Whatever he writes turns into poetry

By Brittany Bishop
Published: December 2010

Senior Alex Frail crouches down and folds up the comforter skirting along his floor. Pulling out the old shoebox, he takes it in hand and sits down in his leather chair; slowly opening the top with his left hand, he examines the dusty contents: tattered pages and old notebooks.
In his other hand, he holds a pen, tapping it along the spine of a leather journal. He takes his fingertip and swipes it under the edge of paper, pulling it back onto a new page. He takes the pen and begins to scratch against the pages; the black ink seeps into words’€a poem.
Ever since the 5th grade, Frail has been writing for fun. Frail initially became interested in writing as a creative outlet, quickly finding his passion through the short stories he would write and the electronic pages of Word that he would fill.
At the beginning of high school though, Frail began writing poetry on a regular basis.
Coincidently, his love of poetry happened by chance. He simply digressed from his typical stories and wrote a poem one day. He instantly enjoyed the ability to prove a point or feeling within a few lines, compared to novels, which take hundreds of pages to establish.
Despite schoolwork currently getting in the way and his minimizing his free time, Frail tries to write whenever he can.
In class, Frail writes along the margins of his pages, or if he doesn’t have paper on his hands. “That’s how I remember most of my stuff. I won’t be planning or thinking of anything, and then ¦ something clicks, Frail said. “I’ll have an idea, and I’ll go scribble it down and then tinker with it.
Frail writes about whatever he’s thinking about at the time, or if he has a cool rhyme, he’ll jot it down to remember for later.
“I don’t have a general theme. I don’t write [just about] love, he said. “It’s kinda whatever I’m thinking about.
Sometimes, Frail tries to fashion some pieces of poetry after other poets. For instance, he has paralleled rhyme scheme techniques after his favorite poet, Seamus Heaney.
Frail keeps all of these works in a shoebox under his bed. “I gathered all of my accumulated works from 5th grade and all the years, Frail said. “It’s really not organized; it’s just where everything goes. It has a ton of poems and little scribbles of nonsense.
Frail continues to write short stories and has even completed two novels of 100 and 250 pages, respectively.
Even his submission to the Heintzelman, a writing competition that many in our school participate in, came out to be 40 pages long.
As for the future, Frail hopes to pursue writing as some form of work. “It’s certainly the thing I love doing the most, Frail said. “The problem with that is there are very few professions that have a promising salary. But, then again, I’m not that obsessed with money, so I can get by.
Hopefully in the future, when Frail releases his compilations of poetry or finally publishes that 250-page novel, he will be able to pull out his old shoebox and remember exactly where he started: from an old notebook and a pen.

A Far Green Country

By Alex Frail

There is a glade that I have seen
Beneath the sun in waves of green.
It lies beyond a narrow stream
Where lovers love and poets dream.

And round this glade are elder trees
That correspond upon the breeze.

They speak of earth and its inception
Unsoiled by our deception,
For no foot has marred their soil
Or delivered blood sweat and toil.

And so they whisper in the shade
Kept safe by their virgin glade.

I might have crossed that narrow river
But what could I to them deliver?
For trees whisper in earthly breath
Until we coax them to their death.

And so I left the trees in their glen,
And turned right back round to home again.

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