Youth Literary Magazine
Poem by Paris LeClaire
I am lying sideways on a moment
I will feel, feel, feel
until the dark slug sliding
Between my trachea and my esophagus
Isn’t a slug but a water
Creature—or maybe some other
Scaled, amphibious thing. Maybe.
I’m not sure where I’ve seen it
(I know I have):
Not everything feels like something else.
Poem by Varrick Kwang
Fluffy Boy
Cute fluffy boy
Playing with yarn of a toy
As your clean white hair rustle with the wind
As you bear brown little markings look like a marshmallow.
Cute Fluffy boy
How carefree must you be
To sleep in the middle of the corridor where the humans walk.
To loaf with such ease
To sploot with such grace
Cute Fluffy Boy
You close your eyes.
You smile as much as you could.
As my hand strokes the fur on your little head
You slow blink at me after I am done.
And my heart flutters.
But I know I am not your chosen family.
But I know I am not the one you will sleep and cuddle with.
And indeed, after a minute, you run off to another corner of the sidewalk where you can sleep alone.
I see the ball of fluff goes back to his lovely little slumber.
Amongst the sidewalk with birds, trees and potted plants.
As the rays of sunbathe you.
How blissful
I imagine when you wake up and run home.
You ask your family for snacks.
They gave you all the yummy
Just look at that tummy
You are free to sleep, free to eat and free to clean.
So unconstrained by the unseen chains of the bipedal.
So unrestricted by any paper laws that hover over heads
So unbound from the cuffs for two legs.
Our chase for money will never end,
They say money has four legs, just like you.
Perhaps just like you, money will elude our gestures for affections.
Perhaps just like you, only a small minority will experience your affections.
reposing on an undusted wood board
that distinct smell around
growing on me,
my surface—slanted
on the previous one’s
handsome (barring magnetic),
spare font intro,
sedate and composed countenance
and a few violets for welcome
into my world.
if only you pick me, flip over my layers
you’ll know I have a story
a web of technicolour memories
a map of a fascinating journey
entwined with those of others,
a story that you may find eccentric
yet worthy in its own right.
have me as your best mate
trust me you can if
you believe in my frank,
ripened as mango sheaf….
I had to abolish you,
How long would you grapple?
Delighted to breakthrough,
Enslaved, daily apple.
Disgraceful fragility.
Never imagined treachery
Of bitter inefficiency,
And a myriad sisters left to memory.
Serenity, dishonest,
Instituted disciples of anger.
Never again, you promised.
Silence, refreshing candor.
Vestiges of the past,
Afflict my insides, mutinous.
Hysterical sin, vast
Recital of an ode to my uterus.
Shall we as ghostly fireflies,
witness moonlit atrocities together,
perched on windless gravestones
to take this chance, as transient beings
serendipitously trapped
in the wintry wineglasses of alleyway devotees;
They witnessed once, how their gem-encrusted
shipyards brushed the sky, brought down a rain
of carnivorous silvers- &
decked a church with neon roses,
spat mica onto the heathens’ hands
Come back to wanderlust
in the primrose fields
atop the fossils of things old & going,
watch the sun-wheel in the distance
creak under sunlight stained by radium
while here, motes of stardust gather
on the floral carpets
& tea parties are languidly evergreen,
deathless in their tinted porcelain
(TW: this work contains mentions of abuse)
I
His hands land color to my cheeks.
It’s like Holi again and we are both ten years old. I am running and he’s chasing me all around the house, his fists overfilled with gulaal. No matter how fast I run, he runs faster. He catches up with me and rubs the colors luxuriously all over my face, not sparing my hair, poor. I cough, spit and spew as chemical dryness spreads inside my mouth, candying my tongue the shade of cosmetic green. I look horrified and he can’t help but giggle at the pitiful sight in front of his eyes.
His hands land color to my cheeks, humiliating red. At that moment, I feel peachy tinkles and melanic combustions burst across my eyes as I look up at his firm hand in love, so in love. “A bother touches me”, I place my palm on top of the back of his hand. “You remind me of my dead lover.”
II
The first pea from the pod falls and my lover hasn’t come back to me; the icy words which blow candles on my birthday every year have started to melt – if it isn’t his kissable breath warmed by ignorance, I don’t want it. He opens up sparrows in my mind, sorrows too, but I want the discomforts of him settling above the aches of my ovaries – embracing the now hollow shells as a reason. I have never had a colorful love life, his hands didn’t leave much room for happiness. Each time I told him to touch me, he would cover me in black and spill me around like his daily tea. He adored me, he said he was addicted to me, he said he was obsessed with me, he said he couldn’t stay away from me. Even the day he died, he kissed parts of me I didn’t want him to. Maybe that’s why he had to die.
III
The rest of the peas – rotten and alike, follow the suit of the first one, falling with a thud in a bowl full of freshly peeled pods. With each thud, I am reminded of how desperately I wanted him to break up with me. We were inseparable , we were lovers, then he became someone damaged beyond recognition, dead in every sense deemed romantic..
I removed his hands from my red cheeks, rubbing my cheek against his to transfer the color of humiliation and lost love, I don’t want to be found ever again.
There was mud on Clara’s ankles snaking its way up to her calves. It seeped, squelched between her toes as she walked further into the marsh, Back there, where the grasses grew in bursts like the clouds in the June sky, she had lost one shoe then the other.
At the loss of the first shoe she’d cursed, delved both hands into the oozing mud and tried to locate what she knew was lost. Lost, buried beneath the dirt. Then she’d looked up at the sky and sobbed, watching the birds gliding above become blurry through her tears. The second time came just a few steps later after she’d wiped her snot away with the back of her hand. She’d felt the familiar pull down, down into the earth and simply kept walking, the shoe slipping off, a lover’s silk nightgown.
The grasses began to graze her thighs beneath her white shift. They whispered against her skin in the same way Martha’s hands had when she was untying Clara’s bootlaces. Martha, the hushed voices of the grasses breathed through the dusk. Water began to spring up between her toes with each step. Soon the water plastered her dress against her legs, then her waist, then her shoulders.
The marsh birds scattered from the trees as she submerged herself in the waters. It felt like puncturing a cake with birthday candles, breaking through the waters. They presented her to the sliver of moon that hung in the sky on a watery plate. On her back she could see the water-drawn insects flitting in and out of vision, could watch the birds return home with their treasures of twigs clasped in their beaks, could feel the weight of the swelling horizon.
The reeds from the depths ran their fingers through her hair in a way she had missed since Martha’s departure. Every other Friday Martha went to her dad’s in the city. Clara watched as she stuffed things into her backpack pausing intermittently to kiss her softly on the forehead. Those days she felt like the lovelorn tide that lapped against the sand, desperate for the most momentary of touches. Today was Saturday evening. Martha would be back tomorrow with stories of her city friends, her vibrant words pooling honey in Clara’s ears.
On these waters where they had skipped stones, where they had dipped their toes in from the wooden path, where the water still tasted of the sweat of Martha’s skin, they were closer. And as her tears slid down Clara’s face they chimed as they joined the pools around her.
The book she’d tucked under her arm floated on the surface like a body. To Clara, and Love Martha, scrawled on the front page. She’d come here to read in the company of the marsh birds. It was the only way to pass the time when Martha was away. Each page flaked away a few moments of absence. Every time the book bobbed on the surface it reminded her of what she’d seen.
To Clara. Love Martha.
She had taken the board path to get to the marsh. Book tucked under her arm, her shoes clicked against the wooden slats. Above her the marsh birds shrieked as they circled. Reeds lined each side of the path, fluttering in the breeze. They grew taller the further into the marsh she went, until she was dwarfed by them. For a second they parted, and there, beneath the weeping willow, she stood. Martha.
She was with a boy from their school, the year above. He had her black hair in a fistful in his hand. Their mouths were joined, open, searching. Against the tree she tilted her neck to the side in a fashion that made bile sting in Clara’s throat. His hands were blindly upon her, rough like he was separating dirty laundry. The reeds closed again.
Love Martha.
And now Clara was in the water.
The sounds of the birds overhead morphed into Martha’s laugh, the rustling grasses into her soft voice, the flowing reeds into her fingers. The book splayed apart on the water’s surface. The ink of the first page was running into the waters of the marsh. The word Martha was bleeding. Clara reached listlessly for it. She needed to read it once more, hold onto the the drawn-out vowels for a second longer. She needed one more moment of embrace. The marsh birds cried out as she turned onto her stomach, submerged her face into the rippling water.
The reeds wove around her, twining like ribbons. They pulled her in. Into her arms.
I stand myself forcing to stay
still, and think of you
I’ve seen the end of us
I impose to my mind the craving of your
attention, as you are more than a friend
you are an excuse
a distraction
Go on, say goodbye
to the one that i love,
here
Pretend that i love you more
than i tolerate you
even more so than i can tolerate myself
without anyone,
seeing the pain in my eyes when
I’m next to you.
without witnesses
As when you look at me,
you can only be your own
reflection.
What’s in your pockets right now? Have a feel, pat them down.
Somewhere in the world, not far from you; a man is walking down the street. He’s on his way to meet a girl he found on tinder last week. There’s a wallet in his pocket. Inside it is a provisional driver’s licence, his older brother’s Tesco club card, his credit card (which is maxed out) and of course, a condom. It’s expired. Did you know they could do that? He stole it from a PSHCE lesson in year nine. It has sat in his wallet proudly, ever since. It has been removed from his wallet only a number of times. It shows its colourful red face and says quietly “I am prepared. I am safe.” But never once has it protected anyone. The token condom burns his pockets, filling his chest with a nervous buzz.
Across the street from him is a woman, strolling briskly home. She doesn’t have any pockets. She has her hand in her bag, clutching tightly her phone. She doesn’t have any pockets because it makes her more dependent, more vulnerable, more alone. In her bag she has lipstick, Vaseline, a handheld portable mirror and spare pads just in case. Beneath her phone, kissing the back of her hand, is a bottle of mace.
They pass each other, glancing briefly. The woman’s eyes widen. The man’s brows tighten. Thank god on this day, they are two ships passing.
From archives of Indian poetry,
Your Palanquin, sweet accent to me bore,
of strong-led womanhood, Your verse taught me,
of such august life I knew not before.
Valorous daughter of my motherland,
Your enthronement, had all diverseness eased,
Your governance- the first feminine stand,
had women from their impoundment released.
Whether the Dandi March or prison cell,
or repression the British did compel,
none could forfare Your orped Nightangle’s flight,
nor diminish Your literature’s light,
of which, history is enough to tell,
and hearts of your worshippers where you dwell.
About the poem: This Sonnet is dedicated to Sarojini Naidu who was a poet and a freedom fighter during the British rule in India. She was the first female ever to have been elected the governor of a state. She was an upfront feminist and had taken all measures to break the servitude women were oppressed by. She was the chief person to abolish societal differences that existed between different
genders, castes, creeds and other divisions.She had written numerous poems and due to her achievements in the field of lyric poetry, she had earned the sobriquet ‘The Nightingale of India’. One of her very renowned poems, The Palanquin Bearers, has been referenced in this sonnet. She had actively participated in the Salt March (the Dandi March) due to which, had faced incarceration by the British. She had received the fellowship of Royal Society of Literature and had her work published in many journals and famous publications of that period. She is not only observed as the eminence of English Poetry in India but also as a key revolutions of the feminist movement in India and a devoted freedom fighter.