08 Nov. Written Post 2007
“Growing to Draw”
And from then on I stuck to it;
She stuck around,
And together they grew on me.
Drawing and this girl, and drawing this girl.
Soon she couldn’t sit or be still
Then told me to relax;
Only later would I grow
To draw on this.
But all grow, and continue to grow.
So again it was white canvas,
And guessing by my somewhat darker kneaded eraser
I’ve drawn from her.
- Philip Lindsay, Central High School, PA, Class of 2009
“Brutus”
Thrashing,
frantic and composed
was their dancing in a coil.
a restless circle,
exchanging chaos for confusion
Friend,
and a rival and a match
was the mountain to the mass.
the storm in flux,
found its way to the floor
Winding,
intricate and a wreck
was the tangle on the ground.
blow for blow,
until it found a form
Colossus,
closed in upon leviathan,
he was not wanting to give in.
arms fell slowly,weak upon the floor
Panic!
hysteria and shock
was the descent to the fellow.
in a fluster,
he found his way above
crash!
crash!
crash! into the one that he attacked
until it rose again, relaxed
- Ben Falandays, Salesianum High School, DE, Class of 2009
“Assuage”
Unaligned, acrid staleness
In my lazy
Heart.
Befitting to the
Evasive trends I’ve adopted
And around which I’ve learned to structure
My jittery and yet unceasing
Pre-dawn visions.
But an ethereal catalyst,
A spontaneous movement
Based on impulse and aesthetics
Swims past decency and into
The unreal.
- Brittany Corrigan, West Chester University, PA, Class of 2011
“A Farewell to August” (A Song)
It was our last night in paradise
In the life that we’d come to call home.
Down to our final hours together
Before we would all go on alone.And someone cried,”Turn on the radio.
Play us something good and loud.
I know that it’s late and we’re all dead tired,
But you couldn’t pay me to go to sleep now.”
And we swore that we’d refuse to leave
Till dawn through open all the doors.
And we sang as though drunk on our memories,
And we danced just to make a few more.
Because painful goodbyes were approaching.
Coming with the start of the day.
So we savored each moment of nightlife,
And the music kept daylight at bay.
And then over the speakers came Billy Joel,
And he sang of a piano man.
And we swayed in slow motion
Like ships on the ocean,
Lost without harbor or land.
And in a sad way it’s funny,
Because none of us cried,
Though our hearts were all heavy and weak.
But in the moment, what mattered
Was that we still were together,
And the melody played on so sweet.
So we swore that we’d refuse to leave
Till dawn through open all the doors.
And we sang as though drunk on our memories,
And we danced just to make a few more.
Because painful goodbyes were approaching.
Coming with the start of the day.
So we savored each moment of nightlife,
And the music kept daylight at bay.
Life without you’s like a dream my dears.
Hardly real and I’m barely awake.
Still just a bit drunk on those memories,
And a promise I still cannot break.
- Kate Miller, Coatesville Senior High School, PA, Class of 2008
“Walk”
When I walk with my father—his
cane handed stagger, slumped back,
slow whisper and slow steps, lurching—
I am forced to move as he moves,
feet slow, savoring the pavement,
as one savors cold soup.
He sits to rest, scalp in a nod
to the cabbage. And I stand.
I see the Nightingale sing in concentric rings.
I see the slug’s pace on the city grit as he does.
I see the wind’s breath wisp from
the mouths of passers-by.
And I see myself
as my own son.
-Sean Zhuraw, High School for Creative and Performing Arts, PA, Class of 2008.
“Party Girl”
You see I can’t keep forgetting these things, like
when, where, why am I here. I feel like maybe it’s for
a bad reason. That maybe I’ve killed someone and this
is my punishment. I don’t seem to be having fun,
slumped here on the couch next to what seems to be a
bearded lady and some guy who keep drawing on his arm
with a sharpie marker. I am at a party, I can see
that, but as for why I just don‘t know. Maybe we are
all Buddhists celebrating life, the punch was blessed
by a monk the skimpy dresses the women are wearing are
their robes. I am in a trance and have left this body
behind Or better yet, it’s the end of the world and
this is the house owner’s last attempt to cheer
everybody up, this pathetic get together was the only
place these people could go. Am I one of the unloved,
one of those people who doesn’t even have a family to
be with? Most likely the latter is true, only this is
a New Year’s party. The ball is dropping, and the room
is counting down. I’m in the corner, praying God will
end it now.
I am completely lost and everything is looking
familiar. With each stare I’m staking my claim to the
objects around me. I’m clutching tightly to the little
flag that reads “mine” I‘m planting on things. I have
something here. You see that ashtray, that’s mine. I
don’t know why I brought it here but quit putting your
fucking cigarettes in it; I’m going to have to clean
it later.
I must know a gay man because there’s a phallic
piñata in the corner as well as men grinding on each
other by a boom box. I must party or be popular, well
at least someone must know me; I’m here.
My body keeps jerking up to leave but I can’t
remember if I came with anyone. I feel myself get up,
deciding to go in the kitchen, make some loud
conversation with the sink and see if anyone comes to
claim me, find out whose responsibility I am. On the
way there I try and pick up my ashtray but a butt
burns my palm and I shout.
Dropping the ashtray occurs in slow motion as I
realize the one thing I owned hurt me, and that this
way ward possession was going to land on a white shoe.
People are always familiar, it seems every face I see
I’ve seen before. When I looked up at the owner of
the shoe I figured this was just another one of my
false memories. Then, realizing I had seen those
grinding teeth and that bleach blonde hair before I
begin to back up. Her fist cocks back, then hits me
right in the jaw. A ruined shoe, it seems isn’t a good
reason for a fight but pile that on top of sleeping
with someone’s now ex-fiancée and you begin to
understand the anger.
Or maybe this is how everybody is; maybe I don’t have
any problem with memory. Maybe the world is just
wandering around one second to the next, going to
party after party completely lost. Maybe people just
clock each other in the face without knowing. Maybe the
girl’s right hand didn’t know what the left hand was
doing. Then again, I might just be slut with a head
injury who deserves what she’s getting.
Mike was tall and looking at the same painting on the
wall that I was. It was a print of a Marc Chagall. In
the painting a woman in a wedding dress clung tightly
to her groom: a gazelle wearing a dapper black suit as
angels danced in the background. The bride looked like
any bride you would see in a newspaper, proud of her
husband, relieved they finally reached the point were
they could pose for the picture and immortalize the
day. The gazelle however was different there was a
certain confidence in his eyes, a certain knowing. He
was proud and he looked at me like “Come on, Louisa,
there’s room for one more angel in the background.”
Mike: I can’t remember much about. He was tall. His
girlfriend found out about us. She punched me. But I
remember him being tall because he picked me up and
dropped me on the bed, and it hurt my back.
My nose is bleeding on someone’s white shoe. The
owner of said shoe looks very angry, she screams,
“Come on bitch!” I assume she means get away from her
shoe and so I run into the kitchen and bleed into the
sink.
I’m bleeding in the sink. I don’t remember how I got
here. I was sitting on a couch and now I’m bleeding in
a sink. A small girl in a red dress walks up to me and
puts her hand on my back. I don’t know if I know her
and the notches in my spine start moving like a
conveyer belt trying to crawl away.
“Louisa, are you okay, who was that?”
She knows my name. This is safe. “Oh I don’t know I
was bleeding on her shoe or something. It’s fine, how
does my nose look?”
“It looks fine. Louisa, I’m your friend Gina okay, do
you know where you are?”
I start spitting out blood and there’s a lot covering
my face. I am over a sink at a party bleeding and all
I want to do is stay there because right now
everything makes sense. I must be a horrible person
who deserves to bleed like this. “Louisa, do you know
where you are?”
“Yes. Yes I do. Just give me some air please.” I look
up at the girl. “Please Gina.” She steps back
frowning, and nods. I am left, bent over, as people
pass and stare.
I start to clean up; the blood is starting to crust.
As I wipe my face with a paper towel I catch a guy
staring at me.
I am at a party, my face is slightly wet and some guy
is staring at me. Hey maybe I’m beautiful. I walk up
to him and lean against the wall. “Hey.”
At Paul’s I sit at the edge of the bed, naked, my
back facing him.
“Hey, you’re beautiful, you ever been a model?’
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure could be a model though, just look at you.”
I look down at my legs. Paul puts his hand on my
shoulder and kisses my neck. From there the night
finished itself off.
I don’t think I have a job so I sleep in late at
Paul’s. I wake up to the sound of him whispering into
the phone.
“Yeah, she pretty, not gorgeous but pretty. Well
here’s the deal she…”
I roll over onto my other side because this can’t be
about me, I’m a model, and it’s none of my business
anyway. Paul hangs up and taps my on the shoulder.
“You in the mood for some breakfast?” I nod. Paul gets
up and throws a robe on the bed then leaves the room
for the kitchen. He walks away like all men do after
having “conquered” a woman; confident strong steps,
long strides, arrogance emanating from his kneecaps. I
throw the robe on and try to remember what’s going on.
I met Paul at a party. I went to a party. I am a party
girl.
I walk into the kitchen smiling at the eggs laid out
on the plate for me. Paul has his back to me as he
fries up some bacon.
“You enjoy last night?” he asks over his shoulder. I
don’t really know if I enjoyed last night but why be
rude.
“Yes, hey I didn’t happen to mention where I live,
did I?”
Paul turns around and looks at me and shakes his
head. He looks me up and down a couple more times and
then sits in front of me. Leaving the bacon untended,
the room begins to smell like fire.
“Listen babe, I had a fun time last night but I don’t
know if we make the best couple, but I know this guy
who I think would be perfect for you, also if you put
out he’s willing to pay.” He shoves a fork full of
eggs in his mouth.
I’m not even looking at Paul when I say yes. I am not
a model. I am a prostitute and the bacon in the back
is burning.
It’s six o’clock when I start to get ready for my
“date.” I don’t know how I got into prostitution,
maybe it’s been too traumatic to remember, maybe I’m
on some kind of pills, and maybe I’ve been sold into
sex slavery and have been brain washed. Surely, above
all I must be a bad person and this is punishment. I
look in the mirror.
My eyes point down at the corners, my nose turns up
slightly at the end, my mouth only smiles to one side.
I am a face with out direction. I run a comb through
my hair one more time and go out the door. I don’t
want to be late for my blind date.
Paul is at the door to pick me up. I hop in nervous.
He doesn’t say anything just that he’ll be there to
get me at eight meaning I have hour and a half date.
I am dropped off at the man’s apartment, he is right
outside waiting for me. His name is John Doe and he
invites me in for coffee and a chat. His apartment is
cluttered with newspapers all over the floor. He says
he keeps them around because he plans to use them for
wallpaper later. There are newspapers lining his
kitchen counter. He tells me he hasn’t been on a date
for a while. There are newspapers on his couch. He
tells me he would like to own his own business. There
are newspapers in his bathroom. He tells me I look
beautiful. There are newspapers on his bed. He tells
me to undress.
John is sweet and soft to me. He kisses me and won’t
stop saying how pretty I am. When he finishes up he
gets up and sits on the bed and just looks at me. I
smile, and he puts his hand on my thigh. What a
wonderful date, I can’t even remember going out I just
remember us together. Is it too early to say love?
Something in the corner is blinking. I turn my head
and the alarm clock blinking eight, suddenly a loud
knock comes at the door and john jumps up to open the
door naked. And lets in a man, it’s Paul.
Paul comes into the room as John throws pants on.
Paul just stands over me looking. John comes up from
behind and hands Paul a wad of money.
“Get up babe.” Paul says
I start to get dressed, confused, as Paul and John go
into the kitchen for coffee. What is happening, am I
being arrested. Why isn’t John helping? I have a
strange familiar feeling of something I loved hurting
me.
Paul appears at the door. “Let’s go sugar.” I get up
and go out with him. I’m crying at this point and I
don’t know why. Am I a whore? Maybe I am, I just
don’t’ know.
Through the next couple of weeks Paul keeps
introducing me to his “friends”. I think it’s some
kind of dating service, and I of course am some kind
of slut. I meet Johns, and Larrys, Bobs, everyman on
the planet it seems and all of them are welcome to me.
Maybe I am God’s gift to the lonely, I share myself
with the monsters of this world to make them happy and
give them hope. Maybe I am a sexual Jesus.
Under the body of one of my follower something just
doesn’t feel right. He is mean and smirking and hasn’t
once told me how beautiful I am. I push him off me and
he slaps me in the face.
A man has hit me, while in his bed. Maybe we’re a
quarrelling couple but he has hit me. I don’t know
where I learned to run from that but I get up with a
sheet around me and begin to sprint for the door. Paul
is there when I open it. He grabs my arm. “What’s
going on?”
“He hit me!” I pant out.
“Alright let me just get the money.”
The man who hit me is walking toward me.
“No I want to go now, he has no money, let me go!”
I run out of the apartment while both men scream. I
don’t know why I’m running I don’t know where but once
I get three blocks away I feel safe.
I am on a corner at night wrapped in a white sheet .
People are passing me and looking. A cop comes up and
begins to ask me if I’m ok. Maybe I am a Greek goddess
who’s touched down from the heavens. I feel beautiful
and clean and I am smiling at the officer in front of
me. I am ethereal, celestial, an angel, does he know
this? Do I know this? I walk past him and just keep
going. I keep walking and walking, and waiting to bump
into something.
- Mia Cammisa, Temple University, PA, Class of 2011.
“Your Poster Girl”
I’d like to think I’m the kind of girl
Who finds herself at your place,
Who sits Indian-style
(however politically incorrect that is)
On your counter,
And finishes all your coffee.
But the kind who also does your dishes,
folds all your laundry,
proofreads your latest
with blue pen
(not abrasive red)
And lovingly places a pack of cigarettes
Next to your pillow
While you dream of stars and sons
(careful not to rustle the cellophane
you hate so much)
And uses your last post-it to inquire
‘Remember when we used to be in love’
- Katie Boyle, Central High School, PA, Class of 2008
“Trapped in Space”
You’re stuck in space
You can’t get home
You’re trapped in the shuttle;
You’re all alone
(EVERYONE IS DEAD)
And the oxygen’s out
Your lungs have collapsed
You’re unable to shout
The engines won’t start
You can’t fly anyway
You’re light years from Earth
And you don’t know the way
You stare into a mirror
You look at your eyes
As your face turns blue
Like your home town skies.
-Matt Tumas, Salesianum High School, DE, Class of 2008
“Salt Water”
I find it really stressful that people walk on
snow. I would rather snow be left unmarked. It’s
meant to be white and pristine and pure. That’s what
it looks like in my childhood picture books and
postcards which, let’s face it, simply exist for us to
use as goals for reality.
But in reality, snow displays the worst in people.
Piss, dirt, fumes - these are the first things that
show up on snow. That’s why you get snowed in - it’s
nature’s way of telling you to keep your dirty self
inside. I keep my eyes shut during the phase when snow
melts away and grass begins to puncture it. It’s
just too much to bear watching the slow process of grass
depurifying the snow. If I could, I would hibernate, if only to avoid the sight.
But when my middle-aged mother (whose death has haunted my dreams for years) suggests I salt the steps it does
not bother me because the salt is white and only
speeds up what is a naturally occurring process
anyway. My mother watches me from the kitchen window
as I place each grain of salt in an even line
arrangement. Although later, once I have already
shoveled and salted, I look to the scene of the
apparent crime. Small sections where ice previously
had been force me to think of bombs hitting a war
zone, but slightly more organized.
It makes me wonder how salt water exists. If salt can
make frozen water disappear (the snow melts and then
evaporates I assume) then why is it different with
water at a normal temperature? If I poured salt onto
already partially ice, what would happen?
I’m forced to think of the duck I saw in the thawed
parts of a lake. I can’t help but wonder if he’s okay.
The fact that we are 75 percent water was drilled into
my head in sixth grade health classes and I wonder if
I’m at risk for the next big disease because of the
enormous amounts of salt I consume on my meals.
Salt water is predisposed to only half being. Salt
water continues knowing that at any chance it might
freeze and then disappear. It lives in constant fear.
And as a salty tear runs down my cheek I realize that
I am salt water.
- Molly Schenker, Central High School, PA, Class of 2008.
“Epigraph”
i read his words and found the truth
to what i lacked.
he who spoke sooth did not attempt
to loose the noose,
and rather we found ourselves at the top
of the tops of all the self-illuminating dreams
i have no time now for the hour of god
the paths we’ve trod, so hopelessly
father
your dreams and hopes and fears
and ropes which tie themselves
to us around the neck which you
insist we keep and now i know this wa
ter’s too deep for me to swim across—
too hard for me to find what’s lost and
narrative of what has been done
seems to be what is to come.
–
i saw her
standing in the shadow of the
valley of our breadth—
our width that is
the length of our consciousness
the circumference of our existence
ties itself into us and lends itself
to thoughts of a broken lily
lying
on a table draped in white and
decorated with three pink candles.
i stand,
i
stand
among the wavelength souls of apocalyptic
little girls who beg me to play
to play with them. i say
i cannot be what is
or what is not
rather i am to be
what is to be
and what is to be
is nothing more than
me the soul the wave the roll
of thoughts and cold determined
scales and cares of whales and hares
where we can never believe what’s there
but i—i do and i will and i see what i know is to be.
and me is here and me is where i will
determine fateful stares of all
whom are to enter prayers
of children lying down
their cares.
–
narrative it seems has left this place;
i am alone i have nothing but this.
my face.
the cracked mirror grins at me and what i see
is no more than what i hear which is absurd.
from the mouths of that flock: that herd.
because of what i am left with.
i am left with me i see the fee i must pay
and sign away my life to your decree.
but beginning is beckoning and entering
what we can bring with us to all
whom answer this call and hear and fall
and drop the ball which they were
thrown by a society
which languishes, it discarded me.
in doing so it set me free
and now i lead you on to be.
be? be what? be what
is the tender soul
encompassed in a gold
en amber case which is to be
sold.
sold but not forgotten:
gone but not begotten
by he who hides above us now
the primordial ordinance of the how
we light flame under the sacrificial cow
and superimpose our
us
upon our
now.
- Jude O’Neill, Holy Ghost Preparatory School, PA, Class of 2008
