we need to talk said he

Image by Dano Nicholson.

we need to talk said he
(about what said she
sit down said he)
tell me said she

(it’s not working said he
why not said she
there’s someone else said he)
is it over said she

(i love you said he
don’t lie said she
i’m not said he
you cheated said she)

one more chance said he
(go away said she
i won’t said he
just go said she

don’t be stubborn said he
just go said she)
are you crying said he
(i hate you said she

come here said he
why said she
for comfort said he)
okay said she

(one more kiss said he
why not said she
i love you said he)
i know said she

(forever? said he
it’s over said she)
you’re breaking my heart said he
(that’s Life said she)

Here’s what Terra Elan McVoy, author of “After the Kiss” and judge of the Contest, had to say about Moriah’s poem:  Moriah’s poem “we need to talk said she” stood out to me immediately. For one thing, e.e. cummings is hard to duplicate sometimes with all those crazy lines and punctuation (and she did a really good job), and this poem is particularly tricky. Secondly, e.e. cummings is one of the poets Becca herself really likes in “After the Kiss.” The biggest thing that struck me though was how the story inside this poem follows the story of “After the Kiss.” This was a super-neat trick, but on top of that, it really worked to create a great poem!

Image by Alan Cleaver.

I Slept Through Eternity

At half past six I wake for school,
Before the rising sun;
The students, stuffed with sleepiness,
To homeroom stumble down.

The teachers smile from their desks,
I wish they would abate;
Alas! How early I arose
When I could still sleep late!

The carelessness of middle school;
I’d bounce from bed at five,
While now without a clock’s alarm
I’d never come alive.

About Kayla’s poem, Terra said: Kayla did a wonderful job, too, of emulating Emily Dickinson. Emily is tough, but I really admire how Kayla interpreted her original poem with just the right amount of slant. Great use in here of words like “abate,” and other twists like turning “nests” into “desks”–the kind of thing I think Emily herself might’ve done with such an assignment.

Terra adds: Both of these writers did a terrific job, I think, of taking someone else’s work, staying true to the original form, but turning it into something completely their own. But overall, this was a really fun competition, and I send my thanks to everyone who entered. Keep up the great writing!

From YARN: A big thank you to Terra for judging, and to all the contest entrants who bravely tried to emulate a poem by a master!  We had a great time reading all of your poems.  A contest like this really is a group effort, and we so appreciate the enthusiastic participation of everyone involved.

Moriah Benjoseph

Kayla Bashe is sixteen years old. In addition to her decade-long obsession with writing, she enjoys reading, acting, singing, cooking, and dancing. Although a New Yorker at heart, Kayla currently lives and writes in New Jersey.

Terra Elan McVoy is the author, of course, of “After the Kiss,” a novel in verse about poetry-writing teens just like those who entered our contest!  While the plot might be one you know—high school love triangle—the way McVoy wrote it is so original, you won’t be able to put it down.  Or maybe you’ve seen her first novel, “Pure.”  The title refers to the purity rings worn by the central female characters in the book, but “Pure” is also a delicious romance, and an honest story about female friendships and how complicated they can get.  We highly recommend it!

To support her writing, McVoy’s done a number of things, including managing the indie bookstore Little Shop of Stories in Decatur, GA.  To find out more about her, see her website:  terraelan.com

One of my favorite things about the book was including Becca’s versions of poems written by existing poets. When you’re starting out as a writer, you often get (very good) advice to find work by other writers you like, and emulate it. I thought this was advice that Becca, who is serious about poetry, would definitely follow. Poets she “copied” in “After the Kiss” include Gertrude Stein, Wallace Stevens, Pablo Neruda, and William Carlos Williams, among others. (You will know when you get to one of these poems, because she always writes “With Apologies to . . .” after each title.) It’s my sincere hope that some of you curious readers will track down the originals and compare how she did!

There were some bits of “After the Kiss,” however, that stayed on the cutting room floor—poems and passages from Becca and Camille that didn’t quite fit for whatever reason: didn’t end up moving things along at the right pace, or saying things in the exact best way.

Note from YARN: We’ve hyperlinked the titles of Terra’s poems so that if you click on the title, it will take you to the original poem.

These are a couple of the homage poems Becca wrote that we didn’t include:

the Public School children who live in furnished souls
(with apologies to e.e. cummings)

the Public School children who live in furnished souls
are too beautiful and have lazy minds
(also, with the tired teachers’ blind-eye blessings
elevated grades—unwarranted intellect)
they believe in themselves, and You Tube, both idiotic,
and are invariably interested in so many inane things—
at the present one still finds
nimble fingers twittering. . . or tweeting?
perhaps. While permanent faces boredly banter
the scandal of Olivia and Tyler
. . . the Public School children do not really care, among
Decatur, if sometimes in their box of
cinder-block-bricks and shadowy corners, their
poetic peer rattles like a fragment of broken-hearted candy.

A Song In the Coffeehouse
(To Nadia, with apologies to Gwendolyn Brooks)

I’ve stayed in my notebook all my life.
I want to peek behind the counter
where it’s dirty and crowded and friendship grows.
A girl gets sick of feeling alone.

I want to go behind the counter now
and maybe down into the kitchen
to where the college kids play.
I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My self-consciousness sneers, but I tell myself it’s fine.
How they don’t start shaking their hangovers until quarter to nine.
My self-doubt, she tells me that Nadia
has grown up into a wild woman.
That Denver’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
(on account of what he sells out at the back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a wild woman too.
And wear mismatched knee-socks and t-shirts of lace
and strut around the coffeehouse with a huge grin on my face.

And here is a portion from Camille’s point of view that didn’t make it, either:
waiting
you want to grab them by the shoulders—ellen, luli, willow, autumn, the coffee counter girl, your literature teacher, whomever— and shake them and say, as loud as you can manage (so loud it makes them flinch), what are we doing here??? everything is so at a standstill. everything is waiting for something  else to happen: waiting for a boy to call, waiting for a test result, waiting for approval, waiting for someone else to say something before we have to. waiting for the rice to boil. waiting for the other shoe to drop. and after years and years of waiting it finally dawns on you —right when the thing you’ve been most waiting for might actually arrive— that there is nothing ever in the arrival, only always what you do in the preparation for it. the prince will never kiss your sleeping lips (and if he does, he will have bad breath, and a mommy complex, and eight boxes of comic books he’s embarrassed to show you), and you will never earn enough money (not for the plane ticket, and the apartment, and the designer clothes, and the reservation at the restaurant everyone’s dying to get into). you will never eventually come up with the best comeback, and the life-changing concert will never be quite what you expected once you go. you can wait and wait and wait and still the timing won’t be right, your hair won’t be long enough, your thighs will be too wide and your argument will still have a few holes in it when you finally think of something to say. whatever it is you’re waiting for —your prom date, your graduation, your acceptance letter, your new job— will always only ever be insufficient, be halfway what you wanted, because once it comes you will already be dreaming of the next thing coming around the corner, so there is only here—the time in between the thing you are waiting for. there is only ever this and so you had better pay attention, or else one day you will wake up and you will be lost.

I hope that reading some of what isn’t in “After the Kiss” will entice you to explore what is in there. I’ll be looking forward to all of your comments!

Thanks, and enjoy!
–Terra Elan McVoy
www.terraelan.com

Another note from YARN: We hope you enjoyed this “fan-poetry” as much as we have, and that it inspires you to write some of your own! Remember, YARN is running a Fan-Poetry Contest until the end of July. Enter here!

Maybe you’ve read her first novel, “Pure.”  The title refers to the purity rings worn by the central female characters in the book–a topic discussed with insight and humor by McVoy.  “Pure” is also a delicious romance, and an honest story about female friendships and how complicated they can get.  We highly recommend it.

To support her writing, McVoy’s done a number of things, including managing the indie bookstore Little Shop of Stories in Decatur, GA.  To find out more about her, see her website:  terraelan.com

Enlighten Your Ears

Twinkle twinkle go the stars
as the sun sets and the
moon rises in your ears.
The folds and freckles
dusted in random clusters on
the sea saw shell line of your pretty ears.
Gravity pops in my ear drums and I swear
that my ears tighten so silly sound
can’t slippery slick through and
every time I see
those twins left and right of your face
I can’t erase the desire to embrace.

This Earth

This Earth is the color of rusted cars
stacked in tumbling piles in moldy
dumps, the rat bitten seats like flea
bites on the interior of a sensory overloaded
system with a degraded radio that once
pumped lusty hot sex songs through it
filled with moans and rocked to sleep.
A gas light still flashes and runs on empty as
broken and bent windshield wipers stick to
shattered glass pieces on the crumbling
dashboard. The heartthrob scent of
bloody gas stains sings to a spread out
city filled with lights and steady shadows
and the heady cologne of overfull garbage cans;
it pulls minds to wander through this Earth,
and lends a dower certainty that dampens;
everything finishes as the shell of a carcass.

Home

Snuggle deep in those trees, little house.
Don’t mind the wind, he’s just temperamental
he won’t really hurt you.
Tip drowsy into the cushion snow
I will slumber deep in your tummy.
Home in your drafty kitchen, wooden tables,
dirty spoons, flower napkins, cold floors,
and fingerprinted walls.
Everywhere I look I see me and you:
peanut butter and jelly stains on the
wall from tripping fingers, chips on cups
when you wanted to try a sip of my
morning tea, pencil lines on your walls
when you wished you were paper, smoke stains
in the fire place from when the power went out (we
were both scared of the dark then), the rainbow of
pen drip on the table from when we wished we could
color the world, and dust everywhere because you
said I had better things to do than straighten up.
You pushed me out the front door but I always came
back and shared the stories with you and tipped my ice
cream bowl so you could have some.
Little house, little home, we always shared.

Emily Gersky is 17 years old.  She is terrified of heights and ants, and loves music, reading, and writing.

Sodium + Chloride = Salt

Image courtesy of parl (flikr.com).

Sodium, alone, is unstable.
Will flame if tossed in water.
Chloride is poison to inhale.
But when they join hands
they transform
into a tasty substance
desired on the tongue
vital to bodily function.
If only my parents fighting
through thin bedroom walls
(he, an explosive; she, a poison)
could chemically combine.
If only they could
behave together
better than alone,
my volatile home
would be stable as salt.

Varnished Apple

Image courtesy of Selma90 (flikr.com).

Criticism
won’t core this apple
won’t extract stem and seeds
to provide sweet refreshment.
This apple
is made of varnished wood.
The interior, a sealed secret.
I cannot wash her, peel her,
or pretend her fruit
will quell my hunger.
She is not made
of the substance
I need in a friend.

Baby Doll

Image courtesy of Jenn Chushcoff (Jennerationphotos.com).

The china doll Mom gave me
for my 7th birthday
still sits on a shelf above my bed.
The face is cracked,
another victim of my temper.
Everything changed
after that baby doll was smashed.
Forget tearful apologies,
promises, hugs, handshakes—
we always crash against the wall again.
Evenings, mornings, afternoons,
of You said that! No, I didn’t! Yes, you did!
always taking us back to that pretty baby doll
in her pink frilly dress.
She grew up, Mommy.
Forgive her.

Jacqueline Jules is a teacher, librarian, and author of fifteen books including “Unite or Die: How Thirteen States Became a Nation,” “No English,” and the upcoming “Zapato Power.” Her poetry has appeared in “Cicada,” “Cricket,” “Christian Science Monitor,” and others. To learn more about her, please visit www.jacquelinejules.com.

violet

Image courtesy of Jason Rodgers (flikr.com).

she stands in the corner
of the crowded room
a song swirls
above the chatter
she wishes she hadn’t come
but still, she gathers her courage
struggles for conversation
they feign ignorance
her face burns
she creeps back
to the wall
to blend
with the flowered paper

Tortoise or Hare

Image courtesy of Collin Key (flikr.com).

I would be the tortoise
If I could choose.
Tender parts
Carefully guarded
By a hard green shell.
A portable hiding place
For those awkward moments.
No need to run,
Just pull in the appendages
And breathe slowly
Until the danger passes.
But some pernicious muse
Had other plans
And without consulting me,
Took my secrets
And made iambic feet
For a bunch of mad rabbits
That care nothing for poetry.

About Doraine: Growing up, she was the shy girl who faded into the wallpaper. She was in high school before she realized she had things to say, and that it was okay to voice her opinions. Writing has been a way of finding her voice. She loves playing with words, finding the rhythm and the tone that matches her thoughts. Crafting words that create an image that speaks to the heart of a reader is a genuine pleasure. Today, she’s a writer, an editor, a book seller, a wife and a grandmother. Finding the freedom to speak has been a long journey for her, but one that has brought great joy.

Distortions

Remember the night in June
when we hijacked your dad’s speedboat, armed
with licorice and not-so-chaste intentions
breaking midnight’s calm with cannonballs
and waves of laughter, and the water
wrapped around like silk robes?

I don’t.

I remember goosebumps
under the blanket of summer air
at the thought of what you wanted,
fragile screams bubbling through the water
after hitting the surface like ice,
a fear of drowning in the hands
of Minnetonka’s asphalt colored waves.

Funny how the stars play tricks on you
the moonshine twinkling in your eyes
blinded you
to the malaise churning across my face.

Creed to Deal

Photo courtesy of dcis steve (flickr.com).

I believe in the power of Advil
to sweep this throbbing in my head away
and that vivacity requires only one 5 o’clock a day.
I believe the underbelly of my eyelid
is more necessary than the sunrise.

I believe running numbs racetrack thoughts—
I don’t stop until fire grips my calves
and fatigue fills me with weights.

I believe in the thesaurus, in the grassy
taste of a new word on my tongue
in the power of Twain to pull a veil
across Worry’s eyes—at least for a while.

I believe there is nothing wrong in believing
in high heels, lip gloss, and mini
skirts as solutions to sadness
or in knowing that polyester will always
pull at the wrong place in my self-esteem.

I believe in garlic over cinnamon
and that gum is a quick fix for arachnophobia.

I believe Mocha understands me better
through her puppy eyes than Thomas Epps ever will
through my articulated words. I believe skinned knees
and Disney band-aids will patch my broken heart.

About Allison: She’s  a college freshman at Columbia University currently studying French, Czech, and the humanities. Aside from being Style Editor for the “Columbia Daily Spectator,” in her spare time she also likes to indulge in reading magazines, writing poetry and short stories, and exploring the hidden corners of New York.

It protects us until we are safely home
Midnight security its second nature
Trying to keep heavy eyelids open
Before daughters and sons go to sleep

In the dark night, the moon keeps a watchful eye
Like a young girl full of curiosity
Adjusting her makeup with her mother’s cosmetics
The moon shows different faces

For those who live alone
There is no loneliness
The moon keeps us company

But people never look to the sky
The moon always seems chilly
Still it comes to watch us

Photo courtesy of NASA

Since this will no doubt serve as a learning experience for the teen writers out there who might want to submit to YARN, we thought we’d tell you a little bit about why we chose this poem.  (And by “we” I mean Kerri, Shannon, & Colleen who read and discussed the entries.)  “The Guardian” was a direct take on the Contest theme of “The Moon.”  It has some unusual and well-chosen imagery–in particular, the “young girl full of curiosity/ Adjusting her make-up with her mother’s cosmetics” to illustrate the many faces of the moon.  We also like the surprise ending: After 4 stanzas about the moon’s glory, the tone and message of the poem take a new direction and remind us to look at the moon, which is so much more than just “chilly.”  The language of the poem is simple, but to the point; of course, not all poems need be so simple, but here the simplicity helped us see the moon as Taehee saw it.

About Taehee, in her own words: “My name is Taehee Kim and I am currently a senior in high school aspiring to become an Advanced Math High School Teacher. All my future goals are directed towards the physical sciences but I have a hidden love for poems and literature. The pink glow of the teenager’s face was inspired by the reflection I see in the mirror. “

Congratulations to Taehee, YARN’s first published writer! And THANK YOU to all the teens who participated and to all the YARN supporters who helped us spread the word.