I am divergent,
but not too divergent.
I dye my hair,
but also wear short shorts
like everyone else.
I talk with the girl with poof hair
about how being popular doesn't matter,
but it does,
sort of.
I agree that drama is stupid
but I gossip too,
like everyone else.
I am divergent, but not too divergent.
-Antigone
Blues in the Backyard
I once new a boy.
He was curiosity
and strong coffee,
determination,
and blues music.
Dark skin and dark lashes,
he was mysterious.
The whole school
was in the palm of his hand
waiting
waiting
for fireworks to go up.
They went up,
but they went up in flames.
He met her
and it changed him.
There were things she didn't tell him
and he never forgave her.
He listened to blues music in his backyard,
I asked if he had a phone,
he looked at me curiously,
and then said no,
he'd thrown it away.
He told me
that things should be different
that it's stupid,
everyone dancing after mascara eyes
trying to be the same person,
the same blond hair,
the same tan skin
because how are we supposed to live that way?
We aren't supposed to live that way.
We can't live that way.
I didn't listen to that boy.
I knew he was right.
I knew that deep down,
I knew.
I didn't really care
who was dating Maggie
or how much Katie weighed.
But that boy knew it all the way.
He knew it all the way.
-Antigone
Slowly Dripping Away
The black mascara dripped down her small face,
smudging as she bent over,
crying into her hands.
Her bleached blonde, layered hair
fell around her back,
her iphone buzzed with new tweets
but I watched her
turn it off
and stare at her self in the mirror.
She stood, tiptoed in her
navy, hightop Converse and wiped her eyes.
She grabbed her eighth grade yearbook
bounding across the room with her
skinny long legs.
She looked at her picture
then back in the mirror.
No more braces.
No more raccoon eyeliner.
No more blue streaks.
No more chains.
She had changed
but the music and playlists hadn't.
She seemed different,
lighter, hanging out with new people,
trying new things.
But she was hurting inside,
her sanity slowly dripping away,
and I seemed to be the only person
who saw it.
-Gabriella
Taft and Cadence
Taft, this golden boy,
with soft hair and a mouth full of shining braces,
with curiosity and wide smiles.
Taft, this golden boy
filled Cadence,
this burning, twisted girl.
She wears her mascara thick
and her eyes tired.
Her iphone has had no new messages for months.
Cadence, she keeps her mind shut,
blacking out the loud music and crashing waves.
Taft, this golden boy,
filled with curiosity and wide smiles.
Cadence,
this burning, twisted girl.
-Eliana
Braces
Here I am
my mouth aching
because of the big, black metal
pieces on my teeth
forcing them to be perfect.
My life is like braces,
everyone forcing me to be
the best I can be
but sometimes
I prefer just to be me,
the girl who loves music
and lurks in the shadows,
with her friends,
the girl whose life is
like braces.
The girl whose flaws
make her special.
The girl
whose life is like braces.
-Miko
Popular/Unpopular
Popular, unpopular.
That's the question
everybody's asking.
"I want to be popular,"
that's what people are saying.
They want new friends.
They want drama
and they want
short shorts.
It's okay to be divergent.
It's okay to be different.
That's what
life's about.
Being who you are.
-Wren
Almost Popular
She is almost popular.
She wears mascara
but she has braces.
The braces are pink.
She babbles to her friends on her iphone
about her yearbook picture and music.
She wears a pink tank top
with sparkles.
She wears short shorts and
pink nail polish.
She gets into the car
and drives away,
still babbling
on her iphone.
-Wren
The fluorescent lights of the white walled rooms
reflect off of the satellite dishes
that encase these eyes of mine
that hum with curiosity
of the unknown world
of forbidden experimentations.
My body is strapped, tied down.
My lips torn apart and the wires
clamp and cut my cheeks and leave
me swollen and sore.
I stand and blood flows
back to my feet and my heart flutters.
My mind is already buzzing and whirling,
what modern tricks can I use
to save me from this fall,
from my sincere quiet life.
I paint mascara over my lashes
so that when I walk through
those double doors and look
through the barred windows,
I won't see their faces
filled with horror
and pity.
-McKenna
She Is Confused
She is confused
about what will happen next.
It has been pain,
it has been cut.
I don't refer to her
as a her,
she,
or woman,
because she is not one.
She is trickling away,
through her own cracks.
She is thin,
unnaturally thin,
food fills her mind,
but she pushes it away
with a whisp of snack.
She surounds itself with things,
girls with emotions,
girls that have been
given no respect,
boys pushed so hard
that they can't push
themselves
anymore.
Water clears her mind,
the tears fall
down her face,
it makes her think
of the beach,
lakes,
when mom was alive,
when dad
was not in jail.
It falls into
its own hole of misery,
decisions,
as it falls,
the sliver of hope guy,
memories
that you want to relive
repetitively
all go up
drift up
away
as it
all falls down.
-Kine
Some Girls
Some girls prance about
with tons of mascara
covering their eyes.
And then some girls
are scheduling their appointments
to get their braces tightened.
When you try and talk to your mom,
they keep playing word games
and texting about tennis and dinners.
Even if you don't listen to music,
you go to school and everyone is talking
and singing the new song
that just came out.
Sometimes not being on the internet
has its disadvantages.
-Dana
From there we wandered across the road to the, "We Sell Everything" shop. After choosing subjects in the colorful, crowded window to write about, the owner opened up the doors and let us inside. The girls loved checking out all the unique objects and wondering about their histories.
Glass Horse
Her delicate face bends like a prize stallion,
her eyes perfectly symmetrical on her
small glass face.
Her limbs bent like a soggy twig
on the forest floor after a storm.
Her white body looks as if it was from
the whitest snow, blinding and
sparkling on the sun.
She looks so small next to
the porcelain cups.
But if this small glass horse was real,
her personality would be
as big as the sky.
-Whitney
Gnome
Little gnome
laying there
watching.
For some people
he's creepy,
but for me,
he's cute.
-Wren
The next stop was the Missoula Art Museum, three floors filled with fantastic subject matter. It just so happened that one of the artists was Kine's great-uncle -- what serendipity to find his magical and story-laden paintings and sculptures.
The Sculptor
Days and nights of bending and twisting
the strong black material,
learning from mistakes and
new beginnings,
the metal forms its pattern,
like a black hole leading into a
world of honesty,
a twisted cornucopia,
the sculpture comes alive
in the shadow of the sculptor.
-Whitney
Laugh
Laugh,
they said.
You are happy.
Your office is clean, and you are a painter.
Laugh because you are happy.
They didn't know.
They haven't seen.
The old man
with frail, crumbling skin.
They haven't heard his breathing,
his ragged, windy breathing.
They haven't felt her terror at losing him.
Yes, her office is clean
because she has to be in control,
in control of something.
Laugh
they said
because you are happy.
They didn't understand
the blank white canvas
hanging in her room.
She said they were white like bedsheets.
They still didn't understand.
The camera snapped,
but something didn't work
they said.
Something didn't look right.
Maybe I'm just not happy, she said.
The old man rasped out a breath,
why,
why aren't you happy?
You have your whole life stretched
out in front of you.
Live it for me.
He rasped silent.
She cried.
She screamed.
I'm not happy.
I'm not happy.
-Antigone
Before Any Match Was Struck
Before any match was struck or a candle lighted,
someone spoke well of the sun.
It was a time before all men
all civilization.
The sun was the light of the day
and the stars and constellations were
that of the night,
a thing of worth
the sun was,
a thing to plan the hours by.
It worked to follow the man through the desert,
blackening his skin as it
circled the earth
day after day.
We adapted and grew
each year discovering,
soaring,
creating,
destroying,
corrupting,
slowing killing our Earth mother,
the thing that gave us life,
slowly damaging our souls,
with er new technology and air like tar,
but once,
before any match was struck,
or a candle lighted,
someone spoke well of the sun.
-Gabriella
Before Any Match Was Struck
Before any match was struck
or a candle lighted,
the sun rose above the plains,
pushing on the sky,
leaking darkness on to the grass,
shivering, liquid sunlight,
sliding, slithering across the dirt,
breaking the dark, glass sky
and spilling thin, watery darkness
to mix with broken glass
and swirl with
shivering, liquid sunlight.
The sun rose into the sky,
turning the land
a peachy white,
thin, watery darkness,
sinking beneath.
the shivering, liquid sunlight.
The world sits
with its shoulders back,
wearing the sun like its crown
because
before any match was struck
or any candle lighted,
someone spoke well
of the sun.
-Eliana
The Guitar Man
His shop is a cavern of murky darkness,
thick and soupy with the smell of freshly carved wood,
smoothed and thinned into a milky,
molded perfection.
A lone light bulb hangs
suspended carelessly from the rafters and
a beaded copper string swings and sways
beneath the light of the golden orb.
His desk is littered with oils and cloth,
still glistening from their moments of
methodically shining and moothing the
elastic wood beneath his gentle hand.
Flecks of desbris from his latest projects
lay scattering throughout the room and
the ghosts of notes, tinny and tired
from their first beginnings whisper
sweet secrets into his ears.
His hands are calloused from the work he had
done and his eyes sparkle with pride.
His is the guitar man,
tuning and molding music beneath his
very fingers.
A breeze weaves and twines itself around
the particles of the air and the
lightbulb flickers and sways.
The guitar ma turns his face to the camera and
smiles, smiles away.
-McKenna
Amber Jean
Amber Jean
don't be afraid
your eyes are hollow
their songs so sad
Amber JEan
imagine your dreams
imagine your world
alight and glad
Amber JEan
don't lie to me
split the moment
live yoru life
Amber Jean
enchant the unknown
do not fear
what you
cannot see.
-Sophia
After lunch on the lawn in front of the lawn, we wandered down the shaded boulevard of Pine Street towards Greenough Park. Greenough was the perfect place to explore Wallace Steven's, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." The girls chose a subject from our shady creek side nook to look at closely in many different ways.
Six Ways to Look at the River
I
Powerful and strong
the river is willing
to pull things down,
captive,
dead.
II.
The slips of
sunlight cast
clear through the river
between the shadows.
III.
From high up above,
a small
fountain to drink from
and be eternally
in youth
like the water nymphs.
IV.
From deep in its depths
the river is a
silent kingdom
of the trout and snails.
V.
From a lengthy distance
the river dances
and plays in
excitement and peace.
VI.
Sitting
in the cold
river your body
heals and tightens
through its unknown
beauty.
-Gabriella
Six Ways to Look at the River
I.
Slithering between two thousand rocks
dividing
one thousand on one side
one thousand on the other
II.
Grabbing at heat
basking in warmth
a million
bubbling, tumbling,
sun-kissed waves
III.
Cold, frozen
ice
cutting
a jagged
path
IV.
Small, pink
feet splash foamy water into the sky
tiny toes
slip between
algae crusted
rocks
V.
Thick, greasy
clouds roll across the sky
shining metal charged
with electricity
brakes the heavens
and the river
crumbles into a
carbonated mess
spilling on the dry dirt
VI.
Smooth wood
boats bob
float around the bend
bouncing contentedly
but when the clouds
come back
and the river
crumples into a
carbonated mess,
the boats sink.
-Eliana
Nine Ways To Look at the Wind
I.
The wind carries us
where wings can't reach.
II.
The wind rustles the leaves
rescuing our world
from stillness.
III.
The wind carries our frail bodies
when we don't
have the strength.
IV.
The wind blows hard on
hot summer days to
cool the inferno
inside us.
V.
The wind dances in a rhythm
that puts the
best dancers
to shame.
VI.
The wind dances
with the grass
swaying side to side.
VII.
The wind moves
the clouds painting pictures
of ducks and dinos.
VIII.
The wind soothes
your aching mind in times
when you could
scream
in frustration.
IX.
The wind propels
birds up through the clouds
so high
they skim
the stars.
-Miko
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a River
I.
Among bunches of logs
there stands a river.
II.
The rushing water
calms the birds.
III.
The rocks protect the
river
from predators.
IV.
The log plays
limbo with the water.
V.
The sun reflects
on the river
like it's talking to it.
VI.
The river
so mysterious
like the hole
Alice fell into.
VII.
The trees loom
over the river
like parents.
VIII.
The water reveals
hidden patterns
on rocks.
IX.
The river has
eternal life.
X.
There is calm water
trying to escape
the rapids.
XI.
The river carries
fish to an
alternate
universe.
XII.
The river travels
to different countries.
XIII.
The river looks
like the wind
in the sky.
-Wren
Six Ways of Looking at a Pebble
I.
The pebble is flattened,
burdened by the pressure
and nagging of time.
But it doesn't
have to be this way.
II.
If the pebble was once alone
in a time of creation and wonder,
how did it feel
when the Earth left no
creation for him?
III.
The pebble is formed
like the earth herself was.
Is there a universe
that I cannot see?
IV.
To uncover the history of this pebble,
we must destroy
its entire being.
Should we and could we
change its story
with this simple act?
Should we care?
V.
Was this pebble
once carved and sharpened
to attack an enemym
or bring food to the
table and hungry mouths?
There are two choices.
A fork in the road.
VI.
This cosmic piece of stardust
rained down from the heavens
worlds away
a ball of twinkling light
sprayed this pebble down
to us.
This cosmic piece of stardust.
-McKenna
Eight Ways to See the Creek
I.
The river murals the clouds,
the sky,
the river.
II.
Her base of blue covered
by the foam decoyed clouds.
III.
The river
soaking through branches,
through dirt,
through rocks.
IV.
The river generates sound
that even the deaf
can hear.
V.
The river is growth
growth for the things
it flows through.
VI.
The river cannot be
perched upon
but sunk through.
VII.
The river can grasp our thoughts.
VIII.
The river can provide you
with new thoughts.
-Kine
Five Ways to Look at the Stream
I.
The way the water
rushes over that one spot
always splashing
in the same way.
II.
The sequined reflection
of the stream,
in the shadows.
III.
The filtered facets
of light through the
trees on rushing water.
IV.
The laughter
of friction as
the water rushes
over rocks
don't look or think
just listen.
V.
The frozen fractals
water still alive
underneath
impenetrable
and everlasting
-Sophie
Five Ways of Looking at a River
I.
Together all the white beads of a river
form a curtain to shade it
from the cold winter.
II.
Out of every boulder and rock
look at the smallest
but brightest.
III.
Look at the fast flowing rhythm
and imagine a never-ending waterfall
cascading down the
tallest mountain.
IV.
Combine the light and darkness
of the river
and turn it into gold.
V.
Sun shines down upon it
makes it luminescent
in the early day.
-Dana
