The Bird is the Word: Sophisticated Schoolyard Shenanigans
By Shelby Armor
A river,
so majestic,
so beautiful,
home to so many things
and I cannot be one with it.
My dreams are filled with the illusions
of fins on my arms
and of flippers on my feet;
it all seems so close
yet so far away.
I could sit for hours and sway,
sway to the melodic sound of rushing water
and leaping fish,
but I cannot.
I cannot breath using water
or slice through the sea
for I am a human,
and that is all I will ever be.
Editor: A.J. Patencio
By Guest Blogger & Poet Jessica Denyer
Everyone has a beginning, middle, and end to their story.
But who says the beginning is where we start from?
The end is many times the beginning of something
much greater than the end,
something more profound,
something more knowledgeable.
Sometimes we must get to the end of what seems like
a never ending eternity to reveal the new beginning.
Sometimes the middle is a nice place to start as well.
Sometimes the middle is more understanding
when it’s time to stop and think
than when it’s time
to pray for the end.
The beginning is tricky.
The beginning is what the middle and end need to thrive.
The beginning is what makes or breaks the middle and ends philosophies;
either they flourish or they perish.
But the middle is always a great place to soul search,
and the end is always a place to reflect.
But even when there is the beginning–
there is always the end to start from.
Editor: Reneé Vazquez
By Shelby Armor
My grandmother once told me
of painted skies and
a blank sheet of paper
with nothing on it but ideas for the future
The paper, hidden in a shed,
buried in an Arabian desert
held the concepts of happiness,
the concepts of joy for all
This paper, where it waited to be found,
spelled out a future of good fortune and happiness
That’s what my grandmother had said,
but I, being the curious child I was,
challenged these ideas and yearned for more,
I yearned for more to that story,
I yearned to understand this fairy tale,
I yearned to be older so I could see,
See the top shelf,
live in a world where I would tell the fairy tales.
It would never come, I thought to myself
“Too long” I said to my grandmother
when she asked me how school was,
and then I blinked
I could see the top shelf
I had children of my own to read to every night,
but my grandmother wasn’t here to see
when would those days come back,
the days of exploring outside
and playing pretend with my friends?
But they wouldn’t come back,
I had wasted my innocent days
thinking of things beyond my years,
waiting to grow up,
and doubting fairy tales
Editor: Makena Behnke
By Anonymous
A little glance from
You
Is all I need.
A smile of
Yours,
The force that
Pushes me
Forward.
Constantly
I forget
Who I am.
Hour after hour
I grow further away from
The well of myself.
Your glance,
Your smile
Reminds me
Who
I
Am.
Editor: A.J. Patencio
By Renée
Maybe one day
I’ll know just what to say…
Maybe one day
I’ll have the courage to speak,
and allow myself to be me,
in front of more than my dog…
Maybe one day
I’ll stop hiding behind the pages,
and the ink,
and I’ll have the ability to be,
a person outside of the paper…
Maybe one day
I’ll be able to talk to you
and have a conversation
without that contemplative silence,
when we don’t know what to say…
Maybe one day
I’ll know just what to say
to make your day
a little bit brighter…
Maybe, just maybe, one day,
I won’t be afraid.
Editor: A.J. Patencio
By Renée
You will fight.
You will conquer.
You will go up in front of the crowd,
and you will shine.
You need your strength,
my little darling.
Though we may fight,
us, together, we will win the world over.
You don’t always have,
to be so strong;
I’ll be here to lift you up.
We will fight,
and we will conquer.
Editor: Peter Kadel
By Makena Behnke
people have heard many compliments concerning their eye color, but not many people compare brown eyes to anything except chocolate.
so here is a list of things you can compare brown eyes to:
Editor Charles Schnell
By Renée
Standing on the mountain top,
it fills me with a very cautious feeling
of a satisfying happiness
with a streak of fear.
Have you ever felt that way?
I also feel that way when I’m in my own room,
writing of feelings or things that I find strange,
or when with my dog,
or with a close friend,
or when I’m by myself,
lying down somewhere,
thinking about you, and life, and fiction.
I guess that feeling is a cautious freedom.
Editor Makena Behnke
By Poet Blogger Peter Kadel
She’s it! She’s it! She’s the one!
She is gonna be my one and only.
We’ll share a kiss in hallways between classes,
Milkshakes at diners, and midnight movies.
She’s Miss American Dream.
Right now, I’m nobody, but, one day, I’ll be her knight in shining armour–
Her love story cliché, the boy, the boyfriend.
One step at a time, and then she is mine.
She’s Miss American Dream.
She just needs some convincing; she’ll see I’m right.
Those other guys may be taller, and smoother, and stronger–
But I’m the chosen one, like Anakin without the dark side.
I’ll be the bearer of the one ring to woo them all–
Just not as nerdy as that sounds.
She’s Miss American Dream.
She didn’t break my heart–I’m NOT crying!
It’s fine–she didn’t slap me that hard.
I’ll move on, as soon as I learn how.
Who needs Miss American Dream?
Editor: Brennan Nick
Reading and Interpretation By Charles Schnell
Somber, subtle poems catch my attention and stimulate thought. Below is a recording of my reading of “One Had Lived in a Room and Loved Nothing” by Charles Fort–a somber, subtle, and stimulating poem.
One Had Lived in a Room and Loved Nothing
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Full of spiders and what memory remained,
one had loved and she had forgotten things.
Clock stopped and aeroplane lost in the dark,
and who was that voice on the telephone?
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
It was a rare sleep in helter-skelter;
one awakened a half-blessed and charmed fool.
One had loved and she had forgotten things.
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Whose tiffany ring on her ring finger;
who gave one mantis kiss as the jazz played?
The faceless lover and last known address,
a writing pad and table overturned,
one had loved and she had forgotten things.
What was day or night with no hours left
and who were the two in the photograph?
One had loved and she had forgotten things.
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Charles Fort
This poem is a “villanelle.” A villanelle is a nineteen-line poem where the first and third lines of every stanza are the same, but they alternate places with every stanza. Every stanza is three lines long excluding the last one, which is four lines–the final two lines of that stanza are the first and third lines that have been repeating throughout the rest of the poem. In this poem, “one had lived in a room and loved nothing” and “one had loved and she had forgotten things” are those alternating lines.
When I first read the poem, I interpreted the poem as describing the tragic case of a woman who has now developed dementia. There are many signs of her not being able to remember something that she should be remembering, something important from her pre-dementia past: for instance, there is the unknown “voice on the telephone” (who I think is a family member) and the unknown “two in the photograph” (perhaps she and her husband or child). The poem speaks with a desolate, isolated voice. The images are empty, as if something is missing or wrong with the picture. This incompleteness sells the idea of something mis-remembered or gone.
I look up another person’s opinion online, and they thought the poem was supposed to represent a disconnect from the world. This could be a person without any disorders or the like, but rather just someone who is in a room that she has lived in for so long, for some reason suffering, that she has become unfeeling now. Very smart interpretation, I think.
If you would like to read this poem and many more like this, consider picking up Edward Hirsch’s and David Lehman’s The Best American Poetry 2016. The anthology contains lovely poetry: https://www.amazon.com/Best-American-Poetry-2016/dp/150112756X.
Here’s that other person’s interpretation I mentioned: https://ashberyland.com/2017/10/12/completely-subjective-charles-forts-one-had-lived-in-a-room-and-loved-nothing/.
Here’s where “One Had Live In A Room and Loved Nothing” was originally published: http://greenmountainsreview.com/two-poems-14/.
Editor: Peter Kadel