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Connection



The following poems treat human relations and their intricacies. Self and lover, self and stranger, self and society, self and self, and self and friend are all explored herein with delicious imagery and turn of phrase. Read slowly, give the gift of time to each word as though they too were a dear friend or lover, and recall: that flopped romance, the warmth or chill that one conversation filled you with, the unreadable looks in strangers’ eyes, and, perhaps most of all, the invisible web connecting you to all the people you’ve met.


Peace and love,

Mayan Godmaire

Creative Writing Editor


Coconut Summer

by Beth Fecteau

Contributor

people love summer cause it's green

lush

dripping and humid

heavy with warmth

buggy evenings and backyard barbeques

wet nights in bed with the windows open

hands on skin, cool sheets,

the birth of something new

people love summer cause it tastes good on searching tongues,

starved for sweet

ripe mango

citrus ice tea

half-melted sorbet

juice dripping down chins

making kisses sticky and long

never ending and sangria-sweet

people love summer cause they ignore that it rots

fruit ferments

the heat makes your skin feel too small

and you're left with the skeletal remains

of what you had

of what we had

leaving me sweating and tear-stained

summer turns to wet dirt

fertilizing all the little endings

we rotted like that,

didn't we?

those wet nights and sticky kisses snapped

under the cool pressure of autumn

you left me cold

you left

I had to keep myself warm


Long Legs

by Jeanne Hope

Contributor

I have long legs,

broad shoulders, flat

hair that never stays curled,

average, boring, thing of being

when I need to be

sweet daisy with an ass

bigger than my smile

on my Instagram,

when in reality,

I want la-la bullshit,

with sex and songs and spells,

suits, garters, and tied ties.

I want to be serenaded

like a big-chested Juliet,

have a hundred bouquets

delivered to me,

without ever saying sorry,

for being something,

more than just

a commercial thing.


Lost in Translation

by Yara Ajeeb

Contributor

I am rewritten

Until I make sense

My phrases tugged and stretched

Until I make sense

I am translated

Limb by limb, into a foreign language

My mother can’t read me

I get tossed away into rummage

Lost in translation,

I’m barren.

Lost in diction,

I cross the margin.

Please,

Don’t let me be rewritten

Into short proses and clauses

Please,

Don’t let me be erased

From ancient books and faces

Existing in different tongues

I belong everywhere

From the Middle East to the Americas

My name rewrites itself on a flare

Which language fosters me?

Which language understands me?

How did I fail

At pasting myself here

My words become so frail

I can’t express and adhere

How did I fail at translating myself?

From Arabic

To English

How do I go back?

Back in translation

Into a language that no one speaks.

With some adjustments and tweaks

Could I belong in the creaks?

Of some foreign language.

Or do people like me

Get lost for eternity

In translation?


Drama Poem: A High School Transition

by Flora Baruel Vianna

Contributor

Person 1: Once upon a time

I was way ahead of my time

I was told to

Person 2: “Find what is on your mind, waiting isn't a crime, everything’ll be fine”

Pers. 1: WHY then am I now shaking? My chest is aching,

[duo]: my lungs

Pers. 2: won't respond in the bubble that's popping!

The frustration is overtaking, my vision is hazing… Fear rushes through, it feels

suffocating.

Pers. 1: Am I the only one of my nervous kind?

Is everybody else blind? Am I leaving myself behind? Nevermind, I do not have the TIME—

Pers. 2: —for these LIES! Look me in the eye, tell me again your advice? … That implies! My stress will only rise?

Pers. 1: “Maybe, once or twice, but don't panic!—”

Pers. 2: Too late.

Pers. 1: Wait.

Let me get this straight:

We're about to graduate… Change my classmate for a ROOMMATE. Have a “taste”—

Pers. 2: —you mean a punch in the face—

[duo]: And then it's checkmate?!

Pers. 1: “Here's your diploma, then, Au revoir”

… Huh… I didn't think I'd get THIS far…

Pers. 2: … I kinda expected more …

Pers. 1: “It gets worse once you're a sophomore,

Pers. 2: Good luck!!”

Pers. 1: Does anyone else feel as stuck?!

Pers. 2: … This kinda sucks…

Uh-oh, looks like it we're running out of time

Pers. 1: What else is new? Certainly not this rhyme

Pers. 2: GArH! There's something in my eye

Pers. 1: Overwhelming anxiety and the crippling fear of large doors?

Pers. 2: No… But now that you mentioned it, I kinda wanna die…

Anybody else want to cry?

Pers. 1: No, go ahead, it’s alright, tell high school “bye-bye”

[duo] I’m not ready,

Pers. 2: Time just flew by..

Will I ever qualify?

Pers. 1: Will the voices ever pacify?

The doubts only multiply

All we can do is try

our best to pass the test—

Pers. 2 [aside]: I gotta confess, I look great in this dress

I’m boutta finesse my way through this mess

All of the stress and distress compressed can depress—

Pers. 1: —Anyone with or without knowledge, can hold you hostage, tied in bondage.

What can I say?

[duo] Slaving on to college!


Ode to the Ghost of a Half-a-Quarter Lifetime

by Mayan Godmaire

Creative Writing Editor

Again. Sound the navy bells atop the night-hazy tower, in peals

of gold. They reverberate out and fade.

Counting time in the vibrations. Sucker-sweet vision.

I count my words if I scrawl on paper,

I lose my hours if I think of you,

For who the notion of time is only an electric after-taste

in the land of lemon rind.

I cross a bridge to where the grass is greener because colors

flourish there.

You never set foot on a single grey patch. Cause even your feet

gave, although it was your hands that played, tap, tap, tap.

You played through violet and indigo plastic lays,

a relationship who saw the dream-catcher for a forgotten dream.

Red as often as not, as white in shadow-green, as presence in mirror.

Your blackboard taught beauty.

So, again. Dappling in the clear-fresh bluey-silver stream where

orange fishes flash and dash and hide behind round stones.

Two addicts of the senses, splashing their feet til they drip turquoise

in big glassy drops, ecstatic out-of-static,

vibrant.


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