





More on this week's camps soon!
~warmly~
Katherine






Here's some of the exciting events from this week's Camp Carnegie camps:
This year's Next Great Writer winner, Hannah Legris, shares an excerpt of her winning piece, "Long Enough." The text will be available in full on the website soon!"The first time she noticed how bad it was, she was ten. It was after school, and she was wearing her blue shirt with the bunnies all over it. She had painted the shirt in school and then it had folded over and stuck to itself before it got a chance to dry; the bunnies were all crooked and raggedy with little tufts of puff-paint fur growing wild at the edges of their bodies. They were running across the middle of the shirt, and she could see how ugly they looked in the mirror that day, even though they had never looked so disfigured before. But the bunny shirt wasn't the first thing that she noticed in the wavy bathroom mirror. She had stared at only one part of her face; she had only been able to examine the way her teeth hung out of her mouth like oversized pieces of Trident gum, the way they straggled across her lip like foreign objects, out of place and misshapen.
She hated her teeth, she realized, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. She hated the way they overpowered the rest of her narrow face, how they placed themselves so prominently in the middle of everything else. The teeth became her defining characteristic, though just as clearly her hair looked like it was glowing in the reflection, standing out unnatural orange against the rose pink of the tiles behind her. She noticed her hair for a moment, and then she tried to close her mouth over her teeth again, and couldn't. Suddenly, distinctly, she felt like an alien, an alien unable to blend into human society, grossly out of place and lonely.
Every day, she hated her teeth more and more. They became the center of everything that she despised, looming in the middle of her of her face, a constant reminder of imperfection. In front of the mirror, she would touch her teeth to see if they would move, would shift suddenly and miraculously back into place. Occasionally, she thought of the realignment of her mouth as a decision that her teeth could make autonomously and with a little gentle coaxing from her index finger against the enamel, but thinking like that only made her even more disgusted with her teeth—why couldn't they just fix themselves?"
Stay tuned for details on our next writing contest, Short Stories ONLY!
~warmly~





We Are Listening
to poetry, the recorded voice
of Mary Oliver, the silver
of mercury falling in a thin glass tube.
You lie near sleep
in my arms, our eyes
locked, your tiny fingers
around my index finger
as her voice rocks us.
She still seeks the soul,
the right to have one,
slips her pen
beneath every stone, gazes
into the birthing rooms
of flowers, listens
at the whispering
edges of doors
that open and close
the oceans, strokes
the trembling throats
of hummingbirds,
loses her breath
to some herons rising
white and sparkling
from a splitting water,
knows
without a question
that the answer waits
like a seed waits
for the blossom to leave the apple.
As I gaze into the sun-crackled pool
of your eyes,
I agree.
The iron bars
of your lashes
close, locking me in.
Here in this time,
in the static dust
of this afternoon—you
in my arms, sleep
folding its wings
about you, taking you
and leaving me—
you still hear her. We hear
her. One of us knows
heaven. The poet
hushes the answers,
for true living is in the search;
she slows to look and touch
only to just-miss.
On purpose.
Someday soon, I will hear
the answers she’s already asked
of the soul. For now, I hold
the feather of this time
and smooth its barbs.
I feel them coming apart,
separating like the strands
of your baby hair.
The rocker slips
through the chink
cut by the evening sun,
carrying us, this large moth,
and we are small upon
its dusty white back—
you, my daughter’s
daughter, me, my hand
and fingers stretched toward
this swift passing shadow
that hungers for light
it can never eat.
I hope I go like this,
sliding into the cool silver
river of a poet’s voice,
and the end,
when it comes,
when it breathes
the last line
of the last stanza,
closes with a gasp.
Trish Lindsey Jaggers

--Gallon plastic milk jugs
--Bottlecaps
--Buttons
--Magazines
--Fabric scraps, yarn, string, raffia, etc.
Thanks for all that you do!
The Carnegie Center
for Literacy and Learning
251 West Second Street
Lexington, Kentucky 40507
(859) 254-4175
www.carnegieliteracy.org