Comma fall 2015

CONNOR MANNION/THE OBSERVER

10

The Comma

October 22, 2015 THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

Dual Sonnets, Inspired by Shakespeare

By BENJAMIN STRATE

Bordeux’s Sonnet Home, towering home shadows my aimèd thought, Ignites my eyes with sulfurous water, And breaks my lead heart: shackled and unbought.

He thinks I am a lamb led to slaughter, And perhaps I am no Horseman of wars But one of pestilence, infecting souls Of damned men feeding on dead whores.

But I walk a long trail of flaming coals To the everlasting peace that is cold hell, Far from the wishes and ideas of dead kings Awaiting their own release from life-like cell, Praying for the executor who brings The final end to thought and reckoning, The disease that plagues all true king’s being

Gaunt’s Sonnet Beloved son, forgive thy old father For what is done. Though I am not your blood Know me as I see thee, for I rather See thee live long and become one with mud, Than living forever among the stars, Seeking the infinity in noble Chase, and only finding deforming scars.

Take heed, Richard, for once be immobile, Care for thy finite life, for that is all We are given; one like the One who gave And take-away: Live a life without wall, Leave this place and for my sake don’t be brave; For though I leave thee, remember me son, And for your soul, accept what is not won

SRI STEWART/THE OBSERVER

Cha ser

By M ARG ARE TF

I am chasing the tight feeling in my chest.

Rubbing my eyes and kissing the coffee cup like it’s love.

There are so many places, so many plaster houses with white decks, where I could be.

So many stops on this train, so many spaces by the sea.

I must think I’m something profound to sit in the rain and like how it feels.

To hear it drop tap the trees and think of porcelain.

Porcelain and watercolors, Jemima Puddleduck and cabbage in the garden.

The damp churned dirt and the smell of new roots.

Leaks and drips and tears and grows, piano keys and a hardwood desk.

ISH ER

Blind Eyes

By ASAD JUNG

I speak to you, when I speak to I Blind eyes, look at mine through yours A keyhole, through a closed door is filled solid, a view no more I have seen you once, when my eyes are open I have seen you twice, when the same are closed I speak to you, where no word is spoken Are you there, or has my mind imposed?

I hope it rains on you today.

I hope it rains where you are and brings you back to this.

PAYTON VINCELETTE/THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER October 22, 20145

The Comma

11

The Zookeeper

By SOPHIA NOULAS

The Zookeeper framed fantastic animals so that they could become pieces of art. Inked, vibrant, wild creatures that jumped against the rigid lifelessness of their cold cages. And while the Zookeeper had great pride in his animals, he could not always manage to keep them. Dizzied by iron bars, the animals’ colors would dull, be tinted with beige and they would become tame.

Even worse, some would fall, kneeling over the rusting buckets that served their meals for when those who do not have the ability to be domesticated are isolated by walls, they will break.

In accordance to his frugal sensibilities the Zookeeper refused to replace his deceased charges, so he tried to commercialize the corpses. He had them stuffed and stuck on wheels. The wheels were set for tracks so that the animals appeared to pace the circuits of their cages as they did in life.

From what the people outside the cages could see, the animals were happy.

I’m Leaving

By CRAIG APPEL

I unzzzzzzip, slide out of a meat jacket hang it up in the butcher shop in the back freezer.

Raw holes of the face, slack without me the form hangs like a ragdoll old seams blown by battering rams I leave quietly Such that no one hears the freezer door shut or the bells on the door dangle or notices one slab of red meat in the freezer is not a cow carcass in the lines of hung cow carcasses the butcher throws the meat jacket into the grinder his fist rolls the rows of teeth like the belly jaws of some nightmare beast digesting he weighs the bloody thing on parchment

Unfortunately, eventually, all the animals in the zoo had died.

There was no more thrill in the zoo, every trace of wildness was gone. Terrified the dead cat would leap from his bag, the Zookeeper sawed off the heads of the lion’s and glued together a family of chimeras. He fashioned a chain of snakes, stuffing their throats with the other’s tail to create a patch-work serpent. His creations grew wilder and wilder until assurance of the creature’s welfare could no longer be doubted or even questioned. They were no longer animals but rainbow amalgamations created by some fevered child grasping at crayons.

In the end, the Zookeeper realized his early work did not matter.

As long as they were stuffed, everyone in the Zoo was happy.

bits of it stud his exposed arms.

The first bite, dripping down a chin, tastes like burger.

A rock once asked me if I should like to be a rock alone on a hill.

I could just observe it all turn to shit and back again A simple life, the rock promised. the memory is way too much.

Its why, I’m leaving.

I think I’ll be a goldfish next.

I envy the way their everything bleeds out before it can become exhausting. they never have to have to remember or feel it all living somewhere just out of reach I’m so tired now

SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER

A View From Above

By DAVID MILO

The sun rises over the Manhattan sky line as a man emerges from the world trade center subway stop and the first droplets of rain plummet from the clouds high above.

He takes the elevator up to his floor and proceeds into the south east corner office, overlooking the construction of the new World Trade Center construction site, to gaze out the mirrored pane glass window as he prepares himself for the day. Looking down to the ground fifteen stories below, one by one he visualizes people vanishing under the protection of their trusty umbrellas.

Most of the fellow working class carries large umbrellas that bravely weather the storm and keep their owner happily situated in the surging number of people funneling out of every door and tunnel who are journeying their way to work, but several wield small umbrellas, barely encapsulating the silhouette of their owner and when the wind gusts, they crumple under the pressure placed upon their flimsy metal supports.

In seconds, whole sidewalk vanishes under an undulating canopy of multi colored plastic domes shielding their owners from the elements. Anyone looking down from

their high rise office is instantly taken in by the mesmerizing flow of colorful octagons, varying in size, parading along the sidewalk.

The streets rapidly fill with water and small eddies flow along the depressions that have been formed by the millions of heals that pound down in rhythmic succession on the aging concrete slabs. Gashes appear in the once perfect canopy of umbrellas as people rapidly get squeezed together as they try to avoid the ever increasing water reclaiming the streets of the city and try to keep their high priced shoes situated on the dwindling amount of sidewalk real-estate that is becoming increasingly more populated as workers continue to emerge from the subway.

The rapid pace of the umbrellas slows to a crawl and their forward motion is no longer what captures the eye. The clam stream of umbrellas that once flowed harmoniously now has the appearance of waves breaking upon a sea wall. Countless umbrellas are hoisted and lowered as their owners are forced to dodge people on the completely congested walkway. Several which are not moved fast enough collide with on coming umbrellas, bounce off them, smash into

their surroundings, and create even larger rifts in the formerly pristine plastic canopy.

Many try to seek refuge from the torrent in the less turbulent flow of the river’s edges near building entrances or any remotely protected area to wait out the storm, but only manage to create an ever thickening wall that restricts the flow on the sidewalk even more.

Just as the sidewalk appears as it can no longer encompass one more square inch of shoe leather, the cloud cover begins to part and the last parcels of water drizzle down and land on once peaceful, intact canopy that is now appears torn and mangled when it is viewed from above. As it becomes apparent to the people sheltered under the umbrellas that the rain has subsided, one after another, umbrellas are taken down. As they are stored for the next cloud bust, the colorful stream begins to dry up.

Finally released from the dazzling show viewed from high above, the worker relinquishes his gaze from the sidewalk below as focus of his eye ascends back to his fifteenth floor office and his mind rekindles thoughts of the day’s work.

SARAH HOWARD/THE OBSERVER

14

The Comma

October 22, 2015 THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

Stuffed Animals

By DYLAN KING

Missy has always liked to have a glass of wine while she cooked. But lately, she’s been having two or three glasses while cooking, another two or three during dinner, and one while she reads before going to bed (If she even makes it that far).

Since Keith got that wonderful fundraising job up in Pittsburgh, Missy no longer has to work. She takes care of Allie now, getting her dressed, packing lunch, taking her to school and picking her up. Then, the two of them wait for Keith to get home.

Keith has been late coming home the past few weeks. He keeps claiming it’s all the work he has to put in to keep his “two favorite girls” happy. Missy can’t be sure, but she just knows he’s lying. She knows it. She can see it on his face every time he walks through the door. But she can’t be sure.

Missy graduated with honors. She was beautiful, and still is, even though she doesn’t think so anymore. She’s felt less beautiful recently because of the way the boy who bags her groceries treats her. Missy has grown used to the above-average politeness that all pretty women are accustomed to receiving from men. But she hasn’t been receiving it lately, not even from her husband.

Allie walks into the kitchen, dragging a stuffed giraffe behind her by its neck.

Missy is standing at the stove preparing dinner.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

“We have to wait for Daddy to get home, Sweetie.”

“But I’m hungry now!”

“Allie,” Missy turns around to face her daughter. “Where did you get that giraffe?”

“Daddy,” said Allie.

“Daddy? He got you a giraffe?”

“It’s not a real giraffe.”

“It’s not? It looks real to me. Can I see it?” Missy asked.

“No, it’s for little kids.” Allie hugged the giraffe tight against her chin. “You’re too old, Mommy,” she added.

Missy laughed. “Oh, I know. Thanks a lot, kiddo.” Missy turned back to the stove. “One day you’ll be old like me.”

“Daddy said there’s real giraffes in Africa and I can go see them when I get old,” Allie said, with a smile.

Missy stopped, suddenly. She turned back to Allie and said, “Don’t get old, Sweetie. It’s so sad, growing up. You can’t have stuffed animals anymore. And you won’t ever go to Africa like you wanted to. And you won’t fall in love the way you’ve always dreamed. And it’ll all be so sad.”

Allie’s smile disappeared. She stared at her mother, who was pale-faced from the wine. Her paleness made her ghost-like. The white walls of the kitchen only made it worse. This made Allie upset, so she looked down at the floor.

“Now go inside while I finish cooking. Daddy will be home soon.”

Allie ran into the living room. Missy turned back to the stove and rubbed her eyes. She sighed heavily. When she opened her eyes, she saw the phone on the countertop. She picked it up and dialed. It only rang once.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice came through the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” Missy said.

“Missy? Is everything O.K.?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m fine. How are things? How’s dad?”

“We’re good, things are good. Are you sure everything is fine? You sound upset.”

Missy leaned forward on the counter. “I’m sure. I’m just a little under the weather, I guess.”

“Did you take medicine?”

“No, just wine.”

“That won’t do. Take medicine. Is Keith there?”

“No, he’s not home yet.”

“He’s not home yet? Where is he?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? How could you not know?”

Missy begins sobbing. She leans her head on her palm and closes her eyes tight.

“I told you that man was no good, Missy. I told you, didn’t I?” “Mom—”

“Did you try calling his work?”

“Mom,” Missy said, hysterical now. “Can I come home?”

“What?”

“Can I come home? I just want to come home, O.K.?” Missy can hardly breathe.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“I just miss being home. I want to come home. For a few days, maybe. Is that all right?”

“Of course, baby. Bring little Allie too.”

“O.K., Mom. I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ll send your father up there to get you in the morning. Are you sure you’re going to be all right till then?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”

“O.K., baby. I love you. I can’t wait to see you.”

Missy hung up the phone. She suddenly felt very tired. She shut off the stove and, without cleaning up, went upstairs to her room and fell asleep.

JESS LUSZCZYK/THE OBSERVER

Escape

By VALERIA SHATILOVA

Who Have I Become?

By RACHEL JARVIS

I sing but I am not a singer I dance but I am not a dancer I cook but I am not a chef I teach but I am not a teacher And I give but I am not a giver Yet, I take so I am a taker I cheat so I am a cheater I fight so I am a fighter I beg so I am a beggar And I lie so I am a liar.

Through the mountains, through the mist, in the midst of strife and longing, when love had lost its way, I found the road to the other side.

I, a runaway forsaken by life, a knight wandering the world’s edge, a king with a shattered crown and no throne from which to see his kingdom burn.

Centuries passed without deep and exquisite slumber, no dreams inspired my ravenous mind, the night closed her eyes on me and turned away.

I escaped throwing memories to the wind, and ran uncharted forests with no recollection of what has been, what is, and what will be.

Today, yes, today the world sings of a new era.

Today, for now and forever, the world turns anew.

Still, I hope I am hopeful But I fear I am fearful That though I love, I am not a lover.

TYLER MARTINS/THE OBSERVER

www.fordhamobserver.com

THE OBSERVER October 22, 2015

ath e D . s v Life AUD GARRE BELLE

By ISA

The Comma

15

You are walking. The trail is beneath you, the forest surrounds you. You keep walking. Above you the sky is clear, not a cloud in sight. You can’t help but squint your eyes at the blazing sun.

Hidden birds are chirping. The wind comes in whispers.

You are running. Everything around you becomes a blur. Eventually you come to a stream. Your feet touch the cold water. You can feel the rocky bottom, the sand intruding between your toes.

You walk further into the water, you don’t stop. The water is up to your knees now but you don’t care. You are content. The coolness of the stream has replaced your blood. You stop in the middle and close your eyes. You see everything through what you hear. Birds are chirping in trees, the water is crossing over the rocks, the trees are moving with the wind. It is very peaceful.

A loud noise brings you back to reality. You open your eyes just in time to see the birds you heard scatter themselves across the sky. Suddenly you are aware of your body standing in the middle of a stream. You look for the cause of the noise but see nothing. You are alone.

You leave the stream and walk towards where the sound came from. You are no longer walking contently through a forest. Your legs move as fast as they can without breaking into a run. You can hear your heart pounding through your ears. You try to listen for the noise again but hear nothing besides the voices of the forest.

Everything around you is spinning. Where are you? The forest becomes quiet, as if not to be heard. You stop too. The only thing you hear is the sound of your heart. Suddenly a squirrel crosses your path. It stops for a moment to stare at you with its soulless black eyes before running off again. It frightens you. You continue your journey to the unknown going deeper and deeper into the forest.

You are now lost. You turn back but nothing looks the same. Where was the stream? You yell, surly someone can hear you. You listen but hear nothing.

You are running, breathing the little breath you have left. You think of the stream. How peaceful it was. How perfect it was. You think of what brought you there. You can’t remember. Why are you in the forest? You see a car in the distance. You remember it is your car. You drove to this forest. You were escaping. Escaping what? You are getting closer. You see a person in the car. They don’t seem to be moving. Suddenly you feel sick to your stomach. Thoughts race through your head. Who is in your car? Are they dead? Is it someone you love? You run to the car and look inside. You stumble backwards. You can’t breathe. You now know the answer to your question. You were escaping life. You are dead.

MICHELLE QUINN/THE OBSERVER

ord c e R e h T n O SS M RO

By SA

Come; sit and forget him please A shot to free our minds, and another frees our glee The shimmering overcrowded apple outside my window adorns our fragile, temporal shoulders as each drink makes us bolder and the night turns colder, colder, colder.

I’ll prove we are a match.

A match like two black socks and a match that sparks, flames, drops into the fireplace, gifting cozy combustion, warming our extremities and allowing us to rap on feelings.

I indulge to ignore what isn’t, and you drink to have fun You smile with those eyes as your exposed teeth perceive.

With you I can’t be numb Why can’t I be numb?

I want you, but reciprocation is the key Am I your joy?

Or am I deceived by your congeniality?

An hour ago I knew we would work Now five shots in, I know we’ll prevail!

So lay your head on my pillow and we’ll moon over the ceiling’s blank slate, blanking the moon overhead.

I’ll imagine our future states of being colliding and intertwining on alabaster plaster, and we’ll joke, goof, laugh, cry, idly make fun of the others.

Whatever you want.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong: That I hate being lonely You’ll empathize and sympathize, poke and prod for candor, for you fear my physiological gears are hitched stalled sick and you might be right…

Either way let’s take a walk Pick a street. Let’s cross town and just talk Talk.

And Remember: If you tickle me, I will always tickle back We can share a single mingling tingle of vulnerability.

Please don’t forget this when we’re sober.

MICHELLE QUINN/THE OBSERVER

CONNOR MANNION/THE OBSERVER