A New Land

By The Telling Room

Since 2004, The Telling Room has been nurturing the voices and publishing the work of some of today's most talented and inspiring young poets and writers. Organized into three sections mirroring the transitional stages from childhood into adulthood, A New Land packages 30 groundbreaking poems from The Telling Room's first 15 years.

Follow one narrator as he revisits the winding river in Cameroon where he grew up. Feel how one of these poets feels when watching her younger brother grow into a Black man in the world. Imagine the horror of a wildfire in the midst of climate change. Listen to one young woman describe the joys and tribulations of teenage motherhood.

Featuring an Introduction by Inaugural Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman, this collection of poems offers a stunning exploration of coming of age and a triumphant chorus of American youth, whose voices make up their "new land" and also reckon with the social issues that impact us all.

"An utterly moving collection of youth poetry that mirrors the face of America. Artfully arranged, these poems plumb a multitude of experiences ranging from migration and family separation, to race and gun violence, to first love and sexuality. Through these young poets' eyes we see the world, we too, wish to re-conceive alongside them; through their courage and honesty we navigate the social challenges they strive to re-write."
—Richard Blanco, Presidential Inaugrual Poet, author of How to Love a Country

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Telling Room
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005155964

The Telling Room

At the Telling Room, we empower youth through writing and share their voices with the world. Focused on young writers ages 6 to 18, we seek to build confidence, strengthen literacy skills, and provide real audiences for our students. We believe that the power of creative expression can change our communities and prepare our youth for future success.Our fun, innovative programs enlist the support of local writers, artists, teachers, and community groups. At our downtown writing center we offer free after-school workshops and writing help, and host field trips for school groups from all over Maine. We also lead workshops at local schools and community organizations; bring acclaimed writers to Maine to give public readings and work with small groups of students; publish bestselling anthologies of student work; and carry out community-wide writing projects and events.

Book preview

Lulu Rasor

Listen up! I don’t care for your petty battles, your

forgettable epics. Your tongues can’t pronounce

my name, so don’t even try. They say to name a thing

is to tame a thing, so I’m safe from domestication. Just hand

me that mic—while you still can. A tooth for a tooth, an eye

for an eye might not be your class of justice, but I make my own rule

beneath the murk and algae, over silver-darting slashes

and the endless sway of reeds. Where’s your hero now, safely

sleeping in dreams of victory? Your swords and soldiers can’t hold

me—I line my kitchen with the bones of kings. I won’t pretend

I’m here for parley or peace. We don’t have diplomacy

down in the mud and sludge. Teeth are the only treaty I know.

I’m unnamed, untamed, unnatural, unloved because I know

the silent death of womanhood. Mother sister wife

daughter lover princess queen—they stitch the world

together when your honor slashes it apart,

but who knows their names now? Tell me how it’s worthwhile

to follow rules when all you get is a gouge in the family tree.

Names are overrated, legacies a scam—that’s the harshest truth

you only find alone at the bottom of a lake.

And here’s a secret: wicked witches always have more fun.

I’m going down, but I’ll claw my way into your epics anyway,

nameless as I am.

Writing Prompts

1. Think of a fictional or mythological creature that is normally thought of in its story as the bad guy. Write in the voice of this character centered on their secret wishes.

2. What is the importance or meaning of your name?

3. Write down three things that are easily misunderstood about you.

MATRYOSHKA

Lizzy Lemieux

I was born into a line of Russian nesting dolls,

each having cradled the next her womb,

curved from shabbat dinners,

a row of grandmothers in miniature.

Shoulders draped with shawls of a dying language,

mouths filled with chicken soup, paunchy stomachs

thrust forward after drinking two glasses of wine.

They never learned how to dance,

just swayed to cat gut violins and niguns,

studying genealogy like Talmud,

history’s dog-eared pages clinging together,

imitating popery.

My stomach is skinny still, but I wonder

what to say to a daughter who will

separate rib from hip and mourn

words she cannot say, they’ve been buried

so long in graves with month-old children,

a daughter who treats synagogue like a cemetery.

I’ll say to her, "Bubeleh,

Bubeleh, do not cry when you wonder

who sculpted that face of yours, your hips.

If you cannot believe in god, believe in grandmothers.

They all broke open for you."

Writing Prompts

1. What are three unique things your grandparents/relative have taught you?

2. Do you remember seeing an object passed down from a relative? Write about it using all five sense.

3. How do you define religion? What are your own religions other than widely recognized ones?

INSIDE THE LIFE I KNEW

Clautel Buba

Click for an audio version of this poem, read by the author.

The Abubaca drinks from the Wubat River

and runs through my village, Balikumbat, in Cameroon.

Abubaca—

gray soil banks, monkeys hanging from fruit trees—

mangoes, oranges, papaya the size of my two hands.

The lines in my hands are like this river.

They bend and spread. They are the river and the long, dusty road

running along it from my village to Bamenda,

the bigger city.

When I go to the city,

I spend five days outside the life I know.

I see lights, TV, and running water.

But I am from the village,

living with my grandmother, next to this river

where the water is too dirty to drink.

We boil river water for cleaning and cooking.

Keep a tank full for drinking and washing.

I have big hands from working with this water making clay bricks,

farming corn, and growing up at age seven

from hard work.

I.

Dry season—

Christmas is coming, we are out of school.

It is a season for building houses.

Many friends work together for francs.

We work as such young children

from six in the morning to six at night.

We make the bricks by hand.

When we dig a hole so hard to dig, in cracked soil,

we use an axe. Blisters cover our palms until they are hard.

We go through layers of black, red, orange, white, and gray,

and then we start seeing water.

We cut through tree roots with a machete. Holes can be giant.

Water comes from the Abubaca.

Girls carry jugs of water on their heads, or, if they are strong,

they swing them to their shoulders or hold twenty liters in each hand

like men.

Boys pour the water into tubs bigger than we are

in a metal truck we push to the