Post on 21-Jul-2016
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From Ashes HYDE LITERARY MAGAZINE
The theme of this edition of the
From Ashes Literary Magazine
is nostalgia.
Brought to you by: Kelsey Talbutt, Brett Van
Vort, Susa Breese, Aaron Ayala, Emma Leven-
sohn, and Evan Coleman.
EDITION #2
No Temple Contains My Faith
Kirstie Truluck
No temple contains my faith,
Instead the thrum of pounding surf…
Have you sailed the cold, green oceans much?
Reaching, Beating, Running with the wind
as an ally.
Whispering wind that babbles and screeches;
It switches and the sail luffs – the sailor adjusts and sighs.
It pitches and the boom jibes – the sailor ducks and howls.
Charted islands to windward as yet unexplored;
so afraid of heeling.
Gunwales washed in cold green water and white foam.
Fear and wonder twined in Ecstasy.
Capsize and hull breech are always possible.
Do I push the tiller to head off or do I pull it in and trim the sheet?
By Susa Breese
By Allison Henderson
Dream Obscure
Anonymous
I had a dream, nights past
Already fading, as these things seem to do
I was standing behind a large window
Out looking the grey, cloudy sky of an industrial city
I knew things wouldn’t always be this way
Sometime it may be sunny
It’s cold and dark today
A shattered mirror on the ground
A broken silver painting of subtle lies
Shadows gloomed on the underside of each building
Morbid Obelisks with ashen faces
Looming the hives of humanity
Bleak
Pale
That’s all I can remember
Winter Snow
by George Zhang
Father Christmas brings blessings and cool air
Snow spreads the white carpet on my home town.
Harvest autumn, red maple leaves are there
Cold winter has come with snow on the ground.
In morning, snow will kiss my face gently
At night, snow will shine under the streetlight.
Snow is like a brush, painting skillfully
Bright snow gives us a sweet romantic night.
Groggy sun rises after its long sleep
Snow knows that the earth is no longer mine.
Snow melts into snow water with belief
Let earth be glad, even in snow's dying.
Northeast's snow just started in December
Evening breeze brings many pigeons' feathers.
By Brett Van Vort
By B
rett V
an V
ort
Containment
Andre Allen
In this jar
I am a beetle
Amongst beetles I step on the
backs of my comrades to ascend
Whilst resenting my alive
For stepping on my own back
~
In this jar
I am a wasp
Among wasps and when I escape
I will translate my pain to my captors
if I escape
~
In this jar I am a mouse among mice
My claws cannot pierce the glass
Maybe if I wait and act civil my captor
will tip the jar for me
~
On this stage
I am a lion
Amidst a crowd and halfway
through a flaming hoop the
flames lick at my toes and I think to myself
“if your cage were this hot
You would bite your way out quickly”
~
In this cage
I am a bird
I am a bird that cannot fly
The sound of wind I’ve never heard
I’ve never known my mothers home; the sky
The knowledge of my prison
Comes with an upswing
Inside, I know I still have voice and claws
And wings
By Anonymous
The Pendulum
Brett Van Vort
We could ask ourselves why,
But some just accept it
It’s funny how the bigger your heart is
The heavier the pain.
I spent most of my life thinking
That the pendulum was stuck in the dark.
I don’t know when,
And I don’t know how,
But I managed to swing it in the light.
I thought life would get easier,
But I didn’t think of how to keep it in the there.
It got heavy
And like all things
motion begets motion.
So maybe I’m at equilibrium.
I feel the warm embrace of light on my back
I feel the hollow cold of dark taunt my face.
And the worse thing is the overwhelming silence,
The willingness to let the pendulum sway.
But isn’t it the natural order?
Or do we choose which way it swings.
Cello Ruidoso
Kelsey Talbutt
If when the lights are out
and the people are all missing
and the trees are frost covered statues,
waiting patiently in the mist—
if I tighten my bow just right
and my rosin stains my strings
if I play softly
and then loudly,
tapping my foot
and counting to myself:
1 & 2 & 3 & 4 &
my arm will tire
and my fingers will dance
my cello will sing
and my brow will sweat—
Who will not know
That I play best when I’m alone?
By Brett Van Vort
I had a Dream
Anonymous
I’m scared,
Innocent shootings and police brutality
And that I got a pray my brother gets an equal paid salary
In a public school he gets mediocre comprehension
Kid with a brain disorder gets no special attention
Poor impulse control equals automatic suspension
He’s becoming another godamn statistic
Another minority that can’t be individualistic
With my white friends, cops barely scrape the side talk
But black brother Keenan gets arrested for spitting on the
sidewalk
I’m scared; he’s a man now and could get in big trouble
Or be shot by a cop for showing signs of struggle
Stand your ground laws have innate illusion
Post racial society? Complete delusion
Where’s the justice in our country
When the federal justice system
Trayvon Martin, Michael brown, Oscar grant
A few dangerous unarmed black men that had to be spent
Bias is engrained into our heads by mass media
Everybody’s talking about race yet nobodies listening
But then we shed a tear When white girl goes missing
The media goes crazy and is met with no defiance
But when Families go missing in the hood by gang vio-
lence,
There’s silence
By Emma Levensohn
Dancing Ocean
By Merrill Truluck
The never ending sea lit by the moon
Dances to the songs of nurtures sweet call
The small birds in the trees asleep by noon
Snuggled in tight for the fear they might fall
The waves crash against the rocky shore
As the sun lights up the afternoon sky
Churning up many creatures from the sea floor
Making wonderful creations that fly
Children laughing, playing, singing, dancing
In unison they jump to the rhythm
The sun goes down while night keeps advancing
And the clouds make the shape of a prism
While the day has gone and the season end
The ocean still dances under the moon
The Forest
By Macy Weymar
Leafy outstretched boughs extend to the sky
Sun filtering through leaves pattern the ground
The melodic bird songs are heard close by
If one stands still, there is almost no sound
The forest is so deep one could get lost
The evergreens and pine woods grow so tall
On the lush grass clings dew and morning frost
These acres of green make one feel so small
Wild things watch from bushes, their eyes glowing
Born and raised there, for them, the woods are home
They watch all that passes, as their lands grow
The untamed prowl over mud, rock, and stone
The forest’s secrets can never be told
No outsiders can know the truth it holds
By
Bre
tt V
an V
ort
Why Do We Fall?
By Aaron Ayala
Why do we fall?
We fall from pain, greed, anger and desire,
We fall from vices we’ve let society warp into awkward bloated gods,
Drawing from the well of now malnourished virtue.
We fall from self-pity,
When the cuts on our palms reduce us to infantile helplessness, lead-
ing to a more painful fate far sooner than we could even have dreamt
of what may have been at the end of our climb.
We fall from self-consciousness;
So as to not feel the sting of a thousand rolling eyes and mouths we
meander in the shadows of men far less capable and far more arrogant
than we’d ever allow ourselves to be,
Low and lonely in quiet desperation,
A place where a pin’s drop could startle us into giving ourselves the so
called inevitable, impending lashings we’ve let ourselves be convinced
we deserve.
We fall from distraction,
The ungrateful idea that your life is a given that it cannot and will not
be lost regardless of circumstances,
Adopting the notion that your burden can be placed on your brother
and he’ll feel no pain.
This is why we fall,
This is why I’ve fallen.
I won’t writhe or relish in my suffering; no man will pity me today.
I must remember that pain is inevitable, met by relief or death indis-
putably.
I must remember that shame, self doubt, ignorance, and deep rage are
not such simplistic matters, and have a habit of lingering and clinging
like chains on ones soul.
So let me crawl, and if I drag my jaw at first then let the taste of dirt
only serve me as a lesson to remember;
Let me regain my footing and rediscover my path,
Praying only that it’s as deeply carved now as ever.
Let me move forward steadfast and determined; And if I am to fall, I
shall claw deep into the ridged footsteps left behind by those who pro-
ceeded me, so I will never leave myself helpless again.
By Brett Van Vort
A View from the Oak-Willow
John Romac
Of solid oak and willows roots deep
Steadfast father, mother’s belief.
Blessed stock I am from
Fertile ground where I sprung.
A rabbits life I’ve lead long
Quick! smell the rose, sing the song.
Always sprinting to goal,
Way too fast for my soul.
Now children my mirror to me
Not mine, but wholly free
Their journey not my race
Their trek a personal pace.
But before these old roots whither and dry
Before my quiet end, I must fly.
following new path wondrous and long
Hear the roses, Smell the song.
Soon these old roots will whither and dry
Before this end, quiet path I’ll try.
I Am From
Emma Levensohn
I Am From
I am from a closed box
I am from a label that’s already been written for me
I am from happiness that my parents pay for by the hour
I am from I’m sorry is said way too often
And I’m thankful for you isn’t said enough
I am from picking up the pieces
Preparing not preventing
I am from a town where the beach sings
But not as loud as the people talk
I am from a vocabulary of excuses
Mixed with a rainbow of papers
With letters ranging from A-F
I am from doors of truth slammed
In the faces of the people I love
I am from a closed box.
By Brett Van Vort
The Owl Man
Brett Van Vort
Gracious was the man who found his niche.
It took some time,
Delicate in the storm.
Raindrops forming on a leaf,
Until its pressure finally relinquishes all.
Disappointed was the man who found his niche.
Went through every corner of the maze
To find they all led to the same place.
What was at the end was a mirror-
Raindrops fell from his eyes.
Angry was the man who found his niche,
The world spun as he stayed in place
Infuriated he could not be what he wanted.
Denial planted her seed in his soul
He watered it with his tears.
Confused was the boy who saw his niche
The idea of being different was foreign.
Gracious was I who found my niche,
Was once an impossible task,
18 years under my belt that was too tight.
I dream we can loosen our judgment.
That is my niche, an owl in the morning sky.
By Brett Van Vort
Phat
Aaron Ayala
In eighth grade,
I walked a 19 minute mile,
Not because that’s what 13 year old rebels are supposed to do,
But because the way my lungs burned and heart pounded against my
chest from walking to the cafeteria scared me enough,
And unlike in the lunch line, I knew there wasn’t pizza encouraging
me to power through to the finish line.
I remember on a January afternoon,
Asking my stepdad to take out the scale for me,
His gaze pleaded for me to change my mind,
Silently telling me “You don’t want this and neither do I”
But the type of puppy dog eyes and eager grin that self convince “Yes,
I am a healthy boy”,
Despite the way that I waddled with a two liter bottle,
Made him feel too sorry to verbalize;
My heart landed in the pit of my stomach like a lead shot-put as 238.5
stood out instead of four numbers more like…
Four more reasons to sit in the back of classroom and not raise my
hand,
Four more reasons to keep quiet when someone said hello,
Four more reasons to understand why I had no friends,
Four more reasons I wasn’t good enough.
We both knew what the numbers meant, he perhaps more than me,
The problem with 13 year old him was that he was too thin;
The scale can be a double aged death sentence.
I was paralyzed, hugging him tight, hoping that by the time I stopped
sobbing and the numbers vanished, I could pretend once again that I
Stalking grocery store aisles like a lion sneaks up on a Savannah big
game hunter,
And up close he realizes just how tenuous his greatest fear is,
If he can just…
I do not know my weight right now other than that it’s in the 160s
But I’m sure if I did, it would merely be four reasons to sleep well at
night.
These aren’t stretch marks that crack along my legs, torso and arms,
Only scars I’ve earned throughout the battle for a better life;
Yes my skin is loose and sags in some places,
It’s just resting after a long, arduous adventure;
I know they have a surgery for that, thanks anyway,
I’ve already wasted too much time experimenting with painful ways to
throw away chunks of myself.
By Brett Van Vort
I felt just slightly included;
But I had no smirk or joker to anticipate,
Maybe one who would take the opportunity to reach out;
Wishful thinking;
“Aaron- I appreciate that Aaron isn’t fat”
Two skinny boys reared coyote teeth, cackling hard, like their heart-
breakingly genius irony wouldn’t drive me to go home and eat myself
to sleep. Wait, don’t tell me; sad, I know.
But rather might make me realize that they care and want me to bear
my heart and put the mirror of my self image back together piece by
piece,
And this guerilla classroom assault was in fact the superglue I had
been searching for;
For such a big kid I didn’t know I could feel so small.
I remember the first day of kickboxing,
After a spontaneous decision at an intersection, today everything was
going to change.
Doubling over after mere minutes,
I gasped out between breaths from the ground, with wet vomit build-
ing up in my throat “Please, just let me rest”
Sensei said yes,
And to get changed while I’m at it, because
“In this dojo, we do not accept weakness.”
And so I ran, and for the first time my demons didn’t seem like cracks
developed in finely crafted china dishes, priming them for a garage
sale appearance, but stubborn stains to be washed away with diligent
work and faith.
In October my mom got a call, finding out that after a month in high
school I was already failing all classes but two,
Because despite the pounds I may have shed,
As a punishment, kickboxing lessons discontinued until I could “begin
caring” about school in the same way,
As if by having one passion taken away, the love would just transmute
to academics. These aren’t emotions; they’re stocks to be adjusted and
invested according to greatest profit margin;
And so broke five months of perfect attendance at weekday classes
and when I could shake my stepdad hard enough early enough to
wake him up, Saturdays too,
The last time I went to school was two months later.
In January I discovered the way that two fingers run down the throat
and against the uvula can make your stomach empty entirely,
And for the first few months, thought confidently that there was noth-
ing wrong with me,
Because I feel pretty enough to not need peer interaction, let alone
peer approval.
I say pretty because that’s the only accurate word for the way I felt,
like a plastic flower or printed napkin; Like all the things that make
you smile briefly despite your eagerness to throw them away.
For just a moment, the self doubt and hate faded away just a little bit,
Even if it howled tenfold louder ten minutes later; addiction has no
time for foresight.
After three months, I couldn’t remember the last meal I had held onto
for more than an hour,
Though I still wouldn’t dare try and run the mile,
Because even if I was eager to read the number on the scale,
150.5 can still be four reasons that you’re not good enough.
I don’t remember the day that I quit,
But what I do remember was a process;
I remember running two blocks just to spit up phlegm and vomit,
then slowly walk home,
I remember five minute workouts followed by twenty fine minute anxi-
© Hyde School 2015