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Creative
Writing

Capturing the beauty 

of the written word.

All poems are submitted by Dawson College students

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For quicker access to a certain issue, please click on one of the issues below to be forwarded to that section.

Note: Works from previous issues are being published. Your patience is appreciated.

Februray 2024
December 2023
November 2023
October 2023
September 2023

May 2024

Days Like These

Toka Siyam, Contributor

For Maxime

 

Every bad thing that’s happened to me 

Hangs above me like a cloud on a rainy day 

And so the storm starts and everyone’s a victim.

Every scowl, every frown.

Every joke I scoff at.

Every terrible thing I say in retort,

Knots added to the noose around my neck. 

The storm howls and the coast is unclear.

Do I want to be alone or do I wanna swim in a sea of people ?

I love you but I still think I’m unworthy of your love some times.

It kills me to think I’d hurt you in any way,

But the storm is unwavering and I’ve been lost in its turbulent seas before.

The waves are strong and the rain is pelting.

Every word you don’t say is a sword to be used against you.

Every sad song, every poem written,

Indents made in my mind.

Reasons to leave, reasons to separate.

Give myself distance to break my own heart.

The shipwrecked soul, lost in a storm of her own making, must leave her ghosts behind. 

Abandon all the ancient voices that followed her all the way down,

That sank her to the depths of despair. 

Hexed and damned as she is,

She must fight for release.

To move on she must fight herself.

Make room for all the love she doesn’t think she deserves. 

Because love is unconditional. 

It is pure and forgiving.

You will stay.

You have stayed.

Through the turbulent times and the endless mistakes.

I will find my way to you. 

I’ll turn all my stormy days into blue skies just for you. 

Soft sunshine and yellow flowers.

When the Flowers Start to Bloom

Emily Silva

Contributor

 

As the days grow longer,

Mother Nature begins to grow anew.

She replenishes from the winter that has wronged her

And greenery comes into view.

We bloom along her.

Our spirits raise, it's true.

 

With every tulip some kids go out to play.

Each primrose has lovers dancing from night to day.

Each marigold brings a sunny beach outing,

And every violet brings a night full of peaceful sleeping.

Forget-me-nots bloom alongside an elderly couple

Walking through the park where they had their proposal.

With every cluster of yarrow, a painter paints a portrait of beauty,

And with each sunflower, friends gather to watch their favourite movie.

And though with each weed an exam is failed,

With each dandelion someone's true passion is unveiled.

 

You might be asking why

I care so much. Let me help you comprehend.

If you look closely - just try -

The world is wonderful, my friend.

Oh, how happy am I

That the flowers are blooming once again!

With and Against

Eliot Fleming

Contributor

 

I’ll paint you with my lips

Blood red and midnight black

You paint me with your teeth

Artwork stains across my back

I’ll paint you with my nails

I’ll listen to you scream

You paint me with your words

Colour flashes into my cheeks

I’ll paint you with my lips

Cover your soft neck

You paint me with your teeth

I hope the others won’t come back

I’ll paint you with my nails

I’ll stay with you forever

You paint me with your words

We will always be together

Paint me a pretty sunset sky

I’ll paint you a pretty skylit drive

You paint me such a pretty lie

I’ll paint you for the rest of time

Paint me a bleak and rainy sky

White clouds in the corner of my eye

I’ll paint you such a pretty lie

They won’t find us not this time

I’ll paint you with my lips

Cover your soft neck

You paint me with your teeth

I hope the others don’t come back

I’ll paint you with my nails

I’ll stay with you forever

You paint me with your words

We will always be together

Forgery

Julia Azzouz

Contributor

 

Forget who I said I was,

Propped up on the pavement,

A concrete statue

Erected from memory,

Chiseled by eyes.

Forget who I said I was

 

Floating up from the canopy,

A hazy dream

Hung from loose thread

recollected from sighs.

Forget who I said I was

Drifting down the water

a shapeless bubble

blown from my own wide mouth

into your firmly crooked teeth

But remember who I am

in the cushioned nape of your neck

and the reflection in the metro glass,

the hardened soles of your feet.

Warm Lips

Hilmi Olgun

Contributor

 

For by the lake, i've glimpsed your grace,

Where winds freeze, in tranquil space,

We sit in awe, the view in sight,

Yet only your gaze, holds my light,

 

Before you, I pose this plea, 

Is our love as deep as the sea? 

Only your lips hold the clue, 

Shall we unite, just us two?  

 

A kiss from you, a flame ignite,

Warm as love's embrace, so bright, 

Your touch, a catalyst, I see, 

My desire burns for your kiss, free,  

 

I crave your presence, upon me near, 

To hold my body, dispel all fear, 

In love's embrace, everywhere we roam,

Filled with butterflies, our hearts find home, 

 

Your smile, a balm that eases pain, 

Radiant with pure joy, a refrain, 

In your happiness, my solace lies, 

For you've made of me a lover, wise.

9:12 P.M.

Farah Hamami

Contributor

 

the heart yearns for a sand its never seen,

and the eyes burn for an earth its never been near.

do i get a chance to dream? 

      of a land whose scent i cannot hear

      and a mother tongue i cannot smell.

i inhale how i exhale and the images begin to appear.

      one after the other

number one was never again seen,

number two couldn't handle the truth,

and, oh dear number three was stripped, beaten, and slaughtered midday.

i cannot for a day escape the burden of thought,

yet my eyes seem to say all that is not,

that which is not lost between the rumbles and stars,

and just because the battles last longer than the stars

doesn't mean i can't trip nor fall,

      but that our breath lasts longer than the war. 

Reflections Watching Tent City

Anonymous

im reading Minor Detail by Adania Shibil

as the mik’maqi territory unwinds itself

twelve going on nineteen

i prefer the Atlantic

 

the Song of The Year

is one of ambient genocide

droning comfort lesioning us from within

as our failure to act

 

bleaches our rivers

militarizes the schools

fogs the sky as a red smoke

and pollutes the streets with private capital

 

a white noise drone

digitized and commodified 

white and blue collared.

it was a salesman’s instinct

to swindle me out of a voice.

a cheesecake pocketed lobbyist.

 

im talking to a guy i met off Hinge

he tells me to focus on what we can do

he tells me the options are simple:

  1. go into academia, (theory informs praxis)

  2. go to law school (like Suits! or alternatively the capital O-bamas)

  3. work for the capital S, State

  4. Join McGill Communists and if not Fightback!

  5. let the disabled parts of you catch up and run it up on the welfare state 

  6. become a poet and attend dwindling meetings

  7. start a podcast and cosplay as an attractive white girl with ADHD 

 

my daily routine:

i wake up and check my social media feeds

i hear stories of Hind Rajal and Shireen Abu Akleh

of the National Guard, of chemical warfare

of limbs carried in bags by family members

 

the mik’maqi territory unwinds itself

eighteen going on twenty-five

i drove to oka from Longueuil on Canada Day

to graffiti a cop car and watch the fireworks

i drove to Verdun from Oka

and trade Paulo Freire books with my uncle

to pray for Rafah

 

i hear ease in the voices of IJV campers

cracking unleavened bread talking shit about injunctions and laughing

about accusations of antisemitism

as my mind went to Kent  State and Columbia

trying to lull myself into sleep 

April 2024

The Eclipse

by Ezra Bucur

Creative Writing Editor

There is an eclipse coming up, have you heard of it? Supposedly, the Moon will cover up the Sun, or so I understood it to be. It is crazy to think about... total darkness, in the middle of the day, but just for a few minutes! It seems like this event could only come back 200 years from now, lifetimes away from our grasp. Such a rarity, a precious treasure meant to be enjoyed to its fullest span.

 

I heard it would be unlike anything I've ever encountered before. The stars will align: sparks would fly, the Sun's halo captivating my entire being. He could make one go blind, drawn to his fiery angelic thrill. His hypnotizing deceit, alluring me closer and closer to him, consuming me whole. The Moon, cold, vigilant, loyal, blurring night and day all in one, tiptoeing a dangerous line. It is a phenomenon I could never explain, where all the words rush to my throat yet refuse to escape through pen nor sound. Impossible to rationalize, to die down, to throw away. 

 

Is this really only but a moment in my lifetime? Was it all there was to be? I pray it wouldn't be the One, the only chance I was given. Despite it all, as I extend my body to the emptiness I wish to hold close, the eclipse plunges me deeper into darkness. One I will have no choice but to forever love.

The Itch

Miranda Galley

Contributor

 

I never liked going to church. 

 

I hated the stuffiness in the air, the taste of the Body. I would stare at the paintings and the statues and think to myself, what is it like to be so consumed by art? What is it like to feel your guts churn and turn inside and out when you make an artwork like that?

 

I would feel envy, because I would look around and see everyone else so engrossed into mass. I, too, wanted to feel something, even if it was the most nauseating feeling. 

 

I wasn’t sure when it started—the thoughts. The thoughts of wanting to be consumed, to consume—to rip someone apart like rotten fruit. I found that I much preferred sinking my teeth into bone than the communion. It was so humiliating, being made of flesh that was meant to be cherished and cared for but instead I feasted on. I would stare at the paintings in church, the ones of women suffering, in agony, and think how they are trapped in this moment of anguish. It reminded me of the life draining in those men’s eyes as I ate them like a predator catching their prey. They are the ones who trapped us there, after all. 

 

I still come to church. But now, I ask for forgiveness. I beg for these thoughts to go away, to confirm if any of this was real or in my head. And yet, even as the priest forgives me for my sins, I can hear the way his blood runs through his body. 

 

I feel my skin itch at the thought of it.

Rearview Hindsight

Kara Fusaro

Contributor

 

I sat in your passengers seat,

Spewing bullshit neither of us would remember.

As if to fill the blank and soulless air,

 where music should be.

 

Every pothole your tires would hit,

Was more expressive than you were.

As if the worn out asphalt,

Had more love to give.

 

If I was to spit torrid concrete,

Layers of man made dirt grey:

Infected air with words no less obsolete,

Instead of the hope I found in my day.

 

What could I have done for you to stay?

If our world was a playground,

I just needed a moment to play.

You pushed and climbed the grey mound,

Uphill battle, with your heart in neutral.

Ghost Orchid

Christopher James Dimitriadis

Contributor 

 

In hidden realms where moonlight wanes,

And shadows dance in eerie strains,

There blooms a flower, pale and rare,

A wisp of bliss, beyond compare.

 

Its petals whisper secrets old,

Of tales untold and legends bold,

The ghost orchid, ethereal sight,

A haunting presence in the night.

 

In swamps and bogs where spirits roam,

It finds its home, its silent throne,

A spectral grace, a spectral hue,

A phantom's kiss, a dream pursued.

 

Its roots entwined in ancient lore,

It drinks the mist, it craves no more,

For in its veins, the essence flows,

Of ghosts and phantoms no one knows.

 

Its fragrance lures the lost and brave,

Through marsh and fen, beyond the grave,

A siren's call, a whispered plea,

To those who seek, who dare to see.

 

But woe to those who dare to pluck,

This flower rare, this spectral luck,

For in its touch, a curse resides,

A haunting echo that never subsides.

 

So let it bloom in shadows deep,

Where secrets lie and spirits sleep,

The ghost orchid, forever bound,

To realms where silence knows no sound.

March 2024

Burning Man (In memory of Aaron Bushnell)

Eliot Fleming

Contributor

 

What is a hero?

Does anyone really know?

They’ve all said what they believe,

So I would like a go.

When I was small

I knew almost nothing,

And heroes were just

Grown-ups in strange clothing.

They had magic hammers

And shot lasers from their eyes,

And they had little sidekicks

On whom they could rely.

As I grew I learned little more,

But was taught a new idea:

That heroes were great and noble people,

Who were praised throughout the year.

Knights in shining armour,

And genius generals of men;

Peaceful speakers and artists,

Who were kind ‘til the end.

But then I learned more,

And learned I’d been fed lies.

My heroes were slavers, killers,

And whitewashed of their lives.

Are we all just villains?

This I must know.

In a world of lies

What is a hero?

Now I say I’m grown,

And this is what I think:

A hero doesn’t give up,

Even upon the brink.

They don’t abandon

Those they inspire,

Even if it means

 

Dying in their own fire.

Rest in power to Aaron Bushnell,

Free Palestine

10:51 P.M.

Anonymous

 

When the Sun completes a revolution

and I'm still paralyzed by emotion.

When your voice still haunts me

even though i know you don't want me.

When the memories rush down to crumble any

bundle of stars.

Though i was too naive to know,

To know that stars won't shine as

bright as the Sun.

To know that once the Moon and the Sun    

collide, there is nothing to be done.

Swallow the lump in your throat and pick

up your berries.

For that these berries are all that remain.

Reminiscent of when the Sun and the Moon

never came so harmoniously undone. 

Touch Me More

Ezra Bucur

Creative Writing Editor

 

It’d be nice to look back fondly

On any sort of memory

Yet your eyes, your whole face

Fades into the nothing in which it lied.

 

Shockingly, seemingly

It all came back, like a flash.

Scratching the mind like a terrible rash

The glare clouding what wished would disappear.

 

Your hand. Your grasping fingers

Clutching, clawing at what was rightfully yours

All there was to remember,

How deeply you’d once craved the offer.

 

This phantom. Haunting day and night

The way your fingers felt on your claim to ego

Carefully shaping the outline

Of a desperate silhouette.

 

Your fingertips. Manipulating,

Holding on even harder

Plucking the fruit of passion

You so terribly desired.

 

Your handprint, evidence left behind.

Marking forever what was your property,

Red prints carving out the shape of a body.

Puppeteered by what’s not to be forgotten

This Evening

Luca Messina

Contributor 

 

There was enough noise and clamor, plenty of drink to wet my lips. The echoes rang from the cymbals, crashing against my ears. But this evening I chose to think of you. I look at my shirt: the stain saw fit that it should escape the oil drops floating on the broth, to be with me instead. You’re also a stain. One I can’t remove by dry-cleaning. I can’t abuse your memory with industrial degreaser. Pouring alcohol over it only makes it grow, makes it live and bleed into my sinew. Don’t kid, I’ve changed my clothes. I’ve put on new shoes. But this evening I chose to think of you.

 

Me, I’ve occupied my mind. I thought of my future, delusions of grandeur, playing with numbers and letters until I self-actualize being the machine I was told I could be. How certain though is the future, will you stand the test of time? But I’m not there yet. But this evening I chose to think of you.

 

I’ll always have a stain; you know I’m good with making messes. Even if you’ve abandoned the cavities of my teeth and the scratches on my skin, I still bear the mark of your craftsmanship. I could have studied for that future, the one I want so bad. But this evening I chose to think of you, and I must congratulate you, above all for withstanding the scrutiny of this pen and paper.

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