The End of all Things

‘Twas then I lay upon the rock

And thus began to ponder.

Of kings and queens, flying machines,

And this, the life I’d squandered.

 

Therein I lay complacently

A wretched, cold cadaver.

And contemplated time I’d lost,

Rosebuds I might have gathered.

 

I lay and thought of idle days

Of fertile fields untilled.

Of gilded goblets brimming joy,

Sweet nectar I had spilled.

Of Love, beguiling, red-cheeked wench

Adorned in crepe and frills.

For ‘twas a life not arduous,

But worse yet, unfulfilled.

 

In this, a time of reckoning,

A time to recompense.

In vain I plead salvation

But to reap indifference.

Therefore I stand, a man condemned,

By Fate’s wanton decree.

To reminisce on wasted youth

For an eternity.

-Andrew Farley

 

 

Midterm Shock

I can’t believe I’m writing my midterm.
Scary, isn’t it?
This class was great.

Really, it was.
Amazing.

And now we all get
to move on.
I’ll remember
most of you.
That’s the best that I can promise.

I’m sorry I can’t
promise you more
than a glisten of recognition
when you pass in the halls,
but that’s more
than I can promise
anyone else.

And I wish that I could promise you
that glisten
until the day that I’ve got no more
strength to glisten with,
but I can’t do that either.
You’re like my chapstick;
you’ve done so much for me
—so much that I can’t—couldn’t—
haven’t returned—
but I’ll lose you soon enough,
and the problem
is that you did so much and meant so much
but I’m a greedy, greedy soul
and couldn’t name exactly what you did
or what you meant,
so there’s nothing to actually keep .

Good can’t last forever.
That’s why the good die young.

And even though you were great—amazing—
you’ll die along with these words.
You’ll become ancient and ambiguous,
like the thoughts of the students from 1971
that knew they were infinite, too.
It doesn’t mean you weren’t great;
you just weren’t as invincible
as you felt when you got a little vulnerable
and everyone clapped for you.

But don’t worry.
I’m not foolish enough to think
that you’ll remember me, either.
We’ll forget each other, see,
and it won’t be for better or worse.

But let me just thank you
for being the one thing
to leave me
without
abandoning me.

Without taking
the breath
from my
heart
and leaving me—

gasping.

-Kelly Fahey

Society Says

I have a Game.

Let me tell you the rules.

Someone’s “it”.

Now everybody must do

exactly

what “it” says to do

before time runs

out.

But if you don’t,

You’re out.

And you wanna know a

secret

about The Game?

There’s only one winner.

But everybody

loses.

You wanna play?

-Emily Caccam

Poem #1438

Some might say my Time is rushed,

But I must disagree—

Death and life in circuit combined—

I have till Eternity—

That Black veil, the Shadows of Night,

As Dark as the Setting Sun,

What gives a fright for me is Right—

I have till Eternity—

Let the Bells ring and the Gong toll,

I, like an Eagle, will fly—

The cawing Crows cannot scare me now

I have till Eternity.

Tomorrow when the Sun rises, everything will remain—

My Labor and Leisure passed with time—

I am in Eternity—

 -Francesca Milewski

Untitled

Please don’t! flash me that sycophantic smile— Like your mendacity I do not see, Like know I not your bottled bonhomie— When long traversed have I your endless mile, Known haunt of wraiths whose trust did you beguile, (Who but for you still jejune stars would be)— And dare you ask if I, for you, am free! Like ever I could mend as you defile.
And yet! how piteous a sight you seem, All wandering waiflike, tossed by tempest swell— For charm oblivion as a bludgeon wields, And soon it is again of you I dream— As from barbed chaparral blooms asphodel, We two tread graceless through Elysian Fields.
-Catherine Tween

A Scratch

She spins around in her chair,
Not worried about people—
Their strange lives and thoughts.
It’s fun to pretend
As if she’s not afraid,
As if her world were forever pure.

She allows a pencil to
Rest in her hand as she spins.
What harm can a pencil do?
It’s reliable, and nice,
Clean. Comfortable.

She halts with a gasp:
The utensil has marred
Her perfect, white desk.
Everyone can see a mark
On a white surface,
So she rubs it out, believing her eraser Could conceal any damage done.

But still, and always still,
Gray streaks will smudge
Her perfect little world.
A two-fold attack that
Leaves her wondering,
“How did I let this happen?”

The stained cannot forget
That which has marked her.
It was branded into
Her memory when she
Was the one who let the
Tormenter tarnish her world.

-Michaela Brady

Imprints

Praise be given for the imprints of things-

For rain-craters in dry sand;

For profiles portrayed on pillows;

Grass patterns on skin, paths walked in the snow.

Praise be given for things that still show

When their makers no longer stand.

 

Baby hands hardened in clay;

Cuts closed, forming firm ridges

On smooth slopes of skin.

All things fleeting or final, passing  or

Permanent. Exult the signatures of the

Seasons, their marks on the mural of nature.

 

Acclaim the marks on a mind;

Memories of first steps, baby teeth, Velcro shoes,

Unbridled imaginations, open minds,

Images accumulating to show the picture of a person.

Praise be given to peculiarity, to idiosyncrasy;

To all things—past, present, future—whose imprint

Inspires.

-Laura Powis

The Life of the Lonely Statesman

He sits at his computer,

Seltzer by his side

(he could use some alcohol, but it would ruin his image)

Writing the least exciting kinds of stories:

Emails, memos, an E-card for his niece’s birthday.

He is a seasoned veteran of the late night,

A champion of putting it together in the morning

To present himself (or some image of himself)

To the people who picked him.

But actually he picked them:

He chose the decisive, clear-cut risk of a career

Over the terrifying risk of art.

So standing over his desk is a plaque,

Not a painting.

It has his name on it and the name of another statesman,

A more famous one,

It has a picture of them smiling over a handshake

And they lean towards the camera.

A lot of people know the statesman

A lot of people don’t

But no one knows his story.

Not his life story but his story,

The one he could have chosen to write,

The one he kept to himself.

Only he knows it,

But it has been so long

That he’s stopped telling it to himself.

 

It is late at night:

The statesman sits at his computer

The seltzer is empty next to him.

He types hundreds of words

But not one means a thing.

-Kat Mckay

Meeting Tomorrow!!

Thanks to everyone who came to Slamtober last friday! It was a huge success and a lot of fun! We will be having our next meeting tomorrow at 2:30 in room B203! We hope to see you there!

SLAM-TOBER is this Friday!

Our first poetry slam of the year, Slam-tober, is being held this Friday, October 28th, in the English-Social Studies Learning Connections room at 6 pm.

Join us for a night of poetry, short-fiction, music, and free food!

Bring a poem or a piece of short fiction to read aloud– it can be your own original work, or someone else’s.  We also welcome musical performances!

Please try to email whatever you want to read to current@darienps.org by Friday. And if you intend to sing/play an instrument, let us know about that too.

We hope to see you there!!