On Sunday, May 3rd, freshmen Riley Mayes and Payton Sullivan were honored at the Eighth Annual Merriconeag Poetry Festival at the Merriconeag Waldorf School in Freeport. The yearly Merriconeag Poetry Festival is open to Maine high school students in Cumberland, Androscoggin and Sagadahoc counties, and it serves as a place to honor the myriad voices of young poets in Maine.
The Honeybee Unlocks the Universe
by Payton Sullivan’18
I threw myself down in the grass
like a fish tossed aground throws
himself back into water. I delighted
in the splendid dirt enveloping me,
the crocuses clustering around me,
the indifferent heavens above me,
the sleepy air shifting
restlessly about me
like the last gulp of life.
On that late spring afternoon,
I resigned myself.
I allowed the bed of grasses to become my casket,
the doomed light of the plunging sun to be my pall,
and the wind in oaks to sing my dirge.
Oh, I swear the clouds slowed in awe,
and the creeping creatures of the dirt
lamented my passing
‘til I sprung from my grave.
Inexorably, I wandered aimlessly
yet purposefully throughout the garden
until creatures slept,
and breezes ceased to whisper.
Only the honeybees in clover continued
their toiling, as stars shattered
the inky canvas of nightfall.
In that dusky hour, I maintain to this day,
the universe folded back to my meadow.
Every matter-strewn field
was mine to traverse, and every
mystifying vacuum was pulling me in.
And still the bees hummed on,
as if determined to elude time herself.
And as they danced around me, I knew
that the simplest pirouettes of honeybees
can unlock the most complex
happenings of galaxies.
Riley Mayes ’18 poem:
Winter can be as bitter
As burnt toast.
The glare reflecting off the ice
Foreshadows the loss of balance,
And just before you hit the ground,
The image of falling hangs,
Above the head of the victim.
From the ground,
You see a molded sky that hangs loosely,
Close to your forehead,
It could induce hibernation.
The glassy spectacle of icicles
Monopolizes every roof and gutter;
Daggers and swords,
On the precipice of making a connection
And the mourning ground.
Not to mention the air;
Torrents of wind ripping tears from eyelashes and
Winter clings its fingers
Around the circumference of your throat,
And all you can do is wait for the gentle hand of the sun
To release you.