Polaris 2022: NGFS Literary Magazine : simplebooklet.com

Table of Contents- “for Sale” by Mia Jolly - pg. 6- “Names” by Vivian Peña - pg. 6- “NEON.” by Stella Crooker - pg. 7- “Nomenclature” by Ann O’Tate - pg. 8- “Autumn Bike Ride” by Jim Bassett - pg. 8- “Untitled” by Lily - pg. 9- “Dumbstruck” by Eli Bassett - pg. 10- “Dark Violet Sea” by Virginia Roghelia - pg. 11- “My Heart” by Virginia Roghelia - pg. 11- “Exile” by Virginia Roghelia - pg. 12- “Lily” by Lily - pg. 13- “Adela and the Floral Goddess” by Maeve O’Shea - pg. 14- “Untitled” by Lily - pg. 16- “The World is too Much with Us” by AJ McBryde, Julie Katz, Lily, and Noah Ayers -pg. 16- “Canyon” by Anonymous - pg. 17- “the ghost of snowy nights” by Someone - pg. 18- “Let’s Party!!” by Ben Williams - pg. 20- “the glimpse of hope amid the soft” byHonour Ań Carter Davis - pg. 21- “bottled love” by Honour Ań Carter Davis - pg. 22- “Distortions” by Anonymous - pg. 23- “cleanse through tears and emesis” by Honour Ań Carter Davis - pg. 24- “Untitled” by Honour Ań Carter Davis - pg. 24- “Midtown” by Anonymous - pg. 25- “Ode to the Pearson Audubon Natural Area” by Amy Hanson - pg. 26- “Why the Cactus is Prickly” by Khizr Vanveldhuizen - pg. 27- “One” by Eli Bassett & Joan Rathbone - pg. 28- “Alien” by Eli Bassett -pg. 29- “Ode to this Poem” by Eli Bassett - pg. 30- “Math Quiz” by Eli Bassett - pg. 31- “Ode to a Spiderweb” by Eli Bassett - pg. 32- “Lighthouse” by Eli Bassett - pg. 33- “Ladybug’s Birthday” by Eli Bassett - pg. 34- “chaos” by Anonymous - pg. 35- “Untitled” by Anonymous - pg. 36- “Graveside Service” by Mary L Willard - pg. 37- “A Critique of the Consumption of Literature” by Sam Williams - pg 384

Page 5

- “Covergirl I” by Anonymous - pg. 40- “Covergirl II” by Anonymous - pg. 41- “Crossed Severed Fingers” by Sam Williams - pg. 42- “Untitled” by Michelle Underwood - pg. 43- “Sparrow” by Anonymous - pg. 44- “I Jam” by Michelle Underwood - pg. 45- “The Raven and The Crow” by Anonymous - pg. 46- “Ireland, or the Modigliani” by Ben Williams - pg. 48- “College Essay” by Frances Bruno - pg. 49- “College Essay” by Emmett Beerbower - pg. 50- “poor guy” by Avery Franko - pg. 51- “College Essay” by Mattea Pappa - pg. 52- “Untitled” by Lily - pg. 53- “Building Blocks: Life in Pieces” by Connor Moran - pg. 54- “Flower Pot” by Finn Werner - pg. 55- “The Act of Dying” by Louise Pappa - pg. 56- “Winter Poem” by Kisanet Kiflemariam - pg. 57- “Untitled” by Ian Lambert - pg. 57- “FIRE?!!??” by Stella Crooker - pg. 58- “How Long Till We’re Gone?” by Anonymous - pg. 59- “Untitled” by Anonymous - pg. 60- “A Winter Poem” by Gillian Shields-Bell - pg. 61- “Lost Things Never Existed In The First Place” by Abigail Lawrence - pg. 61- “Third Eye” by Anonymous - pg. 62- “Constant” by Anonymous - pg. 63- “Our Old Dog” by Cary Bassett - pg. 63- “Embroidery” by Ella Werner - pg. 64- “White Blanket” by Suyeon Ahn - pg. 655

Page 6

Page 7

Page 8

Nomenclatureby Ann O'TateUlysses S. Grantnever said can't.He was not allowed to use contractions.Mary McLeod Bethunewas taught to never assume(you know why)Clara Bartonnever went to kindergarten.It was only for Germans then.Jaime Escalantenever did anything nonchalantly.Even he is dead now too.Go ahead & say your name—Autumn Bike Rideby Jim BassettSkeletal tree limbs reaching earnestly outwardBlanket of brown leaves rustling in the breezeCrinkly, textured, dead but still movingSlipperyMathematics is simple reallyCentrifugal force + under-skilled operator = problemWords not for poetry go hereSome blood, is it too much?Probably not too muchStill funPossible that I’m not very good at this?Don’t really careIs this actually poetry?Also not caringKeep writing, keep riding, don’t ask yourself whyIf you smile and act charming, you might score some pieI like pie8

Page 9

Page 10

Page 11

Dark Violet Seaby Virginia RogheliaDark violet seaPlease take meAllow me to seek refuge in your depthsFor my mind is too heavyAnd my body too scaredTo stay in this world of angelsMerciless sea, please take pity on my soulLet my head slip below the surfaceLet the salty water fill my lungsLet the abyss erode my sunken eyesAnd let the silence of the waves still my pulseI’ll drift away into the nightAlone, but never lonelyThe sea will always be there holding meAnd as the sun rises, lightFractures through the kelpLet my idle heartBe filledMy Heartby Virginia RogheliaWhen I gave you my heart, It was so coldYou couldn’t bear to touch itYou never expected something so icyWhen it should have been full of lightYet instead of leaving it outsideTo warm yourself by the fireYou held my heart to your chestAnd became the flamesSlowly I allowed the heatto thaw me outSlowly my guardDrip dripDrippedAwayAnd there I was in your armsSpilling secrets from my lipsThoughts slipping from my eyesShowing you the deepest parts of my heart11

Page 12

Page 13

Page 14

Adela and the Floral Goddessby Maeve O´SheaOnce upon a time, a lovely girl named Adela lived in a big, beautiful house with a big, beautifulfamily. But being one of the oldest children in the family, she rarely had time for play. She cooked, cleaned,studied, and looked after her younger brothers and sisters during the day. Though she was often praised forher hard work, and enjoyed taking care of her family, she became very tired and would often not think of herown needs.Her youngest brother, Kai, had a birthday coming up, and Adela wanted to make a special gift forhim.“I will make him a toy like no other,” she thought first. But he had so many toys already. “Maybe I’llpaint a picture for his room.” But his twin sister Lila was the true artist of the family, and Adela wanted tomake her gift stand out among the rest.Spiraling, she took a seat by the window and saw something strange. A girl, not much older thanherself, waltzed around the field just outside the house gate. She was performing some kind of magic! Flowersseemed to grow around her feet with her every step. Curious, Adela came down the sweeping staircase andwalked out the garden door. The garden behind the fence was neat. Flowers in orderly rows on one side, theother held rows of fruits and vegetables for cooking. A looming Willnolia tree hung over the fence to providea helping of shade over the property. The other side of the fence was where wild grass grew long and unkept.Bugs lived in every corner.“Who are you?” asked Adela to the girl, who had just paused in her dance to notice her.“A being of the universe, just like you.” The girl spoke with an airy voice that carried in the wind likea soft summer melody.“What is your name?”“I have many names, but you may call me Ivy if you would like.”“Well, Ivy, what are you doing here? How are you growing those flowers around you?” Ivy seemedto think for a bit about this question, almost like she didn’t quite know the answer herself.“I am able to grow these plants because I control all plants on this planet. The plants that growaround me reflect my mood. As for why I’m here, I like to explore this valley a lot. It has many forests andflowers I want to learn about. And what about you? Do you have a name, and what are you doing here?”“My name is Adela. I live here, but I came outside to meet you.” Adela proceeded to tell Ivy abouther struggles to get her little brother a birthday present.“I see you are worried. But I have a way to help you,” Ivy said. “If you join me today in the forest, Iwill teach you how to make a very special gift for your brother Kai.”Adela’s face lit up with joy. “Oh thank you, Ivy! I will come with you right now.” That was the firstday Adela set foot into the long grass, and set off with her new friend.As the two girls set off towards the forest, Ivy’s flowers became more vibrant the more the two girlstalked. Once in the forest, Ivy showed Adela all her favorite plants scattered around the wide expanse of trees.“Come with me, I would like to show you the most beautiful place in the forest,” Ivy said gleefully.She took Adela’s hand and they ran through the forest, filling the air with laughter.Pushing back thick curtains of vines, they emerged into a clearing with nothing remarkable about itexcept for its symmetrical round shape.“You seem confused. Is this not what you expected?” asked Ivy with a hint of curiosity.“I mean no offense, but where is the exquisite beauty you mentioned?”Ivy laughed. “It’s beautiful not in a physical sense, but in a mental sense!”14

Page 15

She chuckled as she sat down on a bed of soft moss. “This is a place where I have one of my mostfond memories. It’s beautiful to me because of those memories, and how they still make me feel today.”Adela sat down too. “But have you ever seen the most beautiful places in the world?” Ivy shook herhead.“People have a certain flawed way of judging beauty. People seem to believe the most beautiful thingsin the world are expensive, old, rare, shiny objects. That value is found in the eyes of one person withinfluence. If you don’t find beauty in those things, you are called tasteless. Think about this flower.” Shepicked a daisy from her side. “I think this flower is absolutely beautiful. But you are not me. If you feel thesame about this flower like I do, it doesn’t become more beautiful. If you do not think this flower is beautiful,it doesn’t become less beautiful. What you find beauty in, whether others can see it or not, it is beautiful toyou. If others do not find beauty in it, that’s okay too.”Adela was astounded. She had never thought about her world like that. “That was very wise, Ivy!When did you learn to see the world like that?”“I have always seen the world like this. But I suppose you would like to learn how to make thatspecial gift now?”Adela nodded “Yes please!”Ivy took a deep breath. “What are your brother's favorite colors?”Adela thought this was a bit of an odd question. “Well, he likes purple, red, and blue.”“Alright then.” She proceeded to grow a bunch of flowers around where she and I sat in the colors Ihad named.“Five lilacs for joy in youth, five geraniums for everlasting friendship, and five yarrows for a love thatwill never die.”Adela was intrigued by everything about Ivy. The way she talked, thought about the world, and her airof grace she carried. Together the two girls wove the flowers together in a circle to create a crown of flowers.“An extraordinary gift, for an extraordinary little brother.”Adela exclaimed, “Where did you learn to weave like this?”“I looked at the vines in the forest, and looked at how they were entwined together,” Ivy noted.“Adela, before I take you home, I made one for you as well!.” Ivy handed Adela a beautiful crown of redroses, honeysuckles, and goldenrods. Adela placed the crown gingerly atop her head.“Thank you Ivy. For everything you’ve taught me.”“You’re very welcome, Adela. I will see you again soon, don’t worry.”Adela gave Kai the crown at his birthday party. He was overjoyed. “Thank you, Adela! I love it somuch. We have something for you too!” That's when her siblings gave her a gift that came from the heart.“Adela, you work so hard for this family everyday. We think you deserve to live like the child you are!We will clean the house ourselves more often so you don’t have to. It’s time we treat you like you treat us.”Adela was very grateful for her siblings' offer. “Thank you so much! I will certainly enjoy it.”Now every few days, you can see Ivy and Adela out in the forest. Making flower crowns, and livinghappily ever after.15

Page 16

Untitledby LilyFrogs don't like winter weather.Ice and snow.In the evening cold winds blow.Busy streets–snow is covering.Lonely rivers soon start shuddering.Bogs and ponds start to freeze.It's time again for the winter breeze.O’er the homes Jack Frost's spying.Poor green frogs all start crying.They know that winter spares no soul.Not even frogs evading the cold.They write a poem, green and happyFor English class, they make it snappy.So that we know–how they feel.About their warmth the snow will steal.Their greenness almost makes it better.But frogs don’t care for winter weather.The World Is Too Much With Usby AJ McBryde, Julie Katz, Lily, and Noah AyersThe world is too much with us; then and nowWith our powers we lay waste to the landGraciously given to us by God’s hands.The science is there to inform us—how?It’s explaining a change we can’t allow.Oceans warming and turning ice to sand.Our crops are scarce and all our food is canned.Nothing will change unless we make a vow.The seas are crying; But hey! Please start trying.The world is ours, let’s make an effort.If we do not, the earth will end up dying.So, let us lean on our learned experts.Our animals can come out of hiding.We can build a future, not a desert.16

Page 17

Page 18

Page 19

Page 20

Page 21

the glimpse of hope amid the softby Honour Ań Carter Davisthe glimpse of hope amid the softevergreen we so actively denudea want for that breath of fresher airin a world where clouds are onlythickets of noise pollutiontainted oxygencreates an illusion as their clammy hands drag all over mecheeks flushed; i warm at your touchmy clashing waves repress their billowing;though ephemeralthen back to square one; obliteratesweeping the dusty corners; s e a r c h i n gcraving the warmtha dull hum of my everlasting inklingsyet we are already burning; slowly fadingall the devils are hereand we are constantlyeven in this—pestilencedenuding the country green; greedforgotten books left in the atticyet entangled in the webs of a creature that now ceases to existall the critters have silenced their melodiesin utter repose; we are only moments to followall the fays have fled, for we are the darkness21

Page 22

bottled loveby Honour Ań Carter Daviskeep listening to the mixtapes they made youoveranalyze every single word you hearwas this a sign that things were going wrong?no, no, you were the one that cared too much, not themstay up every single nighteither attempting to gather up the courage to turn these demons,these constant reminders of your loneliness,into nothing more than a bad dreamor praying just for one second you could feel the warmth of equally returned lovego out for coffee four times a week by yourselfleave little comics and thank you notes with your tipwatch them smile as you get in your caravoid your friends for weeks, even though they're the only sense of consistency you have left in your life . . .you have no way of contacting them anywaysif they really wanted to see you they'd come, but they won't— who really caresallow yourself to lose interest in the things you lovewatch as you begin to take a backseat to the world around you, don't fight itbecome a secondary character in your own motion picturebut most importantly, drown every single one of ur feelings in old stolen rum and brandylearn to love the taste of it dripping down your throati know its bad, i can't even typei try to keep it on the surface but my mind keeps running back to the darkest of cornersand coming back with unattainable reasonsfor why i do thismy fingers trembling, hovering over the keysi sway; not because i've been trying to drink the pain awaybut because i'm imagining dancing in your arms; an epicaricacy i can only dream ofi’ve got skin for miles, the pins and needles from societythe butterflies turned to beescan you explain this chaosmy heart convulsing, words scraping the air, barely spokensitting at the bed with a halo at your headmy viridity is long gonewhere am i now, i’m still not homesome people can recognize a tree in their front yard and see that they are homebut i can't even recognize myselfbut how many circles can i walk in before i give up lookinghow long before im lost for goodit must be possible to swim in the ocean of the one u love without drowningit must be possible to swim without becoming water yourselfbut i keep swallowing what i thought was air22

Page 23

Page 24

cleanse through tears and emesisby Honour Ań Carter Daviscleanse through tears and emesiscarve lines in your veins; it's all finewracked and convulsingglistening in the angels’ apathyvibrating with the contempt of demons—or are you the demon?with a gaping maw,the insects spill out writhing chaotically; yetyou crave chaos—a harmony of filth foul in its beautygilded tears leave salt in all these woundsrealize now the error and revel in the desperationfeel them boring tunnels through your heartsquirming in gray matter whittling tissue and bonehear the divine laughterthrough the brilliantly orchestrated cacophonycircumvention was futile;damnable.Untitledby Honour Ań Carter Davisi want to be one of those city sprites among termites, all ghosts glow but i won't have lights in my eyes, bonechilling gleam of pure incandescence; blank and pure, like i once was. until you reached right inside me andseized the only part of me that ever felt real. my presence an afterthought, my mind running back to thedarkest of corners finding reasons for why i shouldnt stay here. my hummed lullabies to the roses turn tosilent screams drifting aimlessly—unheard. hollow epidermis remains, my neon gleam all purple, blue andblack. you’ll hear a jingle in my gait, the pitter pat of bottle caps and vapor words and reckless vibrations thetired 2am elation. you’ll know my kind by the coffee-stained sighs and those wide-eyed battery acid. razorgrins.24

Page 25

Page 26

Ode to the Pearson Audubon Natural Areaby Amy HansonOn a cool winter’s dayAfter days of delayI made good on my mission to trekRound the path through the woodsAnd the scrub and the grassTo see what might be on deckWhen out of the blueCame a chorus anewUp high at the edge of the gladeOver and upThrough bare branches I sawA flock of birds creating the chatterSome dark, some tanA yellow eye, perhapsBut I needed to see them betterRunning back for my scopeI hoped they would stayBut, alas, they knew I was comingAway they had flownAnd with them my hopesOf knowing just what to call themNot Waxwings or Red-wingsNot Starlings or GracklesOf this I was quite sureI knew what they should beOr at least what they could beBut lost out on my chance to confirmI packed up my scopeBut continued my routeFor surely there was more to attendAn hour down the pathCold fingers intact26

Page 27

I rounded the final creek bendOn the soft spongy groundMade wet by the snowForaged Robins and Robins aplentyBut in their midstWas a bird with a twistIt was dark, it was not a RobinWith a sigh and a smileI watched as it fedIn the leaves with a blue and black tailMottled brownish and blackWith pale eyes and fine rustA Blackbird it was, without failThen off it flewTo join up with its crewDown the way as light faded to grayOff I went to my carThen the road then my yardGiving thanks for another great dayWhy the Cactus is Pricklyby Khizr VanveldhuizenA long long time ago Cactus was not spiny like it is now. I will tell you the story. Cactus was very bigand had a lot of shade. He was also very vain. He especially loved it when other cactuses petted him. In thecactus competition he would say, “Come pet me, I am the softest.” One day he bragged about it so much thatPorcupine decided to teach him a lesson.He asked Cactus, “Can I sit under you?”“Yes,” Cactus said.When he wasn't looking, Porcupine rubbed his quills all over him. He did this over and over. Cactusfelt something. He turned around. There was Porcupine rubbing his quills all over him. Cactus was tooshocked to speak. He lunged forward, hitting Porcupine. Before he could hit him, Porcupine jumped, puttingquills all over him.“Ouch!” Cactus said.When he wasn't looking, Porcupine hid behind a rock. Then he ran away, and Cactus has beenlooking for him ever since.27

Page 28

Page 29

Page 30

Ode to This Poemby Eli BassettWow! I simply cannot believethat there can be anything betterto write aboutthan this poem. Watch!How this line leadsright into the nextthis double indentcreating a fabulous structure!How beautifulthis simile is—like a wondrous warthog!(alliteration, too!)This linethese wordsthis rhymeof sortsall such a beautiful tumultof imagination!What a poem! How I wishI myself could be in itstreaming across the pagelike the planets around the sunlike migratory birds.How I wishthese powerful emotions—this awe, wonder, regret—could not simply flow through mebut be with me on the pagestriking outtogetherthrough the endless expanseof my imagination, ourreality.Reality! And now you mustmake your entrancejust as I was startingto get in the groove.[The poet sighs.]But I supposethat’s how this poem goes30

Page 31

Page 32

Page 33

Page 34

Page 35

Page 36

Page 37

Graveside Serviceby Mary L WillardNo one comes to my grave anymore. She used to always wear corduroys when she came, all wornand frayed. Her charcoal hair always shined in the sun; crooked teeth on display, she’d whisper to me. Shewould list off her favorite deities. The way she’d never fail to mention Athena, even when slurring her wordsafter a party. Her face would scrunch up as her eyes dropped. Face flushed red, she’d make me lay in the frontyard. She carried on the tradition at my grave. I don’t think she knew much about astronomy; I always toldher she was making it up. She would lay with me for hours, her face instead flushed from the harsh winter.She never liked it when I’d smoke cigarettes but it seemed she picked it up after I left. Whenever she visitedshe would have one lit.We never did get to live together. Her dream was always to have two dogs and three cats. I alwaystold her that was a weird ratio but she didn’t care. She wanted to move to the mountains, let me open up mybakery. She’d sell her art, and of course, we would have a garden. Though I guess we’ve learned she’s not verygood at keeping things alive.I’d invite her to meet my friends but she’d always refuse, saying that more than two people is toomuch. So it turned into being just the two of us. I told her I’d give up anything for her, and I did whenevershe asked.37

Page 38

A Critique of the Consumption of Literatureby Sam WilliamsPoetry and its consumption has been humanity’s pastime for over 4,000 years. Since Sappho and theSumerians, the medium of poetry has consistently been used as a form of artistic expression in all sorts ofways. In my view, there are two major types of poem: emotional yet impersonal Hallmark card poetry, and theacademic type of poem that is most commonly read in classrooms a la T.S.Eliot and Shakespeare. In this I willfocus on the latter category. This brief essay will not be a takedown of William Carlos Williams and EmilyDickinson, but more so an examination of how the academicization of poetry has warped the societal view ofthe medium.Early Modernist and Victorian poetry can be daunting and confusing to the average reader, and thatwould be a correct viewpoint. Although there are obviously endless exceptions, a bulk of poetry from thattime period was not hieroglyphic due to its age, but rather it was made to be inaccessible on purpose. Thinkabout most of the academic poems that you’ve read. They’re mostly rhymey and about abstract concepts likelove, death, society, etc., they have archaic syntax like a thesaurus vomited on a napkin, and they usually havesome sort of deeper meaning the reader has to figure out. This is, for the most part, not good. Althoughthese can be fine on a smaller scale, poems should not be pretentious riddles, they should be diverse andsomewhat accessible art. If you don’t believe that overcomplication was an intentional choice, T.S. Eliot wasrejected by his peers in his heyday for intentionally making his work, particularly The Wasteland, purposefullydifficult to read for the lower class reader to prove a point. Poet William Carlos Williams said about Eliot’slater works that they were “the great catastrophe of letters… The blast of genius that gave the poem awayfrom the readers and back to the academics.” In other words, Eliot wrote his poem not as a method forexpression but as a tool for pretentious and wealthy socialites to seem intelligent. Suffice to say, this does notmake for a good work of art.To circle back to the original question, a poem is a clever display or language to express whatever—whether it be an emotion, a political statement, or a joke so that the reader can feel something new and thinknew thoughts. Academic poetry fails at this by boxing itself in for an upper echelon to be used as a tool asopposed to a thing to feel. A poem should be an experience, and that is important to remember whendiscussing literature. A reliable way to make a poem more visceral is to use imagery and descriptive languageto make something like a snapshot of life. A sort of vignette consisting of all the emotions and feelingssurrounding a singular moment. You’d need your readers to see the world from your eyes for one brief butinfinitely important moment. At this point you may be asking, what does that look like on the page?A notable example of using physicality to represent emotionality is Sylvia Plath’s “Tulips.” Plathmasterfully uses bright tulips on a windowsill as a microcosm of depression and instability. Her inability tostop focusing on the flowers causes her to spiral due to their vivid colors being too “excitable”. We areshown how her anxiety and depression felt, not told what the symptoms were. It’s a poem, not a WebMDarticle. “Tulips” is built on tangible imagery, and it would crumble without it. This doesn’t mean that youshould write a poem with 10,000 little details and items in it, overkill is just as bad as going without. Detailsshould only be added to supplement the concrete images, not distract from them.When writing a poem, people most often start big and zoom into something smaller. Start withsomething big and nebulous like love, death, or grief and zoom in on a moment from there. This will almost38

Page 39

always fail. Talking about feelings seldom lets the reader feel those feelings, and that makes all the difference.The reason most “zoom-in” poems fail is because they lack concreteness and are built on abstraction. Weknow what words like “beauty” or “heartbreak” mean but it’s important to stress what it looks like, what itfeels like, and what it sounds like. Listing words and synonyms accomplishes very little and constitutes a“bad” poem. Poetry is about bringing someone in and making them feel a certain way. This is why usingconcrete imagery and metaphor makes for a sound foundation, they’re certain and relatable, but not void ofdepth. As the old adage goes, show, don’t tell.Good art should make familiar things feel strange and make strange things feel familiar. This shiftshouldn’t be life-changing, but it should give the consumers new perspectives and a more open mind. There isa Russian word, Ostranenie, that’s commonly translated as “defamiliarization”, but a more accurateparaphrasing would be “strange-ifying”. This doesn’t necessarily mean Ostranenie means to bring a newaddition to the uncanny valley. Sometimes this is the case, and that is the place of horror media and itsimportance as a vehicle to Ostranenie society’s fears and woes. To Ostranenie something is to make somethingappear as if you’re looking at it with fresh, childlike eyes. Metaphor, simile, symbolism, and allegory all serve asimilar purpose, and that is to make new connections to add a deeper relevance. By reading a good poem andby ingesting that metaphor is to have a new light to view things in. Hence, Ostranenie.If the medium of poetry is to recover relevance in the coming decades, there has to be a substantialchange in how it's shared. Teaching poetry in schools is a perfectly adequate method of illustrating the meritsof the medium, but the teaching of poems meant to confuse rather than to inspire as a sort of toe dip into“scholarly reading” is deeply flawed. Poetry can be fun, and it should be! The preservation of an ancientmedium can only be realized when it is made accessible to the eyes of the younger generations. This can onlybe done by diversifying what is read. It is imperative to give youths a more relatable and accessible way ofanalyzing and understanding what it means to write, and this isn’t limited to just literature. Art as a wholedeserves to be appreciated and understood so it can be treasured, not pushed to the sidelines.39

Page 40

Page 41

Page 42

Crossed Severed Fingersby Sam WilliamsI once read the signsI got all my stars alignedI arranged my amulets and charmsI set all my false alarmsI do a dance to make the rain comeI do a dance to keep the sky upI cleanse my hands to keep them openI will stay with severed fingers crossedThe blue bar of soap is made for my palmsI crafted this still life with the likenesses of saints.People will cheer on the spectacle I’ve made,And I will stay walking up towards center stageIf I wash againLather soap in the lines across my handIt’ll be just like last FridayIf I do it all just one more timeThere are no signs, no stars to alignNo amulets, no charms can give me an answerThere’s just a human eye with a human flawAnd people can now cheer on the awful mess I’ve made.42

Page 43

Page 44

Sparrowby AnonymousI can hear the angels sweepingSo why do I feel like sleepingLittle birds singing chirp, chirp, chirpGoing on like the day is perfectBut to me they sound psychoticBefore they came the air was stillComing and going inhale by exhaleThen the songbirds filled it with their loud screechAnd the air now snags at my eardrums like a dog on a leashRunning and resting without committing itselfThey’re too loud, in the first placeEven through the pillow I can hear them yellThey aren’t subtle creatures, fluttering up and downBouncing through the air like breathing lungsAnd all they do is upset me with their avian tonguesThe birds turn to me, as does the window behind meDaily the light through the curtain widens and thins,And I lay here as nothing, a flat and ridiculous papier-mâché cutoutWith no face but two eyes, two hands, two feet, two lungsAnd yet the sparrow still eats my oxygenThe bird turns and sees my bed through the windowMy head laying between the pillow and the cuff of the quiltLike a fine cornea that will not close—Stupid little pupil, for it has to take everything inAnd yet it does not see.44

Page 45

Page 46

The Raven and the Crowby AnonymousMany years ago, there was a simple way of getting rid of an unwanted child. You could walk throughthe paths in the forest, and eventually you would be lost enough to stumble upon the feywild. There aseemingly harmless old woman would find you, and you could offer your child to her. She would care forthem, but you would never see your child again.A human woman had heard these tales but was beyond desperate. She loved an orc man, but herparents would not allow her to marry him. The old woman in the fey wild would take your children, but inreturn she would give you a gift. Anything you wanted, from magic to changing the mind of the moststubborn man. She got what she wanted, as the woods and the path shifted, and the ground was covered in athick layer of fog. An old woman walked through the mist, and the human made her bargain.She returned home and explained to her lover what had happened when her parents seemed tomiraculously change their minds. He was shocked, but simply decided that they wouldn’t get attached to thefirst child she had. A few years later, they had twins, a son and daughter, who vanished in the middle of thenight.The old woman that had talked to her so long ago was not an old woman at all. Hags could not havechildren, so in order to increase their numbers, they must make bargains for them. And these little half-orcswould be excellent hexbloods. The boy she called Raven, and the girl Crow.Raven was white as snow, with long curly white hair, and pointed tusks. The spiraling purple and bluetattoos and the horns that curve up were the only signs that he was not the half-orc he appeared to be. Hegrew tall and strong, but was not the daughter his mother wanted. So he was pushed aside. While Raven neverleft the hag’s swamp, he had heard the stories from the ghosts about the land that lay beyond the feywild. Hismagic was patient, connected to his voice, the violin he played, and the stories the spirits told him. Raven wasproud and stubborn, trying desperately to please his mother anyway he could. But no matter how powerful hegrew, Raven was never enough for her.Crow was as gray as a storm cloud, with straight coal black hair cut around their chin. Their tattooswere red and orange, with smaller horns than Raven. The only thing they shared with their twin was jet blackeyes and a set of tusks that pointed outside their mouth. Crow was also tall, but they were scrawny and still afew inches shorter than Raven. Their mother took a vested interest in Crow and their magic. Crow’s magicwas wild, strong and unpredictable, although they had shown an affinity for fire. Their mother was insistentthat she had a daughter, even when Crow repeatedly corrected her. Crow grew bitter and resentful, spellsgoing wild more times than any accident would reasonably occur. They hated their mother, for everything shehad put both Crow and Raven through. But while Crow desperately wanted to run, Raven insisted that theystay. Crow wanted their freedom, but not badly enough to abandon their brother.“Rae, will you just listen to me!” pleaded Crow for what felt like the hundredth time.“No! I ain’t leaving,” said Raven.“We’re still ourselves, we can run! If we get far enough she won’t be able to stop us!”“I don’t wanna leave. Look I get that you don’t like Mama but-”“She thinks we’re a means to an end. Can you look me in the eye and say that she doesn’t want us todo the ritual!”The twins mother was gone for the day, meeting with the other hags in their coven. They could justspeak silently through the tusks they traded as small children. But nothing gets your message across quite likea shouting match.“She said that we could do it when we were ready!” yelled Raven.46

Page 47

“How old are we?”“Twenty one.”“What’s happened to every other hexblood our age?”“They became hags.”“They became hags! Do you really want that! Please, Rae, I am begging you. Let’s leave. Get the hellout of here and explore the rest of the world. You are an amazing bard, and I’m a powerful sorcerer. Itwouldn’t be that hard to live on our own!”“Mama would hunt us down in a heartbeat!”“When was the last time she actually left the feywild?”“Maybe she’d make an exception. Crow, the world is dangerous, I don’t want you getting hurt!”“Mama’s dangerous! I can’t stay here. So will you please just come with me!”“No. I’ve made up my mind. I’m staying here,” Raven turned around to go back inside the house.Crow could feel the rage bubbling up inside of them. Their magic reacted, twisting and turning,pushing its way out into the real world. They screamed in frustration and a giant orange wave jumped towardRaven. Before Crow could call out a warning, the blast hit, and where their brother once stood, there wasnow a potted fern.“Oh, god, Rae, I’m sorry!” said Crow hoping that Raven could hear them. The plant didn’t respondverbally, but they could hear Raven’s voice echoing in their head.“It’s fine. You know how to fix this right?”Of course Crow knew how to fix it. It would be as simple as breaking the pot and Raven wouldreturn to normal. It’s just that this presented a unique opportunity. Crow picked up the pot, slung it undertheir arm and ran into the room they shared with Raven. They grabbed a cloth travel bag, a few extra pairs ofclothes for the both of them, and a pack of rations they could eat until they reached a city.“Crow, what are you doing?”Even though the words weren’t spoken aloud, they were filled with panic. Crow wasn’t strong enoughto drag Raven out the door kicking and screaming, but they could carry a plant. They just needed to get toofar away from the feywild for Raven to insist on turning back. Crow grabbed spell books, Raven’s prizedviolin and his spell focus. The door was still open, and there was at least a few hours before their mothercame home.“I’m sorry, Raven. But we really can’t stay,” said Crow. They slammed the door behind them andraced into the swamp. Though the marsh and ground water leaked through their boots, Crow didn’t slowdown. Their mother couldn’t stop them anymore.47

Page 48

Page 49

.College Essayby Frances BrunoWhen I was born, I had to fight to survive. Don’t get me wrong, every baby does. But my skin was sothin it split when touched. I was so small my dad could hold me in his hand. I weighed less than one pound.Instead of crying like a full-term baby, I made two little chirps. I used to blame my prematurity for strugglingacademically, but I have worked with people for years who have helped me uncover my strengths andunderstand what works for my brain.I was in first grade when I realized my brain was different from other kids. I had transferred to asmall Quaker school to start my academic career. I was six at the time and my parents noticed that I washaving trouble learning. My teachers did everything they could to help me, but my brain wasn't cooperating. Itwas too stubborn. When the next school year rolled around, my teachers decided that it would be best if Irepeated the first grade. When my mom told me this, I thought it was the end of the world. It was a strugglefor me to comprehend the news. After this I began meeting with a learning specialist named Donna every day,both during and after school. I knew I was smart, but I had to learn to read a different way. It was importantand difficult work that meant I wouldn't be with the friends I made the previous year. Steadily over the years,Donna and others helped me to read, read well, and even enjoy fiction. I also figured out how to break downand process concepts. Before long, I applied these skills and work ethic to my daily life.I used to think that being born at 25 weeks would hold me back my entire life, but that is just nottrue. Today I’m very connected with people because I keep asking a lot of questions about everything.Another way I continue to progress is through service projects that help organizations around my hometown.Volunteering at these places inspired me to organize my life and opened me up to real needs in the real world.Service helped me see that organization is a part of being a leader. And that’s what gave me the confidence tomake a difference in the school student council.Being in the Student Council has helped me be the leader I’ve always wanted to be. I used to watchmy seniors leading big groups and making changes happen. As the school years went on, I kept volunteeringthrough Student Council, so I could learn more about being a leader. If you asked me freshman year if I sawmyself as the president of the Student Council, I would laugh and say “that's not possible.” Back then, thosethree words stopped me from having new opportunities or taking risk. Now that I am out of my comfortzone, I say “that IS possible.”From 14 ounces at birth, to hard work with tutors, to now leading the school community, my life hasalways challenged me to be unstoppable. Student Council has taught me not only how to be a leader but whatI want to do in life. I want to be a voice in education for equality for all ways of learning, gender-identities,and self-expression. I have the organization, skills, and confidence now to make that happen. All of theseobstacles that I’ve overcome have made me feel like I can take on the world.49

Page 50

College Essayby Emmett BeerbowerIt had slightly rusted strings that hadn’t been tuned in what seemed like years. Miniscule dents andscratches showed evidence of use, but it was still in playable condition. Possessing this full-sized classicalguitar made me feel big and small at the same time. I was seven years old, and I had always been accustomedto my tiny, piece of junk ukulele. Unfortunately, this new instrument was not going to be something I couldfling, kick, drop, or dominate. The scale and responsibility of it immobilized me; I had to actually take care ofit. It was such a drastic change, since I was so used to erratically strumming on my toy ukulele. But it was atthis point in my life when playing the guitar started to mean something more than an idea.Taking care of the instrument meant I had to learn how to maintain, clean, fix, and appreciate theopportunity it represented. I had to stay in control of myself and the guitar. I was used to flailing around, butnow I had to practice self-control. Before I could get better at playing the instrument, I needed to keep mybody and mind focused. My first guitar teacher encouraged me to master these skills, so that I would be ableto apply them later on.Progression was one of my primary motivations when it came to developing as a young musician. Itwas with Mark Smith, my second music teacher, when I could feel myself actually improving. He knew that Ihad a burning passion for music, and I like to believe that he saw something in me. That’s why he wasconstantly challenging me and helping me grow in my abilities. Noticing my own development was exciting,but I also found that it was important to keep focusing on what may come ahead, rather than getting stuck ona single accomplishment.But with progression, failure is integral. Whether it was an absolutely terrible guitar performance, orjust not being able to learn something right away, failure has always been a part of the experience. I alwaysfound myself falling into a slippery slope when I would obsess about my errors, because it would lead todiscouragement and sometimes affect my frame of mind for the rest of the day. I can be easily frustrated bymy own mistakes, but I came to realize that failure can be an even better teacher than success.Although I do not plan on studying the guitar or music in college, I have learned so much aboutmyself through playing the instrument. I’ve discovered how I learn best. Whether it’s through other interests,such as skateboarding or learning an unfamiliar concept in math class, I’ve found that I improve the mostthrough my mistakes. After investing the last few years into improving in playing guitar without a mentor, Ihave learned that I can express myself the most through improvisation. I am motivated when there is anauthentic audience, and when I can think for myself. Now I’m not afraid to make mistakes because I know Ihave the resilience and intelligence to identify solutions. I know that whatever I study in college, the lessonsthat I’ve learned from that old, rusty-stringed guitar will help me expand, question, and continue my life’sprogress.50

Page 51

Page 52

College Essayby Mattea PappaOn Halloween of 2019, I stood before a crowd of 3,000 with a crown of sponges atop my head. Ihad been called from the throng of bedazzled audience members to “lip sync for my life” as part of the Werqthe World drag show. I breathed in the cacophony, flashing lights, and blaring music. I was rooted in themoment. My essence had been adrift before and now assembled sequin by sequin into a single point. I wasaligned with time, synced into the flow of the world. As the music started, I was level-headed andunencumbered. How had I arrived here?In a literal sense, I had been summoned before the crowd by a goddess-like 6’5 man in a wig, but itwas my love of theater that had brought me to that stage. It all began in third grade, when through a bizarreand miraculous turn of events, I was cast in the school musical How to Eat Like a Child. This, to me, seemedan obvious and grave error. I barely understood how to read, let alone how to put on a musical. I was alsodeeply shy, and in truth had only joined to spend time with my friends. Yet despite my misgivings, Ithoroughly enjoyed the process. I relished the opportunity to go beyond my insecurities–to be myself whilepretending to be someone else.Then came the performance. On opening night, the butterflies in my stomach morphed intodestructive pterodactyls. The solace I found in rehearsals was gone, and I was sure my 9-year-old world wouldend in the darkened shell of backstage. Then, as the curtains opened, I felt a rush of adrenaline, and lifesnapped into focus. Before that first view of the crowd, I had been daydreaming. Only then, as the music cuedup and the lights flickered into action, was I operating at tempo. Clarity descended. I was in love.Soon, the power I found in theater translated into my day-to-day life. I was able to ‘fake it till I madeit,’ using skills from acting to overcome my timidity. I participated in class more, studied public speaking, andtook on a leadership role in my community. I became, to quote RuPaul, “an introvert masquerading as anextrovert.” And as I’ve grown, I’ve found within myself the assuredness that I used to fabricate. After years ofshows, I no longer had to pretend to be confident.So, when Asia O’Hara pulled me into the spotlight to lipsync that Halloween, I fought with theferocity that had propelled me through life since the third grade. After the dust settled, it was announced thatI had lost to a 30-something male nurse who could do the splits. However, when I returned to my seat, I didso triumphantly. I hadn’t won the lip sync battle, but I had taken my passions to a new and exciting level.Since then, my love of the arts has gained momentum and intensity. I’ve participated in five more shows,branched into technical theater with a focus on costume design, and become a full member of Rep 336musical theater company. I’ve done more than third-grade Mattea could have dreamed of, and I want to domore. I want to keep exploring and having transformative moments of clarity on the stage. I want to embodythe words that I lip-synced to that night, Hey, Kitty Girl, it’s your world.52

Page 53

Page 54

Building Blocks: Life in Piecesby Connor MoranWhite, red, blue, orange, green, yellow. Six colors that were my entire world, encapsulating all that Icould focus on. Start with the white top, arrange the corners, work your way through to the middle, flip itover and arrange the final side, then step back and admire your hard work. A perfectly arranged colorful cube,each side a different color, but all the same once it was finished. Starting slow and building up speed overtime, learning new methods, and applying them every day. My love for the Rubik's cube was incredible, butperhaps too much. Hyperfocus largely defined my childhood. I found myself fixated on things like buildingThomas the Tank Engine cities, Lincoln Logs, and forts in the woods. I spent time thinking about my currentfixation constantly, until suddenly it shifted to the next point of focus. Whether I found myself playing agame, or investing my time into solving a puzzle, I recognized the feeling of accomplishment I got fromfollowing the directions exactly.As I grew older, my fixation turned into a problem as I could not stop myself from locking in on onetask until it was finished. I found myself obsessing over tasks until they were complete to the point where Iwould lose time that could be better spent working on other chores. If my mom told me that I needed toclean my room, I became determined to finish it before anything else. As my fixation shifted into dedication,my capabilities flourished.My abilities in school shined as I found myself able to research diverse topics and dive into theircomplexities. I found comfort in finding order amongst everything, whether it was regularly tidying up myroom or making sure my laundry was sorted and ready for whenever I was ready to wear it next. I felt a greatsense of accomplishment when I was awarded the title of captain for the soccer team in my 10th grade year,and I took this opportunity to better myself and dedicate myself as much as I could to leading the team.I shadowed my senior friends and watched as they led the team not only through their skill on thefield, but how they carried themselves day to day. As a senior myself, after being awarded captain once again, Iknew that it was my responsibility to lead the team in my mannerisms and attitude. I dedicated myself toleading by example, and ensuring that the team was run as smoothly as possible. My hyperfocus shifted fromnot only being the captain myself, but on leading the team in every aspect.Living through years of hyperfocus led me to realize that when I focused on something, mydedication shined through. I found myself navigating through life with a new perspective, always focusing onthe bigger picture. I learned from the twists and turns of my highschool career that stepping back andzooming out was the best way to handle myself. Looking through a different perspective led me to see thatlife was just a big puzzle, waiting to be solved.54

Page 55

Page 56

The Act of Dyingby Louise Pappa“are you okay”burning those words into my heartcigarettes charring the fleshdeath creeping through my veinseven with sugar coated comfortfeeling stab through the façadegushing free with the intention to drownhalting only to catch the windilluminating my fatal soresjeering as I struggle to survivekilling me softlylustful to steal my waning existence ready tomourn my nye endingno remorse for meor the sufferingpermanent, all-consuming void approachingquiet is my deathrestful i will finally besilent is my final momenttill i depart from this damnationuttering words of my freedom finallyviolent life liberating my beingwading into my final nothingnessxenon becoming meyet still you haunt my shapeless form azephyr escorting me to my inescapable fate56

Page 57

Page 58

Page 59

Page 60

Page 61

A Winter Poemby Gillian Shields-BellTwo winters the trees stood bare, untouchedBy the delicate dust of winterNow again we embrace the whimsical weatherWith open arms and gloved handsThe still frigid air slowly turns our noses pinkTracing hearts and faces of kittens in the white canvas our yard becameRacing inside to be greeted by a friendly fireWide-eyed watching as more snow glitters its way down to the groundWaiting patiently to sneak back out into the coldTo give it a proper welcomeLost Things Never Existed In The First Placeby Abigail Lawrenceawash in white, the utopia lies.blood in mouths, as deindustrializedscapes, and gaea, awake. was it decades?since climate change? the water, it cascades,down the roof, it goes drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.hear the voices, they yip, yip, yip, yip, yip,only to fall on some unhearing earsit was always one of my greatest fearsthe innocence in ignorance, it’s lost.my idealism is covered in frost.61

Page 62

Page 63

Constantby Anonymousa day, 2, they keep coming.in return I wake.astronomical light and anatomical beauty–strange and endless–is it really beauty?define itmarcid limbs clack like honey, beaten silk drenching the floor-thrashing, crawling, a swarm of eggshell greymoths.50 cent rings rupture, departing from their home, never mind that, where is the 165 you stole from myjewelry box last summer?constant.this skin, adored, no, hated–wretched red scars branding my thighs. i yank down my dress.the narcoleptic sprawl of this traitorous skeleton: repose.gaping wounds flush with vulgar shame: your words.selective hearing, selective rememberingand thimbles, needles, a thimbleful of thick rage. savor it.phantom seraphim writhe–immaculate with pinned wings. avoid the stares.who is this stranger in the mirror–strangled velvet, ashy with grease stains that refuse to be washed away?let me return to wanting, to planting onions under trampling feet.tangerine peels bury wrinkled flesh and those misplaced eyes that do not belong and smiling: laughter hystericand fake and-stolen–they say that i do not smilebask in the stark mewling of this night blindnesstug on the filigree rope, i know the end now: a lullaby of screams–sink into the cradle of bloodshot sleep andstay therea day, 2, they keep coming.in return i wake.Our Old Dogby Cary BassettKeen on pandemics (Her people are home)Expert napperDiminished hearing, but spry— overgrown nails click click click down the hall or hiking trailSweet eyes, grizzled faceFrequently stands, staringUnremitting, wanting—Sweater on or sweater off? Petting? Treats? What does she want? Does she know? (Ever so slightly senile)I see my future63

Page 64

Page 65

White Blanketby Suyeon Ahn하얀 이불어릴 때에는 첫눈이 내리면웃음을 머금고 방방 뛰어다녔다소복하게 쌓인 예쁜 눈을설레는 마음으로 보기는커녕,차가운 도시 빙판길이나 걱정하고 있는 내가,매정하만 느껴진다숲속에 내리는 눈이이제는 내 마음을 덮어주는 이불이 되었다추워한다고 덮어주는 하얀 이불인가 봐그래서 추운 겨울에만 내리는 이유인가 봐.When the first snow cameI would run around with laughterThe pretty snow that piled up gentlyRather than looking at it with excitement,I feel heartless about myselfWorrying about the icy roads in the cold citySeeing the snow falling in the forestNow it has become a blanket that covers my heartMaybe it's a white blanket that covers you up because you're coldI guess that's why it only falls in the cold winter.65

Polaris 2022: NGFS Literary Magazine

Page 1

Page 2

Page 3

Page 4