(Note – I wrote this in 2010. You’ll see references to things from that era. Back then I did not write poetry. Ever. So the poems in here are, well, they are supposed to be written by high school kids, so… This is unedited, just as I “found” it.)
“What’s this?” Zachary Wooldridge picked a spiral-bound notebook out of the weeds. He was sitting on a rock in his favorite hiding spot, a small open area hidden from the main path that ran through the patch of woods behind his house. Situated near the top of a hill the little private zone afforded a view out over town, though with the residential trees, the nearby river and more distant hills as a backdrop he often imagined he was a million miles from the nearest person instead of smack-dab in the middle of town.
Zack turned the notebook over in his hands a few times. The front cover was an unadorned black. The back was what drew his interest for a rose was inked in by hand, a rose all in black with the lines being created by un-inked areas of cardboard brown. Care was taken to make every petal stand out, contrasting with the crudely drawn oversized thorns. One thorn near the bottom had a large ink-black drop which Zack guessed was supposed to be blood.
Leafing through the notebook Zack found it to be full of poetry written with the same black ink. The print was small and plain, but was tight, exact, somehow creating a sense of urgency or pain. Because of the neatness Zack could only imagine a female hand creating the print, thinking of his own sloppy, spidery text. In his mind he saw a tall, thin girl dressed all in black holding a black pen with a hand fringed with black fingernails gracefully sharing her innermost thoughts with the notebook, occasionally brushing raven black hair out of her eyes.
Zack read through a few poems at random. He was amazed at some of the imagery and multidimensional facet of the poems. For instance, “Forgotten Skin” seemed to be about walking around “dressed” only in bones – “When I went out today; I forgot my skin.” The poet though, stays invisible – “Bony hand holds the door; he doesn’t see or care.” And yet, to Zack, it seemed to say so much more, to cry out for attention. Continue reading