Arts & Culture

Poetic License

December turns the wheel into the Solstice of Winter. The light shall wane as we plunge into the depths and the waxing sun will guide us through the cold. Our semester comes to a close, we shall find rebirth in the breath of a break. I hope so. Set forth your intentions and we’ll see what snow falls.
I have several poems from myself, a political questioning of our school by Jeremiah Karass, and once again the wondering words of Magella Cantara.
– Liam Woodworth-Cook

By Magella Cantara
You know you have to get out of this place
So travel
Spend your money that makes you move around
Don’t stay still, find new scenery look for new poems in all the crevices people overlook
Take rebellion in leaps and bounds
Don’t play it safe
Life wants you to experience risk
It only makes you stronger
Feeling overwhelmed, light a cigarette, read a book and drink coffee.
Rock back and forth in that old chair on the front porch
Meet new strangers, cut off all the ones who make you uncomfortable.
Don’t waste your time on people you don’t feel anything for, keep traveling.
Not knowing what you’re searching for that’s okay.
Life will make sure you turn out okay
It just starts with the effort you’re willing to give.
So get out of this place.

By Liam Woodworth-Cook

When called to fathom, he looked deep.
Into the memory of his muscle fusing with bone, he bit deeper and saw emptiness.
Opening his eyelids the colors of the room returned in an unsettling brightness, nonetheless stirring his pulse. And the hard to imagine was found fathomable like the polar caps descent into ocean. No, it would not be a single wave drowning, his sorrow of the physical scape would be in strokes. As one thing and one thing left and one thing would sprout, when he too packed himself in a box relearning and unpacking from the inside. This he knew would be the fathoming. He could imagine the clearing, dusting of sills, tho only by his hand and rag would the clean window appear before him. Only when imagination left him wondering what a dirty sill would look like, then he’d have gone past fathoming, he’d be in the depths
in life’s motion of tears,
a rummage through belonging.

By Magella Cantara
Cobble stone streets.

Two more years I’ll spend my time tripping over uneven rocks.
Anyone that ever ended up leaving me was another cigarette in between the cracks of a train track.
Every rolled sentence from a French woman were the days passing by too quick to catch every moment.
When the pigeons claws land into my flesh, they beckon to me this is where you could be if you let the stream keep going without a barrier.
All the tiles in the garden are worn, like the graffiti aged into concrete from all who’s lied.
Every quick stop on the subway jolted me to a halt, like the times I needed to remember who I was so things wouldn’t swerve the wrong way.
As all the lights sparkle at midnight after the sun goes around, a path is lit up in the tunnel underground I found too fascinating to abandon.
Except the dome created by the smoke and carbon above the city wasn’t for me.
Each new block my bones scraped across taught me how to feel clean while thriving in filth.
Two more years and I’ll spend my time tripping over uneven rocks just to keep walking against time.

Development on December’s Ridge
By Liam Woodworth-Cook
I’m experiencing the expansion of my organs, these functions
Shuffling and crammed, sometimes I tie my intestines too tight.
I pinch my lungs, wheezing I hold my heart.

All these shapes under my plastic lining, that I as well I pull and stretch.

No one looks the same anymore as one of my eyes is bulged and the other
Sinks into my skull.

These carved shells, they mumble ocean breeze.
I can’t see their narratives but I hear their reflections as the
Jaws open and close as if shafts of light for me to jump with.

I’m in a crevice crawling through pointed and oblong stones
This pit and I are falling.
This is my expansion.
I slide between the sand smoothed mineral teeth,
My whole self ripped and tugged and on the other side
I wriggle and play digging
and soon enough that dirt gives way to another passage in which I plummet
And again my tissue is squished.

There’s wind like a whistling tea kettle.
I’m learning to live with its screams.

By Liam Woodworth-Cook
When love is many colors

Autumn plucks seed for seasons later sowing

sunlight is short propheting harvesting hours
In which investment procures the self

The deadening is not for zombie walk
Nor the brisk air a thrown brick to which panes shatter
Tho this water is in a frozen state breathing mirrors in which hues declare a solidarity
Of a unique loyalty in the splicing of tree’s

When of root give room for soil when digging
place gentle touch on taproots
These hands to tug if need
This water is to wrap and feed

Keep it

Loose in a pouch pocket
Dampen as necessary like greying rumble of sky
above the salt glazed asphalt

Your rivers on pink sunset are windchime words
Mantled in tones no longer frenzied from tepid swallowing
Of the rutted belly
But the weightless sigh of an old coat, tattered
Undressed for a mending

Intersex and Agender, Or, Why I Walked From the Campus Center to Preble Hall in Search of a Bathroom As Genderless As I Am.
By Jeremiah Karass
I approach the world from a different perspective.
And I am terminally clumsy.

In the Campus Center, coffee slips from a cup through my fingers.
It’s descent leaves a sour/bitter trail of liquid over my clothes.

I hold in a bubble of rage, and then resign myself to bemused acceptance.
The coffee mocks me from it’s burial ground on my lap.

I stand, trying to remember that this is college, not high school.
I am twenty six years old and the students around me are not laughing.

I trudge up the auditorium steps to clean myself off.
I calm the nerves of post traumatic stress from my years of spilled lunches.

I round the corner and stand before a fate worse than spilled coffee and laughter.
Today, I forgot to shave and I had no time to smear chemical goop on my face.

I am bestubbled and sans makeup.
The men’s room seems like the obvious choice.

But I am wearing a dress…
And the women’s room sign reflects to me that those wearing dresses belong in her embrace.

The skin under my clothes rapidly dampens as the coffee soaks in.

I’m still standing here, looking at the signs to the restrooms.
Wondering which will get me the least amount of punishment from the social grip on gender.

I’m awful at math, the mere sight of numbers nauseates me.
Yet I am doing calculations in my brain that I don’t even know the formulas for.

Men’s room + Beard + Bare Face = Acceptable – Dress – Breasts + Low pitched voice = X
Women’s room + Dress + Breasts = Acceptable – Beard – Low pitched voice = X

Other people weave around me, in and out of the restrooms easily.
My hands curl around the straps to my backpack as I make a final choice.

Anxiety is exploding like firecrackers through my chest.
I know what to do…

I knock three times on the unisex bathroom door in Preble Hall and enter.
At once, I am at peace as I begin the simple act of toweling off my clothes.

There’s a knock on the door, but no one can take this away from me.
The coffee has stained my dress, but I stain it back with soap and hot water.

And then I break down.


Categories: Arts & Culture

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