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Migration to New York | Mikaela G.
Migration to New York | Mikaela G.
Stumbling off
the ferry on unsteady feet
Nauseated groups
of students entering New York together.
The stench of
greasy pretzels and the pungent river drift through the air like a greeting,
Following us
away from the ferry, and into the city.
We cluster on
the sidewalk, a massive roadblock
Ignoring looks
from people with things to see and places to be.
Suddenly we are
like a flock of birds, moving to the benches on the left
Sitting down, everyone
is in deep thought, eyes wandering, and scrawling first impressions.
Most too absorbed
to notice a dozen pigeons strutting by,
Graceful,
confident and proud.
As we write, we observe
the New Yorkers,
Walking by
briskly, not giving us more than a glance.
They yell into
phones, converse in foreign languages, or bargain with their companions.
Nobody’s without
a purpose.
On the right,
more tourists pour in,
As many as
possible are crammed onto a single ferry until it overflows with hopes and
dreams.
Our time was short,
but just enough.
We find our
groups, our families
And shuffle down
the street.
As we wander
further from our first impressions,
Our next destination
awaits.
Mikaela casts the horde of 100 student tourists as immigrants, finding their feet and their way through foreign territory, "as many as possible...crammed onto a single ferry until it overflows with hopes and dreams." I like the way she contrasts the human response to New York with the pigeons' attitude.
Street Performer | Maniza H.
My eyes scan the crowd,
their eyes coated with anticipation.
Others walk by, New Yorkers they are called.
They ignore me, but I notice them.
I am tired, but the day isn’t done.
I have to forget all the eyes,
I have to let my body take over me,
And I have to move to the beat of New York.
their eyes coated with anticipation.
Others walk by, New Yorkers they are called.
They ignore me, but I notice them.
I am tired, but the day isn’t done.
I have to forget all the eyes,
I have to let my body take over me,
And I have to move to the beat of New York.
As I move, I feel a connection to my friends.
I can hear my fellow trumpet player,
from the corner of Times Square.
Oohs and aahs follow after the artist
creates a masterpiece of New York.
Caricatures are drawn with smooth
curves,
and as the curves come together,
a grin peaks out,
as they see their face so exaggerated
and as the curves come together,
a grin peaks out,
as they see their face so exaggerated
They stride through the street;
and their faces fill with glee as they take a photo
and their faces fill with glee as they take a photo
I come to a stop
Clap. Woot. Whistle.
Sweat glistens on my skin,
my breathing unnatural.
I am a street performer
A real New Yorker
I love how Maniza shows the subtle and slightly surreal way that "ordinary" visitors to New York find themselves transformed into street performers just through being there, through participating as bit players in the big show that is street life. "I have to move to the beat of New York....Clap. Woot. Whistle."
Leah writes from the opposite position, from way outside the hustle and bustle, with the pointed assessment of an outsider, and yet with imagination and compassion for each stranger's "mystique."
Disconnection | Leah S.
All different sorts of people hustle through the
street;
Some look quite similar, like the businessmen
shuffling their feet.
Others are more prominent, like the man performing
flips in Central Park,
While thousands of made-up ladies in high heels leave
their marks.
All these people look so much alike,
with their
matching black umbrellas, and shiny grey bikes.
But really, each person has their own defined story,
Like the smiling adolescent who is utterly worried.
The homeless man over there, looked so down upon,
Has just had a bleak life and all his relations are
gone.
That “good” man just there, with a quality life,
Might not make such fine choices and could be cheating
on his wife.
I go through New York City, the land of dreams,
So authentic and bursting with people at its seams
and
I realize something that I have always perceived:
No one really knows what a person is like inside,
we
just look them up and down and judge from the outside.
Oh, that chubby girl on the right isn’t cool one bit,
But the slender girl to the left must be popular and
fit.
The secrets of New Yorkers remain confined, and it
keeps the city abstruse,
like a puzzle in your mind.
But the mystique of each person also allows judgment,
and it creates a world of disconnection.
Jenna captures a moment of stillness that you can find amid the hustle and bustle, if you pause and submit to awe. Up high, at the top of the Empire State Building, you might as well be on Mount Olympus with the gods, both tiny and mighty.
Star-lit Night in New York | Jenna W.
The city illuminates the night
Like fireflies.
Neon stars dancing
Under the moonlight.
Queen of the City
Watches over
The vibrant colors.
Standing tall
Beaming into the night sky.
She reaches out
To trace over
The star-weaved darkness.
A blanket stretching
Across the never-ending distance.
The flow of light
Fills the city
All gleaming lights sparkle
In the city of eternal light –
New York.
Grace closes with an image of New York as a lifelike--but artificial--being. She and I share the experience of New York as both exhilarating and exhausting, if you dare to experience it wholly. At some point you either have to give in ("lights blur as complex reality slips") or harden yourself to it--or drive to safety through a rainbow tunnel.
Restless
A poem for two
voices | Grace W.
They say New York is the city that
never sleeps
New York is the most tiring city in
the world
The city is full of life, yet it
remains lifeless, so how could it sleep?
The city pulses with a perpetual
energy, keeping me awake
I like the idea of a living city
though
The adrenaline emanating from the
ground throbs through me with each step
Each building is a bump or crease on
this enormous being
The electric air flows around me,
giving me tingly goose bumps
People are blood flowing through their
subway veins
My blood courses through my veins as
my excited heart rate quickens
Tangled trees are the bedhead of this
insomniac
Gentle breeze feeds my exhilaration
and blows my hair into a frenzy
The problem is the city is artificial,
it has no heart
The city combats my human frailty with
its overwhelming industrial force
No tired brain to slowly, s l o w l y
find the simplicity of rest
The dizzying images of lights blur as
my mind lets complex reality slip
No listless body struggling to cross
the bridge from waking to dreaming
My whole body aches while we keep
walking through this unforgiving town
Finally the exhilaration submits to
exhaustion as we drive away, through the rainbow tunnel
The city falls into an ambiguous
silhouette as time passes on
Now I'm waiting for the blanket of darkness to untuck these lego
buildings and toy cars, because it's almost time for morning.
Many thanks to these 8th grade poets for sharing their work with me, and to Mrs. Kiernan Cantergiani and the many other extraordinary staff at EMS who made this trip and these poems possible for their extraordinary students.
The Poetry Friday roundup today is with another teaching poet--and friend of the famous Mrs. Ray!--Amy Ludwig Vanderwater. Visit her at The Poem Farm to enjoy Poetry Friday in the Kidlitosphere.
