Send YWP your best poetry or prose -- BY Monday, JUNE 3 -- and be one of 10 writers selected to read their work at the AMAZING 2nd Annual Millennial Writers on Stage performance at Burlington Book Festival, Main Street Landing, Burlington, Saturday, September 21, 2013. This is the most fun you'll ever have! Honest...Read more »
Summer on the Farm
by Carley Malloy
I’ve decided that a family farm is a lot like a barbed wire fence; running smooth for a little while, and then running into a twist or barb that slows things down. My last year and a half has been spent working on my grandparents’ farm. Each day has been a new adventure, and I often catch myself looking back and saying, “remember the day…”
I like summer on the farm the most; the weather has warmed so the barn can be left open and I can hear the jingling of chains as the cows turn their heads to look when I come in. Summer on the farm means haying, fencing, cleaning up the winter’s mess, and letting the cows outside to stretch their long legs. Kittens and calves are born and you have the fun of tracking them down every morning to see where their mothers have decided to move them.
We spent much of our time fixing fence, but I was on crutches for a few weeks, which meant there wasn’t much I could do to help. One hot summer day, my grandfather, mom, and two of my cousins were all working down the hill from the barn, next to the road. My grandfather, unlike most farmers, fixes fence with an excavator. It works great; one person holds the fence post up and he pushes it in with the excavator bucket, and two or three others go behind and start stringing wire. Read more »
For a few short years, Young Writers Project had the pleasure of knowing Emily Lyman and admiring her writing. Sadly, Emily passed away in December 2012. She was 15 years old, a freshman at Rice Memorial High School. She had courageously fought cancer since kindergarten. As her oncologist Alan C. Homans wrote, "When Emily left, a light went out." Dr. Homans also noted, however, that Emily left her friends and family many gifts, including her writing. Emily wrote with "startling clarity and strength and humor," YWP's Geoff Gevalt remembers. "She had voice." Emily's family has collected her poems and stories with the intent of publishing them and sharing Emily's voice with the world.
Here, Young Writers Project is honored to present "Inspired by Emily," a collection of Emily's writing that was lovingly prepared by her family. Working with the Lyman family, YWP issues this Call for Artists to illustrate Emily's work with drawings, paintings, photographs. Read Emily's writing -- and be inspired! Read more »
I have a writing enrichment. We go on to this site and write. But people in my class are using the chat messaging to talk to their friends instead of writing. They also talk to random people and try to say funny things. It really bothers me because it's not fair for them to abuse a system that's meant for the benefit of us. I don't know if anyone else feels this way But I sure do. I like getting feedback on my writing but it really makes me upset when people just use chat to literally chat with there friends about things that don't even have to do with writing.
Under the influence of inspiration, a fleeting thought enters and exits the mind, soundlessly traveling past due time. The remnants of unborn speech reside here:
When stars collide you and I will align
Under the dark pitter-patter of infinite time.
We'll use the negative space as our magic carpet ride
And redeem lost time for a moment of quixotic pride.
But the Babylon Candle’s light runs low.
Ineffective emotions neither die nor grow.
Let me carry you home, where these dreams will rest.
And sing to your soul a song I confess,
Is the beat of our hearts; sweet on the ears yet hard on the truth
An elephant melody once heard from our youth.
Something about heroes, we’ll dance to the reprise,
And continue living with this interminable disease.
The train pulls out, tugging its load
From the sorry station, a dust-stained
Hub of passengers, hustling headlong
To the platform, choosing a pleasant
Shared compartment, containing bunks
Stacked three tall, six in total.
A half-dozen men, desiring only to doze,
Stare sleepily around, strangers all.
They survey the scene, silently deciding
Who will rest where, willing the tallest
To straddle the ladder. Let his lanky legs
Hang over, heedless of heights.
Finally the first moves; he firmly claims
The second bunk, briefcase set on the sheets.
The others follow, flinging their forms,
Claiming their corners. The compartment
Is warmed by a welcoming – although weary –
Traveling kinship, comrades for a night.
The tall one sings, someone strums a guitar;
Songs fill the cabin, flooding the freezing night.
Then a bang on the wall: a bothered neighbor
Stills the band. They burrow into silence,
Stifling smiles as their thoughts shift
To the unmade beds. Bare mattresses bend
Under their weight as weary men
Clamber into the cots, comforted by
The rocking of the train, a rhythmic cradle.
The last man in bed blows out the lamp.
Six men sigh, studying with sleepy gazes
The shadows darting across the swaying ceiling.
What if... what if we had a rasher of you out there creating video poems? This is a wonderful poem, by a high schooler in Newton, MA, but imagine what you could do... gg
To whom it may concern
i'll take my final breath
inhale a sense of madness
exhale a sense of death
as I take my final breath
of death I will learn
i'll tell about it to
whom it may concern.
One dandelion seed touches down,
Drifting through dreary skies,
Helping you believe
That this simplifies your life;
Because you choose to have faith
That the tiny things will solve
Those scary silhouettes of
Vague problems, the ones
That are just too hard to fix.
Two pedal s gone,
You’ve got three to left,
And you know that you’ve set it up so
That love me not is not the last one to go.
But four will be the number
Of leaves you’ll find on this clover,
So keep it with you forever,
For you know karma
Will never forget that
Five petal flowerRead more »
I remember the night Creme gave birth so well. I had been checking on her all day. I kept pacing the barnyard, kicking the dirt floor. It was Creme's first time giving birth and I was nervous. I couldn't wait for it to be over so I could stop worrying.
At 7:30 p.m. her waterbag broke and she wasn't progressing. If a birth is going well, a lamb presents with front legs and head forward and is born shortly afterward. This lamb's nose appeared with its tongue hanging out. The legs were pulled back which made the shoulders block the cervix.
I had been waiting for this day a long time. I had decided I wanted to assist. The long plastic glove crackled as I put it on my right hand. My dad squirted a blue lubricant known as "Superlube" onto the glove. Shakily and slowly, I inched forward and knelt to put my hand into Creme's birth canal. It felt like lava, so hot and wet. I could feel the lamb's head and chin. I was so anxious, my eyes were stinging. I could see the lamb's tongue was starting to turn blue and knew the situation was becoming very serious. I asked my dad to take over because he has been assisting ewes give birth for many years. My mom held Creme as my dad put on a glove and lube and reached in. Dad hooked one leg and brought it forward, thinking it would be enough to pull the lamb out, but the lamb was really stuck. The shoulders were too broad. Read more »
Congratulations to the six winners of the YWP Farm Project writing challenge!
Seventy-seven young writers from across Vermont responded to the challenge to write about farms and food and six winners were selected by our judges. The Vermont Community Foundation, sponsor of the challenge, is awarding each writer $50 with a matching $50 donation to a Vermont farm or food nonprofit of the writer's choice.
David Amouretti, Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School, Essex Junction
Callista Bushee, Grade 8, Home School, East Wallingford
Kelsey Eddy, Grade 9, Mill River High School
Saskia Kiely, Grade 7, Vergennes Union High School
Carley Malloy, Grade 7, Thetford Academy
Eva Rocheleau, Grade 8, Williston Central SchoolRead more »
YWP receives many exceptional photos from students around the state. One of the most spirited, prolific and wide-ranging photographers we have come across is Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School. See his photos... Read more »
Leaving the Attic
The small Colorado town faded to dust, an old picture filed away in an attic in a cardboard box. A rented Ford Explorer passed by it without a thought, as many others had done before. The Explorer rattled down the dirt road, slipping through a National Park Service checkpoint. The words of the park ranger who stood there would follow it all the way to the top.
“Welcome to Mesa Verde.”
The car followed the invisible tire tracks of hundreds of others who had traveled this land. It wound around the mesa, following the coils of the steep dirt path. Climbing the road like a spiral staircase, its passengers gazed at the tiny town below. Buildings that you could balance on your fingertip, cars that could easily fit inside a thimble, people you needed a microscope to see. The car continued to twist around the tower like a wind-up toy, alone in the peaceful calm of rural Colorado. Read more »
I never understood running,the sport, I mean. What’s the point? It’s not like other sports. Other sports make sense. Sports with goals and rules and points.But I guess that’s what people love about running. There’s no rules, no limits, no restrictions. I guess people like me are just so used to having some guidelines in their life, they don’t understand why anyone would live any other way. Read more »
Groups of girls, whispering lies.
I hate the way they generalize.
She’s the new girl, shy and weak.
I don’t think she even speaks. Read more »
Do you remember me? It was a long time ago, almost to long to count. I was not your first victim, but not your last either. I was a small kid, with a strong body but a weak mind. You singled me out on lunch; I was sitting alone as I am now and preceded to throw ever insult you could think at me, your stupid friends laughing and cheering as you walked away. I remember them still, like a scar that never fully disappeared. Retard, fag, loser, I remember. I still have the marks on face from being slammed into my locker by a bunch of your stupid friends. I still look you up to see what happened after seventh grade when you left. Where you went, who was your next victim. I think I found you living in Louisiana, in a small town, captain of the football team. I still hope you remember me, because out of everything in my life, you changed me the most, whether for better or for worse. You taught me that the world is not all warm and happy and that there is a underside to every stone. So, for better or for worse, I thank you. Life won't have been the same without you.