Tag: poetry
The Simple Truth
by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020
Portfolio
by Grace O’Connor ’22
Large crowds always made her head spin
She could never hear herself think which is why
She preferred to be alone, hear her own thoughts
Flood in her head like a much-needed drug
Silence is what led her to feel the rawness of her emotions
She felt the most alive, embracing the tranquility and authenticity
Of the simple, nothing forced, just truth
She craved this around other people, in a crowded room filled
With every other voice besides her own
The beach always made her feel the most alive
The cold sand between her toes as the breeze embraced her in a natural hug
No one to judge every move she makes, simply just the water waving
As the sand made room for every step she took, molding around her footprint
She likes to think more than anything
Unlacing the knot of every new thought that came to her head
Understanding the whys and hows of everything around her
Feeling her essence and recognizing herself in these moments
In the silence that some think is a burden
She welcomes it with open arms
Her internal voice is the most driven, and sure
Her outward voice is quiet, and scared.
Terrified.
Silence, is what some are afraid of
She was too
But does silence always have to be a burden?
Is it scary to see your raw emotions? Thoughts?
These Perishable Thoughts
by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020
Portfolio
by Sam Ward ’21
The only thing I fear are these perishable thoughts.
I grasp onto them like they are golden-tipped winged shoes fluttering above my halo’d mind.
I clutch them close like the cross my grandfather bore around his neck, falling gracefully over his beating chest.
I behold them like Eris’s apple, the idyllic piece, missing from the grandest schema.
I grasp. I clutch. I behold.
I grasp them until they float from reach, transcending, elevating, leaving this earthly coil.
Winged shoes become fabricated visions.
I clutch them until they melt into my chest, burying themselves deeper than Freudian wizardry could uncover.
Even silver crosses turn black.
I behold them until they become objects of fantasy, distant, sublime.
Golden apples must rot, too.
Careless, I would be, without these perishable thoughts.
So I continue to
grasp, clutch, behold:
and write it all down.
alone on a pier
by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020
Portfolio
by Jay Willett ’20
Moss beams teal, tides crash sloping soliloquies,
withdraws, slicing bay reefs sucking out to Adrian.
Slime crawls up poles, infecting, seeping, into designed drains.
Concrete, salt cracks finish, a sand texture feeling by foot—barefoot.
Perhaps it’s selfish to think your happiness is a salvation.
I’m not so foolish as to believe that anymore. Sweetheart, I’ve run out.
Darling, we can’t dance anymore. The bar’s closing. The band went home.
You might be smiling, but in that dark, I could never truly know if you were.
Ah—right, the poem. I’ll make you feel something, that’s the point, right?
You want to cry together, laugh, sing, it’s a pretty idea.
It should rhyme, right? What’s the scheme?
Ah—
You’re expecting a trick.
Something witty perhaps?
Some of you want me to trick you.
I can’t.
It’s not that I can’t do it. I don’t want to.
Poets are all liars. It’s what we do.
Sell pieces of ourselves to you, to make you feel something.
But how could I when I have nothing to feel—to give you?
There’s no deeper meaning. No pages between the lines.
This is it.
This is the poem.
If you were expecting more, well—sorry.
I’m just a dirty poet. A liar. A fraud.
A boy alone on a pier, waiting to be proved wrong.
Free Will
by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020
Portfolio
by Sarah Heavren ’21
A great blessing
And a great curse
Choose what is best
Choose what is worst.
Your decision
In good and bad
Choose the happy
Choose the sad.
Follow a path
Go and embark
Choose what is light
Choose what is dark.
14 Ways to Say I Love You
by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’21
I love you.
I hate you.
I want to hear your voice.
Shut up.
Hug me.
Don’t touch me.
Come over.
Stay away.
Kiss me.
Don’t kiss me.
We make a good team.
I’m better without you.
I miss you.
Leave me alone.
A Real Galentine’s Day
by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020
Portfolio
by Samantha Pellman ’20
It’s a Friday night at 6 p.m.
The sky is dark already
The air is cold.
To us it’s just a Friday night
But to others it’s the most romantic day of the year.
We don’t look at it that way.
We stand in front of the mirror
Curling our hair
And putting on mascara.
Laughing together
And sipping wine
Tonight will be one for the books.
It’s a night to celebrate our freedom
We’re only young for so long
We’ll be wishing to be at this stage in life again.
We’re leaving our phones home tonight
We don’t need to get in contact with anyone
This night is for us.
I take candid pictures of my friends
So we can remember how happy we were
Just to have each other.
Valentine’s Day is wonderful
But for now, it’s me and my girls
We’re all we need tonight and always.
Below, a guide for writing a love poem to your sweetheart (or boogabear, snookems, or tootsie wootsie)
by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020
Portfolio
by Sam Ward ’21
To better understand love and its treasures,
You must first reexamine your loyalty to vices.
You are not ready to love unless you take the right measures.
Would you keep caffeine in the A.M. if Starbucks raised its prices?
Wag your finger to rom-coms, even Paul Rudd ones.
Love has no place for a man who makes silly puns.
Say no to chocolate in bed, sugar for breakfast.
To forgo these things is to keep your heart the freshest.
A rose is still a rose, if you detest it,
And a bed full of petals is no place to rest in.
Flowery poetry makes you look like a sap,
Now say, “Valentine’s Day is crap!”
First Lesson
by Connor Zimmerman on February 7, 2020
Portfolio
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23
How do I teach someone something that is beyond my own comprehension?
That question incessantly prodded my mind when I sat down the first day
Not at my usual seat at the keys
But instead in a chair beside them.
How do I explain that while it flows like a language, the words are beyond definition?
That thought pulsed through my head as she placed her small hands down
Hovering above keys she hadn’t yet learned to name
And stared at the book on the shelf.
How do I correct her when she makes a mistake, act infallible despite how I make them?
That worry made my fingers twitch as she pressed each ivory block with her own
From C, then to D, she began to sway
A simple melody, yet a comforting one.
The song in front of us is only two lines long, only takes a minute, one note at a time
But it’s a sequence of notes I learned years ago, when I turned the first page the first time.
How do I tell her this is only the beginning, the first sentence in a book we will write?
That is the wonder quieting my nerves as I sit there in silence and listen
Each note rings clear and crisp through the air
True and loud, without hesitation.
How do I talk about something so beautiful it is better left uninterrupted?
That is the issue today still arising when I sit down to teach someone to play
But right then, I simply waited for her to finish
To feel that unique prideful satisfaction.
I can’t help the smile that grows on my face as I observe her stern concentration
She pushes down on each key with precision, decision—and hits every one right.
The Mist
by Connor Zimmerman on February 7, 2020
Portfolio
by Sarah Heavren ’21
There’s a mist that appears at times.
What is real becomes hard to find.
In my mind it clouds and obscures
The things that I’ve thought, seen or heard.
The mist’s purpose is to deceive
All the things my brain perceives.
It adds an element of doubt
To things I should be sure about.
The Real and True are always there.
And through the thick mist they declare
That even if I cannot see
There is always faith, hope, and charity.
Although the mist can induce fear,
There’s a way my mind can be clear.
A little Light is all it takes
To make the thick mist dissipate.
String Lights
by Connor Zimmerman on February 7, 2020
Portfolio
by Grace O’Connor ’22
Strands of string lights circled around the wooden frame of the bunk bed
Warm yellow light illuminates from the mini bulbs
White wire twisted together to hold each mini light bulb in place
The string lights are a twisted vine keeping the wooden planks in custody
Tied around the bed frame tightly with no intention of coming loose
The loose end of the wire sneaks down to the floor, fusing itself with the outlet
The string lights are twinkling stars in the dark
They reflect their light against the wall like stars reflect their light in the sky
They can be seen in the darkest of nights pressed against the sky
The mini light bulbs are pointing in all different directions like a rusted street sign
Oblivious to the direction they are pointing to
There are dozens of them with their light shining a path from far away
The lights are fireflies lighting up the dark
Floating on the air with their visible illumination
They dim and brighten but never for a second lose my attention