Young Writers Society

13
Returning

This poem is telling me it is a privilege
to return to where you were born.
Many never leave, and so can never return,
eyes growing soft, the world blurring into
monotonous inevitability.

This poem is telling me it is inevitable
to return to where you were born.
Even if we never buy that plane ticket,
drive that highway, hike those woods.
We find patterns in our speech,
in the way we place our feet,
in the cracks on the sidewalk,
and we realize that, even half a world away,
we are home.

This poem is telling me it is impossible
to return to where you were born.
You’ve changed too much.
The you that is returning is not the same
as the you that was born.

This poem is telling me it is a privilege
to return to where you were born.
Many do not get to see the trees they planted
grow up to shade their heads.
Instead, the trunks twist and contort
into abstraction inside their minds.
Their home becomes a photograph,
a picture that never changes. How vile.

This poem is telling me it is inevitable
to return to where you were born.
Fate tends to lead us there. We walk
the same paths we have always walked.
We return and find that nothing is the same.

This poem is telling me it is impossible
to return to where you were born.
The place that lives there in your mind
no longer exists. The tree is gone,
the sidewalk fixed, the people
never knew you. You realize
all you have forgotten.

---
I don't really like this poem, but napo is full of clunkers sometimes! I don't really do "deep" poetry, and I don't really like reading it, but I do really have a lot of thoughts about this concept that I wish I could turn into a poem full of sensory images rather than abstractions and cliches like this. I don't know how to cram all of these very abstract thoughts into a concrete poem thoughhhhh agonies agonies

14
Diddle for Dinner

Yesterday the cow
jumped over the moon.
Today it landed:
ground beef.

15
I Write My Little Poems, You_____________________.

I listen to podcasts while I do the dishes,
you _____________________.
I sing songs in the shower and hope the neighbors don't mind,
you______________________________________.
I walk to Safeway to buy milk,
you__________________________.
I eat fast food in the parking lot,
you_________________________________.
I cry in the car,
you___________________________________________.
I put up colorful pictures on my wall,
you____________________.
I still think about you sometimes,
you______________.

16
Thirteen Ways of Eating Fruit with Friends

I
You hand me a clementine.
There is a little sticker
that I peel off and place on your hand.

II
We eat soup.
We argue about whether tomatoes
and squash are really fruits.

III
A watermelon cut sideways
into a smile with black teeth.

IV
You hand me a clementine.
As I peel it, a spray of fine mist
fills the air with a citrus aroma.

V
I am burdened with limes
from a relative’s tree.
Everyone takes some.

VI
Together, we all hunt for huckleberries
in the forested mountain
we can see from your back window.

VI
We make pots of raspberry jam
to remember summer’s sweetness
when it’s winter and we are far apart.

VIII
I found a plum tree
in the graveyard, heavy
with untouched fruit.

IX
I make cobblers,
breads, and tarts. The kitchen
is warm, our mouths
stained purple.

X
You tell me about fruits
you have eaten and fruits
you want to eat. I listen.

XI
We twist apple stem oracles.
All our swallowed seeds
have taken root. We have apple
blossoms twining through our ribs.

XII
We adore peaches
and plums. The dust we eat,
and the sweet chill of the icebox.
We mouth the words to poems
we can taste. We laugh at oranges
and are glad we exist.

XIII
You hand me a clementine
and it’s like you’ve handed me
the whole world. I hand you
a pomegranate, and hope
you feel it beating in your palm.

—

This poem’s form is of course inspired by Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, but I also reference a few other poems including This is Just to Say, The Orange, From Blossoms, and Pomegranate Means Grenade.

Also, here are some bonus stanzas that didn’t make the cut:

XIV
A baggie with grapes
as big as your eyeballs.
Everyone laughs at the size
and crushes them between
their teeth.

XV
You hate the smell
of banana peels in the trash.
I eat them in secret,
like going out for a smoke.

XVI
She’s trying to grow an avocado tree
from the pit. She’s got cups of water
lined up in the windowsill.

17
Going to Six Flags with the Tortoise

I know immediately that this was a mistake.
He will not be persuaded to buy a flash pass.

He only wants to ride on boring rides,
and getting from one ride to another is agony.

He's no fun at go carts and he fills me with pity
as he's battered during bumper cars.

The carousel frightens him: all those hooves.
He's too short for most rides, but doesn't care.

Any ride that lifts him in the air sends him flashbacks,
as does the carnival game with ducks, for some reason.

I suppose the moral is that you can win a race
against a foolish hare, but it doesn't make you likable.

18
A Chicken

It has no horns on its head.
It is not a cathedral, nor is it a tomb.
When you touch it, it does not dissolve.
It would never reveal the location of a nuclear launch zone.
It does not lose its leaves in the fall.
If you talk to it, it will not discuss your secrets
during a talk show on late-night television.
It is not covered in a paisley pattern.
It has no opinions about your silverware placement.
It does not swim on your shower curtain,
nor has it filled the sky with stars.
It does not see ghosts, or if it does,
it does not let on. You will not find it
in the belly of a whale, nor on the moon.
Its bones are not made of stone, nor its eyes of glass.
It hasn’t made muffins to share with its friends.
It doesn’t have grand thoughts about the political climate.
It has never even changed a tire.

19
Blood Orange

Imagine stepping through
your 1 AM kitchen door
into 10 AM deep in a grove in Sicily.
The trees are hung with blood-streaked fruits
as if a woman, clutching at a mortal wound,
had felt each orange for ripeness. It is February
but already the air feels heavy and full.
Hear the clicking shears of harvest
play percussion to the songs of birds
you cannot recognize. In the distance,
Mount Etna, still snowcapped.
The magma inside is red as the
winedark flesh within the fruit.
The soil underneath your feet is rich
with volcanic nutrients. Red lava devoured
by red fruit devoured by red mouths
devoured by red red red red red.
Imagine stepping through
your 1 AM kitchen door
into the bright red mouth of a magpie.

20
Blackout Abecedarian

Always, the yarrow sways and the
Beech trees flutter. Light a
Candle since the power’s out:
Darkness thrills in a storm.
Even after all this time, I’ll never
Forget that nestling burrow, the
Glint in your eye as we
Hid like clams while the shape of a whale
Illuminated by distant sunlight passed
Just overhead, ominous and huge. We were
Kids then, unafraid of floods or
Lightning, but terrified by thunder and the
Mutter of rain on the window. All unknown
Noises were threats. We plugged
Our ears and told ghost stories way
Past our bedtimes. As the storm
Quieted, the candle burned to a
Runny puddle and flickered out.
Still the yarrow bent, still we
Touched and prayed and huddled
Under the covers. Touch me again to
Verify I’m still here. Tell me,
Where do I go when the wind blows?
Explain to me again, why can’t
You stay? Whether a hurricane or
Zephyr, I fear I may blow away.

21
I Hold You, You Hold Me

You offered me ABC gum and I said okay.
You spat the pale green glob, dimpled
from your molars and slick with spit,
into your palm and held it out, grinning.
Already Been Chewed, you said, eat up.
I grimaced and shrank under the sharp
smell of spearmint, but there was sweetness
there. Showing impulse and bravery,
I stuffed the wet clump in my mouth,
chewed twice, hard, then intended to
say something witty and victorious,
when on the intake of breath I choked
and spluttered and swallowed the gum.
We looked wide-eyed at each other,
and I knew, as we all did,
that it would stay in my stomach for years and years.

It’s been years and years
and I’ve held that piece of you all this time.
I sleep tonight on a mattress
on the floor of your apartment
in a city many states away from home.
The pump gave out so you filled it with your lungs,
and now there must be a hole in it somewhere
because I am sinking toward the floor
and being swallowed by your air.

I hold you, sticky, against my ribs,
you hold me, sinking, inside your lungs.
We sleep inside each other’s chests.

22
When the committee digs up my body

(using this in submissions!)

23
Delight

your hand's
echo
is river
cold

rise,
red
wrinkles
pressed
into
your back

sunburst
the skin
nightly

fling open
the curtain
let the world
stammer
against
your brightness

there isn't much
I wouldn't do
for a flamefigure
creased with sleep

the river
was blue
and held
the moon

my stomach
cannot reflect
milky way
shimmer

your hand
doesn't know
its own warmth

flamingos exist
whether or not
we expect them

try to imagine
my astonishment

24

You

I'm sitting in silence at the poetry workshop
as they ask who you are. The "you" in my poems,
I mean. I'm sitting in silence wondering the same.
Are you a friend? A parent? A lover? A ghost? A God?
I'm sitting, afraid that at the end of all this
I'll find that I've been writing
to no one.

25

Big J's Diner

1
I’d memorized the marble pattern
on the corner table’s laminated
surface. Speckles of melted ice cream
were ever-shifting stars.

2
The vinyl on some of the cherry-red seats
was cracked, showing white cloth underneath
like streaks of lightning at sunset.

3
We were growing, fireworking
into our adulthood. Trying to learn
what it meant to be a human rather than
just a child. The crunch of fried dough
between our teeth felt like we were biting
through the veneer of the world, devouring
its greasy, soft interior.

4
When I couldn’t look you in the eye
I’d stare at the painting of a cow
above your head. Its body
was like a billboard full
of black clouds on white sky.

5
Show me your palm.
Touch your fingertips
to mine. Feel the place
where you stop
and the world begins.
It’s beautiful.
It’s so beautiful I think I’m going to cry
and you’re going to ask me if I’m okay
and take me home
in a Jeep with the top off for summer.