Young Writers Society

echoes in the margins

coming soon

0. echoes in the margins
1. traffic
2. moving day
3. a portrait of myself as a quaking aspen
4. what to do when the trauma piles up
5. death shall bring clementines
6. i'm sick of writing love poems for people i've never met
7. the sun sets so the moon can rise
8. the fishing net
9. no matter how old i get, chicken nuggets will always be a staple in my pantry
10. the terrestrial planets
11. the time you smiled at me
12. i'm tired
13. what we left behind
14. ouch
15. untitled
16. let's hang out
17. in theory
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.

traffic

the highway is clogged
because a truck stalled within
the intersection

car horns are blaring
filling the air with noise that
is heard miles away
-
the last time we spoke
my thoughts were a traffic jam
my eyes red stop lights

you speed through the streets
the treads on your tires fade
and your headlights crack

moving day

the floor boards creak your name as i pad down the stairs.
i try to forget the last words you said to me,
but they line my brain
like the cardboard boxes that hold your things
line my floors.

the uhaul driver honks the horn of his truck,
ripping me from the memories that float in the dust.
i trace your name, coating my finger with grey
and walk over to the first box



my bones scream as i lift
countless boxes full of memories.
tears stream down the hills that are cheeks
and the driver of the truck that will carry you away
makes a funny face.



as the sun sets, i crawl under my sheets.
the crackle of the gravel under the uhaul's tires
echoes in my mind, mingling with the sound
of your nearly forgotten laughter.

my body curls into a question mark
and i brush my fingertips over the scars on my kneecaps.
despite the protest between my lungs,
a wistful smile splits my face in two and i whisper,

A strong start with this, Atlas!

I really liked the development of the traffic image in this first poem here:

my eyes red stop lights

you speed through the streets

The sensory imagery in the second poem here was also great. It's very vivid, almost too-vibrant, which gives that bit the feel of a fond memory turned painful.

I also like the juxtaposition between the "wistful smile" and how it violently "splits" the speaker's face.

what to do when the trauma piles up

1. i don't know.
2. scream. scream until your vocal chords are raw with fury and the most you can manage the next morning is a whisper.
3. try to forget.
4. but not forever. you need to rest, but one day you must come and face the wolves. they will continue to howl in the back of your mind until you do.
5. be destructive, but not towards yourself. rip paper into shreds that get caught underneath your fingernails. hit your pillows so hard they no longer hug your head as you sleep. snap every pink-erasered pencil you can find in half, then burn the pile in your backyard. it is okay to be angry, and to let that anger out, but do not make yourself suffer anymore than you already are.
6. keep yourself busy. reorganize all your clothes by color. that same night, by category. paint your nails every shade of green you can find. see how long you can go without picking it off. watch every season of your favorite show consecutively and laugh at the jokes, even when they aren't funny. sometimes the best way to heal is in the background.
7. make a list. it's easier than you'd think.
8. be vulnerable. call that friend you haven't talked to in a while. whisper your deepest secrets into your pet's ear and know they won't tell anyone. write your biggest fears onto a napkin then eat something messy. let your thoughts splatter on the walls of your heart.
9. grow. lean into the sun because sometimes you have to burn, to watch your skin peel off in sheets, before the softness sets in. trust that even when your petals begin to wither, the spring will bring with it flowers just as beautiful.
10. remember. remember, that even though it feels like it most days, this is not the end. what happened to you may have pulled leaves from your branches, but your roots will hold up against the strongest of winds. you will always shine brighter than your darkest days. prove it.

Hiya Atlas!

The aspens poem has such evocative descriptions! Even the title, "quaking", makes me think of windblown trees. My favourite line was:

black knots protrude from the white wood beneath my scalp

I just love the comparisons between white wood and the skull!

Your list poem has a lot of momentum from line to line, which makes for a dramatic read. Item no.#7 "make a list" is a really nice touch, too, and it did catch me off guard at just the right moment when I read it. Then on the second read, I realised that wind + branches image kind of links back to the aspen poem, which is really neat. I also enjoyed the image of the napkin. It feels like something very everyday and mundane but you've assigned new meanings to it.
Keep going!

O.k. Can I just say? How do you write so much good work? I’m just-- meanwhile, I’m slow but that’s potentially because i’m talentless. But that’s besides the point. Focusing on your works, I just realised how similar Lim, You, and my poems are in terms of structure? Having a series of connected haikus? Does that mean great minds think alike personally remove the great in mine BUT I’m going in tangents so

traffic


moving day


... quaking aspen



...when trauma piles up


Looking forward to more of your works!! They’re DEFINITELY CONNECTED. You c a n n o t convince me otherwise!

Kattee, thank you so much! All of this incredible feedback made my entire day!

As for all of the references between poems, I didn't write them to be connected, but I think that's where I'm going to go from there! I didn't realize how they all intertwined and meshed together.

One more thing, don't cut yourself short. You're a wonderful person and writer.

All my love
~A

i'm sick of writing love poems for people i've never met

i don't remember the last time i wrote one for myself.
i have created countless bouquets of words,
so many that my word processor looks like a garden on my screen,
but i keep poking myself on the thorns.

i don't know what it is.
i have love pouring out of every orifice of my body,
enough to span oceans,
natheless the chamber of my heart labeled "self love"
continues to run dry.

i don't know why i haven't learned to love myself yet.
my body carries me from place to place
and lets me wander through the garden of life,
even if it doesn't yet fit the mold i created for myself
my mind is my essence,
it weaves my experiences into a flower crown
for everything i have yet to become,
even when it is at its most fatigued.

it isn't easy.
most days my spirit is a question mark,
curled into itself because i can't write about myself
the way i do to the ghosts that plant weeds
in the corners of my mind.

the fishing net

do you remember the last time we went fishing?
the sun beat down on us like a blanket of arrows in wartime
and the grass tickled our knees like cotton candy from the county fair.
you had a net slung around your shoulders like a cape and
it blew in the breeze as we walked to the lake.

the water was a cool cerulean that lapped against our ankles
once we threw our shoes to the side and waded in.
you took the net in both hands, flinging it out into the waves,
a grin consuming your features as dreamed of the creatures
that were finally in our reach.

we leaned back onto the grassy hill as we waited,
our net cast and hungry for fish.
we sat for hours, reminiscing on memories made
and mused about our futures together.
the nets in our neurons filled to the brink of splitting
with dreams of a partnership like none other.

our fishing net, however, wasn't as lucky.
when you threw it into the lake, it stirred up all the fishes
and they swam away, wary of the possibility of capture.
the few guppies that stayed behind were so small
they fit through the gaps of the net as effortlessly.
it was like the net was never cast in the first place.

we returned home empty handed that day,
the fishing net wrung between our fists like children
clutching their comforter at bedtime.
we weren't angry about our fishy failure.
instead, we laughed, our twin smiles gleaming in the
orange-red light of the sunset.

you see,
we are not like that fish net.
the love we share is a closly knit wool blanket
wrapped around our hearts as they beat in time
and we dream about that time
we went fishing.

Hiya again, Atlas! I've been loving the colour imagery in all these poems so far <3 And the sense of continuity in theme is strong, too - I get the impression that a lot of these poems are about life-force and love in some form or another~

I adore what you did with 'death shall bring clementines'. "wax-melt sun" is such an interesting image and I love the allusion to the myth of Icarus, as well.

In 'i'm sick of writing . . . ' you had a clever play on the idea of a 'love poem' and developed it throughout the poem with some earnest lines, but also some really picturesque and atmospheric ones as well. I particularly liked "ghosts that plant weeds/
in the corners of my mind." The weeds seem very symbolic of clinging or the past and I think that image says a lot.

The two haiku are vivid and full of energy. "honey-comb blaze" brings to mind a really bright sunset, almost dream-like, and "craters beam" feels very abstract and dream-like as well.

Similarly there's a lot of vivid, colourful imagery in 'the fishing net', and I love the central metaphor - or rather, the denial of the metaphor. Saying love doesn't work like a fishing net is a nice and unexpected twist.

You're doing great with this! <33