Fragile, and weak, like delicate glasswork, Flocks of birds ran away, weakened like retreat. Wind blew and tsunamis wrecked, and they are ones that lurk. How the birds remember this was a crystal sea of dew, But now, lightning, tsunamis, and winds flooded the trees and nests. And then, the cause of this was a terrible wreck, and flocks and flocks of birds flew. Saltwater waves were peaceful, and were no problems for sandpipers, but now, the birds were hopeless And soaked. Birds chirped for help as hatchlings closed their eyes and heard everything. Grown birds took care of their bird children and sheltered them like coats. The birds sat down in their nests, desperate for the moth-eaten storm to end. The birds waited for a long eternity, and the sun rose as birds chirped with relief. The sun was like a gift that people could lend. A rainbow shined down at the end of the storm; the birds were amazed. The water was clear and crystalized. Again.
Poem
Pauline on PAUSE
In the early hours of the day when the lonely owl is interrupted by the small twitters of rising birds and the first blush appears in the sky, I sit in my blue chair and listen to the world around me. The house is perfectly silent, but soon the cries of the little kids in the neighborhood will fade in. So I treasure this time. And this chair. My sister would much rather have a queen-sized bed to lounge spread-eagle on, but I remain in this little blue chair, my midpoint between sleep and life, between childhood and adulthood. My sister can’t fit in here anyway— she’s too big and too old. So it is only me who curls up in this space to watch the sun slowly advance across the floor to warm my feet. It is all mine. I’ve come to know this chair with all that’s been going on. Right now, I should be slouching against the rigid metal backing of the stools in the chilly geometry room. Yet here I am, observing my world in a little bubble of peace. From here, I can see the trees in the backyard looming over the garage they have entwined with time. And on the windowsill my lavender, remaining hostile inside its yet-to-bloom bulb. Next to me, a spindly side table trembles with the weight of my childhood. Or at least the books that were a part of it. My Father’s Dragon, Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse, and, obviously, Harry Potter, although you can’t really make poor Harry out through this film of dust. Eventually, when the remainder of my tea has gone cold, I do have to get myself up and truly begin my day. As things go back to normal, whatever that is, I know that my little blue chair will soon become a part of the background again. A spot to toss blankets and other miscellaneous items. This period of serenity will fade as the world returns. It will be as if I had been living underwater, and the sounds of life will trickle back as I rise to the surface.
I Am a Thunderstorm
“I’m mixed.” A pause, just a second, barely noticeable, before the gears begin to turn. The pinched brow, the searching gaze, the uncertain tilt of the head, slowly recede in relief. My new friend now has an answer and a box to put me in: “Oh, like café au lait!” “Well . . . sure . . . I guess.” A smile, a reassuring nod, and our conversation moves on. Yet all the while I’m thinking that inside, inside, I’m not like café au lait at all. No. I am a thunderstorm. On the outside I am too light to be dark and I am too dark to be light. My hair is not too straight nor too curly. I am right in the middle. A pleasant blend of both sides of my family. It’s a box, but it’s a safe, comfortable box. I am a symbol of unity, of harmony, of How Far We Have Come. The type of kid they now use in ads to sell overpriced leisure wear and complacency. But inside these two sides of me come together not in peace, not in harmony, but in tension and conflict. Like a thunderstorm. If half of me is hot and dry, the other half must be cold and humid. My disparate elements clash and contrast. They fight and repel. The collision is terrifying, disruptive, and yet productive, for it creates force, light, energy, and, eventually, change. I have come to embrace this storm inside of me and all of the thunder and wind and rain and life it promises.
Three Expressions of Rain
1: The mist that dances on the water wisps of light contained in tiny, glistening droplets like fragments of crystal the sound mystical and delicate 2: Thick, gray sheets pounding on the roof with giant fists unrelenting and violent a tempest that swirls in the sky 3: A nonstop drizzle muted and bleak full of nothingness muffled and subdued
The Sun’s Sister
I am the sun So big and bold My seeds leave me When I’m old I stand and sway watching them fly away to freedom Bobbing in the breeze And finally landing in the shade beneath The trees But now it is Spring And I am blooming bright Now it is Summer and I am still a lovely sight Fall is here and I look like the moon All of my seeds will leave me soon Soon is here as they blow away Soon is here as one little one stays The moment is here The moment is sad but happy Bad but good The moment is here as the last seed blows away The moment is here as I close my eyes And enter a long winter’s sleep
By the River
A beautiful river is beside me. The forest behind me. The world is a beautiful place to live. We all love our Earth. The river brings something to my mind. What could it be?
After the Attack
Broken homes. Sad people. A lonely town in a small valley. Can the world be worse? Who can live on an earth like this?
The Name
Paulina. Paulina. Paulina. It’s a beautiful name. It fills my head with wonder. Does it mean something? Can people ever find a name more beautiful? Can a butterfly be named that? How many things can we know?
Lasers of the Night
On a stormy night On Flossmoor Road Light reflecting off water Making a laser reflection. Under the road Lasers fire up into the sky Light flows in a stream Shooting up like a fountain. Green lights Red lights Looks like An aurora borealis. Lasers go Up and up and up For an eternity. Fountaining And wiggling And squiggling Into a thin rope. Light flies everywhere Making a supernova Of green lights Red lights. Light reflecting off Flossmoor Road Light reflecting off water.
Dad’s Stocks
This piece contains some additional resources for educators. Click here to read them. Up and down and up and down, that’s how stocks work. Up and down and up and down, that’s how Dad works. Then stocks go down and down and down and down— that’s what’s happening now. So Dad’s emotions go down and down and down and down— and suddenly he is silent. He is silent like the stocks— afraid. And now I realize I care about stocks. Additional Resources Author Interview Summary & Analysis Discussion Questions Author Interview What inspired you to write this piece? When Covid 19 hit, I wasn’t really worried about anything. I thought that it was far away, and wouldn’t affect my life at all. However, it affected the stock market. My dad’s work involves buying stocks. Because of Covid, a lot of people were scared to buy stocks and there were a lot of changes happening to the stock market. Everyone was stressed, especially my dad. I remember him having bags under his eyes, and he would barely have the energy to speak. I felt lonely, but more so sad that everyone was so worried. In the end, I felt inspired to write about how deeply my dad cares for his job, and I wanted to show him that I love him. Can you share more about your creative process? How did you write this? In the beginning, I knew that I was going to write this poem about myself: my worries, my fears, my loneliness. But later on, I was surprised by how the poem started being more and more about my dad. At first, I didn’t want to write about my dad in this way because I thought it would make me sound immature. But when I really started writing this poem, I realized that it’s okay to sound younger, to write in the voice of a child, or include another, less mature side of me in my writing. In conclusion, even though this poem turned out differently than I expected, it made me learn a lot more about trusting my instincts and I love the result. What’s your favorite single poem, short story, or piece of art? Why? My favorite poem is “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae. I remember the first time I read it, I didn’t think much of it until my teacher read it to me again, and I really started to think about its meaning. I love how McCrae gives off a “creepy” vibe by writing in the voices of the dead, but his language is also so beautiful. I love the rhythm and rhyming, which is something I have often tried to include in my poetry. And not only is this poem really sad and beautiful, but it has also changed my perspective of how I look at death. What advice do you have for any young writers or artists hoping to be published in Stone Soup? My advice is to trust your own writing style. Don’t try to change your voice to get your work published because the most important part is that you keep true to your own style. If everyone wrote in one format and one tone, then writing would no longer be interesting. Just like how I embraced my childlike voice in my poem, don’t be afraid to write something that sounds “weird” or “strange.” Back to top Summary & Analysis “Dad’s Stocks” by Mia Xu, 11, is a short poem written in a single stanza. In it, the speaker observes her father’s relationship to his stocks and her own relationship to them, in turn. The father’s mood mirrors the stocks, going “up and down and up and down” depending on their performance. Parents tend to watch the worth of stocks—the money given to a business in the hopes of receiving more money in return—because an investment could make them more (or less) wealthy. Some people consider stock investment a bit of a game. It can feel good to receive more money in return. However, it can also feel disheartening to see the worth of stocks go down because that means the investor is losing money. Investing can bring complicated feelings. How does this poet choose words carefully? In this poem, Xu uses repetition and rhythm to reflect the stock market fluctuations—the stocks going up and down. Listen to the playful rhyme Xu uses when matching “down” and “now” in this segment: Then stocks go down and down and down and down— that’s what’s happening now. This rhyming is considered slant rhyme, when words sound similar but don’t rhyme exactly. Slant rhyme matches Xu’s imperfect emotions in this case. The speaker observes her father’s reaction to recent the stocks going “down and down and down”: “Dad’s emotions go / down and down and down and down.” He is losing money, and his mood is dropping. Finally, Xu writes: “He is silent / like the stocks—/ afraid.” Stocks are silent. They aren’t people with emotions, yet Xu draws a parallel between the quiet of stocks and the quiet of her father. The stocks aren’t afraid, but her father is. Finally, in this reflective poem, Xu shares, “And now I realize / I care about stocks.” Although the speaker is learning about stocks and does not make investments herself, she realizes that she does “care” because of their effects on her father. Back to top Discussion Questions What are some sound patterns and repetitions you hear in the poem that are interesting to the ears? Why do you think that poets use sound patterns? Can you think of a time when you, like Xu, have been sensitive to the emotions of a parent or loved one during their moments of silence? Back to top
Backyard
My outside workplace holds ivy, the tips of their leaves gently pointing towards the patio of brick, clustered together, the surface of the greenery shining like an emerald jewel, covering a single side of the curvature stone beneath my feet.
Observing the Night Sky on a Summer Solstice
Situated on the compact grass, grains of sand underlying the plant that wildly grows. Shamrock color coating the square piece of meadow, fading to a flaxen pigment at the tip of each miniscule stalk. My fingers comb through the separate blades, as sharp as an obsidian knife edge. The roots robust, planted in the layer of grit, standing stock still. The sun is a bulbous globe of fiery light igniting the sky before it is called to sleep. As the sun passes on the work of the day, the glowing moon slides into the atmosphere with a golden halo, emitting rays of luminosity. Bright blue dissolving, the vault of heaven as clear as a polished prism, ready for the evening to engulf the luster of summer. Pink streaks are painted into azure; I think of a glass of cold, refreshing strawberry lemonade. Apricot spreads evenly across the darkening sky, radiating amber highlights in rare places. Crimson red meets apricot, and they dance: moonwalking, pirouetting, spinning, twirling. After the debut of the complete sunset colors, royal periwinkle plunges with a swan dive gracing the remaining sky. I stay in my place, eyes in awe, head turned upward toward the unknown. The sun disappears from observation, leisurely obeying gravity, all sunset intensity following. Time is frozen, not passing, until the colors vanish. I wait for the superior darkness to encompass my surroundings. Ebony black becomes the origination of night, writing with a fountain pen across the sky, until the ebony becomes a midnight void. In the black, blazing creatures with open wings find bliss. Riding the soft air currents that gently sway, fireflies, soaring, discovering freedom in the beauty of aviation, fearless in shining their light, prepared to reveal themselves in the velvet darkness of the universe.
