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