by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2020

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Poetry

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by Mariela Flores ’23

I took myself apart today.

I started with my head
Twisting and turning,
unscrewing it from the base of my neck.
A weight was lifted off my shoulders
and I was lighter than I had ever been.

I held myself in my hands and began to count.
Two eyes, two eyebrows, one nose, one mouth, one birthmark, three beauty marks.

Countless sleepless nights turned paper-thin skin purple
two eyes, two eyebrows, one nose, one mouth, one birthmark, three beauty marks.

I took myself apart today.

I continued with my skin,
Ripping it to shreds
Bit
By
Bit
Until I was just bones and organs
and my body was oozing blood.
My mirror almost shattered from the force of my fingers.
Digging   deeper    and    deeper
desperate to find something beneath the tears.
They found nothing
I was   empty.

I took myself apart today.

I ended with my bones.
Noticed the crack from when I was seven,
the thud from when I was twelve.
I was clumsy back then.

My bones were not like ivory
you could see the wear;
my bones were yellow.
Like the walls in a room.

I took myself apart today
and I was surprised by the mess I had made.

by Connor Zimmerman on March 6, 2020

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Features

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The Glass Shattered Below
by Grace O’Connor ’22

When I read the text, I scream
Glowing from the screen
The words popping out, sucking me in
As my eyes glazed over them
Slowly, in disbelief,
I turned off my phone and
Dropping my face in my hands
Forcing my head up to look at the screen
I picked up my phone unwillingly
Before I knew it, leaving my hand
Hearing the quiet sound of the glass
That shattered below
I breathed in the sharp pain

 

Triggered
by Sarah Heavren ’21

When I read the text, I screamed.
I didn’t know what it could mean.
Everything seemed just fine,
But this text brought something to mind.

I tried to forget about
The moment, but now all my doubts
Started rushing over me
Like I’m caught in a storm at sea. 

Sometimes it’s the little things,
And this is the one thing that brings
Back too many painful thoughts.
The past now has my soul drawn taut.

If only people would think
That their words could make a heart sink.
If only somehow they knew
What the meaning of words can do.

I’m now in the deepest dark
With too much weight forced on my heart.
When did the truth of feeling
Become so devoid of meaning?

Why can’t we just be sincere?
Why does that have to disappear?
I’m not broken, I’m not weak.
But I’m human, my feelings speak.

by Connor Zimmerman on March 5, 2020

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Poetry

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by Sean Tobin ’20

I saw a blue bird, stoic on a branch
in the wide based dogwood tree.
He shivered there in the cold and
braved the wind, as I watched at him
behind smudged glass: free
to fly but there to stare at my affair.
Mr. Blue Bird, you do not know what
you mean or why you stayed ten
minutes long, but wrong am I to
disregard your vigil without strut.
You were put there for my sake.

by Connor Zimmerman on March 5, 2020

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Poetry

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by Jessica Polanco ’21

In Lil Rhody somewhere,
There was a young girl,
With her mind a bit too into romance and a spine still learning to straighten.
I write things down for a living.
I spend days pissed off at gravity or,
Amazed at the fact that 7 billion people are breathing as we speak.
I do these things and you call me an artist.
You say of sorts,
I should be a musician of the heart,
But you don’t know me or the hells.
And GOD,
If you did.
And the truth is
I’ve been scared to tell the other side of the story
The story of the engine behind all this now.
My momma says
All it takes is one look at the girl and you can tell I’ve been a rose tongued wordsmith since birth
But forreal forreal,
I didn’t start bleeding ink until circa late junior high.
Around the time back seats on school field trips started getting awesome
Parentless cribs was all that we lived for
And 1999 coupes could fit all 6 of us.
I grew up with the outliers
But time made it very clear that I would in fact never fit into the major bubble.
I traded in playing dress up to ramble about pretty boys and shit
That kept running from my reach.
It was different back then,
Back when it was just that pen in my teenage rebellion,
Every blank page seemed like a mountain
And every poem opened its own Alcatraz of balloons.
By high school, things in my ribcage began demanding refuge,
And it wasn’t just writing anymore.
They weren’t just poems,
It was my best proof of God.
A bed for my misunderstandings.
A glimpse of sin and salvation in the same second.
What were once journals were now holy purges,
And I learned just how fucking real a night could get with some paper and some secrets.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020

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Poetry

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by Grace O’Connor ’22

Large crowds always made her head spin
She could never hear herself think which is why
She preferred to be alone, hear her own thoughts
Flood in her head like a much-needed drug

Silence is what led her to feel the rawness of her emotions
She felt the most alive, embracing the tranquility and authenticity
Of the simple, nothing forced, just truth
She craved this around other people, in a crowded room filled
With every other voice besides her own

The beach always made her feel the most alive
The cold sand between her toes as the breeze embraced her in a natural hug
No one to judge every move she makes, simply just the water waving
As the sand made room for every step she took, molding around her footprint

She likes to think more than anything
Unlacing the knot of every new thought that came to her head
Understanding the whys and hows of everything around her
Feeling her essence and recognizing herself in these moments
In the silence that some think is a burden

She welcomes it with open arms
Her internal voice is the most driven, and sure
Her outward voice is quiet, and scared.
Terrified.

Silence, is what some are afraid of
She was too
But does silence always have to be a burden?
Is it scary to see your raw emotions? Thoughts?

by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020

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Poetry

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by Sam Ward ’21

The only thing I fear are these perishable thoughts.

I grasp onto them like they are golden-tipped winged shoes fluttering above my halo’d mind.
I clutch them close like the cross my grandfather bore around his neck, falling gracefully over his beating chest.
I behold them like Eris’s apple, the idyllic piece, missing from the grandest schema.

I grasp. I clutch. I behold.

I grasp them until they float from reach, transcending, elevating, leaving this earthly coil.
Winged shoes become fabricated visions.
I clutch them until they melt into my chest, burying themselves deeper than Freudian wizardry could uncover.
Even silver crosses turn black.
I behold them until they become objects of fantasy, distant, sublime.

Golden apples must rot, too.

Careless, I would be, without these perishable thoughts.
So I continue to
grasp, clutch, behold:
and write it all down.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020

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Poetry

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by Jay Willett ’20

Moss beams teal, tides crash sloping soliloquies,
withdraws, slicing bay reefs sucking out to Adrian.
Slime crawls up poles, infecting, seeping, into designed drains.
Concrete, salt cracks finish, a sand texture feeling by foot—barefoot.

Perhaps it’s selfish to think your happiness is a salvation.
I’m not so foolish as to believe that anymore. Sweetheart, I’ve run out.
Darling, we can’t dance anymore. The bar’s closing. The band went home.
You might be smiling, but in that dark, I could never truly know if you were.

Ah—right, the poem. I’ll make you feel something, that’s the point, right?
You want to cry together, laugh, sing, it’s a pretty idea.
It should rhyme, right? What’s the scheme?
Ah—
You’re expecting a trick.
Something witty perhaps?
Some of you want me to trick you.
I can’t.
It’s not that I can’t do it. I don’t want to.
Poets are all liars. It’s what we do.
Sell pieces of ourselves to you, to make you feel something.
But how could I when I have nothing to feel—to give you?
There’s no deeper meaning. No pages between the lines.
This is it.
This is the poem.
If you were expecting more, well—sorry.
I’m just a dirty poet. A liar. A fraud.
A boy alone on a pier, waiting to be proved wrong.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 27, 2020

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Poetry

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by Sarah Heavren ’21

A great blessing
And a great curse
Choose what is best
Choose what is worst.

Your decision
In good and bad
Choose the happy
Choose the sad.

Follow a path
Go and embark
Choose what is light
Choose what is dark.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020

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Poetry

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by Jessica Polanco ’21

I love you.
I hate you.

I want to hear your voice.
Shut up.

Hug me.
Don’t touch me.

Come over.
Stay away.

Kiss me.
Don’t kiss me.

We make a good team.
I’m better without you.

I miss you.
Leave me alone.

by Connor Zimmerman on February 14, 2020

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Poetry

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by Samantha Pellman ’20

It’s a Friday night at 6 p.m.
The sky is dark already
The air is cold.

To us it’s just a Friday night
But to others it’s the most romantic day of the year.
We don’t look at it that way.

We stand in front of the mirror
Curling our hair
And putting on mascara.

Laughing together
And sipping wine
Tonight will be one for the books.

It’s a night to celebrate our freedom
We’re only young for so long
We’ll be wishing to be at this stage in life again.

We’re leaving our phones home tonight
We don’t need to get in contact with anyone
This night is for us.

I take candid pictures of my friends
So we can remember how happy we were
Just to have each other. 

Valentine’s Day is wonderful
But for now, it’s me and my girls
We’re all we need tonight and always.