A few months ago, Cheryl Klein, my editor at Arthur A. Levine/Scholastic, asked if I would be interested in writing a novel about a young girl recovering from depression and a failed suicide attempt. My initial reaction was that such a book was the last thing I wanted to write. As someone who has suffered from depression since he was a teen, I was afraid that writing about that illness might well sink me into a dark place from which it would be difficult to climb out.  But only a few moments after Cheryl asked, I found myself not only agreeing wholeheartedly to do it, but believing that this may well be the very book I was meant to write.

I’m not exactly sure when the first bout of depression came. The earliest episode that comes to mind was soon after my adoptive father died, when I was thirteen-years old. Charlie Stork died instantaneously when he crashed his 1965 Rambler station wagon into the concrete pillar of a railroad overpass. We were living in the small town of Alpine,Texas, located somewhere between El Paso and San Antonio. I’m an only child and my mother had gone to Mexico to care for her gravely-ill father. Charlie and I were living in a dilapidated house in the poorest section of town. Our trailer had been repossessed a couple of months earlier for failure to make the monthly payments.

Photo courtesy of rellim (flickr.com)

As hard at the grief of losing my father was, it was still better than the debilitating depression that came a few months after his death. I was living at that time with Father Martinez, a priest and old family friend. (My mother had to return toMexicoto care for my grandfather.) There, in a dusty room cluttered with statutes of saints, I felt for the first time the hollow, sad emptiness that we identify with depression.

One of the things that happens after you’ve lived with depression for a long time is that you are able to look at it with a measure of distance and objectivity. You are able to see it as an illness that is different from you, an illness for which you are not responsible, just like you are not responsible for, say, diabetes. After a long time, one is able to say not so much “I am depressed” as “I have depression.” You are able to say not “I am worthless” but “I feel worthlessness.” But this objectivity is hard to achieve when you are a young person who is perhaps experiencing depression for the first time.  What saved me during that first bout of depression was a small leather notebook that I found in one of the boxes of old religious books with which  I shared a room at Father Martinez’ house. The notebook was the size of my small hand and when I opened it, I saw that someone had written down a list of names. At the end of each name a hospital was listed. I figured that one of the priests had used it as a reminder of those hospitalized parishioners he intended to visit. But the list of names only took two pages of a journal that had one hundred blank pages. It was those remaining ninety-eight pages that saved me. Those blank, un-lined, soft, yellowish pages were an invitation. I took out a pen and began to write. I remember that the first thing I wrote looked like a poem. It was pouring rain outside and from the loneliness of my inner-being, I wrote:

Lightning explodes
Without sound
Without light
A mute flash of black
Inside my night
 

During the days that followed I wrote in that journal other equally dark poems. I wrote everything and anything that came to mind. I even wrote blasphemous dialogues between the various stony saints that kept me company. I’m not sure that the writing made me feel any better, but I do know that, without realizing it at the time, I began to see that the sadness I felt was something separate from me. Depression wasn’t me, it was something that had invaded me, something I could draw a picture of with my words. To describe something, you need some distance, and distancing yourself from depression is the only healthy way to cope with it.

Image courtesy of munhitsu (flickr.com)

I’ve never been much of a believer in writing as a form of therapy, of writing as a way to exorcise our inner demons. It’s not that I don’t think that writing can do that; it certainly can and does. A large reason why I have been able to cope with depression is my daily habit of writing my thoughts, my feelings, my observations, in a journal. This habit started with that black leather notebook that I found when I was thirteen years old, and I have been doing it most every day since then. What I don’t believe is that writing as therapy is the kind of writing that can be automatically shared with and enjoyed by others. The process of going from raw feeling to art requires arduous work and that kind of effort does not come easily while depressed.

I found out just how much effort creating art requires some forty or so years later when I found myself in the midst of another depressive episode. This time, I had no choice but to write. I was under contract to write a book and the book was due in three months. It usually takes me at least one year to produce a workable first draft. I had waited as long as I could wait. I could have asked my kind editor for an extension and she would no doubt have agreed, but I didn’t want to do that.  I felt that if I missed my deadline, I would never get the book written. Having a fixed deadline is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because even though it doesn’t feel good, forcing yourself to work even if just a little, is helpful. A curse because it requires so much effort to write even a couple of paragraphs and, when written, those two paragraphs are never kindly judged by that stern, overly-critical judge that always appears during depression.

I am sure that in the next year of writing and the period of editing that will follow, I will have to perform these tasks while depressed. These days, my depression is medically controlled. For the most part, I am able to work and do what life asks of me. Yet I am certain that I will have to write through a depressive episode because these episodes, while lessened by medication, never truly disappear. How will I do it? Will I be able to write about depression from the depths of depression? Here are some thoughts about how I am preparing myself to do this.

1. I will tell my junk mate what I am feeling. A junk mate is like a soul mate only instead of someone with whom you share your deepest secrets, a junk mate is someone you can safely tell your whiniest, ugliest internal junk, someone who will listen without judgment. I am grateful to Jack, my friend for more than thirty-years, who also suffers from depression, for being my junk mate.
2. I will commit myself to the execution of certain daily tasks whether I feel like it or not. Such tasks will not be overwhelming; they will be small, and I will do them. A small task, for example, would be writing in my journal for fifteen minutes, or taking a ten minute walk each day.
3. I will love the characters in my book even as they face all the hardships that their creator throws at them. It is very hard, while depressed, to feel love for real people. But it is possible to feel the tender concern of a creator for the characters we’ve invented. That’s why it is so important to keep writing even while depressed, for writing keeps the small embers of love burning.
4. Even though my book is about depression, it will not be depressing. This will be the hardest challenge of all. It will require that I utilize all that I have learned about the craft of writing. A book can be sad and still not be depressing. Depression comes from a lack of hope. Even if I write about people in despair (people with no vision of a good future), the way that I write, the way that my writing shall always strive for truth and beauty, will not be without hope and grace.
5. Every day I will do something kind for someone else. I will write an e-mail to a friend. I will say hello to someone who looks sad. I will do some kind task for my wife at home. These small acts of random kindness will help me to step outside of my constricted self, even if it is for only a moment.

I accepted Cheryl’s offer to write a book about a young girl recovering from depression not because I thought that writing the book would be good therapy.  I know it’s not going to necessarily lift me out of depression and heaven knows it will not be easy. I accepted her offer because I firmly believe that all those years of writing will allow me transform all the inner darkness into some kind of light not only for myself but perhaps for others. I know now that I can’t do it alone. I am going into battle armed with the help of family, friends, and a firm belief in the need for a spiritual discipline that has as its roots in kindness towards myself and others.

Francisco X. Stork was born in Monterrey, Mexico. When he was six years old, Charles Stork, a retired American citizen of Dutch descent, married Ruth Arguelles, a single mother, adopted Francisco and moved the three-member family to El Paso, Texas.

Francisco studied at Spring Hill College, a Jesuit College in Mobile, Alabama, where he majored in English and Philosophy. After college he attended HarvardUniversity where he studied Latin American Literature. After four years of graduate studies at Harvard, he entered Columbia Law School.  Since graduating from law school in 1982, he has practiced law while pursuing his vocation to write.  Currently, Francisco works as an attorney for a Massachusetts State Agency that develops affordable housing.

Francisco is the author of five novels, one adult novel (“The Way of the Jaguar,” Bilingual Review Press, 2000) and three young adult novels: “Behind the Eyes” (Dutton, 2006); “Marcelo in the Real World” (Arthur A. Levine /Scholastic, 2009) ; “The Last Summer of the Death Warriors” (Arthur A. Levine/ Scholastic, 2010) and “Irises” (Arthur A. Levine/Scholastic, 2012).

“The Way of the Jaguar” was the recipient of the 1999 Chicano/Latino Literary Award. “Behind the Eyes” was a New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age 2007. “Marcelo in the Real World” received starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly, Horn Books, Kirkus, School Library Journal and Booklist, as well as the 2010 Schneider Family Book Award; it was also named a YALSA Top 10 Best Books for Young Adults, 2010. “The Last Summer of the Death Warriors” received starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly, Horn Books and Booklist and was the recipient of the Amelia Elizabeth Walden Award.

His novel “Marcelo in the Real World” opened up for readers the mysterious world of Asperger’s, and managed to make ethical and religious ruminations compelling, and his latest book, “Irises,” no less candidly explores the relationship between two very different sisters and the decisions they make about men and money in the wake of their father’s death.

His next novel will be about depression and suicide–but he is determined not to make it “depressing.”  How is that possible?  Well, he’s sharing his thoughts on that with us in an essay he offered to write just for YARN, “Depressed, Not Depressing.”  He’s also sharing some deeply personal memories of his own struggles with depression, and how he has managed to write (and write beautifully, we might add!!) with that disease.

We are so honored and excited to be able to share his essay with you.  It’s a must-read.

Image courtesy of Abdulmajeed AlShatri (flickr.com)

Her flesh was blotchy and red from the mosquito bites that she had scratched raw, and dried blood had dug under the rims of her fingernails. The hot Amazon canopy seemed to curdle her wounds and cook the blisters on her feet. She stopped to rest against the side of a tree where dew drops fell from the tips of broad leaves and rolled down her face. She hated the rain. It was one of the things that had brought the mosquitoes that now buzzed around her ears like hazy radio waves. She thwacked one off her cheek and its small body flattened, leaving a dot of brown blood. She peeled it off her palm and flicked it onto the ground.

The heat made it hard for Esther to breathe. It was humid and it felt as if she were breathing in more water than air. Water and stray mosquito wings. She smacked another one off her arm. She cursed the small wings that hummed against her sunburned skin. Esther dug her heels into the ground and pushed back against the tree trunk as she sprung onto her feet. Her toes cringed with pain but she started to walk. She was less likely to get bitten when moving. She wiped off the sweat that edged down the bridge of her nose. Peeling skin stuck to her fingers, leaving behind flesh as pink as peony flowers.

Just a few hours ago Esther had been with her mother, residing with a small tribe north of the basin. It had been boring there but at least the sizzling fires they kindled at night kept the mosquitoes at bay. She wished she hadn’t been so rash as to go out and explore on her own. If she had waited patiently, her mother would have finished her work and they would have taken a guide around the forest like she had promised.   But Esther wasn’t the type to sit around doing nothing all day, and she was mad at her mother for dragging her out into the jungle, where there was absolutely nothing fun to do. At the moment, going out on her own had sounded like a highly entertaining thing to do.  After sneaking out of the camp for only forty minutes, Esther had become completely lost. She couldn’t tell one tree apart from the other; they all arched towards the sky and ran down her field of vision in the same never-ending loops of rambles and vines.  She didn’t even know which direction she was going in and for all she knew, she could be inching farther away from the camp with each step she took. The tribe members were all busy tending the sick from the sudden outbreak of disease that had driven her mother here in the first place, yet she hoped that someone would take notice that she had disappeared.

Her only company was the consistent buzzing of the mosquitoes. Their buzzing, it was driving her mad, like a song she couldn’t get out of her head, a scratched record stuck playing one single note: bzzzzz, bzzzzz, bzzzzz.

Her stomach growled and she hunched over. A stabbing pain seared into her side and left her gasping. Her mouth was dry and she imagined it filled with the white cotton balls that her mother used to treat wounds. The heat, the pain of hunger, the feel of her cracked tongue on the inside of her mouth, and the mosquito bites, it was all too much for her. She wanted desperately to be back in her tent, back at the tribe’s camp. If she managed to find her way back, she promised herself to never again complain about the constant boredom or whine about her homesickness. She wouldn’t even chirp another word about the fact that she was stuck boiling drinking water most of the time or how the rising steam flushed her cheeks and made sweat drip down her face as if she were in an unpleasant sauna.

She walked forward, despite the pain. She had the ominous feeling that if she were to stop and rest for more time than she already had, she would find herself closing her eyes and drifting off. Esther shook images of her limp body resting on the ground, never waking up and decomposing into the dark layers of leaves that littered the ground. She didn’t want to think of dying. It had only been one day. It was too soon to give up.

Image courtesy of wren el renegade (flickr.com)

The greenery began to densen after a few more hours of walking. She had to move with her arms out in front of her to clear enough space to walk. Here the trees were greener, taller, and healthier. They reminded Esther of the buildings that dotted the sidewalks of her home and shot up from the asphalt. She placed her palm on the tree closest to her. Orchids, pink with speckles of red (so much like dried blood) ran down strips of bark. They spellbound her for a moment until she forced herself to pry her eyes away.

Higher up still, there was a cluster of fruits.  Some littered the floor but they were rotten, and beetles had tunneled into their flesh until they were nothing but pulp. Her stomach urged her to risk a broken neck to climb up and retrieve the fresher ones. She gripped the bark but it was slippery from layers of slick green moss. The attempt wouldn’t be worth it. She didn’t even know if they were edible.  Esther kept walking, parting wooden llana vines as she went along. Over head she could hear a toucan or macaw, maybe both, and a few spider monkeys. She made out an algae-covered sloth to her left, pressed into the limbs of a tree like a drooping leaf. In the last fifteen minutes of walking she had just seen more animals than in the last two days combined. The ground was moist beneath her feet. A single word rung in her head; it droned above the sound of the mosquitoes. Water, where there are animals there is water. She remembered this fact from all the documentaries she had watched prior to her trip here.

Esther quickened her pace. In an hour she reached the bank of the river. It seemed to stretch on forever and dip into the horizon. In some places it was littered with lily pads, some larger than car wheels. Ether dipped into the water, her clothes becoming translucent. It was refreshing and cooled her wounds. She dunked her head underneath, taking large gulps even though her mother had warned her that the river water was filled with bacteria. She let it lap over her tongue and down her throat.

Something pink sliced through the water. It resembled a large fish. It got closer and nudged Esther. Light reflected off its skin. It was as smooth as leather. Not a fish, a dolphin. A pink Amazon dolphin; she recognized it from the colored illustration of a field guide she had brought for the trip. It didn’t shy away when Esther tried to touch it and let her run her hand down the length of its nose. It was beautiful like the orchids, pink like peony flowers, like her wounds. It submerged into the water and swam away. She stared at the spot where it had disappeared into and wondered if she had really seen it or if her mind had just concocted it to calm her. The latter choice was more reasonable, since Amazon dolphins were supposed to be extinct, yet it had felt real to the touch.

The water under the lily pads rippled. Esther tried to make out a flash of pink but all she saw were murky fish, their jaws open and full of sharp teeth. She trudged back onto the bank. Just weeks prior, a young native had been attacked by a piranha, and the image of his mauled calf was still clear in Esther’s mind. She did not care to find out if the fish that lurked just a mere twenty feet away were the same ones that had torn the skin of the boy’s lower leg to shreds.

The sky was a water-color canvas of pink and orange. The relief of the water wore out soon and her wounds began to burn. The river flowed north, the direction of the camp, so she walked along it and only dared wade through it when the path became too dense with trees (wary of moving creatures as she did so). Without the influence of the water to dull the noise of the mosquitoes, the pestering noise was back in her head.

She kept walking north until twilight  and only rested a few minutes at a time. Esther reached a point where the river thinned, a point that she recognized from when she had first trekked into the camp. She was close, but a few wrong steps could send her off in the opposite direction once again.

Esther swerved into the pack of trees. She felt light headed, almost feverish as sunlight peeked through gaps in the canopy and beamed down on her. Her muscles were knotted and she had to lean on tree trunks for support. With every conscious second it was as if her bones were  being whittled down, and it became harder to stand. Twice she lurched forward onto the ground. She thought of the textured water she had chugged down, impure and unclean; she had been grateful for the thing that had soothed her parched tongue and settled her stomach. Now it spewed out of her, mixed with bile and onto the forest floor. It hadn’t been wise to drink it.

She moved slowly, her steps swaying. Esther fell forward onto a red barked tree. She gripped it and let herself slide down to the ground and rest on its uplifted roots. She stared up at the red bark, just like that of the tree that loomed just thirty yards from the entrance of the tribe.

“The fire tree.” She murmured. It was the name of the ancient tree that was once home to hundreds of colonies of ants, but was now an empty shell. The natives of the tribe had told Esther of the rituals their ancestors had practiced on that very tree. She remembered sitting in horror as she was told the legend that had been passed down to generations. They would strip their prisoners of any article of clothing, or protection, and tie them to the bark with thick ropes made of vines. With wooden poles they would beat the tree until the colonies of red ants swarmed out.     

They looked like strands of fire as they engulfed the helpless prisoners and ate them alive. The natives would then dance around the tree until they grew tired. In a few days (sometimes even by morning), all that was left clinging to the ropes were bones.

Image courtesy of CIFOR (flickr.com)

Esther closed her eyes and rested her head on a nest of fallen leaves. Guides always passed by this tree in tours to retell the story. It was a landmark in this part of the Amazon. If she stayed put long enough, she would be found in just a matter of hours, at most a day. All she had to do was stay awake and count the moments until she was home. Already thoughts of her mother and of restful sleep filled her mind. The mosquitoes buzzed around her head like the ticking of a clock.

Catherine Valdez is a ninth grader currently studding creative writing at Miami Arts Charter School . She is of Hispanic decent. Key factors in her writing are nature and her heritage. Her work has received awards from the Jack London Foundation and The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards of 2012. She has been published twice in creative communication.

Okay, so it's not Downton. But you get the picture, so to speak...Image courtesy of Jenn and Tony Bot (flickr.com)

But what I’ve been thinking about is the reverse: Screen-to-book. And not those paperback, ghost-written “novelizations” that crop up to accompany every minor blockbuster. I’m talking about Downton Abbey.

Let me explain. Downton Abbey is a television series about the inhabitants of an aristocratic country manor in very early 1900s England. I am not a person who watches period dramas, but after so much hype among my friends and on my Twitter feed, I got sucked in. I like that the series incorporates history that I know about, like the beginning of World War I or the Titanic sinking. I like how the show follows characters who have inherited the large estate and also those who work tirelessly to keep the home running. And of course, there is plenty of romance, plenty of backstabbing, and plenty of salacious family secrets.

A few weeks ago a Publisher’s Weekly announcement for a new 2013 title called “Cinders & Sapphires“ caught my eye. The description? A debut YA novel “about the teens who live upstairs and downstairs at Somerton Court as World War I opens.”

Downton gone YA? I felt equal parts skeptical and intrigued. Although books will always be first in my heart, great television could be a very-very close second. But when I read a book, I don’t want to hear the same story I’ve already heard before, whether that story is a period drama or yet another permutation of the paranormal romance. I don’t like the idea of YA as a place for writers to just “jump on the bandwagon”… but since season two ended and I’ve gone into Downton withdrawals, a trip to Somerton might be my only substitute.

But I am hoping that Cinders and Smoke will take what I love about Downton Abbey and do something new with it. After ruminating on this screen-to-book phenomenon, I’ve remembered quite a few YA titles that seem to have “borrowed” from television without feeling tired or derivative; these novels take something from a popular television show and add something new. I’ve seen enough Dexter to feel perplexed about the mind of a somewhat altruistic serial killer, but Barry Lyga’s “I Hunt Killers“ makes me wonder what it would be like to be Dexter’s teenage son. I’m sure Libba Bray was aware of a little show called LOST while she wrote about teen girls stranded on a desert island, but I liked “Beauty Queens” even more. The distinctive voices and quirky backstories for each character reminded me of LOST’s diverse cast of characters without reminding me of those crazy, convoluted plotlines. And even after Mad Men sucked me into the weird social and gender roles of the 1950s, Judy Blundell’s 2008 “What I Saw and How I Lied” showed me that a teenaged girl could be just as fascinating and complex a character as any rich and powerful ad man.

So I will cross my fingers and hope that “Cinders and Smoke” will have the characters and perspective that endear me to both television and YA. And if not, there are a sea of other great YA books (and a few television shows) that likely will.

And if all else fails? Downton Abbey reruns it is…

Image courtesy of Geographicus Rare Antique Maps (Wikimedia Commons) PD-US

Paul W. Hankins (Indiana)

Papa Was a Rolling One

Papa owned his own roller skates;
a pair nestled in a glistening, glittery box.
Blue-suede beauties they were,
kept under watchful eye and lock.

A pair nestled in a glistening, glittery box;
it would glow warmly—hidden—under Papa’s bed,
he kept it under watchful eye and lock,
as if the sun itself could choose to play dead.

It would glow warmly—hidden—under Papa’s bed,
the touch of a boy  would surely leave prints,
as if the sun itself could choose to play dead,
and that boy would claim divine right of inheritance.

The touch of a boy would surely leave prints,
perhaps rubbing off some of the shine
and that boy would  claim divine right of inheritance
of the skates that Papa called, “Mine.”

Jaime Adoff (Ohio)

Frozen moment

I reach back through space and time
crossing state and county lines only to find skates of a different kind
dancing off my
Sister’s feet.
I watch her curly teen hair wave to me as she executes a perfect
older sister leap. Landing softly on the hard ice of this just made to order pond.
I look at my feet planted firmly on the ground—on that land
that held and still holds magic in its roots.
That land where it all started. In the beginning, and in the middle
and
at the end . . .
Another spin, this time almost falling on her hands
but she makes it look so easy. (And still does).

Oh, but that land where chickens and hogs and skunks and frogs all lived
together in perfect harmony— until chicken necks were wrung that is.
Generations before those skates and my sister and me and that day.
Generations played and worked and saved
for the future.

I reach back and can almost see the ice crystals floating past my eyes . . .
If I really try I can almost smell that sweet mix
of crunchy snow and granny’s morning bacon.

Space and
time for one more sister prance across the ice. A frozen moment of early life.

I think I enjoyed those skates just as much as she did.

c. Jaime Adoff 2012

Paul W. Hankins lives in Floyds Knobs, Indiana with his wife, Kristie, and two children, Noah (11) and Maddie (9). Paul’s work has appeared in poetry collections and short story anthologies. Paul works diligently to promote reading locally with his students in Room 407 through his website, RAW INK Online, and through participation in on-line discussion forums regarding reading and writing. Paul is a teacher consultant with The National Writing Project and he presents at the local, regional, state, and national level on literacy topics. Paul teaches English 11 and AP English Language and Composition at Silver Creek High School.

Jaime Adoff is the author of the “all ages” original poetry collection “The Song Shoots Out of My Mouth: A Celebration of Music,” which was a Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award Honor book, an IRA Notable book, A NY Public Library book for the teenage, a VOYA poetry pick and a CCB Best Book for 2002.  The critically acclaimed “Names Will Never Hurt Me” (2004) was his first young-adult novel. In 2005 it was named a NY Public Library book for the teenage, and was nominated as a Best Book for Young Adults. “Jimi & Me” was the recipient of the 2006 Coretta Scott King/John Steptoe New Talent Author Award, was named as a 2006 YALSA Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers, a 2006 NY Public Library Book for the teen age, and was selected to the VOYA Top Shelf Fiction List for 2005.

Jaime’s latest young adult novel “The Death of Jayson Porter” received the 2010 Buckeye Teen Book Award. It received *Starred Reviews from Booklist, Library Media Connection, and VOYA (5Q). It was also selected for the 2009 Choose to Read Ohio program, as well as an Ohioana Book Award finalist in the Juvenile category.

Jaime Adoff is the son of the late Newbery Award-winning author Virginia Hamilton and renowned poet Arnold Adoff. He lives in his hometown of Yellow Springs, Ohio, with his family. Jaime speaks across the country on teen issues, diversity, YA literature and poetry.  His website is www.jaimeadoff.com.

Image courtesy of Princess Theater (flickr.com)

There are reasons to celebrate and REASONS TO CELEBRATE.

It’s the latter over here at YARN today, as we wrap up our groundbreaking, expansive National Poetry Month 2012.

We don’t toot our own horns very often over here, and since I’m not Colleen who is WAY too modest to do this, I’m going to indulge a little.  HOW AWESOME has our NPM been?  Oh, off the top of my head:

• 37 award-winning poets
• 25 states, plus 1 US Territory (Guam!)
• And when I say award winning, I mean serious literary awards.  Remember Donald Justice, whose poem “Crossing Kansas by Train” helped start this whole thing?  Well, we have a Donald Justice Prize Winner (Ned Balbo).  And a Philip Levine Prize winner (Angela Narciso Torres), and a Vassar Miller Prize winner (Gibson Fay Le-Blanc).  And Rhodes Scholar (Nadine Pinede).   And Breadloaf fellows.  I could go on, but I’m starting to sound like a marching band (toot, toot!).
• Roughly half of the poets we published this month have published books of their own poetry.  Some have even published more than one book of poetry.  For those of you not familiar with the poetry world, let me just tell you:  If you think it’s hard to publish a novel, try publishing a book a poetry.
• Not just geographic diversity, but diversity of culture, ethnicity, gender, age, profession, voice, and style (at the risk of sounding corny–just like our country, which this project criss-crossed tirelessly all month).  Click on any one of the NPM installments and you’ll see all of those diversities featured.

I hope that YARN NPM 2012 has introduced you to poets not just outside your geography, but outside your comfort zone.  The term “YA poetry” isn’t exactly common–though it’s a term we here at YARN are not-so-humbly attempting to shape, one yarn at a time–so many of the poets you’ve read here this month aren’t technically “YA.”  But their poems speak to universal, ageless experiences–and if that doesn’t sound like good writing, YA or whatever, I don’t know what does.

A MASSIVE THANK YOU to all the poets who contributed to this truly exciting project.  You guys are doing important work, on the page and in your communities.  We have been so honored to have you here this month.

An EQUALLY GIGANTIC THANK YOU to all you readers who tuned in, read, shared links, and generally appreciated the poetry (keep it up, would you?).

A heartfelt thanks to Julia, Lourdes, and Jessica who worked overtime to get the word out.  I hope you ladies sleep well tonight!!

And a big hug and I-can’t-find-words-to-express-how-creative-and-awesome-you-are thanks to Colleen, who not only dreamed up this whole thing, but spearheaded it during a pretty tough couple of months.

So that’s all, folks.  We’ll be taking a little break from poetry in the coming weeks, but we have some excellent prose to make up for it.  See you in Fiction and Essays, for now (well, okay, NPM just might be coming back for an encore this week, but that’s all I’m going to say about that right now).

–Kerri

Image courtesy of Geographicus Rare Antique Maps (Wikimedia Commons) PD-US

Terra Elan McVoy (Georgia)

A Crossing

A feeling moves across your chest—
a pulse, once,
and that is all.
There is
no confetti raining from the ceiling,
no studio audience applause,
no parade—
only the knowing:
you were there, before,
and now you are not.

You have made it.
you have crossed the line—
a passing
from here
to somewhere else.

The road before you will remain blank-faced:
just as much ahead as behind.
But in this moment, a small certainty
—somewhere, now—
you have arrived.

Carissa Neff (Texas)

Crossing Lines

across the phone wires, the fiber-optic
lines bridging the crevasse from me
to my grandmother, i’m complaining:
the women around here erase their stories,
each sentence, each line
of their lives—proof of their time
alive—need be obliterated. turn back
the clock, the ads say. (parentheses
have a place, but not on your face.)
they say: “always look your best” or
“beauty is only skin deep,” and the women
around here, they believe.

so unpopular, a face like georgia’s, lines
deep as rivers, rivers crossing, crossing lines
fit for the palm of a hand, that face. she
must have squinted and furrowed
and frowned and smiled ten billion times,
while painting those blooms, each dip
of the brush, each stroke, each line
necessary, a gift, a legacy of intricacy.

these little girls at my knees, they need to know
something about beauty, where it exists, how to find it.
walk this road with me. walk it so many times
you create a path. listen. i’m telling you. trust me,
flowers mine: when I first saw you, my face moved
through every emotion, and you quickly recognized
the one for love. let your face be read. let it
become the most beautiful book. allow your eyes,
their wings. (allow your mouth its parentheses.)
beauty exists in imperfection. watch yourself
bloom with the eyes of an artist. after all:
you are poems.
you are paintings.
you are built of lines.

Carrie Bennett (Massachusetts)

Early Spring

I consider distance.
how the sky looks
from my third-story
window, the wind
a brief-breath.
I don’t know
what beauty is.
the day I knew
your child
was in the hospital
again I wanted
to be next to you.
what has been done
to his small body.
what is left-
over after each
new procedure.
then joy
like anything else.
how each
moment
crosses over a
blind-line, my
own face close
to yours. how
sometimes it seems
there is only ever
one breath.

Terra Elan McVoy has been reading and writing avidly since she first learned how, and has had many jobs that center around those two activities, from managing an independent children’s bookstore, to teaching writing classes, and even answering fan mail for Captain Underpants. Terra lives and works in the same Atlanta neighborhood where her novels After the Kiss, Being Friends with Boys, and Pure are set. She is also the author of The Summer of Firsts and Lasts. To learn more about Terra’s life, visit TerraElan.com and follow her on Twitter at @TerraMcVoy.

Carissa Neff holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Florida State University. She writes nonfiction, poems, and plays. She lives in Austin, Texas with her husband and two daughters.

Carrie Bennett is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and author of “biography of water” (Word Works’ Washington Prize, 2004). She currently lives in Somerville, MA and teaches writing at Boston University. Her poetry has been published in Boston Review, Caketrain, Denver Quarterly, Horse Less Review, Indiana Review, Interim, Prose-Poem Project among others. Her chapbook, “A Quiet Winter,” was recently published by dancing girl press.

Image courtesy of Geographicus Rare Antique Maps (Wikimedia Commons) PD-US. A cool note: We've been using these Colton maps for all of NPM, and guess what? The maps pre-date Wyoming's statehood. Can you figure out where Wyoming would go on this map?

cfrancis blackchild (Missouri)

leaving los angeles

my therapist cried when I left
but I sat dry eyed

I had mourned the loss before
-Mexican market
-the Korean fruit man
-99 cents stores
-my sister
-niece
-nephew
-brother-in-law
-friends hard won
-career just begun
and
the place I called home
-the walls
-the closets
-the cement patio
that housed me and my worn belongings
and gave sanctuary
and solace

she dabbed her eyes
I waited
wanting it over

now
the truck has been unloaded
the adrenaline spent
and I lay
inert
wishing I had tears
to relieve my loneliness

Leila Monaghan (Wyoming)

Moving Lines

Sara Taddeo (Maine)

45

I have gone down.
A useless gown
All I carry.
No ship will tarry:

No port this town.
Adrift no more,
I fear to drown
In sight of shore!

Fearful sailor,
My soul’s jailer,
Can’t steer the ship
Can’t bear the whip.

The golden age?
A gilded cage!
Sweet bird of youth
Is long since flown.

Ru Freeman (Pennsylvania)

In Your Hour of Need, God

People say I turned out of weakness
I loved the things of the world. Lust of the flesh
Lust of the eyes, pride of life,
daughters, more, grand-daughters.
I refused to believe. I refused God.

And yet.
When women leave men for other men
for better or worse
When child scream and child laugh wrestle
our hearts to the sweet earth
When the blues bands wail our sorrow
and we are still from grief
When no taste remains but mine,
bless me for my choice
o sisters, o brothers!
Fire and brimstone, the angels’ decree,
what fear had I of those?
Grief sets fanciful notions of heaven aside.
Nothing promised can obliterate
what has been given
this joy, this moment, this dark breath
which arrives and then withdraws, taking,
this hair on this head, these fingers at the end of this arm
these arms with which to hold and release
this body which pleases.
Look up at that famous ceiling,
see for yourself:
it is the old man who yearns
it is the young man that gifts, his nakedness content,
If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way and not the other?
Look up at that famous ceiling, wonder.
When lips touch lips, and the taste of her
remains after,
when pomegranate, mango, avocado grow and fall
as naked into your hands, as dressed into your mouth
consider the divine.
What I mourned, you possess.
That smear upon your tongue, that spice,
that is I.
On Jebel usdum on the western shore
of not-lake-not-sea, I stand.
God, I forgive you.

Leila Monaghan is a PhD in linguistic anthropology and wandering academic who moved 22 times in 25 years before settling down in Wyoming.  She has written on topics including Deaf culture and the history of linguistic anthropology and currently teaches Disability Studies at the University of Wyoming and UMUC.

Photo taken by Peter Hurley

Ru Freeman’s creative and political writing has appeared internationally. Her debut novel, “A Disobedient Girl,” is published in the US and Canada by Atria/Simon & Schuster, by Viking in the UK, Australia and India, in translation in Italy, Israel, Taiwan, Turkey, Brazil, China and the Netherlands, and in audio by Tantor Media with award-winning narrator, Anne Flosnick. She blogs for the Huffington Post on literature and politics, is a contributing editorial board member of the Asian American Literary Review, and a fellow of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the Corporation of Yaddo and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Her new novel, O Sal Mal Lane,” will be published by Graywolf Press in May, 2013. Her website is www.rufreeman.com.

Image courtesy of Rishabh Mishra (flickr.com)

About this time last year I wrote a blog post entitled “Why I Love Poetry” which basically discussed my slow but passionate and growing admiration for this art form.

This year, I wanted to share with you how poetry has defined me as a person.

Shortly after I finished the aforementioned post I decided to start reading poetry more regularly. I did not realize that doing so would open my mind in a tesseract-esque fashion – an overlapping of feelings, thoughts, experiences that somehow all belonged to this one universe. The more I kept reading, the more I noticed my preferences in poetry, which I know may be limiting my experience of the medium, but I am a novice after all.

I always admire shorter poems. Since I am a prose/fiction fanatic, it is nice to read something complex, eye-opening, and short. I will one of these days get all the way through T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” but for now I am content with Carl Sandburg’s poem “Grass,” which you can find a portion of below:

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work -
I am the grass; I cover all.

The idea that something so overlooked and underappreciated as grass could play such an important and vital role in history and civilization blows my mind. Fiction astounds me but it relies on stretching out an idea through a vast amount of pages, which is difficult in its own right. But poetry just gives you everything all at once – you have to find a way to juggle your emotions without collapsing under all the weight. No bibliophile should deny themselves of this.

I also love finding poems in YA novels because they are unexpected and a great method to give the reader an unguarded glimpse into a character – the classic “show not tell” rule. A great example is Blythe Woolston’s “The Freak Observer” where the main character, Loa, finds a poem her father gave to her called “Stars at Tallapoosa” by Wallace Stevens. Here is a portion:

The mind herein attains simplicity,
There is no moon, no single, silvered leaf.
The body is no body to be seen
But is an eye that studies its black lid.


Let these be your delight, secretive hunter,
Wading the sea-lines, moist and ever-mingling,
Mounting the earth-lines, long and lax, lethargic.
These lines are swift and fall without diverging.

The meaning of this poem is vague to Loa but she feels an attachment to it, something that pulls her toward submitting it as part of a class assignment. As readers, we know this poem is vital to how Loa sees herself and how we decide to see her. The fact that five stanzas written almost a hundred years ago have the ability to reflect the state of mind of a fictional character from the 21st century is unbelievably impressive. Poetry transcends time and societies and borders and even ourselves.

So here I am a year later feeling a bit more grounded in my existence because I have found the encyclopedia of life – infinite volumes of knowledge, gathered from an innumerable amount of people from across the globe, sharing their thoughts about possibilities, soda, love, poison trees, and wheelbarrows.

DFTBA