Tag: poetry
Broken Glass
by Elizabeth McGinn on April 15, 2021
Portfolio
By Grace O’Connor
She pounds her fists against the glass desperately,
As the clarity in front of her becomes increasingly distorted.
She forces herself to scream, but no one can hear her,
The water starts to fill up her lungs and drown out her voice.
The water eliminates all sound around her,
As the vibration of her pounding fists comes back to slice her.
The water molds her in place like glue,
Pushing her down, refusing to catch her drowning body.
Her mind races to find a solution.
The darkness bleeds through the edges of her eyes,
Blinding her slowly, stopping time.
She prays silently for peace,
As she accepts her fate.
The glass cracks slightly and shatters all at once,
She is pushed to the ground, guided by the water,
Covered in prickly, pale skin.
Her body fills with instantaneous relief and wrath.
She resents herself and her ability to cause this perpetual fear.
As she slowly lifts her shaky body up from the ground,
She is both numb and vulnerable.
She looks at the glass she shattered and feels a pit in her stomach.
She knows she will have to use her strength once again to break glass,
To make her fists bleed in order to let herself take a full breath.
But the water is not her enemy,
It has always been herself.
The Testimonies of Daphne, on the Subject of Apollo
by Elizabeth McGinn on April 15, 2021
Portfolio
by Colleen Joyce ’22
My testimony discloses the truth—
I rejected each of his proposals.
In fact, I am certain the only words
from my lips, directed towards Apollo,
were dismissals—despite what has been told.
Let me state that I did not want his eye.
My desires were trivial to him.
Eros may claim mockery and “humor”
turned the god of sun to the pathetic
god of pursuit; To me, though, it’s clear that
the god needed not a flimsy arrow—
his pursuits would have trailed me, no matter.
The fact is they did. During my travels,
he stalked my each step, just like a lion,
waiting for the moment to engage me.
Forgive me, sir, but there was never a
fine moment—I simply did not want you.
How many times must I clarify this?
Maybe an analogy will suit you:
a gazelle does not choose to be the prey.
She does not tread lightly, cautious, just to
become some predator’s toy, nor his meal.
She wishes not to find herself in the
daggers of a vicious, greedy, creature.
She would much rather graze at home, able to
mill about without the immense burden
of unrequited quests of seduction.
So, I must say to you, Apollo, stop!
I yearn for life you are not a part of.
But, if I must live one with you in it…
I would much prefer to be cemented
into the tough bark of a laurel tree.
At least then, when I shall decay, I may
escape the cement of your dreadful love.
At Peace With Death
by Elizabeth McGinn on April 15, 2021
Portfolio
by Anna Pomeroy ’23
I understand why old people are so content with death.
Our bones don’t grow brittle from their long-lasting bends––
But their existence becomes the unstable foundation for
the external skin that takes the beating of life.
It’s hard, life.
I mean, we’re meant to make it––
Strong enough.
But there comes a time when our eyes have no tears left to shed,
And no band aid could ever cover the infinite bleeding wound our heart has become.
We accept this.
Because while we may not wake up one morning,
The birds will.
The sun will still shine,
And the grass will grow into the next season.
Pot of Gold
by Elizabeth McGinn on March 18, 2021
Portfolio
by Taylor Rogers ’24
Where is my pot of gold?
I walk around the world, hearing the grand stories told,
Stories of new, and stories of old,
All revolving around this mystical pot of gold.
My relatives tell me about their personal treasures,
Bragging to me about these in extreme measures.
When will it be my turn to find this pleasure?
I wonder, how do these people find these treasures?
One day, I stumble along what I think will be a blessing,
And I thank the spirits for my pain lessening.
Finally, I have a pot that might not be depressing.
I open the mystery item, praying for a blessing.
Sadly, my pot of gold has nothing inside,
Reflecting my heart, which has too long been denied.
I have looked everywhere, both in and outside,
Yet this pot is empty, just like my cold insides.
How will I fill this mystery object from above?
Will I fill it with lust, or will I fill it with love?
Now, I can find something that fits in my pot like a glove,
And fulfill the wishes of the creatures above.
Happily, I begin my newest ride,
Ready to find what makes my pot of gold big and wide.
One day, this object will be filled with pride,
And I will have completed my ride.
Tossing
by Elizabeth McGinn on March 18, 2021
Portfolio
by Sarah Heavren ’21
After a whole year
Of loss, change, and pain,
There’s something we need
To help us sustain.
Days spent in waiting
For the perfect day
To bust out some discs,
Get some friends, and play.
A little rusty
From being apart,
Together again
We practice our art.
To some it might be
A sport or a game,
But in us it sparks
An ultimate flame.
We walk different paths
But they always cross
When one of us asks,
“Do you want to toss?”
Earthquakes
by Elizabeth McGinn on March 4, 2021
Portfolio
by Toni Rendon ’24
Heartbreaks are like Earthquakes
They rattle your bones, like the way the world shakes
You duck for cover, but there’s no escape
You’re afraid that this will be the last day
The home you built is rocked at the foundations
Cracks appear on the walls in different places
We’re all scared, you can see it on our faces
We don’t know what started this
So, we’ll remain blameless
You lose control as the tectonics shift
Leaving your heart with gaps in it
There’s a distance now, it keeps growing
You had one chance to close it
You blew that, so it kept going
The flaws you tried to hide
Are showing through the cracks on your skin
Your imperfections exposed
Like bricks under the cracking plaster
The ceiling is falling now
Run faster
You drop to your knees as the world around you breaks
The ripple through your body makes you quiver and shake
This heartbreak makes you wonder
Am I gonna die today?
Some Words on Distant Histories
by Elizabeth McGinn on March 4, 2021
Portfolio
by Sam Ward ’21
Patience, we feel,
These lies write for
Themselves. Pay homage
Or pay the price, we
Play for numbers,
Not for keeps,
Raise the bar.
This entry cost is steep.
Invaders in the pantry,
The enemy hangs wreaths
On your own front door.
Distracted, gaze fixated on
Screens. How can it be true?
At once so literal,
In a self-defined landscape,
Where beauty paces the meek,
Checks the balance on
Burdened precepts,
Like kite strings cut,
Sunny day. The rain
Doesn’t care who they are
Or how they got there.
Emphasis on significant hours judged
Only by a thousand year convention,
Trained into recognition,
No choice, even if
The absurdity of truth or
superstition is in arm’s reach.
Expectations, this will be different,
Any time around the sun,
Another maze we have to run
And there’s no slowing down.
And of course we’re all lost.
Bad days frequent,
diseased brains seeking
Refuge in the rest.
Flourish if we’re nourished,
But the hand that feeds,
Craves our hunger,
Sustains on it, stained.
Ambivalence is the cost
Of finding peace, so to speak,
We settle for it.
If we bite, they’ll bite back.
Gaslit or seppuku,
Addicts on the coast who
Pander to middle.
Riding out on guerillas,
Or dragons, Adidas, winged victory.
Conquering collective’s riches,
They are not their own,
We are not our own.
Heathens on the bench
Scream, treason on their
Breath.
Silent Pain
by Elizabeth McGinn on March 4, 2021
Portfolio
Trigger Warning: This poem includes
references to restrictive eating and body image
by Grace O’Connor ’22
She was used to her bones jutting out,
Her ribs, hip bones, elbows.
She was used to her clothes never fitting her,
As they would fall off her scrawny frame.
Her face was pale and her eyes held pain.
She desperately wanted a bite of solid food,
Except, she could not swallow it.
The worry around her was tangible,
She endured this worry with silent pain.
Wanting to be able to eat a bowl of pasta,
Without the feeling of her throat closing,
Slowly, unable to open like it was super-glued shut,
Not letting air get past.
She was constantly told how skinny she was.
She would force a smile as she felt the dull knife stab her chest,
Once again.
Little did they know she envied them,
Envied their ability to eat without feeling like they can’t breathe.
But, she hated their oblivion,
Oblivion to her struggle.
Sweet is the Tune the Harsh Wind Carries
by Elizabeth McGinn on February 25, 2021
Portfolio
by Matthew Ciesla ’24
’Twas on a venture, enveloped in quiet cold, That a belief quite unusual did take hold: Sweet is the tune the harsh wind carries Of times long past and forgotten.
And to our feeble sentiments it so varies, For ’tis of vast nature’s heart begotten.
Past dark limbs a’sway I did walk No one to laugh nor one to talk. Empty was the scene I eyed,
The soulless, lonesome path ahead. And ’tis when all distracting banter died That a distant melody filled my head.
How unbelievable it seemed to me
To bear such longing in the presence of thee. Though tightly covered holding warmth,
I stopped and moved to lend an ear.
But as suddenly as thou came forth Thou whistled past me, no longer able to hear.
And so I did return
To that same place I now struggled to discern. A path took shape and led me away,
As soulless and lonesome as before.
Past those dark limbs once a’sway
I walked no longer knowing what for.
Thus this venture passed me by
But thenceforth with conviction so think I: Sweet is the tune the harsh wind carries Of times long past and forgotten. And to our feeble sentiments it so varies, For ’tis of vast nature’s heart begotten.
Carolina Pine
by Elizabeth McGinn on February 25, 2021
Portfolio
by Sarah McLaughlin
The red soil gives them their color
And in return, they give their needles
Painting the ground a ruddy orange.
A nesting place for wrens and chickadees
And dragonflies they provide, and the air
Breathed by coyotes, does, and dingoes.
Beware the yellow jasmine that twists its way
Up unsuspecting trunks
To cinch them like a snake
Suffocates its prey.