Bellwood-Antis alum recognized in two literary magazines

2013 grad Noah Davis take big step on his path to a career in writing

Bellwood-Antis+alum+Noah+Davis%2C+shown+here+with+Ms.+Sue+Kovensky+at+the+2013+Senior+Awards+Banquet%2C+recently+had+two+poems+published+in+nationally+recognized+literary+magazines.

Bellwood-Antis alum Noah Davis, shown here with Ms. Sue Kovensky at the 2013 Senior Awards Banquet, recently had two poems published in nationally recognized literary magazines.

Noah Davis, who graduated from Bellwood-Antis in 2013, recently had two poems published in a pair of nationally recognized literary magazines.

Currently a sophomore at Seton Hill University in Pittsburgh, Davis, who is also a a standout on the school’s basketball team, had his poems selected for publication in Poet Lore and Blueline.

The poem “Mending” was chosen for publication by Poet Lore, which is the oldest poetry magazine in the United States, having Walt Whitman as a subscriber in the 1800s.

The poem “Tracking” was selected for publication by Blueline, the Adirondack and North Woods literary magazine.

Davis was an honors student and National Honor Society member at Bellwood-Antis, and he scored over 1,000 points on the hardwood.

His poem “Tracking” is included below.  Both poems will be available in April when the magazines are printed and distributed.

 

Tracking

Where she’d stood minutes before

the snow was scabbed with blood, dark

 

red from her thigh. I’d watched her come

with morning light, silent like a ghost

 

from my past, a younger sister

I never knew or a church friend

 

I only saw on Sundays. Her head held

downward, ears up, afraid that she’d

 

heard more than her own step

as she slipped through the arms

 

of a wind-fallen branch. I shot

before she reached the pole

 

timber where I knew her gray

coat would melt with the woods.

 

As we followed her leaking body

into the fields and ditches of multiflora

 

rose, the scratchings of blackberry

canes, bedding grounds, and stands

 

of white oak where she’d fed,

I felt like a guest in a home

 

where I was not welcome.

After a little more than two miles

 

the blood trailed to pin pricks,

and the sign became nothing more

 

than fresh tracks under rhododendron.

My desire had merely grazed her,

 

and my father said what we both knew—

there would be mornings for all of us

 

after this.