By Justin Greger
made of steel and dreams
swept into the junkyard of civilization.
Compassion for those who conform.
Sea of milk white sedans
flowing to fabricated fresh out of the box houses.
Purel the colour green
growth must be planned.
Graffiti belongs in the gallery.
Price the homeless out of their clothes.
Gentrify the hood to live the real life.
Young folks come and go
the system remains unchanged.
By Xi Cheng
“I did this artwork almost two years ago. All the color puzzles represent my closet in China and all the black and white puzzles represent my closet in America. I used the puzzle idea to combine two different cultures.
I love to share my art and culture with other people. Art doesn’t have any national boundaries, but each culture’s art is distinct. Since I am Chinese, I have a perspective about art that is different from most students in America.
I incorporate my Chinese culture into my artwork but also work hard to mix many different cultures together in what I create. I try to reflect on the idea of harmony between cultures”. –Xi Cheng
By Andrew Unruh
The modest of cities houses the modest of libraries
where I roam as if a ghostly figure,
merely haunting the stacks, whose books are filled with
ghosts of their own, yearning to be set free.
A gentle rain patters the windows, while
the sky turns from deep blue to inky black—
the library itself almost breaths, as if a
sleeping cat, curled upon the foot of a bed.
I move up and down the stairs,
while a fellow patron stares at me as I pass,
and I imagine him silently judging me,
probably thinking “I bet he doesn’t even live in this city.”
All I can do is meet his stare with my own. My gaze
an almost listless expression, the kind found on someone caught
between boredom and a vague interest in what one is doing—
merely worn as a show, as to not look too clinically depressed.
I make my way through the fiction—
past Faulkner and Fitzgerald, past Joyce and Kerouac—
I find myself in the back, among the poetry,
and sit down with a pile of Ginsberg.
I wade through his verses, and the words—
the words seem to almost shout and
barge into each other, like drunks
looking for a fight.
By Emily Simpson
Alone, damaged beyond repair.
Empty yet full of darkness,
Full of the essence of oblivion.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The blackness consumes me completely.
I’m Alice, falling down the rabbit hole
Forever spiraling downward with no end in sight.
What is it to be whole, to be complete?
Is it giving in to the darkness?
Letting it wrap me in its warm embrace,
Comforted by the nothingness.
Or is it the constant struggle?
Constantly picking up the pieces,
Hoping one day to find the final element.
This can’t be all there is to life,
Holding on to the edge of sanity,
Praying to just make it through another day.
By Kaitlin Schmidt
Passions and grievances condense into wet words and they coagulate;
Too often unwritten. Sublimation is rare.
The pressure of expectations and the heat of judgment evaporate them -
and as vapor they soar upwards as prayers.
The skies steam up and rain on us again.
By Femcore, Bethel College’s Feminist Collective
Femcore completed this painting in Spring 2013 to reclaim what women rightfully own: their bodies. The marks on this canvas are prints of the members’ painted breasts.