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VERSE

Verse Magazine

Created by students for students

Verse want to publish all student work; written, drawn, typed, recorded or scrawled.

Specs: Articles between 600 and 2400 words on any topic, or images at 300 DPI or higher in JPEG, TIFF, or PDF file formats, in all visual styles and mediums.

Front Cover Artwork by Shriyanka Das Sharma

Back Cover Photograph by Justin Leung

It was and always will be Aboriginal land.

Verse Magazine acknowledges the Kaurna, Boandik and Barngarla First Nations People as the traditional custodians of the unceded lands that are now home to the University of South Australia’s campuses in Adelaide, Mount Gambier and Whyalla.

Verse Magazine respectfully acknowledges their Ancestors and Elders, past, present and emerging. Verse Magazine also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia.

Student Submissions

Blast from the past!

Looking back with Edition #63

Leaves falling, the sun no longer having a personal vendetta against us, Autumn has come! The theme for this issue is nostalgia. As a sentimental person, I can’t help but be a willing victim to nostalgia. Whether it’s catching up with friends you haven’t seen in forever, rewatching a beloved childhood movie, or looking through old photos when cleaning your room, nostalgia is everywhere and can be felt at anytime. I think it can be good to look back at the past, even if it can be cringe-inducing to think back at certain moments of weakness. In the end, everything up until now has paved the way for who we are today.

In this issue, Verse has invited submitters to think about what makes them nostalgic and to submit pieces that invoke memory, reflection, and reminiscence. Take a trip down memory lane as we look through childhood throwbacks, fond flashbacks, and bittersweet snapshots. If Nostalgia isn’t your thing, we’ve got plenty of artwork and writing from talented students as well.

See you next issue and stay funky, fun, and fresh,

HEAD EDITOR

Blessed to be a snake who sheds its skin

Digital Art by Ngoc Thuy Lam

Eclipsed by Her Light: A Love Written in the Moon

Words by Iddawela, Pulindu

Some moments pass unnoticed; others change the course of a lifetime. It was August 18, 2024, a simple social media swipe that unknowingly rewrote my destiny. KJ wasn’t just a name; she became the gravity pulling my heart into a world I never knew existed.

One message, one reply, and the universe shifted. With every exchange, every silence that spoke volumes, and every voice note that echoed in my soul. She wasn’t just someone I admired; she became the rhythm of my heartbeat, the poetry in my veins.

She is grace, wisdom, a quiet miracle wrapped in the warmth of a human soul. She teaches, she inspires, she exists, and in doing so, she transforms the very fabric of my world. She doesn’t know it, but she is love in its purest form, the kind that doesn’t fade with time but only deepens, like constellations shining brighter in the dark.

Some stories have endings, but this one never will. Because KJ isn’t just a fleeting chapter; she is the eternal ink that writes my story in the moon. Is the universe rewriting a love story just like Krishna & Radha?

Perhaps that’s why this story feels so familiar, so infinite, as though it has been written before, written in the moon and in the stars, across time itself. Perhaps this is the universe rewriting a love story as old as time itself, just like Krishna and Radha, bound by love yet untouched by possession, connected by something far greater than the world’s understanding.

~ She’s my Radha ~

Above the Clouds

Digital Art by Sheydin Dew

Artwork by Tia Kyriacou

Hi, My name is Leon, and since 2020, I have been cosplaying at special events and even performing on stage in front of hundreds! It’s a MASSIVE part of who I am as a person. Cosplay is an appreciation of subcultures, fandoms, and media/art, and it is also a key factor that helped me develop social anxiety while growing up. As a transgender man, it helped me find others like me and allowed me to express my gender and sexual orientation! I hope to inspire others to join the cosplay or fandom scene.

Photograph by Leon Eiffe

Words by Leon Eiffe

If food be the language of love

Words by Sanusha S Sritharan

A found text poem using text messages with loved ones.

There

Made pasta for dinner

Will you be coming home for dinner?

Hahahaha down for cake or ice cream!!

let’s recreate our Mac and cheese day

I will keep some food, if you feel hungry eat then

lemme send you a short list *proceeds to send 15 food and drink recommendations*

Hope you are ready to be fed when you come lol I told her you’ll have had lunch and she was like ‘there is tea time’

Your bottle is up :)

Hi guys

Happy Deepavali folks! Please eat loads of good food on my behalf Done. Done. Done.

Was wondering if I should find a place for dinner tomorrow? And reserve?

I made a chocolate zucchini walnut cake today and thought of you!

Sounds good! Requesting a place with Milo dinosaurs and/or teh halia

I have some gigantic zucchinis from the garden + broccoli, beans, cherry tomatoes that need to be used up. We could attempt to cook something?

Really wanting some pandan waffles!

Dinner at home?

Recurring calendar event: groceries

Recurring calendar event: meal prep

Here

Free for dinner this Friday? In the city?

I'll leave basics like skim milk, bread and fruit and you'll be welcome to use anything else in the fridge and pantry

Brownie's ready! Come down

Just checking re dinner on Monday - will you have a fridge/freezer yet to store leftovers?

Left some tapioca chips from Singapore / Malaysia. Help yourselves!

Whipping up some Tom yum soup in a bit You prefer noodles or rice?

Recurring reminder: Meet a friend for a meal once a week

I love you and you like potatoes

Words by Monique Caston

Some potatoes are so hard that when you bite into them your teeth shatter. You feel the click of the skin breaking when you enter the flesh of the potato and it’s hard and not enjoyable. Some people enjoy those potatoes, but they are intense, and I know you don’t like intense things. These potatoes you need a knife and fork for. These potatoes are fresh from the ground, and they are raw and untouched.

But that’s not all potatoes. Because some are super soft and mushy, when they have been in warm water and in the microwave for the right amount of time, you’ll still feel that click of skin breaking, but the inside is hot, and you will burn your tongue.

What is better?

I don’t know but you'll burn your tongue on me. I've been in the microwave and the warm murky potato water for the right amount of time, but my timing is so off. Im so soft and I feel big emotions. My insides feel like the soft potato and my emotions feel like the potato water I am sat in. They surround me and I am constantly basking in their presence – they consume me. The feelings that I feel are so strong, so intense, and so absurd that it is merely laughable to imagine they are housed by a body. I drown in my emotions. But they aren't always bad. This all-consuming state gets overwhelming, and I often turn my back on them. But like waves, they still come crashing down and submerge me even more. These waves cause the little microwave bowl in which I am sat in, to turn into a massive ocean. No land in sight. Just murky potato water and me. It drizzles and storms and the weather is foul. And it rains. It’s humid and rainy. The condensation forms on the cover and rains down. Hot rain. Not even the water can provide comfort because the water is burning. My world is on fire. The water is hot, and I feel burnt. Potato water emotions aren’t bad, but they are extreme. From one extreme to the next. But they always intoxicate and drown me, and I can’t always swim. I hop around, drowning in happiness, sorrow, grief, you name

it, I’ve swum in it. I want to splash in the ocean of this murkiness and never come out. The sky above me is grey and burnt and drizzly. Going around and around in the microwave all feels so repetitive. And it is. The emotions are on loop, the buzz of the microwave and the hot burning water becomes overpowering, but I can’t find peace. Because my timing is off and if I tell you now, you’ll burn yourself. You take the potato out the microwave and let it cool. But it burns, and the water is too hot. I feel too deeply, and I cannot cool down. Im intense but that’s not me, it’s the water that I’ve sat in that keeps my temperature high, it keeps me intense, and I can’t think, and my timing is off. And once you break the skin the guts fall out, I’ll burn your tongue. I’ll say something and it'll stick with you. Even if you agree, the timing will be off, and you won’t reciprocate.

I know the flesh of the potato isn't offensive. You like potato. You chose potato. You chose potato when it was the 14th of February, and you chose it when you went for a drive and it was raining then, but that rain was cold, and you got wet, and you were cold not burnt. You chose potato on your free days, and you enjoyed it. You continue to choose potato and you continue to enjoy it. But it burns your tongue. You still like potato, but it just left something with you for longer than the time you were eating the potato. It left a burn that will linger long after the potato has been consumed.

You'll feel that burn on your sore tongue the next time you have something rough; you'll feel it the next time you have something sour, you'll feel the burn on our tongue the next time someone gives you a coffee and it burns in the same spot. The potato burn will stay with you but sometimes the potato won’t. And I am that potato. I feel big emotions, but I am allowed because I am young and dumb and I am allowed to be stupid and feel stupid big emotions and I am allowed to tell people these stupid big emotions, but you burnt your tongue on them because the timing was off, and you didn’t say it back. I didn’t think that I love you would burn, but your tongue must be red hot, and it burnt so much you stayed silent. But you still like potato. You still choose potato when the opportunity arises, and you still eat it when it’s there. And I do love you. I love you for not discarding that potato when it burnt you.

You thought that I was dreaming when I said I loved you. And I hate you now, you hate me now – but deep down, still these feelings deep down, we know it’s good. It’s temporary and it’s stupid but it’s good. And it’ll hurt when it’s over and it’ll burn and I’ll drown, and I won’t doubt that you will too. Still, I’m glad for what we had, and how I love you.

Photograph by Dhruvkumar Rajubhai Darji

Photographs by Sepideh Mehrpour Layeghi

Ngurrbul Nginyugu Artwork by Latisha Elphick

This artwork is called Ngurrbul nginyugu, which means "I love you" in Kaurna language. It’s a contemporary Aboriginal piece that represents my deep love, passion, and connection to Kaurna Country. Through this artwork, I express my bond with my family, my friends, and mob all around. As a proud Aboriginal woman, this piece is a celebration of my heritage and my place within it. Each element and color reflects the strength and beauty of my culture, and the pride I feel in my roots.

Photograph by Dhruvkumar Rajubhai Darji

Night at Granite Island

Photograph by Haider Surka

by Lydia Larsen

Photograph

This poem reveals the forgotten childhood of a villain—abandoned by the author and left to face cruelty, hunger, and injustice alone. Struggling to survive in a world that showed no mercy, he is shaped by pain and rejection. Over time, the powerless orphan turns into the very force he once feared. The Birth of Ruin captures that turning point—the moment an orphaned soul stops being a victim and chooses power, no matter the cost. This is where the villain’s story truly begins.

The Birth of Ruin

Words by Deona Alby

I’m the cursed, the bruised, the tamed

The victim of a scripted fate

My dreams are shattered, flung to the depths of hell, My future- just fragments of a history no one mourns

This raging fire behind my eyes

Screams the fury of a ravening, orphaned soul

Who wandered through these ruthless streets Hunger clawing at his ribs, thirst chocking his throat

No hand offered the stale remains of a feast

No mercy spared for this trodden beast

No one cared to look to meet my stare

Or spare a week old crump to this writers err.

I scavenged scraps, fought the sewer rats Drank from puddles laced with filth and fate

I despoiled, I fought, I bled

Even the rats were kinder than men.

I walked among those burdened with golden sachets

Their flesh adorned with filth disguised as wealth And bathed in the stench of their own excess

One glance at me, they spat

Asif I belonged to the gutters beneath their feet

I draped the Attire of bone etched poverty

While they with engorged stomachs and half empty hearts

Their heads always stood up so high with opium of power leaked from their minds

Power crushed me, humiliated me, starved me

So I took it

And now I am power

Words by Katie Leyden

Veracity's veil

The dead weight in my mouth, Yearning for a response, It's so quiet now. Has it always been this quiet? The sharp, chalky, twisted tang of Your words, Echo through my mind, body, soul. It's so quiet now. Has it always been this quiet? I close Your casket, though You left some time ago, Much like Your silhouette, who abandoned my cold frame, As my burning eyes faded to black. It's so quiet now. You shouldn't be this quiet Once were You tenderhearted, Your soft fleece now blankets, protects what has been left unspoken. Though I honoured You, Cradled You close to my unfortunate heart, You remain conspicuously quiet. Marking a new beginning. And taking the justice I deserved, You will place it into the shaking hands of another.