Volare 3.2: Flora and Fauna

CLASSICS CREATIVE JOURNAL

VOLARE 3.2

APRIL

2020 | FLORA & FAUNA

VOLARE

ISSUE 3.2: FLORA&FAUNA Neha Rahman

II

Climate Change Triptych

Beatrice LefebvreBabinsky

VI

Hyacinthus

Marshall Zuckerman

VII

Asphodel

Adam Rosengarten

IX

Strings and Slings

Adeline Li

X

Illusion

Matthew Montanaro

XI

Wonderment

Editor -in-Chief Cover Design

Sara Merker Elizabeth Poggie Taryn Power

Layout

Meghan O'Donnell Lexie White Keisuke Nakajima Sarah Rahajason

Editorial Board

Special thanks to the AUS Journal Fund

I

Climate Change Triptych Neha Rahman

. polemic fallacy

I

i went looking for daphnis in the rust belt and did he feel like his lyre was torn from his hands by some greedy democrat in the city who had never herded poems in the sun

gathering a garland of grievances he sang hit by the muse and burning from the heat and did he lobby his representative, whistling and singing verses behind picket signs

did fear wander itinerant in his chest moving his breath through the panpipes as the wind pinned us to the warm soil so as to not let us make suburbs of our dreams

instead, bury our thoughts in long tunnels beneath the ground, and running through us so, when the mythic shepherd took his last breath carbon mingled with the country air in his chest

so someone send theocritus to alberta where he can stand knee deep in raw bitumen

II

soot in his mouth, where his song would have been

II.sea levels

today, i am watching the raindrops race down the windowpane slow, subtle rivers are formed and veins of tributaries in the frost

soon, the flood will carry chunks of civilization in the undertow everything will look different so submerged, and perhaps someday another deucalion puts on his scuba gear and salvages something from the corner store like it is the titanic

but today, a long drive in the rain, on the highway, in the evening the headlights of cars diffuse like watercolour, acid in the rain

and someday, pyrrha is picking the seaweed out of her hair when, a few abortive bubbles of breath, as the stones are cast and the fish rise from the ocean once again, to form legs

III.generation gilgamesh

so we walked, you and i, into a dark green land. you hadn’t checked the map, but i knew the way,

and i was thinking:

III

two hands joined, look a lot like rope, like gordian knots, and untangleable nodes, and when you let go, it’s like the edges fray. solidarity is hard to come by these days.

so you asked what was on my pitch black mind. you hadn’t brought a torch, and the power was out,

and you were saying:

if we aren’t supposed to take it, then why does anything exist? this forest, it is mine i am wisest, i am abroad in the world. finally we have left home, to capture, seize, and own.

so i wondered what you wanted because i have never loved something so much that i wanted to die.

and it was this:

this dark green land this hot breath of air this hand in mine this mountain cave this beast of burden this divine secret this inevitable fate this descent into death this rosy dawn this sea-dark drink this moon-white milk this untouched font

IV

so we walked into the questions that had no answers. you weren’t thinking and i couldn’t stop,

and then i saw:

a monster lived, in a cold purple cave, his family hid. i begged you not to kill him. he was a steward of his forest, we were guests, we were friends. i lost my voice in the bloodshed.

so you became the king of the forest, king of unseen tragedy, king of golden heaps, and i learned what it meant, to wait for death.

V

Hyacinthus

Beatrice Lefebvre-Babinsky

VI

Asphodel Marshall Zuckerman

Asphodel ripe below the sheep, While at the thresh the farmers meet.

The freeholders prepare the grain For that week’s sow, a time for games.

From down the hill and far a field The shepherds moved, missing the yield.

The cliffs so full of Asphodel Are stripped down bare by flocks pell-mell.

No meadows, No ripened crop bud, Though olive branches bloom above.

The Earth is numb with sculpted bands Made fallow both by orf and hand.

The ground is thick with mud and brine, But the green shoots of vineyards shine.

Only the weed Asphodel stays, Though not with it the shepherds play.

They had accustomed to make nets To catch in flies, make them their pets.

Now busy with the weaning’s work, Their livelihoods they mustn’t shirk.

VII

And so they stand, scoping the plane, While flocks drive out seeking to mate.

Alone, each lad misses the peak, Asphodel ripe below their feet.

VIII

Strings and Slings: A Garden Meditation Adam Rosengarten

Invited Muse: play for me, On sweetly sounding strings, In this garden, the daffodil, the bee, All listen most attentively, So pluck your melody and sing of heroic kings my heart longs to hear how the kithara rings.

Tell me how it was in those bygone days When Achilles donned raiment and mightily slays The lionhearted son of Peleus stirs not in want of resplendent chests For gold is not what honour confers When such valour is found not in other men’s breasts; The river, Scamandros, is clogged with flesh, Its bed is ruddied and rapids a halt Comrades minced like wheat in thresh But with Fates’ spin, can it be Man’s fault?

Clouds of dust hover thickly in the din, and the Lords hold fast to their reigns in the carriage; Vengeful Achilles drags Hector’s untarnished skin; And the women of Troy lament their marriage.

The ramparts assailed, the city ablaze leagues of ships weigh swollen with prizes, The Achaean warrior sits on high a dais, Mortals and Mighty feast as smoke arises.

Blood is cheapened, souls are raised, The age of Glory you have indeed praised.

IX

Illusion

Adeline Li

X

Wonderment Matthew Montanaro

The steep cliffs rise on all sides.

No, wait! Only three.

The fourth gives way to a vast, Never ending sea with waves Lapping gently on the sandy shore.

Looking to the horizon Where it would be expected to find the Moon, A beautiful Jovian instead takes up much of the vista’s space.

Only part of it, As half of the giant, sea foam sphere Dips beneath the horizon, as if partly sunk, Although it is indeed slowly rising.

Though its brilliance is not blinding It is certainly spellbinding As its gentle light casts a heavenly aura Round the partly visible sphere.

The reflection on the water, Disturbed by the waves, Makes a shimmering shell that hides the secrets below.

Turning landward, the cliffs are a ghostly white Dotted with golden light The little flowers, A wondrous sight, But only if you would stop.

Looking just above the cliff face,

XI

Opposite the rising planet, Are the stars, Perfect, silent, twinkling gems Dotting the ink black sky Dotting the ink black sky, Giving the feeling of smallness In relation to them all, As the perfect, silent, twinkling gem, That which the beach and Jovian orbit, Is the centre of existence For these and visible planets in the distance.

And giving it thought, How could one not, The silver flecks in the sky are planes of being Planes of being on which others might be equally pondering the glorious heavens, that which they see above, to have their eyes catch sight of the perfect, silent, twinkling gem around which you reside as you sail the eternal expanse.

XII

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