Muse samples
Each year, Mountain Brook High School students compile student-made poetry and prose into the Muse literary magazine. Below are excerpts from its 2014 magazine. Muse can be found online at mtnbrook.k12.al.us/mbhs.
Father
Barrett Potter
His face looked so much older than I had ever remembered. I hadn’t seen him up close in a long time. He had apologized multiple times to me, and I had heard some of them, but most of them I spent analyzing his face. He had wrinkle lines around his face and a prominent one around the left corner of his mouth. At this point, tears were welling in my eyes, half from what he was saying, and the other half realizing that he had aged and I didn’t get to watch.
Flooded Silence*
Adelaide Dunn
Muse Editor-in-Chief 2013-2014
What if the whole world flooded,
up to the very tippy top?
But instead of drowning, we all grew gills,
and swam around all day,
swinging from the stoplights
and splashing up next to the stars.
I’d swim to Spain with my newly webbed fingers,
laughing at the swordfish poking at the moose,
full of curiosity at his newfound friend.
Schools of fish become schools of humans,
traveling in packs to find food or shelter;
sticking together in this newfound world.
But fear of the unknown
doesn’t ebb their curiosity.
They seek until they fall asleep,
curled up in the soft ocean arms.
I sit up here with the stars,
and smile down below,
because there are no words,
no shouts, laughs, or songs.
Only silence.
The water takes voice,
but leaves us bubbling with empathy.
And I find that silence is the saving grace
in my underworld world
*Alabama High School Literary Arts Award Winner
Work in Progress
Mary Shelton Hornsby
A callous hand can shape the world
it holds the tool and shapes the curl
it understands anatomy
and forms the very man I see.
This man is cold and still and rock—
he cannot soothe, he cannot mock
were he to speak one word to me
would it cruel or caring be?
The artist thinks his work’s alive,
similar to a silent hive,
until it bursts with effusive force,
as bees all hasten to end their course.
I—the Viewer— know he is
by watching closely his irises,
and noticed that, if I look thrice—
he’ll shift his gaze from Paradise.
I see the rivers of gray and beige
begin to swirl in this stone of age,
the wrinkles stretch and fluctuate
and shape the waves, earth, and slate.
His curls begin to twist in wind
and his pointing finger a signal sends—
a curse, a boast, I know not which
is he poor, famished, greedy, rich?
I hope, I wish that he would speak
his words, however bitter or sweet.
then he could tell me the men he’s seen
and the countless ages that have been
Since man first chiseled him from the pebble of a mountain.
White Noise*
Robin McDaniel
Three rings.
Sitting. Listening. Waiting.
Reaching for the phone,
then pulling away.
And for what?
How have you been?
How’s school?
Are you still dating that
boy?
When are we going to get
together?
How is your mom?
I don’t want to answer.
It’s all meaningless
anyway.
Nothing has changed.
Nothing will change.
I know you’ve tried
to fix yourself.
But not hard enough.
I’ve tried to forgive you.
But not hard enough.
I don’t remember the last time we talked.
But I don’t want to remember.
I don’t know how to finish this…
…Hello?
*Alabama High School Literary Arts Award Winner: Special Recognition in Poetry