Tag: prose poetry
Boy on the RIPTA
by The Cowl Editor on October 3, 2019
Portfolio
by Jay Willett ’20
The card didn’t scan at first. I panicked though I knew in the back of my mind that my credentials were fine. The RIPTA driver raised an eyebrow, and I could feel the warm sensation of sweat seeping through my sweatshirt. The machine beeped, I scuttled to a seat directly behind the handicap section. Exhaust hissed out the muffle and due to lack of motion, billowed through the open side door, choking the passengers. The older gentleman next to me sputtered and reached into his overcoat pocket for a handkerchief. There was a mother of two sitting in the open seating, her baby carriage taking up all the front space. An elderly couple grimaced as they skidded by, and the mother smiled sarcastically. Past Washington Street, the RIPTA passed brick murals, homeless villages, and Lime scooters. Heading southbound, we had to pull over for an ambulance that arrived at its destination a mere two blocks ahead. There, a bald man was toppled over, one leg crossing the other, his expression blank. Though not particularly religious, I muttered a prayer into the cups of my hands. Fire engines, police cruisers, garbage trucks, the road to Montgomery was riddled with government activity. I saw all this but glanced to the sidewalk to see cracks and crevices deeper than the pavement could convey. An ambulance zipped past the man passed out on a bench, covered in a puddle of liquid, his unconscious hand clutching a sign that read: “Homeless, hungry, please.” At the red light, most passengers looked the other way, the mother tended to her crying babies, the older gentleman sniffed and wheezed into his shoulder. I was staring at that man. A tear came down my face, and just as quickly as it appeared, I wiped it away. The engine revved and we pulled away down South Main. That day I had seen an old friend, his face grizzly with facial hair, tired from a long day at work. When I came home from kindergarten, I’d jump on his stomach and laugh at his grumblings. Though he was reasonably annoyed, he smiled and hugged me. 15 years later, I sat among the city, watching neighbors argue over plant placement, drunks stumbling out of Admiral Liquors, and smokers lounging outside the Rhode Island Free Clinic. The baby continued to cry and didn’t cease until their stop between Douglas and Eaton. Despite the world moving, we were still, silent, and desperately alone.
Castles of Wood and Stone
by The Cowl Editor on October 3, 2019
Portfolio
by Clara Howard ’20
There’s a half-remembered ranch house with a stream in front. A perfect place for playing princesses and pirates. On the outside, white siding gave way to honeycolored stones. On the inside, rooms opened their arms wide, ready to embrace wild imaginations, cooking mishaps, and childhood innocence. Wallpapered bedrooms smiled at stuffed animal fights and nightmare soothings. At Brookmede, we had free reign of our fairy-and-pirate kingdom.
There’s a small, two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of an old building with no elevator. Tile steps and wroughtiron railings wound their way up to a haven that felt close to heaven. The kitchen, no bigger than a closet, witnessed midnight meriendas, daybreak desayunos, and celebratory cenas. The windows, unhampered by screens, opened wide to see Popocatépetl keeping his smoky watch over the valley. En México, éramos príncipe y princesa de una cultura materna.
There’s a one story clapboard house sitting prim, proud, and proper on the almost-corner of a treelined street. Hard-won, held onto for 68 years, it had “Howard” engraved on its bones. Never much room for stretching out, summer days passed with Betty Boop, Lucy and Ricky, Bing and Fred. In the evenings, the dining room table cleared, beware the card shark-infested waters, and whatever you do, don’t hold on to your aces! Winners got flying saucers from the Carvel down the street. At 42 Jersey St., we were the youngest in line to a crocheted throne.
There’s a ranch house made of brick. It stands between trees and expanses of a green yard. In the summertime, riotous color blooms: delighted magenta bounces happily, regal violet sways with sophistication, and sunset orange stretches its arms out along a soil horizon. In the back, herbs have the lay of the land (as much as mint tries to mutiny), and perfume the air to make one hungry. Inside, wooden floors creak under older sets of footsteps, walls dress up in food-named colors, and we have our own rooms. Laughter still cracks the still air. At Old Fence, we choose to rule on our own on separate sides.
There are various rooms in various buildings on a relatively small campus. In room 411, the sunrise wakes me up those first few weeks because my independence manifests itself in leaving the windows and shades open. My view encompasses the skyline of a fateful city. In 2AL, I have a corner of a building, which means I have my own corner of the world, and the crosswinds through my windows make me wish for wind chimes. My view is of green, green grass and a world of endless possibilities. In 203, my nights are like an endless slumber party: laughing, crying, and sharing secrets with friends who become the only bright stars in a depressed nighttime. My view changes from other brick buildings to a weeping willow across the street. In 410, the apartment is infused with colorful mugs, animal-themed decorations, and comfortable blankets. My view is of a courtyard and a curious maple, of vibrant, beautiful hearts, of an idyllic time slipping away. In Providence, I learn to be queen of a kingdom that lost some of its magic, but never any of its allies.
Other things that are only mine: a corner of the bunk bed where I can whisper and pretend that my unicorns and puppies have lives of their own; a window in the blue room where I can peek through and see the Aztec warrior weeping over his lost love; an indent in the kitchen floor, right by the doorway, that fits the shape of my heel perfectly, as if I had made it myself; a single shelf where my most favorite titles nestle nice and snug together; a set of linens, including a comforter with the Eiffel Tower to prove my elegance and maturity, that covers a bed that will never be comfortable, but will sit and stand beneath laughing faces, chocolate quotes, and faithful protections.
In my castle, my home is built of memories.
The Dark
by The Cowl Editor on September 16, 2019
Portfolio
by Jay Willett ’20
Adrenaline, the veins on my temple popped, blood pumped away from the brain and into the legs. Don’t look back, otherwise, it’ll get you. Though the basement was finished, and the carpet bristled under my pacing feet, it was a dungeon, miles underneath Celtic gravel. Stripped of sight, the setting of childhood playdates slapping foam pucks in mini hockey had become barren and foreign. The Upside Down, limbo, a ravine of lost dreams, tunneling me through a time unseen. Vampires, zombies, monsters, and ghouls, creatures any child would fear were not in my mind. Rather, we know the more horrifying happens during the day. But the dark will never let thoughts recede, fear of the Alone can’t be held at bay. A monster could grab me, that wasn’t what I feared. Breathing increased, chest heaved, my small body climbed the stairs with ease. Sweats came after, at the top, culprit Christian snickering about what he’d done. Enveloped in light, peering down from where I had emerged, the soft smile of the void flickered back.
See you again!
Classroom (Lovers)
by The Cowl Editor on March 4, 2019
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
An Interpretation of “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) by Felix Gonzalez-Torres
Clock on the Far Wall
It hangs nearly lifeless above the seldom-visited bookshelf. Its crimson hand slaps each second, skipping its obligatory pause at each black line. It races instead, tracing the lines of its body with each round. “I’m ok. I exist. I’m ok. I am here,” it ticks. Deranged from loss, like a loon at the asylum, it walks its pedantic circle. A dog, contorted neck and twisted rump, chasing its nonexistent tail, hypnotizing the onlooker. Forever after the sweet taste of sanity.
Clock Above the Door
Its dull face tells of the time it’s had. 12 is just as relevant as 7 and 8 as close as 5, because it doesn’t care whether it lives or dies by its purpose anymore. Time is no longer of its essence. But it’s sane, its arms still moving how they were synchronized to at the very beginning—the faded red hand taking its necessary half-second pauses from jogging. Its black minutes and hours ticking to the right times that it only follows because it was theirs. It still remembers its partner. It can still recall when each one of its ticks were echoed. It can still recount how it whispered ‘I love you’ in between each sound. It still relays their lost synchrony that they shared back before one of them was moved to the far wall. Every second the same as when they were one.
At the Blackboard
Two teachers chat at the front of the room. One proctors an exam. The other is on their lunch period. “They’re finally replacing that damn clock.”
The Language of Love
by The Cowl Editor on February 14, 2019
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
In the soft dew of morning’s twilight, when birds and beetles silently meditate for a fraction of a second, I love you. In the subtle crinkle of your not-yet-crow’s feet winking at me, and the scent of your honeyed lip balm when you knight my nose with a kiss, I love you. With the smile of a joke hidden behind hands, the flash of teeth at a clever line, you pull me deeper in. My hair feathers against your shoulder, your elbow nudges my ribcage as you reposition yourself in the way that you love me. Nightly routines that root our love deeper in the soil.
We’ll say it was winter when we first uttered, “I love you,” but the first time I felt it was months before. The sunlight made your eyes look like glowing, melting gold and they filled my heart with molten affection. Now, it’s fingers entwined, wrists cradled to chests and chins and cheeks cupped in palms. All we are is a series of movements, tenderness given organs and skin and life. Love incarnate.
Damaged
by The Cowl Editor on January 18, 2019
Portfolio
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
What does it take to be broken? Knowing that there is something wrong within yourself, something that just isn’t right. You don’t hide it, no you wear it on your sleeve as an omen. To warn others that this pain has a hold on you that is tight. But you keep living that lifestyle of drinks and pills falling further into that hopeless cycle. Wishing to numb the sharp hurt that lives within you. You wonder if it is even possible to keep fighting for survival.
What is it like to live in that darkness? Seeing that there is light around you, but it is always just out of reach. Like Tantalus trying to quench his thirst, you feel armless. Every time someone tells you to change, you ignore their speech. They don’t know what it’s like to be chained to the past. Every self-destructive action you take creates another chain that holds you tighter than before. You will never move forward because you won’t forgive yourself for all the sins you’ve amassed.
What is it like to live in isolation? Accepting that you must push those closest to you away. The closer they are to you the closer they are to damnation. You’re alright with living in pain, but you won’t allow others to live in your dismay. And when they do try to help, you make another attempt to change. Using them as a crutch, while you try to fix your strife. However, when they start to give up their own lives for your sake, you run away and live estranged. It’s a lonely life, but it’s you’re only life.
Harmless Arsonist
by The Cowl Editor on January 18, 2019
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
Of those already called back to the air I am the one that can’t burn. When I was six, I set things aflame in the kitchen sink when mom wasn’t home. The skins of napkins crinkled, as the soft scent of burnt cotton slithered into my nose. Packs of boxed matches came and went. I would waft the smell of matchheads like a chef their masterpieces. My G.I. Joes were in the fieriest wars, their faces oozing with black and blue puss, still smiling because they survived. When mom would get home, she’d wrinkle her forehead in disgust like she found curly black hairs on her toothbrush. Her hands were wooden paddles on my ass. Pinpricks of pain pulverized my dreams of pyrotechnic displays pulsing the pupils of concert-goers around the world.
One day, after a spanking, I locked my room door and threw a lit candle across the room. The tapioca tinted curtains shined and sizzled like a firework on the 4th of July. Flames waved their arms at me in triumph, thanking me for their newfound freedom. The warmth waddled over towards me for a hug as sparks jumped from curtains to dressers and dressers to carpet. Mom knocked my door down and yanked my arm for years before she could force me away from the giggling gurgle of the rolling flames. But of those called back to the air that day, I lived because I cannot burn.
The Family Tree
by The Cowl Editor on December 8, 2018
Christmas
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
Each needle properly in place. All the lights strung and shining. Tinsel showing the reflection of the people standing around the tree. They look at it one last time before they decorate it, bare but beautiful.
Amanda goes to grab her guitar ornament, the acoustic with a guitar wire as its string. She walks around the tree, looking for the perfect spot, as the ornament dangles between her fingers. As she looks, the memories flood her mind. Belting out the chorus to Brown Eyed Girl with her father in the car, her dad showing her how to string her guitar for the first time, her family at her first open mic event at the coffee shop 10 miles down the road. She finds a spot on the right side of the tree, and hangs the ornament from two branches (just for safety).
Dan is digging through the boxes until he can find his favorite ornament. He finally finds the ornament of a cast that was at the bottom of the box. Whenever he sees it, he laughs. He was hospitalized last Christmas with a broken leg, and his family stayed all of Christmas Eve with him. When he woke up there was a present on the table near him. It was the ornament of a cast with a note that said, “We will always be here for you, even when you’re broken.” He hangs it proudly on the front of the tree right in the center.
One by one the memories decorate the tree. Instead of the ornaments weighing the branches down, the connections and bonds that they represent make it look stronger to them. Finally, Mom and Dad grab the angel in the last box. Dad climbs the ladder, as Mom hands the angel to him. As he puts it on top of the tree, a tear falls down his eye. To explain to his kids why their grandfather had passed away a couple of Christmases ago, he told them that he was an angel that would always watch over them. He said that even though he couldn’t be at Christmas anymore, he was there in spirit and that this angel was the way that he could be there with them during Christmas.
When they look at the tree, they don’t see the decorations. They see their hopes and their struggles. They see the connections they have with one another. The tree may change every year, but the memories do not. They look at the tree one last time before they go to bed, full of life and love. This is their family tree.
LED Stars
by The Cowl Editor on December 8, 2018
Christmas
by Erin Venuti ’20
With each Christmas season, the sky descends upon the earth, sprinkling the world with stars. As she drives through town, she passes constellations on either side of the road — berries of light growing in gardens, golden icicles draped from roofs, the curious, childlike flicker of a candle in the window. In the town center, the elms disappear and are replaced by spirals of yellow, narrow where the trunk should be and blossoming outward as far as the branches might stretch.
The radio sings quiet carols and she can’t help but listen in silent awe. She’s seen 21 Christmases and for each one she’s been a different person: an infant, still wrapped in swaddling clothes herself; a girl with a toothy grin and a bow, eager to see what Santa will bring tonight; a young woman, simply grateful to be home. But the lights are always the same, the same houses, the same bushes, the same trees. They’ve come to remind her, even on the coldest nights, the lights will still shine.
Lavender
by The Cowl Editor on November 30, 2018
Portfolio
by Gabriela Baron ’20
Every morning I visit your home, the garden. My watering can hovers over your head, the refreshing droplets drip down your neck. I pat down your bed, my hands sinking into the soil. You are my patient and I, your caretaker. I make sure that you’re healthy, that your vibrant hue doesn’t pale.
***
Daily stress and worries are embossed on each page of my planner. I scribble my black sharpie over each item but the curved letters peek through, taunting me with their permanence. I squeeze three drops of your essential oil into my diffuser. You swim leisurely in the shallow water bath. When I take in your calming perfume my shoulders relax, my breathing slows, and I can finally rest my bloodshot eyes. Your soothing energy surrounds me, diffusing the sparks of my anxiety. Your moisture tames the flame.
***
Our skin is rough and parched. My body shakes from the frigid air. I prepare my ingredients: two pieces of woven cloth, dried jasmine rice, and your frosted hair. With a needle and thread, I stitch my homemade heating pad together. It twists and molds around my body, melting into the fibers of my skin. I burrow deep into my bed and place the microwaved creation in between my arms, hoping to capture the familiar fragrance. I curl my back, my body like a bulb soaking in your warm sunshine. I am your patient and you, my caretaker.
***
…but where will you be in the spring? Will I find you in the Royal Alcázar of Seville? Should I look for you in the Boboli gardens of Florence? During high tea in London? Baked inside the puff pastries of Paris? Or shall I take a train to L’Occitane? And if I don’t find you, will you still recognize me?