The Bird is the Word: Sophisticated Schoolyard Shenanigans
By Renée
Standing on the mountain top,
it fills me with a very cautious feeling
of a satisfying happiness
with a streak of fear.
Have you ever felt that way?
I also feel that way when I’m in my own room,
writing of feelings or things that I find strange,
or when with my dog,
or with a close friend,
or when I’m by myself,
lying down somewhere,
thinking about you, and life, and fiction.
I guess that feeling is a cautious freedom.
Editor Makena Behnke
By Poet Blogger Peter Kadel
She’s it! She’s it! She’s the one!
She is gonna be my one and only.
We’ll share a kiss in hallways between classes,
Milkshakes at diners, and midnight movies.
She’s Miss American Dream.
Right now, I’m nobody, but, one day, I’ll be her knight in shining armour–
Her love story cliché, the boy, the boyfriend.
One step at a time, and then she is mine.
She’s Miss American Dream.
She just needs some convincing; she’ll see I’m right.
Those other guys may be taller, and smoother, and stronger–
But I’m the chosen one, like Anakin without the dark side.
I’ll be the bearer of the one ring to woo them all–
Just not as nerdy as that sounds.
She’s Miss American Dream.
She didn’t break my heart–I’m NOT crying!
It’s fine–she didn’t slap me that hard.
I’ll move on, as soon as I learn how.
Who needs Miss American Dream?
Editor: Brennan Nick
Reading and Interpretation By Charles Schnell
Somber, subtle poems catch my attention and stimulate thought. Below is a recording of my reading of “One Had Lived in a Room and Loved Nothing” by Charles Fort–a somber, subtle, and stimulating poem.
One Had Lived in a Room and Loved Nothing
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Full of spiders and what memory remained,
one had loved and she had forgotten things.
Clock stopped and aeroplane lost in the dark,
and who was that voice on the telephone?
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
It was a rare sleep in helter-skelter;
one awakened a half-blessed and charmed fool.
One had loved and she had forgotten things.
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Whose tiffany ring on her ring finger;
who gave one mantis kiss as the jazz played?
The faceless lover and last known address,
a writing pad and table overturned,
one had loved and she had forgotten things.
What was day or night with no hours left
and who were the two in the photograph?
One had loved and she had forgotten things.
One had lived in a room and loved nothing.
Charles Fort
This poem is a “villanelle.” A villanelle is a nineteen-line poem where the first and third lines of every stanza are the same, but they alternate places with every stanza. Every stanza is three lines long excluding the last one, which is four lines–the final two lines of that stanza are the first and third lines that have been repeating throughout the rest of the poem. In this poem, “one had lived in a room and loved nothing” and “one had loved and she had forgotten things” are those alternating lines.
When I first read the poem, I interpreted the poem as describing the tragic case of a woman who has now developed dementia. There are many signs of her not being able to remember something that she should be remembering, something important from her pre-dementia past: for instance, there is the unknown “voice on the telephone” (who I think is a family member) and the unknown “two in the photograph” (perhaps she and her husband or child). The poem speaks with a desolate, isolated voice. The images are empty, as if something is missing or wrong with the picture. This incompleteness sells the idea of something mis-remembered or gone.
I look up another person’s opinion online, and they thought the poem was supposed to represent a disconnect from the world. This could be a person without any disorders or the like, but rather just someone who is in a room that she has lived in for so long, for some reason suffering, that she has become unfeeling now. Very smart interpretation, I think.
If you would like to read this poem and many more like this, consider picking up Edward Hirsch’s and David Lehman’s The Best American Poetry 2016. The anthology contains lovely poetry: https://www.amazon.com/Best-American-Poetry-2016/dp/150112756X.
Here’s that other person’s interpretation I mentioned: https://ashberyland.com/2017/10/12/completely-subjective-charles-forts-one-had-lived-in-a-room-and-loved-nothing/.
Here’s where “One Had Live In A Room and Loved Nothing” was originally published: http://greenmountainsreview.com/two-poems-14/.
Editor: Peter Kadel
By Renée
Words have feeling.
Words have power.
Words can turn the best to the worst.
Words can form the deepest wounds.
Words have feeling.
Words have power.
Words can turn the worst to the best.
Words can heal the deepest wounds.
Words have souls.
They are part of ours.
Editor Charles Schnell
By Anonymous
I am a prisoner of something more powerful than I can handle.
I am serving a life sentence for something I didn’t do but something I do regret.
My cell is maximum security and only a special few can get in.
The yard is full of bad people I can longer bear to face.
There is no point in running–
I tried running once but it will catch you before you can catch yourself.
There is no point in trying to dig a way out; the hole you’ve already dug
is too deep to climb out of, and the will to get out isn’t strong enough.
There is only so much comfort to find in the library before the harsh reality of what lives outside of those walls is too much to ignore.
I was once a lion like from the Wizard of Oz, but once the ring master whips you into a cage of no-return you realize the lion is only as strong as its master.
The bars of my cell are like the foggy windows to the soul I no longer own.
Once you’ve been in here for so long you realize that this “prison” is more
a way of life than a place to stay…
….and stay I shall!
Editor: Reneé Vazquez
By Naturalist Poet Pete
What’s it worth?
What’s the worth in protecting the great outdoors? What dollar amount can be assigned
To open meadows, rolling hills, and swift streams? What are they worth
Once they are caught and defined? What is the profit of seeing the Grand Canyon strip-mined?
In blasting the mountains and depleting the veins? in taking the treasures beneath the earth?
There is something golden on the surface. There are green treasures that tower above,
Ancient giants from ages past, enduring symbols that are the heart of the forest.
They are the guardians of the old worlds and sentinels of life, creatures deserving of our love.
We must defend them; we must not soften. We must be undaunted in our noble quest.
There is a value in the untouched world, not in dollars but in the human soul.
Editor: Charles Schnell
By Makena Behnke, Lifestyle/Poet Guru
Editor & Lifestyle Co-Guru: Brennan Nick
By Renée
You wake up everyday–
every single day.
What makes you get up everyday?
Some of you might tell me right away,
but some of you may not yet know.
I’ll keep living everyday,
thinking I know; knowing I know.
But, will I ever tell a soul?
No.
Life will keep beating me.
It will trip me up; tear me apart.
Life will keep loving me.
It will give me its gifts; let me play my part.
Some days it’s aimless,
other days I can’t think of anything else.
But please let you keep this to yourself,
here I’m sharing a piece of my heart.
Editor Makena Behnke
Junior Asher Mai is an ardent reader of John Green and a recent expert on Robert Frost (thanks to his AP English Language Synthesis Project), so when he found a line of Frost quoted in the newest John Green book, Turtles All the Way Down, Asher felt inspired to write the following poem.
“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”–Robert Frost, as quoted by John Green
By Asher Mai
A red autumn leaf had fallen
And the wind had blown
He had flown seven thousand miles
To the other side of the Pacific Ocean
It was a path that he had chosen
He enjoyed the new environment
And learned to be independent
He had an amazing experience
An experience that he would
never have dreamed to experience
Summer had come
It’s time to go home
But his spiral of consciousness
had started to tighten
Because it’s a path he had not yet chosen
A future that was not yet known
Editor: Makena Behnke
Guest Poet Blogger Jackson Dean contributes this week.
That Sunday
That Sunday was the first day of someone’s life,
And they will not understand the hate of the world for some time;
That Sunday was the first steps for someone,
who proudly galloped across the living room floor;
That Sunday was the marriage of many someones,
And their love for each other was unbelievably grand;
That Sunday was happiness for someone,
as they read a book on their porch;
That Sunday was joy for someone,
when that math problem was finally understood;
That Sunday was the first day of college for someone,
As they began a new life in a new place;
That Sunday was with friends for someone,
Laughing and reminiscing about the “good ol’ days”;
That Sunday was a breakup for someone,
And they never felt such sadness before;
That Sunday was falling in love for the very first time for someone,
And they knew it would last;
That Sunday was a drive for someone,
Just taking in the sights of their town;
That Sunday was church for someone,
Meeting up with church friends and enjoying the company;
That Sunday was family time for someone,
As they all sat around to watch Football;
…
That Sunday was the worst day for someone,
When the shots kept coming;
That Sunday was when “Missed Call” was displayed on the phone of someone,
And people prayed their loved ones were okay;
That Sunday, no call was returned for someone,
Because they weren’t okay;
That Sunday was devastating for someone,
As they lost their friend in the crowd and have yet to hear from them;
That Sunday, Monday, and all the days to come will be mourning for someone,
Because of the news they received;
That Sunday was, is, and always will be a nightmare for someone,
For the image of them running for what seemed like hours was branded into their skull;
That Sunday, people cared for someone,
As they lay on top of strangers to hide them from what was the end for many;
That Sunday, people were there for someone,
As strangers carried strangers to hospitals;
…
That Sunday, life passed on for someone,
And they were innocent;
That Sunday, life passed on for someone,
And they were loved ones;
That Sunday, life passed on for someone,
And they will not be forgotten.
Editor: Peter Kadel