mxiris

middlesex art/litmag

Category: Poetry

Quotes

Quotes
are like promises
of remembrance
like framed pictures
or little mementos
of journeys
like compasses
or letters
maybe they are
relics that shroud
the present
like ghostly art
forms wandering streets
of unpaved concrete
I think quotes
are like
“going to sleep
right here
in mid-road”
like tempting time
to standstill
or drive on over

-Angelica Toumbas, January 2013

Chills

There’s nothing scarier
Than being on the edge.
There’s nothing more frightening
Than looking down
And realizing
That you can’t see the bottom.
There’s nothing more thrilling,
More ice-cold,
More exhilarating
Than being this close
To something so utterly unknown.
It is so terrifying
Yet so alluring
And it sends chills down my spine
Just to think
That I could take that step,
That I can leave.

-Abigail Sokolsky, November 2012

December

I.
The cold rips holes in my clothes but leaves my fingers and toes whole. Tattered
like sails I fly, complete like nowhere else can be/understand I go. Don’t stop me not
now no edge or ice can beat me, I promise. You are thin lines groomed. I am not, I
am too busy, I am being wind.

II.
I am not a treetop. I am not a treetop. I am above. I believe and am believed in, which
is to say have faith and be trusted, which is to say serve and rule. I am overtop,
mountaintop, lodgeside lookdown queen of the world. Cold air is the ultimate rush.
Please take away your signs and your metal and your nature, but you can leave –
down there – the tiny of the village, the farness of the mountains, the blueness of the
hills.

III.
This is control: the slip of a tip around a tree and through snow so deep you can’t
but hold still. The turn on a dime. The duck at the last second. The slide, the bend,
the subtle motion. The obvious. This is not: the decision to go and let your body stop
you. The unexpected rock. The jump unseen, the lack of depth perception, the flat
light, the flat, awkward thrusts. The falls.

IV.
Images beautiful of auld are overlayed by the world’s wintercrispness. Even the
beauty of fresh blackprinted text on a parchment coloured fresh new page is
dimmed by snow: no page is perfect white, it is dirty next to snow, it is trash, litter,
forgotten, a relic of the indoors and the warm and the fire and the fire is not here or
now. Compared to the coldbared treebranches against the flat purplegray endless
sky words’ elegance is overcomplicated, soft, fragile. This tells you nothing stands
against winter, even me.

-Elizah Stein, January 2013

Short and Dark in Hue

Uniform we stand, a tear, a giggle. Desist.

One minute for a life of millions.

I stand near the back; I never met the man.

Damn! Some coffee on this tie,

But it’s black and no one will notice right?

Aisles of aisles, so many it’s hard to count

The time I spend on work.

Lennon said it right, hard work and long days,

Not so long when you’re at the front,

But then it’s over and the earth muffles my giggle.

Desist.

-Alex Rego, December 2012

When Autumn Rises

Fading trees of fall

Squirrels dancing all around

New doors and new ends

-Jack Yoon, September 2012

Karst

Those who knew her called her spirited
She was beautiful – her laugh instantly recognizable
Her family defined her as compassionate
Sometimes spoiled, but always willing
To give everything
Everything in her to another soul
If it might make them smile
She liked to say she was made of
Country roads
Cattle ranches
and the Ozark Mountains

But she knew
She was found somewhere else
In someone else
When she saw her reflection in his eyes
How he had managed to work his way into
Her heart
Infusing the blood it pumped with his essence
And how somehow he engendered
The little girl forgotten
After leaving the home she used to know
In braids and dancing and strawberries and big skies

How a single word that slipped his lips
Made her question her whole world
But still she crafted her perfect answer
In his ability to make her feel so strong
So safe
So loved
So content
With the organized mess that she was
She pounded out her trail with him
Wrote her history while his warmth
Kept her searching for that next breath
And the next
And the next
And the next

-Anonymous, November 2012

Chills

There’s nothing scarier
Than being on the edge.
There’s nothing more frightening
Than looking down
And realizing
That you can’t see the bottom.
There’s nothing more thrilling,
More ice-cold,
More exhilarating
Than being this close
To something so utterly unknown.
It is so terrifying
Yet so alluring
And it sends chills down my spine
Just to think
That I could take that step,
That I can leave.

-Abigail Sokolsky, November 2012

Take Me

Hello Love,
I thought I saw you today,
Locked in an embrace,
Oblivious to the world,
Trapped in a kiss.
But then you turned,
Were something darker in hue,
A black magic rose,
Thriving in somewhere,
Too entwined,
To have grown off of Light.
But you grew off of something
Equally as beautiful,
Dark as the night,
Thick as oil,
And equally as hard to understand.
I realized that I’d mistakenly
Assumed you were Love,
And, strangely, was not disappointed.
You were more beautiful,
Most precious,
And much more rare.
For you cannot survive forever,
And each moment,
In your presence,
Is a jewel.
When you know that there’s a limit,
When you’ve accepted that there may not be a tomorrow,
That is when,
You open your petals,
And Passion,
You take us away.

-Abigail Sokolsky, November 2012

The Sea

An Idle King

 

the sea, the sea!

it beckons

beguilingly.

it rises and falls and plaintively calls,

“to me!

to me!”

 

beguilingly…

“dive in!

you’ll see!”

i am it and it is me

 

i am

the sea.

i am become a name

a thought

a whisper…

 

the void calls.

i am not.

 

-Hannah Brown, October 2012

Ruy Belo

I have been translating from Portuguese a poet
who as a young man before he left
the Church belonged to Opus Dei.
He studied canonical law in Rome.
I never get his name right.
But he left and he wondered
what happened to childhood and spilled
the animal spirit of the sad, an animal sadness,
olive trees in rain men working
things all the things left to themselves
sunset being nothing and nobody else
across a thousand pages, more, drew from stones
the music necessary to continue.
I cannot get his rhymes right,
these casual quatrains on the death
of a famous cyclist, day dying,
how he kills himself by letting both arms fall,
a minha maneira de me matar
é deixar cair ambos os braços.
I want to translate “Humphrey Bogart”
but can’t get it right. Pure-water gaze.
The poet’s brother.
Only sunset
sunset only sunset and not even that

-Mr. Hilsabeck, October 2012