Spectrum literary arts magazine
fall 2012 issue
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2012 Issue spectrum.magazine@gmail.com www.spectrum.neu.edu 234 Curry Student Center Mailbox: 240 Curry Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine showcases the talents of the writers and artists at Northeastern University. All members of the Northeastern community are encouraged to submit original works of poetry, prose, and visual art. For more information, please visit www.spectrum.neu.edu. Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine, Fall 2012 edition Copyright ŠSpectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors. Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine reserves the right to edit submissions for layout, grammar, spelling, and punctuation unless explicitly instructed by the author or artist. Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental, except in the case of a public figure. The views and opinions represented in this medium do not necessarily reflect those of Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine. Spectrum is printed by
Special thanks to the Smith Print team
Executive Sta Editor in Chief: Andrea Hampel Layout and Design: MacKenzie Cockerill Financial Manager: James Griffin Advertising Manager: Miranda Paquet Secretary: Eryn Carlson Assistant Editor: Jennifer Kronmiller
Layout Committee
General Sta
Liam Dyer Stephanie Eng Evie Fachon Sanae Matsuki
Ashley Allerheiligen Evan Bruning Caitlin Buck Kelly Burgess Ariel Chang Linda Chen Abbie Doane-Simon Jillian Ferrari Emily Good Amy Hood Amanda Hoover Victoria Hung Joe Kurien YJ Lee Alexa Masi Emma McGrath Michelle Nguyen Kayla O'Neill Yvette Ortiz Anna Siembor Lauren Smith Cayman Somerville Arrissa Tavares Ellen Wilson
From the Editor Amidst the sea of stress and anxiety, we bring you Spectrum’s Fall 2012 Issue. From its ethereal cover you may expect a calming, orderly issue, but no issue of Spectrum is ever free from our many dualities. We open with the dichotomy of “The Divide” and later encounter more division of internal and external self with “Split.” Dark and light create the crest and the trough of the waves throughout the issue; these waves may be literal waves such as in “Miss X” or waves of music such as in “Clair de Lune.” Folded into these waves, landscapes serve to tie us to the horizon line, be they hot, cold, wet, dry, real or manufactured. We can never resist throwing in some glorification of the everyday such as the beautiful entryway in “Curbside Egress” and the vibrant vegetables of “Farm Fresh;” of course opposite are the standard warnings for working stiffs in “January 23, 2012” and “Bring Your Kid to Work Day.” There are majestic poems that explore our physical surroundings such as “In February” and “Stone,” and short and silly poems that explore miniscule moments such as “The Right Side of Your Face” and “Shoes.” Just when you think this issue of Spectrum will end on a silly wave after an adorable picture of a goat in “Nom Nom Nom,” we surprise you and go in the complete opposite direction, though even that direction somehow includes fish. We hope this issue of Spectrum will take you in and you’ll enjoy it enough to test the waters yourself. We would not be possible without our students, faculty, staff, and alumni, but we always love more company. Really, the water’s just fine. Thank you for reading, Andrea Hampel
front cover and inside art adapted from Ripples by John R. Hubbard back cover art: Andris My Friends, Is It. by Christopher Langelotti inside front cover art: Afternoon Watch on the Bowspirit by Tasha Greenwood
Table of Contents 2
"The Darkness" by Dominic Caiazzo "The Divide" by Muge Karamanci
4
"I'll Totally Come Up With a Title Later" by James Griffin "Miss X" by Christopher Langelotti
6
"Clair de Lune" by Zach Finelli "Sideways Note" by Kevin Hadar
8
"Curbside Egress" by Ben Landsberg
10
"January 23, 2012" by Andrea Hampel "Unstoppable" by Lena King
12
"Bring Your Kid to Work Day" by Robin Reyes "Cracks" by Muge Karamanci
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"In February" by Glen Chiacchieri "Winter Solitude" by Stephanie Eng
16
"Stone" by Anjimile Chithambo "Ménage à Trois" by Christopher Langelotti
18
"The Right Side of Your Face" by Glen Chiacchieri "Yellow Wall" by Kevin & Sarah Hadar
20
"Split" by Frankie Concepcion "Walking Pigeon View" by Kevin & Sarah Hadar
22
"Shoes" by Glen Chiacchieri "Weeding" by Lauren Olean "Farm Fresh" by Siddhant Phadnis
24
"Thanksgiving" by Robin Reyes "Nom Nom Nom" by Siddhant Phadnis
26
"Sardine Man" by Abbie Doane-Simon
28
"Fish Poem" by Abbie Doane-Simon "Santorini" by John R. Hubbard
The Darkness Dominic Caiazzo
Months in the shades. Evenings in fog, mornings black as pitch and muggy afternoons, oppressively obscure. At night with the curtains drawn, the sounds of Darkness sneak inside. Shattering, roaring, shouting. Grinding, smashing, laughing. You can see Its soul, sliding under the closed door, dripping through holes in the wall. Inch by inch, it is flooding the room. Thick and viscous, filling every void. Presently, the light of day teases my vision as I walk. It comes now and again, beautiful and golden soft light. The warmest blanket, tight protection against the dim cold. Lovely security, escape. This, only to be ripped violently from tantalized eyes by that cruel black cloud. He stands, covering, watching. Lurking behind all. A stench, a feeling, an uncontrollable shadowy thing now shows itself. The Darkness wraps his oily hands around my gasping neck. I am clawing, begging. My throat is too dry to shout. He belches stale smoke, glassy teeth smile sinisterly as his grip is made solid. My feet are kicking. A brief but savage war is waged within. And then I resign. Curse him and return his grin. He remains. I remain. He knows as well as I, that neither of us can leave here. Not quite yet.
The Divide Muge Karamanci
Miss X
Christopher Langelotti
I'll Totally Come Up With a Title Later J. Thompson GriďŹƒn
Fuck poetry What good has it done me? Each sentence serves no purpose Brings me no closer to connection To others To myself The time spent in revision Only carries me farther And deeper into imperfection Fuck expression I could channel all this Into sit-ups And then at least I’d be nice to look at And am I better for having written? No Fuck irony Fuck me on a scale of one to five One being the lowest
Clair de Lune Zach Finelli What a perfect song we are, my dear; Starting out in that graceful, accidental joy, Gliding along the staff lines in a sweet melody. Then more sinister we grow, giving way to the Large crescendos and diminuendos of our happiness— Only for so long does that dramatic movement go on; Then it vanishes as so do we from each other, Two hands that separate to do their own work On those painful white ivories, playing a song Of subtle sadness which soars to screaming peaks Of heartbreak, calling out in pain, Writhing, For your chest to be against mine once more. Then they grow closer on the page as the notes meld Into cooperative chords which strike nerves that long; They dance their way back together into a Tender embrace which sighs, the kind that only Two lovers now rejoined can share, for it explodes with Relief and bursts open and out supernova, all-encompassing And relaxing, ever-holding. And it glides back, Back down into that wistful cirrus melody which We’ve been before, and will continue to be, And will be again when the song plays through again, Always.
Sideways Note Kevin Hadar
Curbside Egress Ben Landsberg
8
January 23, 2012 Andrea Hampel
In the distance church bells toll solemnly. I count to seven. Snow falls like a secret as I crunch across the empty spaces. There’s so much salt under my feet, it’s a wonder no one slips and falls on it instead of the ice it was meant to prevent. I can feel the movement of the main streets before they’re in sight; it’s always surprising how many people are awake at this hour. There are even people at the gym, a group of them going through mechanical motions. For a second I feel my heart sink as I catch a glimpse of the T departing in the distance, but I quickly realize it’s traveling in the other direction. I continue to move slowly (I mustn’t slip like last week) and spy an old classmate. We’ve developed a routine of small talk interlaced with lifeless staring in the direction of the impending T. Usually we continue this routine through the arrival and boarding of the T until we part on the outbound platform at Arlington. We have said nothing and feel no different when the other leaves.
Resigned hardly encompasses what we both feel, yet we continue on in our similar but disjointed journeys. More lifeless staring ensues, until finally my train arrives and I can roost into a comfortable seat. The T moves like an arthritic beast as it surfaces from the underground and drags its belly along the tracks. I start to dig through my bag, trying to coax out my book. I prefer reading by daylight, even if I am in danger of having the words drag down my eyelids at such an early hour. As the book yields to my fingertips, I feel a sense of camaraderie with my fellow travelers: all of us are joined in a sleepy progress towards a specific destination. I watch as the cars slowly empty, letting off groups of students, drowsy commuters, and others whose destinations I will always puzzle over. We roll over the last few hills, where looking back seems like you’re looking back on a different world. With a pang, I remember my destination. Soon, I will have to leave the safety of my seat and plod off to work. Then, my day will begin. The End
Unstoppable Lena King
The future seemed to Seep into the cracked plaster. The monotony monopolizing the minds Of the dried out boomers.
Robin Reyes
Bring Your Kid to Work Day
It was always a grey room Wherever he worked, With a cold cement floor and Machines gnashing at each other.
In my youth I could Relate the scene only To Pinocchio’s dream Sinisterly flipped and perverted. I once made a doodle On their envelope, of gold Raining from the sky. I was scolded. It struck too close to home.
Cracks Muge Karamanci
Winter Solitude Stephanie Eng
In February Glen Chiacchieri I must admit that sometimes, When Winter walking nods to me from across the road, His frigid breath streaming from beneath his low hat, When across the mountains the alpine forests loom in dark green waiting for the falling night, When all sounds have fled but the crunch and solitude of snow my favorite part of sunset is the grey mist that settles in its passing, that crepuscular senesence. You call me foolish as you must and even I must laugh‚ but don't let go. Don't let go especially now.
14
Ménage à Trois Christopher Langelotti
Stone Anjimile Chithambo Nebraska sets my soul at ease. Tell me everything you’ve ever known. Nebraska, I am glad to be alone. Nebraska is a dancer’s body. Wisdom, guide my fickle fire flesh. Nebraska, let my sickly spirit rest. Nebraska’s legs are freezing cold. Wrap the cover’s tightly at your feet. Nebraska, we will languish in the heat. Nebraska dreams of static time; Turn the fleshy faces all to stone. Nebraska, I am glad to be alone.
The Right Side of Your Face Glen Chiacchieri
idly perusing a cupboard by tiptoe, you stole up behind me laced your fingers over my stomach and pressed the right side of your face to my stretched back
Yellow Wall Kevin & Sarah Hadar
Split Frankie Concepcion
I. The night that we laid hand to hand, (Our fingers barely brushing) The first thing that I noticed was (The space between our skin and) The way we felt against each other (With the sand between our palms)− Not unlike waves rolling over and into (The weathered spaces of) Each other so smoothly, you could only think of (Another woman’s hand prints against) Our breathing, sounding so much like the crash of waves.
II. In the dim light of my bedroom lamp, (My eyes shut tight against the image of your mouth) I always thought your breath smelled like roses. (There never seemed to be any choice) So I wrapped my body around you, and (When my thorns pricked your sides) Our limbs formed a cocoon. (My body rejected you from the inside out but) Your breath whispered my name so lovingly that (There was never any choice, so) When you asked me, I told you that I was content. III. I wonder if you’ll ever know that (I was always cold under your sheets so) While you were sleeping I (Never could lie still. Instead my breathing) Traced the lines of your expression, (Hoping you would dream of hands) Enticing smiles from lips sealed shut by sleep (And doubt), Wondering if you’d stir and wake if I (Could close my eyes against the wind or) Tucked myself beneath your arm.
Walking Pigeon View Kevin & Sarah Hadar
Farm Fresh Siddhant Phadnis
Shoes Glen Chiacchieri
It is time to move into the sun for the shadows have crept much and also that is where I left my shoes.
Weeding Lauren Olean Strawberry patch me whole milk it all summer
Thanksgiving Robin Reyes
Conversation was understood At our dinner table. Whether it be `pass the rice’ Or `I love you’. My pale tongue Impedes the sweet sounds Of our homeland. I was their gringo. They are loving people My family. Anyone who Entered the house was Embraced and fed. When I would get up From the table the passage Of rolling R’s and misplaced B’s Would continue flying above me. I took Spanish for years but never quite Learned to conjugate myself in the nosotros form.
Nom Nom Nom Siddhant Phadnis
Sardine Man Abbie Doane-Simon
we’re remodeling the store all the shelves on the left are empty (echoing) waiting for wine and beer being brought by the new liquor licence I’m sitting at the register eyes aching with enough boredom to be reading about brocoflowers and medlars And this man shuffles in he’s got long hair, the same grey as my zeyde’s old people community houses that match he’s brushed it back neatly as if he’s got no time to get a haircut but he’s gotta keep it neat so he brushed it back he’s shorter than me he leans on a cane but makes good time to the sardine rack we’re low on sardines because of the remodelling and he’s got a $5 bill clutched in his cane hand I try not to watch his movements (out of politeness) but he picks up a box of sardines with sun-dried tomatoes ($7.96) and puts it back a lady walks in, headed for the deli the sardine man smiles at her the way I do when I realize I’ve caught some one’s eye so he has to smile, like the sun prying the clouds open and once she’s past he goes back to his solemn sardines and the sun gets swallowed again
so he picks up another box (childhood red and yellow) and my boss goes to check the price while the sardine man shuffles over to my counter the box costs $3.95 He quietly asks the price I tell him “$3.95” I’m happy that it fits in his $5 bill my fingers begin to tickle across the register buttons and he mumbles about coffee and shuffles off toward the front window, where the is coffee is $1 I begin to type in $1 for coffee but he shuffles back empty handed so I ring up his sardines he offers a pleasant “thank you” and farewell and carefully folds his $1 change into his pocket like I’ve never seen anyone do revealing a small stack folded in half he adds his change and slips it away again then he shuffles politely out I think maybe he doesn’t have money for a haircut but before he’s gone I find myself hoping aching like suddenly loosing your crutches that he isn’t going home to an empty house where all he can do is eat sardines and brush his hair back neat hoping for a haircut.
Now look I haven’t got much time they say, I’ve only got a three secondbut you look-
Fish Poem Abbie Doane-Simon
Now look I haven’t got much time one of the others... Bubbles, the skyward blue one, she’s, well, gone but you look soNow look I haven’t got much time Bruce, he’s crazy! White foam washing away-crazy! I can’t believe he... and Alfred, that little neon tetra, gone in one bite! but Thank God, you lookNow look I haven’t got much time Oh god, hardly any time at all! We’ve been hiding under the filter, my gills ache! And finally, you lookNow look I haven’t got much time They say fish only have three second memories, but I remember little crisp flakes cause you look soNow look I haven’t got much time, I’m the only one left and half my tail’s gone, You’ve gotta do something, please! Please, I’m begging you! Don’t forget about mNow look I haven’t got much timeAnd- and... You look so familiar...
Santorini John R. Hubbard