Fall 2019 Poetry


Quiet Chaos

by Ean Heise

I hate those faggots. The words echo back and forth, carving deep ruts between your ears as you long for the resolve of the hateful cacophony. You want to lash out, but you remain silent. You want to strike, but your balled fists remain at your side. To react is to commit social suicide, but the companionship that accompanies passivity provides little solace. Is it more egregious to act justly as an agent of equality for all, or to cater to your own need of acceptance?

I. The ringing intensifies as your silence endures. Hate. The tension swells within you as tears begin to sting against the corners of your eyes. Those. You feel the perspiration pierce through your skin as your clothes begin to grow far too heavy. Faggots. The very sound leaves a sour, skunk-like savor in your mouth. Your weak knees carry you away, out of the cafeteria, past the burning gazes of your peers, back to the privacy of your dorm room where you allow the anger to overcome your body. Your curses and shouts fly incoherently across the room as your gasps bounce from wall to wall. You swear to be true from this point on, unmoved by potential consequence. Yet deep down, you doubt your integrity. For you know, the flame of decency struggles to burn in the middle of this ocean.


You Have Always Heard

by Lena Driscoll

about this feeling, but you hoped to never experience it personally – the way your heart drops to your stomach, and the way your body aches with betrayal. The person that you trusted more than anyone broke every ounce of trust that you had. You opened up to him, were vulnerable with him, cared about him more than anything else. What did you do wrong? You start to question everything. Did he really care? Was any of it real or genuine? What is wrong with you? What makes her better? You thought he was different, that he had changed his old ways to be better for you. You were wrong, and now you feel more broken than ever. What will you do with this brokenness? You hope that it will make you stronger, that you will not be broken forever.


Corporeal Composition

by Tara Schwartz

Where does a poem live?
Is it in the center of my brain?
Does it have enough oxygen?
Will it ever see the light of day?
But is it formed yet?
Has it words to become 
flesh, blood, bones?
Can the poem become a body?
Not a lifeless body 
on the ground
a corpus springing up
lexicon anticipating living
Lungs can build poems, too
The trachea delivers spirit of poetry
Air does not cease in doubt
and my words will last as my breath

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