UNFILTERED X TRANSFORMATION
art
and
poetry
spawningpool 2022
SpawningPool Art and Poetry Chapbook Spring 2022
Shippensburg University [1]
SpawningPool is a literary arts chapbook published at Shippensburg University by a small and dedicated team of undergraduate students. It is composed of art pieces submitted by undergraduate students of the university.
SpawningPool accepts rolling submissions throughout the year, and we publish our chapbook every spring semester. SpawningPool is a publication of The Reflector, which also accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each fall semester.
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Contact us: Submissions and inquires: reflect@ship.edu SpawningPool Art and Poetry Chapbook, Spring 2022 Text set in Calisto Printed by Shippensburg University Layout by Alaina Conaway, Olivia Chovanes, Piper Kull, and Jennie Gildner Cover design by Aliyah Rodery
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Art Editors Piper Kull Jennie Gildner
Art Committee Members Alyssa Tilley Elizabeth Peters Kimberly Braet Madison Frain Katie Huston
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Poetry Editors Alaina Conaway Olivia Chovanes
Poetry Committee Members Dale Crowley Emily Fitzgerald Victoria Helfrick Samuel Pittenger Brooke Powell
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Letters from the Editors Poetry Much like the outer world, the world inside of us is perpetually shifting, changing, and growing. Regardless of scale, we’ve all had to endure and adapt to numerous transformations, whether we liked it or not. Transformative experiences–good, bad, and undecided–take a toll on our bodies, minds, and spirits. In the midst of these tumultuous times, we turn to the people we love: friends, family, mentors, etc. Even though our loved ones ask for nothing in return, it’s always important to give thanks for sticking by us through our ever-changing lives. Sticking through us in these trying times are our committee members; without their devotion and support, this chapbook could not be. We’d also like to [6]
extend our thanks to our lovely Editorial Board and our otherworldly advisor, Dr. Santalucia. We are so grateful for your guidance, support, and encouragement, and we cannot thank you enough. Lastly, we’d like to thank our contributors; our chapbook would not exist without you, and we admire your craft and courage to share your stories. As we continue to grow and change, life can easily slip into chaos. When we feel ourselves joining the spiral, stop and take notice of the changes around you; capture them if you can. Revel in the swirling chaos of life; this is where transformation begins.
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Art Who would have known the world would look like this back in 2020? We have been living through uncertain times, but I feel as though we have entered a period of collective healing. As a sophomore, I have never known a ‘normal’ Shippensburg University experience. Through ‘Unfiltered,’ the art committee has hoped to provide an outlet where we can all express ourselves and our personal views of our lives together. People have been separated for a while; I am so thankful for my ability to work with other creatives through my position at The Reflector. Reading poems, sending jokes and creating SpawningPool together has been such a beautiful experience. Thank you especially to my lovely committee members and the amazing [8]
Jennie Gildner, but also you out there, enjoying our labor of love. This year I had the honor of working with my fellow members of The Reflector who are not just committee members but people who I call my friends. Within our group we all share a passion for promoting the student made artistic works of the students at Shippensburg University. I’ve immensely enjoyed the time that I’ve spent with my editor and extremely talented friend Piper Kull and I’m incredibly thankful for my hardworking and dedicated committee members, without them this wouldn’t have been possible. I hope that through the careful crafting of these chapbooks, readers can see both our passion for the arts and are able to appreciate the talents of their fellow students. [9]
Themes Poetry: The pieces enclosed in this book address various forms and figures of transformation. Art: The works contained in this volume are purely raw, in execution and in theory. No filters, no catches, just art.
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Table of Contents poem on love in the mountains………………..14 Ryanne Martin Hawk…………………………………………….16 Taryn Good Parental Advisory……………………………….18 Jack Myers Last Night……………………………………….19 Ryanne Martin Always Blue Monday…………………………..21 Piper Kull Childhood……………………………………….22 Anonymous Ode to Bitch……………………………………..24 Anonymous
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Coronavirus Idea………………………………..27 Mariana Espinosa Please Say Shit to Me…………………………..28 Claire Mae Reva’s Tattoo……………………………………30 Piper Kull Fem-C-U………………………………………...31 Claire Mae Do Me A Favor………………………………….33 Claire Mae Voyeurism……………………………………….35 Anonymous Rope Burn……………………………………….36 Anonymous Unfiltered………………………………………..38 Taryn Good
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The Screams I Gave You……………………….39 Anonymous Memento Mori………………………………….42 Jennie Gildner Eighteen versus Sixty-Eight…………………….43 Dale Crowley Time and Truth…………………………………45 Dale Crowley Headlights……………………………………….47 Kimberly Braet Spite After Death……………………………….48 Katie Huston Easy Love……………………………………….50 Emily Dziennik
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poem on love in the mountains I can see it now, The narrative of our treasure, How an indecorous love un-affair Transforms to a storybook passed down, an heirloom of surmised infidelity. I can see it now, Cardboard boxes and picture frames, Bills and fur littering the furniture, Conjoined laughter and arms warmer than the nightly covers Oiled pans and the lover’s daily news. I can see it now, The cracking under moralistic judging peers The self-doubt and possessive loss Overwhelming and suffocating Seemingly out of our control. The road is rough and jagged. Twisting and turning up a mountain [14]
Tempting turn offs present nearly every mile Excuses can be madeToo much work; it would never truly work out However, my darling, The top of the mountain is so glorious A destination I’ve never reached. But it would make the journey all that worth it If I can see it with you
Ryanne Martin [15]
Hawk I don’t want to be a chicken. Hiding under that pool table. Cutting off all my feathers To erase their hands. I still feel after so many years. I don’t want to be a chicken Hiding in the crowd Hoping no one sees me cringing away from hands. Hands that remind me of theirs but aren’t theirs. Hiding my eyes hoping no one sees me. No, I don’t want to be a chicken. I want to be a Hawk. Soring high in the sky. Leaving the pain and shame On the ground with their hands Where they can’t touch my feathers. Where my feathers can be long
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Like my ancestors be for me. I don’t want to be a chicken.
Taryn Good [17]
Parental Advisory Jack Myers
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Last Night Last night I dreamed of My teeth falling out. I kept shoving them Back in with Trembling fingers And I realized That I treat you The same way. Forcing you To continue in My life, my mind, Like forcing the molars Back into my Bloody pained sockets, Hoping they’ll just stick Somewhere they don’t fit.
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But maybe I need To lose temporary teeth To grow Permanent ones
Ryanne Martin
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Always Blue Monday Piper Kull
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Childhood Childhood feels like a fever dream. Toes dipped into muddy water at the creek, catching crayfish and frogs in our hands, screaming as their slippery skin met our own. There were mud pies and potions stirred from hose water and tree leaves in the summer, a marked cure-all to whatever our minds conjured on nights lit by campfires and fireflies. We could taste the seasons on our tongues, each marked with flavors and feelings of freedom – from snow days spent tracking ice and snow inside
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unto freshly mopped floors to summer days spent lounging sunburnt in the sun at the neighbor’s BBQ. Unlike algebra and SAT problems there are some things you cannot forget, like the smell of tomato soup on an old kitchen stove and love notes carefully crafted in the dark of the mornings by a mother you wished you deserved.
Anonymous [23]
Ode to Bitch I am often told that my mouth is only made to look pretty on the pipes of men with egos like mountains and pipes like the distance between the base of my finger and knuckle number one. “I want to fuck you,” they say. “I want your suck me,” they say. My mouth is only pretty when it is open wide and silent. Open wide, and welcoming
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like my legs should be, revolving doors to men who find my value between my thighs. And I am so tired Of faking it and faking it and faking it. For once, I want to be the mountain of ego and the goddess of my temple. I want their mouths open wide for me. I want them to sing my anthem – the one with the word
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I reclaim every time I tell them no. I think I’ll call it “Ode to Bitch.
Anonymous
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Coronavirus Idea Mariana Espinosa
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Please Say Shit to Me I see you staring. What’s wrong? Didn’t expect to see a drag queen in the Chambersburg Mall? I’m just minding my business, Laying on the floor, In a prom dress, With stiletto heels And an attitude. And here you come, waltzing around the corner, in your camo hat, and dirty ass jeans. Don’t stop and try to turn around now. The one store open in this place is behind me. Go ahead. Walk by. And stare at me the whole way. [28]
I love the attention. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll blow you a kiss. Open your mouth. Call me a name. Sissy. Pansy. Fairy. I’ve heard ‘em before. But I’ll read you for filth. You saying something is the push I need to take on the campus. So please say shit to me. Then I can bless Shippensburg with the confidence of Claire
Claire Mae [29]
Reva’s Tattoo Piper Kull
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Fem-C-U I always wanted to be a superhero growing up. Watching the Avengers, I wanted to be like them. I wanted to have an alter ego, to change into another person while no one is looking. I wanted to be a part of the MCU. All grown up, here I am, a hero, but far from what I imagined. I finally have my alter ego. My phone booth is a closet, and my transformation takes hours, not seconds. That red, flowing cape I dreamt of as a kid is now a blue, flowing ballgown. My magical boots have 6 inches of heel underneath.
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I wanted an awesome chest plate with my logo right in the center. Instead, I wear a breastplate with two E cups. I wanted to be like Iron Man and Captain America, but now I look more like Wonder Woman and Black Widow. I thought I would save the world, But Claire has saved mine.
Claire Mae [32]
Do Me A Favor Look at him. Do you see all that energy? He’s been playing hockey by himself for hours now. He’s like the top from Inception, with no friction to slow him down. He’s only going to stop when someone else makes him. Do me a favor and let the top spin. He’s talking to himself whiles he’s playing. “Here he comes down the ice. He shoots, he scores!” In his mind, he wears a headset, broadcasting to the world. He doesn’t know that one day, the headset will be real. Do me a favor and hand him the mic. He’s confused. He’s staring at himself in the mirror. His frame hugged tightly by a turquoise prom dress. One day he’ll wear a similar dress on stage, Do me a favor and buy him a dress.
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And above all else. Do me a favor and make sure you become you.
Claire Mae
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Voyeurism Anonymous
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Rope Burn There's this advice I heard recently "Sometimes holding on Does more damage Than letting go." There was a picture of a hand holding rope And it grew red with painstaking effort Before it let go and faded to normal. I get the meaning, But for once I can't agree. My tug of war is over And what I clung to is now safe Off the edge of the cliff. Yet I still hold the limp rope. Though my palms are red, And tears and bumps make my whole hand tremble, I still stare at it Rubbing the rough wire hairs between my fingertips.
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I want to show the rope To those that caused the burns. I don't want medals or praise And I don't want apologies. I will spread the aloe over my own seared skin. I just want them to look at it. Why won't they look at it? Look at the ropes. Why am I the only one with these burns? Feel the cracks and scabs riddling my flesh. Just acknowledge it. Just acknowledge my red-blistered skin. Please, Please just look at it. I just want to know when it happens again I won’t be the only one holding on.
Anonymous [37]
Unfiltered Taryn Good
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The Screams I Gave You I've never screamed so loud. Volume's usually a crescendo From annoyed snaps to yells. But I've never screamed like that. The sound came out with a force. Not a trickle becoming a stream, But the bursting of the dam, As the patience and calm I had Failed to hold back my desperate cries. I did try to be the adult. But that's the thing. I shouldn't have to be. It isn't my job, it's yours. However hard it would have been To give a real apology, Without gaslighting and guilt-tripping, It couldn't have been as hard as reaching,
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Hands trembling, Through a screen From 144 miles away, To pick up the shattering pieces, Of this family; To get my little sisters in the park And you in the car To just go home and calm down. I was convinced it was a breaking point. This was the night you would abandon us for good. This call was the last words I'd hear from you, On the night you "wouldn't make it" through. I sobbed and begged, I wretched and screamed, And still, you claimed no one loved you. Still, you claimed that you, Who spent all my childhood at work, You were neglected.
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You were abused. When my tears finally stopped, When I became numb to the words Then you finally finished ranting, Only then you promised to stay alive. You said it was only for me, That it was just me. In my silent shock You told me to calm down. You said you loved me, But I couldn't tell, Whether you loved me Or the screams I gave you.
Anonymous
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Memento Mori Jennie Gildner
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Eighteen versus Sixty-Eight “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.” What a crock of shit that is. Everybody has regrets. Most, too damn many to mention. Making choices based on burden; Debits by the window, Credits by the door At eighteen - it all makes perfect sense. At sixty-eight - perfect isn’t worth it. Hindsight is always perfect vision. Seemed prudent at the time. But who the hell knows prudent? At eighteen – almost no one At sixty-eight – even fewer. A life filled with ledger books with marks both black and red.
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But who imagines writing this? At eighteen – some, maybe At sixty-eight – few, if any. In the still of the night when your mind’s eye sees just you and your demon of regret do you listen to that wicked evil? At eighteen – hardly ever At sixty-eight – almost always. When the attack seems to make sense, do you take a stand and scream “Screw you?” At eighteen – probably At sixty-eight – seldom. Do you look back or forward? Is it wise to even try? Will it be or has it been worth it all? At eighteen – it’s possible
Dale Crowley
At sixty-eight – definitely!
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Time and Truth Time and truth exist in different universes. Truth is fixed but time waits for no human soul. Time’s onslaught is relentless and its passage is repentless. Each night must have its morning light. Kris ceased writing and the magic disappeared The music died with Buddy and I hear the unyielding drain of the hour glass’s sand as it marches to the beat of its own drum. Youth has lapsed but I refuse to moan pathetically into the dark shoulder of the years and count the minutes to my eternity or become a digger in the graveyard of memory while the flames of unfulfilled passions slowly burn themselves out. Let me tell you people, youth always fights the battle between love and the legal tender, but time teaches - hope with the courage of pure audacity and love to the pinnacle of capacity.
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Remembering doesn’t tie us to the graveyard. The trick is knowing when to honor the past and when to embrace the future. Joyful memories are the blessing given in support of difficult times. Unhappy recollections – the gift to teach repentance and reform. Memories are as meaningful as your child’s first breathe or as trivial as the hands on a clock. As meaningless as yesterday’s news or as profound as towers collapsing when slammed by aluminum coffins. Those truths are fixed in time by etchings in our mind. Time paves the way over the gravel road of life’s journey from youth to the greener acres of truth. Time and truth aren’t so different after all
Dale Crowley [46]
Headlights Kimberly Braet
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Spite After Death If I die today, throw me an antagonistic funeral. Invite the woman who outed me, sit her next to my girlfriend. Give them a narrow pew– so that she must breathe the lesbian air, one more time. Invite the man who hit us. Make him sit in the front, turn his chair so he can face everyone. Make sure he can see tears form in my mother’s eyes, one last time. Invite my biological father. Put him in the back, let him leave early in shame. He deserves to escape responsibility, one more time. Make sure my mother gets there.
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take time to help her with her makeup. Let her grieve, but please don’t let her wallow. She will need to hold my hand, one last time. If I die today, throw my funeral on a Tuesday at 6 a.m. so that I can piss people off– just once more.
Katie Huston [49]
Easy Love Being with you was easy love. The kind of love that sounds like laughter, Looks like bright smiles, And feels like butterflies in your stomach when you touch. The kind of love that fills silences, Warms souls, And calms nerves. The kind of love that fills your mind, Encompasses every waking moment, And, if you’re lucky, Makes its way into your dreams. You were easy to love, And I always hoped it was easy for you to love me. But, that easy love Changed as fast as lightning strikes And singed the wings of all those stomach butterflies.
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It doesn’t calm my nerves or warm my soul, And instead of dreaming about you, I avoid you even when I’m awake. It doesn’t sound like laughter anymore, And instead of filling silences, It creates them. You were easy to love, And you promised that it was easy to love me, But now that easy love is gone.
Emily Dziennik [51]