by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on January 29, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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The room is similar to that of a cave,
cold and quiet,
but not quite empty,
not quite vacant.

We string up glowing petals above,
the windows stay open,
barely a flash, just constant, waning, natural light.
A blanket of time, hours go by, warm and safe, the ease is innate.

Every item, a friendship crest, the incense holds the memories,
the first time we met, meek and hesitant,
the sun falls and is born again, marking another day of knowing you.
Forever we will live here.

No one can ever live here the same;
this cave holds the remnants of every step, every trace of eager stories,
loud, jubilant, peachy faces, an earnest, mutual bond.
We’ll shut the windows only to prevent the rain from spilling in.

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on January 29, 2026

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Portfolio - Poetry

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I sit before my oaken table
As oft as I am able
With pen in hand and paper
My words, never stringing.
I try to be a shaper,
A song-maker, singing,
But inspiration lacks;
My purpose comes to naught.
I turn to trace my tracks,
But I have none begot.
Before my oaken table, I sit,
Not writing once, not one bit.
To me, this is a dreadful sight;
This is our curse: The Poet’s Plight.