Tag: poetry
Night of the Connecticut Swallows
by Andrew Auclair ’29 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
The young swallows fly
like black ashes in the sky.
Take no time for rest,
for the skies they must infest.
The birds fly into the evening.
Dark clouds of dots dance
on the horizon, they romance.
The red sky retires,
the night put out the fire.
Of swallows I was dreaming.
Glow
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
A curve, a dip, a slope
You are full of light, more than you truly know
You may not look full, you may encompass darkness
Yet you provide immense light
You have a uniqueness, a dimness, that glows in a way no full moon could ever beam
Someone could sit if they needed a rest
Like a head leaning on a shoulder, falling asleep within the bend
The slumber will feel like a glow
A glowing vacancy
Water Color Heart
by Clara Johnson ’26 on September 25, 2025
Portfolio
Rendered in colors blue and gold and sage
Of water color, my fragile heart was made.
Its pigments spread onto the ancient page
Made from the sturdy bark which aspens gave.
It shifts, it changes every time it rains.
The colors bleed and intertwine within.
And when I weep, it further seeps and stains.
Mostly it spreads. Grows wide, but it thins.
My water color heart, sacred and strange
Which every moment has the chance to change
Whose color seeps into the roots and veins
Of aspen bark—the blue, the gold, the sage.
A Sleepless Dream
by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
Darkness all around us
We walk
Between the crevices of light
Your eyes are filled
With lucid hazels
Your words seep through your skin,
Delicate and feathery,
The night’s wind
Crisp and calming
It lulls me with each laden step.
I’m within a shallow pocket
Cushioned by the conversation
Out of my cautious body, buzzing, breaking,
I can’t believe
The soothing song
Light and sweet on my tongue
Are the words that fall out
Sliding down
The smooth crescent moon
Swaying pendulously above.
Forever it hangs
We circle
Until the strides become painful,
The rain will fall all night long
The Devil & I
by Sydney Cloutier ’27 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
The Devil and I walk side by side into the diner. We sit down at the counter, shoulders touching. I order coffee for the two of us from the girl behind the counter. She smiles sweetly and hands me two mugs. She doesn’t address the Devil beside me.
The Devil and I go to the park. As we walk down the paved path, the Devil captures my hand a little too tightly. I try not to notice the little girl in the stroller rapidly pointing at the Devil as we pass by.
The Devil and I go up the stairs slowly. I knock once we reach Val’s door. I watch her try to subtly glance at the Devil before she lets us inside with a weak smile. People are scattered throughout the cramped rooms of her apartment. I embrace old friends and am introduced to new ones, but I don’t introduce the Devil.
The Devil and I sit on the couch and watch people mingle over empty glasses of wine. The Devil puts an arm around my shoulder, firmly locking me in place. I try my best to ignore the Devil’s iron grip and the way everyone in the room avoids the couch.
The Devil and I put on our jackets at midnight. I linger for a moment to thank Val while the Devil waits outside. She clutches my hands and pretends not to know what I am thinking. I wish I could stay, but the Devil doesn’t like to wait, so I hurry down the stairs and into the cold night.
The Devil and I walk home with our arms linked in silence. The Devil walks faster than I, but I cannot afford to slow down. The Devil leads the way into our building without even caring to look in my direction.
The Devil and I brush our teeth at the sink together. I can’t stop staring at the Devil in the mirror. I want to look away, but I am trapped in the Devil’s dreadful stare.
The Devil and I lie down and I try to hide under the covers. But like a nightmare-ridden child, the Devil finds me. The Devil whispers in my ear and I know it’s no use. The Devil wraps me in its arms as I sob quietly. I curse the Devil, I curse myself, I curse the Devil and I.
Answered
by Grace Batsie ’28 on September 18, 2025
Portfolio
You are an answered prayer.
And I’m so happy that you’re here.
I would make you paper stars
Until my fingers cramp up.
Even then, I would tie them on a little string and hang them in your room.
Because you are an answered prayer,
And I’m so happy that you’re here.
Eve’s Legacy
by Meg Brodeur '24 on March 3, 2023
Portfolio Co-Editor
Portfolio
“So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate:
Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat
Sighing through all her works gave signs of woe,
That all was lost.”
(Paradise Lost, Book IX, Lines 780-785)
I’m blamed for the demise of my sex:
the sex created under a pretense of partnership with man
They cite a wrong flick of my tongue as the initial flame,
That has burned women at the stake for witchcraft,
seared the widows thrown onto funeral pyres
and branded female slaves as sexual currency
I stare eternally from my cursed flesh,
at the consequences of only my actions
They tell women to know their place,
As subservient creatures created for the pleasure of man,
Thousands of translations have melted away the words
“partnership” and “equality” from the pages of scripture
They have distorted the word “woman” into a tacky, five-letter word-
Devoid of the divine feminine energy that dwells within my daughters
I watch with tear-soaked eyes at the scars on their skin,
Each individually feeling the burn from my initial flame
I’m blamed for the excruciating pain of childbearing
and take responsibility for the shameful habit of menstruation
It is Adam’s punishment that they strictly view us as possessions—
properly bought and sold with the blessing of a holy man
Through bloodshot eyes,
I’ve seen little girls beaten, chained, and enslaved
Under the pretense of “arranged marriage”
I’ve watched them be stripped of their purity:
the same sexual innocence that men hold so closely and praise so loudly
They scream at the top of their lungs, claiming ownership
over something that doesn’t belong to them,
Has never belonged to them,
And will never belong to them.
A little girl is a child, she cannot be a vixen
Do not call her a femme fatale to justify your pathetic lack of willpower-
Blame Adam for that.
Train; December 16, Cold-Static Day, Not Very Crowded
by Max Gilman '25 on March 2, 2023
Portfolio Co-Editor
Portfolio
Heat screams with no place to hide,
Spewing, steaming, pushing, stewing—
Stirring beneath stretching ceiling tiles,
I listen because I am willing,
Whining through ear holes
Like exhalation,
smoke travels
thoughts linger
fogging.
I used to tell her I would be unbreakable when I got older.
And I’ll never again comprehend
what the hell that word ever meant to me,
pride-protection-value-identity-projection?—
Like metal.
My mother sits by the train window
my hands sit by the legs
waiting for a tacking,
a buzzing will tell my thigh the head
is happy— a mere vibration.
The clawing on the other side of the wall,
pretending ears full,
fingers like a drenched rat—
when I make eye contact for the second time
with the same pair of glasses three seats down.
On train, bathroom is escape, if needed.
the clearest reflection ever seen
is a mirror coated in dirt, cracked several ways down the middle.
But train freedom—
is the last thrill, entering wind like a bird.
mother was never meant for the prior,
on a train, for no destination.
The gale will guide her.
unbreakable like the sky;
the lie of the train, time,
the line of the yarn ball tangled beneath the steel wheel,
and nothing on a train lasts more than hours,
days, and strangers with lives that die in your mind
days after the trip.
Her and I never talk about the things we care about
Or maybe it’s I who avoids those things,
In the silence of a train bathroom
You can hear the world complicate,
Vibrating the bumpy tracks beneath,
And authority becomes you and the nothingness
Because derailization could be death,
But still never tell her the things I care for.
A Walk with My Papa
by Anna Pomeroy '23 on March 2, 2023
Portfolio Staff
Portfolio
This morning I took a stroll on the beach
With my Papa.
It was around 8 A.M.,
And the sun and the waves
Had finally fallen into a perfect harmony.
The air was still, amid the sounds of waves crashing,
And everything was settling into place before
The chaos of the day.
We walked for a long time.
Our strides were in sync, which was surprising for his age.
He asked about how my mom and siblings were doing.
I told him about college and what I’m studying…
He was very impressed with the assigned literature in Civ.
I told him about the friends I’ve made and the memories he’s missed.
I said every word I had wished was once spoken.
When our stroll came to an end, the sand was no longer
Greeted by water, and the sun was beginning to hide
Behind the curtain of the horizon.
The waves had dulled out and flattened like a soda.
I said my goodbye once again, and we went our separate ways.
I’ll always cherish the days we spent and love to imagine
If we had one more memory together.
Red Rock
by Kate Ward '23 on February 16, 2023
Portfolio Co-Editor
Portfolio
Night begins to move, writhing and seething as the bristled backs catch the light of the dropping sun. Among the red rock lives a creature who carries night on his back and stars in his eyes.
The cicada calls to him from his place along the ravine scarred by waters now long dry.
Those who nestle in the red rock carry the history of the lost.
The Cocopah tribe, the cowboys, each driven out.
The creature among the rock, the javelina, their tribe becoming lost.
Soon the blood orange of the rock, the yucca, and the crimson of the berries in the underbrush won’t be enough.
Soon the javelina will have to engage with the streets
Will have to understand humans in his desert home.
The javelina speaks through a bristled muzzle, “I have understood the desert without them, it is sweeter than the blooms of the prickly pear. It is sweet like the rain. It is bright and calming like the red rock.”
The cicada sings his jagged song of mourning.