YWP Newsletter - 10. 15. 2018



This photo, and the accompanying story, was taken by Geoffrey Gevalt - founder and builder of the Young Writers Project -  whom Anthology 9 is dedicated to. Thank you Geoffrey for creating this incredible space for young dreamers, believers, and creators to find themselves as I, and so many others have.     

School weeks are always busy. Some days feel like a frenzied game of hopscotch; from classes, to clubs, to jobs, internships sports....however we choose to/must spend the finite number of hours in each day. In one of the few moments between one far-flung, slippery square and another, I stood outside admiring the multitude of subtlety-layed clouds. It began to rain, the clear drops soaking deep into my sweater. I pulled out a raincoat, of course: I had places to be soon, dry places, where I couldn't’t be waterlogged. Then, with the droplets pattering pleasantly on the nylon, I lifted my face to the sky, closed my eyes, and welcomed the rain. Sunday evening, I remembered this moment, while enjoying performances by several of the many  talented young writers published in the 9th YWP Anthology. Standing in that room, listening to your words, and surrounded by so many passionate creators, I felt the same melding of happiness, peace, and hope that was brought by a cleansing rain. This week, I chose pieces that to me express a similar emersion, and rejoicing, in one’s surroundings, a feeling I wanted to share. For those who are searching for serenity in a storm; I hope you are also able to find clarity in the rain. If not, don’t be afraid to splash in the puddles before the sun melts them away.

As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it. 

This issue features the creations of: Aidster21, Fiona Ella, Hope_for_the_future, Icestorm, irishjayne, Love to write, Rubber Soul, sophie.d, and ZAP

YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:

Voices of Color Showcase - THIS MONDAY NIGHT, at the Lamp Shop

SoundCheck  -  THIS THURSDAY, October 18, 6 - 8pm

Poetry Experience Workshop with Rajnii Eddins - THIS Saturday, 1 - 3pm, Fletcher Free Library, Burlington

Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event and others.
 

By Hope_for_the_future

Make it simple 
for me please 
all I know is extreme 

Nothing 
about me 
is simple 

I don't see
I feel the leaves falling 

I don't notice
the water. I am the water 

so please make it 
simple for me 

my mind is pulling
towards insanity

(Art Credit: Aidster21 )
By sophie.d

In a muddy gray car
On a thirsty dirt road
She drives with no destination in mind. 

The last drops of
Balmy air whip her hair
Into a thorny halo
And guitar-rich music
Trails behind the car.

Sweetness diffuses into
Her nose
Along with hints
Of ripening leaves
Distant cow manure
And a future pumpkin patch
(She smells her mom in the kitchen).

The sun is hovering
Somewhere over a golden lake
But she can't keep her eyes
Off the pink-streaked sky
Set over the orange speckled hills-
A crown atop a queen.

She's afraid she won't
stay on the road
As beauty hijacks her senses
But she doesn't care
Because she has nowhere to go but
Where the sky leads her.

The leaves skip from their branches
The sun melts into the lake
The last popsicle of the season.

She turns off the engine
Climbs onto the roof of the car
And screams her farewell to summer
Her greetings to fall.

Lost on a deserted road
Lost amongst the seasons
She gets in her car
And drives.  
 
(Photo Credit: Icestorm )
By ZAP

I stand on the uneven slope and breathe in, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs. Today is the day, I thought. The day of change. I am the last one this year. All day, I will stand in the meadow, breathing in and out, in and out, until my mind is filled with only the rhythm of my breath. Then I will change. My feet will go first, bare toes lengthening and hardening into roots of all sizes and shapes. Then my legs, morphing together and growing into a long trunk. After that, my torso, solidifying into maple wood. My arms will raise, leafy branches reaching up to the last rays of sun in the skies. My closed eyes become wood, hair growing into twigs and leaves. I can’t see, but that does not bother me. I am intune with Mother Nature. I feel her heartbeat. I sense her love for all the things from the earth. The world is quiet. I sleep. For how long, I don’t know. Then, sometime in February, a presence awakens me. I know the cold, I know it’s there, but I don’t feel it. A little girl wraps her arms around me, and I am content. She breathes deeply, then run to a man with buckets in his arms. That one, I feel her say, pointing at me, That one. Maybe, he replies, it’s only just big enough. I feel a gentle tapping against where my kneecap should be, and it tickles, ever so slightly. I know the man is putting a tap in me, but I don’t mind. The little girl returns with the man every other day, for a couple of weeks. After the sap stops flowing, they come to retrieve the bucket and tap. I sleep. I wake when the sun shines enough to warm the air, and I turn back, head, arms, torso, legs, feet. For the rest of the day, I stand on the uneven slope and breathe.

( Photo Credit: Love to write )

Tiny Writes 
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but words can also create millions of pictures. Of recent, less photos and art has been shared, but writing, tiny and otherwise, is thriving. For this reason, I am substituting the Photo Gallery with multiple tiny writes. Enjoy these words of wisdom, reflections, ideas, wonderings...

If you start each day with the thought, "this might be the day I die," then you might be prepared for when it IS the day you die. But if you start each day with the thought, "today I am going to live," then you will be prepared for all of the days leading up to your last moments. You will have so many more days that will consist of you living than of you dying. So start you morning with a thought of life that will be the seed to the flower of your day. - Rubber Soul 

I went to bed fifteen, and woke up sixteen. I think I expected my heart to beat differently; to my disappointment, it was just as quiet as it had always been. - irishjayne

There's a voice in my head that narrates everything I see. In the depths of emotion, the voice still tries to put a narrative spin on everything. I've always condemned it as a sign of egotism, of pretentious, that it meant what I was feeling was fake. Maybe I should try and accept that it's just there because I can't turn off being a storyteller. -Fiona Ella 
 

YWP Newsletter 10. 08. 2018



The perplexing traffic that seems to strike at the oddest times, such as 1 o'clock this Saturday, indicates that leaf-peeping season in Vermont has begun. As the fiery foliage begins to show, so, for many of us, does the school work. While selecting work for this Newsletter, I noticed that many writers were feeling discouraged, tired, or generally overwhelmed; feelings I wholeheartedly experienced multiple times last week. I admit, at the end of a crazy week, putting this together felt like another item to check of my list. Until I began reading all of your wonderful work, and found that not only do many of you share my experience, but you are expressing them in some truly beautiful writing. I was reminded that writing should be a refuge, not a responsibility. To any of you who feel like you're running an endless marthon held by the education system, I get it, but still try to find time for the things you love, even just five minutes, a quick haiku or sketch, will help refresh your mind for the next mile.


As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it. 

This issue features the creations of: adalet, cholen, écrivain, irishjayne, lia.chien, Love to write, and neanbean . 

YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:


Anthology 9 Celebration - This Sunday!

Playwriting Workshop with Geoffrey - Still Time to Sign up!

Next SoundCheck  - October 18

Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event, and on other reoccurring opportunities including next week's Voices of Color Showcase, and the upcoming Poetry Experience workshop. 
 
( Heading Photo Credit: irishjayne )

By irishjayne

sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.

sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and 
lies,
eyes squeezed
shut,
world tuned
out.

sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
bigger
smaller
bigger
glowing
gone,
creamy white ceiling left
untouched.
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
melts.

( Photo Credit: lia.chien )
By adalet

i carry

my past in my shoulders
and my caution
in the knots in my stomach

my exhaustion lives in
the arches of my feet
and the space behind my eyes

i hold empathy in my chest,
hidden behind my lungs,
where you'll find my secrets


i carry my stress in my spine
and my anger
in the bottom of my stomach

in my hands,
my health in my fingertips and
ambition in my knuckles and
creation in my palms

i carry my own story and
it lives within my skin,
waiting to be heard,
waiting to be told

( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By écrivain

i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water. 

you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair. 

curled green leaves lay with small jamsmine flowers,
pearlescent petals floating delicate in the mug. 
how sweet this vanilla air is, and for a vivid moment,
you have the effervescent beauty of a thunderous
splinter of forked lightening. 

i sip carefully, hoping not to burn my lips,
as tentative as the manner in which i reach
for your hand in the dark. my mouth burns
with the taste of green tea and sugar.
(but i wish it was burning with the taste of your lips) 

i like milk and sugar in my tea, but you don't.
you like a spoonful of honey, golden and warm
spilling over the sides of the cup;
sticky and sweet. (i find myself completely and
utterly in love with you, my dear.)  

and my favorite thing in the world
is bringing you a mug of tea early in the morning
when you're still foggy with sleep, the finality
of you dreams creeping up slowly-- but
for at least a moment, a faint memory remains. 

there's a worried crack in my lip, split between my front teeth
and you tell me that it's nothing a cup of tea can't fix,
and i realize this may be the most i have ever thought about tea. 

( Photo Credit: chloen )
 

Tiny Write

"The only thing more painful than not being able to speak,
is not being able to say what you mean." -neanbean

YWP Newsletter 10. 01.18



This past weekend I found a new form of fall procrastination - pie baking. With only a few crises - lack of salt, dairy overage, crust confusion - and the resulting internet searches and grocery trips, I now have a small, asymmetrical pumpkin pie and a large, shallow tray of custard (a delicious accident). However, while getting into the fall spirit, and enjoying all the corresponding spicy, warm, and tangy smells, I somehow failed to realize that this Monday was the first of October - my first month as editor of this newsletter. A Monday Mind block, perhaps? Whatever the cause, I hope all my fellow writers, artists etc. will forgive the delay, and are enjoying their own fall festivities. 

As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it. 

This issue features the creations of: Aidster, Amazingnutmeg12, CecyRavenclawFireheart, Dancer, Icestorm, laurenwwright, MTBcello88, Nightheart, Nora F, Rovva, and Ruber Soul.

YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:

Anthology 9 Celebration - All are Welcome!

STARTING SOON: Playwriting Workshop with Geoffrey - Sign up!

NEXT SoundCheck  - October 18

Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event, and on other reoccurring opportunities.





 

By Icestorm

you think you know
the color of the sun
until you sit down
to paint it.

you reach for the yellow,
yellow of sunflowers,
of a cliché crayon drawing you did,
a perfect lemon in the top right corner.

but your hand drifts then,
to sparks on the crest of a wave,
to that glimpse of melting iridescence
in a friends’ eye- white.

orange is the bottle you finally seize
to squeeze autumn leaves,
the setting sun over a lake,
onto your impatient palette.

but soon, all those colors
(plus a few more)
and spilled on the canvas
(plus your fingers).

you think you know
the color of the sun
until you realize
you don’t know colors at all.

who else can validate
that your ocean is truly blue,
that your sun is the gold
you’ve always been sure of?

after all,
everything is perception
and if you think too much about anything
it doesn’t exist at all.

so you sit down again
and this time
dip in your brush
and paint the sun

as a prism.

 ( Photo Credit: Rubber Soul )


Nightheart

Dear (Absent) Dad,

Guess what?

You missed it.

Time goes by so fast,
(you blink) 
and then it's gone.

You missed
the birthdays 
and the graduations
and the colleges
and the parent-teacher confrences
and the signatures
and the weddings
and the kids.

You missed it. 
Where are you now? 
Are you married?
Do you have kids? 
Where you there for them through it all?
I hope you were.
They don't deserve what I got.

We miss a lot of things in life. 

the (beat) of a hummingbird's wing,
whispered words,
a day of work,
glances in the dark. 
how the sun 
(reflects,
reflects,
reflects)
off of the waves
setting them on fire
even though they are wet. 

But (only) strangers miss 
each other's lives. 

(I guess we're strangers now.)

because you missed mine. 

Hate,
Your (Non-Existent) Daughter 

( Photo Credit: Dancer )
By MTBcello88

Da red an oranj leefs,
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!
maple pumpkin apple kaik,
turkey gravey pankaik lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Bannanaz?
Nop.
Pinaplz?
Nop.
apple cider doughnut kaik,
turducken cheeze an gravy lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Da red an oranj leefs, 
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!

( Art Credit: Aidster )
 

Sketches
As I was selecting work to highlight from this week's work, I noticed a multitude of responses to the Portrait Challenge. Each post was vividly unique, and it would be impossible for me to choose one to feature here. Here, instead, are some of the standout lines. Hope you enjoy!


( Photo Credit: lila woodward )
   
  "Spots on your face, but what's a moon,
       without stars? - Rovva


                                                                                                "The perfect moment is when I understand. If I don’t, I’ll quietly go up in flames." - CecyRavenclawFireheart                                           

"The freckles are all over her face and look like a dot to dot game." - Nora F                        

                                                    "The sun peaks over the trees, a sliver of lights peers through the window, enhancing a strand of caramel blonde" - laurenwwright

"......big brown eyes                                                                                                   "...some black nail polish desperately clinging to the very tips of my fingernails." - Rubber Soul
that follow you, judging you                                                                   
           but still respecting you." - Amazingnutmeg12                                                

                                                                        

YWP NEWSLETTER - 9.24.18

Welcome! While selecting work for this week's newsletter, a theme began to establish itself. While I could point to chillier air, reddening leaves or the way my lips feel dry all as signs of fall, the surest omen of its onset is the writing on YWP. When I find the site covered in autumnal poetry and pictures, I know I should put on my sweater tomorrow morning without needing to check the thermometer. Anyways, happy fall! I hope you enjoy these pieces as much as I do.

If you already know what the newsletter is, feel free to skip the next paragraph. 

Hello! This newsletter highlights writing, audio and images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges and select Daily Reads, Recommended and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the work of Driftsarahaiyunghall, adalet, Anna P., Embermist, Love to write, and Rubber Soul.

READ THE NEW EDITION OF THE VOICE HERE!

Did you miss any of the previous newsletters? Click here.


Hello Autumn
Drift


I won't write about
sunsets painted on tree canopies
or how the horizon is aglow with flames,
I won't write about the spiced apple cider
and the cinnamon of my childhood.
Autumn is not those sensations,
not those memories,
not to me at least.

Autumn is the start of a school year,
eagerly awaiting my friends
and the joy they brought me daily.
It was the community
and the unity
that made it my favorite time.
It was morning walks
with my nose turning red
and the sky still dark,
but everything still bright and fun
with laughter and conversation.
It was leaving school late after rehearsals,
throats raw
and knees red.

It was squishing into the same booth
at the same restaurant
and debating about what appetizers to get.
It was not having enough money in my bank account,
but I didn't care
because spending time with friends was priceless.

Autumn was figure skating,
tugging at nylon laces
so hard
that they sliced open my palms,
and tinted my laces red.
It was purple and black knees
and long nights with heating pads.
It was staying up late
on the phone
trying to figure out calculus
and crying
(just a little bit).

Autumn is a season of change.
My parents visited me
after my first four weeks at college.
It was an adjustment,
and a lonely one at that.
I didn't realize how much it hurt
and how much I truly missed them
until I heard my mother's voice
and I took off running
until I was back in her arms.

Autumn is sobbing into her shoulder
holding her close.
Autumn is turning to look at my dad,
smiling despite his teary eyes
as I say hi
and pull him close too.
It's the bags of food they brought,
and the snacks,
and the stickers I bought in China
two years ago
but never used.
It's going to a restaurant
and talking as if nothing ever changed.

It's struggling to find parking
and then going to sing in a choral concert.
It's walking around campus
spitting out fun facts I learned and memorized
without realizing.
It's showing off the gorgeous garden
and old house.
It's sitting at a high table that's too small
and drinking water together.
It's buying sweatpants I never thought I wanted
until I remembered it was getting colder.
It's walking back to my dorm,
giving my mother her jacket
(that she forgot to grab for the second time)
and hugging her tightly again.
It's pulling my dad close
and then slipping cash into my hand.
It's saying goodbye
and saying I love you.
It's watching them walk down the hall,
and wondering if they're crying
just like I am.
It's sitting at the laptop,
opening it up
to write
about their first visit
and seeing that it's the fall equinox.

Hello Autumn.
I missed you.


(photo credit: sarahaiyunghall)
sunflower
adalet


fall is the season of decay

today i cut my flowers
because at the first sign of death
i must preserve all other signs of life

i built a corpse out of their leaves
but
discovered that i couldn't bear
to leave their fallen petals behind
so i walked home
with a trail of their yellow light
falling out of my pockets

(photo credit: Anna P.)
Welcome
Embermist

Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To the fire-sprung foliage that flutters onto ping-pong tables
And frustrated fighting over paddles.
Welcome to forgetting.

Welcome to wistful warmth.
Welcome to wood cabins and weaving branches,
Water reflecting here and now
A whispering world wills us away,
Away from wanderlust.

Welcome to scintillating sky,
To six AM stars, sunset streaks, spider-silk cosmos
searching for summer constellations
seeking solace from insomnia.

Welcome to pealing laughter
Loud laze of campfire (we love campfire!)
And after-dark tetherball
A leaning lullaby
liberating from life and its labors.

Welcome to melodramatic
Morse code and magic
Mastering the art of amusement 
Me, drooping eyelids while memories are being made

Welcome to hungry happiness
To hand games and hideaway
Hugs (when they found me, long after the game finished)

Welcome to restful retreat
Remembering I'm still allowed to be young
So I can recount the remains to my grandchildren
without regrets

Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To a fateful farewell
To never forgetting 
the feeling of fantasy; 
Frolicking across the field
Giddy and stupid with ecstasy 
...
Welcome to camp.

(photo credit: Love to write)

Tiny Writes
Not every story has a happy ending written into it for you. So get up and write your own damn ending, nobody is going to do it for you. But before you write the ending, you have to write the rest of your story, and hopefully, you write some friends in to help you along the way.
--Rubber Soul

YWP NEWSLETTER - 9.17.18

Welcome! I'm happy to say that (like always) there has been a wonderful buffet of poetry for me to fill the newsletter with this week. It's fun to see all the new writing from only one week's time, it never fails to amaze me how many fabulous pieces are posted in just seven days. Keep it up! But, (yes, there's a but) we need MORE PHOTOS AND ART!!! If you have a camera or phone, please take some photographs or upload some artwork to YWP. Not only does it make the editor's job easier, but the whole site is made more beautiful with new visual components. So please, get out that camera!

If you already know what the newsletter is, feel free to skip the next paragraph. 

Hello! This newsletter highlights writing, audio and images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges and select Daily Reads, Recommended and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the work of wondering about rain, Love to write, Abriatis, Fiona Ella, adalet, charvermont, and Anna.

YWP HAPPENINGS

SOUNDCHECK STARTS THIS THURSDAY! Learn more here.

Did you miss any of the previous newsletters? Click here.

Pavement's Heat
wondering about rain


Cheek pressed against the
cool grass I see.
The heat of Southern
California summer coming off
of the sun-bleached pavement 
in waves,

waves goodbye
to cool breezes and
the sweet taste of 
Persephone's spring.
A slow beetle crawling its 
way across the lined
palm of a leaf stops to
wave its legs to and fro.
A silent sermon, to
what?

The sweet tsunami of flavor
from the pineapple that
adorns a fancy drink.
Bliss is the cool that 
comes from the fridges 
open arms on a wednesday
muggy morning while the
house still sleeps.

3 am and the shadow of the
sun not yet kissing the
horizon,
when you look into the 
dark blue and all lost 
balloons are, indeed,
lost.

6 am and the slight 
clink of a student's
bike chain sets the
cities tone, and
my shirt, still sticking
to my back from 
the Southern California 
heat.
15-minute poem
words required to use: Beetle, California, Fridge, Pineapple, Tsunami, Shirt, Bike, Sermon, Lost balloons, Persephone
(Photo credit: Abriatis
Pretending
Love to write


This is a poem 
for you.
 
The kind of poem
that drips,
golden and glowing
from your lips
onto hard concrete at 2AM.
 
I’m reading you aloud
in the dark company
of night.
and you’re not even here to listen.
 
This is a love poem
to all the gods
we thought we knew.
 
To thick fog
at dawn.
 
To distance between fingers
and the sticky glue
we call hope.
 
I’m finally talking about
all the things
I forgot to mention
early in the morning, lonely
 
on a train platform somewhere.
 
Surely, the exact place
I have never been.
 
This is a love poem
to you.
 
It’s about caves,
and winter sunlight.  
 
About all the places you refuse to cry 
and the time
the ocean did it for you.
 
This is a manifesto
to the nook
below your chin.
 
And the place your
eyelashes meet when you
sleep.
 
These words are for
the silent parts of you,
your stomach;
the time you stomped all the stars
from their sky
in your socks.
 
This is a love poem
but not the kind
we pretend to know.
Best Friend
charvermont


Today you texted me.
I missed you.

Did you miss me as much?
You asked, “what happened to us?”
and I smiled, because you made it sound like
we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
I said something like, “I don’t know. I tried.”
I’m still waiting on a reply.

You were my best friend.
Do you remember the time
we got pringles and Twix
and ate and watched movies
and we danced around my room
and talked and talked
and giggled our hearts out
and I felt like I had the bestest friend in the whole world.

We traded our scrunchies:
my pink velvet
for your black matte.

And we met at summer camp!
Of all the places,
summer camp.
We were the perfect best friends there had ever been.
We were invincible.

But I guess things can’t always last forever.

(photo credit: Anna)

Tiny Writes
i spent my life wishing to be tough,
to be so strong nobody could hurt me
but i grew a thick skin and
now wish for nothing more
than to be soft again

--adalet

PHOTO GALLERY

YWP NEWSLETTER - 9.10.18

The mornings are now chilly enough that I don't hesitate to put on a sweater after waking up. It's useless to say that Fall is here, because the weather can be so unpredictable, but I have seen red maple leaves already fallen, waiting for the rest of their friends to join them. I daresay it'll be long now, as when wind hits my face it's no longer refreshing, but a little chilly. Let's enjoy these days, for they'll be gone far too quickly. And enjoy some wonderful writing and photographs, too! Welcome to the YWP newsletter!

If you already know what the newsletter is, feel free to skip the next paragraph. 

Hello! This newsletter highlights writing, audio and images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges and select Daily Reads, Recommended and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the work of Quell, nean_bean, wondering about rain, Love to write, lily veronica, About to Snap, Rubber Soul, Abrieart, Marina2020, and Anna.

YWP HAPPENINGS

SOUNDCHECK IN SEPTEMBER--Learn more here.

Did you miss any of the previous newsletters? Click here.
 


The Sweetness We Forget
By Quella

Perhaps death smells like autumn leaves,
maple hands gently fallen,
bodies curled in sweet blood hues
Laid at the feet of their mothers.


What a wonder it is that we try so hard to pretend we will never fall from our trees.
It seems such a tragedy to leave this world bare,
To be swallowed by snow.
We forget it seems,
That there is a sweetness in
The bloom that comes later
And a sweetness too in the falling,
In returning to the earth
In red.


(photo credit: nean_bean)
The dark of an unlit candle
By wondering about rain

All the flowers in the world
wouldn't have been enough,
not nearly.
Not enough to cover the gentle
valleys of your heart or the
bed of candles lit as prayers
and silent whisperings to something
bigger than you. 
All the time in the world won't
erase the ever-present
smell of the kitchen as you,
small but a force of nature,
worked throughout it.
The quiet shuffle at 5 am
as you awoke to a day as I am sure
had been done your whole life.
Wisely crafted from years past
I felt you always saw
right through people.
"Oh Mija I have missed you".
I have missed you too but now
the words are spoken
to an empty chair and the 
quiet flickering of candlelight.


(photo credit: Love to write)
Nostalgia
By lily veronica

Alone in your room
Your friends left an hour ago
Tomorrow is the first day of school
Summer, you realize, drifted by the way you fall asleep
Slowly, then suddenly

You want to cling to these last few moments even though
Your outfit is planned
Your bag is packed
Your face is washed
You had to fill that hour with something, or the first day of school would have been shit

So you click a nob
Move the needle
Lay on your bed as the music starts
The music you listened to all summer
And as you fall asleep so does
The warmth
The green
The sun
The happiness

"Until next 
June," you think
"See you soon"

-august 28th, 8:19 pm


(photo credit: About To Snap)
 
 

Tiny Writes
I always ask "are you there?" not because I don't know that you aren't, but because maybe you will see that I'm here and join me.
--Rubber Soul

Photo Gallery

YWP NEWSLETTER - 9.3.18

THE WEEKLY NEWSLETTER

Well, school has snuck up on us, once again. It's been a drastic shift from relaxed summer days to bustling hallways and math quizzes, but we always seem to survive it...  Best of luck in the new school year, and keep up the fantastic writing!

If you already know what the newsletter is, feel free to skip the next paragraph. 

Welcome! This newsletter highlights writing, audio and images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges and select Daily Reads, Recommended and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the work of lila woodard, Anna P., Nightheart, Rubber Soul, Abriatis, Love to write, lia.chien, and laurenhall.

YWP HAPPENINGS

A YWP writer was named NATIONAL STUDENT POET FOR THE NORTHEAST!

SOUNDCHECK RETURNS IN SEPTEMBER--Learn more here.

Did you miss any of the previous newsletters? Click here.
 


Kentucky

by lila woodard

she rides on her 

dreams,

tracing her heart as 

it beats to

the footsteps of her 

love

she never falters,

an untouched passion

threatening to burn her 

from the inside out—

turn her into a star,

made to supernova into something 

no one has seen before 

and that is the beauty 

in her insanity. 

(Photo credit: lia.chien)
Starry Eyes
By Anna P.


Our candles burn
like a million flickering stars,
awaiting the return of darkness

And we just sit
and wait in the shadows,
as if we can never be heard

As our eyes light up
like sparklers on a summer night,
dancing to the sound of the moon.

(photo credit: Love to write)
Go out
By Nightheart

let me tell you about pulsars.
 
In binary star systems, 
there are two stars that 
revolve around each other.

Sometimes, 
they form pulsars.

this is when one of the stars
starts taking materials 
from the other.

It takes and takes 
and spins faster
until the two beams of light
came out of either end.

and the other star?

it's gone.

that's what you are to me.

a pulsar. 

you stripped away my layers, 
and i thought it was only because you wanted
to know the beautiful core.

but as we lived, 
in the light of long-dead stars whose
silent screams never echoed,

you ate away whatever was left of me,
and shined brighter yourself.

bursting in bright beams,
the light you had taken from me radiating 
so nicely on your skin.

and everybody told you how good you looked,
shining as bright as you were,
radiating twin beams of light. 

But here's where we aren't like pulsars.

stars, powerful as they are,
are subject to the laws of the universe,
inanimate objects floating in space.

Once that star disappears, 
there is no coming back.

Humans, however,
weave their own rules 
out of fabric and 
mystic and the things 
they do not understand. 

and so i built myself back up
slowly,
piece by piece so you would not notice.

and when your fist came 
flying toward me,
big blackberry bruises on my skin that 
i use to think meant
'i love you',
well,

i didn't turn the other cheek.

and now i stand in front of you,
weaving my story in front of a courtroom,
your skin no longer radiating.

Because that was the thing that you 
didn't know,

it is that pulsars,

they go out. 


(photo credit: Abriatis

Tiny Writes
People with "normal" minds must get bored very often.
--Rubber Soul

The Photo Gallery

Art by laurenhall
Photo by lila woodard
Foggy Photographers by lia.chien

YWP NEWSLETTER- 8.27.18

THE WEEKLY NEWSLETTER
This is the last newsletter of August, meaning school is right around the corner. Ugh. Those you who did their summer homework early instead writing, I applaud you. Congratulations also goes to the writers whose pieces were selected for the Anthology 9, YWP's collection of yearly highlights.

The next paragraph is just reminders about the newsletter and YWP news.

This newsletter highlights writing, audio, images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges, select Daily Reads, Recommended, and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the writing and images of adalet, a.harkness02, CateBuley, lia.chien, k.daigle, Love to Write, and Abriatis.

View all previous newsletters here.

green silk and marigold hearts
by adalet

today the sky is red,
as red as life
red like resilience
rosy and animated,
filling me with hope.

today the sky is orange,
orange like healing,
orange like recovery,
sweet like cinnamon,
with victory on the horizon.

today the sky is yellow
like shining sunlight,
the gift of warmth
from the universe,
a reminder to breathe.

today the sky is green,
like the earth and nature below me,
softly shaking in the breeze
it makes you feel whole
with the intent of grounding you.

today the sky is blue,
and bittersweet peace
dances through the air
despite it all,
we come to terms with the truth.

today the sky is purple,
magical, spiritual,
and although we are apart,
the spirit, the heartbeat,
the connection lives within our souls.

and now the sky is pale,
neutral, unknown
the future is uncertain
but the message filling the air
is that we'll carry on.

(Photo credit, above: a.harkness02)
One of Those Days
by CateBuley

It was one of those days. 
Those days in late fall where the maple trees
are bursting with crimson and gold.
Where the light filtering through the trees,
seems to dance with the shadows.
Where the brookes all seem to be laughing,
and the birds always singing.
They might have been singing then too,
but he could not hear them over the echos
of his own heartbeat.
And that's when he saw her,
in the golden light her hair shined like honey.
Her green eyes seemed to be ablaze,
her soft lips stretched up into a playful smile.
He could have mapped out the freckles on her face,
as one might the stars.
The world seemed to stop,
even if only for a moment.
He had seen her before of course,
but never like this,
but never this way.


(Photo credit, above: lia.chien)
My Hummingbird Companion 
by k.daigle

With their rapid beating hearts and tiny wings,
they flutter around like stars in my own universe.
Swirling tones of a green and yellow storm they sing
their sweet, silent songs of melodical verse.

“What is it like to be a human being?”
the birds ask with their unvoiced inquiry.
“To have a body like yours must be freeing,
instead of our bones, so fragile and wiry.”

Should I tell them the truth to their question,
or let them live on in their peaceful naiveté?
My lips part to give them the hurtful confession,
although something inside me kept it at bay.

“You wish for a human body like mine,
but blessings don’t come without a price.
While I long to fly above the clouds and the pines,
being earthbound is my yielded sacrifice.”

I continue on with sustained vigor,
"Everyone wishes for what they don’t have,
yet they don’t see the crucial figures.
We are made whole, not in two halves.”

“You were made with wings for you were meant to,
just as I was meant to have the bones in my body.
We are all perfect the way we are----it’s true!
We are who we are supposed to embody.”

The birds cease their cyclone as they ponder
the words that have come from my heart----
not the ones they expected, but the candor,
so from my company they quickly depart.

I watch as they swarm away, an emerald river
flying from me, flying from my truth.
One tiny bird stays behind, he quivers
and I can tell he is only a youth.

Somehow I can hear his soft voice
as he studies me as I do him and tells me,
“They left because they didn’t like your choice,
but I understand the words you told us, I see.”

“My friends wanted to know it was better,
for you to pity us for what we are,
to know what it was like to write a letter,
read a book, kick a ball, drive a car.”

“Your words, they were the right thing to tell them,
because although they don’t get it, I do.
Like a flower grows beautifully from a stem,
so will I continue on your enlightened view.”

My hummingbird companion, so quiet and small,
he understands me, deep down and so thoroughly,
that he will convey it everyone and to all,
and with that he takes off hurriedly.

After this encounter, I realize something;
it doesn’t matter if they all accept you,
but if one does, it means everything.
Hopefully one day you’ll know that, too.

With warmth in my heart and smile on my face,
I will remember that hummingbird everyday.
Whenever I feel down or angry, I allow myself to embrace
the fact that one friend will make it all okay.


(Photo credit: Love to Write)

TINY WRITE

My want to do everything is destroying my will to do anything.
--Abriatis

 

YWP NEWSLETTER- 8.20.18

THE WEEKLY NEWSLETTER
Welcome back to the Young Writers Project Newsletter!! Hope you all have had a great end of summer reading, writing, getting inspired, maybe doing some long put-off homework, trying to hold on to what little heat Vermont has left us. Enjoy this weather while it lasts! Remeber to post your own writing and photography to get recognition for your art.

Skip this next paragraph; just reminders about the newsletter and YWP happenings.

This newsletter highlights writing, audio, images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges, select Daily Reads, Recommended, and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the writing and images of LukeTheDuke, Abriatis, Drift, mythicalquill, lila woodard, and Rubber Soul

View all previous newsletters here.

All the ideas are taken
by LukeTheDuke

All the ideas are taken
and I don’t know what I should write.
Being one inch tall and a giant awakens?
Or maybe the power of flight?

No, it’s been done; I’ve seen it before!
To steal their ideas would be theft.
I’m sitting here with an empty page,
but there are simply no ideas left!

You see, Hollywood knows what it’s doing –
rebooting an old film or just making a sequel.
And if that doesn’t work
‘cause they need some green,
who’s to stop them from making a prequel?

But I don’t want to do that.
I want to be new! To make something fresh and exciting.
If I had been born
a hundred years in the past,
I’d have so many ideas for my writing!

Then my 6-year-old bro says,
“Wouldn’t it be cool – the story of an outer space hen?”
And I look at my page, start writing things down,
realizing what a big fool I have been.

(Photo credit: Abriatis)
Moving Out
by Drift

I thought I was good at this.
The whole
"Say goodbye and move on"
ordeal.
I told myself it was routine
and it was exhilarating every time.
I used to hail change as my savior,
because it felt like despite
my stable home
I was still wrapped in a blanket
of turmoil.

I love adventuring.
I love the unfamiliarity.
I crave chaos like it craves me.
There was nothing I loved more
than my muscles twitching with anticipation
just waiting for my next move,
the spontaneity
and the unexpected
that was vast enough to swallow me whole.
I loved that.

Or so I thought.

I was raised in this world
to move like a sprint,
to pounce as if it was my vice.
I was fine with that,
I accepted that and believed it.

Why am I hesitating?
Why are there clothes scattered on my floor,
littered like the bodies of old versions of myself?
Why are the boxes and the bags and the labels downstairs
haunting my nights?

All of a sudden,
I'm frozen to the spot.
I'm paralyzed with fear,
and it's struck me straight through
to my core.
I'm reminded I'm still a child,
lost
and in love with my family.
I love my friends
and my safety,
and it's getting harder to tear myself away from that.
The blisters on my hands from scissors
are expanding
and they're ready to burst
as I snip at every last tie.
Goodbye is the last thing I wish to say.

I thought I was good at this.


(Photo credit: mythicalquill)
Purple
by lila woodard

the hand i held was his now,
no longer painted in my subtle purple hues. 
 

TINY WRITE

Art is what happens when people put their insanity to good use.
-- Rubber Soul

YWP NEWSLETTER- 8.13.18

THE WEEKLY NEWSLETTER
It's mid-August already!! Who's ready for school? Yeah. . .me neither. Hope everyone has had plenty of time to write and enjoy the work of fellow young writers even though the summer has gone by so fast! Rememeber to post and share your creations to get feedback and publication!

This next paragraph is a YWP Newsletter info update, skip it if you're a regular/

This newsletter highlights writing, audio, images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges, select Daily Reads, Recommended, and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy! 

This week we feature the writing and images of EmilyAnne, chloen, Rovva, Abriatis, dogpoet, Hazel.C., and BloodMoon825

View all previous newsletters here.
 

17-year-old Thoughts on a Thursday Morning
by EmilyAnne

I'm making jam at 8:30 in the morning,
a humid, rainy morning. 

I wonder if this isn't Vermont,
and instead, everyone's been fooling me;
I must be in Florida. 

I look over my shoulder and
see a hummingbird drinking from that fake red flower we put up
and worry if the fox is near the chickens,
who cluck blissfully in their pen. 

I wonder if next year I'll be New York City,
grabbing coffee in a crowded bakery with steamy windows. 

Or taking a stroll around the quiet streets of Santa Barbara, 
my hair getting lighter the longer I stay in the sun.

Or watching the leaves slowly turn gold,
as I take a bus into Boston for an escape of theater and gardens.

Or maybe I'll be in Colorado,
skiing...which I haven't done in years. 

I could be anywhere.

It's an exciting time to be alive, isn't it?


(Photo credit, above: chloen)
Voices of the Shadows
by Rovva

I can hear the choir,
crying in the night,
shouting inaudibly,
barely kept in harmony.
And though their voices ring,
like chiming bells,
and their shrieks,
shatter my heart,
I cover my ears,
and duck my head,
for the raven squawks,
high in the forked tree.
I mustn't listen.
I mustn't see.
I mustn't hear,
the song of Thana,
for I am afraid.
The shadows which,
beseech me to follow,
are but a trick of the light.
I have lost my mind,
yet my soul is intact,
and they have come,
to rip it from me.

O, I have fathomed my grave!
My mind is buried,
and my bones ache.

Come sweet,
come bitter.
Come warm,
come cold.
Come cheery,
come weary.

Come!
Take me away!
 
(Photo credit, left: Abriatis)
Small Girl's Journey
by dogpoet

Small girl walks
forward,
to take her turn at last,
to quench her thirst.

Small girl wears
a dusty white rag, dirty and ripped from it's journy.

Small girl looks
like a dust moat fairy,
hair in a featherlight knot of dust, feet in a layer of dirty dust, face and arms and legs covered 
in
dust.

Small girl feels
tired
thirsty
dry 
sore
craving water
dusty.

                  Dust
                                      
                              
                                              settles



                                                                               down.


(Photo redit, right: Hazel.C.)
 

Tiny Write
you like to test the waters,
i like to dive right in.

you tread softly,
and i am heard from a mile away.

you are earth,
and i am fire.

but we need each other.

that's why i love you.

--BloodMoon825

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