Tag: prose poetry
Force of Nature
by The Cowl Editor on November 30, 2018
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
She is an inferno. Not from foam like her father tells her, but from choking smoke and ash. Impossibly alive, and yet immortal by nature. In dreams she is made from the void of a black hole, her armor fashioned from stardust, the moon her chariot. Stars dot the bridge of her nose, freckles that etch Aquarius and Sirius across her belly, chest, and face. But her reality is of earth, and it is the sun which bows to her instead. She lives among humans, finds her solace there. Fruitlessly, they look for answers in her.
She is difficult to love. The stubborn fire that fuels her determination too often scalds a lover. The wrath she turns upon her enemies too often catches her followers in its powerful riptide. Yet a lover so capricious is far more exciting than the patiently benevolent ruler of Abraham. So she is a goddess. She is destruction and growth and she does not care for singular, personal acts of prayer. She listens for the hum of trillions of consciousnesses sending themselves into the atmosphere and judges accordingly. She takes the mean value of a prayer and pockets it for later. She giggles when folks call her uncaring.
She sends fingers of lightning to tickle the goosebump hairs of forests and frowns at the wildfires of California. She drags cold fronts in by their reigns and revels in zero-degree nights of the North. In July, she stokes the heat of the sun with a touch of her palm to the hoods of the cars in the grocery mart parking lots. In the summertime of her smile thunder strikes, miles away, a warning. Her followers have learned from the static shocks of her touch to tread carefully in creating friction.
Still they worship. Her electricity does not only punish, but gives life and charge. They choose to focus on the positive. They long for the excitement of uncertainty, whether their darling will be kind or cruel on any given day. She notes this with amusement and absolves herself of the guilt she feels for the hurt she has bred in the ones who love her most. She calls them her ‘pets.’ They absorb the name, the stars of her countenance blinding their vision. She spins for them, a pretty plaything to be admired. A tornado too powerful to look away from. They are lucky for the chance to fly.
Therapy
by The Cowl Editor on November 20, 2018
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
The plastic body of the alarm clock rattles as it wakes for its one purpose. The green glow of 5:30 a.m. blinking sleep out of its eyes. The sharpness of its sound is only joined by the deafening buzz of the dial tone coming from the unhooked landline; its body slung off the nightstand attached only by its cord like a hanged prisoner. The man’s bed already released him from its cotton shackles. He’s already gone, the bed defeated, its sheets torn open and lying in a wrinkled pile. Lacking is the air of its coffee cologne and its humid body from a steaming shower. He never leaves without his rituals. The sun’s rays won’t touch his dark earth without the fulfillment of his acts.
And yet there he is, racing down the road in his black Nissan Altima at twice the speed limit. There he is, wearing thin polyester pajamas, teeth unbrushed, body unwashed, and hair undone as the radio plays J. Cole lyrics he usually pays attention to. He drives through woodland road, the canopy overhead arching to kiss the dark blue of the predawn sky. Smooth asphalt gives way to bumping dirt road as the path to the cliff snakes through the trees. Why here? Why now? Why? He thinks as he parks. Augustus! He yells at the man standing at the cliff’s mouth.
Augustus’ feet flirt with the edge, a man facing death for the thousandth time that week. The crickets in the bush below roar, the bush sways with the wind, the breeze carries autumn in its fingers, and the sun finally rises—its light shining into Augustus’ azure eyes.
Private Thoughts in Public Spaces
by The Cowl Editor on November 19, 2018
Portfolio
by Julia Zygiel ’19
Any time she writes in her diary she does it in a café. If it is 2 a.m. and she has the urge, she’ll trot to the Starbucks situated in the 24/7 convenience store a block from her apartment. She likes the idea of private thoughts in public spaces. When it isn’t 2 a.m., she goes to Tatiana’s Café in the center of town and claims her regular booth. From her corner seat by the door to the kitchen, she can see all of the customers, all of the waiters and waitresses, and (if she squints) even the totals on the register. To her, miniscule moments spent on trivial things such as caffeine are when mankind is most beautiful. You can fall in love with almost anyone in a coffee shop. Two women sit two tables away, clutching hands in kind love. A man in line laughs so hard at his own joke that he cannot finish it. A waitress smiles nervously as she drops her client’s check on the floor. In these moments, she is enamored by them. Her own bubble of existence overlaps with theirs for mere seconds, a minute at most. She wonders what their worries are, what color makes them gasp at the beauty of it. They get their caffeine and go, and she envisions herself fitting into the stride of their lives. But it always feels loose, or tight, so she shrugs it off and lets go of the film of two distinct lives intersecting.
What Will I Be?
by The Cowl Editor on October 25, 2018
Portfolio
by Gabriela Baron ’20
October is the month of possibility. Our creativity develops and deepens like the crimson and cinnamon fall foliage. Each gust of crisp air propels our thoughts to the future. What do you want to be? The answer used to change every year: Dorothy, Snow White, a ladybug, Eeyore. On Halloween, I could be whoever I wanted. My only worry was picking an orange Starburst instead of a pink or getting gooey candy stuck in my teeth. As I get older, Halloween is much… scarier. What do you want to be? The question is more pressing, persistent, permanent. A constant knocking at my door. It possesses a new form, a new costume. Outside my window princesses and monsters rush around the streets, dragging pillowcases of sweets twice their size. Inside, mountains of candy are replaced by piles of paper. My wooden chair shrieks as I slide it closer to my desk. The brightness of my computer screen glows against the dark room. A full moon in the night sky. Deadlines and applications pop up rapidly, startling me like my own personal haunted house. Doubt and uncertainty hover above me, sending chills down my spine. I close my eyes, scooping out the slimy seeds of negativity. Creating space for light to enter the jack-o-lantern of my mind. What will I be? The answer remains the same: a writer.
You Have Two More Wishes
by The Cowl Editor on September 20, 2018
Portfolio
by Dawyn Henriquez ’19
The Mind does interesting things when you’re trying to keep certain thoughts from it. Like a genie, it can give you that wish of eternal life in the form of cancer. “That part of you will never die!” the man in the lamp assures you, as you slowly metastasize and tumor your way through existence. When you tell yourself not to think of your fiancée boning her spiritual advisor in the back seat of your jalopy that you let her borrow for “girls’ night” at the drive-in, like a genie, your consciousness rings the doorbell with your order of a large migraine. That’s what it is, your Mind, and it attracts the unwanted along with what you initially desired. Sex that you think of slowly when you lay in bed alone, cautious not to bring her into the image so as to not question her whereabouts. But, sure enough, thoughts of her saunter in slowly through the paint-flaked French doors like she has eternity wedged between her manicured toes. The idea of her sits square on your chest as you try to pray for the two of you, and you hope that your wishes to God can replace your worry as to why she isn’t there now. But the Mind in the lamp that is your skull molds that into another image of her lying on the bed. It lies next to where she should be on the quilt she knit in the class you paid for. The damn thing always felt store-bought, but you never questioned why. You always wished those ideas would disappear, and like a genie, your Mind granted it—but without your realizing that you never specified for how long. And those thoughts aren’t even the bad ones. The bad ones are trickier. They rush in all at once in the space between blink and breath. Bonfire scents and omitted BBQs melt into tears damned behind eyes that were always blind to the sexual innuendo from your bride-to-be to a guy you don’t see. “This part of you will never die,” your Mind the genie reassures you, as you slowly trace a finger around the diamond and mistrust your way through existence.
Traffic
by The Cowl Editor on April 26, 2018
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’20
T: Today and yesterday, it took me 66 hours to travel home. The commute is regularly a couple seconds but lately there’s been traffic in the way.
R: Really? Why would you cut me off knowing we’re all bumper to bumper. No room to move and you decide to interrupt my peace.
A: Amazingly, you come out of nowhere without me asking for you. I hit my brakes and I’m confronted with a heavy force that pulls me forward. You have my full attention.
F: Full attention. Can you end? I’m tired of this drag, it takes over my energy and it puts an end to my journey that makes me want to nag. It’s like pausing the wind just because the rain needs time to pass.
F: FULL ATTENTION. Everything is still. You’ve got my full attention. Can you end? All my energy is attracted to this situation. My car is claustrophobic. It can’t move. It can’t move. Please move. I can’t move.
I: I can’t move forward. I’m stuck in this point of view because of you. You paused my time, my time is guided towards you. What do you need, what are your intentions? Can you please let me move?
C: Claustrophobically, I meditate in peace. The time is the present. The traffic is my time, I move with your presence.
One Crazy Moment
by The Cowl Editor on April 19, 2018
Portfolio
by Connor Zimmerman ’20
I want to go back to that one crazy moment:
It was a dark night in a party where I felt particularly estranged. It started like any other late night, with the same people who talked to me in friendly but shallow exchanges. That was until we exchanged glances. I felt paralyzed as I questioned what should be my next move, to stay or advance? You gave a wave and flashed a smile that outshined all the stars in the sky. A thousand thoughts flew across my mind, but only one mattered—the one that told me to not let this conversation end with a good-bye. When I finally came near you, my voice failed me. But you were there for me and helped to keep the moment alive. We listened, laughed, and learned more about each other than I normally would share. For you, it was a burden that I was willing to bear.
I want to go back to the moment that brought us closer together:
I could see that you were having the time of your life. The truth was that this was one of the few nights that I was without strife. We made our move to leave and started to head back. I was desperate for anything that would make this moment stay on track. You said you were hungry and wanted to grab some food, and I almost died of thanks. The cold air sent shivers down our spines and brought us closer together. Never will I be angry at winter again. I wish I could have stayed in that moment, with you and me talking for what seemed like forever. However, I just could not keep it in anymore and told you how I truly felt, something I thought would never happen ever. Your next words impressed themselves upon me like a tattoo: “Why, then, have you never asked me out?”
I want to go back to the moment when you made it real:
The words you said made me feel angry and ashamed. I was not angry at you, no, it was myself that I blamed. You asked the question because you doubted what I said, but the actual truth is far from your thoughts. I had never worked up the courage, even when I was intoxicated, because I thought I was never worthy of you to take the next step. Whenever I look in the mirror, I can only see my flaws, but our conversation made me realize that you saw something new. Whatever it was I do not know, but you gave me the confidence to be true. I promise from now on to never let you think you are not worthy. You should know how I feel every time you are in my sight. I hope this is not the end, but at least we will always have that night.
Respect The Wood
by The Cowl Editor on April 19, 2018
Portfolio
by Marelle Hipolito ’21
“Respect the wood,” you joked. “I always hated the little rings the cups made, it ruins the wood.” We were buying souvenirs, and we came upon a whole wall of coasters. There were different kinds: cork with quotes on them, cloth with hearts hand-sown in, and ceramic with little chickens painted on them. You opted for the ceramic squares, and I got the cork circles. We bought them, and then went on our way through the village, back to the bus that would bring us back to the hotel.
When you use those coasters now, does it bring you back to that month? All those deep talks in the middle of the night, and all those crazy last minute decisions and adventures we decided to take? Because when I use my coasters, from then until now, that’s all that I can think of.
All our friends that you also ghosted have been telling me the same thing, from then until now. “Forget him,” they all say. “Forget he exists, forget that he was ever part of that trip. Separate and drop him from all the memories of that trip.” Each time they say that, I just sigh and shake my head slowly. They’re never going to understand who you are to me. They’re never going to get that in fact, you were the trip I took, that you were the adventure that I went on, and that you are the memories of it all. So when I bring out the cork circles for their drinks when they come over, and they sigh, I just look to the small picture frame, hiding on the end of the bookshelf. It’s the first photograph I took on that trip, and the best. Your back was to me, and you were looking at the sun. Although your figure was a distinct outline against the sun, it was bright enough to be a part of the sunlight. I take in the memory of the time I took that picture, and look at the wooden frame surrounding it. “Respect the wood,” I say.
Kisses from a Dove
by The Cowl Editor on April 12, 2018
Portfolio
by Jessica Polanco ’20
The silence of the wind is the bed that I sleep on. The language of the waves assure me they are singing my favorite song. Someday I will find the courage to ask them to show me how to play the instruments they use. The body movement of the trees give motion to my favorite rhythm. My bucket list has “join their dance team” as number three. The wood stands tall and still, but you can tell by their eyes that they are enjoying the tune. Eye contact secured our similar thoughts in feeling liberate but still caged in self-restrictions. I wish I could remember who kindly invited me to this party. Hoping I will be asked to join again, already losing patience to feel the pulse of the wilderness in great relief. The lullaby of the wind bewildered my eyes with joy creating a flood in my soul, permanently stamping its melody in my ears. As the party was coming to an end I am influenced by the pure white dove in the sky. I blow a kiss, and I catch it, storing it in my heart.
Dust
by The Cowl Editor on March 15, 2018
Portfolio
by David Martineau ’18
Flipping the switch reveals a universe in motes of dust. They hang in the heavy air, immobile but active. Scintillating like a thousand stars that have appeared to fill the foyer, they seem to wish that only I could see them. And simply flicking a switch can reveal such wonders. These galaxies upon galaxies of fluttering specks are a miracle to me, and so too is the light which shines on them, like the moon does a midnight sky. I can illuminate them with the simplest movement, and thus am like the god of their tiny universe, who has the power to utter, “Let there be light” with a mere wave of my hand. Without me, these specks of dust are nothing. They will never be noticed or pondered, and their simplicity will pale before my complex majesty. But then, I also am like a speck of dust, trapped in a universe of my own. I am lost in an endless array of stars, ones of a different kind than these motes of dust, and I wonder if—somewhere out there—there is another light, another switch, and another hand, one which might illuminate me, or already has.