In a Deep and Dark December

 Sometimes Simon and Garfunkel say it best: "A winter's day/in a deep and dark December."  Our editors and writers went a little dark this time . . . but sometimes in the darkest time of the year, we just need to embrace the sense of hibernation it demands.  We hope you enjoy our offerings this month!

Pluviophile

 

“Pluviophile” I whisper up to the sky,

A word that defines me, and I’ll tell you why.

One who finds comfort in warm summer showers

The quiet pitter patter on windows of ours

 

When the sun hides away

and the sky turns gray

When the clouds start to cry

A tear falls from my eye

 

It falls into the puddle, under my shoes

Filled with grief and behavior I constantly excuse

“I’ll give them one last chance,” I told my best friend

But we both knew it would not be the end.

 

Just like how the rain would never stop falling

I’m following a voice that won’t ever stop calling.

For the voice knows the hold it has over me,

I fear from that voice I will never be free.

 

But I will continue following your voice

Knowing I wouldn’t ever be your first choice.

I’ll keep trying to change you, I’ll be kind to you too

Because all I’ve ever wanted was to be a pluviophile with you.

by Anya A., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 8

World

            Why is it so loud in here, it’s not supposed to be loud…

 

              Many people talking, screaming, no not screaming shouting loud loud loud,                     Door wide open

                     Hospital Lights 

Hospital Smell

Tap tap taping pencil…feet….homework…oh god homework

                                                Why would someone push it off so much

    I would push it off so much

So much

So much

                    Green cabinets     The Smell Of Rain

 

LOUD CRACK BANG and RUMBLE  RUMBLE

            Hot hot face         can’t breath, hot tears hot face… run…get out…why

                                No, this was supposed to happen always supposed to happen

                                BANG CRACK RUMBLE

by Rowan F., Grade 8

Artwork by Richard W., Grade 8

easy

We don’t need you,

    little dog.

Hence, I can serve the usual suspects.

 

I’m as mad      as you      remember.

 

Kiss

another fine mess.

Just

another fine mess.

 

Every special moment was a

    d i s c o n t e n t   d  r   e    a     m      .

The truth, if tranquil, would suffer like family…

Frankly, my dear, ask yourself who is between

Grace       and        give,

 

Wicked &

Wither.

by Anya A. and Avery H. 

(A poem began with magnetic poetry)

Artwork by Richard W., Grade 8

Treasures

Our editors have decided to feature one of our talented poets and artists exclusively this month. Mackenzie J. is a ninth-grader here at Holicong, and we hope you enjoy this spotlight post. Like an exhibit in an art museum, it gives a broad overview of her body of work. 

Ignorance

 

Those Little Things Left Behind

The memorabilia of a life once lived

Forgotten now, scored and scarred

 

An Averagely Abnormal Day

Catch glimpses of untruthful things

The shadows in the alley

 

Promise Me

You're here to stay

Don't let him take you away

 

One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

The face of a friend

And a smiling spider

 

Homeward Bound

Round up the bodies

Rumbling wagon down the road

 

Teasing, Laughter, and a Sense of Unease

The setting sun that graces red faces

And the monster cloaked in blindfold and smile

 

The Absentee God

Fearful of the world she raised

Now hidden from the mistakes she's made

 

Empty Pages

Old and slashed by fragmented glass

Like the tracks left in the lost nightmare field

 

For Your Own Good

He'll always insist

So twist your grimace into a grin

 

Memory Lane

For a faceless friend

For a recollection curdled sweet

 

The Fear Effect

The sweeping plague of paranoia

Oh, the things it makes us do

 

Bloody Steeples

Gifted help you never wanted

While your shadow cries against stained glass windows

 

Ignorance Aflame

Like scorched paper in a lit hearth

"You'll never miss it", the monster promises

 

Small-Town Politics

A wordless stare

A last hope snatched

 

You Don't Exist

Just a wraith of what you used to be

Even if you can't recall

 

The Lion's Head Door Knockers

Silent sentinels of once-quiet library

Split by shouting of once-close friends

 

The Presence of Loneliness

A bleak repetition of mornings past

Amidst contemptuous ghosts and guardian shadows

 

Curiosity Killed the Cat

Stuck in a cycle, tricked by lies

Trace the footsteps you forgot you left

 

Wishing on Grounded Stars

Cast yourself before ever-watchful eyes

Search for that monster, your brother's epitaph

 

A Step in the Wrong Direction

To grasp the hand of that silk-woven man

They never did see how you tried to tear free

 

When Push Comes to Shove

Run away runaway, shadow touched child

"Don't trust him", it whispered, so why wouldn't you listen?

 

"Ignorance is bliss, after all."

 

The Ashes of a Burning Heart

 

How does it feel, my dear

To lose the best thing that ever happened to you?

To have that spark in your chest go out

Like the mirror's cracking glass

To have what once shone

Go dark and dull

Lost where it can’t be saved

 

Yes, your mind still thinks

But does your heart still beat?

Or have you left it in the ashes

Where his fire once roared?

 

Oh, Dear Lover of Crows

 

I have heard people whisper

That if the crows love you

They will always lead you home

So every time I saw one

Perched outside my door

Sleek and black and ever watchful

With those far too intelligent eyes

I would leave a piece of bread

In the hopes they would love me

Enough to guide me back

No matter how far I wandered

But I do not know yet

If they love me enough to bring me home

For I have not yet left

And maybe never will

 

An Old Story

 

Someone always has to leave first

This is a very old story

I loved you

There is no other

And you left

Version of this tale

The ending will be the same as the beginning:

Soft

And sad

And blurry around the edges

The Return

 We are back for a new year with some editors from last year, some new editors, and lots of new ideas to make this year's magazine posts grand!  Enjoy our opening pieces for the year, and look for a few more soon. In the meantime, join us at the annual Holicong Coffeehouse, the evening of November 4th to hear Holicong students perform their own music and poetry. 

Exercises for an Artist 

(after Tanya Shadrick, after Wendell Berry)

Stare at the beauty 

Analyze the meaning, the story 

Pick up your pencil, pen, paper 

Let your hand flow lightly 

A small moth flapping its wings and gliding in the air 

Ask: are you happy with it? 

If not, change it, recreate it, take flight again 

Strike your pen down like lightning 

Give life to your art. 

by Nia H., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 9

Today I Saw a Deer

Today I saw a deer,

Munching on some grass.

Wrapped in a golden blanket of sunshine,

Showered in warmth.

 

Still, he seemed lonely,

Sitting on that hill alone.

I brought him a friend,

A small puppy.

 

The puppy was as dark as the mud beneath the grass,

His fur as soft as a bird's feathers,

His goofy smile stretching for miles,

As he lopes around the grassy hill.

 

They have fun, those two.

Maybe they understand each other?

Maybe they never really had a barrier between them at all

Because of their love for the sun.

 

When the deer grows old, he can no longer dance with the dog;

Maybe he doesn't want to.

But the dog stays loyal, old as well,

And stays by his side.

But then the deer found the one he holds close, 

And he no longer wants to be with the dog.

Though the dog indeed was his best friend,

Their dancing was already out of sync. 

 

Today I saw a baby boy,

Sucking on his finger.

Wrapped tightly in cotton blankets,

Showered in hugs and kisses.

 

Still, he seemed lonely,

Sitting in that cradle alone.

I brought him a friend,

One he would remember, long into his life.

 

A small, stuffed puppy.

by Richard W., Grade 8

Artwork by Julia N., Grade 9

My Off-White Sweater

That long-lasting embrace of soft polyester

My only lover, my off-white sweater

A shield from the cold, the chill, the wind

A shield from the sorrow, and all I’ve sinned.

 

It holds my strengths and happiness within,

weaved through the stitches, weaved into my skin.

For the so-called sweater, not sweater at all

But a layer of protection, with it’s help I wont fall.

 

My sweater holds me when no one else will,

The holes in my heart, my sweater will fill.

The soft polyester will be there forever,

My only lover, my off-white sweater.

by Anya A., Grade 9

Artwork by Richard W., Grade 8

Finding Old Comforts In A Fresh Start

 

Stop and look around.

Take: 1, Scene: 1, Episode: 1, Season: 1.

I swear, I’ve seen you before.

In another life.

Welcome back, I missed those eyes.

My Hiraeth.

by Jaime P., Grade 9

Endnotes

 For some of us, it's an ending. As the school year comes to a close we say goodbye to our friends. We clean out our lockers and wish our teachers farewell. We shed a tear as we leave the building, realizing that all of our memories are in the past. What we've known for so long is now gone. For some of us, its an ending.

For some of us, it’s a beginning. We seek the newly freed time to relax and clear our minds. We spend time with our family, and relatives we haven't seen in months. We explore new hobbies and passions and take the time to learn more about the things we love. For some of us it’s a beginning.

 

Whether it’s a beginning or end, we will still cherish all of the memories we've made here. We edited papers and gave good feed back, but we also laughed. We had an amazing time together and also had an amazing time sharing our best pieces with you!

 

This month's post includes little snippets, fragments of writing, from most of our authors here at Sevenatenine Literary Magazine to conclude this years magazine. We hope you’ve enjoyed the pieces from this year and we hope you enjoy these!

 

Come visit us next year to see some more amazing work from your favorite writers and artists, and to hopefully see pieces from our new students next year!

 

From everyone here at Sevenatenine Literary Magazine, we wish you an amazing summer!

by Julia N., Grade 8

Artwork by Dylan H., Grade 9

For I thought myself a hero,

And so it seems did he

But fairytales are pretty lies

And so it seems are we

 

by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

 

A fish in the sky,

Swimming in the expansive black,

It likes to relish the view of distant planets

And rest in a bed of stars.

 

by Richard W., Grade 7

 

 

She takes a step back

Then two

Then she walks away, like I should have done

I shouldn’t have said that.

 

by Sophia L., Grade 7

 

Supine and stare at the open sky.

Wonder over the field in which It all began.

When the cicada grasshoppers jigged out their countryside rigadoon.

The fruit fly squirmed,

As if it was laughing too.

 

When you marry the daisies,

You marry for raw tenderness.

And always smile when you can.

 

by Jaime P., Grade 8

 

So long

The city awakens

To sow and reap

Again

 

by Jack D., grade 8

 

I’d laugh with them, cry with them, go through it all with them, fight for them, fight with them. If those people ever needed me, I will be there less then a mile away, by their side.

 

by Beck M., Grade 9.

 

The Penultimate Post

 Well, the year is not quite over yet.  Look out, world: two posts are coming your way from Sevenatenine in rapid succession.  Here is the first, and our second-to-last (or penultimate) of the year.  We hope you find it wonderful.

Vertigo

I retrace my steps, I try to explain

why the ground feels so hollow, why my head drips with pain

 

hope in my eyes, I stare to the sun

drifting away, in delirium

 

vertigo, oblivion

I'm spinning away

 

rows of houses, endless people;

they rob me of meaning

i can feel their hands

suffocating me

such a random, useless destiny

 

I'm trying to learn to let go

but your words burn like scars

your sympathy lost in undertow

I swallow my heart

 

the world is still on the outside

your words are soft

the wind is soothing

but my mind is screaming

and while the surface shines, the inside rots

 

stuck somewhere between hope and apathy

stuck somewhere between my mind and reality

 

vertigo, oblivion

I'm drifting away

 

chaos surrounds me, whirling

next time, I won't throw it all away

by Liam R., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

My Best Friend

The poison in my veins

The sunshine in my day

The right amount of fun

To melt the cold away

The one that somehow plagues me

But heals my wounded soul

My bestest friend ever

That opens my heart of coal

by Ava C., Grade 7

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Six Cents

The troubadour watches from afar

Define my abyss:

 

A walking duplex stutters

Beautiful dreams 

With a limp in his head

Looped and bound

By a stagnant complex

You got six cents where all cars go?

 

 

Nothing’s ever really wrong

When a song ends in a minor key

 

And so I come to isolation

by Jack D., Grade 9

Artwork by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

Regretful Fire

She shouts,

I shout back. 

We're dancing with burning coals. 

My mouth spins

and twists my emotions:

shock lines her face. 

I respond with flames. 

I don't realize it now, 

but I am filled with regret. 

We go our separate ways, quietly. 

No words traverse our burning bridge. 

She returns with hot anger. 

It burns, it stings, and she doesn't relent. 

It hurts me as much as it frustrates me. 

Because deep down, I know she's right. 

by Richard W., Grade 7

The Cruelest (and Kindest) Month

 T. S. Elliot once wrote, "April is the cruelest month," and this April, with it's wild dips back into winter, may seem like one of those months.  Then again, it has been a time for writers -- like the daffodils and crabapple trees -- to blossom.  National Poetry Month draws students around the country to more poetry, and we have an ample supply from our own Holicong writers here for you today.  So to poets, the month is also a kind one.  We hope it has been kind to you. 

Where the Tulip Grows

Where the tulip grows,

The lush green ground that whispers wispy affirmations.

A tickle on the petals as they shall bend--

Shall whisper into the tiny ears of the tulip,

A mellifluous sing-song song as the hummingbird hums by.

 

Where the tulip lives,

Under a bosom,

A beating heart drumming on and on.

A stem being thrown about to and fro.

Roots slowly churning upwards from the ground,

Sheltered comfort slightly pried away.

Tis’ but the wind my friend.

I’m deathly, deathly sure.

 

Where the tulip perceives,

Eyes watching so fondly.

But, roots are still tugging,

And now the stem is being lashed around

In a tight grasp.

My friend,

'Tisn’t the wind.

I'm affrightedly sure.

 

Where the tulip grows,

In this bleakly battered and hellish place.

Trampled into hiraeth for the untainted meadow of moon.

Trapped in an illicit daydream.

 

Where the tulip dries,

Crumble to crumble.

Indeed.

Society kills.

by Jaime P., Grade 8

Old Sir Gone No More

And the fireworks caterwauled as airplanes flew over a sea veiled by the infinite night

Stood barefoot in the sand

Heavy heart, flamboyant dance

Father clutching shoulder in ill-fated doom; stale breath, cold stance

You are going to be so tall, in all emotional vacancy

Where did he helm when you needed it

Where was your heart, never wrote, when Eeileen found beauty in the caterpillar

If only he recognized his vulnerability

 

By the door he spoke to me with intoxicated jest

You are going to be so tall, atrocity exhibition

Lost without a trace of a way to get out of this misery

As long as ropes unravel, the fondest farewell will travel

But will prevail at water's edge

Milking stones

Nothing left to hold on to but his own pride

New found solace

 

As I run out of El Segundo, out of the Great Laugh of Mankind

Out of veneered palm trees

Wending westward wept the eye of a needle, spewing idyllic treacheries

I tried my best, I tried in vein

But lo and behold, Eeileen's in a drunken runt, that sunken shunt

Empathy departed, devoid of her ardery, our quasi-cavalry

I tried my best, I tried in vain

But my knees caved in

 

Atrophy gliding the sun's whisper

Beaming down rays of hope, sundry

Figure forms above the grains, tips of tool kissing the sand

Trudging a negating lullaby, where the mountains once penetrated the ground

Pondering grouse drums, edicting the flies

Asunder came flocks of edifice

Perforating the crevices of the Earth

A great laugh cradles the sky

 

Above the conjugated buzzing, atop the roof where the burgeoning, burdening antenna sits

Scraping sky, some steel shaft

Seven suns sonder, Sisyphus settled

The hummingbird pantomimes

And I miss the precious heart of the Wild Cosmia; oh no, now I'm grieving

Left wondering how many times will I die up here

On the mountain's coil

My boulder, all exeunt!

by Jack D., Grade 8

Artwork by Charlie W., Grade 7

Permanent No Man's Land

What is it to be the permanent no man’s land?

To stand, forever at the edge of all things, and watch?

To see the world drift by, lives lived and lives died,

And to never endure the painful wonder of existence?

To gaze at the endlessness without deadline,

To be the forever and the never,

All at once alive and dying and yet so perfectly not

What is it, even, to be called?

A geographical phenomenon, or a scientific anomaly?

Is there explanation at all, or merely something beyond mortal comprehension,

That binds the world to have an edge

Gives the sky and earth a place to meet

Allowed to end, truly, but never stop

A loop, a cycle

Endlessly

Endless

End

by Mackenzie J., Grade 7

"No Monsters/No Mercy" by Makenzie J., Grade 7

Second 

I feel as if I’m always in second, never enough, never perfect. I try my hardest to be at the top. I’m nice, but not the favorite. I’m smart, but I’m not intelligent.

I want more.

 

I want to be first for once, I want to be recognized. I want to be truly noticed for me.

 

What did you say? I can’t do that?

 

I’ll just try harder. I’ll try to be funny, be smart, work harder, be popular.

 

I’m sorry. I really tried to be better. I didn’t want to make it worse.

 

I’m an outcast. I was wrong. I’m now less than anything. I’m spiraling down. I can’t keep up. I shouldn’t have tried.

 

 I’m still not enough. I will never be enough.

 

Greed overtakes me. I want more. It will never be enough.

 

I will never be enough.

by Lily C., Grade 7

Artwork by Charlie W., Grade 7