Marginal Poetry Contest is an annual poetry competition run by the school’s literary magazine at the beginning of each academic year. The competition is open to all types of poetry from all students.

Senior May Chen is the current three-time winner of this competition, beginning her freshman year.

“I wanted to try something new. I already knew I liked writing, but poetry was sort of a whole new world,” Chen said.

蓝小时
i.
Ma told me i was living the american dream
football games every weekend
dances every month
what more could
someone ask for?
The american dream
she said
hungry but never starving
we feast.

ii.
take me back to when
we would sit by your bed
other kids had books
we had your experiences
you called my name
but i wasn’t there
i was in the fields of 湖南 China
running through the rocky roads
Yiruma kiss the rain played in the back
as i slept.

iii.
my anxiety lives
among my fingers
my nails
my hair
my skin
flesh and bones
bare, bear
a beast lives within
my anxiety eats me.

iv.
蓝色小时
the blue hour
a period of twilight
where the sky is overcome with an indigo hue
Indigo means devotion
I am devoted to this life

the sound dips
a pause in the music
a flaw of the musician
a whisper of hope in the silence
i’ll be okay

“Sophomore year, I dove into the world of poetry. I started reading poetry, and that inspired me to write more. It just kept going from there.”

Chen decided to submit her sophomore year again with her poem “Diorama of Woman.”

“In sophomore year, me personally, and a lot of other people in my grade, were struggling with body image and femininity as a whole. I wanted to tap into that in my poem. It was an overview of womanhood,” Chen said.

Chen also added that winning the first time gave her confidence in her work when she submitted the next year.

skin taught

i learn through the colors of the body.

ink spill bruised, blood borne galaxies

i think back to a time before

tree vines wrap within my wrists

and i sail down their winding rivers,

a time when i was happy

blushed knees, bent to the will of man

Godless：i whisper prayers under my breath

like a far off fairytale 

skin taut

pulled tight against my skeleton, 

sand down my hips to fit your own &

leave the shavings to dust

a time in which i cannot remember

holy water, holy spirit, anything for holy skin.

Goddess: i purify myself, putrefied.

in my mothers womb

i obeyed my country and on this land

i wish for a home.

//

My underbelly aches with hunger

a lust for flesh.

how primitive-

i remember being the hunted:

hands around my neck,

i find myself pressed

against bodies;

preserved with bloated breaths

i am told that this is my

path to immorality

i think to my mother: her face

blooming against my own,

evidence of her youth

sewn into mine.

reduced to a bag of blood,

i let teeth sink in.

//

I’m sorry

I let them hurt me

stray bullets that find a home

in my mind

where bottomless thoughts

plant themselves with

roots that

always seem to lead to…

pitless what ifs

graze my outline

in a familiar pain, I find

the whispers that float in the air

contaminate

my touch to feel cold.

hands pressed together

I voyage into

the unknown, reaching for

the simplicity of solitude

and you learn it is your duty

to save yourself.

Sorry,

My lineage: sprawled out on my back,

little stickynote reminders, trailing down

my spine covered in sin for forgetting

even when i wear the yellow on my skin

Permanent: eyes pulled back without

the fingers of others, threaded 

into my lids. I obey the title given

and leave the definition to outsiders

Regretful: tongue-tied from talking

in a language i am not fluent enough for

Sorry to become a welcome mat to

my mind, knives that cut divots into my ego. I-

Confess: i am less than i claim to be,

 only the remnants of a forgotten potential

i live in Once upon a time(s) i remember

being happy in warm arms; my own arms 

Embraced: the only warmth i know is my own.

how the body feels the hurt it omits,

and does not stop. I have reached

an endless cycle of hatred

where the only sin worth committing is

my loyalty to myself.

“My poem in junior year was called “Rituals.” It was comparing day-to-day activities of praying to yourself. You are The God. I thought that was interesting,” Chen said. 

In the judging process, the Marginal magazine advisor and English teacher Benjamin Lally removes the names of the student submissions. The editors read each poem, write down notes, and give it a score from one to four. 

“Then we have an open discussion about the top five. Which one do you think is the best? Which one should be our contest winner? And that’s much more interactive than just writing comments down and putting scores on them,” Lally said. 

“It started freshman year, with Mr. Haas’s poem of the day. I just thought it was interesting. I think poetry has allowed me to express myself in ways that I’m not used to,” Chen said.

She also expressed how her dad is also into the art of writing. 

“I find Chinese poems on his desk from time to time,” Chen said.

“Personal experiences or sort of thoughts that I have while doing human things inspires me when I am writing. What I want to do with poetry is to bring attention to what might not seem very deserving of attention and what we sort of forget in our daily life,” Chen said. 

Chen explained that her method of writing was breaking down a poem into many sections and playing with different styles. 

“I think that is what makes my poetry special,” Chen said. 

Preface
i like counting the droplets as they hit
my back, fingers tapping so tenderly
like a lover, the solvent wraps its
hands around my hips, my legs, my soul;
i wish for it to swallow me,
to dissolve in this new comfort
and become the ocean:
i am 60% there already.
This is to say,
the body craves its wholeness.
like a sailor returning home
I lean into the warmth the water gives.

Exfoliation
uhk·sfow·lee·ay·tuhng
doesn’t roll off the tongue,
it scrapes- taste buds with it
and you forget the way
the sugar melted in your mouth.
Candy necklaces: youth strung
on chains; call it a delicacy.
hear the song the birds sing
I wonder, can you hear the echoes
when your teeth sink in?
or are they drowned out
by your shame? Under god
that watched this wither?
What has it become?

Exfoliation is to shed skin
the way you shed tears
eyes all red and cheeks that burn.
You have to strip your body
before you can grow.
The desire: new skin, new person
You can scrub as hard as you want

Exfoliation is to count
every scratch on this body
Like shooting stars that cut
through the night sky,
to reminisce the wish
that each star cradled,
and to scrub anyways

Skin Care Routine

Cleansing balm rubbed dry onto a made-up face.
Spread then lathered, like butter on bread. Then
rinse off with water. This is the purification:
let the oil emulsify,
let it plunge into your pore.
Hope that it dives deeper.

Toner, delicately pressed into the skin.
Skin porus and sponge-like, let this be
the first exposure to moisture. A declaration
of innocence, from a mind that remembers
all the lips it has ever touched. Is this
the love they speak of?

Hyaluronic Acid can hold a thousand times
its weight in water, increasing the
skin’s natural absorption. Let me bury
these confessions in the holes of my skin.
I pray you do not come looking.

Moisturizer acts as a shield, a facade.
This is the myth:
That this glaze will preserve my innocence.
I tell myself I am a good person.

Repeat.

Finale
Turn your head towards the water,
the showerhead, so high you need to tilt your head.
You:
a bare vessel in this vast world
how sentimental, the realization that
this is all you are and will ever be.
The water ricochets off your wrinkled skin
Let me tell you now, this is the closest to heaven
you will get it. Press your palms together and call it a prayer
or call it desperation.
This haven is no longer how you left it.