#notheme

What can i say i can never stick to one them

By Aden Littlewood (Grade 11)

One day, there was a tomato named Mateo. Mateo was a bright red cherry tomato, and grew on a small vine in a little farm. He was surrounded by many other cherry tomatoes, all of them bright red like Mateo, and as he grew up, everyone told him how lucky he was to be a handsome red cherry tomato.

But the problem was, Mateo never felt like a tomato. You see, opposite where the cherry tomatoes grew, on the same little farm, there were many grape vines as well, an on the vines grew many crimson grapes. And even though Mateo looked like a cherry tomato, and everyone told him he was a cherry tomato and had to act like a cherry tomato, inside, Mateo always felt like a grape.

Eventually, Mateo mustered up the courage to tell the tomatoes living on his vine that he felt like he needed to become a grape. He needed to leave his cherry tomato community behind, and go and live with the grapes.

"Why?" questioned Romano the Tomato, his neighbor, "You're a cherry tomato. You can't be a grape!"

"I have to," Mateo responded, "I feel like a grape and I always have. From my head to my toes."  

So Mateo set off, coming out from the cherry tomato vines and rolling towards the grapes. However, because Mateo had no legs, and he had no arms, he didn't get very far. Luckily, just at that moment, the local farm dog ran by and saw Mateo on the ground. He stopped, confused.

By Aden Littlewood (Grade 11)

Dear reader, I have a story to tell. A story forged in fires of youth, refined by the travails of modern creativity. It is a story of promises, of expectations, but ultimately, one of confusion and disappointment. But above all, dear reader, it is a story of a young boy named Timmy.

You see, little Timmy was very excited this Christmas, and so, on Christmas Eve, he could barely fall asleep. He had already seen the presents at the bottom of the tree, and he knew exactly which ones he would open first. The very next morning, Timmy jumped out of bed and headed straight down towards the Christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs. Poor Timmy didn't know whether or not he should wait for his parents before opening his presents, but he decided that he didn't need to. After all, what could go wrong? What, indeed?

Suddenly, Timmy saw a present there that he hadn't seen before. It was a box wrapped in red paper, with a gold ribbon around it. Timmy was confused. Where had the present come from? At that moment, he realized something: that must be the present from Santa! Little did Timmy know of the truth.

Little Timmy hurriedly ran over to the present, struggling to take off the gold ribbon. He squeezed it off, and ripped off the red paper. Inside was a brown box, and, dear reader, Timmy lifted open the box, and suddenly -

By Aden Littlewood (Grade 11)

To light, what is happiness, but emotions which it cannot feel? To the gazelle, what is Mozart, but meaningless noise it cannot understand? To a fridge, what is a good joke, but language it cannot hear? To a high school student, what is poetry, but a series of tenuous metaphors?

Tenuous metaphors, or perhaps sometimes rhetorical questions, Rhetorical questions asking them for complex answers, Complex answers of which they cannot see the point, The point that the poet so desperately wants them to know.

If not rhetorical questions, then constant repetition, A repeating of words again and again in a tiresome mission, To let the ideas come to fruition, and, in addition, as ammunition, For the abolition of students' poetry suspicion, be they statistician, musician, or Mauritian.

Or perhaps poetry is to the high school student just rhyme, words Combining with other Words to form sentences that are pleasing to The ear, to make the message sound songlike and "poetic".

Though some argue the "poetry" is from the subversion, The playing with the established norms, with the content, The structure, being changed in a way that make 16th century poets spin in their grave and shits all over iambic pentameter.

And finally, there are those who say poetry is about the irony, The ability to talk about something that usually means the opposite, For humor of emphasis, making the audience think, Instead of just spelling out and defining everything for them.

So to a high school student, what is poetry, but a series of tenuous metaphors? Tenuous metaphors, or perhaps sometimes rhetorical questions, If not rhetorical questions, then constant repetition, Or perhaps poetry is to the high school student just rhyme, words Though some argue the "poetry" is from the subversion, And finally, there are those who say poetry is about the irony.