by The Cowl Editor on November 18, 2021

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Poetry

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AJ Worsley ’22

 

get down on your knees 

rub your face across the grass

tickle your cheek with excitement,

you feel something.

 

drive to the water, one hand on the wheel, your other is holding on to life.

you haven’t felt alive in a minute.

 

the skylines reek of hope but you never drive there, you stay in your comfort zone because it’s easier to joke about yourself than to fix the things you joke about. 

 

but you’re never actually joking are you? 

you’re genuine. you’re hurtful. you’re hateful. 

you’re a bad person, if not to anyone but yourself. 

 

so grab a cloud and put it in your pocket, 

save it for a rainy day when you can ride it like a wave. 

climb a mountain and accept defeat. 

 

close that social media app, you’re far too comfortable in your loneliness to be here. 

 

break your rear view in the process of getting that mask on your face.

 

you don’t know where your soul is or where it belongs but right now it isn’t where it needs to be. you need a new spot. a new playlist. a new love. 

 

you’re aware of the things that make you happy but you don’t grant yourself access to those things because you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve them. 

 

kiss the grass and bite it. love the earth you’ve been given while you’re down there, but when you come up, climb that tree and look down on a world who has put you at the bottom of the list. 

 

don’t expect to be others’ first choice when you can’t even put yourself first. 

 

you are small and inconvenient. make mistakes and forgive yourself for them. don’t dwell. you aren’t here long enough to dwell. 

 

let lightning scare you, and love that fear but don’t let it last forever. 

so much world you want to see but you can’t even make it out of your own head. 

 

it’s the window that reminds you of a portal. or the staircase that takes you from one life to another. the door. the change you seek but never acquire. 

 

listen to your elders but never let them try to control you. shave your head if you’d like. identity is whatever you want it to be. 

 

it’s hard to share your thoughts, your words that you hate, the creative vision in a world that’s already created your idea. you are not original. you are the first to ever put those words together. 

 

the truth is, there are no rules so there cannot be a rule book. your God wants you to love, but if your God is dead then be your own God and remind those around you that life is constructed by something greater. 

 

we don’t know what comes next so the present is not something to reject. modernity is a beast, let’s come together and put it on a leash. 

 

death is far more feared than that lightning, but kiss the grass that grows in spring, and find comfort in the life that awaits you when the life leaves your body. 

 

pass me the telescope dripping with nostalgia so i can watch her dancing on the moon from my car parked by the beach.

 

the seasons will always change. they did before your time and they will continue to after your time here. see the world. respect your God, deny tradition. 

 

you have the time. you have the energy. you have the love. you have the life. 

 

you tell me you couldn’t imagine your life without me, 

i urge you to try a little harder.

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 18, 2021

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Poetry

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Anna Pomeroy ’23

 

They say it’s bad luck to open an umbrella indoors.

I never seemed to understand that––

Why not be granted the extra protection before you even step outdoors?

It’s rather a challenge, standing down the hall of my mudroom

As I glare down the open door drowned with rainpour.

It’s a mental and physical game one plays––

Opening the umbrella as quickly as possible, and you lose if you get any 

Raindrops on you. 

 

We fear the uncertainty of that game, focused solely on the protection.

The barrier between us and the outside world, our reality.

It’s because we were conditioned that way. 

Growing up, your parents shielded you from the darkness of this world.

Whether it’s “don’t look over at that accident” or private conversations 

In the hallway of a doctor’s office. 

We become blinded by the glare of our bubble. 

 

Yet, truth be told, once you have grown out of those old wives’ tales,

The umbrella will be opened indoors in an act of careless habit. 

Our chins will face up as we march out of the door,

Unknowingly still comforted by our shield. 

 

And when that bubble eventually pops, 

And we lose the glimmer our childish eyes once held,

We will run back into that hallway, shaking the drops off our coat. 

The bad luck has kept its promise. 

1118-anna-graphic.psd

by The Cowl Editor on November 4, 2021

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Poetry

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by Marelle Hipolito ’22

 

I ate some fried chicken yesterday

It tasted good to eat my worries away 

I saw my friend in the hallway 

But I hit a locker and it took my breath away

I went to stats, we had a happy frappy

Made me realize that my life was so crappy 

 

But it’s alright 

And it’s okay

’Cause I ordered chicken and it’s on the way

 

I love the fried chicken delivery boy

He’s got a look that could bring me some joy

But I don’t even pay attention to his face

Just the chicken he’s holding that’s good for my plate

 

Fried chicken tastes so good

It always brings up my mood 

It’s the only reason for me to run

Because eating chicken is just too fun

 

I met a boy a few days ago

Worth a million boxes of cookie dough 

I found him on Instagram, oh lord, God bless

I tried to follow him but he ignored my request

 

But it’s alright

And it’s okay

’Cause I ordered chicken and it’s on the way

 

My friend Caitlin and I were parking, I thought we had some space

But I’m blind and we hit another car like a slap in the face 

Later in the shower I tried to change the song 

Lesson learned: phones and toilets don’t get along 

 

Had a physics test where I was barely alive

Legit I didn’t study, I got a 25 

It’s okay though, ’cause I took a nap

And found peace in a chicken wrap

 

But each night when I went home

I was never ever alone

Because I ate fried chicken all those days 

And my worries went away

by The Cowl Editor on November 4, 2021

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Poetry

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by Taylor Rogers ’24

 

The rainbow is lazily scattered on my hands, 

Reminding me of my past actions.

Its prominent hues contrast with my tanned skin, 

Standing out like patches of blue sky peeking through a lush, green forest.

 

Like my hands, my canvas is also stained, 

Attempting to display my emotions. 

From yellows brighter than dandelions 

To purples deeper than eggplant, 

My feelings are creatively strung together. 

 

In shock, I stare my painting down, 

Unable to decipher my own feelings.

For some reason, I feel like a piece of the puzzle is missing, 

Skillfully hiding on my palette of colors.

 

I fail to find inspiration from my hand, 

Despite its many colors. 

Glancing at my paints, 

All I can see is a giant question mark, 

And no interesting ideas. 

 

Lazily, the wind plays with my hair, 

Urging my small eyes to look away from my art.

Two ebony eyes glance up,

Desperately searching their surroundings. 

 

Colors far more diverse than my paints embrace me, 

Eagerly clinging onto my canvas and me.

With a grin larger than the Cheshire cat’s, 

I pick up my paint brush,

And begin to paint the new range of hues.

by The Cowl Editor on October 28, 2021

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Halloween

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by Max Gilman ’25

 

What came first,

The rope,

Or the knot,

The knife,

Or the cut,

The murder,

Or the disdain?

Nonetheless,

One leads to the other,

In an endless cycle of circling disparity.

Before all these, though,

Came the child,

With a free mind,

To fill with ideas.

 

There he was,

Laying on a bed he honed for years,

Since his old life,

When he was but a child,

Tears grew into puddles,

On the indents of his face, 

Whilst he stared with starry eyes,

At a white ceiling panel,

Accompanied by other panels,

That ran along the whole upper surface.

Above them lay things his mother had no knowledge of,

Empty bottles of liquor,

Downed in silence days before,

His eyes slowly lost stars,

As his tears began to subside,

He thought about his mother,

And her disdain for who he had become.

He thought of the past days,

When he and his mother would play,

When he was child,

In his old life.

Now he has a good time,

Through a bottle of liquor.

 

When will the young boy’s eyes dry of tears?

When will the boy return to his mother?

When he becomes a child again?

When will the boy get help?

When he needs it?

 

Years have passed,

Since the boy cried there,

The bed he knew was now gone,

The ceiling tiles were empty and clean,

The boy had now grown to a young man,

And his eyes cried for those things less pitiful.

 

His eyes then,

Had cried away the stars.

 

A fire burned long ago,

As the ashes of the young boy’s belongings slowly turned,

To winding smoke,

Rising,

High into the night’s black atmosphere,

Stretching to the stars above.

 

by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021

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Poetry

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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.

by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021

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Poetry

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by AJ Worsley ’22

 

it’s not that i didn’t have the time, 

in fact, it’s precisely the opposite.

i had too much time, 

too much time on my hands with nobody to occupy it. 

 

but if you keep with that attitude you’ll only ever have friendships, 

never any best friendships. 

 

everyone else in their life, a vacuum for their presence. 

your time will come, but you have too much time, 

it already should have come by now.

 

but what good is the poet if they don’t know the power of their ink?

and when do they turn the lights off in this parking lot? 

 

do your hair the same way you’ve been for years. 

put on that same hoodie and start the car. 

drive somewhere in a pathetic attempt to be busy to mimic the lives you once occupied. 

 

“sorry i can’t right now,” a dead phrase in my life, 

i can, and i will every single time. 

to cope, i apply pressure to the few people i have left, 

and in return it actually pushes them further away.

they tell me i’m too dependent on them, 

but i’m just dying to get inside their head because i’ve been stuck in my own for far too long.

 

and the truth is, the only thing i’m dependent on is this steering wheel.

by The Cowl Editor on October 21, 2021

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Poetry

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by Fiona Clarke ’23

 

The burning sun runs its blazing hands along the wildcat, 

The ocean, upsets it, and offers a remedy then. 

Take and dissolve beneath your tongue—How often?— 

As often as you need—For how long?—

Until you, yourself, dissolve. 

How can there still be water? 

For crying out loud there is a cure, 

But for silent mortal flesh, there is only a pillar of cloud before me 

And a pillar of salt behind me, 

And a gryphon in the bed beside me. 

Oh, no doubt, one of the damnable Irish men behind me, 

Who saved up all his laughter for his last day, 

And his tears for its either-night—

No doubt he can explain this well. 

And listen, for in answer to my shoddy prayers, 

A knock-off Solomon speaks, and 

Out of the mouths of the depraved, beloved, 

Ramshackle sense shall come forth. 

 

I will ask you, then 

“Were you in the swim last night?” 

I could have sworn I saw you balanced on one hand  

On the banks of the river, and on the ties of the railroad—  

But then, love and a hole in the earth  

Sometimes run all together.  

 

Today I stand transfixed where the orange trees grew,  

For when I went outside to look at the stars,  

I saw a cleft in the chin of the earth  

That I had not seen before,  

And I saw the rain pouring out its heart  

Where I used to pour out mine like water,  

And now the sea is full.  

Today I stand transfixed where the orange trees grew,  

And look and see: every surface is  

One face shifting into another.  

by The Cowl Editor on October 7, 2021

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Poetry

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by Marelle Hipolito ’22

Music seeps through the brick wall

“It’s too loud!” I bang in response. 

Music grows louder and louder

My patience shrinks smaller and thinner

and it’s back and forth for a while.

Monday Tuesday Wednesday,

bang bang bang

I’m drowned out by the music!

I have no choice, 

I learn to live with the noise. 

I numb it out, until one specific day

when in the music through the brick wall

I hear Eric’s voice:

“What’ll you do when you’re lonely?”

I drop my pen, my work put to the side 

It’s been years since I heard that song

it brought back memories and turned back time. 

I listen to Eric beg, as he drops down to his knees

he sounds as desperate as when I asked you not to leave. 

“Like a fool, I fell in love with you”

since you played Layla on the piano & turned my whole life upside down

the chords sting, it’s rooting me in place 

my tears are in vain, and they make me sing along and cry out. 

bang bang bang

“you’re too loud!” they yell in response

as the music gets quieter and quieter

the absence of you gets stronger and louder,

but we have no choice

like Layla like Eric 

we have to live with the noise.

 

by The Cowl Editor on October 7, 2021

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Poetry

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By Max Gilman ’25

 

Tell them tales, 

Entwine them with snaring literary truths, 

Yet they slip through, 

They, 

Slip through the spiked thorns amongst them, 

And, 

Carry on, 

And so begins the cycle again, 

Yet the outcome is the same, 

But now, 

They, 

Are experienced in slipping through the thorns, 

What is it man truly yearns? 

Truth? 

No, 

Denial of truth, 

Until, 

Substance is needed, 

What does it mean, 

To run alongside the sun? 

 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Strokes from my hand hit the sides of the metallic desk, 

With a pencil, 

Barely sharpened, 

They listen with thoughts, 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Wandering elsewhere, 

They, the blue people, 

Living blue lives, 

Under blue rays, 

Who never leave the box they exist in, 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, 

I decide to join them, 

In my mind’s blue disillusion, 

Distracted by purposeless truths, 

Those of inconsequential value, 

And there I observe moments of elation, 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, 

 

Blank your mind, 

Make a fool of art, 

For realism’s sake, 

What they say is of no importance, 

They seek truth published by man, 

Constructed in a factory, 

Of partisan labor for the victimized workers, 

Sealed with the blood of the author’s eye, 

And cleansed with the tears of a marginalized citizenship, 

That is the truth they seek, 

And so they live their blue lives now, 

As it has come in accordance, 

Down the line of succession, 

So they take their seat, 

Upon a throne engulfed in blue light, 

Hypnotized by the denial of art, 

 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Oh, 

Quickly I lost control of the pencil, 

As it fell to the ground, 

And embedded itself inside a crack, 

That ran through a spiderweb of cracks, 

And I became entranced, 

Hypnotized by the art, 

 

But what did they see, 

Not art, no, 

Instead they noticed the ground, 

And its need for repair, 

 

Years have passed since, 

The air has grown stale, 

But not a bad stale, 

More like a stale you smell in an old closet, 

With jackets from your older family, 

I stand up from the library steps and walk, 

Strolling down the street I call to you, 

With both hands shuddered away in pockets, 

And ask you to meet me, 

By the entrance to the graveyard, 

 

You thank me for the offer but leave me, 

And so I come to the graveyard alone, 

With a notebook, 

Full of drawings, 

Mostly incomplete,  

But they express how I feel, 

 

I sit by a fallen tree, 

In the moist morning air, 

As the fog rises just above my line of sight, 

As my hand accidentally touches a patch of moss, 

I dust off the palm and open the notebook, 

To see pictures of me running with the sun, 

Sketches I made during class a long time ago, 

 

I look to the sun, 

And wonder how long I must wait, 

Before our cosmic dance together, 

I must wait here as always, 

And reside among the blue people, 

But I too will not prove to be blue, 

No, 

I seek a truth I do not understand, 

For it is not made by man, 

But by truth alone, 

An artistic truth, 

A belief in love, 

 

So accordingly, 

I proceed to flip a new page open, 

And begin to draw, 

What it is I want to see, 

 

Oh, 

But I have forgotten a pen, 

And so I lay down in the graveyard, 

Accompanied by the dead, 

Those who have escaped the blue light, 

And weep, 

For art’s demise, 

And its people, 

Who appreciate it not, 

 

Blue can only go so far, 

And so I pursue life, 

Through a ballad of different colors, 

All wonderful in their own regard.