a poetry amthology ENGLISH DUKE
220S
UNIVERSITY
SPRING
2020
Table of Contents Introduction and Acknowledgements .......................................................................................... 2 Greta Chen ...................................................................................................................................... 3 clarity or deceit ............................................................................................................................. 4 how the valley understands us ...................................................................................................... 4 blurred bright shadow ................................................................................................................... 5 Noelle Garbaccio ............................................................................................................................. 7 Mike’s Hard and We’re Guilty .................................................................................................... 8 Jersey Shore .................................................................................................................................. 8 Swoop ......................................................................................................................................... 12 Jake Johnson ................................................................................................................................. 13 Coronacation ............................................................................................................................... 14 The Poet Puzzle .......................................................................................................................... 14 1026 ............................................................................................................................................ 15 Jessica Marlow .............................................................................................................................. 16 Onwards ...................................................................................................................................... 17 supernova .................................................................................................................................... 18 Yard of the Month ...................................................................................................................... 19 Ramona Naseri .............................................................................................................................. 20 goodwill bag ............................................................................................................................... 21 happy pills ................................................................................................................................... 22 mom ............................................................................................................................................ 23 Lexx Pino ....................................................................................................................................... 25 Ecuador ....................................................................................................................................... 26 Weekend Trip ............................................................................................................................. 26 Swim Good ................................................................................................................................. 27 Spencer Rosen ............................................................................................................................... 29 The Lonely Lamppost.................................................................................................................. 30 An Unwarranted Attack on Tyrannical Hamsters ....................................................................... 31 The Night Bus.............................................................................................................................. 32 Grace Smith ................................................................................................................................... 34 we are the future ......................................................................................................................... 35 did you smell the lavender? ....................................................................................................... 36 march ......................................................................................................................................... 37 Mary Struble ................................................................................................................................. 39 An Ode to Butterflies .................................................................................................................. 40 The Morning Train ..................................................................................................................... 41 google search history .................................................................................................................. 42
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Introduction and Acknowledgements This anthology is the product of the Spring 2020 English 220S: Introduction to the Writing of Poetry seminar with Dr. Nathaniel Mackey. Our proudest works are borne largely by our class environment. We are grateful for the laughter and the cookies, the stories and the cultural lessons, the compassion and the vulnerability, that we shared on Wednesday afternoons. This is what we aimed to highlight in the culminating product of the semester by creating this collective anthology. This anthology would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of our peers and professor. In our weekly meetings on the 3rd floor of the Allen Building and, after the COVID19 pandemic, over Zoom, we cherished the time spent sharing our creative works and engaging in thought-provoking discussion regarding language and meaning. Thank you, Dr. Mackey, for your wisdom, your advice, your lessons, and, most of all, for fostering a space of community and growth.
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Greta Chen b. 1998
Raised in Birmingham, Alabama, Chen is a daughter of immigrants; her father comes from Hualien, Taiwan and her mother from Beijing, China. Since she was a child, Chen has struggled with coming to terms with her identity as an Asian American. Language has played an important role in that struggle, on the one hand serving as a medium to share her voice and on the other hand acting as a barrier between her and her parents. To further explore and reconcile this conflict, Chen turned to writing. Growing up, Chen’s love for poetry was first ignited by watching spoken word on YouTube. From listening to everything from Lily Myers’ “Shrinking Women” to G. Yamazawa’s “Elementary,” Chen has found peace and understanding through hearing the stories of others. Attracted to the deep emotions inherent to being human, she seeks to understand these feelings through various forms of art. Her own creative work is heavily centered around the intersections of self, family, and society. For poetry in particular, she draws inspiration from her identity as an Asian-American woman from the South and how that identity has affected the experiences she has had. In 2017, Chen began her undergraduate career at Duke University, where she will soon enter her final year studying economics and visual arts. She is grateful to have had the opportunity to read the works of writers like Robert Creeley and Mark McMorris as part of her English class this past spring. In her free time, she enjoys painting and going to Waffle House in the middle of the night. Chen’s writing continues to evolve according to her own personal growth and is significantly less depressing and self-centered than it was three years prior. Following graduation, Chen plans to attend law school in hopes of working in civil rights litigation so she can ensure that everyone has the opportunity to be heard under the law.
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clarity or deceit last autumn i wore yellow around my neck like a cape. sure, my soul split sapphire; tuscan sun gleamed amber-kissed and glow from the earth beneath each step. the clouds parted, content, from the swing hanging from that same tree. meanwhile honey held fast to my torso, dandelions grew from my wrists and a hue the shade of canary feathers broke through my heart like wildfire. my hair grew flaxen, lush, heavy with hope. the year i wore yellow left me alone but happy while gold buried deep; stardust cloaked me citrine and shine. true, waves of cerulean kept me afloat before i drowned, but what good could blue do? the yellows stretch like cobblestone road: reach, hope, unfold.
how the valley understands us thick is the night air, a single breeze to cool the soul energy from youthful sun, ancestral land these roads are steadfast but growing. 4
i cry at arrival more than i cry upon leaving whose steady grace whose calm presence whose heart an old, sturdy door open wide i felt god’s touch in the countryside and oh what i would give to bring that feeling home— home, where and who i am, the whisper of my mother’s voice. rainfalls bring showers of hope and streets flood with children’s dreams because what is hope if not the innocence that remains? darling, don’t forget to come home when you are tired. don’t forget the winter lilies, the stray dogs and the yellow playground, the dirt floors. don’t forget the bikes with rusted baskets and the tea eggs from 7-eleven don’t forget the storms we made.
blurred bright shadow where girl scout cookies and cider could fill an afternoon where the neon sign of a 24-hour laundromat became a wishing spot
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where i held hands with a boy sitting on my bed where i held hands with the branches in the gardens where all the buildings were stone where i always dreamed where no one slept alone where we bumped shoulders while laughing in the warm amber light of evening where sidewalks cracked beneath the feet of rebels and rusted train tracks stretched past the edges of town the tiles on the roof of my house scraped my elbows and the star we gave a name split the sky and my heart split sundown and night and watched the roads from towerview to holland and the bartenders gathering up our glasses, wiping down counters before glancing through foggy windows watched us, too: they saw our faces aglow under street lights eyes cloudy with courage waiting for the burnt orange sun to rise again
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Noelle Garbaccio b. 1998 Noelle was born in Englewood, NJ and raised in the small-town New York City suburb of River Vale, NJ. The daughter of a veterinarian, she adored helping her father at his clinic and, perhaps indicative of nascent poetic proclivity, she has sentimental memories in her pre-school years of writing songs to serenade the dogs staying overnight. Noelle attended the local public schools and decided in the 8th grade that she would pursue education to become a surgeon, like her dad. She matriculated as the class of 2020 to Duke University, where she concentrated in genomics with a major in Biology and a minor in Global Health. Noelle will apply to medical school in May 2020 and still aspires to be a surgeon, although her interests have expanded to consider specialties in neonatology and ethnic health disparities. Noelle’s closest half-sibling is 24 years older than she is, so having never had siblings live with her at home, Noelle was effectively raised as an only child. Always gregarious, she was socially indulgent growing up and nurtured close friendships that remain strong today, but Noelle otherwise struggled to be happy in a house of two working parents. She found solace in middle school through writing – stories, initially, and poems as she aged. Of course, Noelle’s frequency of writing vacillates with the timeline of her life, but her college journals evince a potent loyalty to poetry in her most tumultuous moments. An avid reader of Pablo Neruda, Charles Bukowski, Rumi, and Walt Whitman, Noelle tends to her work with a mosaic palette. The writing process is intensely visceral for her – she laughs when her fingers scribble the reckless abandon of her youth, she aches when her tears advise the indentation. Through sensory details and lyrical syntax, Noelle tries to pull the reader into her daydreams to invoke an emotional experience as if it were the reader’s own. In her senior spring at Duke, Noelle took delight in sharing her poetry with classmates and assessing their emotional affect. Her command of emotional expression has flourished by the guidance of fellow students, and she gives special thanks to Dr. Nathaniel Mackey for encouraging the intimate, whimsical voice that she loves but inevitably loses in the usual biology paper. Noelle continues to write poetry, especially when the mood strikes her at 3 AM, and she hopes to use her work to complement meditative instruction when she becomes yoga instructor certified.
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Mike’s Hard and We’re Guilty 14-years old and three sips of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Lights flickering, Kesha blaring, bottle passing. We swear, we’re drunk. Snapchat videos still had a time limit, then. Our time was up. Lights on, Kesha off, Three-quarter full glass bottle down the drain, then buried like sin, deep in the recesses of the recycling bin. It would be another year before the three of us recovered our guilty consciences enough to be so wildly deviant again. Let’s stick with Capri Sun Pacific Cooler for a while longer.
Jersey Shore Exit 168 Taylor ham, (not pork roll), egg, cheese, SPK on a Kaiser roll. Maybe a grande Starbucks iced coffee, light ice, if we’re extra tired. But we’d rather save the caffeine.
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Sorry – forgot the hashbrowns. No, not a side. They go inside the sammy. Exit 130 Halfway bridge. More affectionately known as happy bridge, because we’re halfway there. Best to start the happy bridge song about 40 seconds before the water so you can hit the chorus halfway across the halfway bridge. These days, it’s Wonderwall cat remix – you know, the one on Youtube. It used to be Kesha’s “Tik Tok.” It still is sometimes. Anything that complements wind mercilessly whipping hair in your face, the sound of 80 mph broken only by shrieking laughter probably because the lashing of our faces hurts too much, is the perfect happy bridge song. And that’s the happy bridge rule. Rain or shine, windows are down, sunroof is open, aux set to max. But it’s always sunny on the happy bridge. If you aren’t screaming, you aren’t ready. Exit 63 LBI baby. First stop: Wawa. ½ French Vanilla ½ Regular iced coffee, XL. Order a custom quesadilla on the side, extra cheese, or, 9
if your name is Olivia, a buttered roll, which is to be inevitably left half-eaten in your car, only to be found months later when mom demands that you clean. Surf Taco, Slay Village, Nardi’s, then turn left to Caroline’s house. Looks like Daddy Brooklyn beat us to it – he’s already a few beers in. Thankfully he already put the sausage and peppers out. Don’t unpack. Grab the blender. José on the rocks, and a hint of margarita mix to taste. Pour the first one out for the guy who bought a $14 LIT at an open bar. Stupid. We’re allowed to say that, though, because he’s been one of our best friends since 1st grade. Can you even call these margaritas? The bottle is empty and we haven’t even reminisced yet about the time we jumped in the trunk of a cute boy’s Lexus when we were 17 just around the corner. John Michael. Oh, the anguish you have caused. 5 girls sitting on a rooftop deck drinking margaritas that are really just tequila. Margarita sounds classier. 10
New Jersey: classy, never trashy. That’s why we don’t drink Natty Lites. We only drink Naturals, that is, if we drink them at all. What crazy shit can we do tonight to prove to the ghosts of our youth that we’re the queens we aspired to be? It’s been 10 minutes and we’re 2 handles in. The waves are sobering, salty like our wrists but without the bitter citrus aftertaste. If we were younger, or drunker, we’d dare one of us to chicken cutlet. Mexican blankets, pink, red, purple, and blue, are spread out. Claws bask in sand-dug koozies. A booze-induced nap is lulled by seagull squawks, the undulating melodies of Drake, John Mayer, and RiRi, and the occasional crackle of the plastic bag of chips we know we shouldn’t be eating. It’s only a matter of time now until we’re bronze goddesses or whatever the really, really red equivalent is. The Ketch tonight? Hell no. Anything but the Ketch. Chegg? Obviously. More waves. 11
They’re sobering. And dehydrating. We should drink more. See you tonight, down the shore.
Swoop me as crescent moon into the dreamy luminescence of your starry sky. embrace me as constellation into your celestial body and twinkle on tiptoe to break the dawn. luminous dream, celestial body, sunder the midnight darkness seizing my moonless mind and surrender my earth to sleep
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Jake Johnson b. 1998
Born and raised in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, Jake spent most of his time growing up playing sports with friends. Jake attended New Oxford High School before going on to attend Duke University. Throughout Jake’s early education he got exposure to poetry in a broad setting. However, Jake never got the chance to formally write poetry until his time at Duke. At Duke, Jake studied Economics with a minor in Political Science and a certificate in Politics, Philosophy, and Economics. During Jake’s senior spring semester, he was able to take part in an introductory poetry seminar. Jake’s poetry is written with the intent to entertain in a playful style. Jake tends to stick to a rhyme scheme throughout his poems to help portray this playful style. In Jake’s earlier works his progression can be easily seen by the rhyme scheme used. In much of Jake’s early works, he chooses to use a simple AABB rhyme scheme. However, as one looks at Jake’s later works more complex rhyme schemes and techniques are present. Jake’s poems give his view on different life experiences or aspects of life. In Jake’s poem The Poet Puzzle, the AABB rhyme scheme is used while the poem is a commentary on Jake’s thought process as he sits down to write poetry. In this poem the speaker struggles for inspiration to write a poem and navigates the process it takes to settle on a topic for a poem. This poem comes from a collection of poems for earlier on in Jake’s poetry progression. By examining a later work of Jake’s one can see his progression with rhyme. In Coronacation, Jake uses a rhyme scheme of ABAB throughout the poem while including some instances of internal rhyme. This poem is again a commentary on a changing way of life and the feelings this brings about. Jake’s final poem showcased in this anthology shows his progression in writing poetry. In an attempt to break away from the comfort of rhyme Jake writes a poem in free verse about his last house at Duke University. Throughout the poem 1026, Jake provides commentary on his experience at Duke University particularly pertaining to his time in his senior house. Jake is very thankful for the knowledge and insight gained throughout the poetry course. He has learned how to more complexly utilize rhyme within a poem as well as learning to breakout out of his comfort zone with rhyme. Jake will continue to expand his experiences with poetry after college.
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Coronacation March 2020, the apocalypse commences And I’m stuck at home Without a commencement. Senior year cut short Havoc wreaked of all sorts. Social events done for the year, Each weekend becoming a bore, Isolating feels like a chore No wonder teets is almost out of beer. Together but apart, Empty room but filled screen, Relaxing alone, doing our part, So we can all stay clean.
The Poet Puzzle I think but nothing comes to the front of my mind Should I go for entertaining, funny, or deep this time? Do I start with a feeling, an event or a story? No matter what I just don’t want to be boring The more I ponder the harder it gets Maybe I’ll write a poem about pets. As I go through my process I make very little progress Then out of nowhere I get inspiration Finally, something to ease my frustration.
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1026 A few blocks off East, Just a bit from where it all began In a quaint collegiate neighborhood The magnificent duplex stands. To halves symmetrical, but no longer divided Thanks to the countless years of fraternity men renovations Once beautiful Schmitz’s Grey walls Now covered in unexplainable holes Accented with numerous drunks’ attempts at graffiti mastery These battle scars spark memories of more lively times Nights spent sleepless with aggressive EDM blaring Mornings too hungover to fight with the glue like floors The all night pong is now long gone, Windows once again allowing in light It is nice to be able to walk around without a fight As my final Durham spring blossoms Afternoons are consumed by snappa and die Only so much time left if a house of eight guys
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Jessica Marlow b. 1998
Born in Muncie, Indiana, Jessica Marlow she spent much of her time alternating between reading books and playing imaginary games in the backyard with her older sister. In 2004, she moved to Spartanburg, South Carolina where she completed her schooling through the local public-school system before moving to Durham, North Carolina to attend Duke University. There, she studied global health and Asian & Middle Eastern studies, focusing on maternal and child health outcomes and social determinants of health. Though an avid reader and occasional storyteller, Marlow had little exposure to poetry during her middle school and high school years, save for the obligatory poetry unit in 6th grade which discussed rhyme schemes, iambic pentameter, and concrete poems. Since then, she has been able to experiment with more free form styles of poetry, primarily through creative writing classes at Duke. Most of her pieces are inspired by memories of home, family, or childhood. Particularly in her initial attempts at poetry, Marlow struggled with conveying her desired meaning in her poems. Her poem writing process generally begins with a catalyzing question, but as she writes, the focus of the poems strays from her initial queries to an emphasis on developing imaginative imagery and creating lyrical flow which do not always align with her initial musings. She is excited to continue to develop her personal voice and find inspiration and technique in the work of other poets. In particular, Marlow has enjoyed reading the works of Kenneth Koch, Frank O’Hara, and Rosmarie Walkdrop. One of her favorite lines is from Kenneth Koch’s poem “To You” which reads “I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut/that will solve a murder case unsolved for years,” which has encouraged her to consider the more playful side of language. This is one area she hopes to experiment with in future poems. After her senior year at Duke was cut short by the quarantine, Marlow has found inspiration in the everyday operations seen from her daily neighborhood walks. After college, Marlow plans to either begin working in the public health sector or pursue a Masters in Global Health at National Taiwan University through the Fulbright Program, depending on travel restrictions. She will continue writing poetry and journaling throughout this transitory period and is grateful for poetry as a medium through which she can express her feelings and sentiments through metaphor and image.
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Onwards A little brown wren just flew into the garage. She tilts her head one way Then the next – As if evaluating whether She belongs. She takes one courageous hop. Then another. And another. Tentative, yes, but forward, nonetheless. Until – With a flurry of bravery and tawny brown feathers She darts under the old yellow lawnmower To join the specks of sawdust and browned leaves Which inhabit that place of sanctuary. But just for a moment – For before the next wind blows The little wren’s brown beak peeks out. She cocks her head one way Then the next – Her gleaming ebony gaze meets my own Like a mirror As time stops And the breeze ceases its murmur For just a split second. Until that little brown wren puffs up her chest Takes one hop forward. And another. And flutters away. Onwards – To the next stop. She flies in the direction of the air conditioning unit But wherever she goes, She won’t
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stay long.
supernova there is no guarantee you will ever see a supernova. the last one was in 1987 it was called 1987A. such a creative name these scientists really know how to have fun. if I were to have a supernova that I could call my own I would name it violet after my great grandmother the one that lived in that old farmhouse in itasca county with the artesian well its water so crisp and cool it would send shivers down your scapula. she loved scrabble fudge ripple ice cream and hummingbirds their chests gleaming like gemstones – iridescent. except her name wasn’t really violet it was alfreda.
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Yard of the Month Half the crab apple tree in the backyard is dead. You know, the one with the cloud-like pink blossoms in April. Instead of its customary cotton candy rings, The branch on the left side is brown and brittle. It won’t be the first to go. The azalea’s time came long ago. They used to line the driveway, a highlighter pink cheerleader tunnel, Each bush adorned with blush-colored bells, Until the carillon’s chime came to a close. The chokecherry tree is still with us, but who knows how long that will last. Someone bought the lot out back last year, and little pink flags keep cropping up Like the creeping charlie that roams free with its sweet pea sisters. Soon the growl of the Bobcat will force another bittersweet goodbye. We once tried to plant plum trees; they were slender young things. Barely two feet tall with a sparse cut of peridot leaves. The first one wilted in the summer sun, then the second. Then the third, leaving nothing but dry roots and a memory. Black thumbs and bleak times. But for now, let’s go outside – The red clay looks lonesome, And I found some seeds.
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Ramona Naseri b. 1999
Born in a simple town Peoria, Illinois, to two Iranian immigrants, Naseri’s adventures swiftly began at just three months old. From spending the first five years of her life in Peterborough, England to spending the next five in Kobe, Japan, Naseri was fortunate enough to travel the world in her childhood. As an adult now living in Irvine, California, these early opportunities shaped her identity today as she is frequently motivated to go outside and step into unfamiliar situations. Naseri’s interest in poetry sparked from her love of music in middle school. Listening to artists such as The Head and The Heart, City and Color, Lord Huron, Iron & Wine and Honeywater, gave her an appreciation of the poetics involved in songwriting. From there she discovered through the works of Sylvia Plath, that poetry writing could be a cathartic experience and did not necessarily have to mimic the lighthearted works of poets from her childhood like Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. Therefore, Naseri found the tools to battle out teenage blues: her pen, journal, and a quiet bench at the local park. She developed her preferred style, writing prose-like pieces of the realities she deals with in her daily life. Her first featured poem, “goodwill bag” was inspired by a recent donation trip. As she packed a bag of things that no longer held meaning to her, she reflected on the times when she first obtained these clothes. Her poem, “happy pills,” portrays the disconnect she feels between her friends who do not struggle with mental health to the extent that she does, as she points out her friend’s comments on her antidepressants. Finally, Naseri is very attached to her mother and has a strong relationship with her and wanted to establish the comfort she gets from her mother through writing “mom.” Overall, she likes to focus on themes of childhood nostalgia, mental health, and feminism. Naseri entered Duke University’s undergraduate Pratt School of Engineering in the fall of 2018 and will be entering her third year majoring in Biomedical Engineering and minoring in Chemistry. After reading Invocation to Daughters by Barbara Jane Reyes in her English class this past Spring, Naseri decided to additionally pursue an English minor as Reyes showed her how powerful one's words can be for their community. She is grateful to Dr. Nathaniel Mackey for opening her eyes to the impact of scribbles in a notebook and how those ideas and words can be developed to make something important. She hopes to one day become a voice for those Iranian Americans who share her identity and would like to write about the obstacles her parents and many other Iranians faced as a result of the Iranian Revolution. When she is not coding for one of her Pratt classes, Naseri likes taking long walks in the Sarah P. Duke Gardens, spending time with friends, and reading memoirs. After graduating from Duke in 2022, Naseri would like to either attend medical school or work in industry for Biomedical Engineering.
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goodwill bag the grateful dead shirt music vibrates in my ears the smell of weed fills the air my head is aching from the night before and the taste of cheap vodka still lingers on my tongue my feet sink in the mud with every step I take closer to the stage between the trees lies a pop-up shop “there’s not much time until the next artist on the lineup” I tell my friends it’ll just be a quick stop
the grey soccer shirt the blonde girl with the fluffy white dog the house door was always open her single mother never home we felt free and independent high school girls playing house we’d meet there after tennis practice inviting boys over sometimes stumbling home in the late hours one night she had to wash sticks out of my hair and gas station soda off of my clothes “this was my ex-boyfriend’s shirt you can borrow it” the grey soccer shirt a black “0” printed on the back her ex-boyfriend played goalie I never got around to returning it
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the denim jacket I made so many drives to that white house with the black panels and the Christmas lights that were never taken down he opened the door and his sister was sitting in the kitchen she wore a denim jacket with her sweatpants I liked the way it looked “it’s on sale at the mall if you want to go and buy it” the denim jacket started a friendship when he was at baseball practice she became my best friend
happy pills he asks me if I’ve taken my happy pills today then he chuckles every time he loves calling them that finds it so funny he asks me if i'm happy today now that i've taken my happy pills I always tell him it doesn’t work like that he laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs it’s so funny being depressed when your own brain 22
goes against you makes you sad makes you feel down it's the greatest joke of all time I take my happy pills every single day and yet im somehow more sad ever since I started taking them
mom I tiptoe across your bedroom the carpet remembers the bottoms of my feet and I have memorized the loud creaks in the floor practice makes perfect I guess and I’ve done this far too many times before. I quietly place the decorative pillows on the ground I handle them with care you hate it when I toss them. I pull back the blanket and then the sheets I drop one limb on the bed at a time and I slip my way in. I praise myself for a moment because I’ve managed to find my way into your bed without waking you up. but every single time right as I finish that thought you roll around and look at me I always wake you up. I wonder how many times we’ve done this our little nighttime routine when I was younger you thought it would be a phase but here I am, 20 do you remember all of the nights when I ran to your room in the late hours running away from the monsters
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that lurked under my bed. You always rolled over and made room for me and you must have been thinking “oh not this again” but then one day I started doing it again coming to your bedroom late at night begging for comfort the monsters became real and the nightmares no longer came at night you would give me that same look “mom, please just one more night?” “one more night” lasted from february to may and once a week that “one more night” would slip into the school day those empty nights you would hold me tight you helped me get through the worst hours of darkness now I lay in my twin size bed there is nowhere to go for comfort when the memories of that hard time in life come seeping in it doesn’t happen often anymore and I’ve learned how to deal with it alone and yet when I am home I still find myself waking you up begging for your warm touch and all your love there is no place safer than the nights we share laying in your bed
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Lexx Pino b. 1999
Born and raised in Tampa, Florida, Lexx grew up playing baseball and going to the beach year round. In high school, he completed an International Baccalaureate diploma, which he found ironic given the supposed rigor of the IB program and its stark contrast from the woeful education system that Florida boasts year in and year out. He continued his education at Duke University, where he studies Mathematics with minors in Creative Writing and Korean as a part of the class of 2021. It was through the IB English curriculum that Lexx found poetry, and in the lens of Dickinson and Frost began his venture into the careful arrangement of words and lines. However, his own poetic voice did not really come into fruition until he began writing rather than analyzing. In his sophomore year of college he began to engage further with poetry and expand his poetic arsenal through varying poets and styles. In his own work, Lexx views poetry as a canvas on which not only experiences, but emotional exchange can be depicted. His pieces often contain elements of attempted humor, aimed at entertaining while also provoking reflection from the reader. Some of his favorite vehicles for evoking that response are structural repetition and cultural references. Lexx has shifted slightly in his view on the purpose his work serves, and now finds himself writing more about familial experiences and relationship dynamics at play in his social life at school. He has become fascinated with bodily experiences, too, as seen in his piece First, describing the internal sensation invoked from a cup of coffee. In his time in quarantine, Lexx has begun practicing yoga, started a blog and is currently writing an epic as a part of his Mother’s Day gift to his mom.
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Ecuador I. Wrapped in a world of influence Floating above and sinking below In his corner, the Boys Tiktok, Instagram, Snapchat Rebellious remarks Snarky side eyes The scent of teen spirit lingers-Old Spice and stale weed II. They’re not alone, they have each other But it’s hard to stack up Against hormones and attitude. Pressured by the need for precision To hit the right pressure point Guess wrong, and bombs go off Guess right, and bombs likely go off This is bigger than homework III. And then there’s me Where do I stand? Which side am I on? Caught in between two headstrong militias Jockeying for control Both looking for an advantage, Either side a betrayal. I don’t want this stalemate to end in victory I want to flip the board.
Weekend Trip This is crazy, dude. What are you seeing, man? Everything, bro. You? I’m not just seeing man, I’m feeling. 26
All the shapes, and the colors, and the faces. The faces, bro. Is that grass moving for you, too? The trees, are they dancing? The faces, are they talking? I wonder what food would taste like right now… Should we call our friends?
Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens I think we need to go. The colors What are they saying? Should we call her? Should we eat? What’s the point? Of what? Idk. We need to get out. Are you sad? Wait—am I sad?
Swim Good Flip. Warm up is followed by pre-set Is followed by main set Is followed by cool-down I’m not warm or cold I’m bored. Flip. This display of athleticism Grit, determination and endurance Just makes me wonder if I want To be an athlete at all Flip.
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Staring at that same white line Burning lungs reminding me of that Same lack of oxygen That’s always there Flip. Not breathing, not having fun One song stuck in my head on loop Today it’s Frank Ocean “These bitches want Nikes.” Flip. Another 2 hours of not breathing Another set that I won’t remember Another shower. Another swim.
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Spencer Rosen b. 2000
Spencer was born in New York but grew up in London, England, where he was educated in a community largely consisting of American expats. For high school, Spencer attended boarding school in the United States. Although throughout this time he was introduced to the works of Martin Espada and Sandra Cisneros, Spencer never tried his hand at writing poetry until he went to Duke University. At Duke, he majored in Computer Science, with minors in Creative Writing and Theatre Studies. Most of Spencer’s poems revolve around the effect of setting or circumstance on the individual. Among the settings featured is London, the city he considers his home, which he is featured in many of the poems. In his poem The Night Bus he depicts the city with apathy, finding humor in its depravities. As a reader, Spencer is especially interested in the work of the Beat Poets, particularly Allen Ginsberg due to his refusal to pass moral judgement in his poem Howl. He also cites Frank O’Hara and the idea of Personism as being influential in his own work. Spencer tries to balance his appreciation for phonetics while trying to preserve simplicity in his language. Spencer starts a large portion of his sentences with the words and, so, or but.
Spencer was able to practice and grow as a poet in a course led by Professor Nathaniel Mackey, during his sophomore year at Duke. In the course, he learned to appreciate that not all poems have one concrete meaning, and that interpretation of writing can be left up to the reader. Spencer will continue to use the lessons he learned from Dr. Mackey and the Postmodern poets, and apply it to future creative writing courses. He also hopes to use poetry as an outlet for creativity during the 2020 quarantine.
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The Lonely Lamppost The lamppost on the corner is lonely. And on either side of him, are two whole rows, Two lines of equally lonely lampposts. He stares pensively down at the street, and at the yellow lines underneath. His mother always tells him he should fix his posture. He doesn’t listen. So he keeps staring down. Pensively staring down at his feet, and at the ashen asphalt underneath. The boring, listless, asphalt. What a weird week it’s been, He says to himself, And says to only himself, because well, there’s no one else there. Which isn’t terrible, because he’s often alone, And for the most part, he enjoys solitude. But the problem with being alone is that it does get quite lonely.
And it’s been days, Days since he’d seen that red lab, That red lab he’d become so fond of, Who would come say hello on most empty nights, Its little body struggling to contain its big personality.
And it’s been days,
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Days since he’d seen those kids on his corner, Who sit and laugh and talk about girls, Or sports, or movies, or whatever. And whose smoke lingers long after, Warming him. Since then, that nagging, whirling wind, That whips wildly against his frame, Well, it just won’t go away. And even though it isn’t new, Even though it’s the same breeze as always, Now, during this week, it just feels, Colder. But maybe if he didn’t hunch over so much, And maybe if he fixed his posture like his mama said, Then it wouldn’t run so icily against his neck, And perhaps it wouldn’t even bother him at all. Come to think of it, As he straightens up, And looks left, And looks right, And he sees all the other lampposts on the street, All looking down, feeling that same frost, Maybe the night isn’t that cold after all, And maybe the lonely lamppost isn’t really all that alone, Or lonely.
An Unwarranted Attack on Tyrannical Hamsters Look at them, he said, Smoking that green fever-dream. No, I’m not talking about pot. 31
I’m talking about that green nightmare, Viral disease, infectious lie. And we’re all sick, man. America caught it bad. Look at those tyrannical hamsters. Running on their little wheel, Climbing that ladder, All the while, never realising, It doesn’t stop. Not even when it hits the clouds. Not even when it hits the sun. And the worst part is, They’re gonna run the board, Park Place, luxury tax, And I won’t even pass go, Won’t collect my 200. Immature Monopoly Men, With beady eyes and pompous mustaches. Look at them, he said, All trying to play with their new friends: Goldberg and Dutchy or whatever. I don’t know, I said, Econ majors aren’t that bad.
The Night Bus A blaze of day-glo yellows and greens stream through the rain splattered windows, Bleeding off the city’s neon signs and lighting the patrons of the night bus. The doors shut and she rumbles out of her slumber. 3 stops to go.
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The woman in the red sweater in the back squeals into her phone, She and Craig were out drinking but are now going home to have sex. Good For You Craig. Alright, Happy Birthday mum, love you, she says and then hangs up. A moustached man sits and leers at the girls sitting across from him, They’re too young for him, too young for anyone, they tell him that too, But he just smiles because he already knows. 2 stops to go. You think about how you could step in, be the hero, save the day, But who knows, the midnight bus pervert might have a knife, And you don’t really feel like getting stabbed today. 1 more stop. Anyways, you’re almost home, and it looks like they have it covered. So fix your cap, button your jacket, and when the doors open at last, Try not to step in a puddle on your way out.
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Grace Smith b. 1998 Grace was born and raised in Columbia, South Carolina, the third child to a pastor and a counselor. She attended S.C. public schools before joining Duke University’s class of 2020. At Duke, she majored in Neuroscience with minors in Psychology and Religion, fostering a passion for mental health care and advocacy through the lenses provided by both the sciences and the humanities. She is grateful to have learned a great deal about poetic styles and methods, about many modern poets, about her classmates, and about herself in the Spring 2020 poetry seminar. She most enjoyed reading poets such as Barbara Jane Reyes and Amiri Baraka [LeRoi Jones] who used their works to creatively and powerfully tell stories which are too often ignored. She is also fascinated by the work of poets such as Barbara Guest and Clark Coolidge, who push against standards within poetry to more fully explore the meanings, limits, and potential of language, as well as poets such as Ed Roberson and John Cage, who integrate multiple art forms and histories to break open and grow their approaches to – and our definitions of – poetry. She is in continual awe of those who use art to give voice to that which is inarticulable. Grace is also thankful for the opportunities to practice her own poetry throughout this seminar. She has learned how to more effectively use space and shape to communicate within poems, and how they should be manipulated intentionally as additives for, but not central to, a poem. She is in the process of learning how best to communicate through rhythm, word choice, and imagery, and how to express emotions more tactfully. She is excited to continue exploring the use of metaphors within poetry, to learn to let go of notions that poems should accomplish specific goals or narrate certain messages (and allow them to be art in and of themselves), and to practice layering meanings or allowing for ambiguities to broaden the impacts of poems. She is grateful to poetry for giving her another way of delving into and articulating the intersections between culture, body/healthcare, emotion, and story.
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we are the future we are the future, they say. every orientation, every graduation. we are the untapped potential. the answer. the curers of today’s worst disease and the curators of tomorrow’s best solutions. we’ve been taught the skills, they say. been ingrained with them, really. the formula for success, the foundations of every great scientific discovery. understand the mechanism. name the issue. measure it. test it. find the solution. we, too, too, can use these steps we, too, will fix your prob lems.
but what if it’s more than scientific? what if what we chase, these answers, this socalled normal, doesn’t exist? what if we are more than our scans and measurements? what if errancies from statistical norms are … human? what if no number or medication or formula can fix? what if what we need is not even a fix, not for mental illness? science might give us some answers. but bodies – human bodies, human emotions – need neither quantification nor mani pulation. we need not fixing. we need healing.
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did you smell the lavender? last month the neighbors all scrawled verses on cardboard (only the happy ones, of course) hung their faith on dogwoods and pines for any who passed forced smiles sweeter than their supersaturated tea perfunctory prayers of pacifying platitudes and proclaimed promises hope and happiness prioritized in sidewalk chalk scenery beneath singing pink snapdragons and lilies that yawn at the sun joy bright as sweet Mrs. Whitmire’s roses petals coat crosses overwhelming with the fragrance of a god that doesn’t weep purporting pleasure on an instrument of death casket covered by camelia lest any sign or stench or sight of mourning be allowed to overwhelm pray a little, have hope don’t forget your hallelujah crack open the big book light that lavender candle inhale his peace and lift up thy heart march thy feet smother thy fear silence thy pain join our production of cheer
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march too many balls of yarn in the basket rose tangling into dandelion rolling over lavender twisting around – it’s suffocating too many thoughts or maybe too few? poetry is hard dad came through the front door today too early feet too heavy “hannah’s unborn boy the stress was too much we’ll have to do another electronic eulogy” that’s the fourth this week did joe’s heart not hear? did dwight’s leukemia not listen? don’t they know we’ve got enough death already?
read the news, keep informed. stay inside wash your hands buy necessities but don’t stockpile don’t touch your face
80,00 china no - that was yesterday refresh 81,000 china 69,000 italy 49,000 usa don’t read the news
one day one hour one breath at a time
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march came -it’s almost gonethe clouds of yellow are beginning to gather like every march pollenating puddles, even without any boots to splash through the tulips at the methodist church are beginning to bloom like every march beneath the purple-cloaked cross even without any cars to pass by too many balls of yarn in the basket rose tangling into dandelion rolling over lavender twisting around – it’s still spring somehow
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Mary Struble b. 1998
The middle child of five, Mary Struble was born in Pennsylvania and raised in suburban Maryland. She grew up in a Catholic, family-centric household and her parents consistently emphasized the importance of hard work and education. Though Mary was exposed to poetry throughout middle school and high school and has a grandmother that writes frequently, it wasn’t until her senior year at Duke University that she seriously took up the craft. Mary’s poems play with introspective themes of adolescence, girlhood, and interpersonal relationships. Mary routinely questions the Catholic values for gender that characterized most of her childhood, and poetry serves as a cathartic tool to document struggles with growing up, dating, and identity. Putting pen on paper helps her process emotions, and she has often said that her strongest work originates from the most personal details of her life. She has been inspired by the examples set by Eavan Boland and Barbara Jane Reyes, both of which frequently explore feminist concepts. Mary has also appreciated the conversational and humorous style that was pioneered by poets from the New York School. While her work discusses significant life events, Mary likes to play with rhyme and song-like rhythm to remind her readers of the naiveté and lightheartedness that accompany her experiences as a young woman. Most of her work is structured with traditional stanzas and she uses minimal indentations and spacing. She has also incorporated list poems in her portfolio; to her, lists help express feelings of spiraling, anxiety, and a mind that has to fight to stop racing. She is grateful for the English department at Duke and especially for Dr. Nathaniel Mackey, who helped teach her to be direct and deliberate with her language choices. For Mary, it is always critical to find the ‘perfect’ word or phrase that both fits with the rhythm of the poem and is precise in its meaning. She will continue to write after graduating, hoping to eventually complete a short book of poetry that chronicles the day-to-day emotions and experiences of a small-town girl who is trying to find her way in the real world.
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An Ode to Butterflies If you have more capital you can Have more investments or Something along those production lines… Sounds good, Professor Sir Smart Guy, Let’s rekindle this at the same time And at the same place On a Friday afternoon no less! It’s 4:22pm, around happy hour for breezes. They tickle my neck and dress my hair And whisper that spring is drifting In like a fresh tide, as silly iniquities Of winter angst are at last washed behind. So I’ll jam my headphones in And blare those lyrics until I escape Into a predictably random dance, And I’ll walk under the cherry blossoms, Fall in love at least three or four times, Purse my lips on a semi-bland coffee, And recall the song that my dad Played on one late Highway 1 drive: “Many times I’ve lied Many times I’ve listened Many times I’ve wondered How much there is to know.” And I will actually wonder How much there is to know, And I’ll laugh at those stupid boys Who think that a Pulp Fiction poster Hung up in their messy abode will In fact, classify them as rare savantes. You’re as typical as me and as anyone. I think life is often meant to be funny And I wish that my young, cocooned self Took the whole affair less seriously And just had fun. But remembering my severe teen years Is laughable itself, so maybe that’s The whole, resounding point.
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It’s 4:44pm and my roommate Greets me excitedly as I walk in. How was my day? Nothing new. The blossoms are peaking this week, So I took the long way back from class.
The Morning Train I. I want to play that song repeatedly Elusive lyrics, sneaky beat – Sounds like when you scoop me at two. Its final draw may have been smoked But I don’t tire from moving with it, Baby let’s dance one more time. It’s hard to feel young on this morning train, Comfortable among routine masses instead of In your arms. We should’ve slept to the hour’s top this time But I spared you because you hate my alarm. Your jeans look ridiculous Maybe it’s redefining cool Your jeans are insidious, I’m liking them too. I’ll meet you by the Tom Petty riff Clutching a Stella and a crooked smile Straight to the banter, let’s drive on You understand how to talk for a while. II. I’m uncomfortably under your thumb Without some instinctive urge for release I could pitch you one million questions The same excitement igniting each. I’m processing every breath Until an unnamed numbness gives way The sentiment is numb, after all Somewhat in a familiar bed’s way I could be poetic, but I just want to dance
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So wind back that dated serenade And pour out this foggy elixir. And I used to hate being called baby – Kitten names stray far from my forte. Now it’s one more broken record That finds itself playing around two.
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