Tag: poetry
My Love For Thee
by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on February 12, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
My love for thee is all the stars at night,
Reflected, shining in your eyes’ pure glass.
In the dark, swirling cup I sip with delight,
There you are, but you do so much surpass,
You, like a princess over every knight.
But am I worthy to love thee so much?
No. But I love you as pauper loves might
And knows that might’s beyond his reaching touch.
My love begins with grief for your sadness
When your beauty and grace live on in such
Sorrow when they ought to live in gladness,
To be beyond this weary world’s cold clutch.
When a book is found that once was lost in th’ madness
Of busy days, I swell with glee and press
To me that tome and let the day’s badness
Be washed away in every paper tress.
My love beholds an Artist in your face
And if you weep I would hope to caress
Below your eyes and clear away that place
That your laughing beauty might be no less.
But if weeping comes and the good times erase,
I’d weep with you til the day’s most bitter end.
As the red sun sets and the light wanes apace,
I will stay with you, my heart’s dearest friend.
On the Door Frame
by Clara Johnson ’26 on February 12, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
In twisted, creaking wood I found our names
Were scrawled by mother’s hand on the door frame.
My brother’s name is scratched below my own
Though he’s become much taller as he’s grown.
And so I see her there. She’s only haze,
A momentary blip into my gaze.
She’s like the dust within striated rays,
Like flecks that dance in beams of sunny days.
The fleeting woman scrawls my name anew
At 4-foot-5, though now I’m 5-foot-2.
She gently smooths my hair and on my brow
Presses a kiss I’ve learned to live without.
The apparition moves across the room
With warmth I knew, forgotten warmth of womb.
Forever 4-foot-5 in mama’s eyes,
And never will she see us grow more wise.
And never will she see us grow more tall
And never will she see us grow at all.
Run, End
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on February 12, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
I used to walk for a long time,
before I knew of swiftness.
I was not familiar with the plan I could possess,
where these new, lithe strides could lead.
A developed cognizance for the satisfaction,
discomfort, strenuity, contemplative hours.
I ache for the slow grind, but I move quicker than expected.
All the strain, the choice to fly instead of merely flutter,
It does me well.
I can appreciate the flap of thoughtful wings,
walking will stay in the ambit of my movement.
Nothing will exert me, like the twist of my torso, the reliant trace of my eager
bounds.
I run now because walking could never suffice,
I’ll always control this,
the distance, my legs slicing across the pavement, scooping out my insides,
I tumble along, I trust myself wholly.
To run is to have the privilege of feeling complete,
even when you are overcome by the thrumming,
riotous uphills,
you’ll always meet the downhill, you’ll be relieved,
But you’ll trust, she’s forever there.
To run is to know the harmonious end,
singing and surging through your red-hot ears.
Inishkea
by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on February 5, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
May the angels light our way tonight
on such a desolate island. Where seals
swim up the harbor mouth, birds take flight,
and sheep roam in octaves on green fields.
Boats offshore watch not us, but waves
that slap their sterns in a prolonged rock.
We’re left to the hills and stones, and caves
that fall darker and deeper than the loch.
No film nor image can capture the land;
a fertile moonscape that can subtly bloom
single houses, which have sunk into sand.
Names remain only on the slabs of doom
that remind us of these nights, where cruel
wind and water take no prayers in the rain.
Souls of our fathers hold an everlasting duel,
and our mothers hold their breaths from pain.
Sleeping a century later, this island holds
the remains of a generation that is lost.
Broken chimneys and windows have told
any passer that the sea around has a cost.
Leaving
by Grace Batsie ’28 on February 5, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
“I’ll text you,” you say as you leave.
But we both know you might not.
The text thread is on borrowed time,
And it may be a miracle that you showed up
in the first place.
The expiration date has passed,
But then you show up again,
And it’s like everything is new again.
So, you may or may not text me after,
But you leaving,
Means I had you in the first place.
A Dark Lord
by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on February 5, 2026
Portfolio - Short Fiction
Immured in a darkling dungeon, you see the sun setting into night beyond the windowsill, which is sealed by a rusting gridiron. Clinging to the flaking bars, you bruise your knuckles as you strike the iron, desperate to capture a single ray, a single photon of light. A great hook of hot steel wraps around your neck and yanks you down. Choking, your body slams against the slimy stones and, looking up, there stands, enwreathed in dark garments which reek of former victims and somehow echo their screams long ceased, the Lord of Shadow, FAFSA. He leers over you and grips with fingers that glint with a slimy lustre, his odious hook, a staff of torment and agony. You gaze at the two pale lights that glitter beneath his hood, and in them lie dusky images and luminescent shadows of faces, contorted and gored; and his smile appears with teeth as white as snow and pearl gems. Lord FAFSA bellows a grim laugh that transcends the spoken word, piercing the mind and heart and soul with a dreadful terror. Behind your eyes well countless tears, and your throat catches with the struggling breaths of horror; the sheer evil of this profane creature from hell causes your lips to part in pitiful sobs. You rise, guided by this fell being, weeping profusely and ever desiring to flee, yet the room is darkness. The iciness of his wet fingers seeps through your shirt and chills your shoulder. With all of your might, you search for escape, dry your wailings, try to become whole again, but his ensorcelments are too potent. At last, he guides you to a chair and sits you down before an old, strobing computer screen. There are innumerable lines that must be filled, but half of it you do not understand. Through your blinding sobs, you ask him with a sniffle what each line is for; and, through his lips, which you can almost feel flapping behind your ear, his dark words and cold breath tell you in legal jargon everything you need to know. Yet still, you do not understand. He only repeats himself while you grow more and more confused. The strobing screen causes your eyes to burn and your brain to swell. As your deep sorrow, your pure, unabated agony augments with every passing moment, you beg him, “Please, please, I don’t want to do this. Let me go! Leave me alone!”
His quiet, mocking chuckle drips like thick sap into your ear, and he says, “You want me here … you need me here … I am your only hope.”
You know that he speaks the truth, and that makes your anguish all the more bloodcurdling.
At last, you pray, and that one photon you hoped for appears and bolts through the window like an arrow. Line by line, the form is filled, and the demon shrinks and shrivels into the harmless imp that it is. Your weeping ends, and the form is done. The door opens, rumbling on great steel hinges, and your family and loved ones rush in, hugging you and kissing you, having feared the worst. In that moment, after this uttermost evil of the world was revealed to you, you realize what is truly most important. Such joy! Such love! Such a putting of things in order!
Yet, as you leave that horrid dungeon, you can still feel FAFSA’s cold hands caress your shoulders, and you hear the whisper of his diabolical voice in your head.
“I will see you next year…”
Cave
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on January 29, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
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.
s n o w
by Hanna Boudreau ’28 on January 29, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
s
n
o
w
cover me—hide me—when I am overcome with woe
s
n
o
w
comfort me—console me—when I know not where to go
s
n
o
w
call me—christen me—with the name which you bestow
s
n
o
w
catch me—carry me—when I trip over my own shadow
s
n
o
w
coddle me—cradle me—like an old weeping willow
s
n
o
w
challenge me–captivate me—like the swirling art of Van Gogh
s
n
o
w
compliment me—celebrate me—as one does a beautiful rainbow
s
n
o
w
cure me—complete me—never let me go
The Poet’s Plight
by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on January 29, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
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.
The Last Stop
by Anonymous on January 22, 2026
Portfolio - Prose
He likes his coffee with milk and two sugars, his eggs scrambled, his toast burnt, and his barstool—the third one from the end of the counter. At least, he likes to think it’s his barstool. He’s been sitting there since he was a young boy, when his legs used to dangle underneath him like vines and a cheeseburger only cost 50 cents. He had a gap-toothed smile then, and a face full of freckles that have since metastasized into the age spots on the backs of his hands.
Time has stood still here, bolted to the ground like the base of the stool that he sits on. The frames fixed on the walls hold portraits of old beauty queens and faded snapshots of old hometown landmarks that were torn down years ago. Through it all, this room, with its chrome finishes, vinyl booths, and squeaking barstools has held down the fort, a last veteran among the rubble of the good old days. Back then, suited businessmen sat shoulder to shoulder in squadrons at the counter before catching the next train to the city. The trains barely run here anymore; he often feels like he sits at the last stop at the end of the universe.
A few years ago they tore off the old taupe wallpaper that sparkled under the haze of its own grime, memories smeared into its stripes by grubby-handed children covered in grease and ketchup. The new tile is teal and shiny and far too garish for so small a space. Worse, it is easily cleaned and he knows its slick, cool surface will not be able to grab memories by the hand the way the wallpaper could.
He orders his food and wishes that the walls could still talk and his legs could still dangle off the edge of his stool. His coffee is burnt and he knows his toast won’t be, so he sits at the end of the world and waits for nothing to change.