Tag: poetry
A Blue Bird in Providence
by Connor Zimmerman on March 5, 2020
Portfolio
by Sean Tobin ’20
I saw a blue bird, stoic on a branch
in the wide based dogwood tree.
He shivered there in the cold and
braved the wind, as I watched at him
behind smudged glass: free
to fly but there to stare at my affair.
Mr. Blue Bird, you do not know what
you mean or why you stayed ten
minutes long, but wrong am I to
disregard your vigil without strut.
You were put there for my sake.
Alcatraz of Balloons
by Connor Zimmerman on March 5, 2020
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’21
In Lil Rhody somewhere,
There was a young girl,
With her mind a bit too into romance and a spine still learning to straighten.
I write things down for a living.
I spend days pissed off at gravity or,
Amazed at the fact that 7 billion people are breathing as we speak.
I do these things and you call me an artist.
You say of sorts,
I should be a musician of the heart,
But you don’t know me or the hells.
And GOD,
If you did.
And the truth is
I’ve been scared to tell the other side of the story
The story of the engine behind all this now.
My momma says
All it takes is one look at the girl and you can tell I’ve been a rose tongued wordsmith since birth
But forreal forreal,
I didn’t start bleeding ink until circa late junior high.
Around the time back seats on school field trips started getting awesome
Parentless cribs was all that we lived for
And 1999 coupes could fit all 6 of us.
I grew up with the outliers
But time made it very clear that I would in fact never fit into the major bubble.
I traded in playing dress up to ramble about pretty boys and shit
That kept running from my reach.
It was different back then,
Back when it was just that pen in my teenage rebellion,
Every blank page seemed like a mountain
And every poem opened its own Alcatraz of balloons.
By high school, things in my ribcage began demanding refuge,
And it wasn’t just writing anymore.
They weren’t just poems,
It was my best proof of God.
A bed for my misunderstandings.
A glimpse of sin and salvation in the same second.
What were once journals were now holy purges,
And I learned just how fucking real a night could get with some paper and some secrets.
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.