May 28, 2017

Posts from "Poetry"

  • Poetry | Sep.01, 2016

    First Essay

    Abby Johnston ’17 Portfolio Staff Dredge up opinions, Swat the horseflies Named Worry, Sloth, Petty, Busy and Distrust… Rinse off the apathy. Tear off sheets of numbness, Wake up meter, Roll effort out of bed, Make my hand begin That…

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  • Poetry | Sep.01, 2016

    This Is My Goodbye

    Clara Howard ’19 Portfolio Staff I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. There are so many things I want to say. So many apologies I want to make, So many rewinds I want to take. I wish I’d…

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  • Poetry | Sep.01, 2016

    Heavy Hearts Never Lose Beats

    Matt Farrell ’17 Portfolio Staff Dreams die, stream of consciousness psychotic, A safe haven painted in blood By a self-proclaimed martyr, with no burden for murdering. Wading in the water, waiting to live, But blood is thick. Hot lead burns…

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  • Poetry | Sep.01, 2016

    Living Abroad

    Chennah Sharpe ’17 Portfolio Staff All the streets are filled with souvenir carts vendors yelling, and selling their trinkets next to restored monuments, and pauperized apartments. The city hums from rushing subway trains and the ubiquitous blaring of car horns.…

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  • Poetry | Sep.11, 2014

    Living Room Memories

    By Justin Fernandez ’15 Portfolio Editor The phone is still ringing in the kitchen As the news comes through the station. The dead and dying, slowly breathing All diminish into the sea. Church bells toll all through the distance, But…

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  • Poetry | Mar.27, 2014

    Item no. 9827-01

    by Ariana Pasquantonio ’16 Portfolio Staff If you looked out to the beach in the morning you’d find me right where you left me, cradling baby man-o-wars, those misshapen bubbles, in sand to drop back into the water (even when…

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  • Poetry | Apr.18, 2013

    The Proverbial AHA Moment

      People like to talk about that moment in their life when they realized that they needed to step things up. That shining moment when they decided to turn their life around, kick that gambling addiction, write the next great American novel, or balance the state budget. For a lot of people, it happened after a near-death moment. I had the near-death moment, but not so much the revelation. Not at first. It should have hit me in the seconds after the car sideswiped my bike and sent me flying. But it didn’t. There was no moment of my life flashing before my eyes, no revelation that I’d led the most bread-and-butter existence in the history of mankind. In fact, my only thought was “what” and the only thing that hit me was the ground. It didn’t hit me when I was propped up against a wall and trying to figure out why my head was bleeding. That was another textbook time for me to have The Moment, but I was in shock at the time. It’s a bit difficult to come to an existential conclusion when all you can do is stare at the mangled wreck of your bike and wonder how big of a dent it left in that car. It didn’t come in the ambulance, either. Again, it was probably the shock. It was hard enough focusing on the paramedics, all of whom were wondering how I’d bashed my forehead open even though I was wearing a helmet. I had been wondering the same thing. I could only hope I wasn’t bleeding to death. Since they didn’t immediately drag me off to surgery when I reached the emergency room, I figured I wasn’t.

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  • Poetry | Apr.18, 2013

    River Tide Run

      People like to talk about that moment in their life when they realized that they needed to step things up. That shining moment when they decided to turn their life around, kick that gambling addiction, write the next great American novel, or balance the state budget. For a lot of people, it happened after a near-death moment. I had the near-death moment, but not so much the revelation. Not at first. It should have hit me in the seconds after the car sideswiped my bike and sent me flying. But it didn’t. There was no moment of my life flashing before my eyes, no revelation that I’d led the most bread-and-butter existence in the history of mankind. In fact, my only thought was “what” and the only thing that hit me was the ground. It didn’t hit me when I was propped up against a wall and trying to figure out why my head was bleeding. That was another textbook time for me to have The Moment, but I was in shock at the time. It’s a bit difficult to come to an existential conclusion when all you can do is stare at the mangled wreck of your bike and wonder how big of a dent it left in that car. It didn’t come in the ambulance, either. Again, it was probably the shock. It was hard enough focusing on the paramedics, all of whom were wondering how I’d bashed my forehead open even though I was wearing a helmet. I had been wondering the same thing. I could only hope I wasn’t bleeding to death. Since they didn’t immediately drag me off to surgery when I reached the emergency room, I figured I wasn’t.

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  • Poetry | Mar.07, 2012

    A Common Mold

    I saw tonight, one hundredfold

    Your countenance—a common mold

    Affixed with many different names

    And many voices, all the same,

    But all the same I knew not one,

    For you among them were not one,

    There to fill and then refill,

    To swill and spill and swill again,

    To take part in the fable,

    Dance the sticky floors and tables

    To music shrill and quite unable

    To endear this common face to me;

    I fear this common face might be

    The last thing that I see

    When called at last from earthly stead,

    Gazing up from the final bed,

    I should long for some other sight instead…

    In the dark holes where we like to go,

    Full of people we pretend to know,

    We abhor the too familiar faces,

    But we too are familiar faces,

    Returning to the same old places

    To fill the empty spaces

    With drink and empty conversation

    And hints of baser inclinations—

    Glimpses we mistake for love,

    But for all your host repeating nigh,

    From now until the end of time

    I swear, by the vacant night above,

    Not one among them has my love,

    Not one among you has my love.

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  • Poetry | Oct.27, 2011

    Superstition

    Black cats, stepladders

    Does this nonsense even matter?

    Break a mirror every day

    Seven years – what the hay!

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