Four Poems by Noelia Young

Visitants

Listen in on a private reading by Noelia Young, a slam poet based in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Her poetry discusses important themes: racism, wisdom, growth, and survival.

Time stamps for each poem:

“To My Racist Friend” 00:29

“Advice To My College Self” 03:38

“Lulla-bye” 7:01

“Me Too” 10:34

 

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We who are lost; Mmm, Nope; Neurotic Lullaby

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Three poems by contributor Elisabeth Horan

 

We who are lost

Find each other in warehouses

Too late sometimes, it’s in graveyards.

Always emaciated,

dumpster diving for attention

 

Overweight on alcohol

anorexic acceptance rates

like High school anxiety

shave the head

try on personalities

 

We who find each other

and save some last hope

from each self we carry

give momentus hope for

self care, for having less

 

Night terrors,

the bruises calming

from catalyst snarls

aubergine pockets to mottled

Eye sockets

 

Mottled to moss

moss blankets earth.

bury the hatchet,

you’ll

bury the hurt

 

We who are lost.

We who are found.

Hold fast my hand

 

My dirt. My coffin,

You’ re under ground now

to find me; you’re

diving in

head first.

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Mmm, Nope

If all is human nature
and I am part of that

You say it all just comes from it
the good the sick the bad.

Then what of the abhorrent?
The tired two-timing tricks I invent

To make things into feelings
which they are not. And how/what

The fuck are feelings, anyway?
If all is natural behavior, then do

Not mark me as present, for I’ve pushed the
virtuous to drown, the heroe to bite

Off his own hand. For lack of better synonym,
I demanded him to eat a bone;

I once told a child I’d adopt him –
then promptly left town… see?

Collapse improvise TNT concrete
swinging ball chain mimic war cry.

If I am human – let the
dogs be gods, if I am natural –

Shall water be the poison grog.
If I am something you can swallow,

Whole, not choke upon – even
actions of desertion, MIA if me=treason

(which you readily accept),
no questions, asked, not even a

Background check, then I caution, rather-
strongly advise the baby steps

Toward my person, toward my slick
granite gargoyle creepy crawlies tone deaf

Cackling cheeked broom rider
co-dependent needy; a drinking fish.

I wish for any awesome kind of cigarette –
quell my lack of self-care messiness.

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Neurotic Lullaby


I’m lost in smoke
Bombastic
snake gardens
Bats come, I am one

Snake sickness,
Shodokon shadow:
haunts. Hunts. Bats are
my friends I belong
with them

Lost in caves
deep in your mouth
a cave, your heart, a cave
your throat, and art

My heart, concaving
bleeding out
lowest white count
little lamb
         this is the year of the snake

I deny swallowing shadows
I deny I am too good
all I did is so sickness

Knows to grow inside the coils;
heating mold up to base temp;
kill temp

Rocking rocking
bye bye

Frightening the babies
bats in closets
me in your throat
swashbuckling snakes

This is sickness.
Bat shadows envelop
and hide fangs
which eat things in caves

I am one I am one
rock knee rock knee
grab on to me –
I grab you, hungry.

 

Follow Elisabeth Horan on Twitter @ehoranpoet

Capitalism, Oswald’s day out, Silence

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Three poems by contributor Shivangi Goel.

 

Capitalism

We made the world we live in,
And we have to make it over.
Baldwin says to me, over
Tea on couch across generations
Of whispers of learnings snuffled
Across ink and what confluence
Would have it that only this voice reaches,
It doesn’t lie, doesn’t exaggerate
Taking me up the throat, gargling its
Way out
This venom
This venom
We’re accomodating unknowingly
I mean all of it is not venom, and
All of me is not shaken
To the shaky wiggly mud patches
Of what I know and am sure to change
I’m sure of nothing.
These men in Prada suits talk of
Business deals and deforestation
Mr Sir Yours Respectfully,
Why do you have to take every fucking
Poor woman
And man
And kiddo
Out of their house onto the street
And then call them poor
To build your goddamn dam
I’m a skeptic in front of the shopping mall
Glad I can buy creams and burgers
I don’t know of the degree of its wrong
Or if the world is becoming smaller
At all or
If I’ll ever know
If I should have to make everything about myself
Shaky wiggly mud patches watered with Starbucks
And confusion
I don’t know Roy, I don’t know.

 

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Oswald’s day out

It’s the day my sadness refused to work
And I had no choice but to smile at the balloon man,
Although he charged me three
Pennies for balloon worth two.
It’s the day my sadness walked out,
And I too left work early to sit by the frozen banana outlet
And even treated little Mona to her last ever double dip chocolate
So I refused to be sad today
Although I couldn’t be sad anyway,
I could feel it surfacing deep within
It’s the day my frustration refused to work, although
It still laughed at me from the deep mysterious insides
It’s the day my emptiness gave up
And jolted into anxious action,
And I smiled because it only slightly mattered to me anymore what I was doing,
And then little Mona was run over by the fool who could feel.

 

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Silence

When my mother told me to listen,
Instead of shouting resentment with every bit of me
When I started to learn
To see myself as a resentor
To see it as a good thing
To shout out doubts
When quite really,
I was better off noting them down
I was better off weighing my options
I am better off sitting in a room:
Small one, dusty curtains
Observing everything,
“To be a writer is to observe”
Sontag
But I’m not a writer
More than she is a writer
More than he tweets
More than they shout
More than my unhappiness.
When we discuss in class the true tragedy
That silences Ghosh’s narrator:
My narration
Crippling, numbing, staring out the window
I understand
that we are basking ourselves in ill formed opinions
Half baked in ovens of our illusionary profiles:
It’s lost on us
Like Neruda wholly exclaimed
To sit down
Stare at the curtain (mud sprinkled like specks of sunshine you miss the little boy more than I miss the little boy yes it still haunts me I make tea my memory dissolves slowly the sugar cube swirling it’s just as real just as necessary),
Say nothing.

 

 

 

And I Loved Them

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A poem by contributor Elisabeth Horan.

 

 

Is it my turn to use them?

I asked, in doe-eyed chin up hopefulness –

 

Not yet, replied father-fuhrer.

Maybe tomorrow.

 

I never really got a chance to play

with them – they were under lock and key

behind the rum, above the crackers

 

They were shiny, mysterious, like magic:

twinkly, yet smooth of wooden grain.

The smell of pipe and strawberry always

floated about them, then remained.

 

Daddy and Sissy didn’t know that

I took them out one day.

 

I snuck them out and ate of them –

skinned each one by lascivious one

with my devilish, thorny, rasping tongue –

 

Young me, shoved them in my pants;

cried upon their backs:

 

I love you, Dancing Faerie Queen!

I love you, Freddy Mercury!

 

Bored stare and low resolution glint

flickering in their multi-faceted

eyes of diamond cut me through – and through

 

Like they had somehow

seen this coming out of others before me,

like none of this was new –

 

Still, I behaved.

Promised never to break their arms

and their legs apart

 

Nor to paint their semi sweet

ribbon mouths lipstick and shut. Or

rip their necks out, like sluts.

 

But Daddy knew.

Daddy and Sissy knew.

I don’t know how, but they knew.

 

Didn’t whip me, but bore me a silence; their fear

of me almost worse than their ignorance.

 

I gave it away in my guilt leaden eyes;

rode astride a glimmer-wave of hope.

That’s how they knew I was all shiny new.

 

I didn’t cry over so many

little things after.

For I had witnessed,

had learned their secrets –

 

With blouses open I tasted them as

tarts and berries entranced with

a sexual elixir toward heaven,

or hell – who cares for the compass!

 

And I loved them.. It was worth

all my lives prior or none in the future –

 

It was even worth

trading away, in an unplanned way,

my family.

 

 

 

 

 

Follow Elisabeth on Twitter: @ehoranpoet