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Project no.1

A Practice in Poetry

In order to further my understanding of how different interpersonal relationships can present themselves I spent time analyzing familiar ones: adolescent romance, a point of beginning for the uninitiated. I submerged myself in the minuscule moments that mean so much: observing a crush in class, anticipating the coincidental run-in at a concert, catching glances through passing car windows. Tiny instances that youthful, rapid hearts latch on to and replay again and again, just because it feels good. 

 

These moments are vivid images that I adapted into poetry. The set below contains two poems, Neon Lights and The Shore, which are extrapolated from ideas in a lyrical essay I had written previously. They provide a space for a reader to identify with the blur of elements unique to the teenage experience: infatuation, fantasy, and eagerness.

Neon Lights

Neither sang

but she could dance, 

watching her - must be 

what flying feels like - 

 

Long reaching limbs 

delicately pale,

but freckled from 

summer sunbeams 

stretching towards untrackable 

neon lights soaring overhead, 

filling the town’s local 

music dungeon, 

she danced.

 

He watched, 

she blissfully ignored 

the weight of his glance, 

the sensation of his stare. 

 

But she didn’t last long, 

it was too hard 

to pretend,

he wasn’t there.

 

So clearly he could picture

those same arms, 

her arms

under neon lights

but in a switched circumstance:

the pair walking up to an entrance, 

the entrance

of the Rialto Theatre. 

 

The theatre he wanted

and waited 

to take her to

 

The theatre he would 

sit beside her in

The theatre he would 

watch her watch film in

The theatre he would 

tentative reach for her hand in

 

The theatre she would 

sneak a look at his face

to find those dark brown eyes

already ready and waiting 

for her’s.

The Shore

The teenage dishwasher 

with the soft black hair

with the calloused fingertips 

            and the dried out palms 

 

The teenage dishwasher

with the keys 

    to the car

    that would drive her 

    every Sunday that summer 

    to the Jersey Shore

    to the boardwalk shops

    to the sand permanently stuck in her sandals 

    to the sunsets

​

The Chi-chi’s dishwasher

who worked 

open to close

everyday 

   but Sundays. 

 

Sundays,

like him,

were all hers.

a photograph of my parents, whose relationship inspired these poems 

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