Poetry

Poetry Archives

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    that one february

    I wanted to crawl into your bed, dye my skin yellow. Imprint my blood in your final days, discombobulate my bones with lost control. Leave my encephalon convoluted in toxins, hallucinations. We compare our hand sizes. I prop your hand against universes to hold it. You have left ring stains as mundane, your nails decaying from vinegar, boiled broccoli water. Testing the salt level each time. Reaching into pans to test warmth, I believe you thought nothing was to be trusted.           Except on Fridays, you trusted Carole King, that tectonic plates shifted to her step, your voice, which created bows with our arms at every vocal. Joni Mitchell, that your hair would grow to hers, maybe bangs will cut themselves. Joan Osborne, that a vielle would reverberate each time you entered a room, oh to see I nap beside you. — Capra McCormick

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    choices, choices, choices, choices

    I have found every corner & it leaves your skin. To each room you peeled a layer, your birthmark lays against the furnace. Your ripped ear stills at oven timers & you lay your nose on the counter. Your voice sits on blue, veined counters. Here, is your hand. & here, is your future. You point at the same one. ambulate around the bar, left side, hand. Right side, future.  Your lips part like a gaping hole of misinformation of tumbleweeds directing against wind. An unorthodox sight sounds like your voice. Right or left you say. To which your bones pipe up below my feet. & it is just you divesting from your skin. Haunted, those say. Pronounced, my mother.  — Capra McCormick

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    The Cost of Living

    Every day I wake up and watch exactly one tree being destroyed.   Exactly one.   One tree won’t hurt.   Besides, we need more houses.   Two.   We need more money.  Three.   We need a hospital.  Four.   We need a bench.   Five.   Seven.  Thirty trees chopped.   One day I wake up and there is exactly one tree standing.   No one can breathe.   — Shae S.

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    A Visit to the British Museum

    one thing the olive branch must learnis that people love paintings.they love to breathe asthmatic breaths and clutch their pasty hands,staring at paintings of papaya and blue.people love a museum: a zoo displaywhere they cage up paintings to watch them in hostageand scrape the paint from marble statues, create a littlecountry from an archaeological daydream,rig them up high, high, higher, lift that side there,higher north the elgins until they are heavenly whitefantasied past, a mythical justificationthey want to stain their church windowswith the face of olympusand bend to pluck the olive branchuntil it grows apples.a chandelier was hung in the palace of versailles,a statue erected in columbus’ name.here a country was born: herewe pray that god lets us beand thank our ancestors for our paintings.here the office of an artist, foreclosed on a sunday.the ex-owner drives a car on rolled up penniesand gets callouses from counting singles.here the heiress hangs the ex-owner’s painting in the den and thenspits on the door of the soup kitchen.a portrait of dr. martin luther king junior,a mural, a bannerand a cacophony of radio silenceto the riots of the present— higher north the elgin marbles, heavenly white.the british empire lives on inside a museum,a tango of gold coins, exotic fruitand a splotch of dirt on the face of the immigrantkicked by a professor in world history.we thank you ancient gods for our paintingsthe statues you so graciously, and unknowingly,let us adjust for inflation,and we hope your descendants keep within this white line.we bend to pluck this olive girluntil she grows applesand know there is no way to be the two things at once: americanand not. — J. Kontozissi J. Kontozissi is a poet from Danbury, CT. They…

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    Summer Storms

    In the sticky sweet watermelon juice,  the breeze that tastes like freedom,  bonfires and silent sunsets,  fresh-squeezed basil lemonade that makes hands smell like happy,  and days  that age like ripening fruit  In warm rain and the scent  of a storm, in learning constellations  and driving with the windows down,  in putting your heart on a string and  casting it into a narrow chasm  In days with as much potential  as blank pages and a pen full of   ink  There will come brisk breezes and   frozen ground, dug graves and  clinical obituaries, cloudy nights and  squalls instead of sun showers.  — Lila Schlissel

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    why do lesbians move so quickly?

    why do lesbians move so quickly? quick to fall in love to move in quick to marry and to be sure of ourselves. what is it with lesbians and u-haul trucks diving in headfirst into a dating pool 3 feet deep signing declarations of love with the adoption of a cat and committing like it’s our only chance. why do lesbians move so quickly—maybe it’s because we are afraid  that one day we’re going to find ourselves on our deathbed and have nothing to show for it.  that one day we’re going to wish  we stopped being so scared of our difference  and kissed the girl. we are afraid of regret. afraid of loneliness and an unfulfilling life. afraid that one day we’ll be old and have an empty seat next to us. that this feeling of an empty stomach doesn’t ever go away and that we will be forced to do our loving through windows  and in doorways our whole lives.  that must be why lesbians move so quickly. quick to have our hands, our mouths, our hearts all over each other as if we’ll never meet another lesbian in our lives so it doesn’t matter if you’re a little strange  or ugly or a bad kisser because there are only so many of us to come by. and at our core, people are simple. cause and effect. people are made  of one constant thing: the desire—the need—to be loved.  and when you have spent an entire life waiting to be loved, waiting for the tide to turn, the slightest warmth or quiver of the heart feels like a dawn and lesbians will do anything to keep it. —…

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    Human

    I’m a pondering ocean As I stare through myself over and over To pluck out the flaws. I am millions of beads and in each one I am different. Who am i? Why am i? As the borders between pragmatism and projections No longer differentiate, I fail to see beauty. In a mirror lanks a shadowy figure— I am no longer myself. I long to see beyond the trenches of deep sea blue, I desire to walk on the horizon. I hoped to touch the stars. — Miriam Azeez Mariam Azeez, a junior at Danbury High, is a published author and the President of the spoken poetry club, “Word Warriors.” In 2021, Mariam won first place in her school’s annual poetry competition, WordFest. Mariam uses poetry to express and highlight important issues in both high school and the real world.

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    Record Keeping

    I think that if you  took my brain apart you’d find  a gold mine of music notes  in my perirhinal cortex,  spilling out from the flesh like  coins  I can taste songs like memories,  feel them like years and summers  and seasons, smell the soap  I had used to clean my hands and the  clothes I had worn in the car.  My chest aches when I remember the  tree that holds me, roots stuck fast  in my heart, my brain, my being,  that defies my self-isolation with deliberacy That keeps a plethora of records in my  subconscious and makes my  heart hurt  when I remember that I love. — Lila Schlissel

  • Poetry,  Published Submissions

    It Works Just Fine

    Kind, clever, bright. Too bright. So bright she adhered herself like wax to the people responsible for such knowledge every year. She didn’t, however, want to think too deeply about why that was. She hides behind the promise of visits, but never really does. It started; a game of stepping back, analyzing herself, then stepping again into reality to change as her visions see fit. The characters like to stand up from their pages and whisper their take. She often hides behind the witty improv they supply her with. She wonders if she’s supposed to be where she is: the stage she loves so dearly like a pedestal that she refuses to put herself on. All the other winners up there with her, their prize the same, yet in the back of her mind, Doubt. The girl remembers in 7th grade when the grade collectively decided not to tell her it was national “Give Your Girl Your Hoodie” day because her “boyfriends’” hoodie would not have fit her. She hides in her thrifted clothes, a size too big. And she remembers that one concert when she and another boy soloed in “Here Comes The Sun” when all her friends and family could talk about was how good he was. She hides in unending confidence. She hides behind her passions – it’s easy enough. She likes to be told how others perceive her, to make sure she’s presenting herself exactly how she wants to be seen. I have to tweak some things here or there but mostly it works fine. Yes. It works just fine. — Chloe Djilani Chloe Djilani is a high school student at Danbury High School in the…