Tag: drawing
A World Drawn in Pencil
by The Cowl Editor on April 8, 2022
Poetry
by Caitlin Bartley ’24

I like to imagine that the world was drawn in pencil,
my body an illustration on a canvas.
Just think of all the things I could fix,
stretch marks on my thighs
erased like crooked lines on geometry homework,
coffee stains on my teeth
erased like dirty smudges on clean parchment.
I could sketch contours on my cheeks,
curves on my hips,
life in my eyes.
I like to imagine that the world was drawn in pencil,
my thoughts a rough draft of prose.
Just think of all the things I could fix,
foolish love notes and empty promises
that I’ve written in pen.
I cross out the words a thousand times
but they don’t budge,
mistakes stained on paper like sins on a soul,
names etched into diaries like runes on an ancient tomb.
If they were written with pencil,
I could scrub at the page with an eraser until it was rubbed raw,
leaving nothing behind but a blank sheet
and the ghost of a confession.
If the world was drawn in pencil,
I could rearrange the planets,
realign the stars,
rewrite fate.
I could create constellations,
conquer astrology,
devise a personal game of connect-the-dots.
I could master the universe,
the celestial bodies once crafted by the hands of gods
now at the disposal of my fingertips.
There’s a painting in a museum called The World,
billions of people pass it every day.
I join them and watch from afar
behind a rope of velvet that feels more like steel,
pencil in my pocket,
useless.
I listen to art connoisseurs whisper about
brushstrokes and color palettes,
what they might mean.
I don’t know what to think.
I stand in front of the painting until the museum closes,
wishing the world was drawn in pencil.
There is so much I want to fix.
An Ode to My Dark Circles.
by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021
Poetry

by Mariela Flores ’23
It’s as if someone cut you out of a magazine
and glued you under my eyes.
You are the accessory that I have been given,
even in my well-rested times.
I’ll always know when I’m tired
but I won’t ever need an eyeshadow base,
and even if I don’t like you that morning,
you’ll always be a part of my face.
You’re the star witness of my best nights writing
your brown-ish purple hue lets others know that I am still fighting.
I keep my darkest secrets in the roundness of your bags
the swollen fragile skin stays soft despite the tags.
They remind me of my father whenever I look in the mirror.
Caffeine courses through our blood and it helps us see much clearer.
I don’t know who I’d be if you weren’t there.
Makeup tried to hide you
but I didn’t like the feeling or the purple-lacking stare.
I see now you are my inheritance
a face I cannot escape,
but I’ll always remember to love
my tired face.