Between the Bricks
A Collection of Poetry by Chloe Frelinghuysen
For the students and teachers who inspired me to write. The words inside these pages are written to capture a piece of what you have offered me in my time at Taft.
1 What I love about poetry Is that there are no rules
I can indent when I please! And start a line with “and” It’s just me
and the page
only my voice
no interruptions
no external forces interfering with me
and the
page
I. Am. Free.
2
The first piece I wrote for you The first piece I wrote at Taft -
Was a two-page description of a sunset The assignment was about imagery I wrote about a lighthouse,
Engulfed in the sublimity of nature. Man’s work seemed so tiny
Surrounded by cirrus clouds and a blushing sky I wonder if I could recall that sunset today And see the same colors.
Would the sky be melded with the innocent swirl Of pink and orange?
Memory is susceptible to distortion, you know.
I wonder how much this school has distorted me. Sometimes, all I see is gray and black. If I searched inside my mind
And pulled out an image of the sunset What color would it be?
3
Wanderlust from her lips,
“Let’s go somewhere� she breathed. I thought about the bricks
Every red path pointed to the same place Nonetheless, we ran
Past the lull of the indigo pond
Over the hill laden with dandelions And away from the dusty fields Until we could run no longer We hunched over,
Looked down for a moment
And the bricks stared back, immobile run. run. run.
You don’t like poetry.
4
You said, “people should just say what they mean.” So here is a poem for you.
I like the sound of your name
It sounds like whiskers on roses And raindrops on kittens
I like how you habitually wear your grey turtleneck sweater Like you’re hiding something I like your trusty black jacket
And the ice cream sandwich pins on it
I like seeing you smile with your mauve-stained lips
When we chat about those heavy ideas from Humanities class – what’s the purpose of human existence? I mean,
I like you
In a dusty practice room Music walked in
5
With guitar strings and a satin voice
Behind crystal lenses, your oak eyes closed Your brows furrowed
And the melody seeped through the creases of your skin Your hands grazed the copper laces Of a wooden guitar And I felt no pain
6
We walked together, braless, wearing sweat pants Screwing societal expectations Until —
You told me to walk into a dance Vulnerable and unpresentable
And I wondered why I couldn’t do it 7
I heard your voice in its entirety Two months into Collegium — It hit me like a storm
Unexpectedly and all at once Its waves gave me chills Even in your silence
The Point “What was the point of this?” a white boy demanded. It’s ironic that he came to the information session
To hear us talk about why we protested for Black Lives Matter Because he interrupted us, Ignored us,
And then asked us to explain the point of all of it – Excuse me, sir, but you must be blind!
The point was at your feet this morning
When you stepped over a black girl with a sign that said: “I want to be heard”
The point was on your Facebook feed When you scrolled past
A video of an innocent black man Being shot by the police
The point was on a black reporter’s lips When you changed the channel
Because listening to him talk about racism in America Made you feel uncomfortable
The point was in the eyes of a tired person of color When you overlooked their tears
And asked them to support their statements From personal experience With statistical facts
Sir, you must be blind –
Blind enough not to see the point in front of you And close-minded enough not to put on The glasses we gave you
9
Her mind was a black, rainy night
My hand gripped a piece of charcoal
The saturated black smeared across the page
And crumbled like chalk at the force of my anger “Hope can crush you,” I said. “I never had it,” she replied.
10
Billie Holiday’s voice rang in my head,
Her voice rumbling with jazzy melancholy.
The slate sky hung over me like responsibilites My feet trod on a crumbling path “Gloomy Sunday” she sang
Dear Sanity,
Trying to hold on to you
11
Is like grasping water with trembling hands
12
Three stories high, we shouted louder than our fears Louder than our meekness in the classroom Louder than our silence at the jig
Louder than our fear of not being heard
On ordinary Wednesdays, we finally felt free Singing out the window at boys Who we never talked to
We shouted Miley Cyrus’s latest hit
And for a moment, our fears were irrelevant because
Every breath we took was proof we could belt louder, harder, fiercer…
Boys walking up to the gym questioned
Who on earth was singing so goddamn loud “We can’t stop, and we won’t stop” We sang
13
As I looked up at the metal wires Of our tiny bunk bed
I saw a part of you that I wanted to keep Your laugh was like confetti, Silly and everywhere 14
You told me that you
Could preserve people through poetry Like a magic man
I wanted to believe you
It was crew season,
My hands oozed with pain,
15
And my torn skin looked like old paint, chipping away You looked at my blistered, calloused hands
And told me that I had long, piano playing fingers, Made for creating
Made for art and music and poetry and passion and love You told me to look at your hands
They were worn from years of playing basketball You said:
You see? My hands were made for toiling And picking things up, But your hands
Your hands are made for art
16
Thank you for making me feel like a kindergartener Teens aren’t validated for stick-figure drawings We see our scribbles and instantly hate them
We believe there’s one way a drawing should look, realistic We observed the still-life scene you created.
Taking a dry piece of charcoal, we were brave, Carving our vision on a sheet of paper
I looked over at my neighbor’s drawing and felt bad for him He had drawn airplanes Instead of apples
Thank you for yelling at that boy,
“GOOD BOY! WHAT AN ARTIST YOU ARE!”
17
“Art is an attempt to organize the chaos of this world” Art encompasses all things irrational Art is an answer and a question In an impressionist meadow
The brushed grass whispers to the poppies
And ebbs with the movement of the dotted breeze What do you see?
Surrounded in a golden laced frame,
There is a man confronting you with his moonless eyes, Shaded in the tender flicker of chiaroscuro. What do you feel?
Carved out of the earth’s whitest rock,
The moon goddess reaches for her arrow,
Her diaphanous clothing draped around her Like an ancient song What do you see?
Someone asked me,
“What does Van Gogh’s Starry Night mean?” I replied,
What do you see?
What do you feel?
18
You sang me your national anthem
In a language my ears had no mind to comprehend You told me the first line was
“Where is my home, where is my home?� And I realized that home Has no location
Not the end of a street or lane No address to find But,
Nestled in your heart, To the left
Is home enough for me
19
Everyone raves about your voice I do, too
Who cannot?
Your voice is like a jazzy fire on a frostbitten day,
There’s a rhythm of revolution crackling about the air, The tender burning of a tune,
Melting like chocolate in our ears Your voice is beautiful,
But it’s embers of your soul
That burn slowly with smoke and passion That draw me in
20
It’s surprising how much color you can notice Given you’re colorblind
Because you saw the green and red details Flecked throughout our fleeting time When you leaned in too close,
You saw that my cheeks were red and pointed it out I told you I was cold, It was a lie
When you leaned in too close
You saw that my greenish blue eyes Were dotted with flakes of mascara You offered to brush them off
But I said that I could do it myself I got used to your seeing color I got used to your noticing
Until one day, you couldn’t see.
The colors of my emotions were painted for you
On a white canvas, Green and red Green and red
But then, it’s not surprising how much color You can’t see
Given you’re colorblind
21
I was told not to judge a person Before getting to know them
I don’t know you well enough to judge you, But I can’t help it
Because a black girl cut open her chest for you And showed you her bleeding, pulsing heart To show you the pain of 240 years
To show you that the blood in her veins Is the same color as yours Yet you looked at it,
Its red throbbing and vulnerable trembling Shown only to make you believe the truth Of the black experience Yet you looked at it,
And told her that you needed statistics And “facts”
To believe her
22
She thanked me for being an ally –
For posting a photo with the hashtag “Black Lives Matter”
I thought about how my friends of color Could walk outside these school walls With a hoodie on, Skin exposed –
I thought about how their intelligence and talents Could be insignificant to a suspicious cop So I told her not to thank me,
“It’s what anyone would do,” I said. I looked into her tired eyes And for a moment I understood
23
We are a generation of capturers,
A generation of children running after lightning bugs Fascinated with the glow of life
We are a generation of capturers,
A generation that believes in seeing moments through a lens The camera’s dazzle The dancing pixels
Fascinated with the glow of life
24
The leafless trees are scattered like Viens across a white sky As day wilts,
Moonshine glitters on the half frozen pond,
Its delicate beams reflecting on the ripples Silver like a distant memory
To the girl who told me
25
She finally found her confidence Because she is a senior:
You shouldn’t be confident because you are a senior. You should be confident because you are you. Besides, you’ll be a freshman next year,
And that’s how life goes.
Boarding School Boys You double tap my face on your iPhone screen We live under the same roof We break the same bread Yet, I have no idea Who you are
Modern Romance Pokes (3)
Messages (1)
*Insert your crush’s name here* liked your photo
28
I remember the poster above the chalk board: “This is the universe… You are here” it said
We are a pixel, an infinitesimally small dot
In a galaxy of exploding matter and curious possibility
We are a constellation defying (or following - I’m not sure) the laws of physics So I rebelled, too
I sat in my squeaky chair,
Unable to comprehend Newton’s equation And fled to my head space
Letting my mind float beyond gravity’s pull
29
Life is an opportunity -
A consummation of quizzes and daily trials that challenge The very purpose of our existen-But first!
Solve this equation:
5(-3x - 2) - (x - 3) = -4(4x + 5) + 13 Life is an opportunity Life is a pop quiz
Always catching us when we’re tired or unprepared Like at 8:15am on a Saturday
30
Tournez à la page
What does Morrison mean by funk? Tournez à la page
Let’s just skip The Bear, no one knows what the hell is going on in it
Tournez à la page
This is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper Tournez Tournez À
La
Page
You told us to find the page,
Giving us the map to find the story
31
You told me that history
Is the study of common people Doing uncommon things — The voices of the past Linger like scars
We have not forgotten
We have not forgotten yet 32
In a Prentice booth — First to the left —
You handed me a letter — And I realized that
What courses through our veins When our colors come together Is a story that our skin can’t tell
Video Games I didn’t realize being your friend Was leading you on.
You told me I played the boys like a video game Like I had a controller
I must have turned on the game When I texted you back. I hit the “GO” button
When my hands typed on grey letter keys. I pushed the forward button
When I answered your redundant question. What a twisted game I played
Telling you about my passions,
Believing you were interested in them too What a twisted game I played Sitting with guys At dinner
What a twisted game I played Spending time with boys
Reading books, sharing music
What a twisted game... It wasn’t twisted until
You thought I was playing And kept score
34
“I can’t hear you, Chloe! This is the 21st century! I’m a woman, hear me roar!”
It’s the 21st century, but women roaring isn’t new.
Neither is men cutting women off when they are trying to speak. Isn’t it ironic that you interrupted me to shout that? I am a woman, but I am not quiet
I am a woman, but I am not feeble
You are an old man who has difficulty hearing Do not blame me
Do not blame my womanhood
For not roaring to accommodate your needs
35
Teenagers pack the unruly hall
There are no smiles, not one at all
We trudge to class in hopeless dismay Wishing that school could wait a day But look! There’s a man in a bow tie!
Waving and beaming while we walk by
He nods and chirps “Good morning” to me For a grinning moment, I agree
36
Before you, this place seemed So formal and meticulous Like a hive
Everyone flits and flutters in calculated combs‌ Busy and forgetful–
Rushing too many thoughts in their minds Like drones sticking to their daily grind You took me by the hand
And showed me there is more to life than Living fast and dying slowly When our wonders frolic And curiosity has a soul Life tastes like honey
Golden and diaphanous,
Reminiscent of grassy meadows and orange trees Wafting like a whisper about the breeze Sweet and syrupy,
Trickling down goose-bumped fingers Sticking like a thought that lingers
37
Our adventure begins at the gates,
Its vague promise floating in our minds.
On rainy nights, we stand out in the cold Looking into hope’s window The warm luster,
Our hungry yearning. So
Close But So
Far
Special thanks to Mr. Brown, my editor, for being the poetry lover that you are. Your ability to recite poems from memory has been both fascinating and inspiring throughout this creative process.
My gratitude to Avery Smith for reading my poetry and to Gabby Gonzalez and Mr. Yee-Fun Yin helping me publish this book.
Copyright Š 2017 by Chloe Frelinghuysen
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.