Poetry Section: Power of Poetry

In our debut issues- the poems here- truly reflect the powerful uses of poetry. With the world and experiences as their muses, poets- Annelise Furnald, Christian Rees, Justin Roberti, Monet P. Thomas, and Siobhan Watson’s poetry show that if reading is wrong, then writers don’t do right.

Annelise Furnald
Annelise Furnald is a Writing/Photography major at Loyola University Maryland; an optimist, realist, and observer; fond of the sky and coloring.

Attack of the Clones
I am tired of fake girls,
cloned and bleached,
foundation caked.
Inch-thick eye liner, hiding the children they still are,
masking the innocence they pretend to have lost.
I am tired of exaggerated emotions,
“I love you’s” and other sorts.
Chain reaction tears and
dependability for eating, breathing, speaking;
rights stolen by the communist A-list.
Souls only visible orange, damaged-skin deep.

Remember kindergarten, I want to tell them,
wearing first-day dresses
and hair in carefree tangles,
laughter and pure and original.
What does conformity mean?
it smells like Abercrombie & Fitch
and takes a real girl and makes her forget.

Belief
for Cassie Bernall, 4/20/1999

“Belief is a beautiful armor
but makes for the heaviest sword.”
–John Mayer

She spoke her bullets,
and he shot his.
What world is this,
where opinions are ammunition,
headstrong and recklessly determined,
to raise opposition for the sake of opposing
or for a chance to be heard,
for a head to be turned at what?
his game, his boredom,
his cry for attention.
his hatred.
All she said was yes,
yet a victim she became.
Innocence does not pertain to the concerns
behind the gun in the shaking hand.

Carpe Diem

Awaken to birds singing,
joy ringing in your ears.
Breathe in the plentiful air of opportunity,
and smile as your eyes open to possibility.
Release yourself from binding cocoons,
transform at the breaking light
and spread wings to soar.

To soar into the depths of anywhere,
across the heights of today
and the promise of tomorrow.
With an open heart blazing free,
fly low into blissful seas of spontaneity
and laugh along clouds towards sunsets
that shimmer over perpetual horizons.

Christian Rees
Christian Rees grew up in a small Pennsylvania town clustered along the Delaware, not too far away from Philadelphia. This aspiring writer (heavy emphasis of aspiring) currently attends Loyola University Maryland, majoring in Writing and Theater. There isn’t much else to tell you, so enjoy the poetry.

salaryman (his own shadow)

he saw the wall
grey matter
we see him poised
with hands hanging by his sides
the only color sketched along the greying stucco is the burnt yellow
annulus of his shadow

if he could take a
pair of golden scissors
and snip the boundaries of his
shadow
he’d paste it on the ceiling and stand upon his bed with paints and pencils and a flashlight
he would shine it into his depths
he would catch his spectrum
colors as thin as a hair
colors as heavy as rain

he would trace his threads of rainbow
with paint dripping on his face,
a smile of acrylic; and when he
had finished he would lie,
paint spattered, under himself, his colorful
self and let the paint drip into
his eyes, blinding him with
blues and reds and yellows

his pupils will be gold
his corneas silver
his whites, black.

Walter Freeman Was a Henry Ford

In dreamscapes he pulled the wings off of house-flies…

what would Freeman think,
that Henry Ford;
what would lobos look like
when the neurologists

lift
their

ice-picks and their drills?

Just above the tear-duct, a quick tap, a wiggle.

In dreamscapes flies pull the wings from a sleeveless man in a white gauze mask;
the gossamer membranes harden
as they fold and roll them into picks.

In dreamscapes boys sit on stools, in a row,

a stretching row,
of reclining men and stooped boys on stools,
tapping in rhythm,
gossamer ice-picks enter in, just above the tear-duct.

In dreamscapes I pull my cortex from my nose,
thread, by thread, by thread, by thread…

A Boy

He was a boy of IV drips and respirators,

he was a boy with a window to his left

and a razor white hallway to his right;
he was the son of nurses and doctors
and of sterility and medicine.

he was a boy.
One day he fell through an artery and up a long clear tube
through steroids, translucent, and into the reservoir at the top
and he let himself float suspended in a bead of moisture just above
his arm and the tube, and he swam.

He was a boy and now he is a river,

and now he is not with us,

and he flows past us, a river of milky clear water,
and a river of a boy.

Justin Roberti
Justin Roberti has been writing for over 20 years and has had numerous publications and productions of stories, plays, poems, documentaries, and videos. He has a Master of Fine arts degree in Playwriting from Rutgers University and works as a writer and marketer

Babylon

There will be peace in Babylon
words will run
not from speaker to ear
but in a single snaking torrent
from the side of our great edifice
inscribed with desperate runes from fanatical forebears
fall like rain to uninhabitable rocks below
breaking open like unhatched eggs
making a beautiful murmur of shushing whispers

Freed from permanency
there will be no more words
to obfuscate
or reduce us
naked in silence
bereft of smart phones
computers abandoned

We’ll pay attention
in reverential silence

No conversation
but shifts from hip to hip
reverberating glances eye to eye
and lips will find a better purpose
no harsh words between us
no promises to keep
the only posturing a lovely roll of shoulder to shoulder
like the hills that surround us
beautiful
and silent

Proof (It’s All There)

In the dogend of a long night
When the fluttering projector casts shadows that bend and stretch
Still frames in your mind
So people appear uncommonly tall and thin
Or as squashed into little caricatures
Vacillating distortions
Like some parody Alice might see underground
You have only you to turn to
With the pillow you lay at your side
(a totem)
The prancing menagerie of whatever ensemble-cast episodic sex plot you’ve devised in your fevered imagination since age fifteen
Has played its course for the evening
(Still ongoing, plot unresolved)
You will make a choice
Bourne of stubborn necessity
Of what and who from your waking world can make you sleep

There will be no lying
In repose
Sleep is tempestuous

She will know
Even when you don’t know
When you’re faking
Do you tell or do you listen?
To the incidental algorithm algebraic puzzle
That constitutes your want and need
In a zero-sum equation

You plus body plus work plus art times love
Add life add warmth and hands and lips and thighs
Multiplied by sky add Her
Over you make
A zero sum mathematical proof
Checking again for errors in carrying the one
It sings you to sleep
A harmonious instrument

You look all day long for the sum
And listen all night to the answer

Monet P. Thomas
Monet began writing in earnest in high school and earned the Poet of the Year both her junior and senior years. In the upcoming fall, Monet will begin an MFA program at Eastern Washington University with the intention of one day being someone’s crotchety creative writing professor. She prefers poetry but will write a vignette, and hopes to one day jump into the pool of fiction.

The Problem with Genetics

At age seven,
I watched my father pull
a wet pack of Newports from the toilet.
I earned a spanking and an ice cream cone.

When Christmas came that year
I stopped asking him to quit,
and asked for a bicycle.

At ten,
a bit of ash escaped his cigarette caught
by the breeze from his window
and burned my arm. It stung
but I didn’t say anything.

When he called to explain why
he couldn’t make it to see me
money was always the excuse.
Rising gas prices, the cost of new tires
and tolls were interchanged with each visit.
I figured one carton of cigarettes equaled
one tank of gas.

At thirteen,
with friends, I stole a pack from
the purse of someone’s mother.
We sat on our old playground
drawing in the feel of thievery and chemicals.
I walked home with perfume damp
on my skin and spite sour on my tongue.

When I’d leave his house,
I smelled him for days on my clothes,
on strands of my hair. I would smell him
when I passed people on the street,
at parties and on men I dated.

By nineteen,
I recalled the nights by
the dorm rooms and the drinks.
I spoke to my father less and less,
seeing more of him in the way I held
my cigarette loose in my fingers.

Siobhan Watson
Poetry & Managing Editor of Write From Wrong Lit. Mag

Pescatarian

She asks the waiter: is there meat in that?
explains: I’m a vegetarian now. And with a dainty
flick of the wrist, hands her menu over.

She smiles thinking of each cow she’s saved,
the free-range chickens’ eggs she lovingly scrambled
that morning. The change is really dramatic.

Her tuna sandwich is delicious—she licks her
pink sausage lips with satisfaction, so proud—
because everyone knows fish don’t feel.

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  1. […] our first issue or go straight to your favorite section here: 1. Spotlight Author 2. Poetry Section 3. Photos/Arts Section 4. Book Reviews 5. Creative Nonfiction 6. […]



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