Tortoises
A tortoise, inching forward, accidentally flipping over. Its shell glimmers under the sun. She stops, her belly roughly scratching the desert floor. She lays her eggs, making sure to bury them Under a layer of sand. She trods away, Hoping the best for her unhatched little ones. Freda Kekeh |
Turtles
A turtle, gliding, flipping through the water. Its shell glimmers under the sea. Quick, cunning, playful. She stops, her belly caresses the sea floor. She lays her eggs, making sure to bury them Under a layer of sand. She swims away, Hoping the best for her unhatched little ones. Freda Kekeh |
crane wife:
i know my hunger very well i have been hungry as long as i can remember. in a cathedral i peeled back my hands and look at all the people: people who want and have such immense shame for wanting. i want; i want. i want more than anything else i do. i want to be in less pain, and i want something i can’t talk about. this has nothing to do with carnal flesh, no lipstick stains, no blood bank i desire and it repulses me. the closeness is food for the famished. when i lay beside my lover and they hold my hand under theirs i can run my thumb around their fingers they know of cartilage in knuckles and about all the veins they read my palms and hold my knuckles to their mouth. they kiss each finger, and hold skin to lips. i want this i feel like a crane wife, like i can pull out all of my feathers to be beautiful if i could have that forever i am supposed to be ashamed of how much i want it i’m a bad catholic but a better wife when i close my eyes i keep seeing a world where i wear an apron: i never understood a housewife, but i would be their trophy i could learn to bake, decorate a house, tend to the horses in mountainside i cannot explain it; it feel cannibalistic taboo my upbringing smiles at me when i think of a simple life to take care of somebody i love my upbringing drives a spear through my side when they see me thinking about hands (a girl),or their mouth (my lover) or when i could feel warmth from their lips to my knuckles (they said they are folding sixty five thousand paper stars to give me) my hands unfold from prayer and unravel into wings Ava Sailey |
"The Crane Wife is an old Japanese folktale. While there are many variations of the tale, a common version is that a poor man finds an injured crane on his doorstep (or outside with an arrow in it), takes it in and nurses it back to health. After he releases the crane, a woman appears at his doorstep with whom he falls in love and marries. Because they need money, his wife offers to weave wondrous clothes out of silk that they can sell at the market, but only if he agrees never to watch her making them. They begin to sell them and live a comfortable life, but he soon makes her weave them more and more. Oblivious to his wife's declining health, his greed increases. He eventually peeks in to see what she is doing to make the silk she weaves so desirable. He is shocked to discover that at the loom is a crane plucking feathers from her own body and weaving them into the loom. The crane, seeing him, flies away and never returns."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crane_Wife |
‘Oh Great Town of London’
Sirens. Loud. Stop. Stop! Too much, too little, panic. Harder to- Air, need air Shelters, Air. Calm, calm. In, onetwothreefour. Out, fivesixseveneight. Repeat. Light, dimmer. Stopping. Quiet now, too quiet. Ringing, voices. Good? Yes, great. Safe, alive. Children, so many children. Why do they cry? Hands, legs, rubble. Oh... Blink, not there. Not there anymore. Happiness. Here the children laugh. Never cry. Gone. Over, its over. Nothingness of the nothingness that existed before Has built up to nothingness once more. How? Faith. Faith in humanity, in leaders, in the world. Faith rebuilds homes, and that will never change. Chiara Baez (Rainbow Poem)* |
Red Truck, Brown Bag
Joslyn Haeselyn (Ed. EDM) Reaction to House on Mango Street Across the street in the sad little house with chipping off paint, Carson moved in. Carson came from a good community college and drives me places in her beat up truck. I love riding in her tuck. The windows down, staring up at the bright sky, life seems so stress-free. The warmth from the sun comforts me along with the classic rock Carson plays on the radio. Carson never speaks, hasn't done so for ages, they say. But she is wise. She wears wise fingernail polish, wise eyelashes, wise perfume, nothing too vibrant, though. Sometimes when we drive, there's a crumpled up lunch sack on the floor, its contents already eaten, and then I imagine what used to be inside. I wear a dress the color of a lunch bag, and sometimes I continue imagining. For a brief moment, I understand Carson’s calm and wise personality. I am not sure why Carson decided to come here. This place doesn’t have enough greatness for her. Mango Street doesn’t have enough greatness, nor do the city planted elm trees, nor do the windows on the houses trying to breath. She has a special gift, you can just tell when looking at her. I wish she would take me on a road trip in her truck, but the next week there was a phone call in the middle of the night, and a squad car parked for a long time by the curb outside her house, breaking the darkness with the tilt-a-whirl colors of red and blue, red and blue, red and blue. I couldn't help noticing she wanted to speak, but she sat by the window, wiping off her nail polish, packing all of her greatness with her for her journey out. |
火垂るの墓
We ache to love and be loved But our necessity is overlooked We’re just hoping for happier times now The scent of fruit clouds the air Because our bellies are full And our fingertips are warm But the pang of hunger never truly goes away The black rain of summer It sings of tragedy harmoniously Trying to cleanse the world a drop at a time And the graves fill fast But we do our best to move on Because the world still spins And we still feel the beating of our hearts We choke on our laughter And we choke down the tears Our lives burning right before our eyes But now we sit in the tall grass Watching the night sky turn to day Because fireflies die young And the cold beauty of this earth lasts forever Even after we’re all dead and gone Habiba Abbas |
Food For Thought
Don’t Underestimate my Inability to think -Habiba Abbas Poetry (Tricube) |
THS-LITX
November 2019 Issue Featuring Work By: Habiba Abbas Chiara Baez Victoria Carlson Amelia Clark EDM Joslyn Haeselyn Freda Kekeh Hannah Mcritchie Josh Paler Jordan Purkiss Ava Sailey Dylan Sheffield David Simmons Jordan Tiaba Featured Artist: Jennifer Yang About the Artist
Jennifer Yang is a freshman at Tallwood High School. Ms. Yang has been doing artwork since she was a tween. She works in pencil, ink, and colored pencil, and of all subject matter. Other images in this issue include "Charlie on a Bridge", personal photograph, EDM *The Rainbow poem was invented as a creative writing activity at THS. It consist of 7 parts (often reduced to 7 lines) in which images are heavily used to connect to the emotions associated with the colors of the rainbow. The first section (or first line) is attached to red, the second to orange, the third to yellow, the fourth the green, the fifth to blue, the sixth to indigo, and the seventh to violet. The color may not be mentioned in the poem. A variation of the rainbow is the reverse rainbow in which the images move from violet to red. The images from each section ultimately are to create a cohesive whole and/or singular message.
**Deborah A. Miranda's poem Advice from La Llorona is featured in this issue so the readers can reference it for the original ekphrastic poem featured this month.
https://www.poetryoutloud.org/poem/advice-from-la-llorona/ |
Almond Slivers
(For Charlie) An almond sliver, that's all you wanted really. I can remember how you nuzzled up to my fingers, Sniffing the air for its scent, Stealing it away, Hunching over it in delight. I searched the photos, scrolled the pages of yesterdays: school's first days, first dances, the inevitable birthday cakes, the unwrapped presents of unfulfilled expectations... and you, you were there, somewhere in the background a speedy flash on a vertical merry-go- round Looking through these images, I did not see the almonds or the chubby cheeks. I realize I must depend on the slivers of memory. And I cannot seem to see what I now have lost. Perhaps that is life's way: Victories are in the images we keep; Regrets are the ones we've never taken. EDM, Sept 2019 Something Like
To Leonard Cohen Unorthodox. Pine box. Smell of Christmas and Canadian snow. Smell of Twilight and the moon hanging low, With its fedora cradled mournfully in its grasp, Like a suitor in waiting, heel kicking out time’s lengthy lapse, Tapping out a rhythm, (Something like a heartbeat, something like a soul) A memory asked to take its seat, Asked to take its role… Salted with tears, peppered with sin, We will carry you…that’s how the light comes in, And we will love the rainbow, we will love the view… And, now that silence screams so loudly, Dear Teacher of our Hearts, We will listen to you, we will listen to you…. There is something like a heartbeat out there, Something like a song in every starry night Something like a soul in all that is bare, Something like a longing in all that is right. Silence divides our hearts in desert despair, But this is how we’ll keep in the light, This is how we’ll keep in the light. EDM (November 13, 2016) |
Nothing Compares to You
Dylan Sheffield You are the voice in my head telling me to keep going You are the sun piercing through the darkness around me You are important in every way shape and form You are a map guiding me in the right direction Nothing compares to you. Thx
why do you care im just a kid whos lost his way im nothing no good useless yet youre still there thank you Jordan Purkiss |
Advice from La Llorona**
By Deborah A. Miranda—a found poem Each grief has its unique side. Choose the one that appeals to you. Go gently. Your body needs energy to repair the amputation. Humor phantom pain. Your brain cells are soaked with salt; connections fail unexpectedly and often. Ask for help. Accept help. Read your grief like the daily newspaper: headlines may have information you need. Scream. Drop-kick the garbage can across the street. Don’t feel guilty if you have a good time. Don’t act as if you haven’t been hit by a Mack Truck. Do things a little differently but don’t make a lot of changes. Revel in contradiction. Talk to the person who died. Give her a piece of your mind. Try to touch someone at least once a day. Approach grief with determination. Pretend the finish line doesn’t keep receding. Lean into the pain. You can’t outrun it. |
Advice from La Esperanzada
Based on the Poem Advice from La Llorona Every happiness has its unique side. Choose the one that approaches you. Go in blazing. Your mind needs time to generate bliss. Remember the small things. Your brain cells are soaked with sugar; Connections repair unexpectedly and always. Offer help. Give help. Celebrate your happiness like it's the roaring twenties: Drinks contain bright colours and warm ideas. Throw your plates at the walls then use the shards for something else. Don't feel guilty if you had a good time. Don't act as if the new thing isn't as good as the original. Do things little oddly, But don't be afraid to stay the same. Victoria Carlson |