Noor Brara
Noor Brara lives a dual reality, attending an international school led by teachers with American accents residing in the midst of
New Delhi madness; here, peacocks often land on the windshields of cars, and roaming cows tend to "Moo!" many a wake up
call. She hopes to work for the New Yorker some day, and happily fits the stereotype of what many imagine writers to enjoy --
long hours, coffee runs, skinny black pens and Moleskin notebooks. Her work has been published in TeenInk online and print
editions, has reviewed unpublished manuscripts for Scholastic and is currently working on a piece for the Christian Science
Monitor. www.fountainpen410.blogspot.com/
New Delhi madness; here, peacocks often land on the windshields of cars, and roaming cows tend to "Moo!" many a wake up
call. She hopes to work for the New Yorker some day, and happily fits the stereotype of what many imagine writers to enjoy --
long hours, coffee runs, skinny black pens and Moleskin notebooks. Her work has been published in TeenInk online and print
editions, has reviewed unpublished manuscripts for Scholastic and is currently working on a piece for the Christian Science
Monitor. www.fountainpen410.blogspot.com/
Sarah
She is made of squares
of cubic, cornered things that acquire
oblong objects, like the soul
like the presence
and harden them into something
crisp and cut and
concluded.
She dices up her squares till she finds herself
within a startling mosaic
a cubic labyrinth.
When all it really took to obtain perfection was
a finished circle -- limitless
and free of squares.
And she keeps her dreams in
glass green bottles, contained
beneath the air tight seals that
cap her character.
Her existence is distorted, refracted
as broken light filters through cracked windows
-- a life lived across the plains of falacies and
forgotton aspirations.
She keeps away, weaving her intrinsic wishes
to the walls and
if walls could speak, their cries would
shake and thunder down the
fabricated exterior which she wears.
And she whispers, whispers the last of her essence
into balloons of scarlett silence
stretching across all she holds, all
that defines her.
The Strings Are Cut and Up She Rises
She is made of squares
of cubic, cornered things that acquire
oblong objects, like the soul
like the presence
and harden them into something
crisp and cut and
concluded.
She dices up her squares till she finds herself
within a startling mosaic
a cubic labyrinth.
When all it really took to obtain perfection was
a finished circle -- limitless
and free of squares.
And she keeps her dreams in
glass green bottles, contained
beneath the air tight seals that
cap her character.
Her existence is distorted, refracted
as broken light filters through cracked windows
-- a life lived across the plains of falacies and
forgotton aspirations.
She keeps away, weaving her intrinsic wishes
to the walls and
if walls could speak, their cries would
shake and thunder down the
fabricated exterior which she wears.
And she whispers, whispers the last of her essence
into balloons of scarlett silence
stretching across all she holds, all
that defines her.
The Strings Are Cut and Up She Rises