Archives

A River’s Haikus

by Anna Baldwin ’16

Will you look at me?
No pretty pity or praise
Me, objectively.

Will you look at me?
Not with an eye for progress
But for things that are.

Will you look at me?
You environmental foes
And see destruction.

Will you look at me?
You environmental friends
And see improvement.

Will you look at me?
As a poet see the world
And the things that are.

Will you look at me?
A heron or a salt marsh
The world as it is.

Will you look at me?
Untouched and pure as water
The world as it was.

Two Poems

by Alex Vidiani ’15, Staff Writer

Volksgag

(Volk: German – “people/nation.” Gag: English – “restraint”)

Escape to, no, through this hum and buzz
of gorged cash registers, leather bound Jesus,

Mary, and Joseph V. Stalin. You can’t run
from what you can afford, can’t hide from

another easy shot, trick thrill, shit –
drilled by Anti-Marxism again, again. That flutter

of bills, that sputter of the drawer as it SLAMS open,
leaving you to feed from under the wing of Mama’s

home-made, finger-sucking feast through a straw.
Tired and hot, you bathe in that wasteland dubbed

SUPERFAST and politically sound, massaging
soot into the folds of your neck and chin.

Now there are no graffiti’d walls to topple, no
conscripted guards to disarm and tie-down or

Everclear molotovs to hurl at whirring sirens. Now
you only hear DING DING as you PUNCH the buttons.

Ding ding, baby: the microwave-minute meals are ready,
but nobody can pass up the red ball and leather straps.

Over the Counter, Under the Sheets

Go ahead and grab the rubber
ducky, he can be your third mate.

Slip the empty bottle upside down
underwater and rocket it through

the roof, riding it to the moon, but soon
B6 – you’re sunk beneath the waves.

Don’t worry about making noise,
your roommate isn’t sober enough

to come in to check on your state
of mind, or body; mind your knobby

knees in climbing from the powder-white
tub. I think the dramatist is at the door.

I Am No Sailor

by Emily Klein ’16

Oh, pink-hued sky,
You prove to be no delight tonight
-to me.
For no sailor am I,
But a bird spreading my wings, taking flight,
Taking wing,
Growing up,
Time to sing.
Dwelling on what could have been
Surely proves no way to live-
Way to thrive
Way to fly-
Out of dark
Towards the light, of sun.
Make it through dusk to dawn.
And on that pink-hued morning
I shall heed no warning,
For no sailor am I,
But a captain of the sky.
A witness of rumbling clouds
Where storms may pour,
Where lightning may strike down.
Yet I must journey on through the obstacles,
Must press on.
Although the coming of morn’ may not bring safety,
May not bring light,
I will not perch.
Will not stop paralyzed.
For this is purely the struggle,
The struggle called Life.

Wind

by Kayla Kyle ’15

Inspired by “Sober then Drunk Again” by Eric Pankey

…………………………….A clinker of grief where once hung my heart
…………….is but a rushing in my ears and
an ache in my brain.

sunken eyes gaze at me from another world
as my hand reaches to hide my face,
she copies me, staring, staring silently.

her world shatters into nothing but a rotted ceiling,
………………..and as i walk through the remnants of her grave
……………i force myself to keep going, going going…

but the wind blows through me;
………………………….no, i am the wind.
………………………………………………a whispering, whispering wind

To the Moon

by Kristen Field

Are you speaking about me
Right now?
Did you see the X
(Or was it infinity?)
Lying across the moon?
And is everything
Just now
Making sense to you
Like it is to me?
Is the static electricity of it all
Too much?
Or is it something exciting
Jolting you into life
In a way that makes you realise
You haven’t been a part of it
Until now?
Are you scared?
I’m scared.
I just wanted you to know
Because I have a feeling –
A gut instinct –
That this might be the first step:
Telling you.
Now that we’re both on the same page
Maybe we can get somewhere.
To the moon.
X does mark the spot, after all.
And if it was infinity
I’ll take that as a sign
That we have an eternity to figure out the universe
And all its clouds
Together.

Haikus

by Amanda Klute ’16

Winter thaws—time ticks,
as the girl is forced to choose
between Frost’s two paths.

A river runs through—
You stop, forgetting what you
were doing. You stare.

A portrait of the
artist is nothing more than
determination.

Tip toe—hanging from
a branch, distant horizon—
your phone rings. Damn it.

If Cinderella’s
shoe was unreturned, then would
she die each midnight?

Watching Grandma in the Garden

by Alex Stinton ’14

She dug and dug, the earth was tugged two
ways: up, by the grey rusted shovel, her
masterly hands coordinating each blow;

and down, clung to the sinews of a dry dying
rose bush––those veins, that bloodline. Claiming
ground even in the final throes. Grandma’s

skin, a weathered petal’s pink;
…………her movements measured by instinct.

And I watched from a distance, careful not to

interrupt the order of things: up, dust wafting
like incense; down––the subtle thud . . .

––buried. I imagined a shovel in hand. That
final throw of dirt. Flora, the garden goddess,
taking root, her eyes closed. Skin, petal–pink.

Chester under Clouds

To the Tonger

by Alex Stinton ’14

for David

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.” Franz Kafka

It is no matter that the Bay isn’t the sea:
winter falls a cold shadow, freezes
all just the same. Kafka would agree.
He might even say (between you and he)
that yours is the graver undertaking: “Waterman,
tonging in the darker months, trading dip–net
and roller for rakes, crustacean for bivalve,
stubble for swaying beard . . . Yes, out there,
on that ice–pocked Bay, you breach
the cold skin of existence, reaching, solitary,
blind with rain and wind and fear, into
the depths of the unknown. The ultimate
test of faith, informed by instinct. And in that
black, prehistoric mud, you find oysters.”

Photograph by Aileen Gray ’14

Fish Tank

by Amanda Klute ’16

We all know this fish tank
as well as we know ourselves.

Premature, volatile goldfish,
A loner, who loves to dance
behind the graffiti seaweed.

Not swimming, she sees a skinny seahorse.
She tries to free it.
She tries to fight off the other fish.

Fish with heavy makeup, mere guppies
with cigarettes and hairspray and glitter,
imitating the betas through the glass.

She danced for the sea snake; he made her
and didn’t rape her. He told her to keep it a secret
and escaped to the ocean. “Come here”.

She’ll try and follow but her fin will catch
A crowd of blowfish huddle to view death
Casually the seahorse treads the tank’s ceiling—
The heaven we’re allowed to see.

From a small glass bowl to a public aquaria
a Big Fish in a small pond—headed to
the ocean with a vision of drowning.