XPI Student Showcase
Welcome to Xpress Plugged In, our new online gallery of student expressions. Please follow the submission instructions CAREFULLY. New work will be posted every Monday.
-- Nancy Green, editor of XPI
Selections for the Week of 6/06/2011
Spotlight on Jonathan Freeman, 12th grade
Hillsborough High School, Tampa
Jonathan on Jonathan ...
My name is Jonathan Freeman. My main influences for writing come from a few Japanese authors such as Haruki Murakami and Masuji Ibuse, as well as American writers William Faulkner and Emily Dickinson. These writers, along with much of the literature covered by my teachers (Mrs. Cecilia Boyce and Mrs. Valerio Reynolds), have had a profound effect on the ways in which I view the world and thus on the ways in which I write. I strive to communicate the facets of who I am and what I believe through constantly changing styles of poetry and short stories. To me, the written word is a catalyst for some of the deepest growth one can experience.
Writing by Jonathan Freeman, 12th grade,
Hillsborough High School, Tampa
Redefined
The days of our lives are transient rhymes
Failed tunnels through formless time
Sublime martyrs for lines uncrossed and
Cowards embossed by the luster of Life's shine.
We seem content with weekly checks
And a cheap bottle of wine
Our days defined by someone else's enslaved brain,
Shackled with the weight of dreams denied
(Just tattered seams, misunderstood
We would fly if we could).
Liberate your mind and
Lose yourself in realms redefined
No more self--medication
Through prisons prescribed
And static skies show new signs of Life, of
Beauty immersed in
Poetry
space
and Time
space
We are so simple,
Yet so sublime
A Dream in the Maze
The other day I realized
That this is just a maze,
Where our own thoughts create the walls
Obscured in ancient haze.
And soon I came to understand
We also have a guide;
A dwindling Fire fueled by dreams
That hunger deep inside.
But rather than ignite this Flame
That we necessitate,
We climb a billion concrete walls
In semi--lucid states.
We fail to see the barriers
As constructs of the mind,
And by doing so we keep ourselves
Infinitely confined.
So fainter still becomes the Light
That yearns to lead us through;
Forgotten Flame ebbs out of sight,
And walls close in on you.
7:00 a.m. symphony
"...and destruction after all is a form of creation."-- Graham Greene
wake up before the sunrise
drive out of the driveway
gogogo the silent symphony starts
follow the conductor carefully
the power of routine compels you
compels me to hate no
to pity if only I could
tear down these seething machinations
strip the walls off the automobiles and
expose their naked frames to Beauty and Inspiration and god
forbid we might see our folly
that you might look in your rear--view mirror to find
a skeleton scratching out melodies on the violin
sounds like a beautiful tune
and somewhere i can faintly hear
brazen horns buzzing along with motors
listen closely
the four last songs
can you hear them
no
just empty sounds
and this god of the machine.
It
It is not a desperate flame
That licks the edges of my mind;
Nor is it the cool specter
Who glides, frictionless, on ice.
It is the isolated forest,
Eternally frozen --
A silenced breeze
Drifts through undisturbed branches,
Carrying the musings of Time.
It is not shades of fallen trees
Who kneel with Nature's course,
Nor is it forest, freshly burned,
Which certainly regrows --
It is the retreat from conflagrations
And phantoms of the past.
It is an Earth ignorant of seasons,
Waving a white banner
At the faintest signs of reality.
It is the lonely forest,
Eternally frozen --
It will not be reborn
In the springtime.
Light of the Moon
The light of the moon, guide of the night,
Leads us toward a manifold fate,
Our shadows amble solemnly behind us.
Under the mystifying luminescence,
We wander forward, our intentions clear,
Guided by the soft glow.
But soon our shadows split,
Torn asunder by unnatural light,
They lose form, become many
Soon the simple becomes abstract,
The path once clear becomes forked,
Shadows spring from the tainted source
They choke us and surround us,
Misleading, misguiding,
Specters of our own device
The moon becomes shrouded,
This forged light consumes us;
We lose direction and purpose
Veracity and sanctuary become unknown.
Our path fades,
Lost from our memory.
Light of the moon, guide of the night,
Lead me toward a manifold fate
My shadow, amble solemnly behind me.
Under the mystical luminescence,
Let me march onward, my path clear,
Guided by the warm glow;
A steadfast beacon in the night.
The Choice
I spend my days on sandy shores
And watch the Waves go by,
Sated with the comfort
That the supple earth provides.
Tomorrow I could build a Ship
And gamble with the Sea--
Or I could fill my fist with sand
And watch it sift through me.
Reflection
I invite you on a sojourn to reflect upon a window into my being. Looking through the window, I see a familiar home, which I can call my own. It possesses no overbearing qualities but rather is endowed with a strong cedar foundation and numerous windows through which I can gaze out with inquisitiveness. This edifice is declarative, but humble, firmly--rooted yet malleable and relaxed. It resides atop a promontory overlooking an infinite, light--blue ocean from which a fresh breeze enters my home. I glimpse a walkway leading up to the front door, with an apple orchard on either side of the footpath. I stop to pick a ripened fruit that restores my body and frees my mind. The strong wooden steps lead me to the entrance -- a portal to both the unknown and the understood. I open the door slowly, curiously, and without anticipation. I stride forward, where a sunbeam creates a canopy of light that saturates the room with warmth. Yet where one would expect objects and material possessions, I perceive possibility, indistinct and amorphous, yet as tangible as the earth itself. There is neither past nor future. The flow of time is bent only on what could be and what will be. The essence of the house is purely its own, and as I turn to gaze out towards the ocean, I find my projected self meeting the gaze of my observing self. At that moment, what I see looking out is the same as what I see looking in. I become an observer to more than what can be observed. I become.