Happy Fall!

Hello BIMA writers!

I hope everyone is having a lovely school year.

Keep on writing!

xo,

Jessie

5 Ways to Look At at a Tree

A beautiful creation that can be discussed in ten pages,
Or paper to be created and made into wages.

An object for hufflelumps to run into.
Trees can be really annoying, who knew?

A plant that creates air for me to breath.
More useful than a wreath.

Something to look at and say, "Please don't kill it!
There are living creatures within it!"

A creation to just look at.
One might even notice a cat.

Why I Write

I write because it makes my family proud. I write because it's a hobby colleges will be impressed with. I write because it's the only activity I can beat my siblings at. I write because it can help me make friends. I write because I want to entertain people. I write because a few people have said I'm good at it. I write to see if anyone will listen to me. I write because I can be sassy without getting in trouble or being afraid of being in trouble. I write because it gives me something to talk about. I write because I've been inspired to. I write because I get to create someone new. I write because I get to dream of a new world. I write because it is fun. I write because it's something I've always done. I write because it's practical. I write because it allows me to vent. I write because, though I already have much to do, it gives me more. I write because it's something I can do forever. I write because I'll be able to when I get old. I write because I want to tell a story. I write because anything can happen. I write because I want to tell my strange dreams like they're real but it can only be that way in fantasy. I write because then I can live on forever any way I want. I write because I want to remember what I've thought. I write because I can do it anywhere. I write because there's so much you can do with it. I write because I can. I write because, well, why not?

My Children

At night I walk the streets

To find my children

 

The ones without homes

Or families

Or places to go

 

I find a different one each night

And leave a gift for them

 

Hope

Desire for a new life

The seeds of happiness wedged in their brains

Or simply the will to change

 

My children are stubborn and afflicted

So I walk the streets and change them one by one

But there are so many of them

 

I come across a young man

Sleeping on a stoop

Only a thin raggedy sheet around his thin and sickly shoulders

He’s shaking

 

I rest my hand upon his quivering shoulder

All his memories flood me

            A nice family

            A beautiful home

            A good college

 

            Drugs

            Alcohol

            Aids

            This stoop

 

And I whisper

            My child

            Have the hope and the will and the desire for a new life, your old life

            You can change

 

As I take my hand slowly from his bony back

He stirs

            Why?

            He asks

            Why are you helping me?

 

Because

You are my child             

Jocks

We're Jocks.
We rock.

Say dude.
Like food.

Lettermans.
Girlfriends.

Smoke pot.
She's hot.

Stay up late.
Graduate.

We've peaked.
We're weak.

Catharsis

I notice you in the corners of my movement
You think you are so stealthy
Steeling little glances of my life
Infiltrating my content

You think you go unnoticed
Slowly stealing the me from me
Gathering it up in your black sack of failures
As if i wouldn't see the gaps you left behind

I almost caught you once, I had planned
In all the moments I had dreamed
About that day
To beat you to a pulp

But I made the mistake, I make so many mistakes
Of listenting to your familiar slander
And my ears were lost
To impossible standards

I still see your footprints everywhere
Even with no tracks
So pronounced
They don'te even need snow to crunch

I see you gather up my pride
Like jewels
Atleast it makes you happy
Atleast someone is happy

Perfection, you are my immortal stalker
I try to see you in my thoughts
To recognize those moments when you skip out my ears
And Land in my life

But mostly, I can only see
What you want me to
The imperfection of my world
Against yours

Eight Ways of Looking at Myself

I can't get perspective
On myself
There are no different ways
To see what is the
Same
There is no eight, no seven,
Just a mirror
On all sides
On eight sides
Showing me
The same self
Too many times

Where I'm From

Where I'm From

I am from Payless sneakers and a plastic grandmother
the fragile kind
who put butter on their cheeks
who if I touched would break.
I am from Ave J and pink synagogues, graying women who pray in their backyard.
I am from Dial soap and cheap detergent-the kind that makes your hands rough.
I am from the oak tree I climb on, Peter Lugis, Lil'Kim and the lock downs, keep it poppin'
and "how come she always spacing out?"
I am from the sky peeling its' scabs then servicing the wreckage of kids washed up on the streets by the fire-hydrant
the color drained from their faces
their lungs vacuumed of all breath from laughing so hard.
I am from dreams that hide my grandmother's dead body so heaven shall not have her.
I am from a Brooklyn that I barely remember and a N.Y. that I barely know.
I am from the belly of a ghetto kid who the world is mad at because she is not yet incarcerated
kids who want to be big but who have to settle
for being squashed
each time
they rise.
I am from
banging a stick against a garbage can
and calling it
music
finding a guitar on
the street
and playing my heart out.
I am from summers that went by too quickly
When I think about where I am from I wonder because
the
leaking
of lessons to me from grandmother to mother was unintentional.
like all good lessons are.

-Amalie Kwassman

Two trains
that are supposed to
crash
with flames
and noise and
heartache
ours
never did

5 Ways to See a Sunset

I.

Over the ocean

Over the mountains

 II.

When

I am alone

With a friend

        A lover

 III.

The colors are endless

             Blues

             Purples

            Pinks

            Yellows

            Oranges

The occasional turquoise and magenta

            Followed by the palest lavender

 IV.

I walk on the beach

            My hand in another’s

I sit on the porch

            With a drink in my hand

I watch from the penthouse

            The colors of the sky changing the room around me           

V.

I am older

Another day lost

More wisdom gained

One day closer to death

But one more day that I have lived

 

A Farcical Apology: Yona’s Closet

I hid in your closet

Still, quiet as a mouse

I waited, for an eternity

            For a second

You clomped up the stairs

I quivered with excitement

You walked into your room

 

I jumped out

Screaming

 

You jumped

            Four feet

I was gleeful

 

Sorry about that

But man, it was fun

 

Why I Write: A Love Letter

I write because it is cheaper than therapy. I write because there are things I cannot say. I write because poetry cannot be said. I write to let the stopper off my emotion. I realize in writing who I am. I write because I once wrote a poem that shaped a year. I write because the stars and the moon and human beings are all so beautiful and distant. I write because I want to talk to strangers in the subway, I want to hold them when they cry and listen to their stories. But I don’t. I write because I think human nature is inherently evil. I write because I believe human beings are inherently good. I write because I miss you. I write as an act of faith. I write because I don’t believe. I write because I love. I write because I want you to be happy. I write because I cannot give you what you need. I write because I am furious. I write because I’m ravenous. I write because every time someone compliments my writing, I feel wonderful. I write because I can. I write because of the way my fingers feel pressed against the keys. I write for the glory. I write for no wages. I write for my parents. I write because it’s personal. I write because sometimes it hurts too much to talk to you. I write because I don’t think you’re trying hard enough. I write because it is the study of human misery. I write because it is the history of beauty. I write as a sign of hope. I write to the empty space. I write because I’m calling to the masses. I just write.