Young Writers Society

rêvasser (2022)
zugzwang (2021) (half complete)
tacenda (2020)
paroxysm (2019)
solivagant (2018)
evanescence (2017)
disenchantment (2016)

I love the picture you chose and the poem <3 The style is sth hadn't seen yet. I'll be back to read your poetry, good luck!!

i.

oh, i’m tight, i’m high strung, but
rain shadows mean sun
and this spring has brought buckets
of light;
here, where bird calls are sung and
the shutters undone,
i don’t know how to greet such
delight.

the sweet greens of the grass
and the scent as i pass
the blossom-decked trees set
in rows
tell me how to slow down,
plant my feet in the ground,
and let dandelions teach me to
grow.

the blue skies i’ve blessed
that allow me this rest,
though i used to be grateful
for rain;
under sun i forget
the old memories yet
i still feel a lingering
strain.

This is definitely my favourite poem so far! It made me think Snow White for a second. I love the lively athmosphere that it gives off along with the message.

This is my favourite part yet ^^

under sun i forget
the old memories yet
i still feel a lingering
strain.

Awesome job Que!

ii.

let’s practice our museum walk,
shuffle-step and stop
to stare, to look,
un coup d’œil
that glances off
without seeing.

don’t tell me you’re here,
tell me you hear—

we talk for hours but it feels like
i’m waiting for you to
arrive
the entire time,

watching you stare at my canvas
as if it were blank.

(but sometimes you see the real museum piece
and you liked the printout better)

so paint me into a backdrop
like monet’s garden,
all abloom;

only let me be the reflection,
not the water lilies.

iii.

I can still remember
what it was like to watch you
walk into the room.

I was never not looking
for you.

In the halls, in the skies,
in the dust on my desk,
in these lines.

I memorized you:
you magnetized me.

Pulled to you, pulled after you
wherever you chose to go,
I would follow you for miles;

I followed you for years.

Across the state from you,
it’s harder to
mirror your movements.

Our room is so much bigger now.

So I sit and watch other people
walk into rooms.
None of them do it quite like you,

even you.

Maybe it’s because
you’re such a part of myself
that I don’t pay attention
anymore.

Maybe it’s because
your magnetism rubbed off
and it’s I who draw you to me
now;

and maybe that means
I have the luxury of
ending this poem and

walking away.

.

.

.

But I won’t.

iv. For Cormac.

I first saw you between the pages of Ulysses one fall,
the words "The Irishman's house is his coffin," spilling out of your mouth,
that line I forgot amidst dead mothers, midwives and jingling steps.

Years here and we’d never met.

Between the golden leaves and sunlit campus cafes, we could always
meet eyes and instantly ask how was "Circe"? The Holy Joycean
Relics held us captive halfway between
laughter and awe.

A class competition spurred us to study every word, but
of the seven students, it was only ever
us.

When you won whiskey honey and I, the pirated Pomes Penyeach,
we should have switched places, for you had the passion:
for literature, for language, for hard things, for Joyce.

But I took first place.

Ulysses was the only thread connecting us,
if we passed shoulder-to-shoulder in the brick halls,
if we lingered after our spring semester course;
enough for a smile.

But once, we found each other in a theatre, by chance,
and talked of religion as if we had always shown such naked honesty
and I never felt so similar to someone.

And I learned that maybe we had lost each other
somewhere between Germany and France,
and the languages that kept our paths from crossing
were what made our souls even more alike.

I never did see you again.

Though we met just a pocketful of times,
you return to haunt the philosophical halls of my academic mind.

You keep telling me the meaning of 
Joycean tragedy,

but I can never remember if there's a happy ending.

v.

I'm flying over the promised land tonight
& starting to think it's just like any other
for it's people who make promises
and people are everywhere now
it's not a sanctuary
God is a sanctuary & God is in our hearts
God is on my mind when the airplane hits
turbulence so bad I feel myself falling,
again & again, like when I'm just about to
fall asleep but then fall, and wake up.
Your glory like a step too tall
I trip over each time on my way up,
finding myself on the floor again
maybe it's okay to sit down and take some
time, some Tylenol, so tired of trying it all
and they say you'll catch me, like you caught
the plane, catch me up into your arms
and hold me fast. My people hold me
here, but sometimes I let go, or they do,
and if you're in all their hearts,
how can I know you won't let me go, too?
Tumbling, falling
down into the promised land.

A promised land still breaks bones,
and metal.

vi.

my soul is a scraped desert,
hollow and dry, but as spring comes
i’m learning that
these holes can be filled up with
wildflowers, bluebonnets and
indian paintbrush;
a little moisture turns my
caverns into lush hillsides
of oaks and prickly pears;
if i manage to fill in
all the gaps where the outside
still gets in,
the air will turn humid and the
stars will shine bright.

but if i tear down all my
bridges,
the bats won’t come out
when the sun sets.

vii.

among the mounds there are
wildflowers and butterflies
along the highway, not quite
fenced off yet like everything else.
they still have the freedom to
fly into our charging grille.

driving up and down through
rolling hills, window rolled down,
rolling the dice on
which spot won’t get us caught?
how long can we stay
in the sun on a partly cloudy day?
and will this whole trip pay
off?

but stay; just watch,
the wind whispers,
let your eyes roam if you can’t
go in their place;
let the honeysuckle scent
linger on each breath;
enjoy the moment

before the road shifts
beneath our feet.

viii.

This is a poem for waiting,

A poem for early, misty mornings and
a poem for the hopefuls that inhabit them,
in predawn pilgrimage;

A space to store
the way you wish the clouds away,
to summon the sun.

This is a poem for the visitors here,
the strangers to this land,
gathered in a holy communion
around their telescopes like a prayer
to a higher power,
clutching each other and crying afterwards
like the answer lies in each of us;

And maybe this poem
is itself a prayer,
for the voyagers, stargazers,
truck drivers and construction workers,
gods and men; angels,
who bear witness;

This is a poem for breaths held
in the darkness:

A poem for the eclipse
and its watchers.