--by Eli Azizollahoff
The monster known as Bigotry has the general form of a scapegoat with the horns of the devil from your left shoulder and the glowing eyes from the first staring contest you lost. It stands as tall as your shortcomings and as broad as everything you claim is too heavy for your shoulders. It is summoned with the pentagram star of the flag you say you are acting to honor and marches to the rhythm of your gunfire-drum. It has the shifting face of every school yard bully you have lost yourself to and the shrieks of every child who has trembled in your shadow. Its tail looks much like the back-end of a fish, flipping back and forth from whatever opinion makes you seem the highest and mightiest, scales catching the light in all the most attractive ways. Though its gate is led with a haughty head, its shoulders demand attention and when ignored they grow; more boisterous, louder, wider - until it feels like the elephant in the room you use his horns to prod in the most painful places. Bigotry is as old as time and as strong as the might of every trolling comment you’ve ever posted. Bigotry’s most notable characteristic is its sense of smell; it can sniff out weakness within ten heartbeats and tear it from its respite in the dark. When you look past Bigotry’s sneers and huffs and perpetually prone muscles it kind of looks like everything you ignore when looking in the mirror.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Flight
--by Batsheva Lasky
The pull in your stomach
as you begin to fall.
The scream of wind in your ears
as gravity grabs you
into its greedy embrace.
The tug of your shoulders as wings
black as a moonless night, light as the sun’s rays
stretch out from your shoulder blades,
like a cat in the sun,
stretching towards the heavens.
And you soar.
The clouds part before you as you make the sky your own,
turning and wheeling with the hawks.
Fighting gravity. Fighting time.
The summit of your youth flashes by as you climb higher still.
Surmounting your past.
But like paper to flame, your wings crumble to mourners ash
as the sun greets you with the heat of the day.
The smoke fills your nose, the ash your eyes.
You turn and wheel but the hawks are gone.
Blue above and below as they merge into one.
Fear pulls your stomach
as you begin to fall.
as you begin to fall.
The scream of wind in your ears
as gravity grabs you
into its greedy embrace.
The tug of your shoulders as wings
black as a moonless night, light as the sun’s rays
stretch out from your shoulder blades,
like a cat in the sun,
stretching towards the heavens.
And you soar.
The clouds part before you as you make the sky your own,
turning and wheeling with the hawks.
Fighting gravity. Fighting time.
The summit of your youth flashes by as you climb higher still.
Surmounting your past.
But like paper to flame, your wings crumble to mourners ash
as the sun greets you with the heat of the day.
The smoke fills your nose, the ash your eyes.
You turn and wheel but the hawks are gone.
Blue above and below as they merge into one.
Fear pulls your stomach
as you begin to fall.
Daughter's First Date
--by Shoshy Ciment
First it was you
clubbing the open air with your fists
clubbing the open air with your fists
challenging the earth
of our tiny backyard lawn
of our tiny backyard lawn
to fight back like a man
Behind our screen door
I saw you kick your limbs
in figure-eights and karate chops
crow like Peter Pan
to no one in particular until
I dragged you, lovingly
back to me
1,895 dinners later
after karate lessons, piano recitals
broken ankles and
broken hearts
your grip on our browning lawn
gradually lessened to
a playful squeeze and then
a tender caress until
it was you
slamming the door as
you ran to his car
A sequined purse, rosy cheeks
slender limbs that hadn’t
punched in years
Through the screen I saw
your small hand in his
as the car started with
a sputter and a hum
and you moved
slowly and certainly
away from me
Sunday, April 29, 2018
To my seventeen-year-old brother
--by Judy Leserman
In you is a boy who runs, hands-over-head,
open-palmed into outstretched arms.
No one told you that you are made of porcelain.
When the brunt of burgeoning manhood bores
that boy, through and through,
I will hold myself a car-key-dangle away,
I will place a razor-trim trail back to me.
You twist my innards, the way you toddle
about the world, all seventy-five inches of you.
You’ve got a siren-alarm heart, in bungling search
for that hat you were meant to wear, with your fingers
pulling after it like they used to pull china-bearing
table cloths.
I don’t mind, it’s just that you wouldn't have me catch
those pieces that can crash, the ones that could be
heirlooms,
the ones that no amount of glue could salvage.
In you is a boy who runs, hands-over-head,
open-palmed into outstretched arms.
No one told you that you are made of porcelain.
When the brunt of burgeoning manhood bores
that boy, through and through,
I will hold myself a car-key-dangle away,
I will place a razor-trim trail back to me.
Monday, April 16, 2018
Monday, April 9, 2018
I Cry When I See Men on the Fields
by Shoshy Ciment
What is it about high school
football players
Dressed in second skins and
rain soaked masks
Living our pastimes like
unpaid mercenaries
Content to bleed
on newly cut grass
if it means they’ve got a chance at fame. No, a chance at relevance. War is much nicer to our boys than organized sports. At least in the trenches they wear their dreams without shame. They can cry because death is so much bigger than a loss to Avery High School. And I can cry for them because they fought for a
grand old flag
a high flying flag
waving with the
frailty of a dying man
Edges tattered like
Hand-me-down fatigues
Those stars and stripes
never looked so
cruel
as they did the day you came home, wrapped in mahogany and sealed in primer. We all wept because you had lost. And it was okay. It was noble. All fields hold dying dreams of crying men but some dreams are more heroic than others and high school trophies and touchdowns are not. When I lowered you into the ground, I wondered if
the grass still held
the memory of you before
you left
Could it still taste your
teenage blood
that stained the fields with
simple dreams of
simple victories
What is it about high school
football players
Dressed in second skins and
rain soaked masks
Living our pastimes like
unpaid mercenaries
Content to bleed
on newly cut grass
if it means they’ve got a chance at fame. No, a chance at relevance. War is much nicer to our boys than organized sports. At least in the trenches they wear their dreams without shame. They can cry because death is so much bigger than a loss to Avery High School. And I can cry for them because they fought for a
grand old flag
a high flying flag
waving with the
frailty of a dying man
Edges tattered like
Hand-me-down fatigues
Those stars and stripes
never looked so
cruel
as they did the day you came home, wrapped in mahogany and sealed in primer. We all wept because you had lost. And it was okay. It was noble. All fields hold dying dreams of crying men but some dreams are more heroic than others and high school trophies and touchdowns are not. When I lowered you into the ground, I wondered if
the grass still held
the memory of you before
you left
Could it still taste your
teenage blood
that stained the fields with
simple dreams of
simple victories
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Urban Lullaby
by Avigayil Rosensweig
On a seven train one evening, winding its way home
Past brick-laid rooftops, its rattling an unsteady urban lullaby
I caught a glimpse through your bedroom window
And saw you, a mound beneath a floral bedspread
A splash of lamplight, dark hair on a pillow
You, like most of the city, asleep
Unaware, or aware, that every passenger saw you sleep
Hurtling past on slender rails above your home
Beheld you, unprotected, your cheek against the pillow
Perhaps you hummed yourself a lullaby
Lonely, as you folded back the bedspread
Threw open your curtains to let the city in through your window
Rain beaded on the train car window
You looked like a child, unguarded while asleep
How they fling themselves across the bedspread
Unafraid, because they are home
Soothed into slumber by a parent’s lullaby
Small heads barely denting the pillow
By midnight lying horizontal to the pillow
Dappled by light coming in through the window
Serene, dreams unfold the lyrics of a lullaby
Less lively, but infinitely guileless, while asleep
However neatly tucked, bedtime at home
Always ending up a tangle across the bedspread
Hair fluttering over the edge, wispy against the bedspread
Crown to toe, height only the length of a pillow
Slipping through dreams, until they awaken and come home
Shivering as air breezes through the window
“Tremble, tremble, and do not sin”—a song before they fall asleep
A laugh of surprise; what a terribly Brisker lullaby
To the sleepwalking child, befuddled, a calm voice is a lullaby
Carried back to a sleep-mussed bedspread
Small limbs weighted with sleep
Eyelashes against her cheeks as soon as she hits the pillow
Each gossamer strand glowing as the nightlight reflects in the window
She breaths easy, in the blankets of her own bed, at home
Sooth their dreams with a lullaby, watch their breath ease against the pillow
Smooth down the bedspread, draw the blinds across the window
Coax them into sleep, bundled deep within their homes
On a seven train one evening, winding its way home
Past brick-laid rooftops, its rattling an unsteady urban lullaby
I caught a glimpse through your bedroom window
And saw you, a mound beneath a floral bedspread
A splash of lamplight, dark hair on a pillow
You, like most of the city, asleep
Unaware, or aware, that every passenger saw you sleep
Hurtling past on slender rails above your home
Beheld you, unprotected, your cheek against the pillow
Perhaps you hummed yourself a lullaby
Lonely, as you folded back the bedspread
Threw open your curtains to let the city in through your window
Rain beaded on the train car window
You looked like a child, unguarded while asleep
How they fling themselves across the bedspread
Unafraid, because they are home
Soothed into slumber by a parent’s lullaby
Small heads barely denting the pillow
By midnight lying horizontal to the pillow
Dappled by light coming in through the window
Serene, dreams unfold the lyrics of a lullaby
Less lively, but infinitely guileless, while asleep
However neatly tucked, bedtime at home
Always ending up a tangle across the bedspread
Hair fluttering over the edge, wispy against the bedspread
Crown to toe, height only the length of a pillow
Slipping through dreams, until they awaken and come home
Shivering as air breezes through the window
“Tremble, tremble, and do not sin”—a song before they fall asleep
A laugh of surprise; what a terribly Brisker lullaby
To the sleepwalking child, befuddled, a calm voice is a lullaby
Carried back to a sleep-mussed bedspread
Small limbs weighted with sleep
Eyelashes against her cheeks as soon as she hits the pillow
Each gossamer strand glowing as the nightlight reflects in the window
She breaths easy, in the blankets of her own bed, at home
Sooth their dreams with a lullaby, watch their breath ease against the pillow
Smooth down the bedspread, draw the blinds across the window
Coax them into sleep, bundled deep within their homes
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Edel - White
by Gabriella Englander
Sunlight filters in through dusty blinds,
Dances on a China-blue vase, brimming with edelweiss,
Overshadowing my Bill of Rights homework, abandoned
On the dark-veined table.
My grandmother shuffles in, her gaze
Traces cotton-coated petals. Her eyes,
Envelop me, same gray-blue as mine,
And I fold in -
To a Carpathian valley of sweet gale and rolling pine,
Whistling to the barred warbler’s tale, gray-blue eyes
Of a man, plucking clusters of edelweiss
For his wife to fluff in a China-blue vase -
Beside my homework, on the dark-veined table,
My grandmother rests a yahrzeit candle
For those who had no Bill of Rights,
Her lips pressed white, edel-white.
Sunlight filters in through dusty blinds,
Dances on a China-blue vase, brimming with edelweiss,
Overshadowing my Bill of Rights homework, abandoned
On the dark-veined table.
My grandmother shuffles in, her gaze
Traces cotton-coated petals. Her eyes,
Envelop me, same gray-blue as mine,
And I fold in -
To a Carpathian valley of sweet gale and rolling pine,
Whistling to the barred warbler’s tale, gray-blue eyes
Of a man, plucking clusters of edelweiss
For his wife to fluff in a China-blue vase -
Beside my homework, on the dark-veined table,
My grandmother rests a yahrzeit candle
For those who had no Bill of Rights,
Her lips pressed white, edel-white.
Monday, March 12, 2018
Holy War
by Yael Mayer
Then swords unsheath and raise in forward march
“We fight to bring God’s light into their dark!”
The battle cry, with confidence, declared.
This is the story of the Great Crusades
Of al-Gazawat and of Medina’s Siege
Of 80 years of war without reprieve
Of Cromwell and relentless Irish raids.
The Catholics had a holy mission- Truth.
The Heugenots must see their errant ways-
They sacrificed at St. Bartholomew
And from those dying lips they drew His Praise.
“I do God’s work!” you cry, with eyes ablaze-
Who says the Lord’s at all conscious of you?
Friday, February 9, 2018
Welcome to Stern College's New Website for Creative Writing
This is the first version of the blog we've been discussing in class. I looked at a lot of themes and created this one by customizing a preset option. I hope you like it, but if not, we can change the appearance of the blog to suit our collective tastes later at some point. I've included links on the sidebar to each of your respective blogs.
I need for you to do two things: First, please find your blog listing, and click on the link to make sure it works. Second, please create a link to this blog at your blog by adding a gadget to your sidebar. If you have trouble, I will show everyone in class how to do this. Email me if you have any problems or suggestions for the site. This is a work in progress!
I need for you to do two things: First, please find your blog listing, and click on the link to make sure it works. Second, please create a link to this blog at your blog by adding a gadget to your sidebar. If you have trouble, I will show everyone in class how to do this. Email me if you have any problems or suggestions for the site. This is a work in progress!
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