by Daisy Yin

12.23.16 by Daisy Yin

Waking the Dancer

by Isabelle Duval


I fling and fumble

A puppet on strings

Coiling deep in my stomach

Twisting and tugging my heart down

With every fall


A wooden Pinocchio

I teeter and totter

Waiting for a fairy

To give me wings


The gears turn

And steam jets from my ears

As the machine

grinds to life


This tin man

Doesn’t need to oil

To stomach all

The work and toil


I open the floodgates

And fresh blood outpours

Coursing through once

Barren veins


A flower blossoms

The vines wither and crumble

A rumble crescendos

From deep in the core


Every finger

My hammering heart

I reign it in

I set my jaw


I thrust

And run

And jump

And Spin


I build myself a rocky core

Impervious to force

And with every leap

The ceiling seems less far


With every arabesque I bend

I arc and change my shape

I flit and float

Defy the floor


As I learn

I have to earn

Now I can dance



“Birds”by Srija Nagireddy; “10/12/16” by Daisy Yin



Kings of the sky

Created to soar

Above common existence.

Then why,

Are their deceased not laid to rest,

In brilliant blue.

Why is there no place for them among the clouds?

No stellar grave.

Wings rugged with use,


They plummet.

A burial of





Why is it that Death,

Blind with milky eyes,

Groping in the dark.

Death who takes,

The first to receive his leaden touch.

Why is it that he does not look,

How far you have flown,

How many stars you have touched?



Airborne creatures trapped

By illusions of escape.