"if we did less useless potry it would be better."

The Catlin Gabel School Senior Poetry Writing class final projects.

2022 CGS Senior Poetry Chapbooks

To my future self. You're welcome -- this is literally the one final assignment that you did not save until May 7.

Note: Title is an unedited response to one of Liz's student experience surveys.

The paint of the blue house Has started to chip and fade Muting the blueberry hues into the murky shades of deep and unexplored waters The creaking of the old hinges feels different now Strong and accusatory To punish me for leaving Childhood photos still clutter the cracking mantle. Lost versions of myself smile back at me curiously Wondering why I have returned I'm looking for the fragile reality before my departure A moment of recognition or remembering that unites past&nbsp;and&nbsp;present But childhood familiarity has faded And I’ve become a stranger in my own house.

I spend the summer&nbsp; trudging through tree-tunnels, discerning differences between bushes of brambles, silently singing melodies of immutable monotony. Eventually, I emerge from the fathomless forest&nbsp; reeling in relief as I&nbsp; confront a clandestine clearing. What serenity to sprawl my aching body upon a bed of warm concrete in a field tinged by the kiss of the sun! What relief to rest my dying mind in the world&nbsp; of the writing on the chipped silo which claims the world is dying too! What joy to jostle the littered cans and throw pebbles at the collapsing fence! What joy to destroy. At last, I abandon the area&nbsp; Wandering back into the woodlands As unfamiliarity fades.

Late in the winter, the light starts to vanish Not even far passed noon, my long walks Along the forested trail come to a violent end. For eventually, I open my front door And as though the end of time: darkness and shadows Have obscured the paths today, that yesterday Had shined under a seemingly permanent ball of light. How could I have forgotten? What senses failed? What in the deepest depths of my brain decided to reject this transition from light to dark, from day to perpetual night? Denial or forgetfulness? And if this can happen thus, what shadows may be looming over my unknowing conscience? What use to trust my instincts at all if at the start of every winter my mind believes the brightness will last forever?

The swirling sun sinks farther down the sky, slowly submerging as if only slightly heavier than the horizon. My head seeks the fresh pillows, my body the welcoming quilt,&nbsp; I wait softly for dormancy. I spend eternity switching positions on the sheets that soon feel like sandpaper against my fiery skin. I open my droopy eyes defeatedly to scan my inky room, its features obscured by a darkness that can only be filled with frightful imagination: a clothing rack disguised as a hooded figure jolts me farther into mechanical cognizance My limp arms flail blindly to turn down the fan from a loud roar to a dull hum and my thoughts expand to fill the newfound silence like a lake bursting through an open dam. I grasp for the right cerebral spiral that could serve as a bridge to the slumber-state. I fight against my consciousness which grows stronger with each blow. Desperately thinking of thoughtless nothings Because no one ever remembers the exact moment they fall asleep.

A mini-collection of useless potry by Sophia Fields

Thank you to the table in the bottom right. You guys brightened the classroom and always made me laugh. 

Betrayal of the Mind Counting Sheep Return to the Unknown Melodies of Immutable Monotony

Also big thanks to my friends, my family, Joanina, and obviously, Ms. Liz.

Name

Safari may block some audio or video from playing automatically and ‘read to me’ will skip these. You can configure this in Safari’s preferences.