The Romance Issue
Volume 15, Issue 3 February 2016
VOLUME 15 ISSUE 3 FEBRUARY 2016
It’s all romanticism, nonsense, rotteness, art.” IVAN TURGENEV (1818-1833)
My Love Letter to You
a love sonata
The Great Tale of Sir Gallalot
The Changing of the Seasons
Engraved in Your Bones
Breaking It To You AC ANONYMOUS
A Love Epic
Unlike a Fairytale
For the Hopeless Romantic
Going to Bed
Planetary Love Stories
Ballad of a Wasted Heart
CORA VANESSA HAVEN & REBECCA FLETCHER ERICA PARNIS
Colouring Page CARINA RAMPELT
JOSEPH BRANNAN CYNTHIA YEH
REBECCA ALLISON MEGAN COOKE M STROME DONNIQUE WILLIAMS MARIAH JACKSON CHARIS HESKETH
REBECCA ALLISON NICOLE ANN GATCHENE JOHNSON PFLUGRAD DANIELLA CAVALLINI SARAH CAMERON
MARIA KOUZNETSOVA MITCHELL KOOH ASHLEY HYND
EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Carina Rampelt firstname.lastname@example.org
Production Manager Anthony Haslam email@example.com
Literary Editor Breanna Kettles firstname.lastname@example.org
Art/Photography Manager Amanda Scheifele email@example.com
Promotions Manager Alexandria Schneider firstname.lastname@example.org
Web Editor Lydia Mainville email@example.com
Literary Intern Victoria Macedo
Art/Photography Intern Christina Manocchio firstname.lastname@example.org
Rebecca Allison, AC Anonymous Joseph Brannan, Jonathan Collie, Eric Dewar, Charis Hesketh, Annabelle Hoffman, Donnique Williams, Mariah Jackson,
The Romance Issue Have you ever been around a friend who’s in a new relationship? They’re unusually giggly, they can’t stop smiling, and all they want to do is talk about THAT PERSON. And as much as you’re happy for them, you’re counting down the days until the honeymoon phase is over and the cute levels begin to subside. That’s the context in which we tend to envision the word romance these days—the context of romantic relationships. But considering romance purely as a feature of dating and courtship rituals neglects so much of the richness that the word provides. For instance, if you were to look up the linguistic history of romance, you’ll find that it originally referred to a story about the exploits of a heroic figure. You might also find some mention of the Romantics, a group of poets and artists who were interested in nature and experiencing the sublime. In this issue, we delve into the colourful history of romance. We bring together a little medieval and chivalric adventure, a bit of wonder, and a hefty dose of love story into a curious marriage to create a copy of Blueprint that is equal parts adventure, intrigue, awe, and of course, romance. So whether this issue finds you snuggled up with your sweetheart or consulting your copy of Chaucer, I hope it brings you some joy on a chilly winter’s day.
Elliot Adler, Caroline Alpert, Sarah Cameron, Daniella Cavallini, Megan Cooke, Rebecca Fletcher, Nicole Ann Gatchene, Cora Vanessa Haven, Ashley Hynd, Joshua Howe, Maria Kouznetsova, Manreet Lachhar, Erica Parnis, Johnson Pflugrad, Felicity Shipp, M Strome, Brendan Wilson, Cynthia Yeh
Carina Rampelt Editor-in-Chief xoxo
ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Bryan Stephens Executive Director Lakyn Barton Advertising Manager Care Schummer Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Treasurer John Pehar Director Rafey Sattar Director Thomas Lillo Community Director Fred Kuntz Community Director Gary Doyle Community Director Angela Foster Corporate Secretary Laura Buck
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COLOPHON Blueprint is the official student magazine of the Wilfrid Laurier University community. Founded in 2002, Blueprint is an editorially independent magazine published by Wilfrid Laurier University Student Publications, Waterloo, a corporation without share capital. WLUSP is governed by its board of directors.
Romance by CAROLINE BORDIGNON This is a sketch I created while traveling in Europe viewing sculptures on one of the many Roman bridges I encountered. Something about the intricate detail and romanticized artistry of figurative work from past ages has always pulled at my heartstrings. The angel stands beautifully, as if frozen in time, capturing a moment in history we can only hope to understand and revive. The ambiguous eyes, seemingly fixated on something or someone seems to surround the figure in mystery as if she is longing for her lost love.
Content appearing in Blueprint bears the copyright expressly of their creator(s) and may not be used without written consent. Blueprint reserves the right to re-publish submissions in print or online. Opinions in Blueprint are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Blueprint’s management, Blueprint, WLUSP, or WLU. Blueprint is created using Macintosh computers running Adobe Creative Suite.
NEXT ISSUE The Stars On stands Spring 2016
ERICA PARNIS & ELLIOT ADLER
since syntax is first JOSEPH BRANNAN (with thanks to e. e. cummings)
since syntax is first who pays any attention to the feeling of things will never wholly parse you; wholly to be a poet while Grammar is in the world my mind approves, and sentences are better fate than haiku lady i swear by all the style guides. Don’t comma splice —the best gesture of my heart is less than your substantive nouns which say we are for each other: then compose, declining into the dative for a paragraph’s not life And death i think is no lexical gap
Death heaved a sigh. One that rattled his body of bones and killed a kindergarten class’ pet rabbit somewhere in Wawa. She had brought him another soul. He’d long-since lost count of how many this made. She killed without bias, knowing that Death would have to return to her to collect the victim. Then She could see him again. It’s out of love, She declared. He thought it was madness. “You know this has to stop.” She said nothing, but waved coyly. She was always on her best behaviour when he arrived after the storm of Her rage. “You can’t keep dragging me back like this. I have other work to do.” He knew that speaking to Her only encouraged Her deranged affection, but something had to give eventually. How long had it been since She first viewed him with a burning obsession that drove Her to slaughter en masse? How many more would She drag below before She was satisfied?
This one came to me. Her voice was barely a whisper, caught in the wind. When Death took the soul in both hands, he knew She wasn’t lying. The young man, whose fragile soul poured the last of its warmth into his bones, had wanted to die in Her embrace. She had a haunting magnetism like that. Poets, artists, songwriters, romantics; all had been drawn to Her love of Death, and unwillingness to give up “Her” dead to anyone save for the immortal servant to Her whims.
Death tucked the soul away, job done, wanting desperately to leave Her side. “I hope this will be the last one, Superior.” Her playful waves told him it wouldn’t be.
My Love Letter To You MANREET LACHHAR Dear you, I wanted to write you poetry, but then I thought about you. And to be honest, I… have no idea what I’m doing. I am not good with words, or people, or feelings. But for you, I’ll attempt to be good at all three. No one would argue that I am the earth (grounded and sturdy and always there – but unmemorable and ignored), but you are the sun and everything (I do) revolves around you. (Like how I hold you after a bad dream, or when our hands intertwine across the table, or I let you cry on my shoulder after a fight with your family, or watch you dance around the room with a sparkle in your eye, or when we get ice-cream during a 4 AM existential crisis.) And the feeling I get around you (that comes out when you laugh at one of my bad jokes, or embrace me as the world falls apart around me, or smile at me when I tell you about my dreams) is the purest thing I’ve ever felt. And I wonder, did you just want me as an act of rebellion? Did you think you’d actually fall in love with me? Did you think I’d actually fall in love with you? Because I did. And I do. I wanted to write you poetry, but then I thought about all the moments we’ve shared, and I think that’s poetry enough. Love, me
The Great Tale of Sir Gallalot CORA VANESSA HAVEN & REBECCA FLETCHER
ir Gallalot knelt by the crystalline surface of the mystic silver pool, lost in desperate prayer. The moon shone down on him, casting his figure in an ethereal light – worthy of his majestic nobility. “Divines!” He cried unto the swirling heavens, “Grant unto me thine blessings that I might save my lady love, Princess Agatha from the dragons!” The Fates must have held him in high regard, for his wish was soon granted. Out of the gleaming waters rose the knight’s guardian, in a torrent of light and wisdom. The wind gained the strength of a storm, causing the tides to part, and the elder sorcerer’s robes to billow behind him as he stepped forth. In awe of the sorcerer’s might, Sir Gallalot bowed his head low and cried, “Great Mage of Leeds, I beg of thee, show me whence the dragon hath imprisoned my princess!” The sorcerer heaved a great sigh and pierced the knight with his starlight gaze. “Stop talking all this Old English crap! You know no one understands it!” Gallalot was taken aback, “S-sorry” he stuttered. “Can I please know where the dragon is?” “Okay so what you do is follow the Road of Swords until you see the Tree of Avalon, then take a left. Do not – I repeat – do not take a right, or you’ll end up in Hades and trust me, that is not how you want to spend a Saturday afternoon.” All of Gallalot’s good breeding forced him to thank the sorcerer for his guidance. It also forced him not to remind the sorcerer that it was a Tuesday. With his vague directions and his blessed blade at hand, Gallalot began his journey... ...which only took about twenty minutes, since the Road of Swords was not nearly as scary as it sounded, and he successfully remembered to take a left. Upon arriving at the dreary and foreboding Dragons’ Keep, Gallalot ventured into its labyrinth of stone, only to find the halls deserted. His terror was a living, breathing thing; his heart raced, his palms sweaty, but his knightly honour propelled him forward. Behind the final door to the Great Hall, he could hear the guttural language of fifty dragons, and the clinking of porcelain. He steeled himself, lifted his blade, and pushed open the door, prepared to fight. Only he found the Great Council of Dragons in the midst of their annual tea-party-slash-bake-off. They all stared at Gallalot, porcelain cups poised in their tiny hands, and confused expressions on their long faces. Gallalot cleared his throat, “Yes, well... I come for Princess Agatha?” The Head of the Great Council rose from his seat with a blank stare as he held up an offering. “Would you first like a crumpet?” “What? No!” Cried Gallalot, brandishing his sword, “I come for the princess and I will slay any who stand in my way!” “Well she was supposed to judge the bake-off,” another dragon piped up, “but, yeah... okay, I guess.” The elegant Princess Agatha strode across the Hall, her long lavender gown swirling around her ankles as she neared her “rescuer”. “My sweet Sir Gallalot... why did you feel the need to do this, man? Why?” Startled, Gallalot attempted to calm her sudden fury. “I thought you were in danger, my love!” Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “The only danger I was in was of being hangry. You never think of me as a person, but as a prize to be won from dragons, who – by the way – are super chill! They were going to feed me so much pie and cake. Seriously? Let it go. Chivalry is dead. I’m going to give dating princesses a try.”
Here ends the Tale of Sir Gallalot the Brave-but-Kind-of-Thick.
11 CAROLINE ALPERT
The Changing of the Seasons ERICA PARNIS
I fell in love with you in the dead of winter. It started in the chilly half-autumn, half-winter limbo of November, and it grew during the gingerbread haze of December. We were both in and out of other relationships, but it was obvious that there ran between us a stubborn thread of companionship that resisted definition. From mutual friends I heard the constant refrain of “you two should date,” which we’d shoo away with sarcasm and averted eyes. I’m still unconvinced that our rebuttals were anything but thinly veiled acknowledgements of something more. Those first months were a clumsy collage of indie rock and imperial stout, the memory of which has only gotten sharper with time. In January, I thought of new beginnings with you. I imagined playful kisses in lesser-known cafes, and I wondered why I had a thousand words in my head, but none contained enough syllables to express how I felt about you. I’ve still yet to find those words, but you’ll uncover in these paragraphs my most sincere attempt to turn a jumbled mess of feelings into something resembling a confession. By the first week of February, the snow had given up its crisp white in favor of a brownish-grey slush that splashed under my rubber boots. Somewhere between chilly gloved fingers and the warmth of whiskey I fell in love with your eyes—the way they seemed electric as they flickered across the faces of strangers in bars and rested on mine. Sky blue, like in all the songs and poems that aren’t worth a thing. With a laugh, you’d serve me snarky comments and I’d toss them back without a thought. I decided early on that you were my favorite conversational tennis partner. The slush melted in March, and you found someone else to return your serves. I tried to do the same. That quickly fell apart, and I decided that T.S. Eliot was right when he said that April was the cruelest month. My mind went back to you and to winter, to skinny love buried under ice and the foam in your latte bubbling away as I listened to you hum a tune I could only pretend to recognize. In May we drifted apart, and in the summer drifted even further. But each time I saw you again we fell back together as though the hands on the clock had respectfully halted their revolutions. My memories from those days are few but fond, more like blurry snapshots than vivid film reels. I remember feeling my heartbreak fade to black as you drove us around rocky country roads. I remember smiling at the floor as I listened to you effortlessly chat with my mother. What I can’t quite recall, though, is when our unspoken “no” turned into “maybe,” and “maybe” turned into everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s January again now, and the days are getting shorter. I seem to have fallen for you all over again. It’s happened in a number of places—behind the fingerprint-smudged lens of an old camera, from the passenger seat of your car with a smile, and in a reassuring hand squeeze in the quiet dark. I still can’t believe that I found you, picked you out of the crowd. It’s even more difficult to believe that you picked me back. I can’t say what the spring will hold for us, but I doubt I’ll tire of hearing you talk about old cars or your grandfather’s coat, or that you think I’m beautiful. I won’t get bored of your mind, or your words, or the way you smile with your eyes, like the night the rain made our shirts damp and the vinyl scratched in the background as you pressed your lips against mine for the first time. The seasons have changed, and so have we. But one thing is constant: you’ve made me happy from the night you rested your head in my lap on the snowy library lawn to the sleepy Sunday mornings we’ve spent intertwined.
a love sonata CYNTHIA YEH
donâ€™t let me go; stay with your heart against mine. evoke the music of which my soul sings and make of us (notes that complement) a dulcet ballad for two. let strings play our heartfelt tune while fingers to keys kiss. too long have we who beat in time been an uncompleted song. a flock of birds hovering above the masters of our fate. hidden behind a guitar and a stereo, you found me (lost) in these beats, dreaming about the things that we could be. grown music, i shed my skin. in a song, a new life (i have) found. donâ€™t let me go; stay with your heart against mine. evoke the music of which my soul sings and make of us (notes that complement) a dulcet ballad for two. let strings play our heartfelt tune while fingers to keys kiss. (a gift.) (a caress.) too long have we who beat in time been an uncompleted song. let no bars divide our piece notes flowing, following, another after another. composing harmonious music a virtuosic challenge, but yet i know, but yet i pray... stay.
Sonnet I Black is the hole within my hungry breast, Which gapes as laughing cherubs buzz about, Whilst Venus holds flaming Heart to her chest And shakes her golden locks to every shout Of protest that I make; then come arrows, Five in all, by Eros wrought, not to kill But kill slowly–piercing to marrow As I reach for thee, lost Heart, through will. Alas! what powers say it must be so That all of us like Romeo shall end Who doth love too early? We feel the woe From upturned chins and minds that wilt not bend! But hark! no god, no wounds, no block of time Shall fetter me down, for love is no crime.
Sonnet III Methods all exhausted have led me here; Darkling heath shadowy in pale moonbeam That lights paths two: one of hope, one of fear. O, pray, help me! I wish it were a dream! But senses are not false; I am alone. Behind, thou art at rest in village glow, Before, pitch-dark gives way to sable moan. Alas! t’were not up to me whither to go! But I dare not look back! or I shalt be Condemned loveless stares whilst bleeding heart burn; So stare I forward upon stygian sea, Black waves to drown, yet more doth stomach churn. Difficult it is to ‘scape love’s hellfire; Luckless Orpheus, least, sported a lyre!
Sonnet II What stone doth I require to break glass? Ah, common rock! but what of after pain Shattered; thunderstone through thy wound pass By Venus’ faithful servant to gain Thy ill-tempered attention so desired. What fate becometh his who doth throw fate Naked and fresh into land so mired? Prithee, torture me not to stand and wait! But lo, if thy gaze should cross my love-mark I should seek out craggy Giramphiel, For naught but dragon’s dread wrath runs so dark, And for my toss, Death come to ring His bell. Still, what worry in my bosom should stay; Peer through the adder and see what thee may!
Rose REBECCA ALLISON Juliet, Fourteen years forgotten but for one week. Your dreams, drenched in poison. A ring, severed by the ready blade. A rose by any other name, may not shed a tear. Your pain immortalized by a quill. Sonnets recited over your silent tomb. Applause reverberating about your coffin. Does the nightingaleâ€™s call still echo as the curtain closes?
Engraved in Your Bones MEGAN COOKE
You should know That I often write poetry about you Not only paper But on your neck with my tongue And down the small of your back with my finger tips There must be sunshine in your veins For how else could your smile burn so bright? Although shortly they’re bound to vanish And sink into your skin Those poems will forever be engraved in your bones Followed by my signature
Yours M STROME
Flatter me, court me, tempt me, But don’t expect from me any more. Because I belong to no one but myself, And I’m most definitely not yours. Laugh with me, and tease me, Find new feelings to explore. Hold my hand when I need it the most, But don’t forget that I’m not yours. Make me feel like I’m the only one, Give me everything I’m looking for. Care for me in the most perfect way, But please remember, I’m not yours.
Give up on me, and walk away, Run after you with my heart sore. I’m sorry I held you at arm’s length, Because I was too scared to be yours.
If Wishes Came True This is What I Would Do
Honey Your lies were lik e honey sweet; they dripp ed from your lips and l collected ev ery drop with addic ted ears. Your lies were lik e chocolate on a humid day, I couldnâ€™t lick off them off my finge rs fast enough.
inter. I wish I were a pa uld mix together wo I t, in pa If I could ur amber eyes, all the tones of yo abilities eir immortalizing th in canvas. ptor. I wish I were a scul uld chisel wo I , pt If I could scul uscle, each sinew and m the perfection of capturing in time your youth.
Your lies were lik e almonds, I picked up the pe rfect brown droplet but I could never have just one. I found myself alw ays coming back for more. I have seen lies dr op like honey off of lips drip off of fingerti ps I have seen lies I co uld grasp in hand fuls. I can show you fea r in a handful of sw eetness.
ician. I wish I were a mus ic us m If I could create ts, me, your movemen na ur yo de I would hi s die your laugh in melo . ng so of the ability But all I possess is s. to clever anecdote in to style my words r. All I am is a write ly low is All I am and powerful itten about you because I have wr . u will live forever and that means yo
d Here you stan my arms ke you up in ta to t an w gh and I ou en l pieces smal my heart, to fold you into in g in w teries flo to fit in the ar icular let your part to my veins. in ep se on pois e. e wrong for m I know you ar s es kn ac bl is I know that th ach is om st y m g lin rc ci flies black butter ings. line coated w so ga ng ti spou match You are a lit t low you to ge al t and I canâ€™ this close u. But I want yo rong w rational self am I I know sence of my es ry ve e th g I am torturin I know this. . Yet still I love
Never to be forgotten they will set my words about you before transcendent backgrounds of sunsets. Hipsters will retweet and reminisce on the universality of your transgressions. It will be the stuff and daydreams and nightmares The source of controversy and insomnia You. Will. Be. Infamous. Are you ready?
So now with each syllable I’m going to take you, and make you famous. Plastered-on-posters -and-desktop-wallpapers famous. You will become memes, what you’ve done splayed across the inter-webs for eons, If we survive that long Infamous.
Write t he pain , As if w ith my they said. pen I c write it ou out of existen ld ce. Write t he way y Write t he way our chest ro se and we ros like Tr fell. e oy, wh o let th and fell e decep tion in Write t . he way your e Write t yes sea he way rched your e toward me. yes da s nced and I w the sky illed m yself to dance along. Write t he way your a the wa rms he y you fl ld ew and held m y hear made m mine, t, my h and dr y fly, op opped them b e, oth. Write t he way y Write t he way ou said good bye. you sa I did… id I will… I am… But for go you alw t to mention ays lie d.
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Romance yourself a little! Please enjoy this little colouring sheet that we made for you! Wanna show off your final product? Tag your instagram post with @Blueprint_Mag so we can check out your work!
Unlike A Fairytale MARIAH JACKSON
Why? Oh why? Is she so much better than I? Yet I’m not surprised you left I played all the cards in my hand But they didn’t go as planned All the signs pointed in the wrong direction But what now am I to do? Now that I have no longer have you I was a stupid girl I lost in a losing race Couldn’t keep up with her pace Trying to ignore all the evidence Now she’s winning the game And I’m left without a name You didn’t want to make promises you couldn’t keep Was that really the reason? Are you sure you weren’t the one to commit treason? Suddenly it was too late Was it really me? Or maybe her mystery … Looking back, it was always only a matter of time Why was it that she won? And I am the one left undone? And then came the day I hope you get what you deserved, your cocky attitude kicked to the curb And come to the realization you’re absorbed You’re no fairytale … you left And in fact I am no less than she Because there is truly nobody better than me
For The Hopeless Romantic Inside of Me. CHARIS HESKETH
You are a hopeless romantic. You adore romance movies, Couples’ love stories, And the way someone looks at their spouse on their wedding day. You love witnessing first dates, Awkward hand holding, And people writing love songs for one another. You’ve seen fairy tales come true, Those romance movies come to life, You’ve seen people finally find the person they have been searching for, And you hope you will find that one day. You have also seen romance die, You’ve seen the fairy tales turn into nightmares, The love songs turn into break up songs, Wonderful people treated like dirt, You’ve seen people who once believed in love forget it ever existed. And yet you still sit here hoping one day that this hopeless romantic thing will pay off, That maybe you’ll be the exception to being heartbroken, That if you go and fall into something as fragile and crazy as love that you won’t get hurt, Yeah you are just a hopeless romantic. A hopeless romantic who doubles up as a fool.
Gimli, the Great, saw himself as the epitome of what chivalry meant. Women flocked to him and he allowed them to tell him how handsome and grand he was. He claimed them by thus sitting on their laps and allowing them to stroke his ego (and his backside) till he was all and good done with them and would move on to the next. He figured that in the 21st century, this was the closest to courtly love as one could get. After all, he didn’t have all that time to dote on women for days on end because there were birds to watch and bugs to eat. Women were naturally second to both those things. Gimli had no trouble, no trouble indeed, paying high tribute to his God. He would, every day as scheduled, look in the mirror and profess his inconvenient truths to himself and then tell himself how wonderful he was, proceeded nap-time. After all, he was his own God so it was always best to forgive himself and then compliment because he should never forget his own greatness. I mean, it’s not like he was fatally flawed like those humans. He was actually quite perfect, which he knew, and the humans worshipped him for it. So he felt rightly deserving of high praise. On top of all this magnitude of exceptional chivalry, he was also the most giving creature he had ever met. In fact, just the other morning, he had readily and gallantly fought the yellow square that the humans had recently poured toxic liquids onto, and rubbed aggressively into the bathtub, sink, and floor. Clearly a futile attempt at wrangling this thing, he ripped it to shreds and put the remains in the bed for the humans. A sacrifice they still have yet to appreciate fitting of his heroic deed. He worries that the humans could never survive without his protection and generosity. All in all, he knew that his chivalry could not be matched. He knows that it is partially his species (being the most protective and of highest intelligence) but it also had a lot to do with him. He knew that his love, devotion to religion, and his protection and generosity makes the humans’ lives far better than if he wasn’t there. He knows that other humans might be better, if they too all had one of his species. He recommends to all the humans, to improve their quality of life by going to the KW Humane Society and finding one of his kind. I mean, they will never be as good as him, but imitation is the best these humans can look for. He wants all humans to embrace chivalry in their lives and adopt a cat. Or another animal, he says, because while not as good they need to be adopted too.
A Wisp REBECCA ALLISON
There is a time, When the fireâ€™s burn, Diminishes. Embers dancing about black dust. Fears, Doubts, Enter without call. Too late rekindle, The blaze that once burned? Can such sparks, Bare wisps, To passing glances, Retain their warmth? Yet as the air blows, Embers, Their past autumnal hues forgotten, Blues begin to blaze, Amongst the ashen remains. Their heat, Intense and relentless. Tongues, Of blue and white, Tirelessly lapping for oxygen. No fear or doubt to contain them. A fire to blaze, Ad infinitum.
Going to Bed NICOLE ANN GATCHENE
A smatter of kisses, Fabric skins falling, A slippery procession. A song begins, (a duet) Throbbing with heat, Starting at the top, (shoulders) Easing through, (down)
Tumbling into bed, A tangle of limbs, Together: humming, singing, resting, With a flick! non-light. (Inner incandescence) Cocooned in blankets, Honeyed dialogue, Which flows intoâ€Ś Slumber, (unconsciousness) A pause, On realized dreams.
In unison, Outlining, touching: Every note, (Every curve) Every key, (Every turn)
Duppy JOHNSON PFLUGRAD
I met a girl my first night here It was cold and I was drunk Every single step came with a frigid breeze She liked what my sweater said She seemed nice, but out of breath I promised her I’d walk her to the party Everything I said made her smile So we sat down a talked for a while She said she’d never met someone like me I got a weird feeling inside my chest Like a thousand butterflies trying to leave She asked me if everything was okay I let her know that I was fine But maybe we should go somewhere quiet She held my arm as we walked The streets were still and mostly wet I didn’t know how long we had slept She gave me a kiss as I looked around
Untitled DANIELLA CAVALLINI
Every time we talked it was uncertain If this thing we created would last. How could one person leave so much debris Scattered across a heart that it pierced through Bleeding out memories with every beat Breathing becomes a chore When there is a limit to life with you Choking has become the norm The lump in my throat is always sore (itâ€™s making me blue) Drowning my cries in the bath So no one worries Since clearly you never did. How toxic does a relationship have to be Until one realizes Would people still swallow the drug If they came with side effect warnings? Or would people ignore the signs Like they do with the cigarette boxes Why does the human mind never forget? The heart can only endure so much pain. How can people allow others to cry? Do you think more people would care If every time someone cries they were notified The feeling of failure is what lingers Who wants to jump in water with an open wound Plenty of fish they say but no one mentions The difficultly of teaching a fish how to swim again.
Planetary Love Stories SARAH CAMERON
She was pure, innocent and kind, Others taunted, she didnâ€™t mind, She cared too much for little things, Bejeweled bugs and fluttering wings. Then one day she observed a man, Tall, with broad shoulders and a tan, He was not like others sheâ€™d seen, With kind eyes and fair face, not mean. He did not see her longing stare, Her glimmering eyes and pale hair, She did not see his tight smile, His glances every once in a while. He did not see her diamond tears, Her sinking heart and horrid fears, She did not see his loneliness, His dark worries and constant stress. They were different, but the same, Stuck trying to play a cruel game, Like cat and mouse, constant opposites, In a circle doing the same parlor tricks. Each overshadowing the other, Making one run for some cover. They were never meant to be, He would always glow brighter than she, Her tears formed stars on the black of her dress, My, oh my, how they made such a mess.
MARIA KOUZNETSOVA As fairy dust sprinkles from the sky, I watch the sun rays passing by. I hear the crunching of warm feet Through mounds of yesterday’s fallen sleet. But I’m no sap: I do not sigh, For “each hello makes it worth goodbye For now.”
Ballad of a Wasted Heart MITCHELL KOOH Along the road she came to me With moonbeams dancing in her face; A half-lit figure fully formed Of ragged light and earthen grace. Her lissom lips enrapturing And capturing my mortal will; That smile bright, those eyes sublime, Defy all rhyme and writer’s quill. I worshipped at her golden throne, A thousand hymns in rapture sang And recked not reckoning above, Till through my bones her silence rang. Bright Beatrice! My opiate, Who plies poor hearts with hands of ice Without a care for we damned fools, Such willing lambs to sacrifice. Her laugh resounds in every hill; All clichés fail to blunt the loss. Unloved but loving all too strong, She left me bleeding on the cross. Broken, cast off, left to die The slowest death a soul can bear. A loathsome poet drunk on love, Composing “Ode to Her Last Hair.” Still, hating her less than myself, I sought the way to dusty death; That ancient curse now seemed a joy, A glad return of awful breath. In such despair I came to you, And in your touch found something true. At last a love to set me free: This restless heart finds rest in thee!
Breaking It To You AC ANONYMOUS
I’m sorry to break it to you (Your heart, that is), But Love is not eternal. Let’s break this down:
Firstly, one must consider The Unforgiving implications of the term “Eternal”. Humar me. Laugh. But, Let’s focus on the missing Os. Eternal and Immortal Represent The Uncountable and Countable Respectively. To say that love is “Immortal” implies, at the very least, A point in time where it began... But Eternal equates to infinity - that is, the total amount of numbers, rather than a number itself. Infinity is mathematically possible, which equates to “Love overcomes all odds”, Meaning that it will never count to one. From Zero to One is Countable. But From Zero to Zero Point Is Infinitely repeating, Even with the imagination of One. “It fits Somewhere,” Argue the Optimists. Certainly so. But no love will ever know where. I suppose this is what is so profoundly special: We’re all incapable of infinity. We’re all leveled because we’re all the same. Love is so perfectly human because it evolved alongside us...which leads to: Secondly, Love is a byproduct of natural selection. It is the ‘emotion’ that gave way to society and eventually, social evolution. If a love could simply survive Mass extinction From some astrological catastrophe, I’d wonder if you’d even call it “Love”anymore? “It is necessarily so!” Claim the romantics (Perhaps they’d even fool themselves to call it a god). But “Chance” becomes irrelevant when no one counts to one. The size of all numbers is truly infinite, but all odds are good Because Fortune is a powerful goddess. If One is both possible and impossible, it means that life and therefore Love is reduced to such an inevitable consequence that even itself becomes a grain. Growing and Shrinking are exactly the same - you can’t even drop anchor at zero! There is no wall to hang your veil, your gold, because everything is flat. Your eyes are biological miracles, and yet even they are able to limit your love. Here’s what they see: 0 - 1 ...But to find eternal love, you need to count to one. ...But no one can. No matter who you are. You’ll never last forever ago. Zero point zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero... It is only possible to pause the game - but if you could find it in yourself To rebuke time, nothing would be impossible. Therefore, Love is nothing but Time. As it should be. Because they need each other. And that’s why the optimists and romantics aren’t the number of all numbers Apart. In fact, they’re intrinsically linked. Everything is. So are you countable or uncountable? I’ll give you one hint:
If you want accountability, you’ll never find the one.
Hopeless FELICITY SHIPP
Nature is destruction. Have you seen a blizzard bash against a window? It angrily tears through treetops, shouting at the top if its lungs. It destroys glass and stomps through the corners. Slamming the doors in bitter fury it leaves you alone to gather what warmth you can and when you wake up in the morning you get nothing but a cold shoulder. You don’t see the trillions of diamonds left on the ground in apology. Have you heard the sighs of the ocean as they push up and down the rocks of the coastline, wearing them small and soft in the raw power behind each thrusting wave? It groans and calls out, never fully satisfied and when it’s done it leaves you breathless and soar with nothing but shells destroyed in its wake. You barely listen for the giggle of the pools, teasing you, tickling your toes, inviting you to play again. Have you savoured the forest? The trees surround you, closer and pressing, fighting with all their height for the sun. Rays reach for branches, leaves stretch for light, fingertips reaching for fingertips. Some will not make it. They will reach as tall as they can, sinking, striving, roaring, soaring, weakening, falling. They cry in pain as they crash with a heart splintered on the floor, destroyed. But how would you know the screams of a fallen tree—were you there? Have you smelt the burning flames? Uncontainable, untameable, unquenchable. Fire needs to eat to survive, it never says ‘enough’. It burns red in passionate ecstasy, devouring and crackling in its own destructive power. It’s not dreadfully picky and doesn’t stop for broken hearts- it will eat them too. As you watch it lick with long red tongues, you fail to notice how your toes are curling into the warmth. Have you felt the heat of the desert drying your teeth and scratching your eyes as it works to drive you to the ground. The unstable earth shifts under your ankles and hot avalanches bring you to your knees. It’s merciless. Unrelenting. It will have you. It will destroy you. It knows no other way. As the rains come, forcing you to gasp in its torrent from one extreme to the other, you ignore how soft your skin is after the sandstorm and refuse to acknowledge the flowers it offers you when you finally emerge from the shower. Nature may indeed be destruction, but it is also a hopeless romantic.
when did life get so busy that romance became taking out the garbage or doing the dishes and when was â€˜I love youâ€™ lost in the metronome of you breathing because you sleep-in past me because my classes start earlier than yours and when did date night become disillusioned backs facing one another in a cubical on silent seven when did doing this become less desirable than writing a five page essay on existentialism and angst when did school become the rug that we sweep our messes under?
Volume 15, Issue 3