail.com. Also, please check out my website: http://www.adarshrachmale.com/!

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Pops

by Adarsh Rachmale Father.

Immigrant farmer.

Enthusiastic entrepreneur.

America was the dream.

To a young Indian farm boy from a petite town named Waigaon, America is the dream of unlimited success and family time.

Stark contrast between my life and what his was.

He played marbles in a dirt hut, While I use a smartphone in an affluent community.

He would wake up, look at his dirt floor, and dream about success Brown dust, vibrant reds, and loud noises from the peacocks Would fill his senses when he worked on the farm.

A stark contrast to the urban scene outside my closed, menacing window blinds He liked the simple life, but at the same time He knew that it wasn’t the best life He imagined waking up in a clean, white home Green lawn in the front Chevy Impala vibrating, revving, so the whole block could see But above all else, he wanted his kids to have a good education My Dad worked hard for the next generation, whereas I work for myself.

My generation is slacking off.

Right? Wrong?

All I know is the struggle we face is of a different breed.

I appreciate my comfort, but I want a struggle too.

We need one.

For now, I ask my father for advice.

He exclaims, It should be easy for you to succeed!

I have no doubt of this, but a good act is always hard to follow.

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Letter from Adarsh in Detroit to Rob in Atlanta

by Adarsh Rachmale Dear Rob: The American Dream comes true here. My city is built on grit, industry, and engineering, much like the way trees grow on soil.

We have Ford, General Motors, and Chrylser, all driving, literally and metaphorically, our economy.

My dreams and aspiration, our (the residents of the city) dreams and aspiration, are born out of ...this great, unique city...of our desire to never be the underdog. Woodward Avenue and John R. run parallel like my veins. We feel the need to prove ourselves everywhere we go. When we see each other in public, we will act like we are family. I see big city lights and the hustle and bustle of a city, I look out of a window and see the color of rust, but at the same time, a pulsing array of lights, and a unique, industrial fragrance, yet I feel at home. In the outskirts, on West Grand Boulevard, a new budding, economy is flourishing.

Vacant lots are getting painted and filled Quite a unique thing to witness. No one can truly explain it.

Much like the creation of the universe in that sense, huh.

You must visit this city to see what I am talking about. I know you love Atlanta, so we need to compare and contrast our homes. I need to see and hear about the world outside of mine. Being worldly is a great trait to have, but at what cost is losing your own identity and hometown pride and arrogance worth it? Anyways, let's be sure to catch up some time very soon.

Your good friend, Adarsh

The Golden Ticket

by Adarsh Rachmale The Golden Ticket to happiness is... you already know it...

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It's obvious.

Ignorance I wish I were more ignorant, like a dog who gets fed by its owners.

The thing is, being aware is not always the best thing Awareness makes me worry too much If I didn't worry, I'd be able to enjoy more Instead, right now, I am asking myself...

What is my grade in BC Calculus?

Why don't I love more?

What is the meaning of life?

Clearly, my mind is all over the place.

These are all questions that worry me.

Too much.

At times like this, I wish I were young again Take me back to the days when... my biggest worry was getting snack...

I would worry about whether my art project would turnout well, Worry about whether there was mac and cheese or chicken for dinner.

Worry about‌the easy things in life.

I didn't have to worry about life after school... or finding myself and place within society Clearly, I face problems with increased complexity compared to my childhood.

Nonetheless, complexity is good, It is natural.

I walk outside and I see a large brown lump hanging from a tree.

Buzzing, incessant buzzing is ringing my ears.

I cut the nest open and see small, charred compartments for the bees to sleep inside.

It is extremely complex.

The bee’s nest is beautiful because of this complexity.

It is beautiful because nature can make something so intricate.

It is beautiful that nature made mankind.

Realizing this, I now strive to appreciate the complexity in my life Success

by Adarsh Rachmale 73 Global Online Academy Poetry

The future: a dark abyss that is seemingly close, yet so mysterious I fear the future, but I am still optimistic, slightly I am scared I won't find the true meaning of happiness Chasing money is good, and society emphasizes it, too But is it really important? Sure, I want money Green, crinkled, old, Benjamin 100 dollar bills And only until I achieve this monetary success can I say, "money isn't important" Until that day, I will still blindly chase society's ideal "success" It will be a guilty paper chase with a hurricane mind of thoughts what if I don't make new friends?

What if I don't ever find anyone to love? What if...

I am not remembered? Don't have kids? Don't leave behind a...

Legacy A group of children look down upon yellow paper in a dimly lit room…

They look at a history book…

I hope I am in this history book Legacy...The historical prevalence of one's impact whether that means an infamous, dark reputation left for another generation, A long-remembered, historic reputation left for the next generation, Or no legacy at all I fear the latter, that is my deepest secret I keep it a secret because to everyone around me, I am confident cool, collected, accomplished, and excessively ambitious Will I find myself in the future, or will I be alone, working a job I don't like?

Kanye West says, “Used to only be n****s, now everybody playin', Spendin' everything on Alexander Wang, New Slaves.”

We are slaves to money and material goods Sure, I have amazing friends, family but the next day, they could be gone Then... What could I possibly have to make up for my devastating loss? Money, fame, power What are these without people to share them with Without people to see your rise and to cry for your sorrows I am scared to be alone on my desperate hunt for "success"

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Trayvon

by Adarsh Rachmale I was with my friends when I heard the news At a business club competition, actually Flipping through my phone in a dimly lit room, with the light caressing my face‌ ‌my face of disappointment We watched our phones intently as the screen loaded The buffer screen finally loaded with the results The whole nation had been waiting for this one moment It was not just the verdict of a court case...

It was the judgment of the US's racism It was a judgment of our US court system in its entirety Seeing the words "not guilty" shocked the room I was personally infuriated with the verdict Never mind. I was not infuriated with the verdict... as much as... disappointed with society Sure... It was just a court decision, they are incorrect all the time But what angered me the most was the fact that Zimmerman became a celebrity People supported him, a select group of racist old southern white people rallied their support for a murderer, while a devastated family mourned the loss of their son I was changed by the verdict.

A new mission was added to my list The goal to bridge the gap and make America the amalgamation that it once was A country of misfits.

Zimmerman went on to sold artwork outlining his racism and people bought it for a 100,000 dollars This support angered me Sure, he may have made a mistake, and I understand that but why is he being celebrated? Zimmerman, at best, should have just been pushed under the rug

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OLIVIA REYNOLDS

I am a current senior at Greens Farms Academy and live in Rowayton, Connecticut. I have always had an interest in English and writing and I absolutely loved taking Poetry Writing this year. I am an Alpine Ski racer and play Field Hockey in the fall. My favorite poet from this course was Patricia Smith. Her spoken word poetry is incredible and I love the emotions she conveys though her writing. In the future I can be reached by email: reynoldsoey@gmail.com.

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Lucky: Like the hand I used to hold you are warm to the touch.

Some simply see you like all the others that touch both water and sand and lie aimlessly under the soul's of those blind, but I do not.

Buried in the warm sand of Bailey beach you were thrown into my life at age 3, transferred from warm but dry hands into my smaller nail bitten fingers.

Accompanied with a smile and a deep bellowing laugh.

I am not bothered by your salty personality or your rough appearance.

Encompassed in a stroke of white, your face smiles.

Turning you over in my hand I realize how perfectly you fit into my palm.

- Olivia Reynolds

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Numbers: Today, A 16 year old deeply depressed girl endlessly struggling to find who she is, tired and frustrated, knows that numbers prove her worth.

But tomorrow, she will not be contained.

She will break though the looming barrier Her importance her value her worth can not be calculated.

Today we are 140 pounds on a scale, we are a mediocre 89 on a physics test.

Today we are 52 likes on an Instagram post, we are a mere 30 on the ACT Today we are 3 helpings of lunch we are the 2 close friends we cherish, Today we are the 1 goal let by in a field hockey game The 1 goal you let in that caused the loss of a game.

Tomorrow will be based not on number but on 78

Who we are We are made up of much more than numbers we are our smile, our loud and bellowing laugh. we are our honesty and the places we have come from. we are our dreams and beliefs, our late night thoughts and our motivation to get out of bed every single morning.

We are our imperfections and the impact we have on others. we are human. we are not numbers.

- Olivia Reynolds

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Monday November 24th, 2015: 6:45 The dark looming clouds shield the sun making my small room seem smaller. My eyes peel open and fix themselves on the windows where the sun should be beaming in. In between the two blue-striped curtain the dark world waits for me.

7:01 Ughhhh. The cold crisp air floods my body and covers my skin with goose bumps as I painfully peal away the layers of warmth. I step onto the cold tiled floor and feel around for the switch. Second one on the left, before the shower door. Brace yourself…The light illuminated the dark bags under my eyes, the acne around my nose and the bird’s nest that rests on my head. My eyes squint at the figure in the mirror and look at the disfigured arms and legs that attach themselves to an equally out of proportioned body.

7:15 Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Yeah, about that… I grab my overweight backpack; sports bag, and put on my favorite dark green long coat. I race to the refrigerator trying to beat time and grab a honey crisp apple from the bottom drawer. As I rush out of the kitchen, I take the 30 seconds to jot down apples on the yellow post it note on the counter.

7:25 My cold hands find their way to the even colder steering wheel. They then reach for the radio and turn up “The coffeehouse” since I hate driving in silence. My mom stands from the window that overlooks the driveway and waves. Bye mom. I back out of the small driveway and drive away from our even smaller house.

7:45 Brian stole my parking spot again. Jerk. I glare at him while I pull up next to him. Great, just great. I grab my apple, overweight backpack and sports bag and slam the door behind me. I fumble for my keys and hear the reassuring click, as the car door locks. I fling the bags over my already heavy shoulder and walk towards the looming school ahead.

8:00 AP English; the combination of English discussions and any time before 10am do not go well together. The coffee from this morning hasn't quite kicked in yet. I try to fix my eyes on Hamlet and not the clock right above Dr. MC’s head.

8:50 Take a deep breath you are almost there 8:55

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French 5; The coffee is starting to kick in now. Downside of having a small class - you can’t hide. So I do my best. I hide behind Cole; the talkative one. But of course she still calls on me. She defiantly does that on purpose. He clearly knows the answer, not me.

9:45 vous y êtes presque 9:50 Physics; My stomach growls under the pressure of the quiz. Okay, Fnet=ma, If the mass is greater than that means it will have a smaller accelerations….I think.

10:45 Finally lunch — I am sooooo hungry 11:30 Pre-Calculus Honors; flies by. I leave the classroom more confused than when I entered. Oh well.

12:20 Just two more classes, you can do this half way there 12:25 Chamber Choir; My throat hurts from the 5 hours of sleep I have been getting. It stings as I try and sing Angles in Seventh. Well this is pointless. I sound like an old person.

1:15 Uhhhh my throat is dying.

1:20 Announcements; boring More things they expect us to remember, but won’t.

2:10 Okay look you've almost made it, Last class.

2:15 Poetry Writing; I open my heart and pour it on the page. Everything. The good. The bad.

Everything.

3:05 Finally. I made it.

3:30

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Field Hockey Practice. I know, I am suppose to lead a good example, but my head is about to explode and my limbs will fall off if I run any further. My mother’s voice pops up in the back of my head like her whole grain toast every morning. Okay, pull it together you are extremely lucky and fortunate.

5:30 Back into the car. My apple core is still on the ground of the passenger seat as I buckle up 6:15 I pull into the illuminated house as the sunsets behind the ocean. The reflection of the sea gives off light and makes the world seem brighter. But it is not. It is a dark and full of expectations.

6:20 How was your day love? She looks at me with open eyes and arms. I fall into her small and frail arms and am comforted with her coffee smell.

And for the first time in a long time, I lie.

It was great‌ - Olivia Reynolds

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The mountain:

“Oh gosh—looking back at it now I laugh” submerged in a field of tiny yellow dandelions that let their souls go as the wind tickled their cheeks “my mountain was more like a hill” with it’s top peaking up above the yellow abyss it rose above anything else in that small fenced in yard

“William and I would play everyday after school.” two red backpacks filled with sandwich crusts and crumpled pieces of math homework would fly off our shoulders and we would run our pale legs to the top of our mountain

“It was very important little hill” When I was young I fed it imagination It would swallow it up in its leaves and dandelions and red flowers.

As I grew, it seems to shrink and as the years passed my imagination shrunk with it sinking into the dark cold ground. “it was more like a bump, but to us — it was the mountain”

I visited last winter, the snow had covered 83 Global Online Academy Poetry

the once yellow dandelions the ground was still cold and dark from its hunger.

I looked out the first story window and tried to focus on the bump that lay in the center of that small fenced in yard.

- Olivia Reynolds

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I’ve said that: “Never change who you are for the sake of others” - -Chris Herren “For the past few years I have dedicated my life to sharing my story” Oh boy here we go again.

“I do it to make a difference” Oh, a hero, are we?

“I do it to prevent one kid and one family from going down the road I did” Get your tissues ready for Katie she is always over emotional “I do it because I remember what it was like, sitting in seats, listening to people present.”

Really? Do you remember, I wonder how old this guy is?

“And I remember thinking I will never be like that guy” I will never be like you.

“What most people don’t know” ohhh throw a statistic at us, that will defiantly make it more believable “Is that it all starts in high school” So this is why he is here. Trying to stop us from doing what he did. Someone must have actually been thinking.

“It starts with the red solo cup and cigarette” What? Alcoholics and drug addicts? No way. I don’t believe that.

“Its starts with that first sip and” Really? “the time your mind says, oh this is just a one time thing” I’ve said that…

“I’ll just do it once ” That too…

But I am not an alcoholic or addict, what do I have to worry about?

- Olivia Reynolds

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JEFF SCHWARTZ

I started falling in love with poetry in high school, but didn’t study it until college and after, when I worked on a little mag called Aspect in Somerville, MA and Alice James Books, a collaborative press that still publishes, now from Maine. For ages, I’ve taught at Greenwich Academy in CT and for the last three years through Global Online Academy. This class has been a joy, and I will miss you all. I wrote this poem in praise of my mother-inlaw, who passed away shortly after Hurricane Sandy in 2013. It appears in the current issue of The Paterson Literary Review. Send me your poetry and college news! jschwartz@greenwichacademy.org

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Mary Mary 1.

Your last week on earth the century’s worst storm hit the east coast, the river you couldn’t see from your window spilled over its banks flooding up to second floors & ricocheting boats in their basins, Ocean Avenue disappeared under three feet of sand, & no one was allowed home to Sea Bright without an escort from the National Guard.

2.

It’s hard to detach. You left us post-its in books, reminders by the phone, annotations on newspapers you couldn’t throw out. Everywhere, hand-written notes.

The first time we left Ben with you at the shore, you wrote a minute-by-minute journal to humor my insecurity. “Listen,” you tried to assure me.

“When I was only 13, I took care of every Catholic kid in The Port.” I got it: people trusted you, people loved you. You created lasting connections effortlessly. By the time you reached the register, you knew the life stories of people buying groceries.

You bonded equally with your nurses & hair dresser, your “club girls” from elementary school, your neighbors in London & Toronto & all over Jersey, the woman who cleaned the condo, my relatives (who also grew up along the shore), & even the Fed Ex man who appeared in uniform at your wake.

3.

A week before, when there was still no power, a bunch of us sat around the dining room table lit by two elegant candelabra, emptying Dave’s case of Southern Hemisphere wine & swapping family stories like how your mother, Margaret, escorted her sister across the Atlantic only to arrive at Ellis Island with no one to greet them.

Shortly after, they appeared in Elizabethport before relatives who opened their door in shock, crying, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

How did you find your way?” to which Margaret calmly replied, “Ah, sure, do you think we have no maps in Ireland?”

4.

Before you were married, you worked as a receptionist at Esso & saved dollars to take the boat to see your mother’s family in County Clare.

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They didn’t know what to make of you, a young woman with fiery red hair who loved to dance, their sister Margaret’s daughter, appearing with a suitcase full of gifts.

You stayed in the family house, the one with the thatched roof heated by sod, which was enough. Simple was always enough.

So when the storm came to New Jersey, the biggest hurricane anyone had ever seen, it hardly mattered, because you were perfectly comfortable in the hospital along the Navesink pulsing on back-up power. “Why are people visiting me?” you asked. “Am I sick?” “Am I dying?” And later, “Well, if I’m dying, let’s clean this place.” I see you sitting up in the bed you died in four days later, applying lipstick. That was the day you spoke to Ben on the phone & Dennis visited. Clearly, you touched them. And they touched you. Were you always unafraid to express your love?

5.

The last day you were lucid, you had your daughter bring Patty’s cellophane-wrapped bags of chocolate pretzels to give to the nurses at Riverview. In your last call with Dr. Konnor, the one where he was supposed to tell you that the cancer was spreading too rapidly & that the treatments now could only be “palliative,” the good doctor never got a word in, because you spent the whole call thanking him & sending your love to Amy who was just married and Katrina who just had a baby & all the others who attended you the last six years at Sloan Kettering. Despite the nightmarish pain, you seemed ready to cede control. You asked for a priest & then joked about keeping him waiting.

6.

Somewhere in the Caribbean, just before midnight, the music paused, the lights dimmed, Betsy & I in black gown & tux, looked up three stories from the dance floor, & there you were, perfectly balanced, somehow the first one to pour atop a pyramid of champagne glasses. And at the ring of the new year, far, far from New York & the turmoil of the next decade, the emcee at the microphone announced the first to bring in 2002 would be Mary. Mary from New Jersey.

7.

Last night I had a dream that I needed to save the Queen of England & she was aging & close to death so it seemed a bit futile but nevertheless my duty or at least the mechanism to keep the story going, & right at the moment when it all seemed over, you, I mean the Queen, created a divergence & jumped over the side of the boat. And all I could do was follow. Into the sea. To make sure no one would harm you. You were playing in the waves & then you were safe in your castle & you had out-smarted them & survived & now, alongside your family, you could re-take your throne.

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IONA TAN

I live in Marietta, Georgia and go to school at the Westminster Private schools. A lover of reading and writing since a young age, I fell into writing naturally as both a catharsis and creative outlet. Throughout this course, my knowledge of poetry greatly expanded. I learned not only more about the craft but met people of like minds that encouraged me to continue writing in earnest and with a renewed sense of passion. My favorite Featured Poet was Sylvia Plath. I draw inspiration from her work and enjoyed learning more about her life and how it affected her art. I loved participating in this course and reading everyone’s work

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There is a Space In Between

By Iona Tan

The hallowed arches of Shuttered Lids And the barren Landscapes of Reality In this wake-sleep dreams spin Red threads of virtue and sin Destiny’s Hands weaving tapestries Of fates tangled and deceived Traveling an endless night On the edge of breaking day Everything all one the same I know of neither What can anchor me to the ground Keep me from drifting away Neither Here nor There Stuck in the Space In Between

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Ghost

By Iona Tan

You’re grinning at me from across the sticky formica tables at Zesto’s on Little Five, chocolate vanilla swirl cone dripping from your long pianist hands.

Or sometimes I try to have fun like I used to So I go dancing at the Drunken Unicorn and suddenly, There you are Across the wavelengths of pulsating bodies Your curly hair Your not brown-not blonde-not red curly hair Shaking to the beat of that band we watched together the first time.

Every nook and half-forgotten hollow of this city lives and breathes you The woolly dawn before the sun burns off the blur of night brings the feeling of your breath near mine the feeling of it just being enough.

Endless cups of the tar black coffee and steaming blueberry pie at Daisie’s and all I can do is sit and replay the stray crumb dangling off those lips of yours as you laugh that laugh of yours The coffee stales and the pie turns to ash as I sit and I sit and I sit.

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art by Iona Tan

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Relapse By: Iona Tan

It is inescapable Every time I think I have run far enough To make it fade to nothing It catches me I never look at it directly I think if I did I would fall apart Well—fall more apart Until there aren’t even bones left to piece back together It’s easier to go on pretending That things are not as hard as they are Easy stupid simple baby things Like eating Like sleeping Like waking up Tremors snake up my hand As I write this—what even is this Sad sack shit excuse for poetry Making my own straws to grasp at I’m falling anyway I feel it Feel the ground slip under my feet With each god awful heavy step I take Old things come rushing up from the blackness Like some great biblical deluge of sorts Rushing up from all around Until I am drowning again Got to find something to grip onto Hold steady before the waters toss me wild and unmoored— Who am I kidding I’m always unmoored Drifting to and fro and never getting anywhere Just sliding forwards and backwards and Backwards again and again I could say to you that hate it The backwards parts But I don’t or I do and I don’t There is a fearful giddiness I get when I slip into Old things 93 Global Online Academy Poetry

Old habits Old truths Old emptiness I run and run but Still hear its wild panting The thundering of claws Coming closer and closer I let it When I close my eyes And give in to the dreams— Give in to everything else— I see a different sort of body The body I had The body I want The body of no body Wow I’m really going crazy aren’t I Absolutely certifiably insane But maybe I like feeling insane Maybe I like tossing around in this madness I am wearing a great big crimson cloak now Stepping into the wolf’s jaws Or drowning in a flood or fading to blackness or Nothing at all Dreams/hopes/fairytales/reality All All All One.

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Hide and Seek By: Iona Tan

I. I am six years old And my favorite game is hide and seek The murky darkness behind the Musty perfume of my mother’s dresses Back against the wall Each vertebrae deliciously pressed up to The solidness The steadiness My favorite hiding place is the dryer Limbs folding into each other like a blossom blooming in reverse Pressed beneath warm sheets until the poky places go numb Until the entirety of my being go numb And finally I am free From the weight of it all I always hated when they found me You can’t find things that aren’t there I found that if I ate 5 crackers in 13 minutes Each cracker in 7 bites chewed 19 times Or 11 grapes in 15 minutes in 3 bites chewed 17 times Or 9 carrots in 19 minutes in 11 bites chewed 31 times --I really liked odd numbers-Then everything would be a little bit better The stupid child-like roundness of my belly would shrink The fat of my cheeks would slim into sharpness II. I am nine years old old I learned that the pretty girls The white girls Had shiny long hair In blonde or brown or something in between never darker The pretty girls Had skinny arms and legs Rosebud cheeks Alabaster skin Or porcelain Or ceramic Anything cold really Not like the sun-baked riverbanks of my skin The ruddiness of my knees The cave-dark blackness of my hair Much too extreme Much too alive III. 95 Global Online Academy Poetry

I am thirteen I’ve learned to measure hunger By the sunlight streaming through my legs By how much water the dip of my collarbone holds Oh the notes I can play on my piano key ribs!

I want to play a symphony Beethoven cannot be deaf just hear his beautiful music 2 by 4 by 6 parts left on my plate So orchestral so rhapsodic so 90 pounds 85 pounds 82 pounds 80 78 if I could just reach 75—no 65 In my dreams I am so small I become nothing Look look look at me The magical disappearing act I am fourteen You should eat something honey I wish I was as skinny as you No thank you I’m not hungry I’m not hungry I’m not hungry But I am always hungry Hunger is my closest friend Hunger is the only song I hear Hunger whispers in my ear Hunger means empty Hunger means clean Hunger means thin Thin thin thin At night I hold the sharp juts of my hipbones Bony fingers clasping around each like a prayer I put rubberbands up my arms—farther and farther There is nothing left to squeeze I brush my hair and a long piece falls out I hold the dark thing in my hand It is brittle and dull When I faint after walking up the stairs Heart thrumming like a hummingbird When I realize it’s the strongest thing left in me The music stops IV. I am fifteen Wake. Eat. Repeat.

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V. I am sixteen I have learned to stop measuring my body By the space it doesn’t take up I am a cup filled past the brim This rushing river water cannot be contained This verdant garden cannot be contained This body cannot be contained My body cannot be contained I spill over I am messy I am dirty I am beautiful My blood sings a new song And a little girl climbs out of the dark And shouts Come and find me

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CLAUDIA TETI

I’m Claudia Teti, and I live in West Chester, Pennsylvania. I go to the Episcopal Academy, and my email address is teticw16@episcopalacademy.org. I came into this class knowing I loved Frank O’Hara as a poet, and I left with an even better understanding of his works and him as a writer, which only strengthened my admiration for him. I’m hoping that in the future I can expand my education on poetry and continue to pursue my passion for writing.

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AN ATHEIST’S LOVE LETTER Claudia Teti If I believed in God I would believe there was an eighth day of creation just for us when he created the stretch of Goshen Road that leads us to one another when he blew his breath into the atmosphere hoping our lungs would share his exhalations when he hand-sewed your schoolboy heart threading each stitch with fray-proof string when he planted the roots of the towering trees joining the earth and the sky together like us when he shaped the sun to give light to our unclouded eyes when he gave voices to the canaries and nightingales and the whistling thrushes so they could sing only to us every morning when he carved the moon to give life to our drowsy minds and when he created cotton that mimicked clouds so we would be wrapped in heaven every time we dreamed beside each other

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CLASSIC Claudia Teti In the way that your words wandered over from a different decade and your smile pierces through time because your old Brooks Brothers shirts are faded and your charm is worn out like the semi-tacky converter in the bedroom on the ocean that everything washed away in like every house on the ocean, really You are 1968 and Penny Lane but it is their Penny Lane, not ours we’re never there at the same time our minds are stuck in crowds, we could share everything and yet nothing would ever be ours But my thoughts of you are timeless especially when I read Hemingway he wrote about loving so much that the earth moved for him It won’t move for you, I’ve tried to tell it to but you are classic, you are static

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A CONVERSATION WITH HEMINGWAY, NOVEMBER 2015 Claudia Teti “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

What if my blood feels hollow?

My knotted strings of veins Are not overflowing with ideas for the page “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Yet my truth is empty and dull Sitting on the concrete of suburbia, it is not your war And my love, it is not your love “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”

I wonder if your mind was brimming with intelligence Before you left Idaho But rare is not extinct, is it?

“There is no friend as loyal as a book.”

Yes, loyal Hanging on my shelf, eager to tumble open in front of me So I will fall in love with your words and you

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FOREWORD Claudia Teti Exhale life into my world that is otherwise dull, stitch a story into my mind with just one thread pull Kiss me with words black and typed, hold me with faded pages, hold me tight Forgive me, because I may wander, but keep your story in my thoughts when my thoughts of you are no longer

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SPEAK A LULLABY TO ME Claudia Teti tell me about your childhood about your scuffed up school shoes and the footprints their soles made as you wandered around adolescence tell me about your dreams about your imagination clad in pink tulle and red velvet tip-toeing to take teeth from under your pillow and leave presents under the tree tell me about the way the world looked when life was only breathed into black and white and your pale hair was the sun and your pastel eyes were untainted and your soul was your soul

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KATHERINE THOMAS

My name is Katherine Thomas, I live in beautiful, rainy Seattle, and I’m a senior at University Prep.

My favorite poet from this course was Marie Howe. I honestly believe that I have made enormous strides towards finding my voice as poet in this class. I’ve gained courage and experience and I have thoroughly enjoyed reading all of my classmates’ poetry.

My email is katherinesheathomas@gmail.com I would love to hear from you!

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For a Friend Katherine Thomas You said you don’t like opera I said you don’t like it because you’ve never been I’ll take you wait and see you do not always know what I am feeling Remember? Highland Drive or was it Madrona gray splinters beneath our boots and cold fracturing the air around us You lost your breath laughing and told me I looked so beautiful pale in a black dress it made the numbness worthwhile isn't it odd?

Remember? I took you to Elliott Bay Books you found magic in rustling pages Molly Moon’s too, you don’t mind that I want the same thing every time in rooms full of strangers my most tender feelings writhe Remember? You sat on the bench with me in the shadow of the sundial I cried, you listened—I think you changed you can be so stubborn and someone you love enters the room And maybe I’ll never get as close as you can.

Your love is blinding bright my love is misty you can see it out of the corner of your eye but when you look right at it it’s gone. it was love for you it was love for you it was love for you it was love for you it was love for you that set me afire.

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A Dress Made of Dewdrops Katherine Thomas It began as a girl when I read about Iris, rainbow personified the Messenger Goddess.

She wore a dress made of dewdrops and ran ‘cross the Sky. A vision of loveliness caught in my mind.

I wanted that dress, the Ultimate Wonderful, to have for my own, to be Iris, ethereal.

Infinite glimmers of joy, effervescence in a dress made of dewdrops I’d be lovely at last.

An impossible daydream for the Broken Girl she needs glimmers and sparks to find a smile.

Tears indeterminate shimmer in eyes is it light or despair that makes us cry?

All of us, Fools on our hopeless errand clutching light with our fingers chasing rainbow’s end.

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Senior Salute Katherine Thomas “This was a mission for him… it was a game” -Prosecutor Catherine Ruffle, trial of Owen Labrie She was on a list with a star by her name, marked as his, branded.

He wanted to “slay” her with a slash mark, a checked box.

He took her to the rooftop to show her the stars and made her feel so special and one thing led to another and when she told him to stop he didn’t.

Afterwards he went to an a capella concert and she walked alone with eyes red-rimmed, throat constricted, an ache in her abdomen.

She tried to salvage the broken fragments of her being, swallowing the truth likes glass shards, while he laughed, checked a box, boasted to his friends, and moved on.

I thank God I was gangly and awkward at her age, it kept me safe when my greatest fear was to be unloved, when I might have believed that a checkmark by my name was a gift.

But now my weakness has hardened into iron and fury, because I see myself reflected in this faceless girl, I hear my own voice calling in the absence of her name.

I know her face, because I have seen it a thousand times before.

I’ve seen her red-rimmed eyes in the stranger weeping at the bathroom sink.

I’ve heard her strangled voice coming from friends’ tightened throats.

I’ve felt that ache inside myself, the fifteen year old fear of being unwanted.

“What he did to me made me feel like I didn’t belong on this planet” “I would be better off dead” “I want to feel safe again” -Testimony of unnamed victim, trial of Owen Labrie

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The Girl with the Jade Heart Katherine Thomas To carve power into jade.

That is what her name means. That was the title given to the newborn infant with the axinite eyes, the heavy crown placed on her head.

When she was four years old and doll-faced, she brought home her love-filled paintings and omma glanced at the clumsy brush strokes and said you can do better.

When she was seven years old and the tallest girl in her class, her teacher threatened to strike her and she looked up into his eyes and said you can’t make me cry.

He did, but that’s not the point.

That little girl stared in the face of power and dared it to break her.

When she was ten years old she came to America with omma and dongsaeng and she spent hours each day in a corner of a classroom where she heard every word spoken and understood none of them.

Student #-16378 ISEE (5th Grade)- English Percentile Rank: 29 ISEE (8th Grade)- English Percentile Rank: 75 SAT (11th Grade)- English Percentile Rank: 99 She beat 75 other students for one of three spots at a middle school. She wrote her essay about The Secret Garden and when she told it to me years later I still felt the tears sting my eyes.

She loves intense, she loves like a tsunami rush.

But not tsunami, no, not a water-love, it’s blazing and all-consuming fire.

It can rage out of control and it can be smothered to a cloud of ash in what seems like seconds.

It can burn long and hot like the sanctuary lamp, but she doesn’t know how to fuel it herself, not yet.

Her name promises eternal power and she searches for it in letters and medals and little bubbles of right and wrong. She craves the strength that is her birthright. She searches and searches and does not yet see it in the pounding, shining, jade stone of her heart.

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Lovable Katherine Thomas Look at me.

Really look at me.

What do you think of me?

I first heard a recording of my voice when I was ten years old.

I don’t think many people like to hear their voices on tape, and I was no exception.

I still remember the plunge of my stomach, the clenching of my throat when I heard this shrill, ugly voice played back to me.

I knew right then, right thereit had to be fixed.

Not replaced, just revised.

To be lovable you must speak with a voice that people love to hear.

To be lovable you have to move right.

You have to swing your hips and step lightly like you’re floating above the ground too wonderful to be anchored by gravity.

To be lovable you must be happy.

Even when you’re not happy, act happy.

You will be sitting under fluorescent lights choking back sobs and you will smile and you will smile and you will smile even though the muscles of your lips are straining against it because you know if you smile wide enough the tears might stay welled behind your eyelids.

If it doesn’t work, it’s because you’re not trying hard enough.

I want a voice you want to listen to.

I want a walk you want to watch.

I want a face that beams like sunshine.

I want a laugh that sounds like joy.

I want everything about me to be lovable.

I am a representative of the martyrdom of women.

I am living proof of the boundless, ambiguous evil of society.

Oh God. I know! Stop reminding me!

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Now you tell me after years of becoming what you want fixing myself so I could be loveable that I am wrong? what I have done is wrong? what I have become is wrong?

I am who I want to be, or at least closer to it.

Look at me.

Really look at me.

What do you think of me?

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Art by Paloma Corrigan

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