Alive by ApoloniaDesignCo

alive

an anthology of collected poems

alive 2021 illustration and design by Apolonia Wielgus

the poetry in this booklet was collected in an effort to cultivate connection and community during a time of loneliness and isolation

table of contents 7

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The Origin of Alive

Houses and Homes by Jamie Gordon

Ampersand by Noah Tennison

Sleepless in Urbana by Monisha Roychoudhury

Things Are Getting Pretty Small Around Here by Debbie Cohen

Don’t let me be Misunderstood by Giovanna Lazzarini

Dust to Dust by Tessa Turner

Run by Indira Midha

Hornets for Horns by Julia Kay Morrison

Her Eyes by Danielle Boivin

Amour Propre by Apolonia Wielgus

Alive is a collaborative experiment that aims to foster connectivity in our current reality. The past year has been a difficult and lonely period for many and this project aimed to bring joy and importance into participants lives. Furthermore, it is a collection of thoughts and feelings that we have all experienced. Alive reaffirms to readers and viewers that they are not alone in their struggles. We all deserve to be heard. Alive gave a voice to anyone that wanted to express themselves through written word and allowed for a raw and unguided expression using digital collage by the artist. The poems and illustrations were compiled into an anthology and printed as physical booklets that were distributed to each participant. The written works share common themes of love and loss, personal struggles and celebrations, and questioning the reality we find ourselves in. There is beauty in the strength to preserve and overcome. Hopefully, Alive will empower you as well.

Houses and Homes by Jamie Gordon I am sitting in my car. I am sitting in my parked car. I am sitting in my parked car in the middle of the night and I can still smell your cologne on me. It seeped into me like sweet cigarette smoke stays in your clothes, in your teeth You made a home out of me A home that I was not welcome to stay in. That is the difference, You see, Between a house and a home. I do not feel it’s warm hearth When I am with you I feel the solitude of an unwanted house for sale remnants of life just an echo in the empty halls That is the difference, You see, Between a house and a home. You were perfectly fine with taking a sledgehammer to my wooden skeleton hauling down my ramparts, ripping out my insulation, cutting down the old oak tree out front That is the difference, You see, Between a house and a home.

Ampersand by Noah Tennison hand over hand the selfless self-evident a space by the ampersand a snark retort, imprudent a crooked smile held shut through wire steel gray lenses wet with guilt a staggered trudge through the mire the warm glow of tungsten in the room we built and on the capacity of love what is there, if not one and on the capacity of truth what is there, if there is none a snowy peak erect in the distance it’s cold and direct majesty an omen to lament it’s frigid solitude shows only beauty and grace if we are responsible for our own majesty,

i guess we’ll show them

Sleepless in Urbana by Monisha Roychoudhury i. my sheets still smell like you but i fear that the scent will gradually fade until i no longer associate you with home.

ii. i sleep better alone. sprawled out or curled up, every blanket layered the way i want, but i prefer your presence. i can’t fall asleep until i hear your heavy breathing to know that you’ve drifted first, and then of course the snores start. you hog the blankets, i’m left with a crick in my neck from the singular pillow you’ve left me, and i sleep so much better alone, but i prefer to lose sleep with you.

iii. some nights i can’t fucking fall asleep. my body’s exhausted but my thoughts race loops around my skull. i think about too many things, about the past and the present and the absence of your presence. i wish i could drift while you speak cause only our late night facetime calls bring me peace but still not enough to fall asleep.

iv. melatonin won’t do shit for me if i can’t have you.

v. i’ve always strayed from poems like this. slipped them under my pillow at night so that they remained only in my dreams, and never in the light of day. but i realized what a disservice that was. how limiting it is to hide my heart under the covers in fear of what i’m not sure will or will not occur, when i should focus on the things i am sure of.

Things Are Getting Pretty Small Around Here by Debbie Cohen

A deformed life makes us complicit parties in our own destruction think the same things all the same things always the same things asleep or awake like horses on the carnival merry go round faced twisted in frozen motion up down up down up down and in circles we go and the musicians playing and playing windup monkeys with cymbals topped with tiny red caps banging and banging and banging saucer eyes unfeeling unflinching unseeing smiling toothily all the while the gears are stuck we hear them whir but never stop

Don’t let me be Misunderstood by Giovanna Lazzarini Do I Fall to ash and rise with flames the same as my father Crumbling deep under the view of the world and the feeling of my skin Pulling out eyelashes until I see no beauty When will they not see me as weak Success won’t blur the curve of my spine These flames seem cool to touch When will my voice blend through air and bellow the same It doesn’t when I scream It doesn’t when I call to him

Dust to Dust by Tessa Turner I was a thirsty nomad in your sea of sand. Created from stone, once solid and strong Now, crushed to dust. I built castles from your destruction. Tiers and towers, Doors adorned with discovered shells, I pressed patterns and possibilities into monuments I had molded. Digging through granules, Stuck under fingernails; I intertwined my DNA into something That Will Blow Away. By your changing winds; Unforgiving and unapologetic, How dare I disturb your dormant anguish! For me, I believed your pride, you would relinquish. I came for hopes of hydration But I found no traces of oasis. I spent too many paces For mirages to be the product of my chases. But let’s face it. You’ll always have the upper hand, If you don’t tell a soul that you’re quicksand.

Run by Indira Midha I wonder why people don’t believe me. I ask myself if I’m making it too big a deal, I do have a tendency to do that. Maybe I should go for a run like I’m told to. Maybe I should be running, But I’m afraid that if I start I won’t stop. The sidewalk will end, but I’ll keep running. The mud will soak my feet and stain my socks, But I’ll keep running. I won’t stop until the mud decides to take me as its prisoner. Because that’s how this works. It starts to grab ahold of you like chunks of mud Onto grass-stained running shoes. Little by little, the collection gets there. You’re more mud than you’re you. That’s how depression works. But you tell me not to be afraid of a little dirt.

Hornets for Horns by Julia Kay Morrison She only recently came to empathize A drudging patient freight Scraping along the bottom of the Mississippi She learned to listen To see the souls inside their skins To vibrate past and present Past and present Pass through separate sounds To present Pass to passengers beneath the freight An underground of antlers insurrecting Intersecting Megafauna press no papers Call no judgement Only antlers insurrecting Intersecting Why are horns reserved to underworlders When the rhinos style them silent When the megafauna climbs from satans ivy pelvis to the floor of insurrection Introspecting Now their antlers bend and wrap around the necks And plunge behind the ribs Instead inspecting In their section Intersection Insurrecting Width of a horn Which wrong direction

Her Eyes by Danielle Boivin A five year old child Cut down by a teenager Her crime of brown eyes Was enough for this wager She was told it was fun It was how you were cool If you took a jab without Looking the fool. She had once loved her eyes Now they hid so much hurt. But I want to know Who the fuck tells a child That their eyes look like dirt? A thoughtless remark a child questions self worth But bullies had lied. Her eyes were not dirt, but the Earth. The Earth from which all things grow and sustain. If I could see her I’d tell her “Do not look at yourself with disdain.” Dark eyes swirl with mystery and romances A beauty that nurtures, seduces, entrances. A warmth that embraces the coldest of days Bright and complex like a sunrise’s haze. Her eyes are the color of philosophy Of words spoken softly and curiosity. They are cauldrons of magic that gleam in the night And mirrors that flicker her will and her might. They are passion, bravery love and surprise A universe rendered to fit in her eyes.

Amour Propre by Apolonia Wielgus I sowed the seeds on summer solstice, pirouetting my limbs to mimic the winding trails of smoke from the burning incense sinking my toes into the soft moss, peppered with blossoming moonflowers I fell in love with the way my diaphragm contracts and floods my boodstream with oxygen the way my muscles twitch involuntrily when another ogranism is permanently etched onto my skin the way I can fly through rocky sea shores and vivacious forests when I close my eyelids the salty droplets that gather on my eyelashes the miniscule bones that wrap around an outstretched hand transmitting my pulse through my fingertips I am home I am my own home my heart is beating; I am alive