Writing Portfolio- Jordan Sucher Age 17, Grade 12, Brooklyn Technical High School

Me now – Sort of:

A million impulses roar in my head at once
Caffeine rattles my bones like the shutters of an
old plantation house during a storm. My
mind is a lake in the wintertime. Just as I
begin to grasp the fathomless depths and mysteries
that lie beneath it’s surface, it freezes over
& I am left with but a blank page.
Oh how many pages I’ve filled. How many
pages, written to excess, words crossed out,
and extra sentences precariously squeezed

onto the margins, have I filled, only to have
to start anew again, my preceding pages
balled up on the floor, in the corner, forgotten.
One day, when I stop
writing, I’d like to stand from my desk, stretch,
and enjoy my shadow’s company. I’d like, then,
to collect all my rotting, yellowed pages, dust
drenched for a lifetime, and slowly, carefully
flatten them out, and read my work.
I would appreciate that one day. For now,
a maelstrom of darjeeling and words may
still pass through these lips.

The Routine

I am a broken record.
I am a scratched cd
I am a rerun of scrubs on late at night
And for that, I am sorry.

But it is late, and the remote is nowhere to be found
So you content yourself with lackadaisically rewatching me
zoning in and out of focus, revisiting a well-worn plot
Tried and true
J.D. is having girl problems
Dr. Cox is an asshole
Turk is good at basketball
But wait!
you say, incredulously. I don’t remember that!
A plot twist here, some character growth there
suddenly you realize
somehow
on your DVR
the episode has been rewritten!
11:57 you see on your cable box
How are they going to finish in time?
I don’t remember that ending! you mumble to yourself
as credits roll ever upward

I am a rerun of scrubs on late at night
and for that I am sorry

Growth

My school is an aging place. It’s design makes
very little practical sense, rooms are difficult to
locate, and the monochromatic beige paint makes it
all but welcoming.

Mr. Herzman is an English teacher there. He is characterized by many of the same traits as the building

or so the thoughts go that pass through
my head as we discuss poetry after class
Is it in iambic pentameter? What is the rhyme scheme?
How does he use syntax? A sudden downpour of
questions drenches me. I respond. How does
it make you feel? What can you take from the poem?
What does it evoke for you, personally?
I quickly dry myself off. The absurd
debate will continue all semester. His
tools are not my tools. He is a scientist, I
a mere farmer. He can tell me the ph of the soil, the oxygen content of the soil, that
a sunflower is technically Helianthus Annuus,
but I can make the seed grow.

Housecat

my family has a housecat named floppy
because he flops around a lot

he often comes to us, sharing warmth,
lying in the crook of our knees

we see him every day
and i have lived with him my entire life

Yet I cannot shirk the feeling that we don’t know
him at all.

Not a word he says can we really understand
meow meow meow meow meow
He is an enigma, with the façade of an open book

I am a housecat
but my name is not floppy

Words

they can not describe, but what other tools do i have?

Talking to you was always like talking to a supernova

taking its damn time, it explodes into the infinite abyss of night
lighting its blinding rays
but babe, you know you could never look away

and space itself rips apart for you,
the sheer magnitude of your blaze will force a black hole into existence
and nothing will ever be the same again

and babe, you’re going places

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