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Young Writers Society


but colored shapes still move by.



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Mon Mar 20, 2017 11:43 am
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Hannah says...





I guess it was time to come back.


yeon.jpg
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first. 상상보다 - april 1st
second. created - april 2nd
third. God - april 2nd
fourth. 내면과 외면 - april 2nd
fifth. i feel like i've told this story before
but i'm losing my teeth to the wind
- april 3rd
sixth. over-exposed moments , smeared captions - april 3rd
seventh. constrictor - april 4th
eighth. back-side of the beach: a lake superior love song - april 5th
ninth. desire in two keys - april 6th
tenth. 향수병 - perfume sickness - homesickness - april 6th
eleventh. geotagging thighs and calves - april 6th
twelfth. one stop on our road trip west - june 16th - april 6th
thirteenth. a farewell must precede our meeting - april 6th
fourteenth. 여름 여행 다니다가 일어난 한 순간 - april 7th
fifteenth. Y.H. - april 8th
sixteenth. A Vignette of the Moment of Betrayal Made Known - april 9th
seventeenth. you piece of shit - april 10th
eighteenth. squall away - april 14th
nineteenth. a running river - april 14th
twentieth. weeks are 168 hours long - april 16th
twenty-first. tell summer that i died - april 17th
twenty-second. uprooted - april 17th
twenty-third. Saturn and You - april 18th
twenty-fourth. the art of passing over / 잊는 법 - april 18th
twenty-fifth. the glass is broken but it is still a window - april 18th
twenty-sixth. Flowing - april 19th
twenty-seventh. Shinkansen - april 20th
twenty-eight. Raising Sadness - april 20th
twenty-ninth. In a room with walls full of windows, no lamps - april 21st
thirtieth. Finding the Strength to Say Goodbye - april 22nd
thirty-first. slowing down - april 23rd
thirty-second. revenge is not what i thought - april 25th
thirty-third. 반복 될 듯 - april 26th
thirty-fourth. Because I never learned the names of paints - april 27th


Spoiler! :
to retouch:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
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Sat Apr 01, 2017 2:38 pm
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Hannah says...



april 1.

상상보다

you are a wide open field
and I promise myself
I will learn to love your hidden dips
and sudden sprouted clods of earth
that separate you from fantasy.
I aim to trip on your existence
and feel you in the bloom of blood
on my grass-scraped green-stained knee,
unexpected and so, so slick.
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Sat Apr 01, 2017 7:16 pm
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Audy says...



OOOO, so much love! Lines like "trip on your existence"
"bloom of blood" and the very earnestness and strength of voice in that promise, like I believe this narrator. I root for you. I also think that slick stain is perfect :3 I feel the sliminess!
  





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Sun Apr 02, 2017 9:23 am
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Hannah says...



april 2.

created

in the beginning i would find myself
picking warm, worked clay from behind my ears
and between my fingers, and blow a fine dust
each time i told him how i felt: "divine".

passion recognized passion, so i smiled
and dreamed as we watched the trumpet player.
the vigor in her eyes and silver suit
drained reticent pigments from my hair,
and i squeezed them down the drain -
slipping lavender, dark eddying plum.

but something lurks behind the curtain, backstage.
i found it months later, after footsteps had faded.
i thought i loved him then; he called me his muse.
but i was never shown a finished piece.
i never saw fruition. we never set.

now i am in a midnight land, digging with a spade.
the chill mud is almost clay, but will not stay.

this is my grave for the abandoned sketches
with charcoal smudged-out details. this is the grave
for half-mixed colors left to crust on palettes.
for the absence of art on the walls.
beware the white walls.

unset.

reset.

i have sharpened my pencil. i will make it.
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Sun Apr 02, 2017 11:27 am
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Hannah says...



april 2.

God

God, look at the joy
of speeding past on a scooter,
one leg up flying.

God, look at the fragility,
of the break in her mother's voice
when she calls, Sara, let's go together.

And God, what does it mean
when he hears of the brilliant,
bright star of a student
with college applications all turned in
and waiting, who is caught in a crash
and they can't stop the blood:
her skull is a vessel, all flowing out,
when he hears of her coma
and tells me to be careful
on the way to and back from work?
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Sun Apr 02, 2017 12:50 pm
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Hannah says...



april 2.

내면과 외면

발톱 밑이 더러운데
사랑할땐 마치 더러운 내면을
알게 되는 것의 시작이잖아.

넌 이미 내 발톱을 빨아서
난 걱정할게 없는 것 같다.
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Mon Apr 03, 2017 2:03 pm
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Hannah says...



april 3.

i feel like i've told this story before
but i'm losing my teeth to the wind



hamster lips quivering on a long-neck base
hair ransom and stranded over shoulders
the last moment on top of stilts . pratfall
there is no going back
might as well is thick as tar pulling her
down and down again onto him

five am becomes the end of a night
and fingers haunt , twine , handheld
soft breathing , soft cheeks
hamster lips quiver and rest

heat-water in the outside mists
into cloud-shape on the windows
is noon dawn? is two dawn?
slowly risen, boiled breakfast,
long walk back to the train .
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Mon Apr 03, 2017 2:17 pm
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Hannah says...



april 3.

over-exposed moments , smeared captions

home is a deep-sunk laugh-line
high cheeks and thick lips
with the curve of cat skull.

lights on a highway are yellow
white yellow yellow white odd.

the sound of the door opening.
the right footsteps on the stairs.
breath in a once-empty room.

rain orchestrating in puddles.
taillights.

it has been two months since you called.
it has been two months since.

dust can catch on a vertical surface
like a frame. like it has.
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Tue Apr 04, 2017 1:24 pm
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Hannah says...



april 3.

KakaoTalk_20170404_143744884.jpg
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
are you a green room knight yet?
have you read this week's Squills?
  





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Tue Apr 04, 2017 2:11 pm
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Hannah says...



april 4.

constrictor

i look back on the ability to form
phrases in a language my father knows.
my heart flies tangential to words
once worn as bald or brilliant
as statues on the charles bridge --
one gold dog polished with wish-spurs --
now coated in scrutt, fingertips shy back.

i am pulling at a dry well.
i am losing my voice.
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Wed Apr 05, 2017 12:41 pm
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Hannah says...



april 5.

back-side of the beach: a lake superior love song

how long has it been since you came here?
i have long studied limnology and still drown
in the slip of breath from between your lips --
how light the air is in its absence, how quiet,
a shore retreating before the break --
the wind in the sedge is a whisper a world away.

winter; grinding ice muffles my wails for you --
a knit brown scarf around my face, and hands pushed down hard;
ships deep out on the lake look nothing like christmas lights.
i pray for them to wreck and then retract my prayer -
GUILT god, what if they all died because i was melancholy without you?
my face reflected in a silver service on a sunken ship. you were the one
to lock the door before it all went down and down.

lake superior has more than 25,000 dead floats frozen deep,
so the rock tied to my hope is pulled down to old comrades.

the sky is a blue grey, light and so, so far away.
there is only the sound of chop chop chop a helicopter
distant, slow, etching itself scratches in my skull --
first cuts on a new easel. first steps. knees weak,
i fall to the sand.
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Wed Apr 05, 2017 3:21 pm
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Hannah says...



april 6.
pommed with @Autumns and @PenguinAttack

desire in two keys

could it be that I am the monsoon
rocking the venetian blinds,
my existence a reversal
of seasons,

or could it be that I am the ceiling fan
clicking on my decade gears,
slipping forward or is it back

like the whistle of a distant train
half a tune on half a track
un-clicked tickets lost out the back.

am I just half-aboard,
wishing to get somewhere,
or am i the coal in the gutter of the engine
and the life fire, the movement, the burn?
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Wed Apr 05, 2017 3:33 pm
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Hannah says...



april 6.

향수병 - perfume sickness - homesickness

bald rock-headed mountains sit as caps above high-rises,
starlight muddled with gold leaf apartment windows:
a pollution i cannot collect that hangs in the air and waits
to be distilled into acid rain.

in a dirty town in dirty shoes, fine dust in lungs and eyes,
it is hard to see across the street, much less across the month, the year.
studying for what working for what eating for what?
loving for what? for what? waiting for what?

hikers at the top of rock-headed mountains call down
"yaho" -- and it dies on impact with bent pine trees,
and i bend samely, eyes down and renounced.
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Thu Apr 06, 2017 11:46 am
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Hannah says...



april 6.

geotagging thighs and calves

rolled down stockings reveal shelf life
in a list of addresses where you've spent the night.
we lie on our backs with bare heels on the wall
to compare records and touch fingertips to pairs.

little girl games these days are: using ball point pens
and square, frigid handwriting to wish up future meals
and the reluctance to leave afterward.

"and he'll call me in to view
and he will follow the letters with his thumb --
212 south washington -- and he will say
I live there and I will say I know"

the screen door shudders and we pull up quickly
but are still afraid they can see the wet ink staining through,
and we laugh out of fright when they're gone.
you can message me with anything: questions, review requests, rants
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Thu Apr 06, 2017 12:23 pm
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hexglass says...



your poetry is lovely; I am captivated. your descriptions are so wonderfully refreshing, and incredibly apt:

bald rock-headed mountains sit as caps above high-rises,
starlight muddled with gold leaf apartment windows


please. it's enchanting, how your words capture entire scenes and frames of movement with such lyricism.
  








The idea that a poem was a made thing stayed with me, and I decided then that I wanted to be an artist, not just a diarist. So I put myself through a kind of apprenticeship in writing poetry, and I understood even then that my practice as a poet was deeply related to my reading.
— Edward Hirsch