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PLAY IN THE STREET// Yarmouth High School’s 2012 edition of Play in the Street literary and arts magazine has seen great changes this year. For the very first time, we began featuring the magazine online. The various poetry and artwork that students submitted can be viewed on the Play in the Street blog at playinthestreet.posterous.com.We want to thank all the students who submitted their work to the blog. Play in the Street also held the very first poetry contest at Yarmouth High School this year. Many of the poems submitted to the contest can also be found on the blog. At the end of the year the staff of Play in the Street selected some of the pieces that had been submitted during the year and created the first ever online edition of Play in the Street. Not only can the magazine be viewed and archived online, but if one should want a printed copy, it can be purchased here. Congratulations to Dan Grover, Class of 2012, who won the ‘Poems in the Street’ poetry competition this year. Runners-up: Gina Micucci and Ali Merrill.


//cal cooper

spring 2012 STAFF: Competition Administrator: Sydney Sperber Magazine Design: Alexandra Trippe Blog Manager: Laura Pietropali Business Editor: Laura Kapner Advisor: Nancy Shaw Cover Artist: Alexandra Trippe Meredith Coolidge Amy Wasilewski Nina Prescott Emma Pidden Abigail Latham Benjamin Clinton

Madeleine Damboise Gina Robertson Laura Kressbach Timothy Pietropali Ali Merrill


For My Father//dan grover contest winner Memories Stuffed in a box And hidden In a basement room In cold cement In the stuffy attic With the rats and Aunt Matilde's furniture A ratty stuffed dinosaur A tattered blanket that might have been blue Or maybe mauve An ancient, faded photo Of an adorable toddler in a bathtub A first lost tooth The covers of a faded book And a daisy Pressed and withered One petal long since plucked Did you love her? A varsity letter A battered pin A tasseled cap A sleepy summer A stolen cigarette And the words whispered “This will last forever�


A lover's touch A terrible love poem A tax return A chipped statuette of a bride and groom The taste of autumn air All these things Crammed into a cardboard Prison And shuttled From house to house Shelf to door To attic and back And slowly they fade As the dust collects Until at last they are lumps of ash And when you disturb their graves And sift the memories to the surface You don't even remember They are yours.


Paradise Uncovered//lindsey robinson there was a paradise uncovered one day when a couple of fed up workers went on a lunch break they turned right instead of left to a solemn field hidden beneath the buildings


//laura pietropali


//josselyn richards-daniels


Poetry is the wing of a bird, it is the cheez to the it, the heel to my sparkling stiletto, the ink to my pen. Poetry is the art of my self-expression.

//megan lambert


Catch a Falling Star and Put it With Your Heart//emma pidden It is a cold night for the summer but not that unusual for an island this far from shore I am bundled up with layers of fleece, sweatshirt and my mum’s blue rain coat, to block the wind the night is clear and the sky is a deep black with a hint of blue and so many stars peeking out I have never seen so many stars in my life I go over to where my mum has set up beach chairs and sit down in the chair next to her lying back in that chair I look up at the stars at the amazing curve of the sky looking up I can tell that the world is round and while looking at the sky always makes me feel so small and meaningless noticing the round curve of the earth reminds me of the unity of the whole world the fact that every place in the world is under the same stars I point out the curve to my mum and ask her if she could see it she says she can and she points out some constellations that she learned over 30 years ago, but can still point out memorized


I pat her head as my whole family lies outside and watches the stars as typical for around nine and after dinner I am hyper, punchy, and giggly while my brother, forever my foil, is tired, sleepy and grumpy we look for shooting stars and in an exciting moment a light flashes through the sky and causes my mouth to open wide I can’t believe I saw one, I am so excited the boys in the family don’t see this shooting star and don’t believe in our excited pointing “no you didn’t see one” is my dad’s response not too long after seeing the stars the boys go back inside so my brother can go to bed because they are both cold but the three girls, mum, zipper, and I, stay out and continue the conversation I laugh and laugh and laugh filling my lungs with the fresh down eastern sea air and my heart with the stars and love for my mother


Untitled//hope saulter This is just to say I have used your make-up which sits there so perfectly the beautiful tints of purples look so good above my eyes I may have mixed your light brushes with dark colors forgive me but today I felt a little like you.


//alexandra trippe


Problems with Apples//dinah king With an apple It’s not the skin. While some may peel away to avoid the bite and The juice that dribbles down chins To be wiped off with shirt sleeves Also, are not concerns. When the white meat of the fruit is gone There, is your problem. Black seeds peek out through browning windows The core waits. It waits for a meeting that will not come And so I wait to finish, to feel accomplished. But the core, the decomposing remains, remain


//anna bernard


//laura kapner


The Diva Geneva//hope saulter As sweet as a California Raspberry, With Atomic Orange hair, She Makes Men Blush. On Siberian Nights, they mingle over Vodka and Caviar. Intense Desire yet, she feels no Devotion. “You’re A Pisa Work,” They tell her. “Save me.” She cries. On a Pink Friday, at The Chapel Of Love, she leaves him, saying, “We’ll Always Have Paris.”


//alexandra trippe


Japanese Beetle//ali merrill contest runner-up Wear that automobile shell like a proud grandfather’s metallic-green Cadillac Sleeked with a thin layer of radioactive rust Strong, eager limbs bolt through the moist Earth toward the sky in a frenzy for sunlight You land with a ominous thud upon their joints and munch the juicy delicacies they hold dear Months pass, and before winter has made its mark, A farmer strokes his baby’s jagged, tattered wounds, And lets his tears rain down from the tarnished watering can he holds ever too tightly His tears seep into the flesh of the ground, but to no avail– Soon the limbs will turn gray, though the sunlight still wraps them in her ropes Trying vigorously to wrench them back to life The broken limbs will recede into their graves as the winter ushers in the black wind The farmer will gaze upon his barren cemetery and will be reminded of murder His pupils thicken like his heart, and he thinks of revenge He sets his traps with eager hands, his fingers working tirelessly, wildly Ribbons of poison’s aroma caress you and whisk you away The farmer examines the Holocaust he has wreaked and thumbs his stubbled chin, seethed with the sun’s scorn and smeared with dirt Giving a swift yet approving nod The furrow in his brow vanishes like morning dew A mass of skeletons, mangled into, around, over, and under one another Poison wafts through the air as the quaint sound of scuffling legs just barely escapes the prison A collage of corpses dangling in the air – An eerie forewarning to passersby


The Problem with Walks... //max grimm is that I am alone. Even when I meander through the streets, exchanging pleasantries with neighbors I am alone. I walk with my parents, through the wooded areas surrounding our house. We cross our icy pond during the height of winter crackling snow with every step. Not like she did though, her’s was more damaging to the icy crust. She took more steps, and faster. Her sound was that of a stampede approaching. I walk with my brother, through large sections of woods. Just us two now. We look for tracks of a large buck, the first snow of deer season fell last night. We can’t smell anything, our nostrils frozen shot. Although we are two we are both still alone, we miss her presence. Her energy was different she was always up for a walk. That is why when I walk now, I feel alone. Because she was always with me, now she isn’t. Walks are different now. Slower, more loafing than trailing (attempting to keep up with). Easier on my right arm, yes, but more dull, and lifeless. I miss the feeling of a relentless tug at the end of a leash, something about it was just so full of life. Now while I walk by myself, alone she lays buried beneath a granite stone.


//nick ronan


Problems With the Retina //gina micucci contest runner-up It’s not the August pollen that lays a layer of liquid over the eye, causing it to swell and run and itch until it turns red, or the Tears that collect after an event, a catharsis that leaves the body clean. It’s not the sun that casts a shadow of darkness, or the vision of night, where stars are the new Electric light bulbs, supplying enough energy for the imagination to wonder. It’s not the image that grows distorted with age, or the colors that fade as time Trudges on, and the memory that becomes mangled, recreated, and transformed, or fresh blood that spurts on the rug as a murder-mystery Movie is unraveled. It’s Not a ghost, or a demon, or a monster that lives under the bed, or the remnants of a burned building tattered and scarred, shattered signs of hope, peace, and lovefragmented Beads, after a child breaks her sister’s necklace, or the torn photo of parents, symbolizing their ugly divorce, and the boy who runs away, with a hole where his heart Should be. It could be an apple, sitting on a teacher’s desk the first day of school, shiny and crisp, in hopes of a successful year, or the clock that moves forward as each Day passes on. It could be baby’s bright blue eyes, smiling in delight at each new life fascination, the rainbow after a summer stormred, orange, yellow, green... that followers strive to find a small fortune from at The end. or a best friend’s golden hair, whispering gently in the breeze and darkeningas winter approaches.


Maybe it’s the six-foot spruce, dolled with lights, ornaments, Angels, or the winter blues that reflects glittering snow off the night sky. It could be a new house, freshly painted and bold, or waves that Race onto the ocean shore, lapping over the light-colored sand, and the puffy cotton candy smeared on a girl’s face, or the letters that magically form into comprehensible words as each small Child learns how to read. Perhaps it’s the retina producing the sounds. maybe it can’t see the boy, the ghost, the memories, or the devastating picture of a parents’ divorce. Maybe it knows the difference between good and Evil, or maybe it’s all powerful: analyzing humans, situations, and life struggles. It could be a bit dangerous, as it chooses its course, to side with the beauty or Laugh with the blood, as it destroys the August pollen and decides its plan of action. It transforms into the apple and a successful school year, or the glittering Snow that the boy trudges through as he makes his own plans, despite the Faded colors.


The Pink Skirt//emma pidden Yes I do still own a pink skirt that looks like a ballerina would own it and yes I do STILL dance in it when I listen to The Larks Ascending just like I did when I was little I still go up on my toes and twirl and watch with pure bliss as my skirt twirls out around me billowing wide

the music is part of me it’s in my heart it’s in my soul it makes me dance it makes me smile I am never as happy as I am when I dance I still have a skirt that is pink and makes me feel special when I wear it and I think I always will it’s too important to me to give up the happiness

spinning too the song is so long but my feet and I spin, jump, and leap

photo//alexandra trippe


To Love is to Enable//meredith coolidge A pierce in the soul, Heartache, longing, love is lost. Who would want such a thing? We murmur, ask, dream, wish, Assume it will never happen again. Though, it always does. A stab in the gut cannot suffice for the extraordinary hurt we feel, Yet we pick ourselves up, And regain confidence. Then we fall, We allow ourselves to become malleable, flexible, But each time, we are hurt once more. A friend, a love, a family member, As we fall deeper, we become more dependent on them all. But trust only goes so far. Why set ourselves up for failure? We ask, Wondering why we exist to fail. Love is a roller coaster; Up and down, side to side, Always changing. Sometimes we hit bumps, change course, Or get off all together. But in the end, it always works out. To love is to enable, And the enabler is you.


//julia anastos


//rebecca rouda


//julia richardson


Mai Nae Jai (Not Sure Heart)//hope saulter I looked for an answer in the spaces between the trees and in the distant valley. It began to rain in heavy cumbersome drops that looked like snow. A light wind came up too, pushing at the trunks of several bamboo trees making a hollow, clicking sound. The Buddha is everywhere. I told the Laung Pa.


//ally knoll


//nick ronan


What I Would Do//emma pidden I want to be able to sit in a coffee shop all day just writing my screenplay Finally working on it as much as I would like I’d love to sit there with a chai latte or a decaf mocha latte and a blueberry scone When I have stayed there for maybe two hours I would leave get in my red mini cooper and drive to the beach Once there I would change into running clothes and go for a r u n After I have remembered the strength and power of my legs I will take my surfboard off the top of my car

put on my wetsuit and go surfing. With my hair stiff and soaked and my lungs are full of water I’d get back in my mini put dry clothes on top of my bathing suit and drive to the market to buy food for dinner. I’d buy fresh atlantic salmon organic potatoes zucchinis lettuce carrots cucumbers an avocado and a bottle of blood orange soda. I’d go home and listen to U2 and cook myself my favorite meal. Grilled salmon roasted potatoes


zucchini pancakes and a salad with a glass of blood orange. Then I would eat it and watch my first movie for the millionth time. I would criticize the parts that I still want to change and I would laugh at things no one else would find funny because I know that characters hidden secrets Then I would call my friends put on something that sparkles and go dancing late into the night. In the back of my mind I would think about the time when this was just a dream.


//danielle evers


Untitled//megan lambert leaving you? it’s abut nothing it’s about everything about everything and nothing nothing and everything but to be honest, it’s everything every night every morning every lie and every time you cried all the cuts so deep in to the flesh ask me how i am, pumpkin, i’m a mess moving on, how hard can it be? this time it’s about me.


Who Am I//abby latham I am the canvas still wet with the hues of fresh paint I am the melted crayon in the sun I am the thunder under the horses hooves I am the absence of the sticker on the orange peal I am the first star in the black sky I am the word that spellcheck does not recognize Who yells through the sound of crashing waves Who cries as the last page turns and the cover closes Who jumps of fright when startled by a clamor What bird sings a too sweet song, but only to find that it is not her own

//abby latham


//jordan brown


The Last to Leave//lindsey robinson dedicated to Maddy and Taylor Crunching sand between my toes my face as warm as clothes fresh out of the dryer the salty curls of my hair streaking across my face A low roar of grumbles echoes across the water as people begin packing up their striped umbrellas, bright chairs, and leaving. I opened my eyes to see the dark grey sky with intruding black clouds coming towards us the beach was empty we were the last to leave Gathering our stuff we stop, and gaze across the solid shadowy water

as the waves grow turbulent like they are enraged that everyone is gone they are trying to punish the beach for allowing people to leave A clash of thunder vibrates the scene around us and our walk begins at a fast-pace. before I can feel it the rain darts into the sand making small dents and roughening the silky shore We begin to run and my breath grows heavy as my feet descend deeper and deeper into the sand and heat pours out of my mouth with each breath


One of the girls yells that she forgot her sandals as a strike of thunder electrocutes the ocean we stop and wait as she runs back across the beach The rain is so fierce that it coats my entire body with water it feels like being submerged. I can’t open my eyes fully, but am able to see a small red figure coming towards us Finally she catches up to where we left off but we don’t all start running again, instead we stand still for a minute drop our towels and clothes and sprint to where the sand meets the ocean

We dive into the water and it separates as if inviting us to come in further as we do so it closes around us like a hug for it was so happy we trusted it to be safe


//julia anastos


//david waxman


Existence//philip chowdry The beauty of the chameleon, the color of its scales Lies not in the creature itself The wonder of the flower the lure of its petals Lies not in the loneliness of its stem The thoughts of man the consciousness he holds Lies not in himself For experience is the creator and all is the product


//peter zeitz


Cadbury Egg//ben clinton A cardinal glides through the forest on its fragile wings, And sees something unfamiliar to its eyes. A settlement sits on the mouth of the river, But no one is there for the red bird to see. Curious, the cardinal floats on the gale, In one window and out the other of multiple structures. As the bird very quickly glances around through the houses, Something catches its eye. A small egg, not hers, but embedded with gold and shining gems, Painted with red and blue inks. What is it? When will it hatch? What is in it? A bird whose wings are woven with gold, Or one who’s gemstone eyes reflect the light of the shining sun? The bird waits for the egg to hatch, But is caught by a disturbance outside the small establishment. Two men enter with hatchets slung across their backs And shout at the cardinal. The cardinal has to flee and is left wondering, Will that egg ever hatch?


//sara costello



Play in the Street 2012