Storm King Poetry Festival: A Collection of Poems 2016-2017 The Finalists

Storm King Poetry Festival

A Collection of Poems 2016-2017 The Finalists

We all have poetry in our souls. After all, we steer our ship by these stars and navigate the sands of time. We travel like gypsies, repainting the world, with each stolen word.

Peter E. Rowe

Where I Am From (Tomorrow) *** Naunet Leonhardes Storm King School About Music *** Ben Shaw Poughkeepsie Day School Jeunesse (Youth) Isabel Fitzsimons Watkinson School Godly Jackie Logsted Wooster School Juniper Alder Green Ameliarose Douches Storm King School She Ava Fisherman Poughkeepsie Day School Cruelty of the World Ashira Mayer Storm King School Six Ways of Looking at an Envelope Elizabeth Pomeroy Storm King School Saint Sebastian Ryan Aghamohammadi Chase Collegiate City Light *** Flynn Murtaugh Greens Farms Academy

***Denotes Award Winning Poem

A Silver Coin Chui Zheng Kong Storm King School All Her’s Renata Abiali Wooster School Crystal Clear Rory Tobin Storm King School Honeymoon Sam Brody Marvelwood School Purpose Blue Kirkpatrick The Marvelwood School Perception Chris Chang Storm King School 8 Things To Do When I Die of Breast Cancer Olivia McAdams Watkinson School Courage Sophie Staeger Greens Farms Academy

Festival Judges: Eve Becker and Chris Blackman

Where I Am From (Tomorrow) *** Naunet Leonhardes Storm King School

I'm from the dirty shoes left outside my door, the messily made bed I ran out on this morning.

I'm from the lazy eyes as I lock my house, preparing myself with conversation starters.

I'm from the quick naps in class, and the unreadable notes in my books.

I'm from the gum wrappers overďŹ lling the trash can, along with the wrinkled-up quizzes and tests.

I'm from the shaking of my hands as I go up to speak, the pressure I have brought upon myself.

I’m from the moments soon after, where I can't hold my pen straight.

I'm from the expectations set by myself and othersthe ability I have to accept the challenge.

I'm from the anxieties of not making the cut, that overachieving will lead to disappointment.

I'm from the piles of papers tossed on the oor, and open drawers with not a single eraser.

I'm from the unanswered questions about my future, wondering if I'm wasting my time.

I'm from the glass of water that my mother poured me, and the cold taste of every sip.

I'm from the days where she cries in the kitchen, thinking I can't hear in my room.

I'm from the ball hitting against my wall, my brother playing innocently.

I'm from the times where I spelled words countlessly, so he could come home with pride in his grades.

I'm from the hours when he'd scream for his father blaming our mother for their split I'm from the explanations to an 8-year-old, attempting to convince him it takes two to be together.

I'm from my father's warnings, and his poorly made soup.

I'm from the experiences passed down to me, the people who gave me advice.

I'm from the long winter that gives my grandmother chills.

I'm from the memories lost in the wind the people I can never bring back to my life.

I'm from the overbearing sadness as I watch my misunderstood loved ones.

I'm from the miserable reality, that they all seem to suer.

I'm from he idea of having a set number of days, that there are some things you can never change But I am also from the mystery of tomorrow And the possibilities it may hold for me.

About Music ***

Ben Shaw Poughkeepsie Day School I ask the cantata put to moonlit nights What steel your annular muse employs, Hanging like a yo-yo by clandestine threat, A pale mechanism rising, it's industrial rotation Run by whom? The child and its sooty hand?

Then I begin to consider some things.

What if the object's shape was clear As cranes are, stalking through the pondElegantly put together-observableIf we are to believe (for the time being) That those forms are their summation...

When I sit at the dinner table, I imagine The glass blowers revealed, stepping out And serving us an explanation for these vases Full of white flowers, the reasons for their sleekness, And height. All of the purpose somehow dissected, And sketched out on a chalkboard As a mathematician does his equations.

What conceptions become Erroneous then? What loves unneeded?

How would it feel if objects were understood?

How lukewarm would everything be?

Yet, even with the animal, there is more Biology there, the turning screws and gears All too microscopic for us to glimpse; We peek merely at a layer, only to be confronted by Another...But now I will ask you a question.

If you could see those birds out there, See through them, past their effulgent color And the thinness of their delicate legs, Obtaining the mystery of that ascentTheir spread wings flaring like blank fireWho then would think to compose Songs?

Jeunesse (Youth) Isabel Fitzsimons Watkinson School

The young couple steals the floor With their lively hop Legs twist and turn While shadows leap in the background And chandeliers sway To a sweet slow dance Her dress in its own solo Dances to the harmony of the Blues While her feet Follow the beat of the drum Melodies pour out the door And attract adolescents While their feet still last And the heels of their shoes Can still rat-a-tat-tat Notes dance in the air

The colors of Jazz Bounce off the walls Ring in the valves of the saxophone Run out the door To romp the streets And blanket alleyways In the sweet sounds Of indigo and amber incandescence The other couples waltz their way Into the end of time But when dawn breaks they disappear The youth continue to dance The band continues to play The instruments still sing Soon replaced by new kids With new feet They all dance until they bloom And their shoes are too far beat

Godly

Jackie Logsted Wooster School

These people in front of you are a larger force.

But it’s more than a force of nature: it’s godly It’s this larger power feeling Not a faith in the unseeable, in the above you, but a faith in the before you, in the tangible.

Not that you can’t have an abundance of both, but that the two feel, in their heart center, equivalent.

These connections you make with people when you come together to create something are powerful and tangible.

And although seeing god in your friends is only visible to you, it still manages to be universal.

Juniper Alder Green Amelia Rose Douches Storm King School

His arms strongly reach to the sky, breaking daylight in crisp, sweet air.

He never spoke, but his mind was anything but quiet.

Bare, dead hands froze from the brutal winter’s touch, But he is alive in this moment, though alone for many years.

She

Ava Fisherman Poughkeepsie Day School They asked her how her green eyes gleamed And she kept hold of the answer So they said she gazed at the universe so long that bits of starlight flew into her sight They asked her why she kept sunfish in a long glass room And she turned her head away So they decided that her mind had too much darkness, and the fish provided glowing light

They asked her what she wanted to be And she stood and glided out So they thought that she was deaf, that she wasn't quite alright They turned to ask each other Discussed why she acted dead They wondered why she stared into nothing And why the sea flowed through her head One day the sun was shining And she came out of her trance A pencil moved across the page And she began to dance

Cruelty of the World Ashira Mayers Storm King School

I learned ‘afraid’ at an early age My pulse loud in my ears Knees high and wet face Watchful Today was not like the others I will remember this feeling Mommy has a wet face too And I do not understand This is ‘afraid’ “You’re okay,” more command than advice ‘Don’t worry,’ a command It feels like a lie I know mommy is lying now ‘The world can be a cruel place’ Is cruel like scary?

They sound the alike in my head It’s my turn now But I’m frantic “Where is he going?’

‘When will he be back?’

“I don’t know’ My pulse is still loud The real answer brings more tears more?

Six ways of looking at an Envelope

Elizabeth Pomeroy Storm King School

A long twisted road of black pavement The delivery truck drives carefully Inside are stamped envelopes Each envelope starts white Pure white and unsealed, No envelope stays the same, From the stamps to the destination Hand written and unique The envelope alone isn’t enough An envelope with a stamp can go anywhere In a fairy tale, the Messenger delivers an important message That sends the Prince on his journey What used to be delivered everyday, Has now become distant as technology grows The long twisted road of black pavement There is a house in sight Hand delivered envelope to your doorstep

saint sebastian

Ryan Aghamohammadi Chase Collegiate

you had jesus between your arms and heaven in your eyes, prayers between your lips and holy sainthood near your thighs. i believed your words were buoyed and you scoffed boy, you’re drowning in these cosmic seas of infidels and heathens but paradise is reached in god’s house on your knees. in between your sighs you told me there was something wrong with how i was and i basked in an electric cathedral of lies. and those psalms you had me cling to sent my own grasping high above searching for salvation in the shadows of your supposed love. i did everything you wanted, to save me from the devil’s kiss. (it was yours) and yet it was still not enough to stop my heart colliding with your fist. you were my false prophet who taught me how to live and because i loved you i had nothing more to give. so you strung me up and shot an arrow through my chest and let my blood run heavy simply because i was a sinner at your bequest.

City Light *** Flynn Murtaugh Greens Farms Academy

The rugged horizon of a settling city Frames the opening act of a night Opera, as the engine reared horses gallop Darting at every corner of the stage The symphony of rubber and road roar across the tall stalks of concrete, Urban caterpillars crawl across the tracks With a slow hush and deep breaths From its weary travelers This hour is not asleep This hour is lively awake in its own misty Melancholy floating high above the decorated dreams of its keepers And the curtain closes with the light lit sky Each star sewn into the inky night Like the bells crocheted into my mother’s knitting.

A Silver Coin Chui Zheng Kong Storm King School Under a desk of my former study Unexpected I find a penny.

Silver head has been worn smooth, With a stamp near the edge, the story began.

Heated and cooled, torn and reformed; Its shape is sculpted but its fate just began.

From hand to hand it traveled around the world; Millions of pocket it had stayed, thousands of time been tossed.

One day the first scratch landed, so will the second.

Covered with scars, it became its own coin.

Years after been dropped on a street, Decades been forgotten in a jar, It was brought back to the bank.

Here the journey starts, here the story ended.

It was under a desk one day When its story has been found, Together with the stamp of year on the edge, 1965-the last of silver coins, the last of us.

All Her’s

by Renata Abiali Wooster School

My impolite lover.

My slightly aggressive partner.

Who feels the need to laugh at me.

Joke about my skin hairline breathe and physique.

Laugh at the fact that I find myself good looking.

Day by day adding to my insecurities.

But, when she still looks at me With stars in your eyes.

As if I were an original Picasso, Painted to her ideal beauty.

But when I touch her she laughs.

My kiss makes her chuckle My words make her eyes roll.

When I open my mouth everything comes out Unintelligent Unintelligible.

But, when she smiles and whispers softly into my ear, “Don’t change.”

All the noise the world makes melts away, And I’m left with only here angelic voice.

I wish I could do it right.

But, how could I ever between Every joke and every giggle.

My mere existence is a real knee slapper.

At least I bring her joy, At the cost of my dignity.

I may not be everything And I will never be everything, But I’m something to her.

She can laugh at my unphotogenic face as much as she likes, Because I know she wants me.

That women, That blunt, impolite, and incredible women Wants me.

Her moods confuse my more than a rubik’s cube.

She lives in a constant back and forth.

Keeping me on my toes and never letting me breathe, And I live for it.

It gives me a high, She is my favorite thing, To look at To listen to To breathe in And to laugh with.

I can spend eternity adoring her, for everything she is.

That’s why I stay, Because she sees me for everything that I am And she loves me for everything that I am.

I live to be her funny valentine.

Crystal Clear

By Rory Tobin Storm King School

Crystal clear swords hung from tops of the cedar wood roof cold to the bone miles away from warmth

Honeymoon

Sam Brody Marvelwood School I want you, The Color of your eyes is blue, And you could tell by the look in her eye, That she wanted to die, With the tear that painted her eye, A soft swift goodbye, And her eyes burned like a cigarette, Crisp and smooth, Bright and mellow, Until the light went out of her them, The sun drifts into the water, The sunset burns its last breath, Recedes into its death, The sun’s light leaves the beach’s bed, And the water crashes upon the shore, Only to be swept up like a whore, This is where we began, And this is where we’ll end, We all are just looking for someone, A friend, Someone to grasp onto in the end, We all just want to survive, But you should know that, No one is left trying to survive, There’s talk of immortality, But the night is something they can’t see, The soft sand in between her toes, It’s all over now, No use in asking why or how, You should have asked before, Now everything will reveal itself, With the last grasp of light before it goes out, The only thing left that shines is the faded reflection of our honeymoon.

Purpose

Blue Kirkpatrick

The Marvelwood School At dusk the world began to whisper The shuffle of snowfall against my windowpanes Threatens a carefully built facade

In the shadow of car lights pulling out of the driveway My lack of wisdom couldn’t hide A desperate fear of being lost

The moon carries the whisper in through the slight space between curtain and bed A cool hand on my sweat-beaded forehead ‘What are you trying to say?’

The crying wind demands answers And the shuffle of sheets replies in vague tones Insecurities I could never admit in the day

Mountains slope in the horizon, History held in their tired, hunched backs Daybreak dares me to face the truth

My photos laugh at me, taunting, The faces of strangers and the backs of friends ‘What are you trying to say?’

A frozen tree bends at the corner of the frame A weary soldier with stories to tell I cannot tell them Open lips don’t always blossom into words And intentions don’t always grow into actions A small girl doesn’t always achieve her dreams

I am not an artist no matter how much paint is on my pants Traced lines and stolen colors force me to listen ‘What are you trying to say?’

The grass stains on knees of jeans The wrinkles in a pillow case Know more than I do In the dark I am afraid Not because of the ghosts under my bed But because, perhaps, I have nothing to say

Perception By: Chris Chang

Storm King School

Down this road alone, whispers through a phone Following a path, the others they don’t know, I am still poor, sitting on my throne If it can’t support itself, a tree would never grow Down this road alone, whispers through a phone Following a path, the others they don’t know, I am still poor, sitting on my throne If it can’t support itself, a tree would never grow Stop claiming what you own, and think about the show Once the game is over the ball will still be thrown We’re shattered and whole, divided and controlled People taking journeys, but never down a road Take me through the risk, promise of the gold Guide me through the darkness, guide me through a fall This is our call, a special kind of wall Take off all your filters, n’don’t you see it all?

Down this road alone, whispers through a phone Following a path, the others they don’t know, I am still poor, sitting on my throne If it can’t support itself, a tree would never grow Take me through the risk, promise of the gold Guide me through the darkness, guide me through a fall This is our call, a special kind of wall Take off all your filters, n’don’t you see it all?

8 Things To Do When I Die of Breast Cancer Olivia McAdams Watkinson School

1. When I die of Breast Cancer, Please make sure I don’t look like my aunt at her funeral.

Her skin was pulled and blurred with white powder. Her Black-don’t-crack skin was inflamed by formaldehyde. My tears didn’t burst, my feelings weren’t moved.

Her cancer had made her plastic. Plastic breasts, plastic looking face.

Plastic.

2. When I die of Breast Cancer, When I die of Breast Cancer, I want my friends now to know that I am not sorry for putting my attention into who they liked so much-- my mind couldn't take another minute of the stabbing syringe of my future chemo.

That my main worry should have been tall, unobtainable senior boys.

Unobtainable was a future of shuffleboard and soft, saggy skin.

3. When I die of Breast Cancer, tell my boyish figure that whatever I do with my body, it was to feel again. That when the scalpel hit my soft tissue to relieve, next I decided to surgically sculpt my flatness away and build with silicone and skin.

4. When I die of Breast Cancer, I want you to know that I’ve accepted my inevitable death.

I was 13 when the idea of my long, sad death mounted in my mind when the lumps in my breasts became mountains to me. But it was okay because when I die of Breast Cancer

my church will clap heavy hands in hymns, my father will cry fat tears and the thought of my body eating itself had festered long enough to become placid in my head.

5. When I die of Breast Cancer, tell my mother I was doing her a favor, that I am taking it for her.

I want the thing that killed the women in our family to skip my mother. For she is real and she won’t be looking plastic at her funeral.

She has breasts that crafted children, bred a family. Her skin is deep sand brown. Her smile enchants my father’s life.

A world has grown in her love.

6. When I die of Breast Cancer, I want you to know that I don’t like graveyards.

They are cold and lumpy like the war that was inside my body.

7. When I die of Breast Cancer, I want you to know that living was sweet and sticky like honey. That I was loved, that I loved, that I was lived in an impossible way.

8. When I die of Breast Cancer, I want you to know that it was great meeting you.

Courage Sophie Staeger Green Farms Academy

What if Time was nonexistent, and all just stood still All would be lost with no power of will.

No heart would be broken, no moon leapt upon No blood would be shed, nor courage foregone.

Risk endures the possibility of great and unregretful failure But without a shot at happiness brings a slithering smoke cage of all consuming desire.

Without friction there would be no spark inside the tortured soul, But with a thrust of compression, diamonds can be created from coal.

At the corner of logic and intelligence lies nothing ahead, Only obscurity in the twilight But if you dive into the raven feathered sea of ambiguity widespread, You may be showed in rays of beautiful skylight Would it really be better, with no failure or sin?

No emotion to act on, just existence to end and begin?

What if Time was nonexistent, and all just stood still?

Your fate and destined purpose you may never fulfill.

I’d like to thank Mr. Freeman and Mr. Rowe for inviting us to be part of this first annual poetry festival. And Mr. Rowe, thank you for your beautiful work with the students on their poems. As a teacher and a writer (and now also a late-in-life student), I have a hyphenated professional life. But I consider myself, above all, a midwife to young people’s writing. So it’s really an honor to be here. I also want to give a stupendous thank you to my colleague, poet Chris Blackman, whom I knew I wanted to bring with me, for his deep insights into all things poetry, and for his wonderful poems, which you’re about to be treated to.

Chris has been absolutely invaluable in discussing, evaluating and commenting on the young poets' work.

Thank you, Chris.

-Eve Becker-

This is a collection of poems from the 1st Annual Storm King Poetry Festival.

Celebrate the selected verse of these poets and award winners.