Young Writers Society

I GUESS YOU CAN CALL IT LYING BY OMISSION?
okay, green thing
compound-eyed, shifting-winged
you’ve caught me in the act, and
the confession’s pouring out mean:

i’ve always been able to See
past these little glamours
and witness the puzzle laying underneath
like your nacre hands trembling
and clenched pearlescent jaw
and your shining dewdrop eye
facing each end of the world

and turning
and turning
and never once settling
on me

but my lips are shut, green thing
mantis-legged, dragonfly-swift
i dare say you’ve caught me in the act, but
you can’t be released, see:

your pretty name’s captured between my dog bite teeth

MEADOW TALE
the kids found a little bee

trembling in a bed of mexican marigolds

miles and miles away from her home

her body was but a speck of dust

dwarfed by the grandness of their

small, creasing palms

so they took her inside

fighting all the way of who

got to mix that magic potion

that sweet bumblebee cure:

one part water, two parts sugar

presented proudly on their finest silver spoon

she drank through her quivering proboscis
as the kids watched with bated breath, as if
awaiting her next command

and the bee recalled her childhood neighbor

from the next hexagon over

supping on exquisite royal jelly

and next-in-line for the throne—oh,

she wanted to keep this young feeling forever

of being the served and not the servant

back to the clover field the cured bee wandered,
silent and evasive of the details of her perilous tale

without question, she returned back to work

but on that gentle night, she clocked in, tired of the toil

and traced the shape of that medicinal memory

now sealed shut within the honeycomb

this was written as my napo day 2 poem, but before i started this thread i had posted it on ywp already! whoopsidoodle. this version has a few differences after i revised it a little bit per bpmzcpl's review!

VANESSA GIVES A PEP TALK TO HER BEST FRIEND
it’s not dress-up anymore—we don’t play that game.
it’s not markers on your face and cutting your own hair
at Mattel Barbie’s Beauty Salon, trying to make yourself
look like mama but instead turning out a fool.

(no, girl. this is a
whole new beast.)

you’ve grown, girl, then act like it. wear high heels
and let blisters erupt on your feet. slough makeup
off your cheekbones and gasp in horror at that fake
in the mirror. you are GROWN.

we do not go to the swimming pool without an agenda
or show off bike streamers around the block. no,
big girls frequent dark places and dress tight.
big girls like you and i—we frequent neon signs.

(follow me, girl. we will kill
this long-suffering beast.)

I love the last poem because I definitely get the sense that it's providing some larger social commentary on girls growing into women. These lines were particularly powerful, in my opinion: "big girls frequent dark places and dress tight. / big girls like you and i - we frequent neon signs."

Your poetry has a strong sense of voice - really enjoyed the word choice in poem 2, and the strength in poem 3 - definitely came across as a sincere peptalk between friends. Also great napo title! Just noticed it's a play on "napowrimo" - so creative!

GERMINATION
through thick, winter-hardened ground
springs the season’s delicate crop
with its gangly, adolescent stem and
thin, naive roots pushing, pushing

and eager to escape its childhood shell,
to propagate the sweet soil of the field
ah, that tender green harvest—how nicely
ambition wraps around its leaves, but

it must not reach for the sun so blindly
when it’s got so much more to learn
how to smartly position its roots, how
to brace itself against the winds

because nature is not all nurture, no
nature is the rest of the greedy crop
tugging, tugging, and leaving the field
to wither in fine, sunburnt dust

how hard it is to grow up, to find one’s
place in the dirt when everyone wants
to sap you dry and take over their little
worlds like sharp thistle weeds, yet it is

through thick, winter-hardened ground
that the season’s hardy crop must spring
with its steady, inquisitive stem and
stubborn, persistent roots pushing, pushing

SIMPLE MACHINE
i wish i could take myself apart
and the pieces would be simple.

i wish it was just pulleys and wheels,
levers and screws. i wish that

i could take out this rube goldberg
and remove those convoluted gadgets

that complicate the processes i’m
trying to control. i want my body to be

a more direct apparatus that anyone
can figure out without the instructions,

without having to call the company
and ask for missing parts or maybe

even a refund. i want so many things
of myself. most of all, i think, i just

want to be better—i want to examine
the gears in the mirror and finally

understand.

CONTEMPORARY OBSERVATIONS

i have not seen the outside world in
fourteen days, but i witness the little pieces
of it that my father brings in: store-bought fruit,
culver’s six piece shrimp and fries, and four
bags of rice that he insists go in my room

i have not seen the outside world in
fourteen days, but the news app on my phone
sees fit to update me on every bold headline
a tiger was infected, i want to text my friends,
they think the handler was asymptomatic

i have not seen the outside world in
fourteen days, but my mother always warns
me to wash my hands, to stay away from
my friends, even though she'd never let me
take a step out the front door

i have not seen the outside world in
fourteen days, but that afternoon my father
sees it fit to teach me how to drive, and as i burn
under the glass windows, the streets are flooded
with tow-headed children and panting dogs

i have not seen the outside world in
one day, but there it goes, shining so
brilliantly on the grass that everyone can’t
resist going outside—and i’m terrified for them
they act like nothing is happening at all

SIEGE TANKA

Behind the red walls
lies compassion still weeping
for bloodshed and shame.
The soldier, small and stone-faced,
looks away from a child’s eyes.