Poetry

Nupur Neogi, 2020

I think in the pebbles of a brook and I think often in the growth

of myself, I think often in the growth of you.

-Abigail Seaberg, "Ghazal"

Spring/Summer 2020 Poets:

Emily Braunewell, Erika Echternach, Emilie Knudsen, Paul McGovern, Peyton McGovern, Abigail Seaberg, & Janelle Solviletti.

Twin Signs

by Janelle Solviletti

Nothing is a catastrophic as the minutes

before a May sundown

three years olden

the empty elementary lot

your eyes

spellbound in my passenger window

entering tomorrow

my eyes

stuck on that dark ampersand

it seems I should not repeat

the song, the stars, the abundance of road

from this range

the cost of living in an unbuilt house

is one in the same with finishing a sentence

from one hundred and fifty-seven Mondays ago

time moves opposite of where I dwell

minutes away from the point at which

we begin.

panopticon

by Emilie Knudsen

I dream of moth wings

painted with eyes,

curved

abstracted

blinking

blurred

the irises are roving snakes and pupils

fill with water which brings life or

death pinned like constellations of whims. When

I wake,

caterpillars metamorphose to leeches

and cement climbs up

my boots in serpentine forms my breath

escapes me desperate to leave

and the eyes of observers

swirl in a choked cloud as if I stand

in a dark room and too many negatives are strung about

on telephone wires surging with electricity

and I’m the hub of a merry-go-round saturated with

more light and

sound and

pigment than I can handle. Life is

a luminous fog and wisps hang about

with hobby lanterns on the concrete marshes

disorient tantalize daze

and someone calls to smile

and a million camera flashes

descend as a swarm

of locusts in plague-ridden Egypt

and the Nile reflects

the headlights of stars. I retch

at the paper whispers

of their wings and the wet burst

of exoskeletons underfoot

and cameras watch like mannequins watch like mirrors watch like Madame Tussaud’s wax

figures watch like black

holes watch like silhouettes

watch like screens watch

like insects watch like

eyes watch like stars

cold and quiet and far

away and breathing

down my neck

Humane to Barbaric

by Paul McGovern

On Sundays we would go to church.

I watched my father’s hair turn silver

and noticed that the lines on my mom’s

hands grew numerous and intersected

like the map of a chaotic city.

I still remember when I lived with the citizens.

Sprawled out grasping green grass in summer,

and sometimes the cacophonous growls and hoots

shattering the tranquility of nowhere sparked in me

an unwavering desire to become a beast.

I became a beast I think at age 13.

When the moon cast its shadow, I would sneak out

and gorge on nature’s offerings, smirk as my bright

urine seeped into rugged tree bark and howl

at the girl who snuck out nightly to sit and ponder.

I don’t keep track of days now.

Most memories of human life are effaced,

My toes are claws my shout a roar

as I travel on all fours like a naive child.

Thorns pierce my body, I slowly evolve.

Tributaries

by Erika Echternach

It’s true, you know, what they say,

You can’t step in the same bloodstream twice.

But I only ever remember I can’t speak German

once I’m halfway down the Rhine,

pondering whether Einstein would consider me a relative –

irrelevant when I’m navigating rice fields,

guided by the river as golden as my skin,

while the indigenous point me onward

until I’m crossing the Atlantic, anchoring in Cape Cod, circa 1620.

Shivering in the northern air,

I adjust to “home”

and wrap myself in flannel,

spreading a blanket scarf over the holes in my ripped jeans, closing my eyes to bask in the sea of pumpkin spice.

Opening them, I stare down the kaiser

and reach for a crumpet as we gamble on mahjong,

trying not to lose it all – though I always feel lost

when these scenes flicker so quickly and so vividly, that I’m not really sure if I’m truly any of them.

Ghazal

by Abigail Seaberg

I think in the stretch of tree limbs, all the air they touch.

I think in the bend of bark, in age, in coarseness, in fragility.

The power of a vegetable garden, the power of a leaf.

The power of pavement and the power of a leash.

I think in all things stuck. Bricks and the cement that holds them together,

signs on a post, paint on a wall.

I think in the pebbles of a brook and I think often in the growth

of myself, I think often in the growth of you.

Campbell's Constellation Soup

by Peyton McGovern

I trace your jawline

against the backdrop of the

glazed over night,

almost navy, not quite midnight blue.

Your chin cutting the stars to bits—

dust falling into my bowl,

I want a Big Dipper into your mind,

A ladle full of your language.

I want to stew in your XYZ’s

To know why brownies taste best

‘Precisely seven minutes’

after being pulled from the oven,

Or why,

“hugs feel gentler on Tuesdays”

We can’t stay here forever,

Orion’s Belt feels too tight

against my waist

when you pull me closer,

but we’ll be back

in time to watch

Aries woo Aquarius,

so long as you promise

to keep our love set high

on the front left burner.

Existential

by Emily Braunewell

I find meaning is more challenging to stumble upon,

when I am unsure whether I should be walking in the first place.

In an ideal world, stars align without a series of one-sided negotiations.

In a realistic world, I am becoming a lawyer.

Wandering steps echo against the sunbaked pavement of a deserted parking lot,

while muscles weigh heavy with the burden of iron chains.

I daydream of a sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment,

admiring a city where I can use a degree for more than just decoration.

So that as uncertainty hovers with fangs gleaming against skin that I’ve exposed,

I can plug the puncture wounds.

Runner

by Janelle Solviletti

I could trace the Charles River

with my eyes shut

feet dragging along its dirt path

every Sunday at sunup—

it’s spring and the air is cool people brush by in limbo take no notice that

the sky is auto-tuned

the paint stripped bench

at the river’s edge

has sunken in

or that the geese

disband the pedway —

but I run by and

watch the water

pull in and out

teasing the shoreline

persistent in its lure

the trees which shade us

are my canopy

my body is heavy

like a sandbag set

on the warm pavement

this is what it’s like in oblivion

for miles and miles

the only constant

between us is the river.

Elegy

by Abigail Seaberg

I see you in every day

every surprise visit from a

cardinal every

screened-in porch

I see you in every note

sung wrong, happy

and perfect

I see you in the largest

of shoes, I almost hate ya

‘cause ya feet’s so big type of

shoes

I see you in the crunch

of sugary buttercream

in butter on my

bread in all things

sweet and frosted

pink

I see you in the old, wild age

of hair in curlers and

in combs

I see you in the beauty of smiles

in the wit of word,

and in laughter

I see you in every summer

every hot, thunderstruck

afternoon

I see you in every winter

every Christmas and

Easter and everything

family

I see you in every

day, the good and

the 17

Yet to Peak

by Erika Echternach

We will always be the class

without a senior spring.

Saying goodbye too soon

– or not at all.

Can we recover what’s been lost?

Though we may never know

the why behind this all,

we can cherish the lessons 2020 taught us,

taking nothing for granted,

while treasuring each moment.

Despite countless uncertainties,

our community remains

–near or remote.

We are stronger than we imagined.

Now is when we realize what can never be taken from us,

as we jump into the unknown.

As we jump into the unknown,

now is when we realize what can never be taken from us.

We are stronger than we imagined.

Near or remote,

our community remains

despite countless uncertainties.

While treasuring each moment,

taking nothing for granted,

we can cherish the lessons 2020 taught us

– the why behind this all

though, we may never know.

Can we recover what’s been lost,

or not at all?

Saying goodbye too soon –

without a senior spring,

we will always be the class

yet to peak

Poetry

Nupur Neogi, 2020

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