Young Writers Society

8.

some fireflies are caught in palms
and they gasp forward
yearning outward
through baristrarias. these lantern arrows
arc like holy sentinels of the mind
past curtain walls and moats
of sunken sorrows.

from asphyxiation,
I escape.

9.

the art of being a woman

darling, do not let the curl of your cowlick curve into question marks
about the dimpled wrinkles of thighs scarred with flowering femininity
as a god lays heavy hands gently on the plaster of your skin, his touch
a wandering whistle through pliable needles of tamarack trees; let him
soothe sorrowful what-ifs like a mother's womb, cradling you upwards
to rest on an alabaster pedestal in a museum of doppelgängers ogling
without pause for reflection on how they got here in the first place or
why they are poised on pedestals too, soft like the shapes of Phidias'
genius that bends & refracts from this three-dimensional prison prism,
reminding you, darling, of the art of being a woman.

This is lovely, Lavvie. I love the title. I love the title. It makes me think of that quote by Beauvoir, "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." I noticed in your bio that you are interested and have a background in existential therapy. This poem definitely gave me existential vibes and Beauvoir vibes, and I love that.

I also love how you write about the body, and your gorgeous imagery you assign to the female body. I especially love the lines "plaster of your skin" "genius that bends and refracts from this three-dimensional prison prism." Love the double meaning and alliteration there. Great poem as always, Lavvie.

10.

through the pungent smell
of melting snow, white lies of
spring bloom like lilies.

11.

cw: gore/violence

ahhh number 10 is a gorgeous haiku <3 <3

12.

prose poetry? literary nonfic? mystery meat? no one knows

Ode to a Life with a Nancy

my memory is seated at the right hand of a woman who goes by many names:
the matriarch of the Rainbow, the flaming grandma, bird whisperer, kneeled in velvet dirt when we come jumping down the quail-burdened driveway in the 2001 red Nissan Sentra, the one with the cigarette burn in the front passenger seat, the one that when I was three, on our way to see her, Mum gave me a slice of extra old Armstrong white cheddar and I stuck it in the nook of the door where it sweated under years of sun-soaked glass and captured pennies like insects in a Venus flytrap -

but you would never find a terrible plant in her garden and she names them all wonderful things in the spirit of Cecily Mary Barker just like she names me in her limericks that conjure nose-tickling images of lime rickies & chicken curry & mango pickle & poppadums that snap under bewildered Burmese heat that we catch
like red earth between palms into finger fissures
smudging the split between root & blood -

in the vast din of a quietus, her names linger like laundry in her dusty study piled with paper, letters,
names for everything & all the names everything had for her -

but I can only think of one that tingles over tastebuds like buttered bread in the weeds on a Tuesday afternoon:
whole & long after

13.

this is for @Holysocks, who has never tasted ham before

ham poem

thick pink
cleft palms
cradle
how it feels
to smell
people stepping into your home
that is now
humbly theirs
as we all sit
many peas
in many pods
listening
for the sound
of heavy oceans
warm
on our tongues

14.

cw: mental health/suicide

Another stunning poem! And congrats on making it almost halfway through NaPo. I love the structure of your poem, especially how you use fragments in the middle stanza and use the advertisement on a box/bottle of medicine to reveal the reality of attempted suicide and how under-the-radar it can be. And I love that the stanza is a fragment, something incomplete, like the speaker's life.

And that last line...just wow. I re-read it several times. In one way it seems straightforward and almost objectively detached when the dose is included, but this is what makes it so chilling and such a powerful and resonating end. Lavvie, you always demonstrate awareness and capability of maintaining a tight poetry form and structure, and that is even more evident here. Each line builds on previous and you landed the line breaks in all the right places (something I struggle with immensely). Simply incredible.

15.

human suffocation

in my hands I hold a cloud that is knit together
with fragments of dreams
that sometimes slice
& figments of fears
that sometimes smooth
the edges round
the plush cushions of my face,
closely pink
because I can read their minds.

16.

white suburbia

on the front page there are four people
screaming until the skin of the larynx
strips in red ribbons
like it's been run through a paper shredder
smiling

17.

here is a poem

in my mind there is not a poem
that withers like a tower of ash
in the wind
that scratches words likes razors
on blank wrists
that strangles sheets into knots
for getaway
or that splits down my center
a border

in my mind there is a poem
that flies like a fish
to a desert territory no man's land
remoulded by calloused hands
dropping jade
& traced by leftover weeds
that sprout into daffodils
where I am carried
towards revolution

ooh this is quite a lovely poem <3 my favorite is definitely the second stanza. I love all the plant imagery!

18.

eyes up! the sun flies
like a tulip bulb on string,
tendrils whispering.