High School Creative Writing
This week the students at Amundsen got deep then went even deeper. We explored the Ars Poetica form and talked about urgency in writing. We read “Blk Grl Art” by Jamila Woods and I brought in my own poem (“Ars Poetica: We’ll Take Our Turn, Singing/ Dirty Rap Songs”). It was such a joy to share my own writing with them and boy howdy did they light up when I showed them how it’s done. We brainstormed what we write in opposition of and in support of. We did a brief Dada exercise to incorporate found language into their work. I am so proud of the Ars Poeticas I am publishing this week.
I don’t have the room to be vulnerable
by Asher D.
I don’t have the room to be vulnerable.
Why should I make a varvel to my war
with bright digestible colors
when my sinking ship of problems on a dark
dingy sea is picked up like a rubber
ducky. When I spill to you with
I call my Hotline,
tell her, “I feel like my whole life I’ve been
the butt of the joke.”
And she laughs.
I can’t just write about that.
Poems Are For Everyone
by Dom H.
Whether you’re a snowman
on the beach,
or just some sawdust.
We all live on the same rock.
A Poem Can Be Audible and Silent
by Sophia P.
A poem can be audible and silent.
A poem should be static in space.
The moon’s ascent
as the moon releases, we depart.
A poem ought to be equivalent to: a wishbone,
a representation of imagination (hope),
for all of grieving’s past,
a maple leaf and that of an unoccupied doorway.
I Used To Let It Get To Me
by Leonardo E.
Why I stutter, I don’t know
I started when I was five
You could call me a survivalist
My tears covered my face everytime it happened
My words felt like mangled debris
The love I had for myself was fading
My ruddy face showed my weakness
If you want you can call me a chicken
I know people try to understand
But secretly it bothers everyone
However I don’t care
I’m the chicken if I let it get to me
You can try to make fun of it
If you’re a jerk of course
But it won’t even hit a nerve
by Raul M.
Air touching me with its naked hands on my cheeks,
flowing between the scales of my friend dragon.
We travel in the sky, with the smiling at us
noting down the cool blue with my friend flapping
its wings, birds flying with us.
Looking down, I see my people and my friends,
people as feeble ants crawling to their hill.
Looking back he seems to be writing, as I
wonder: how is he still holding his papers?