Fall ‘21 Poetry
Page 3
Maggie Henderson
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Mom Dissects a Human Cadaver
I wish my mother could lay me down on a table,
To crack open my ribcage and hold my heart in her hands,
I would ask her if there is untapped wisdom written in our aortas and ventricles,
Ask her if she can find what makes me ache at the tempo of my pulse.
I want to hear the bone saw breaking into my cranium,
Smell the sweat of the labors and hear the bated breath of keeping a steady hand.
I want her to pull apart the tissues and tell me if she can see her fingerprints
in the shapes of my memories.
I want her to slice open the genuine fibers of my being,
And ask her again if she could name any of my friends,
Or the address of my first, second, and third apartments she never saw.
Tell her to run her fingers along the muscles that make up my body and ask herself again,
Who really was it that made her children strong.
I wish my mother would talk about me with the same light behind her eyes
As when she remembers her 160 hours in Gross Anatomy.
The Boatman Off Kanagawa
— based off The Great Wave Off Kanagawa
When the men set out for the day
the townspeople smile imagining
the markets overflowing,
fresh catch.
Great-Grandfather did not rise,
this morning he griped
bones aching more than usual.
As we push off from the dock
there isn’t a breath of wind
the boats slice through the water
and our arrogance winks at us
from our reflections on the surface
And when the sky grew dark
and the noses of the boats
began to bob higher than the rear
we laughed at how the sea sprayed our ankles,
took bets on how long we could bear the storm.
Only when we were in that moment-
with our heads bowed to the floor
did we wish our loads were
as light as when we set out.
I looked up
the sky was stitched with sea foam,
the cold which gripped my ribs
became inescapable
as the waves joined us on board.
Maggie is a senior English major and Creative writing minor. Her writing is focused largely on poetry, which she hopes to get a graduate degree in the coming years. She hopes to make a career out of writing and publications someday, and aspires to make positive change in the world through writing and activism.
Jasmine Buenaventura
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Sticky
fingertips tracing
the skin; its smooth,
transparent film.
feeling out,
scratching
the blemish,
the flaw,
the edge,
before digging the
nail to that
imperfection.
slowly prying,
ensuring it wholly
draws out
revealing its
adhesive
Jasmine F. Buenaventura is currently a junior majoring in business administration
with a minor in creative writing. She was born in the Philippines, and has lived in the U.S. since 2017. Aside from writing, she enjoys playing badminton, watching tv shows, and taking naps. “Sticky” is Jasmine's first published work.
Onacis Vicente
——————————————-
Watsyaname, sugar?
Thinking slow, move fast
Can I know your name honey
Can I call you sugar?
Sophie Schultz
——————————————-
Gravity
Our world
is in constant exchange with
a billion other worlds millions of miles away.
Our planet is strung between Ms. Venus and Mr. Mars held between Sir Mercury and
Lady Neptune
dangling above the cosmos like a mobile on a thread
One snip and it all falls
out
of
place.
Our feet feel the ground and we think
we are here
in control of our stationary lives
of the space around us
floating freely and fortunately
in sync with the colossal rock beings around us
But we have become the GODS
Melting glaciers with our fingertips
Lifting oceans and crushing mountains
Blowing out the candle of the earth with wind gusts of carbon dioxide
Petite Pluto whispers to Dr. Uranus, “Mother Earth has turned into
The Great Garbage God in the sky”
The thread thins
mobile too heavy
Mother Earth spinning as
kew
Then it snaps
Our feet drop
And suddenly we are tiny
As we should be
To think that we are not celestial beings
pulled
by
this
world
un
dul
ati
ng
with the great around us
only makes the force pull stronger.
Space
Is unconquerable.
Yet we have already conquered this earth
displaced the sprawling seas under Madam Moon’s reign upsetting the delicate balance of the mobile marbles balancing on a place ready to topple planets shooting through the sky
tumbling
down
down
down
down
down.
Or rather
away
away
away
Sucked into a hot ball of gas
somewhere in the galaxy
away from the glow of Father Sun
Our space junk planet incinerated into stardust.
We too are celestial
beings of the world
bound to give and take
with Madam Moon and Lord Jupiter
who granted us our two feet on land.
But too much take will massacre the mobile.
We too are celestial,
but we are not gods.
Stop
Girls and boys are different species,
Girls and boys have different rules on how to raise them,
Different standards separating their spheres,
Even different tongues that they speak in.
Boys are taught the ins and outs of field goals, fouls, and fly balls
Girls must master mascara, mini skirts and making meals for your man
Girls are taught to use their words like “please” and “thank you” and “Excuse me”
But the most significant single syllable they can speak
Stop.
Boys don’t understand this word,
They must think it means “keep going, I like this, this is fun”
But stop means “I’m hurting, I’m scared, I don’t want to go on”
There’s no room for interpretation between those four letters
No “But you were in the mood earlier,”
Yes but now I want to be held like a frail bird and told that I am important,
That I’m worth it
That it’s okay that we stopped
Instead I sit here suffocated from the sobs breaking out of my chest
While you sit there and watch.
You tell me through your silence that I am a tease,
I’m not worth it
And that you wish I would stop my tears so you can continue your fun.
I watch you wallow in your lost conquest
While I sit here still ruined
I serve you a heartfelt, bleeding apology,
But you spit it at my feet like raw meat beside my destroyed dignity
Girls are taught that if they stop, they’re a slut
They’re taught that it’s better to shut your mouth
Squeeze a smile through your lips,
And satisfy.
Boys are taught that stop means nothing because she is submissive
When did dignity become a double standard?
Sophia is a sophomore at UAlbany in the Honors College hoping to graduate with an English major and Creative Writing minor and has been writing for as long as she can remember. This is her first year submitting to ARCH, but in highschool she was an editor for her own school's literary magazine and had her first experiences with writing poetry through the journal. She’s written lots of short stories and other fiction pieces, but is am trying to expand her poetic portfolio.
Brenna Sullivan
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Underworld
I was not greeted by white and gold gates,
Nor pits of anguish and fire.
It is quiet, consuming, and alone,
Being greeted by the great unknown.
I examine for a moment,
A tombstone with a name I know
Standing on freshly disturbed soil
Surrounded by unending darkness.
There are no clouds, nor moon, nor stars.
There are no friendly faces,
Or open arms of loved ones,
Or awaiting torment from the furies themselves.
Nothing. Nothing awaited me.
Remembering from a life I once lived,
Stories and the hope they would give,
Proven worthless in the end.
Books written from no rhyme or reason,
But believed to be fateful truth
Turned out to be hundreds of fables,
Filled with lies and untruths.
Brenna transferred to Albany this year from SUNY Purchase, and is going to be a junior next semester. This is their first semester of college in person, so finding clubs and magazines like ARCH at Albany has been an interesting process for them. As a junior, they were published in their high school's literary magazine as well.