write a wonderfully bad poem. comedy's always hard to put into written words without expressions or hand gestures. i find that saying the jokes out-loud helps rouse those literary juices. if you come up with anything, email us! i'll post it! if this isn't bad enough, i'll be subjecting you to some of my bad poetry very, very soon.
About Me
- welcome to the labcat
- the labcat is the online life of labrys, smith college's art/literary magazine. we collect poems, prose, flash-fiction, letters, diary entries, essays, doodles, paintings, oils, sketches, photography, animation, videos, graphics, chicken-scratches, stippling, charcoal rubbing, pastels, collages, observations, music and whatever else inspires you. send it in bulky bundles to labrys@smith.edu.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
sometimes it's hard to be funny
in honor of our upcoming bad poetry, bad music event (thursday night, 7.00, dewey lounge, be there), here's a labcat challenge:
Thursday, December 1, 2011
submission date extended!
show off your brainy chops in our smith college lit & art mag. we extended the deadline to december 23rd, the very end of the semester, for all you procrastinators out there. but really, we'd love to read & see your stuff.
so send in your poetry, short stories, essays, screenplays, drawings, painting photos--anything, really--for publication in the early spring. limit to five poems. stories should be 5-7 pages. art should be in 300 dpi. all submissions as attachments to labrys@smith.edu. yes, that was a fragment.
be sure to include your name, title, and class year in the body of the email.
contact our lit mag mavens with any questions. should i have written all of that in small print?
hope to see you in the submissions pile! happy december!
bad music bad poetry
a celebration of cold
creativity:
bad music, bad poetry
dewey lounge, seven p.m.
thursday/
december 8th
(bring silly rhymes, half-baked stories, undeveloped pictures, an off-pitch song or two. crapapella will be joining us for some loud & proud bad music. laugh off finals stress, grab a piece of cake, and join us for a LABRYS study break)
-->i'll cook up some more bad poetry by then.
creativity:
bad music, bad poetry
dewey lounge, seven p.m.
thursday/
december 8th
(bring silly rhymes, half-baked stories, undeveloped pictures, an off-pitch song or two. crapapella will be joining us for some loud & proud bad music. laugh off finals stress, grab a piece of cake, and join us for a LABRYS study break)
-->i'll cook up some more bad poetry by then.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
weekend inspiration
a little something to get your pen penning, your shutter shuttering, your paintbrush painting...
thanksgiving break is in two weeks. express your home home--the good, the bad, the ugly--whatever comes to mind.
send us the things you come up with! we'll post em.
Friday, October 14, 2011
rainy days
no sun and copious amounts of rain calls for a little Bukowski.
Alone With Everybody
by Charles Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
the magic of this poem rests in Bukowski's semiotic strip tease--the point of this depressing nihilism is to call into question the seemingly obvious significance of the human body. of course, we hope that another person will eventually mean love, companionship, the end to loneliness. Bukowski robs us of our innate and elusive humanity and relegates us to pitifully hopeful animals, a group of which he is a part. "we are all trapped by a singular fate" -- even the speaker is a part of this group of lonely people and with this admission, any didactic or condescending tone relents. because of this, we as readers are able to distrust this jaded and heartbroken creature who speaks to us, and we are able to find idealism while maintaining the knowledge that heartbreak (and rain and gloomy days) will appear again. so why not dwell in it, until a beautiful fall day emerges?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
a fresh fall
This fall, we've decided to freshen up our vision for the LabCat. We still want to see, read, hear your work. We also want to talk about process , inspiration, criticism. Send us an essay, a poem, a painting, a song that somehow has made your day indulgently sad or positively brighter. Tell us why. Tell us how you start your art, give us tips, share inspiration.
Here's a collaborative space for Smithie's creativity. Join us!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Hello, Kitties!
The Labcat has been enjoying a bit of an extended summer vacation, but now that the leaves are turning and the nights are getting ever more nippy it's becoming apparent that the time has come to trade beach blanket bingo and iced tea lemonade for more...indoor pleasures. And what better way to enjoy the great indoors than curled up with a mug of dining hall hot chocolate and your very own Labcat?
That's right, we're back and we want to know what you do!
Yes, you!
In case you're not familiar with what we do, I'll clue you in. The Labcat is the online life of Labrys, Smith College's art and literary magazine. Think of us as Labrys' web savvy partner in crime. We were established last year by the dearly missed Elizabeth Pusack and Emily Burkman, who couldn't get enough of your submissions and decided that once a year just wasn't often enough to see them all in one place. We accept everything from notebook doodles to jokes to scenes from your screenplay to collages! As long as you did it, we want it!
Of course, the Labcat isn't a substitute for Labrys, so anything you submit is also eligible for the magazine. Let us know if you'd like pieces to be considered for the print edition when you send them our way.
Send submissions as attachments to labrys@email.smith.edu.
Anonymous submissions are welcome. Please indicate whether you'd like us to enable or disable commenting.
Yours faithfully,
The Labcat
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
York Beach; Powers by Rachel Miller '09
These lovely photographs were slated to appear in the 2008-2009 issue of Labrys, but we weren't able to get high-res versions for printing. So be careful when you submit: always scan your artwork or take your photographs with 300 dpi at least. If you have particularly large images (like 20x30in or something similarly ginormous) at 72 dpi, we may be able to make it work. Still, better to have your images at 300.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Snacks, No People
Shots from our Fall Issue Reading/Release Party!
They are all of snacks and books and things, no people. Sorry.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thank you for coming!
Thanks to everyone who came to the reading last night! It was lovely to see all of your faces, which are also lovely. Keep an eye out for the poets you heard last night and more in our upcoming issue! We have Amanda Pollock to thank for these shots from the party.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Green Street Café Hosts Labrys Poets
Thursday April 9
8-9 PM
64 Green Street
Four poets from the upcoming print issue of Labrys will read from their work as part of the Green Street Café Poetry Series!
Anny Chen
Amy Sefton
Megan Burbank
Indus Chadha
Come enjoy a glass of wine, pots de crème, the candlelight or just the poetry! Reading ought to last under an hour!
Laundry by Angelica Huertas '10
the clothes must be separated.
first, my son’s faded band tee
a whitish smear undoubtedly spurted
as a result of his private passion.
there is a hint of red stain
in my daughter’s underwear, betraying
the secret of new sexuality.
my husband’s blue button-down
carries the faint scent of foreign woman
an odor familiar from his embrace.
and the only sound that echoes in this house
is the dull hum of the washing machine.
first, my son’s faded band tee
a whitish smear undoubtedly spurted
as a result of his private passion.
there is a hint of red stain
in my daughter’s underwear, betraying
the secret of new sexuality.
my husband’s blue button-down
carries the faint scent of foreign woman
an odor familiar from his embrace.
and the only sound that echoes in this house
is the dull hum of the washing machine.
Love by Claire Harper '11
She lay awake in her boyfriend’s arms some nights, watching the blue of a movie flicker over blanket and walls. She felt the weight of his arms on her ribcage and tried to feel the size of her heart. This pressing feeling against her esophagus, was this love? She imagined that lumpy cardiac muscle expanding, ever expanding to hold this big thing called love, its thin pathways lengthening, its unexplored niches becoming cavernous. She pressed herself closer to his warm body, wanting to retreat into his comforting skin. To make her overwhelming but still abstract feeling for him something solid, to live among his precious organs and hold in her hands the beautiful cells that made him.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
October Growing Pains by Melissa Maranto '12
Wrinkled in my closet
Folded and jammed between
A flapper gown and a faded spacesuit
Lies my favorite costume:
Iridescent white slip,
Gold-painted cardboard jewelry, plastic scepter
To make me Queen of the Nile
Cherished that outfit, promised
To wear it on another Halloween
It’s my final year of high school
I’ve spent the whole day in costume
Prepared to prowl the darkened block
For the very last time:
Wrapped in enigmatic black
Velvet cape, emerald painted face, pointed hat
Cleopatra forgotten, for now
Not bound by a river’s waters
I defy gravity as the western witch
But I am bound by schoolwork
Shackled by my own maturity
Slave work unknown to an Egyptian queen
I am slave to my own nature:
My sophisticated black colors my mood,
And I dream of skipping again
Through both street and life
Seeking happiness and chocolate
My Cleopatra gown white as innocence
The clock strikes eleven
Celebrations, quests for candy over
My studies complete at last,
I can challenge my situation:
Toss aside the broom that failed to fly
Retrieve white dress, fake jewelry
But the little slip sticks
Refusing to fit a woman’s body
My face still green with envy
For the child I once was
Folded and jammed between
A flapper gown and a faded spacesuit
Lies my favorite costume:
Iridescent white slip,
Gold-painted cardboard jewelry, plastic scepter
To make me Queen of the Nile
Cherished that outfit, promised
To wear it on another Halloween
It’s my final year of high school
I’ve spent the whole day in costume
Prepared to prowl the darkened block
For the very last time:
Wrapped in enigmatic black
Velvet cape, emerald painted face, pointed hat
Cleopatra forgotten, for now
Not bound by a river’s waters
I defy gravity as the western witch
But I am bound by schoolwork
Shackled by my own maturity
Slave work unknown to an Egyptian queen
I am slave to my own nature:
My sophisticated black colors my mood,
And I dream of skipping again
Through both street and life
Seeking happiness and chocolate
My Cleopatra gown white as innocence
The clock strikes eleven
Celebrations, quests for candy over
My studies complete at last,
I can challenge my situation:
Toss aside the broom that failed to fly
Retrieve white dress, fake jewelry
But the little slip sticks
Refusing to fit a woman’s body
My face still green with envy
For the child I once was
We Live off the Highway by Catherine Dodson '11
We live off the highway. Like so many suburban landscapes, they laid the thick black tongue of the highway down and these houses just kind of sprouted up around them.
Have you ever listened to the call of the road? It never ends; be it dark or light, dawn or dead of night, the highway keeps up the roar. I can hear it even now, beneath the murmuring tones of suburbia; lawn mowers, children, birds chirping in the pseudo-wilderness of the immaculately tended backyard forests.
So little of this existence are words spoken. Present in the absence of sound is the silence, or worse, the hushed and quieted tones of languages that would be spoken aloud, crushed beneath the roar of that yellow-barbed beast.
Have you ever listened to the call of the road? It never ends; be it dark or light, dawn or dead of night, the highway keeps up the roar. I can hear it even now, beneath the murmuring tones of suburbia; lawn mowers, children, birds chirping in the pseudo-wilderness of the immaculately tended backyard forests.
So little of this existence are words spoken. Present in the absence of sound is the silence, or worse, the hushed and quieted tones of languages that would be spoken aloud, crushed beneath the roar of that yellow-barbed beast.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
A Poet by Sarah Collins Honenberger '74
You put your head in the oven. Because Ted left you? I don’t think so. I’ve read the bee poems. I’ve read your novel. You tried once before when you were too young to know what it was—or even guess—but you came back. Suicide was just another idea, hyperbole of life and death, fascinating and frightening. An exam you failed the first time. So you sat and spun the words and ideas into poems, threads of hope and hate. And then you put down the pen, turned on the gas, and rested your cheek against the cool metal and closed your eyes. The emotion melted away, pooled into puddles—pure into alloy—and then welded flesh and untouchable gas, a monument to what was, a substitution for what might have been. You never meant to give it up for nothing known or dear.
Nicholas cried out in the night, Mama, while Frieda worried tears to threadbare skin. And Ted wept, thinking he had done it to himself. Or perhaps not able to stop himself, rejoiced to think he was the ultimate tutor then, the mentor and the pupil merged, control that had escaped him with your pulsing heart and brain. And again now and now and now he pushes the lines across the page, hidden in the dark hole, enemy of the red bursts that split a body bold. The river washes by him, prostitute poet, flotsam on the flooded shore.
Remembering the crowded sidewalks, pram caught on the curb, and blackened letters in your hand, he struggles to forget. Instead he writes it down, the birthday letters, before he remembers he no longer has you to type it out on a clean page and to send it out into the world, a pirate ship of starless greed. He blots out sharp phrases from your journals, lies down in still waters, and genuflects to his own image reflected there. The thought-fox warily sets lame prints in snow, colder and deeper in the darkness than Ted’s nightmares or the weeping children’s waking dreams. The eye widens, coming about its own business, and he thinks he touches again the melting fingers and your smile. Blinded, he writes and lies and sells them wholesale, the gold pieces heavy on his heart. Your story, just a story, he says. Yet he knows now the loneliness you felt, as if by osmosis he becomes you, harried and searching, wanting and disdainful.
The clock ticks. Grain by grain, the hourglass empties its hate. White fists become the ashes of what could have been. Coal angels, ask and you shall receive. Yours, Sylvia, was a weird blue dream that might have been a sunny day gone stormy or an ocean sucked into the earth and swallowed whole. You wrote ‘what immortality is,’ but never meant it for yourself.
Sarah Collins Honenberger ’74 embraced a second career as an author at a Smith Alum Summer Session, SASS, in 1995. Her first novel, White Lies, was a 2007 nominee for the Library of Virginia Fiction award and her second novel, Waltzing Cowboys, just released in January 2009, is an Editor’s Pick on Bookviews.com. More at www.readhonenberger.com.
Nicholas cried out in the night, Mama, while Frieda worried tears to threadbare skin. And Ted wept, thinking he had done it to himself. Or perhaps not able to stop himself, rejoiced to think he was the ultimate tutor then, the mentor and the pupil merged, control that had escaped him with your pulsing heart and brain. And again now and now and now he pushes the lines across the page, hidden in the dark hole, enemy of the red bursts that split a body bold. The river washes by him, prostitute poet, flotsam on the flooded shore.
Remembering the crowded sidewalks, pram caught on the curb, and blackened letters in your hand, he struggles to forget. Instead he writes it down, the birthday letters, before he remembers he no longer has you to type it out on a clean page and to send it out into the world, a pirate ship of starless greed. He blots out sharp phrases from your journals, lies down in still waters, and genuflects to his own image reflected there. The thought-fox warily sets lame prints in snow, colder and deeper in the darkness than Ted’s nightmares or the weeping children’s waking dreams. The eye widens, coming about its own business, and he thinks he touches again the melting fingers and your smile. Blinded, he writes and lies and sells them wholesale, the gold pieces heavy on his heart. Your story, just a story, he says. Yet he knows now the loneliness you felt, as if by osmosis he becomes you, harried and searching, wanting and disdainful.
The clock ticks. Grain by grain, the hourglass empties its hate. White fists become the ashes of what could have been. Coal angels, ask and you shall receive. Yours, Sylvia, was a weird blue dream that might have been a sunny day gone stormy or an ocean sucked into the earth and swallowed whole. You wrote ‘what immortality is,’ but never meant it for yourself.
Sarah Collins Honenberger ’74 embraced a second career as an author at a Smith Alum Summer Session, SASS, in 1995. Her first novel, White Lies, was a 2007 nominee for the Library of Virginia Fiction award and her second novel, Waltzing Cowboys, just released in January 2009, is an Editor’s Pick on Bookviews.com. More at www.readhonenberger.com.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Party Time! Save the date!
You are cordially invited to the release party and reading for the fall print issue of Labrys! We hope you'll come in out of the snow for some arty/litty festivity!
Where: The Poetry Center, Wright Hall, Smith College!
When: Friday, February 20th at 7 PM!
What: Food, Poems, Prose, Artwork, Music, Magazines!
For Lillian by Anonymous
Perched on Hail Mary,
on the verge of Our Father,
the Apostles and their Creed
thread between your frail fingers.
Rocking back and forth,
paper thin eyelids drawn closed—
I can see the thoughts behind them.
Your lips are moving
and what you are saying
fills the room
although no sound escapes you.
on the verge of Our Father,
the Apostles and their Creed
thread between your frail fingers.
Rocking back and forth,
paper thin eyelids drawn closed—
I can see the thoughts behind them.
Your lips are moving
and what you are saying
fills the room
although no sound escapes you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Blog with a Website!
We have a real website now, folks!
www.smith.edu/labrys
At the moment it has information about joining the staff, submission guidelines, a picture of the current issue and where to find it (soon). In awhile, it will also have a complete archive of Labrys print issues and an update about our fall issue release party.
Check it out!
www.smith.edu/labrys
At the moment it has information about joining the staff, submission guidelines, a picture of the current issue and where to find it (soon). In awhile, it will also have a complete archive of Labrys print issues and an update about our fall issue release party.
Check it out!
Hello Second Semester!
We hope, Dear Readers, that you haven't forgotten us in your excitement and haste in the beginning of the spring semester. We have things in store for you, exciting things like parties and magazines and submission deadline extensions...Print Submission Deadline Extension to February 28th
We love you so much that we want more of you! There's plenty of time to scan or photograph your artwork, polish a poem, or finish coloring a comic strip. Send them along for consideration in our Spring Issue. Read the submission guidelines along the righthand column - we appreciate it!
Fall Issue Release Party
It's coming! The fall issue is hot off the press and ready to go out the door and into your eager hands quite soon. In celebration, we will be hosting a reading and get-together.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Seventh Sister by Alix Bregman '10
First Semester
John Smith told me
i was worthless
i believed him and opened
my pink umbrella
under a sunny glass ceiling
then i burned the apple betty
in my easy-bake oven poor child
while the shatter of a glory stein
squealed in my ears
the shots ring out
spilling on the table
the illusory fable splashes
into the toilet.
i wish i was who
i meant to be here
strong sister strong
like you but who
are we trying to be?
Second Semester
when i grow up i want to be a Goldsmith
when i grow up i want to be a Silversmith
i'm grown up make me a Blacksmith
i'll be a locksmith.
see my bruises doubt you
do but they’re there
there there they say they
don’t know what they’re
talking about
i don’t want to be here
i don’t want to hear bees
i’m a wanton won ton who cannot have two Bs
stop talking to me. but they don’t.
Stop drinking
Alcohol it’s bad for you stop
Drinking coca cola it’s bad
For the starving children and the poor who
Find their way to college with frowns affirmed in action.
Spring
they stick nametags down their throats on fingers
they stick nametags up their girlfriends
i’m bulimic i’m gay i’m tortured i wear black
but don’t tell me how to run my life
i run on my own.
dear sister
help me
Help Me.
John Smith told me
i was worthless
i believed him and opened
my pink umbrella
under a sunny glass ceiling
then i burned the apple betty
in my easy-bake oven poor child
while the shatter of a glory stein
squealed in my ears
the shots ring out
spilling on the table
the illusory fable splashes
into the toilet.
i wish i was who
i meant to be here
strong sister strong
like you but who
are we trying to be?
Second Semester
when i grow up i want to be a Goldsmith
when i grow up i want to be a Silversmith
i'm grown up make me a Blacksmith
i'll be a locksmith.
see my bruises doubt you
do but they’re there
there there they say they
don’t know what they’re
talking about
i don’t want to be here
i don’t want to hear bees
i’m a wanton won ton who cannot have two Bs
stop talking to me. but they don’t.
Stop drinking
Alcohol it’s bad for you stop
Drinking coca cola it’s bad
For the starving children and the poor who
Find their way to college with frowns affirmed in action.
Spring
they stick nametags down their throats on fingers
they stick nametags up their girlfriends
i’m bulimic i’m gay i’m tortured i wear black
but don’t tell me how to run my life
i run on my own.
dear sister
help me
Help Me.
Break by Janice Estrada '11
I find it hard to concentrate
Excitement? Perhaps.
Excitement to hold the golden answers you have held already
Nerves?
Nerves that call to me and reaffirm the fear that I might have missed out on something
That little thing that makes you gasp and squirm
When asked to reveal an assumed hard night’s work
Planned out with time
Exhaustion?
Derived from a sleepless night
No I have no chosen to sleep this night.
Why might you ask?
Because I am behind
Because I have chosen to sleep through those fall mornings while you minds were molded
Because I have failed at choice between academia and health
Because I have ravished my blankets to their fabricated lengths
Because I have chosen to delay
Because I have chosen to diverge in midnight conversations in hopes to catch some glimmer of a future that holds happiness
Because I have slacked
I have…
You fill in the blank
And yet I feel alive
Having fought with my mind against time
To the sights of a book well used
To the taste of a Coke gone flat
To the smell of a refreshing smoke
And to the sounds that anger me through jealousy
I stay awake
To hear the slight pressure of your wooden floors as you awake from your slumber
Hear the yawning of a well rested night
Hear the aching of the body to move
Hear the sighs of contempt for a new day
Hear the groans of your first meal you find unsatisfactory
Hear the mind’s traveling through your agenda
Hear your first morning thoughts
To see the dawn’s first spectrum
Between night and what you call day
And what I have called bedtime
To see the first dawn’s greeting
This is what I find that truly makes me feel alive.
To look out one side window and see the night
And to step onto a porch embracing a new day
This alone makes me feel unconquerable
As I face the eastern sky
And hold fast to the hopes
That today will be the day
Where I conquer a sleepless night
And stand in the glory of academia
Today will be the day
That I will truly live in this college
As a student
As a mold to what is expected
As a citizen in a mediocre world
Today will be the day
That I will live a life preordained
Today will be the day
Excitement? Perhaps.
Excitement to hold the golden answers you have held already
Nerves?
Nerves that call to me and reaffirm the fear that I might have missed out on something
That little thing that makes you gasp and squirm
When asked to reveal an assumed hard night’s work
Planned out with time
Exhaustion?
Derived from a sleepless night
No I have no chosen to sleep this night.
Why might you ask?
Because I am behind
Because I have chosen to sleep through those fall mornings while you minds were molded
Because I have failed at choice between academia and health
Because I have ravished my blankets to their fabricated lengths
Because I have chosen to delay
Because I have chosen to diverge in midnight conversations in hopes to catch some glimmer of a future that holds happiness
Because I have slacked
I have…
You fill in the blank
And yet I feel alive
Having fought with my mind against time
To the sights of a book well used
To the taste of a Coke gone flat
To the smell of a refreshing smoke
And to the sounds that anger me through jealousy
I stay awake
To hear the slight pressure of your wooden floors as you awake from your slumber
Hear the yawning of a well rested night
Hear the aching of the body to move
Hear the sighs of contempt for a new day
Hear the groans of your first meal you find unsatisfactory
Hear the mind’s traveling through your agenda
Hear your first morning thoughts
To see the dawn’s first spectrum
Between night and what you call day
And what I have called bedtime
To see the first dawn’s greeting
This is what I find that truly makes me feel alive.
To look out one side window and see the night
And to step onto a porch embracing a new day
This alone makes me feel unconquerable
As I face the eastern sky
And hold fast to the hopes
That today will be the day
Where I conquer a sleepless night
And stand in the glory of academia
Today will be the day
That I will truly live in this college
As a student
As a mold to what is expected
As a citizen in a mediocre world
Today will be the day
That I will live a life preordained
Today will be the day
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Things I Want by Amy Sefton '10
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Captain's Quarters, Late at Night by Laura Markis '09J
Waiting for ships to pass in the night
That just never came.
Now I’m counting down the hours ‘til dawn,
But the sky just gets more grey.
Feeling my way by constellations
Is a painful circumnavigation –
And I have to do it alone;
No one else knows the way.
The scattered stars burn like scars:
Winking, knowing, laughing, growing.
They mock me when I am lost.
They say to lose oneself is to be set free,
But I have never felt more trapped.
At least I have the comfort of the sea,
Its constant, lulling melancholy.
What more could one ask?
As the aching wanes and I can breathe again,
I realize how rough the waters have been.
How long have I been in my quarters?
Perhaps I should send a distress signal?
No. I’ll just sit at my desk and pretend to rest;
Get as close as I can to forgiveness,
And wait for the dawn.
Tomorrow is another day.
That just never came.
Now I’m counting down the hours ‘til dawn,
But the sky just gets more grey.
Feeling my way by constellations
Is a painful circumnavigation –
And I have to do it alone;
No one else knows the way.
The scattered stars burn like scars:
Winking, knowing, laughing, growing.
They mock me when I am lost.
They say to lose oneself is to be set free,
But I have never felt more trapped.
At least I have the comfort of the sea,
Its constant, lulling melancholy.
What more could one ask?
As the aching wanes and I can breathe again,
I realize how rough the waters have been.
How long have I been in my quarters?
Perhaps I should send a distress signal?
No. I’ll just sit at my desk and pretend to rest;
Get as close as I can to forgiveness,
And wait for the dawn.
Tomorrow is another day.
Subway Man by Wiley Reading '10
On a dismal train
traveling noisily
from Hoyt-Schermerhorn to Lafayette,
a man with piss on his clothes and beer on his breath
lurches charmingly toward me
the skinny and smiling and paper-brown man
sits down with his thigh
pressed against mine and studies me
with rheumy eyes
life is getting me down
he says and I nodded, knowing
I’ve needed others,
always,
to give me some relief
and now I smelled it coming:
anonymous release
Life is hard he said
you bust your ass at work and then you
get home to some ball bustin’
from the woman-you-love
I nod as middle-aged merchant’s wives
sidle slowly away from the pair of us
and our troubled talk
You’re too pretty to have a hard life
he says
That's how it is I say
and he doesn't tell me
I'm too young to know
he would be wrong
and then
he holds out a skeleton arm
wrapped in sinew and street dust
and I shake his hand and leave
the holy place
traveling noisily
from Hoyt-Schermerhorn to Lafayette,
a man with piss on his clothes and beer on his breath
lurches charmingly toward me
the skinny and smiling and paper-brown man
sits down with his thigh
pressed against mine and studies me
with rheumy eyes
life is getting me down
he says and I nodded, knowing
I’ve needed others,
always,
to give me some relief
and now I smelled it coming:
anonymous release
Life is hard he said
you bust your ass at work and then you
get home to some ball bustin’
from the woman-you-love
I nod as middle-aged merchant’s wives
sidle slowly away from the pair of us
and our troubled talk
You’re too pretty to have a hard life
he says
That's how it is I say
and he doesn't tell me
I'm too young to know
he would be wrong
and then
he holds out a skeleton arm
wrapped in sinew and street dust
and I shake his hand and leave
the holy place
Ancestor by Gwen Gethner '11
Powdery stone dust
Chipped delicately away,
Paintbrush and dental tool
Slowly reveal
The line of my jawbone,
Smooth and fossilized,
The ridges of my teeth,
Tiny legacy
Of my disintegrating body.
Later, buried
In the orange-brown motley
Of anonymous stone,
My straight miracle
Of a knee-joint
Is uncovered,
Two worn ends
Of bone hinging the door
To future centuries
Of bipedalism.
Fragments of my body’s frame
Cradled in a scientist’s hand
That reminds me
Of my own.
Slender, dexterous,
With the elegant offshoot
Of an opposable thumb.
Chipped delicately away,
Paintbrush and dental tool
Slowly reveal
The line of my jawbone,
Smooth and fossilized,
The ridges of my teeth,
Tiny legacy
Of my disintegrating body.
Later, buried
In the orange-brown motley
Of anonymous stone,
My straight miracle
Of a knee-joint
Is uncovered,
Two worn ends
Of bone hinging the door
To future centuries
Of bipedalism.
Fragments of my body’s frame
Cradled in a scientist’s hand
That reminds me
Of my own.
Slender, dexterous,
With the elegant offshoot
Of an opposable thumb.
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