This is a small collection of work from the 9th grade Creative Writing class at St Stephen's School in Rome. Among the pieces in this sampling is a prose poem, a syllabic work based on the Fibonacci sequence, and several ekphrastic pieces. The work reveals the students' passionate commitment to writing, as well as a great deal of heart and soul, according to Moira Egan, the Creative Writing teacher at St Stephen's.
(after Persepolis, the Story of a Childhood by Marjane Satrapi)
“Leave! Leave!” shouted grandma,
as the police approached.
I lit up another Camel,
and in the swirling smoke,
memories of home. Origins
denied, loving a fool,
committing new sins,
not going to school.
“Liberté” carved on rock,
during my stay in Paris,
while the bomb explodes on the block,
back home in far Persepolis.
Angelica La Rosa
The Broken Soul
Hope you're well now, man on the street.
He lay on the ground,
His bare feet rested rigidly
They were barely yet bluntly
Blended to the chaos of the road
Rubbing in sore pain
Approaching the cold
Parched, street pavement.
But was he dead?
His eyes were closed
Yet the same images throbbed in his head
Coming to torment him
They repeated over and over
Leaving him, cut in the soul
Sobbing in the heart.
His nails endorsed deep pain
His lucent smiles,
His cheerful positivism and hope
Had passed away
Abhorred by endless days of rain.
She lay in the car
Hands on her knees
Unmoved and still
But was she ill?
Her head was detached
And the man's thoughts
And hers, overlapped
Was it an accident or an attack?
But he was on the ground
Everyone looked at him
Yet he made no sound
His position was stoic
Yet the quivering of his hands
Was out of terror, not cold
There was nothing to hide, it was all too bold
The tremor of his emotions
Let out all his notions
His ideas met no conclusion
There was contempt in his smiling
It wasn't just an illusion.
But he wouldn't move,
He would not raise his arms for aid
He'd stay on the street
The Golden Hour
“I wish you a lifetime of moments too beautiful to capture on film”
Pink, yellow, orange. The trees kiss the sky. The crimson geraniums complement the forest-green tops of the pines. Silhouettes, golden light, metal birds. The sparrows sing their nightly song, which seems to call out to their partner: “Darling, I haven’t met you yet, but the day when I will shall be the happiest day of my life. Tonight I must spend another night without your warmth, another night without your presence, another night without you. The thought alone should haunt me, but I find comfort in the fact that tomorrow is a new day, a new opportunity to find you, for every day I have ever lived, will mean nothing until I meet you.” Their song is soothing, but so gentle that recordings can’t reproduce it. The sky is so magical, yet so overwhelming that even a professional photographer can’t capture it. The moment is free, I can’t imprison it in a screen. These are the moments I live for, the ones that can’t be saved by the camera, nor comprehended by the mind. They can only stay in the heart.
A Midsummer Night
Curling, little gentle tubes
Of water, splashing calmly on the sand
Erasing a kid’s stick-drawn man
Glistening in the moonlight are
The cars, covered in dust and wind-blown sand
Releasing one long day’s heat on the dry land
Dreaming of long lost home, I am
Staring into darkness and bewildering space
Being mocked by life in a midsummer night
I know I should’ve listened to you,
But it’s too late.
And I’m frightened.
As I struggle to breathe
As a fish brawls to dive back in the water,
Tell me father:
As my throbs succumb to the depths of the ocean,
Will the wind still thrust against the ships’ veils?
Will it still fold the sea?
Will the cattle keep rummaging to empty hills
And the shepherd still slant on his coarse cane?
Will the water keep biting the stone cliffs?
Will your wax lead you on?
Will I vanish
As a pebble, kicked into the towering grass?
Drowning in Love
Why didn’t you tell me what love could do
I’m drowning now, drowning in love.
I can’t hear anyone, just an immense silence
I am surrounded by tranquility in this vivid world
Please tell me that this is normal,
I only hear birds singing
I only smell the perfume of flowers,
Like scarlet roses,
And periwinkle violets.
Tell me that this is all right
I feel like I’m suspended in the air
I’m flying through the clouds
Which are illuminated by the warm coral colors of the sunset,
And the filthy air surrounds me like an hug.
Why is love so complicated?
Tell me, please
I don’t know whether this is reality or not,
Because now I’m drowning in love.
speak, that dreadful thing
that subtly hisses in your ear;
Its woeful voice subdues the hearts of the bravest men,
It ensnares and blunts all senses,
Bewitching the mind,
The Quality of Life
Death is the thing that scares us the most
but what are we mortally afraid of?
We could treat it with a bit of humanity
why not with a bit of dignity
our just with a touch of humor.
Death may not be the enemy
because it is not the real fiend
although indifference should be what
we constantly have to fight,
our mission as human beings
is not to prevent death
but to improve the quality of life
of who we love.
The only way, to defeat death
is to cure not the disease
but the person, and the outcome
will be life.
Inspired by the movie Patch Adams
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