By J. Cooper (middle school student)

I want to be someone with

An odd shine to their being,

Flawless! That blinding light.

But that was before I became

Broken to your world and

You became blind to me.

You cannot open your eyes

To my wanting face,

My hungry heart. But

What is a heart anymore?

To me? And to the world?

An empty space.

By Mia Nybacka

Finnish Winter 1Finnish Winter 2Finnish Winter 3Contact: Mia Nybacka * Email: Mia.Nybacka@netikka.fi

By Cedric Tillman

For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings... it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility... - William Wordsworth

I

I am never naked

around nobody

no one has ever seen me

with my clothes off

but me and the Lord

and this diary

can’t look at myself good

when ya’ll in the mirror

don’t take inventory

until everybody leave the sto’

The good Lord

keep good secrets

What he could tell about me

II

get this down

get it down as it comes

just like I bring it to you

get the house first

we can clean the carpet later

III

if it don’t hurt

I didn’t swing hard enough.

it’s gotta hurt for it to matter

gotta feel me

or it don’t matter

gotta be so’

stomach gotta hurt

chest gotta be so’

gotta know me better

at the end

gotta wanna know again

I am trying to make you

remember

IV

there is never any place

for the dam to break

either I ain’t got paper

or the wife is awake

Cedric Tillman received a BA in English from UNC Charlotte and an MFA in Creative Writing from American University. He lives in Charlotte.

Contact: Cedric Tillman * Email: juggsmurf@yahoo.com

Queen Bee * Giclee Print * 16 x 20

Casting * Giclee Print * 16 x 20

Crumbling * Giclee Print * 6 x 6

Contact: Jessica Rosario * Website: www.jessicarosario.com * Email: studio@jessicarosario.com

Is poetry dead?

By Tamryn Spruill

I don’t claim to be a connoisseur of the genre, but I gravitate towards language – words, beautiful or vile, placed precisely on a string to sing, call out and dare one not to feel. According to Merriam-Webster, poetry is “writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm.”

The calendar turns from my March to April and we have April Fool’s Day... and the start of National Poetry Month. Are we fools for giving a rip about the love woes or transcendental meanderings of some dead guys? The lust for the dark side of a woman scorned? The beautiful black pride of a man living during a time when assimilation was the order the day? The drug-fueled howls of a gang hell-bent on giving Mainstream America the middle finger?

Certainly, we are fools if we believe for a second that these love woes, transcendental meanderings, blood lusts, ethnic prides and rebellious howls are not our own. And what better way to stake claim to the pulse of any day than to capture it in words, rhythms and sounds that evoke imaginative fecundity? The Academy of American Poets inaugurated National Poetry Month in April 1996 to “bring together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture,” according to its website. “Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events.”

Word Nerd Editorial and the Nerdy by Nature Blog aim to be a part of the celebration. But our call for submissions left us wondering: Is poetry dead? While talented artists from all corners of the country submitted impressive photographs and works of art, the poets kept their pens and papers clutched tightly to their chests. We all know that making a living at poetic letters is the territory of a select few – the Maya Angelous and Allen Ginsbergs of the world. But has that stopped people from creating art for art’s sake? Apparently so.

As our lives are increasingly cluttered with digital gadgets aplenty, books are being left behind; those darn books just ain’t fast enough! But what of the poetry book – the slowest of them all? Does it stand a chance of dancing off some dusty bookstore shelf and wiggling its way into the heart of a young reader? Or has the whole concept been lost to iPhones, Wiis and flat screen TVs?

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. But that won’t stop this fool from reveling in the month-long celebration of a beautiful, although endangered, genre.

Won’t you join me?