Art Spring 2021 Edition Visual Art

Kunsthal Rotterdam

-Freya Johnsen, ’23

Poetry Spring 2021 Edition Writing

Our Layover in North Carolina

I write because of things like postcards / I write
because they fall out of things like the crease of my
favorite book / where I keep my place / and they
remind me of things / like the time that we spent
together / that day

at the airport / we spent nearly five minutes deciding
which postcard we wanted during our layover that ate
away hours in time only measurable by tic-tac-toe / so
much tic-tac-toe / and cut-throat polish poker

we shuffled through the postcards / running our
fingers over each and every one/ I picked this one
because of the sparkles / you picked me because of my
devotion to words

you put the card on the counter and turned to look
back at me / you told me that we were only once in a
lifetime but that someday somewhere you hope to meet
me again in another / for the third time / and then we
left North Carolina

-Catherine Buckley

Photography Spring 2021 Edition Visual Art

Blue / Green

-Olivia Douhan, ’22

Poetry Spring 2021 Edition Writing

The Gardener

In pale starlight, the Gardener danced
Uneasy steps in foreign trance,
Following absolution’s thread,
Fearing desertion: puppet’s dread.
But on she dances, smiling wide,
While Luna’s pull dictates the tide,
And Sol looks on from today’s edge,
For in the void, all parties pledge
Allegiance to each other’s pull:
A vice-grip on the Gardener’s skull.
She only wishes to be free,
To dance like comets in the sea
Of stars that lie beyond her binds—
She wonders what out there she’d find
If she could break her ties with Sol,
Instead explore places untold.
But to Sol, she’s forever bound,
Constantly dancing ‘round and ‘round
A greedy ball of gas and flame,
Sucking her in to burn again—
Each pass she makes, barely a miss,
Forever stuck in loathsome tryst.
Daily perform her dance she must,
Though Solfire could make her dust,
For in the searing heat of Sol,
She keeps her garden from the cold,
And without Sol, the Gardener fears
A nothingness beyond her years.
So chained to Sol she has to stay,
For as the night melts into day,
Her flowers bloom, her creatures rouse,
Unaware of their Gardener’s vows

-Ethan Kinal, ’21

Photography Spring 2021 Edition Visual Art

Eudocimus ruber

-Samantha Liu, ’21

Poetry Spring 2021 Edition Writing

Hierarchy of Dreams

I had a dream 

I was Taylor Swift’s best girl, riding the wave of normalcy, living under my parents’ name. I asked her if she’d want my spare bedroom to be decorated so she could put her feet to rest. I wanted her to relax. The flashing lights are not your best friend, and neither is your biggest fan. 

I had a dream 

I was in a well-lit prison, where there was no sight of grey. Only the silver ash of my best friend, a clairvoyant getting slivers of images to my freedom. She painted the landscapes I’d get over in my journey to civilization. The prison guard took them away, then slipped them under the pillow the night of my escape. 

I had a dream

I was kidnapped, in the land next to Wiccalocan, the private school of my dreams. I told them I liked it when they touched me, that they were my family. My best friend took the spare iPod and recorded our location, looking for some wifi to connect to to call for our help. 

I had a dream 

I was invited to a party at a cabin in the woods, with pretty blonde girls. I couldn’t see their faces. I really wanted to. Ask them if it’s too much, when the boys bothered them for some fun. I couldn’t stand the taste of rum and coke. The coke was too sweet. 

I had a dream 

I was yours. You, the one with soft words and harsh eyes. Scanning my x-ray-worthy bones, milky calcium and innocent eyes. Give me your sap, your shame, and I will give you my naked truth. 

Was it a dream? 

When you asked me what I really meant by that?

Was it really a dream? 

The glow in your eyes when I challenged you, or was it really true? 

Toppled like lego bricks, you build in my body like a benign cancer. 

I’m trynna be down, but all you do is build me up.

Was it worth washing me down in your cup? 

What is it about me that makes you bow down? Yet tackle me like they do in the Superbowl? 

I had a dream 

I won prom queen. Wasn’t a dream but  sure felt like it. A sensitive poet, at the top of something, not quite sure if ever useful of evermore life’s woes. A crown sits on my head, and on top is the halo you placed on that heavy thing. Heart as light as a feather, the serpent in my womb slithering all over your snake. 

I had a vision

Of a snake, coiled up and shiny black, like silicon black silly putty. Speaking of, you turn me into something like that. My words flow out like poetry when I am with you, my body’s muscle memory uncovering the angelic facade I carefully created to avoid incrimination around the reptiles. I hope they can’t tell how much I want to be defiled by your hungry fingers. 

I had a dream 

You were my poet. Mine, like Taylor Swift sung. I used to hate that bitch; now I see her light as if a spell was cast on me. 

Speaking of, do you believe in ghosts? 

Or only the things you cannot see?

When you said you didn’t believe in souls, 
I saw something shine in your chest. 
I called it mine. 

FOrm form form
Right, if I am your poet.
Or if you are mine

I cannot go on covering my shameful lust with pride
It might be fear, clinging on like mice
On the side of the road, 
Two tiny kittens hugging in an oyster
Clasped on my skin
Clashing dissonance
Is all poetry? 
There is no such thing as sense with you
No so much deadbeat
Or even Beat Poetry
Flappers with wings
You said my wings,
You said, you said 

Stretch it out, they said
(You said) 
It left you feeling hung, 
I’m trynna get you sprung

Anyways, the poetry must, well, you see, 
It must not be so fast, so elusive like it’s fleeting away
Ballet flats, strings intertwining light as my heart
(too fluffy)
I hate you, God!
(too aggressive)
I want you 
(too… porno…)

make sure it makes sense, 
people don’t like torture, 
I beg to differ. 

I’m scared of a lot of things
And a lot of things is you

-Helen Rahman

Photography Spring 2021 Edition Visual Art


-Olivia Douhan, ’22

Poetry Spring 2021 Edition Writing

Beach Rose

Rings in my bones
Orange in my lungs

I once had spongey, sea green flesh

I pissed in the sand,
Goaded the waves, 
Battled the tide,
content that I would lose. 

On a Sunday, the ocean came knocking
with imported skys
and electric sea foam

I answered. 

Knowing I would only be choked while my lungs had air
and cold until my hot blood chased it away

I grew gnarled in surrender.
With pink flowers and calloused buds. 

I have no more use for my salt hardened skin
Or my knotted bones

-Sophia Larson, ’23

Art Spring 2021 Edition Visual Art

Roman Aqueduct at Pont du Gard, France

-Anastasia Helen Santoso, ’23

Fiction Spring 2021 Edition Writing

A Question for the Wall

He sat across a portrait painted from glass. He had spent the day debating whether he could justify a trip to the museum just down the street. Before he ever felt a decision was made, he found himself in this small, derelict room. The motions are always a blur. Steps on concrete, a cold press of hand to metal, an exchange of cash. Perhaps a school was visiting that day. Maybe tourists were visiting, he supposed. He couldn’t really remember, and found it hard to justify his current position. The truth is, he never actually wanted to go to the museum that day. But sometimes the walls of your house become too much to handle. Sometimes the couch just swallows you a bit too deeply, and the walls just seem to cover up some impossible truth. So you have to take the initiative to leave and find something to occupy your melting thoughts. Even if leaving is unbearable, the sun bites a bit too harshly or the light offends your eyes, anything’s better than letting the doghouse tangle you in. 

Those were the sort of thoughts he used to explain this sluggish vacation. The museum’s interesting, he thought. It has all sorts of varying and interesting things to consider, he thought. What he doesn’t know, or maybe what he doesn’t want to recognize, is that art doesn’t mean anything if you don’t let it in. After about an hour of staring at nothing, thinking nothing, he found himself sitting across a portrait painted from glass. It was in a small side room, in a hallway separated from all the main exhibits. The portrait was of a man he didn’t know, but he briefly considered what that man must be feeling. Would he hate me? Would he like me? What would I say to him if I saw him in public? The portrait’s glassy eyes stared back, they stared straight into him as if to say, 

“you already know the answer.”

He suddenly felt uncomfortable, and decided to leave. He decided that that was enough time spent at the museum, he should go home. No, I can’t go back home, he said aloud, I shouldn’t. I’ll go somewhere else. I’ll walk into town. And do what? Spend money you don’t have? Sit around for an hour? It’s always nice just walking, don’t you think? There’s nothing wrong with that. 

So that’s what he decided to do. The only problem being, since he pretty much drifted around with his mind drowning in a fugue state for a few hours, he had no idea where he was, and had no idea how to get out of the museum. Everything looked unfamiliar and foreign. Streets with no names and buildings that stared back in words he didn’t understand like postmodernism, impressionism and expressionism. Sure, when someone says it you pretend to know what they mean, but you never actually cared enough to look into it. Paintings tend to know when you’re lying. 

Finally. The exit. He heard the entire room whispering to each other about him, and he wondered what he did to deserve the ridicule. His mind went blank, and the walls closed in again. 

Did he go on that walk into town? Who knows, certainly not him. He just found himself at his desk, thinking about how tired he was getting. Did he receive a message from one of his friends? Did he eat? Did he do anything? Does he do anything?

-Nathan Balk King, ’23