Mon. Nov 25th, 2024
Aerial view of a small town surrounded by hills with autumn foliage under a partly cloudy sky.
Aerial view of a small town surrounded by hills with autumn foliage under a partly cloudy sky.
“Town of Woodstock,” by Beatrice Ziobro, 13, of Pomfret

Young Writers Project is a creative, online community of teen writers and visual artists that started in Burlington in 2006. Each week, VTDigger publishes the writing and art of young Vermonters who post their work on youngwritersproject.org, a free, interactive website for youth, ages 13-19. To find out more, please go to youngwritersproject.org or contact Executive Director Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org; (802) 324-9538.


There can be much to glean from a casual sit on a park bench: It’s a place to observe, to reflect, to philosophize. Sometimes we learn from our surroundings — the people passing by, the setting itself — and other times, we generate a renewed sense of meaning within ourselves just by pausing a moment and taking a seat. This week’s featured poet, Jack Savas of South Burlington, reclines on a bench outdoors to watch the world go by, and watch the world watching him.

Perspective

Jack Savas, 19, South Burlington

The sleek, gray metal of the bench chills my legs.

It always has —

even when my dad and I used to watch the sun sink into the night.

I wonder if the cold brought him the same solace it brings me.

Pink and orange unfurl across the blank canvas of the pearly sky.

Did he see the clouds’ beauty in the same way I do?

I doubt it.

My dog remains next to me, her thick, golden fur a barrier between her and the cold frame.

I wonder if she can feel the chilled metal beneath her.

I doubt it. 

A breeze rolls through,

making the hair on my arms stand like a soldier stuck at attention.

I should’ve brought a sweatshirt.

A jogger passes by,

her face red like the stop sign she just passed.

I bet she enjoys the breeze.

A grassy hill sprawls before me.

It seemingly begs me to roll down its slope.

I just might.

From a distance, I spot an elderly couple strolling along a path.

I wonder if they feel the same urge to tumble down the hill.

I doubt it.

I like this bench.

The homes around me offer a sense of security.

My dad always wished it was only nature. 

I love the continuous buzz of the insects around me.

The rhythm is rather enthralling,

but they don’t know that.

Do the houses around me open their windows

to invite this melodic hum into their homes?

Possibly.

Three letters are spray-painted beneath me:

“MKZ.”

I’ve had my theories in the past.

Maybe it’s a hidden message?

Or perhaps a riddle.

I’ll never really know.

Instead,

I craft a tale for all who accompany me.

Some I tell it’s a secret;

some I tell it’s a message.

Most I let imagine. 

A car rolls by,

a person inside.

A person in a car,

nothing more.

As the car passes by, it sees me:

a man

alone on a bench,

nothing more.

Read the story on VTDigger here: Young Writers Project: ‘Perspective’.

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