Poetry

Foggy tear stained glasses, just cleaned.

 

Cecilia renewed her love for writing and art after struggling with perfectionism. She has created an online website called Chalk by Caecus (chalkbyc.com), where she has altered her view and actively creates work with the intent of imperfection and authenticity. She wants to share her perspective in order to expand what is accepted, regardless of quality. After fifteen years of dancing, Cecilia wants to become a personal trainer and trauma rehabilitator. She wants to focus on those with eating disorders and change the narrative of what it means to be healthy.

He whipped the horse. It was dead.
Flies scattered at the lash-crack, then lighted
again on the eyelid, half-closed and leathery
over the dull, glassy eye.
He kissed the mouth. It was made of stone:
cold against the furious hunger of
his tongue. He chipped his tooth and swore.
He drank the ocean. It was salted
and burned in the bleeding cracks
of his lips.
He shot the gun. It was empty.
Kicked the mountain. Hollow.
Tore the cloth. It was silent.
Touched the fire. Dull.
Drew back the veil, a dusty room;
unlocked the cage, bird didn’t sing;
opened his eyes. Dark.

 

 

Jane Hahn studies Theology and Honors Mathematics at the University of Notre Dame, while also working as a copyeditor, painter, and notetaker. When not singing with the Magnificat Choir here on campus, she spends time consuming and creating visual and written art.

 

 

The night I told you my dad is sick
you drove me to get ice cream at three a.m.
But we’re dumb and disoriented and we end up
on the wrong side of this kick-around town.

I cry when you look away- I accidentally
stole a Twix. I ruin the simple things.

I tell you how the sickness is on the inside
and you hold me close, whispering-
your dad is sick too, but not in the same way.
Last year you promised we’d go
to Al-Anon together- we never did.

Now you write me emails with the header:
I hate you– still answering my music questions.
Now your dad is long gone and mine’s
buying lost time. Back then we tried
telling each other we look nothing like them.

In a Zesto’s parking lot I told you I was worried.
This time I did the holding, you sobbing
Into my jacket. You didn’t know if anyone cared.
You tried things at parties and they made
you feel free and now you just feel alone.

We’re healing our insides now.
You sing that song with my name
in it and we roll down our windows
When it’s snowing.

 

 

 

Lucy Somers is a Midwestern poet who is deeply inspired by her natural surroundings and familial bonds. Common themes in her work are: grief, connection, and coming of age.

 

hours have passed once I come to
from a midday caffeine crash

It’s not that I dislike this professor,
it’s that my mind wanders to other places,
far away states, which might as well be other countries

I miss him, I do
even now my thoughts take me back
to memories which I’m unsure if they even occurred.

Have I been sitting in this building for eight hours? maybe I’m suffocating myself with this mask.
Do you remember wearing a mask?
I hope you have no idea what I’m talking about.

I can see right outside, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, yet I’m longing for whatever is out there.
Maybe there’s something I’m missing, a detail I can’t recognize from here.

Sometimes my heart pounds when we’re five minutes till class ends. Anticipation? Anxiety?
Sure, for what though?

It’s now time to leave,
my mind moves faster than my feet and I’m on the bridge,
No,
I’m close to the bridge.

It’s the hour before sunset
and I think I stopped walking.
I’m standing here, gazing up at the high sun in the high sky,
the movement of people blurs into my periphery,
the sound of cars a slight humming in my eardrum.

Am I here or am I there?

Did I ever really leave Santa Cruz?
Am I still there, walking with him up 41st Avenue,
where I stopped to take a picture of a bird of paradise plant because we don’t have those where
I’m from and
oh we both love plants so much
you didn’t even complain. That’s what I love about you.

I’m in that condo your friends rich aunt owns and
oh it’s so cold when I wake up but I’m happy because you’re
sound asleep downstairs and the birds are chirping and I can’t
feel my toes but it doesn’t matter.

There’s a bird of paradise right out the front door and even though it’s dying it’s still the most
beautiful plant I’ve ever seen because
we don’t have those where I’m from.

I’m standing on the bridge,
in front of the gym. The high sun in the high sky is tired
so it’s coming down from a long day of work,
like all of us. It’s trying to tell me something
I can’t hear over the roar of rush hour traffic.
I chase after it,
it’s begging me to listen.
It’s begging to tell me that
in this final hour between
Day and Night,
something, anything could happen

 

Sometimes Ethan writes silly little poems to cope with this silly little world. He’s graduating from Towson University May 2022

who told you that you had to aim to make art beautiful?
to disappear an entire essence of your being.
to pretend your heart isn’t ugly some days.
bitter, envious, self-deprecating.
we create a world of lust for things that only exist in waves.
beauty only exists in waves.
and sometimes it’s not even real.
the darkness is necessary too.
your painful thoughts are just as powerful as your good ones.
who told you that you couldn’t be human.
you can.
create art that represents your entire being
not just the parts cut into sizes that they can swallow.
let them choke on your anger.
let them wince from the pain of your pain.
leave your heart on the page and only come back to pick it up if you want to.
don’t be afraid to leave paranoia on the canvas.
despair on the mic.
don’t box your complexities into something more presentable.
don’t twist your loneliness into something more poetic.
exist as your entire being.
throw your fear to the wolves.
reject the idea of mistakes in your art.
they don’t exist. but you do. let the world feel you.
while you let yourself feel the world.
you are an artist.
in your own imperfect way, you are art.
even on your most insecure days.
remember that.

 

Kyra Horton is a twenty-year old creator. Whether expressing herself through writing, performing, or painting, she strives to turn pain into beauty. Her identity as a young Black woman from Chicago shapes her work. She grew up being inspired by activism and solidarity in her community and the arts. Kyra is fearless in the avenues she seeks in order to create the emotions painted in her heart. The world is Kyra’s canvas, as well as her muse. Her primary medium of creativity is spoken word poetry. Kyra has performed at over 50 different events since beginning her poetry career 5 years ago. Kyra published her first poetry book called Cries of a Butterfly, wrote and produced her album of poetry called The Silencer, released an EP of poetry called Tears Of Gold, and published poetry for the Gate Newspaper and the nonprofit organization Sixty Inches From Center. She has led writing workshops as well as participated in journalism cohorts to cultivate her skills.

In the native tongue of my ancestors,
Love has three words

Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq
Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq

 Mera pyaar tumhaare li hai
My love is for you

Soft syllables spilled from my mother’s lips
Sweet as the golden nectar of mango lassi

The delicate parting of lips
Crafting poetry with vowel and breath

Pehli si mohabbat
First love

The dawn of a heart’s blooming
The birth of a heart’s withering

Fleeting memories sealed with broken tears
For this is bittersweet hope the heart cries

 Ishq-e-illahi
Love for Allah

Tender and raw
The bruised and torn search

His mercy, the ocean’s abundance
Where unspoken duas sail upon

Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq
Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq

 And thus, from native soil my ancestors laced
With swollen palms and nimble fingers

The rich tapestry of love
Bridal crimson kissing sunbaked auburn

Heartbeats woven with footsteps
Anguish woven with stillness

 Breath and lip interlacing
With accent and diction

To birth love in its wholeness
To birth love in its entirety

For love they believed
Was meant to be felt, not defined

Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq
Pyaar, mohabbat, ishq.

 

Rimel Kamran is a current junior and the Cincinnati Youth Poet Laureate. Her poetry aims to build community, celebrate diversity, and share her Pakistani-American identity. She hopes to share her love for poetry, especially with youth, and encourage them to seek the unheard poem within them. When she’s not writing she enjoys pursuing her interests in science and medicine.