Oh look at that! Poe took his friend Will out for his birthday. How nice!

That's right, everyone's favorite Bard turns 445 today! Hooray! Happy birthday, old friend! How should we celebrate?

Well, we can listen to READ's associate editor, Audra Pace, give a dramatic performance of a monologue from A Comedy Of Errors.

Well, we can talk like Shakespeare for a spell.

We can watch this very cool iambic pentameter scene from the movie, Renaissance Man. Bop bada bop bada bop bop bop bop! 

We can go crazy with Hamlet.

Or, we can watch this super awesome Macbeth rap! Enjoy!

 

To learn more about READ's electronic issues, email us at read @ weeklyreader . com (no spaces).

On page 2 of our most recent Poetry issue of READ, we mentioned that we would post Robert Frost's poem, Birches, here on our blog on April 17, 2009. Holy cow would you look at that! We made it! Cheers.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 
     - Robert Frost

 

You'll probably notice that there's no mention of potatoes in the following poetry. But you know where potatoes and poetry have recently intertwined? The Satire Issue of READ! That's right, our Lit Scene Investigation featured parodies of the following poems using potatoes as a theme. Sure these poems are examples of greatness in literature. But where do you put the ketchup?

This Is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Sonnet 18 Shall I Compare These to A Summer's Day
by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

TO STELLA

by Plato

THOU gazest on the stars, my star!

Ah! would that I might be

Myself those skies with myriad eyes,

That I might gaze on thee.

In the New Life, New York issue of READ, we asked you to send us your neighborhood stories. The following is what one student, Quentin Weathers, had to say about his neighborhood.

Stepping outside my front door into this world as I soar; rippin and running the streets.
My friends and me; young without a care living life so free.
As the years go by and the times change, I think of the younger days;
from b-ball to football the games we play.
Sing-a-longs, raps songs, every word we quote coming close to fighting all because of jokes.
A true friend till the end and this I know, always a good friend just like a younger bro.
From small to tall as this process must grow, we extend our friendship like picked afro.

Yesterday afternoon, Americans took a moment before diving into a turkey feast to give thanks for the their blessings. Whether it was a thank you for being healthy or an A on a math test, yesterday was the day to say thank you. Well, today is the day to commit your gratitude to paper through the melodious meanderings of the Ode. An ode is typically a short poem that expresses your personal feelings about a person, an event or an object in nature. If you're the formal type, you might consider the classical ode but if you're like me, and Pablo Neruda, you may just want to rock it freestyle!  Seeing as how Thanksgiving marks the official holiday season and unofficial season of celebrating food, I humbly submit to you my:

Ode to Thanksgiving Sandwich
by Jennifer Hickey

Upon black Friday's wakening
In the bowels of Frigidaire
In Tupperware
In tinfoil
sleeps your delicious savory parts
secret is your potential to those
sans vision.
Oh the mighty Thanksgiving Sandwich
Leaning tower of turkey showered in juicy gravy bits atop a sesame roll.
Last night's dinner cannot hold a flame to your beauty.
Do we dare to rest your tender meat atop mayonaise?
Oh HECK yeah! 

Ahh ... the possibilities of stuffing and mashed potato;
both or just one?
And tarty colorful cranberry to tease and tickle tastebuds.
You are clearly an integral piece.
More gravy
More gravy
and cover with the top! 

A mess
A mess
beautiful sloppy mess
seeping out of the bread back
and plopping in my very loose and forgiving pajamas
dribbling from my chin and neck
staining my Pink Floyd tee shirt circa 1992
and I am oblivious!

I am devoured as I devour you my savory sweet dinner between bread
as I sit Indian style upon my couch
I am one
I am eternally thankful for this shameful face stuffing.
 

Thank you very much! Now it is your turn! Turn your blessings or favorite foods into an Ode and send them to us!

by Sarah-Jayne Kipling

He walks in to holy organ riot
Serpent sway
Unlined mouth
Agitation
That cracks the clay
Where the chieftain lies
"Teach me how to raise the dead," I say
His arms open into a porch

He pulls me back
Cawing
No fleeting mayfly backwards glance
A fetal world
Back, still further back
Into himself
Searing plain and shocked and open
Dark like a dead child's birthday
Rain has yet to be imagined
Inside the earth we reach the pinnacle
Eyeless

Seconds resume

He walks away
Just that
He walks away

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ.

When most people hear the word sonnet, they automatically think of William Shakespeare, and for good reason. However, the sonnet was around way before Shakespeare was born, and continued to be modernized after his death.

What makes sonnets different from other types of poetry is their distinct structure. Sonnets have a set number of lines and an organized rhyme scheme. However, there are different types of sonnets, such as the English sonnet, the Italian sonnet, and other variations.

Shakespeare usually wrote English sonnets, which have 14 lines and a rhyme scheme of:
[ABAB CDCD EFEF GG]
Each letter corresponds to the last word of each line. So the first and third lines will rhyme, the second and fourth lines will rhyme, etc.

But you have probably already seen many Shakespeare sonnets. Here are some other ones you might not have seen. Sir Thomas Wyatt was born in 1503, and wrote sonnets way before Shakespeare. Here is one, entitled "Farewell love and all thy laws forever"

Farewell, love, and all thy laws forever,
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavor.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse that pricketh aye so sore
Taught me in trifles that I set no store,
But scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell, go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority;
With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts.
For hitherto though I have lost my time,
Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

— Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

This is an Italian sonnet. Though the rhyme scheme of an Italian sonnet is somewhat flexible, the first eight lines are
[ABBA ABBA]

More modern sonnets are a lot freer with their rhyme schemes, and the poems are not as structured overall as the more classical ones. Edna St. Vincent Millay lived from 1892 to 1950--not so long ago. Here is a sonnet she wrote, entitled "Only until this cigarette is ended"

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu, -- farewell! -- the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

There are other structural elements to sonnets, such as the literal structure of ideas (like an essay) and the rhythm of the words (enunciation). But that would be a whole other story.

Try writing your own sonnet!
It's harder than it looks!

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ. 

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!

 

This is the famous epitaph of William Butler Yeats, whose birthday would have been yesterday, June 13.

Poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats was an Anglo-Irishman born in Ireland in 1865. This means that he was in the Protestant ruling class in Ireland, as opposed to the Catholic lower class. In his early years he was very interested in mysticism and occultism, but later on his poetry became more realistic.

 

Most of his life, Yeats was in love with Maud Gonne, an Irish nationalist who did not return Yeats' feelings. Yeats was so desperate to be with her, he ended up proposing to her five times!

 

Yeats won the Nobel Prize in December of 1923. He is known as a symbolist poet, because most of his poetry uses symbols in order to create meaning.

 

He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven

 - William Butler Yeats

 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

 

-By Audrey Gamble, Grade 9

I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
Startlingly clear and blue sky peeking through
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Drifting up, a hot air balloon takes flight
All its colors flying so bold and true
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

Flawless peace, it's free of hatred and spite
Images that I mistake and construe
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

The sun is so warm, comforting and bright
Drying away all the damp morning dew
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

I'm breathless at such a beautiful sight
Crisp fresh air and a warm summer breeze too
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Such a great day makes me fearful of night
But I feel content as I say adieu
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Click here for Student Writing Showcase 2008.

That's not much fanfare! Well, I could tell you about all the great student writers we have showcased this year. I could discuss the wonderful authors who have leant their voices and commentary (like M.T. Anderson, Karen Cushman, and Cynthia Leitich Smith). I could describe the way neat-o video version of 1,000 Words. I could tell you all about the Letter To Self article and writing prompt. I could write up a super-duper self-promotion that shows in detail how each one of these things makes for a really cool place to chill out, read some excellent student writing, get inspired, and moves you to write whatever your heart desires! I could... and I kind of just did... but I think I'll just pipe down and let you check it out for yourself.

AND if you do get inspired and DO write something. Send it to us at word@weeklyreader.com. We're always looking for the best student writers to publish right here on WORD!

Cheers mates! Enjoy!

If you haven't figured out this week's theme by now... um... it's birthday poems inspired by Billy Collins. Come on, you knew that!

Turning Ten
by Becky, Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like I can do anything,
Everything.
I can fly with the birds,
I can ride a dragon.
I'm going to turn ten.
Some feel the need
To let go of past games,
Imaginary friends,
All the things considered
Childish.
They think
That turning ten
Means crossing a threshold
From which
You may never return.
But I believe
At 11, 15 or even 30
At heart,
We are still kids.
So opinions are very different,
Unique,
Yet they have one likeness,
Turning ten,
Is
No
Small
Thing.

For the record, I'm 30. And I like to think I'm still a kid at heart. Here's a couple of monkeys celebrating birthday poem week to prove it. Look! They're wearing people clothes! Hahahahaha! Oh monkey.

This seems to be a popular concept here at WORD! Keep your birthday poems coming! Here's one from a student who managed to incorporate a monkey into her writing! Yay Birthday Monkey poems!

Turning Twelve
-by Emma, 11

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like Christmas came early this year.
Like a monkey in a
forest of banana trees.
Like a young child playing in a cool stream
on a hot summer's day.
Turning twelve.
Oh, how I wish it would come sooner!
"You may babysit when you are twelve", my parents say.
I have been eleven for years-an eternity-
or so it seems.
Turning twelve.
The thought of it makes me want to do a a little
dance in place,
or squeal like I do at Christmas, when I open my first present.
Turning twelve.
This is the beginning of
being treated like a teenager,
not a child,
of staying home alone,
of babysitting,
of walking home from school,
of being responsible,
of growing up.
Turning twelve.
How long it takes, but I know it will come.
Someday...
Turning twelve.

Here are a few more student written birthday poems inspired by Billy Collins' On Turning Ten and READ magazine!

Older
by Iman Siddiqui

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like a rotten old banana peel
Everyday and every night
Holding on to my child-ish right
Sometimes I want to be alone
With everything silent to the bone
No matter how I feel inside
There is a hole open wide
Everything is changed
And I'm the one to blame
Sometimes the change is good
Just like it always should
Everything is crazy
Now it has become hazy
I can't take it anymore
All that knocking on my door
I'm sick and tired of all these traps
Closing on my weakened back
Older and older, day by day
No more time to go out and play
As I've matured, bigger and stronger
It will stay for longer and longer
Even if I cannot go out and play
Hopefully I'll enjoy my 13^th birthday

----------
Turning 13
by Christine Leong - Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like the shriveled old grape on 42nd street
The idea of 13 creeping up on me
Is slow but consistent
Week by week, day by day
Hour by hour, minute by, minute
second by second
It's like the lioness
About to pouce on her prey
It is like an ocean
Full of "Happy 13th Birthdays"
Swarming around me
Trying to drown me
You might wonder why?
Why are you afraid?
But, I'd simply answer
They expect so much more
They expect you to be great
They pile work on your head
'Till you can't balance any longer
Then they pile more work
And you drop like a bomb
You see, turning 13 isn't all that bad
But it's the door to independence
The door to freedom, high school
College, your job, adulthood
Being me of course,
I would never want to
Think of all this
So right now I'll just
Sit back and relax and
Concentrate on, not being 13,
But being 12.

Don't ask me why we're posting another birthday monkey picture. I don't have the answer. He just looks so happy! Oh... I guess that is answer enough.

In READ's Poetry issue, we asked you to write a few birthday poems using the first line from Billy Collins' poem, On Turning Ten. Here are just a few that we received.

10
-Esther Yan

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like recovering from the flu.
Like playing outside on a summer day,
splashing through water on too-hot weekends,
sitting beside the fire on a chilly-cold night.
It makes me feel all giddy and fickle,
like seeds growing toward the earth's warm sun,
shopping at the mall with 10,000 dollars.
If I could choose between heaven and this, well
well, I would choose this.
I want to know why others don't feel
like me? and what is their reason?
For all I know about turning ten
is balloons, and parties, and cake, and
candles, and friends, and sleepovers, and
Turning ten means DOUBLE-DIGITS!
I love to feel much older,
'cuz grown-ups listen to you more,
little kids think you're cooler,
and people say I am better.
It gets me a year closer to going to middle school.
Oh boy, oh boy! I can't wait!
But then
I go down,
           down,

     down
                down the stairway of life,

and I ask God,
"Well... what are you waiting for? When's my 11th birthday?"

--------------

Thoughts on Turning Ten
- Vivek Shankar, Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel,
A little uncertain and strange,
As my birthday draws closer,
I close my eyes and whisper.
“Who am I? Who am I?
Ten years have passed so quickly,
I don’t understand,
The silent, ceaseless nature of time.
More is expected of me,
Than ever before,
Shocked am I,
As the day passes on.
I look back to remember,
The meandering course of life,
The times of happiness,
And the times of sadness.
Each memory plays a part,
In the twisting life of a human,
I look back and wonder,
What is there to live for?
I am a speck,
In the vast painting of life,
Looking back to remember,
The decade that has passed.
Who knows? I say,
But what I know,
Is to work your way through hardships,
And enjoy the pleasure of life.

--------------

Turning Twelve
-by Joseph Farhat, of the International Baccalaureate Baker Middle School

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm about to explode
in a happy little fireworks display,
for that turning older
is the best thing
you can feel in your lifetime

Twelve might not be as great,
as your other birthdays you remember.
The day you turned one,
the fifth celebration of your life,
the great double digits of ten,
your sweet sixteen,
your fun twenty-one,
and any other birthdays you favor.

But I will not forget,
my twelfth birthday,
for to me it was very important,
because there at the big one two,
I felt I could do anything
If i could put my mind
to the task

Now as life slowly passes,
right before my eyes,
I reflect on my favorite B-day,
my wonderful twelfth.

Now as my poem comes to a close,
I want you to think,
about your wonderful birthdays,
and compare it to
your twelfth.

In the Poetry Issue of READ, we asked you to create another character for Spoon River. 9th grader Katrina Lu has created a character named Bunny D. And here is what she has to say.

Bunny D.
Once in a lifetime chances don't let them pass you by.
Everything is worthwhile as long as you don't take for granted.
Breathe it and take it in as gratitude, even if it is painful.
Take everything with you as you lay cold in the ground.
With the memories of a lifetime you won't feel alone.

-Anana Witterman, Grade 8

Gnarly oak sentries guard the entrance of the park,
Fragile, copper leaves adorned with a lace of dew.
Perpetual branches tug at the heavens ... intertwining.

Calm and composed, a delicate cherry blossom tree breathes softly,
Outstretched, humorous arms playing tug-of-war with the geentle breeze.
Light pink cotton balls tingle slightly ... a strong gust hurtles past.

Propelling itself from a lofty branch is a morning dove,
Its smoky plumage rippling in the fresh morning light.
Coasting on an invisible elevator ... laughing at the sky.

An undulation brook courses through the pebbles,
Its mirrored surface echoing the late autumnal hues.
Fragments of a peaceful afternoon ... scattered on the innocent surface.

This is the final runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. It was supposed to have been posted yesterday but we screwed up. Sorry about that. We were so close to having a full 14 days too. So much for perfection.

Check back later today to read one student's new character for the Spoon River Anthology!

- Alicia LeSage, Grade 8

The moonlit sky, the stars
The darken green grass,
The midnight breeze
With you everything is good.

The sunny blue skies, the clouds
The soft green grass,
The midday sweat
With you everything is good.

The dark stormy sky, the rain
The wet green grass
The deadly wind
With you everything is good.

The gloomy skies, the flurries
The white powdery grass
The dreadful chill
With you everything is good.

No matter the skies, no matter the weather,
No matter the color of the grass.
Nothing in the world matters because
With you everything is good!

This is the thirteenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Kristian Alfonso, Grade 12

Elapsed time of call: 1:16
He tells me that I swing my arms when I run.
I tell him I like my space
and it keeps cars from hitting me.

I ask him if he's tried it before
and he says only in Allendale
because there are sidewalks.

Here we have no sidewalks,
no fire hydrants,
we let things burn here.

Elapsed time of call: 3:33
He asks if it is raining where I am,
I tell him only in my mind. He asks
if I had dinner yet and I say
I don't have service.

Call ended.

This is the twelfth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Baobao Zhang, Grade 11

Caught between the pale snow-covered ridge ahead
and the looming tumult of thundering hail, Jack Green
eyed the half-frozen river with a heavy heart.
An unkind Virginian winter, like a mother-bird
bent on hell, had pecked at him since the first of November.
Trapped in his red-brick coffer, Jack had counted then
re-counted the testaments of his fortune: Chinese plates
and Indian tea and Spanish silver bourgeoisies.
But under the shadows of midnight, they haunted his dreams
with polished accusations, pricking his conscience till it bled.

Though Jack Green would never confess the Oirginal Sin,
he firmly believed in Eden and that it existed somewhere
beyond the pine-laced gates of the Cumberland Gap.
Far too old to undertake the pilgrimage, he cleansed
himself with glimpses of spring for personal salvation.
In due season, the wildflowers on the riverbank
would flood his valley with unnamable colors.
And in due season, another shipload of transplantations
would arrive in Williamsburg, eager to choke the
New World--or perhaps to bless it with beauty.

This is the eleventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Ray Bliss, Grade 8

I glimpse a cardinal
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

I see him
dance--
a red shadow
in the skull
of a leafless tree.

Fog clothes
the tree with a brilliant
swirling tornado.

But still
the cardinal dances--
smoke, formless, as he weaves
a delicate pattern of lace,

as he dances
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

This is the tenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Margaret Hayertz, Grade 12

I make paper into trees, unfold
this napkin until it flies away. I watch the birds
run on air, and I mistake
their mistakes for changes in the weather pattern, that
clinging ring of computerized, Weather Channel clouds. Graphic
is to pixels as beating heart is to atoms,
how a thought seeps into your head
where chemicals eat it up and (hopefully) store it
for a rainy day,
just like (hopefully) rain rains
on a house fire and on a geranium.
Petals need more air than we do--
we can sit inside all day without breathing, pretending
there's a fire upstairs and vampires outside
and that a box will keep us safe.
"Be there, or be square!" says a black-and-white girl
inside the round T.V.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
We pretend in hieroglyphs and handshakes
while the symbol of the self poses atop a trophy.
We laugh in the details--just jolting consonants--
at the things that don't fit snugly over our ears.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
I define myself by my real name and by my heartbeats per minute because
how else would we tell the difference between each other?
I am I and you are you and that means
Be there. Be there. Be
there.

This is the ninth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Alyse Quiat, Grade 10

Wandering town, the streets were still,
     filled with wisps of whispers.

Our eyes,
     cleared of our pre-teen fog,
     could see the old mural, once a Summer panorama,
     now faded paint on a concrete slate.

          You fell back to the grass,
          tangling your bright brass hair,
          and warily tilted your gaze to the sky haze.
       I followed next to you like usual,
       sitting and carefully
       leaning back on my hands.

               The clouds,
               pale, purgatory curtains,
               covered what would come next,
               what was beyond the anxious silence.
               There, we witnessed them
                    shift,
                         shift,
                              and soon enough,
                       split.

This is the eighth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Desanka Beslic, Grade 9

The smoldering embers in his eyes still glow hot;
tattoed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal.
For the last time Misho is led by a sunglow ring and a pounding beat.
He is a street performer enchanting crowds.

Tattooed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal
in a centuries-old tradition,
he is a street performer enchanting crowds,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.

In a centuries-old tradition,
cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he had lost.

Cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
these last tokens of his misfortune.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he lost
in the mountain sanctuary of black leaves.

These last tokens of his misfortune
will become but a memory of how paws were molded by flame.
In the mountain sanctuary of black leaves,
now Misho only will dance when it thunders.

This is the seventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Nick Wiedman, Grade 8

'Twas the time of year and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

No, No! says the man, You've got me wrong,
I can't die now, I'm much too young!
There is some confusion, sorry for the bother,
But the one you want is my dear brother.

So he left the man and spared his head,
He went along and took his brother instead.

'Twas the second year, and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

Oh, no! says the man, I'm still too young,
but surely my auntie's time has come.

So he left the man and spared his head,
he went along and took his auntie instead.

'Twas the third year and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

You can't take me now, that would be bad
but surely it's time for my dear old dad!

So he left the man, and spared his head,
he went along, and took his dear old dad instead.

And that year Death was annoyed,
He was tired of being tricked, lied to, and toyed!

'Twas the fourth year, and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come!

No, no! says the man. But it was too late,
He could not escape his coming fate.

Enough! Says Death with a bellow,
To poor, frightened and dreadful fellow.

Growing short are my fuses,
I'm tired of your excuses!

And with that, Death raised his scythe,
Struck it down and took his life.

It was a sad sight, and the rain began to pour,
And the man who cheated death was sadly no more.

This is the sixth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Larissa Gula, Grade 12

I once picked up a violin
With a flimsy, cracking bow,
And I softly coaxed a tune, until
I recognized the whistle being thrown out.

It sounded like my old machine companions
With creaking pistons, and gears,
And proud smokestacks marking the trail taken
Until the message was lost in the clouds.

It sounded like the night
When I rode along to the next station
Watching fields of barley
And snail-ridden marshes
Flash by.

And the midnight train, with no destination,
Carried me on, on, on
And away from the demands
And requirements.
My only companion was peace.

And we bumped along, the motions
Soothing cracked fingers, and beyond them
Into a weary nack, nudging,
Opening constricted capillaries--

Until the whistle suddenly screamed
And pierced the quartet circle
And my eyes snapped open
With the dream echoing,

Echoing...

      Echoing...

Leaving me
Nowhere appreciated.

This is the fifth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Rory C. Dibley, Grade 11

It's the way your eyes twinkle
The way your teeth gleam
The way your cheeks dimple
When you smile at me

Or it might be how you kiss me
Is what makes me feel so right
Or it might be how you hug me
Holding me close and tight

But I know it's the way you love me
Is what makes my worries seem gone
It's when I see your smiling face
Makes my heart sing a song

This is the fourth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Shawn Wu, Grade 7

Through the lofty oaks and into a nest,
a small sliver of glistening light explodes.
Popping up instantaneously, an alert head looks around.
The silent forest stays still,
refusing to awaken.
Suddenly the blue jay's scream cuts through the forest--
she waits.
The uniquely audible echo reverberates back,
back to the lonely jay.
Once--Twice
As soon as it comes back again,
another cry is heard,
it is that of a different blue jay.
A robin joins in.
Next, a curious moole surfaces,
its head covered in dirt.
The day has begun.

This is the third runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Hannah Colbert, Grade 12

The sky at dusk is like my father doing Tai Chi in a big room;
early in the morning, he's moving through the porcelain stillness,
after the sun sets, the clouds are waltzing towards night.
Both are all soft moves and graceful circles,
the slow gestures of strength across the empty room,
the slow paths treading on the wind, across the sky.
There is no curtain to go up.
If there are any viewers, it is accident only.
The man, the sky, they perform for no one;
it is their very nature to be purple and common gold,
to be patient, practicing,
the man moves even as the clouds do,
the clouds move even more like the man.
When they finish, no applause.
It is only the end.
The man and the clouds go their separate ways.
My father starts to make breakfast.
The clouds fade over the horizon.

This is the first runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

by Lauren Wrenn
age 12

The white blanket
melts away.
Hear the flowers
moaning.

Waking up
Spring sees
the birds come back.

Warm is here again.

By Jessica Confer

Your smile
is so sweet
you put tons of smiles upon my face
when i see your smile ,my eyes open so wide
i know those smiles of yours will never tell a lie
i know those smiles will always tell the truth
When i see your smile i just go wild

Your smile
just makes me happy
and it will never fade away
it'll never die
your smiles will never get old
i get excited when i see that smile
they put me in a mood

Everytime i see your smile i just lighten up so bright
and i just what to laugh
they just brighten up my day
your smile is just so beautiful
and amazing to me

Your smile
Your smile gets bigger everyday
i hope your smile stays permanently
just like how it is now
i hope your smile never wears away
your smile is so deep
just like mine

- by Tajhinea Coffee, Age 13

Have you ever loved like me?
Have you ever loved?
To the point where it was hard to stop
To the point where you could never say bye
To the point where you couldn't live without them
To the point where you wanted to be with them everyday, second, hour, or minute
If not you haven't loved
Have you ever felt like your world was coming to an end?
To the point where you didn't want to live
To the point where you thought you were crazy
To the point where nothing mattered anymore
To the point where no one understood why you did the things you did
If not your world isn't coming to an end
Tough times are the times you get to realizing
I don't know what, but you learn something.
When the happy times come
You understand why you were feeling that way.

- by Laura Markert, age 15.

She was born many years ago
In the early days of spring
When the blossoms where just blooming,
and the river returning to life.

She has seen many times when the earth changes forms
When the days grow colder and the nights are long
When the hottness of the day makes her grow weary,
But still, she awaits her most favorite of times.

She silently waits. Waits for when the birds in the sky
fly to the south
For when the leaves atop her head change to the hundreds
of different colors.

The leaves are her friends, her companions, her children
They flutter in the breeze as they change their shades
From dull and wrinkeled to bright and smooth
From brown and dark green to firery red and golden yellow.

But soon the wind will come and take her children.
It rips them from their branches and takes them far,
far away.

Yet she is not sad nor is she mad
She is exited and exuberant.
Yes, the turbulent winds have taken her friends
But still, she is happy.

She waves goodbye to her children as the
cold sets in her bark.
And she thinks of how happy she will
be next year when she will have more.

She falls into a deep sleep and dreams
of the year to come
When her children will be born again and she
will live once more.

-by Carrie Lissette Lara, Grade 10

I am from a refrigerator Kenmore
From arroz con verduras and horchata
I am from the clean beige carpet in my living room
and the great smell of my mom's enchiladas
I am from the red roses in my garden
The apple tree from my very own yard
Whose long gone limbs I remember
As if they were my own.

I'm from ojos cafes and daddy's little girl
From mis papis Maria and Carlos
I'm from vamos a jugar futbol and let's go to the movies
And from let's go camping.

I'm from portate bien chamaca! And fijate con quien te juntas!
And no friegues conmigo porque vas a ver nina!
I'm from partying all day long with the family.
I'm from Chicago
from tamales and pupusas
from mi bis abuelo Jose que hace y vende quesos y mi abuelita que es
costurera all their lives.
The memories that I've had with my parents
Los traigo en mi Corazon
I'm Mexican and Salvadorian for life.
Y soy la Rosa que florecio Del Bello rosal
When my parents saw me for the first time.

Editor's Apology: The above poem has some Spanish words that are missing accents. Sorry about that. I don't know how to include them using this bloggy software. :(

Awkward silence
Awkward silence
With all the grace of a three-legged dog,
but harder to run from.
     - Andrew Cutler, Grade 11

There once was a man named Sam,
who dreamed he was honey ham.
He went online
to buy some twine,
and now he has lots of spam.
   -  Alik Hansen, Grade 7

by Christina Cho (Na Yun Cho), Grade 7

I climb the oak tree
One so massive and grand

I look up to a higher branch
Where I see a tiny blue robin.

With such big eyes
It looks through mine

I climb higher
And touch the bird.

The robin chirps,
A painful one

When I see carefully,
I see its tangled wings.

Untangling its wings,
I swallow a lump.

The bird is free,
Please try to flee

Instead it looks through my eyes,
Sending me a deeper meaning

I nod my head
It flies away.

- A poem by Jared Newman, Grade 5

"Quirayen! Quirayen!" They call from the trees,
Those wild-eyed hawks, those warrior bees.
And yet still my life is so glum
Here in the mountains with tips colored plum.

Chickadees gossip, and beavers build dams--
While I sit with my pack eating fresh hunted lamb.
I am Quirayen! Hear the Earth cry;
The sound of my name makes men shout "Why?"

Trees quake, when my pack stars to trot,
Hedgehogs curl up, and leaves start to rot.
Mother bears back away when I move up,
I am the king from buffalo to pup!

I am a wolf! Hear my great howl!
Watch my teeth bite, hear my pitiless growl!
My noble derision conquers all predators;
I share all my game-- there's no mine, there's no yours.

A mantle of shade spread fast overhead,
A howl of despair told me it was my time to lead.
I gathered my pack, and gave them a nod,
That strange howl said something, something quite odd.

Voles awoke at the lament from a long hibernation.
It was the wolf, with which I had a confrontation.
His eyes were blood red, and his teeth showed in his foam-covered mouth,
It was a wolf that I had met in my youth.

The grass tinted red with the blood of his foe,
I saw in his eye he showed anything but woe.
The grass on the fields waved in a zephyr.
The grass spoke to me, as if in a letter.

"Quirayen, Quirayen, your realm is in danger,
Be on your best guard and expect something stranger.
Look for the red eyes, and dark silhouette,
Fight him and live on, and never will you fret."

The spirit of Yellowstone spoke its great augury.
I looked on the psychotic wolf, my pack as the jury.
With soul a shield and hostile howl I engaged in vile battle
I stood at bay to his viscous strike, and didn't rattle.

The contention begun with his teeth into muscle;
I struck back with a bolt of Zeus's hustle.
His teeth were stuck there in my jugular.
My pack moved in and struck my foe with blazing thunder.

A blow of such force couldn't be lethal,
My pack finished the fugitive off in a way very regal.
I died three moons later, this my story I recite from my grave,
A story that is never to ever bring shame,

He wanted my position in the wolf clan.
Greed, something that happens to many a man--
He lost that conflict, and I displayed true virtue,
The wolves call me Quirayen, but Qui'martyr too.

"Qui'martyr! Qui'martyr!" They call from the ground,
Those wild-eyed wolves, those warrior hounds.
And with this story I spoke with a moral so bold,
May it always warn animals of the evil I told.

In Issue 3 of READ Magazine, we printed a story called "The Little Fisherman" by Steven Frank. Recently, we received a narrative poem from Joyce Baio's 8th grade language arts class at Sacred Heart School in Rockaway, NJ. The students took it upon themselves to create a poem that is based on Steven Frank's story! Check it out. It rocks.

Reeling In The Magic
A narrative poem by Joyce Baio's 8th grade class

Ivan misses his magical mom while Mr. Espy mourns the loss of his beloved wife.
Eloise's trip to the afterlife has filled their world with loneliness and strife.
After the untimely death of this wonderful kind, loving mom,
Ivan's life, along with his Dad's, was no longer calm.
Ivan enters a contest where he has to catch a large fish,
But having a good relationship with his father is his only true wish!

On the morning of the contest, Ivan raced to the general store.
Loaded with sinkers and hooks, he knew he needed something more.
Suddenly, something caught his eye half-way down the Houdini aisle,
Ivan found an inflatable parachute that would easily lessen his personal trial.
When it came into view, he realized that is was a parafoil lift,
Little did he know that it was a mystical gift.

After discovering the kite, Ivan happily entered the contest.
He knew he couldn't use fancy magic or his father would protest.
Ivan's dad informed him that he was forbidden to cheat,
So he prepared to launch his parafoil kite which was a magnificent feat!
His wise old father said, "Do not use a magical trick."
Because he knew Ivan could be very crafty and slick.

Mr. Espy and Ivan eagerly cast anchor and float,
Towards the Oregon side on Eloise, their boat.
Ivan and his straightforward Dad sail the tide,
In a desperate attempt to find where the sturgeon hide.
Though fishing for salmon wouldn't bring as much pain,
They search for a sturgeon to bring them some fame.
But as they cast out the deadly kite hook,
They discover Mr. Crawler closely following. Oh, what a crook!

While father and son seek a sturgeon and stealthily stalk,
Dad and Ivan soon begin to have a little talk.
As he was fishing with the magical kite from his mom,
Both father and son soon feel an uneasy qualm.
While silently drifting near the Oregon coast,
They soon found the legendary fish they had wanted the most.
Ivan easily tossed out a line holding some bait,
While praying about his expected good fate.

As soon as Ivan felt a good strong bite,
He did his best to handle the amazing fight.
Mr. Espy, his father, had always admired,
His son's inventiveness and great desire.
Mr. Espy thought that he was oh, so wise,
But Ivan followed his instincts and pursued the great prize.
Father and son, on the tiny Eloise, made a great pair.
And somehow would always remember the fishing memory they'd share.

Mr. Espy and Ivan were on a small cozy boat,
Because of their weight it could barely float.
While Ivan pulled the huge fish onto the boat, it began to wiggle,
Then both father and son began to chuckle and giggle.
When they brought the huge fish back to the dock,
Everyone was amazed and in a complete state of shock!

Thus ends the magical tale of a father and boy,
Whose lives were missing laughter and joy.
After winning fairly his most coveted prize,
Little Ivan looked toward the heavenly skies.
And whispering a simple "Thank You" toward heaven above,
With eyes and heart brimming with eternal love.
For the wonderful, magical mother who wisely knew
That if one truly believed in magic any wish could come true!

I never thought I'd see the day, but MTV is going intellectual on us! Apparently, MtvU (the MTV station for colleges) has picked its first poet laureate.

John Ashbery, 80, will now have his work used as promotional material for the MTV station. This is a really cool honor, but it's certainly not the first for Ashbery. He's won almost every award associated with poetry. He's even won a Pulitzer!

His poems are often filled with humor, which seems perfect for the MTV crowd.

Lines from Ashbery's poems will be used to hopefully get more people interested in poetry.

Well, all of us here at WORD know how cool poetry is. Yay to MTV for realizing it as well.

You can read more of Arnot's poems on his website.

The following two poems were written by Christina Beasley, age 16

canvas

      threads lithe, tight fingers bolted to a frame of
skin and bone
stretching as though born clutching a sky
brought down by the weight of a universe-
here, take some ink and cry me a river, love-
let it sink in and dye these coarse strands
the color of thatched veins reaching across empty pallets
           bringing
life to every fiber
you, conflicted isis, isn't
this how they used to do it lacing
around impossible figures like mid-afternoon clouds
torn down to two dimensionality evanescent and cruel in their dissection
of the natural form?
seizing horizons that could
very well be the end of the world-
and yet You know as you put
away your paints and pastels

that their own flesh border still locks them in
              still holds them fixed to a splintered edge
and a corporeal casing still carries them home.

watercolor

wringing out black strands
of coarse angel hair we stand
on bridges heavy with gothic swirl
              their adornment an embrace.
strokes of graffiti and grime laced inch by inch
on bleak pillars they shout names
so far from umber burnt sienna
vermillion-
But artists bleed this
she confides
her mascara running down like two
                hiroshige
                                   waterfalls
whispering down her cheeks they are
but shadows of their former selves
-every black procession still
a masterpiece.

every touch of authenticity to
canvas is art.

- Poem by Laura, Grade 6

running through the woods (faster faster)
tripping over the tree roots (faster faster)
i see a clearing in the woods (faster faster)
i run into the clearing (faster faster)
i see something in the shadows (faster faster)
it is coming out... 

EEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!

out of the shadows it comes  (faster faster)
it is a snake (faster faster)

faster I run out of the clearing faster
faster i look back and see the clearing 
(faster faster) i trip over the tree
roots  (faster faster) i am in the woods 
(faster faster) I am at home in my warm

safe bed

slower

slower

- by Kaitlin Nardi, Grade 10

Every Tuesday night
You come in the little coffee shop where I work
Three minutes before closing
Order a chai latte (iced, in warmer weather)
And a slice of banana bread.

Skinny-pale-rock-star arms
Exchange paper and coins for happiness
(always with exact change--so you can leave faster).

Always the same thing.
Always, pushing your dyed straight black hair out of your face
As you take the latte in your right hand (a sip)
And the bread in your left (in a brown paper bag)
A mumbled "Thanks,"
And always a small, barely noticeable smile
Before you turn around to leave

I've tried guessing your age countless times,
But your looks and actions
Belong to two different species.

I've tried guessing what your life is like
(better luck with this)
I've come to the conclusion
That you teach English Literature in a small community college;
Somewhere that doesn't take you seriously.
You and the school are just using each other, and you both know it:
The school needs a professor
And you need to pay the bills.

At your apartment, the walls are painted different colors
And the furniture is eclectic at best (like your taste in music)
Piles of books and manuscripts everywhere

Of course, I'm probably totally wrong
I'm just a stupid teenager working a part time job
At a small coffee shop
But your smiles keep me going
Tuesday to the next.

- by AC Lobos, Grade 11

There are things that roam in the darkness
In the bleak of midnight they run free and wild
None can see the bitter and empty hearts that they shelter
Free to witness the fear of all who approach their realm
Few can see them as they pass through a blanket of black
Darkness, their only friend

Shadowy ravens fly at the echo of their eerie laughter
Til the light of truth shows what was never there
Aid will never come to those who see it
For the memory will last till the curtain falls on man

Dear Moms,

Here are two student written poems that pretty much say it all. You're the best! Thanks for everything!

Love,
WORD

-------------------------------

Good Money
- by Amelia Titus, Grade 11

Mother, mother, where have you been?

Did you step in a coffee shop,
[God knows you love them]
and get lost in Tuesday's specials?

Or sit on the corner of your own
mother's bed at 4 a.m. and watch
her jerk in the dark?

Or did he put you in the spin
cycle like he does all the dry
cleaning clothes?
[God knows you love the smell
of fresh dryer sheets.]

A smell that used to cling,
sticky, in the air outside
our worn-wood home,
before all the sawdust and
sample bathroom tiles moved
in, their suitcases crammed
with overextended adjectives.

You thought,
"Good money will buy me
a kitchen where I can cook duck
and finally learn to be a chef."

[Of all things, God knows
you are not a chef.]

Good money will buy me
hardwood floors and
a wine refrigerator,
where all good things
are bottled and cold.



-------------------------------

A Rose for Mama
- by Kimberly Woodcock, Grade 6

I live on a small dirt road
On a cozy little farm
Away from the town's center
Away from other barns

Across the way from my farm
Is a meadow filled with flowers
When I lay in the field and daydream
I feel that I have different powers

One cloudy and useless day
When my daddy had left for town
I remembered it was Mama's birthday
So I picked all the flowers that I found

When I saw the perfect flower
I dropped all of the others
It was the most perfect thing ever
And should be given to all mothers

I ran home shouting
With just one thing in my hand
But I tripped accidentally
And the flower was crushed in the sand

My mama came out and got me
And asked "What happened, darling?"
I told her about the flower
And her look was very startling

She said she didn't care about that
It was the thought of the gift that counts
She said she loved me for thinking of her
And the flower didn't matter an ounce

I always loved my mama
And that's the way it goes
Now every single birthday
I give my mama one single red rose!

The next time you're in Cumbria... wait... where's Cumbria? It's all the way over in jolly ol' England, on the northwest tip of the country. They call it the Lake District and it's one of the most beautiful places to be inspired.

William Wordsworth was one of many poets who wrote about lovely Cumberland (as Cumbria was called in his time). He captured the glory of his home in a poem called, I wandered lonely as a cloud. And now, 200 years after Wordsworth's time, there's a new generation in town.

Read William Wordsworth's poem and then, check out the video below it. It's an updated version, to say the very least.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud"
   - William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

That was the old school version. Pretty wasn't it?

Here's the new. Check it:

Heh. Word.

Which do you prefer? William Wordsworth's poem or the video rap? Why? Post your comment below. 

AND... to learn more about silly squirrels that may or may not rap, click here, here, here, or here.

-by Alex Graves

I climb onto the small
yellow back of a dragon.
Its wings stroke through
thick air as we take off.
We glide weightlessly
over the lake.
When a gust of wind flips us over,
I fall into warm water.
Underneath,
I release from the dragon's embrace.
I swim upside down
and break through the surface.
I breathe,
grab hold of its wings,
and climb back on.

Editor's Note: Alex's poem, Kayak, was one of six winners in this year's Ann Arlys Bowler poetry contest. It was published in issue 17 of READ magazine, however, we regrettably printed an error in the poem. Here, on WORD, we present Kayak in its true form. Once again, sorry Alex.

-Poem by Taylor Doaty, Grade 8

As I stroll down the park,
I see an abandoned riverbank.
As I approach it,
I decide to slow down.
The shadows from the trees
make the bank look more filthy and dark.
Through the dirt and filth,
I can see the history of the riverbank.
Through the empty bottles and smashed glass,
I see people fishing and laughing
and smiling.
Without notice,
I bend down, pick up the trash
and put it in its proper place.
Soon, another lady comes to help.
Before you know it,
the riverbank is trash-free and clean.

Yesterday was Earth Day. Everyone continue to do your part. After all, this is home.

The runner-up in our Take Me Away! contest (Senior Poetry category) is Melody Hughes. Melody's poem is entitled "Auromorphis".

Auromorphis is a gritty portrayal of greed that starts out leaving dust and a lack of air and moisture in our mouths. It is only by journeying with these alchemists through to the end that we find what they really desire is not gold but something much more substantial. This is truly one poem of unmeasurable worth.

 

Melody is 15 and has been writing since she was in the 2nd grade. "Writing for me is based on spontaneous inspiration and not habit," Melody told us. "My inspiration for Auromorphis came mostly from science class, where I learned what alchemy is and became fascinated by the subject."
   "I like the fantasy genre because you can get so creative with setting and characters. However, fantasy can be written poorly with many cliches, weak plots, and stereotyped characters."

 

Maybe that is so in some cases. But not yours, Melody. Not yours.

Congratulations on being Take Me Away's runner-up!

 

Click HERE to read "Auromorphis," a poem by Melody Hughes.

The runner-up in our Take Me Away! contest (Junior Poetry category) is Christine Rheem. Christine's poem is entitled "We Walk".

Here is what our guest judge, Ursula K. Le Guin had to say about it:

I liked Christine Rheem's "We Walk," a dreamy, weird journey, in which he and she and you and I all become one person at the end -- or were we always?

 

Christine is 14 and her favorite writer is Scott Westerfeld, author of the Uglies series and the Midnighters. When we asked Christine what she likes about the fantasy genre of writing, she said:

 

I love how fantasy writers can create new worlds that draw you in and make you wish that world was real. I don't like the fact that the worlds really aren't real though! I would love to be able to live at Hogwarts or Middle Earth or Avalon or any of those places.

 

Wouldn't we all, Christine? Wouldn't we all?

Congratulations on being Take Me Away's runner-up!

 

Click HERE to read "We Walk," a poem by Christine Rheem.

It's finally here! Yayyyyy!

In the current issue of Writing magazine, we have published the six winners of this year's "Take Me Away!" writing contest. Back in September, we challenged our readers to imagine a land of make-believe--of mythical creatures and dreams, of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. Well maybe not all of those. In any case, we received a ton of entries and they were all (in their own special way) fantastic!

Author Ursula K. Le Guin was our guest judge, and you can read the works of the four student authors who won this contest by picking up an issue of Writing, or right here online at WORD. The winners are:

Junior Poetry
I am Going to Leekartos
By Rachael A. Schermer, age 13
Read It

Senior Poetry
The Benevolent Dictator
By Justin Hanselman, age 15
Read It

 Junior Fiction
Embers of the Moonlight
By Ela Banerjee, age 13
Read It

Senior Fiction
The Metamorphosis
By Megan Mikhail, age 14
Read It

Congratulations to our four student writer winners! Make sure to come back here to WORD every day this week to read the poems and stories of our runner-ups, alongside brief comments from Ursula Le Guin!

-Poem by Lexi Morsch, Grade 7

I woke up this morning and guess what I saw?
A little black fly, buzzing in the hall.
It followed me to breakfast, it followed me to school.
It folowed me to soccer practice, ballet class, the pool.
It followed me to dinner and all I could do was stare.
It landed on my spaghetti, my bread, my hair!
It landed on mom's wedding ring, her coffee cup, the psalms we sing.
My dog's nose, my dad's tie, my brother's bat, my apple pie.
As it watched me brush my teeth that night, I summoned up a plan:
I'd catch it unexpectly and flush it down the can.
I made my move so slyly, but my flame went out too quick.
My candle's brilliance had extinguished--it burned up all its wick.
I turned the light on careful, to see what had gone wrong...

...and there lay the fly, already gone.

I watched its lifeless body for a moment, and I realized just then:
That all it ever wanted was a true best friend.

Congratulations Sophia!
You are March's Student Poet of the Month!

Deaths of Two Ants
-Poem by Sophia Jih

Crusted lemonade yawns
against the cup’s lip.
We tread frantic ripples into our sea—
so void of coral, no sand in which
to spear our feet—knock our heads
against the goldfish trap; a writhe,
helpless curl.
Eventually I drop, serene
within the coolness.  You will
follow me, our hearts pulsating,
then none, and we vanish
through yellowed light.

On the last day of every month this year, we will be posting the best student poetry that we received in that month. So get in your entries now for April! You can either click on "Submit Your Writing" on the right or you can email your poems to word@weeklyreader.com. Each winner will receive a glamorous prize and then, at the end of 2007, we'll have a vote to let YOU decide who was the Student Poet of the Year! Sweet.

Here are the Student Poets of the month so far:
January - Tia DeShong - "The Age of Reverie"
February - Gloria Maciorowski - "August"

Back in February, we interviewed China Mieville, author of the new fantasy book, Un Lun Dun. We also asked you to "write a short story or poem about your town... the flipside of your town." Here is one of the poems we received. Congratulations to 10th grader Shelly Bartalazzi! We're sending you a signed copy of Un Lun Dun! We still have 2 copies left! Email YOUR upside-down town story or poem to word@weeklyreader.com for a chance to win one of them!

Dik Sun
- by Shelley Susan Bartolazzi, Grade 10

Dik Sun set upon the banks of a raging river,
Mountains on the horizon wearing their white snow caps shiver,
Ranchers aplenty made it their home,
In the prairies surrounding do their cattle and sheep roam,
Some call it home, some call it the last of the west,
Whatever you want to call it, Dik Sun is a just right place to rest,
It's a country town, always calm and laid back,
In winter the roads are snow packed,
In summer the roads are coated with dust,
But by far it's the simplest!

A note from the poet: Hi! Dik Sun is really Dixon (just as Un Lun Dun is  the opposite of London). Dixon is in the lower southwest part of Wyoming. Well, living in Dixon is part of my inspiration, and it's just one of those country "towns", being so small you can hardly consider it a town. Here, everyone knows each other, and if you're new it won't be long until everyone knows your name. Ha-ha!

On the last day of every month this year, we will be posting the best student writing that we received in that month. Oops. Today is the first day of March. My bad. Sorry about that. At any rate, we'll post March's Student Writer of the month on March 31st. So get in your entries now! You can either click on "Submit Your Writing" on the right or you can email your poems/stories/essays to word@weeklyreader.com. Each winner will receive a glamorous prize and then, at the end of 2007, we'll have a vote to let YOU decide who was the Student Writer of the Year! Sweet.

We had a lot of great student writing in February. It may seem a little strange to be writing about August this month... but here at WORD, we're open to anything.

Congratulations Gloria! You are February's Student Writer of the Month!!!

- Poem by Min Kyung Lobb, Grade 11

Two girls sitting on a swing, swaying
Freely, dominating the air.
The slight breeze flies over their heads
Carrying each hair strand above to dance.
Grasping the momentum, laughter is heard
As the visions of ground and sky connect.
Like a dove they soar through the heavens
Catching each sunbeam on their faces
And jolt back down, down to earth.
Into the umbrage of the giant oak tree.
The mix of the crimson setting sun
And summer green grass blurs.
Wind howling wraps their little bodies
Fluttering their cool blue dresses
Accompanied by the violent squeak of the rusted swings
They ride away their tears.
Closing their eyes and reaching the clouds
They taste the bud of heaven.
Comforted by this sensation,
The sensation of freedom,
They unravel their hands and show their palms
And blow their troubles away.

Editor's note: I usually don't like these "I Am From" poems. But this one is exceptional. It was mailed to us via "snail-mail" which means that I had to type it out instead of copy/pasting from an email (wah!). So yeah, it must be good.

The imagery in this poem is stunning. The way the words hold each other takes my breath away. Read it out loud to a friend. No, of course you aren't from the same things Tia is. But we can all learn a little about the sound of poetry from her piece. Where are you from? Tell us.

-----------------------------------

The Age of Reverie
-Poem by Tia DeShong, Grade 11

I come from gold-tipped blades of grass,
resplendent wading pools and ceilings spun from stars.
I'm from skinned knees and lips stained strawberry,
blithe daisies braided into crowns and dusty, bare feet.
I am a sea thrown into a summer breeze.

I come from dusty volumes mounted high on rickety shelves,
the smell of worn leather and ink.
I'm from bitterness invading my mouth from a steaming mug,
while rain pelts aged windowpanes.
To find me, read between the lines.

I come from pews carved from cedar and prayers encouraged from beads,
melancholy hymns and exalting cries.
I'm from incense speckled air and virtuously painted walls,
nagging thoughts and clawing doubts.
I'm a candle flickering briefly.

I come from lace-up sneaks and self-destroyed jeans,
hair available in Technicolor and loud music.
I'm from blood-stained hands and tattered flags
living in a nation that longs for a new creation.
Am I a sinner or a saint?

I come from roads painted weary with traveling footsteps,
Swimming in the seas and erasing the horizons.
I'm from chasing the sun and dancing with the moon,
speaking in tongues and letting the sovereignty sing me a lullaby ...
I'm from everywhere, yet nowhere at all.

On the last day of every month this year, we will be posting the best student writing that we received in that month. Does that make sense? In other words, on February 28th, we'll be posting the best student writing we received in February. And so on... each winner will receive a prize. Yah! Prizes! Woo hoo! I will post more about this later. But for now...

You are January's Student Writer of the Month!!!

From The New York Times --

KENNETT SQUARE, Pa., Jan. 29 -- In eight months of waiting for Barbaro's shattered bones to heal, the horse's owners and his veterinarian said they had not seen the Kentucky Derby-winning colt become so uncomfortable that he would refuse to lie down and rest. Until Sunday night.

So on Monday morning, the owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, and the veterinarian, Dr. Dean Richardson, decided enough was enough. At 10:30 a.m., Barbaro was euthanized, ending an extraordinary effort to save the life of a remarkable racehorse whose saga had gripped people around the world.

Read the full article here.

Onto The Rainbow Bridge
- Poem by Erika Sentz, Grade 7

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
You sleek and stellar man
Your eyes still twinkled
As you tripped upon the sand

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
Your will to live and fight
Barbaro, oh Barbaro
We'll miss that naughty bite

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
As you walk upon the sky
Barbaro, oh Barbaro
We'll think of you day and night

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
Run, be free, as you gallop with them all
Secretariat, Man O' War, and more
Barbaro, oh Barbaro
You've given them the dreams and hopes
The tries and a larger heart

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
Your feisty pull
Your gallant head
Your mighty will to live

Barbaro, oh Barbaro
Onto the rainbow bridge

- Shelun Tsai, Grade 10

Fifty birds- black and fat- hunt
The bread crumbs dead
Swooping through the air
To attack the dotted ground

Fifty birds- full and lazy- wait
For cars to pass
Demanding royal treatment
Along the gray stretch of path

Fifty birds- digested and hungry- fly
Across the players’ field
Deciding without shame
To splatter down white rain

- Poem by Danielle Maturo, Grade 9

Twelve candles on the birthday cake,
It happens every year,
I slowly blow out the flames,
As everyone begins to cheer.

They all ask what I wish for,
I look at them and smile,
"Maybe I'll tell you right now,
Or maybe not for a while."

The years have come and passed,
Faster than the blink of an eye,
My sixteenth birthday is today,
I go up to my room and cry.

I hear a knock on the door,
I quickly wipe my tears,
"Come in," I say in a quivering voice,
Through the door my mom appears.

She sits down softly on my bed,
And asks if it was something she did.
I look up at her with blurry eyes,
"I just want to stay a kid."

 

This is the 14th  and final piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing! Check back in 2007 for lots more!

- Poem by Janelle Wilhelm, Grade 8

I sit in the pasture and watch the stallion graze
His grace and glory set my eyes ablaze
When he runs, his muscles flex
under a glossy coat of black
The grass dances under his hooves,
which pound the ground like rain on roofs
His mane and tail flow in the breeze
in a way that makes me weak in the knees
Such beauty in the spirit of that beast!
His being has the fire of the dawn in the east
I try to sketch him, but he darts out of view
and hides his face behind a yew
I think of chasing him, just to play
and laugh and run on this summer day
But he's faster than me, and soon I'm winded
and just like that, our game is ended
He finally comes closer, and nuzzles me
as we sit in the shade of the big oak tree

 

This is the 13th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

 

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted.

- Poem by Katharine Larson, Grade 6

 

I am happy and excited

I wonder why we can't have everything for free

I hear my grandfather's voice

I see Broadway

I want a Golden Retriever

 

I believe we all make mistakes

I ask why some people are nice and some people aren't

 

I am happy and excited

I pretend to be the best dancer

I feel rocks at my feet

I touch silk that is not there

I worry what luck I am going to have

I cry when my friends are mean

 

I believe we are equal

I ask who invented people

 

I am happy and excited

I understand we can't do everything we want

I say people should help out the poor

I dream I will live happily for the rest of my life

I try to be the best person I can be

I hope to get a scholarship

I believe we all have a good quality

 

I ask why dogs can not talk

I am happy and excited 

This is the 9th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted!

- Poem by Michael Schwendeman, Grade 8

Seems like a vapor that you just can't see
Something surrounding, puzzling me
The ideal perfection you can't wait to receive
One beautifully glorious mystery

Something like a vapor carried on by the breeze
Its splendor unknown due to its secrecy
It is always around and watching with care
Attempting to cast away all known despair

Kind of like a vapor, fluent and free
Drifting this way and that, wherever it will please
Desiring only to live with tranquility
The core importance is its humility

And as this vapor waits for the faithful and true
Wishing only that somehow we knew
That along the horizon, the future in store
Heaven was waiting through the open door

 

This is the 8th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted!

 

This is the 4th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

 

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted!

- Poem by Amanda Walgrove, Grade 11

I've outgrown my own skin
Look how old I've become
I have my values sorted for this
Future I'm beginning to see
Life truly is survival of the fittest
And I seem to still be running
On this thin conveyer belt
That only knows how to go faster

But the smell of Holiday is almost gone
Sledding in the snow doesn't tickle my senses
Jumping in the leaves isn't the best part of autumn
Picking ripe apples isn't a wild adventure
The evening still doesn't end with the sun's descent
But instead of catching fireflies I'm studying more
And getting lost in my own imagination
Of fictional creatures is just juvenile, right?

I've realized that in my world
The simple things are still there
But I just can't see them anymore
Because this conveyer belt won't stop
My heart just beats faster
As my legs keep running at their own will
And my feet disappear once more
Under the pressure and the speed

Editor's note: I like this poem. Of course I do. I like everything that we put up on this blog! In fact, the poet, Amanda Walgrove, has been featured on WORD before. The only problem is that I'm really stuck for a picture. I've read and re-read Blindfolded about 20 times (no foolin') and I just can't come up with any image to post with it. I'm clueless! I started out by thinking I should put up a picture of a girl who is older than she wants to be. But how in tarnation are you supposed to find that on the internerd?? At any rate, if you can think of a good picture that should go with this poem, email us at word@weeklyreader.com. Put "Picture for Amanda's poem" in the subject line. We'll hear you out. Coolio yo.

Poem by Eugene Levit, Grade 10

Makes me laugh- check
Always cheers me up- check
Stunning eyes- check
Smile that lights up a room- check
Helps me with my problems- check
Cares about people- check
Beautiful- check
Gets along with everyone- check
Trustworthy- check
In existence- no check

In honor of Banned Books Week, we give you a poem about book burning. For more information about the freedom to read, you can check out the current issue of READ Magazine.

FIRE
Poem by Lydia Warters, Grade 8

I am the fire
Crackling heat burning strongly
As I take in paper
I am the heat
Warming
The house of Mystery
For I am the fire

I feel sorry
As I eat up books
Burning the amazing world of a story
I will take away its magic words
Page by page
A book never read again
I am sorry for I am the fire

I see the words
In the pages of a book
Melting away
A path of black smoke
Trails silently behind me
Two girls stand deep in thought
They speak no words
I burn on
For I am the fire

I hear the crackling pop
Of myself
As I burn on
The silent noise
Of a page turning
In the last book remaining
I hear for I am the fire

I wish the best
For the house
In which
I once so strongly burned
I will soon be gone
So
I hope for the best
For everyone
I wish this for I was the fire

- Poem by Sadaf Qureshi, Grade 11

I like the way it works its way up into my mouth,
the way it sounds when it escapes
an-eh-mauws-it-y
It starts out hard-headed and proud
But by the time you get to the third syllable it has lost its staccato,
Instead it flows like thick liquid,
as though it has slipped on the wet surface of my tongue,
and when you expect it to finish off staying down,
it gets back up and regains its composure—but with a lost severity.
There's a picture in the paper today,
About the lives they led
And what that has all been reduced to—a muddle of paraphernalia scattered on a sidewalk,
About the living, breathing, feeling, human debris that
War has left in its path,
About animosity in action
"Civilians collect their belongings from their shop
that was damaged by Israeli air strikes in southern Beirut, Lebanon."
That is the picture in the paper today.
The picture has it looking as though
Animosity never had to wipe the dirt off a scraped knee,
Or bare a bruise on its shin
It looks as though it has never had that humbling and humiliating opportunity
To get up and recover from a miss because it never does miss
Never trips up
Never forgets to strike
It looks more unrelenting and nimble than it sounds.
Still, they say that looks can be deceiving
They never say anything about sounds

- Poem by Kat Lucas, Grade 10

I was once lost amidst the brambles
my only shelter—
the heat of the jungle

my úarîra
once ran among the elephants
my hair a wild mass of tangles
dangling over a dirt-smeared face
riding on the backs of my
friends, i abused my body

my manasa
clouded by the tendrils of
mist that weave their way through the branches of
twisted tress
splashing around the cool water
I could not comprehend the meaning of kala

my jîva
could not express how
alone
I felt as the elephants slept peacefully,
I pleaded to the stars, let my spirit fly!
let me glide among the clouds and be free of the boa constricting my soul!

my cry was answered—
kala found me

out of the jungle family came
bearing dayâ. gently they
spoke with me and my soul soared on the
wings of the heron

together we are one, our spirits bound by the
power of the stars

Poem by Misha Agunos, Grade 8

Portals
acquired from various shops,
as gifts,
ordered
it matters not where they came from
but where they take me
some oft used
others, roads less traveled
All my favorite

Exploring the countless realms
since before my public education
leading me to another world
not only telling,
but showing
Narration
accompanied by continuous acting
stripping away all earthly ties
with but a few sentences
spiriting me away
past the worries of man
to a benign, alien haven
past the simple,
day-to-day commonness
making me ride
side-by-side the characters
on the very same
rollercoaster of emotions
in the park of the story
each event a curve
or loop
or stomach-wrenching drop
every phrase painting a new scene

through the brushes of suspense, romance, horror and countless others every setting whole, fully thorough down to the individual grains of sand or single blades of grass devouring chapters in the light of the midnight oil with the same curious passion that compels astronomers, archaeologists,
and treasure hunters
to make the planetarium their dwelling for days on end
to spend weeks in the depths of the middle of nowhere
to endure months in sweltering jungles swarming with exotic, deadly beings satisfying my voracious hunger for complexity pure ecstasy nourishing my exhausted mind as it dives into the sea of words feeling waves of content as its waters gently lap at the shores of my |
intellect
and become immersed in the ocean between its covers
engulfed in fires of is pages
enveloped in the pockets of temporary, fictional bliss

THIS
is my ode
my thanks
to the indulgence
of books

The following is a short story inspired from the first line of the poem Valentine for Ernest Mann by Naomi Shihab Nye.

You can't order a poem like you order a taco. I know from experience that this is true. It was April. Cold and hungry I made a run for the border. On the radio, the DJ was making a strange announcement.

"That was Little Chainsaws by Exposed Eyeball. You're listening to KEWL, kewl radio all the time. This just in: it's National Poetry Month! Have yourself a poem, why don't ya? Go on, have one!"

I turned him off. I wasn't very interested in his bizarre antics, though I was intrigued by the notion of a National Poetry month. As I pulled up to the large, obnoxious menu board outside of Taco Bell, I tried to focus my mind on the task at hand.

"Welcome to Taco Bell, can I take your order?"

"Yes, I'd like to hear Allen Ginsberg's Howl please." Apparently, my mind was otherwise focused. The voice at the other end was unimpressed and silent. "Hello?" I asked.

"I'm sorry sir, but we seem to be all out of Howl today."

A wiseguy, eh? Very well, I thought. I'd continue to play along. "How about a Shakespearean sonnet then?"

"No."

"Walt Whitman?"

"Sorry."

"Keats?"

"Not today sir."

"E.E. Cummings?"

"cert-Ainly !nOt!"

My stomach rumbled. I gave up the game. "All right, just gimme a Chalupa."

- Poem by Gabriela Margarita, Grade 9

Being a stranger to this country,
I am at the mercy of my guide.
He leads me through the narrow streets
of a city that sings
with age and the scents of wine.

His city swells with music, and charm,
it grows with the heartbeat, every note
rising higher, lasting longer than the last,
with the soft reassurance that everyday
will bring you closer to old age.

He speaks of it as if it were his only passion,
words seem to come easy for him
and he tells me a story of the city when it slumbers--
how the stars hang low, glowering in the velvet of the sky.

Then he asks me of my own home,
and I plainly say,
I come from a world full of gray little faces
who wander by each other shiftlessly,
a place where I lost my language,
a place where I lost my faith,
and all he does is smile.

When suddenly the street narrows once more
and I am a young girl again and he is,
transformed.

Into a great white bird that
continues to guide me down the alley
that has drawn us once again
closer together.

- A poem comprised of haiku by Dontya Chambers, Grade 8

In the afternoon
Macy laughs with her friends by
A pond in the park

Through all of the trees
She spots out a handsome boy
By the blue seesaw

As the wind flows by
She fixes her eyes on him
For a few seconds

Macy and her friends
Walk to the boy with his friends
Standing in the dirt

In the twilight, they
Walk together hand in hand
To a big, oak tree

As the evening ends
They embrace one another
Under the oak tree

 - Poem by karYn

We are
Conformists
Sweeping away
Out troubles
Clutching the handles
Of our plastic brooms
Miniature versions
Of Cinderella
Gouging our prince's slim
Plastic body
With our rough, chewed
Fingernails
We sweep with
Plastic brooms

Poem by Edmund Allen, Grade 8

My cousin going to the war to fight,
He doesn't mind because his pay will increase.
My cousin going to the war to fight,
He doesn't mind because his pay will increase.

He will fight during the day and night.
He will fight until there is peace.
The war I do not want him to go,
Only now I care about the war.

The war I do not want him to go,
Only now I care about the war.
For if he returns I do not know,
In our family grief will only be more.

I hope the army changes their mind and come home,
So my cousin will be in safe hands again.
I hope the army changes their mind and come home,
So my cousin will be in safe hands again.

If he doesn't return I'll be alone,
And lowered will be my chin.

- Poem by Casey Henshaw, Grade 6

My hands are Mount Everest,
Jagged at every turn.

My nails are the Grand Canyon,
Worn down after so much time.

My fingers are the flowers,
Blowing in the wind.
Curving this way and that,
With nothing to stop them.

My index fingers are mountains.
Big at the bottom,
With a point on the top.

My knuckles are ponds.
For they are not round hills,
But curve into my hand.

My veins are creeks,
Flowing into the ponds of my knuckles.

The lines on my palms are paths,
Each going a different direction,
Leading to a new adventure.

My fingertips are boulders,
Stopped at the very edge of a cliff.

My fingers are a steep mountain.
They come up from the ponds,
And jut into the sky.

Everything small,
And everything big,
Come together to make my hands,
And our world.

- Poem by Catie Bargerstock, Age 12

Just thought I might take a moment to say
something to make it a brighter day
it's not a big word, not a big thing
it's not very catchy like ding-a-ling-ling
it's not very jazzy
it's not very snazzy
I'll now tell you the word I've been trying to spell
that word I've been meaning to tell
Hi! That's the word I wanted to say
Hi, and remember to have a nice day!!

-Poem by Jon Meadows, Grade 8

All of us were there,
on everyday, every month, and every year,
talking, laughing, playing and relaxing,
at our secret spot by the lake.

In the beginning,
we started to shape our territory, limb by limb.
And a bird's pleasant song drifted through the fresh, spring air,
near our secret spot by the lake.

Summer would come,
and we would retreat into the protective shade of our spot,
observing the silent, glistening water,
in our secret spot by the lake.

Soon yellow, red, brown, and orange colored the ground.
The cool, crisp breeze marked the arrival of our windbreakers, and there our spot stood,
dignified and strong, enduring the bombardment of the parachuting army of leaves;
falling upon our secret spot by the lake.

Then the trees were white, as well as our jackets and hats.
One of us always emerged the victor of our many snowball fights,
and when the hulls of our jackets were breached by the wind, all lay motionless,
all except for the brumal breeze which blew through the bare limbs at our secret spot by the icy lake.

And once again, there we were,
with a gentle breeze blowing, and the spring sun in our eyes,
emerging from our hibernation we called winter break.
This is where we would be for many years to come,
talking, laughing, playing, and relaxing,
at our secret spot by the lake.

 The Star Spangled Banner
     - Francis Scott Key

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Happy Fourth!

-Poem by Margaret Neville

Lovely music
Teach me to live.
Let my soul be light as a feather,
So that I may be able to be picked up by the wind
And be carried away.
Fill my heart with lovely music.

Lovely music
Teach me to listen.
Listen to the world
The breeze
The moon
The trees
The people
The souls of the world.
Teach me
To be
Me.

Poem by Jeremy Johnson

- Poem by Brittany Heavner

Whoever you are, I have seen your shadow next to me.
Nobody else has ever seen it, I'm afraid it's only me.
I see you everywhere I go, but only your shadow.
I have never seen your face, just the outline of your body.
I have seen the way your dress blows in the breeze,
and it reminds me of my past and what lies ahead.

Whoever you are, you are quiet and shy.
You keep some distance, but always pretty close by.
You may speak you mind, but in a soft-spoken tone.
You are not outgoing, but rather hidden in darkness.
As you walk next to me I shiver.
I never know if you mean good or bad.

Whoever you are, you are my inspiration to go the extra step.
When I see your shadow, I want to try harder.
I want to try and please you the best I can.
You escape into my mind, and take it away.
You take my mind to places it's never been--places of triumph and places of sadness.

Whoever you are, I want to meet you.
Your shadow defines you as a work of God.
I want to get to know you and talk to you.
I want to see for myself who you really are.
Whoever you are, you help me discover myself.

- Poem by Eric Chacko, Grade 9

My teacher doesn't speak English well
And reading isn't her forte
I don't like her that much,
Because she gave me a C- minus on my report

My report was great
It could even be considered spectacular
But she gave me a C- minus
Because she doesn't understand the vernacular

Even this poem
She won't be able to comprehend
Because she doesn't speak English
Which is why she'll never be my friend

I can see right through

Beyond that face of his

He has on a smile

But what really lies beneath is what he hopes no one can see

He puts on that fake smile because of his friends' party

But on the inside anyone can see that he is in disbelief

His friend was accepted into Harvard

Everyone was happy

Except for his face that stood out like a daisy coming up from the sidewalk

The agony and pain

All anyone can see beyond his face

Beyond the truth

Everything that has happened

Comes to this moment

The world freezes

Everything that has happened

Anyone can see in this one moment

He was the one that was supposed to go to Harvard.

 

Andrew Kim is a freshman in high school.

The following story was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

In My Pockets
- Poem by Brianna Segars, Grade 6

What's this in my pockets?
A frog, a pencil,
two shells, one stone,
a wadded up newspaper,
a chicken bone, half of
a blue jay feather and a piece
of string, three crayons, and a
ladybug wing, some pink gum,
a couple of cookie crumbs,
a plastic elephant I have a 
couple of these, hey look
assorted keys, a melted candy
bar, and a picture of a place not
too far away, my sister's mini-umbrella,
some noodles from my chicken
noodle soup, and what's this? a
Cinderella doll, a plastic red
bicycle, a wheel from a tricycle,
some rubber rockets ... that's
What's in my pockets!

- Poem by Zach Dionise, Grade 7

Once solid and strong, now thrown off balance.
Broken on the shore, unstable evermore,
Steady and undivided, now riffs gaping large.
Undecided, hesitant, loyalties destroyed.
In an instant, an endless, timeless, compassionate instant,
Everything thrown carelessly in disarray ... Dismay.
Dismay for precious moments lost,
Lost in the endless, timeless, compassionate instant.

Restore.
Restore what seemed to be lost for evermore.
Throw back lies, and return strong ties,
Growing slowly as long lost summer's heat.
With moving words and gentle words, may this life be revived?
Yet with each small step, of trust and truth,
Troubles won and lost each way,
Each show equally victories and failures,
Only with this will the life be restored.

However, is it strong, is it of merit worth?
Will this broken shell's restore survive for evermore?
Time will tell, and time will kill,
Nevertheless, time will help all to grow.
Grow to the sky, up and up,
Or down to Satan's halls.
Only time will tell,
If the endless, timeless, compassionate instant will prove fatal after all!

Does Zach's poem remind you of another famous poem? Click on comments to make your guess.

Hint: "chamber door"

The first person to answer correctly will receive a whole lot of thunderous applause here in the comments section.

(Zach, Zach's friends, Zach's family, and Zach's pet armadillo are ineligible for this mind-numbing prize... As is everyone on staff here at Weekly Reader... Walk away, Jives... just walk away.)

The following poem was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of April and May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

Untitled
Poem by Alina Ott, Grade 11

Chicken noodle soup on a cloudy April day
Wayward leaves are recklessly twisted by gusts
   Shoving umbrellas and newspapers inside out.

Suddenly on the wind raindrops appear
Moodily defying upward glances and muttered prayers
   Spreading shadows and pinning helpless litter.

Dark figures hurry by, heads down, collars up
Grumpy, caught wet and unaware
   Buffeted by puddles from the street

Wheels creak as a small unlucky man
Rides precariously by on a red bicycle
   Weaving through raindrops.

The rain slowls to a constant patter
An orchestra of drumming rooftops
   Dripping pipes and spattering lakes.

Only I cross the slick pavement
Eyelashes working like windshield wipers
   Braving the wind and rain.

The way sparkles with shattering droplets
Though the beauty is lost in the battle
   Fighting a lock with curses and keys.

Poem by Mitchell Krasney, Grade 8

Between twilight and dawn my two dogs rest in their kennel dreaming of adventures to come.
With the sounds of the morning, they eagerly awake to start their daily routine.
By my side in the bathroom they wag their tails against my legs and lick my toes until they're numb.

After a while, they bark at the back door to announce their need to be part of the exterior scene.
Outside the house, they escape from the porch to explore our expansive grounds.
Without a care, they chase a butterfly with speed too great that they run into a window screen.

Through the newly planted garden they trudge over the petunias and marigolds while my mom frowns.
Beyond the white picket fence they see a deer frolicking in front of an old rock wall.
Despite their stumpy paws, they race with all their might to catch their prey like typical hunting hounds.

Near the woods, they stop beneath a weeping willow finding more interest in a slimy tennis ball.
Above their heads a bright red cardinal swiftly flies by and gracefully lands on a wooden bird feeder.
Up the steep hill in an attempt to slip behind the unaware bird the two mutts crawl.

Past a thorny rose bush and a patch of daylillies, they finally freeze underneath a northern white cedar.
Toward the feeder they dart without delay, but soon the bird simply soars away into the afternoon sky.
Before sunset with their tails tucked under their bodies they return home neither one wanting to be the leader.

Poem by Alison Louis, Grade 11

 

Walking down the sidewalk

taking in the surrounding beauty

feel the cold breeze on my cheeks

see the snow falling all around me

 

long hair catches many passing flakes

gives them a chance to be seen on their own

the sunlight reflects, the world is sparkling

all with a gorgeous bright glow

 

the freshly fallen layer

the blanket of white snow

the calm, still silence captures what I love

about winters in Buffalo

 

- Poem by Rushi Shah, Grade 11

 

Stars in sky, seas on earth

Luster of light emitted

Reflecting in the sea

Reminding me of who I am.

My identity, I am just me!

A baffled person not knowing

Where he wants to end up.

 

Such an immense world

What can I do?

Did I ever realize I can help someone?

Help myself.

Even help the world.

Vacillating on what I have to do

Will I have a vocation?

Do I have an aspiration?

Assuage my fear and illuminate it,

With bright light

Shining down from stars in sky.

 

Poem by Tom DeLay, Grade 10

 

On a cold and listless morning
Silence all around

Squirrels scampering out of the way

As a singular car

Speeds down the lonely avenue

 

The crack of a branch

Breaking

Awakens a rabbit

White fur enhances its appearance

The Gabriel of the morning

Calling out for all to hear

That the night has been ended

 

Raccoons race into hiding

Nocturnal birds soar through the sky

Fighting to get back into safety

Into a fortress of darkness

So evasive to the light

 

One streak comes out from the heavens

A small overture

For those who are already moving about

Beginning the day's work

 

Out the pores of the heavens

Come the beams of life

Containing within them the power

To bring to life all that has

Hibernated through the night

Trying to escape their scope

 

The amoeba of light

Envelops the entire avenue

Tentacles of joviality touching all they can

And showering everything in the celestial glow

Of the new beginning

The day is here

At last

 

 

- Poem by Everett Gunther, Grade 6

Flitting and fluttering over the snow,

Flies the terribly haunting crow.

 

To and fro it flaps its wings,

Glossy blotches those specious things.

 

It knows it is a sign of dread,

It makes you toss and turn in bed.

 

Those hollow, deep, blackened eyes,

Look for food to feed on as a prize.

 

Inside the dark, wretched bird's nest,

Sleep the ones that will feed on the rest.

- Poem by Isabel Bird, Grade 7

 

Lucy skips and sways

picking up her skirt and walking

like a movie star

holding her head up high

with a cheerful smile on her face.

 

We all giggle and crowd around

she laughs with us and beckons

us to join

but we shake our heads, still giggling

it's fun just watching her.

Sonnet by Molly Silverstein, Grade 9

 

The way the trees move makes me want to smile

Sun shining so brightly through growing trees

Swaying and sweeping forever and a while

Autumn leaves in the cool, blue rushing breeze

 

Sun shining over the blue expanse

Heat so hot it raises off the cement

Watching the heat move; puts me in a trance

Water on my body, cracking my laments

 

Sparkling white expanse shocks my numb mind

Cold air past my ears, ringing like a bell

Sunshine bouncing off, creates crystal time

Only for warmth to come and break this spell

 

Constant cycle brings beauty back to earth

Alive and dead and all starting from birth