POETRY
Edited by Phillip X Levine. Deadline for our March issue is February 5. Send up to three poems or three pages (whichever comes first). Full submission guidelines: www.chronogram.com/submissions.
The House Boxes, boxes all around fill the room like candy in child’s pillow case on Halloween. I ask my mom where we are going she says I get to see today. It’s a very secluded house and it’s near the beach. It has a big fire place and a nice room for me. Except it’s very cold in this secluded house, with a big fireplace, on this hidden lane, near a wavy beach, on a tiny island, in a big state, on a huge continent, in a gigantic world, in a humongous galaxy, in an infinite universe. —Elliott Corry (11 years) *Inspired by The Napping House by Audrey Wood
THE SNOW BALL In this still round world Two children always stand Before a plot of pines Waiting for snow. And it is always so That just ahead, Beyond the plot of pines, There is a house the children cannot see. —Marcia Cavell
STORM Stubborn clouds hold gallons cumulus camouflage. Temperature spike mounts green sodden air. A million drops burst grey wet relief. The sky a child who can not be consoled. —Millie Falcaro
Half the things I remember Haunt the half I forget And in this way a whole is fashioned. —p
I’VE NEVER SEEN A WHITE WHALE
FAR AWAY IS A SCARY PLACE
I’ve travelled the world, laced by oceans and rivers nearly forgotten. Sometimes I keep track of failure by all the shores I’ve passed.
I wanted to warn you about the snow before you left; how it falls like white ash on your eyelashes, holding them down, like the weights you used to bench down in Georgia for sport but you never gave me the chance and the truth is, I loved you for who I thought you were for who I saw in my dreams— you, accompanied by love letters written in code. You, accompanied by the smell of pine trees and New York. You, accompanied by the mountains that I think of when I think “home.” And the truth is, I only missed my mother but you were just as warm
I have never seen a white whale, nor wondered why I haven’t before now—a small fish in an anonymous, massive pond. So when I’m weary of illusions, verse a blank sweep across my page or mammoth’s back, I thrust my pen like a harpoon into anything grey, pretending dun is white, life is lovely and infinite. —Perry Nicholas
—Alex Apuzzo
GOSSIPING ABOUT THE WEATHER
LEAVING NEW YORK
Tell me what you think about as you stare past dark glass, eavesdropping on secrets whispered between thunder and rain.
If I write another poem for the city, this time I want it to be an elegy. Oh New York, you wonderful piece of shit. You carved out bone. You mystery of rats. The subway shakes, rattles me awake, but the doubt is there.
Does your mind meander downstream, pulsing with debris, flooding creeks? Or do you fill yourself with the groans of storms to drain away muddled grey thoughts and put your own dry concerns at ease? Go ahead— tell me.
Oh New York, and all your confusion. The people and their tragedies measured against their neighbor’s. Oh, how your condos shine in the monied air. The way I can’t let go, even when I visit my parents and ask: Wait, is there anything even open right now? The city of immigrants, transition, bottomless brunch. Chris moved to Vegas, and he says it just isn’t as bright. Oh this city, so ruined by itself. —Nicodemus Nicoludis
(I’m listening too.) —Maeve Dwyer
DUSK
And I should’ve known better than to think I wouldn’t drown.
There be dragons in the splintered wilderness of today: the air damp and the fog moving in like a drumroll.
Gradual vision loss is like dusk coming on. Maybe you’re sitting outside at the picnic table on a late summer afternoon, talking with a friend, sharing some laughs and a beer. Maybe you’ve been sitting and chatting for a couple of hours as the sun slowly crosses the sky. You’re having a good time, enjoying each other’s company, you’re barely registering the passing of time or the diminishing of the light. Then one of you says, “Hey, it’s getting dark,” and suddenly it is.
—Irene Corvinus
—Eirini Melena Karoutsos
—Susan Sparrow
LURE Darling, your eyes hold all seven seas.
62 POETRY CHRONOGRAM 2/16
MORNING ON THE RIDGE