Last week, I visited Kuna High School creative writing classes to work on burying 2014; to work on reflecting on the past year and representing it in words. Students rummaged through a box and smelled an old book, opened a jar of lavender and read a postcard addressed to “home”. They imagined burying these items, imagined a person letting them go, and how and why they could tell the story of someone’s “2014”.
Each student generated a line and then each group generated a stanza and then each class generated a poem. I’m sharing their sometimes beautiful, sometimes raw, sometimes gritty lines below. I hope you will share something with GirlSense & NonSense Magazine. The deadline is five days away. Share your art for our Spring issue.
Thank you, KHS and Slyvia Fine. Thank you, young writers. I recognize the privilege of entering a creative writing classroom, your coveted space, and hearing your words. It moved me. It really did.
Poem 1: “I hear the distant sound…”
I hear the distant sound of memories stuck like white clouds in a blue sky kept in bottle among other forgotten things. Maybe someday, would mean something to another person and finally be heard once more. A blue mountain of water cascaded down the front and why would you rip pages out of a book? Everything was faded, like time had washed it away. That could only come from a worn novel of love; beautiful dirt in which beautiful flowers grow. The lavender’s smell was replaced with dust and paper and glue. One could sit and watch the flowers grow. Somewhere lies what once was ours. Much as I prize the memories, they practically disappear in my hand. Pages that feel so loose. Free not fragile. Impressions that come from a bottle frail as ice. A reminder in which I failed you. One that I’ll gladly scatter with dirt, leaving it with you. All real things can be left behind.
Poem 2: “A tiny thud…”
A tiny thud exited the box, It’s last attempt to get my attention. As each paper is dropped into the hole they flit down with a quiet crinkling stiffness, rubbing and whispering its abuse. When you hear the last page flip it’s a feeling of accomplishment. The candlestick couldn’t cope with parting and silence fell over it as wax tears lay still on its cheek. A release and then – nothing. From a box of words is born a book of poetry aged and worn; gone a long way but at what cost? Only old memories lost. Though she wasn’t there, it almost felt like she was. Deep in the ground, mud stiff as rocks. She ran her hands into the box one last time, she promised. The candle whose light doesn’t burn shows how darkness can keep you frozen but the light slowly burns you down. After I was done with the things I had not taken out of the box, I set them in his coffin. This box has a beating heart that will live on forever. I love you.
Poem 3: “Every creature whispered” Every creature whispered to me so beautifully, the streaks of sound playing oh so wonderfully from my memory of the creatures who always spoke the truth of our souls. The only thing you’re sure of is the fact that lavender permeates the air. The sun follows you everywhere. The earth smells sweet like rainwater. You shove the jar back in its box. It’s the kind of plant they confiscated. For someone else to look through my happy memories, this was the last time I would see these items. Yet there was still a mystery left undiscovered. I had a hard time surviving 2014. But it’s 2015 now and I’m growing up. The flower tapped against the glass lightly begging to be released, hitting the two glass jars with a clank wanting to try out for not being used. I shake it to make sure its secure and they bounce around. This was mom’s favorite. The pages felt wrinkled, worn from the years. It was so soft, delicate between his rough fingers. The cover split, the fine fibers frayed. There’s a history within its pages. Stories beyond contents. It knows more of us than we know of it and felt destinations one cannot fathom.
Submit for the spring issue. Learn more about the theme + how to submit here. Deadline: Sunday, February 22nd.