Poetpourri (multiple authors)

Poetpourri 

You Surrender

 

Kate Sullivan

Undergraduate/Print Journalism

Living listless in this world of mine.
Detailed dreams are more my thing.
You surrender to the stars they say.
No, I just live among.
Misjudgment, terrors, rejection.
They all rein in this dynasty.
That dark blue seen above.
Swirls of atmosphere given a spark.
Inspiration hits and I shatter.
All the fervor in these skies keeps me captivated.
You surrender to the stars they say.
No, I just live among.
Set me down, let me go.
I only want to forgo this experience.
I never wanted to be tried and tested.
Come back down to Earth rings in.
These words never steal a thought.
You surrender to the stars they say.

 

This Girl

Lisa Brancaccio

Undergraduate/Print Journalism

This girl
is taking a stand.
A stand against the man,
against the system.
The system that sits him
at the head of the table,
at the head of the home.
When I come home
I want to be alone,
alone at my desk
with my pen and my pad,
not alone in the kitchen
washing dishes your mother had.
Is that what I am
expected to do?
Fuck you.
I am independent
and I refuse
to be dependent on a man,
especially one without
a fucking clue.
If you men only knew
all the shit we go through.
We spend our lives pleasing,
believing that what we are achieving
is a better standing,
a better chance at love.
The Lady said it best,
this beat,
this love game is sick.
It makes us pick
between loving ourselves
and feeling loved by you.
This girl
has played the game
and has lost every time.
Every rhyme,
every line I compose
is composed of spite
and a bitter regret
that I cannot get
to where I want to be
by just being me.
I have to grab attention
with a fucking curse
or a sexual rhyme.
This girl
is taking a stand
against all future commands
telling me to dress to impress.
I’m pressed for time,
but not without any sign
of hope or reason to believe
that I can achieve
all of my dreams,
including the dreams
that scream for a little love.
This love game is sick
and this girl,
she fucking quits.

 

Is This Poem Bad Enough For NOTA?

 

Tim Heinen

 

Undergraduate/Creative Writing

 

 

the ocean WAVES bash against my suicidal head

i can't find my favorite shirt

because you stole it

...my hate is so red.

i'm drowning like a FISH

but my whole body is one big lung...

                         ...lungs

                  ...tongues

...other languages.

 

Toxic
Katelyn Derricott

 

Undergraduate/Education and Dance

 

His love for me feels like toxins filling my lungs and I'm addicted
With feet trying to graze anything for stability as I fall further and deeper
But nothing can hold my force anymore
His love is pure, raw, rough, and sharp
and his passion burns
Like fire through my core, past my flesh
into my lungs and pounds my being
until my teeth grind, nails rip, hair pulls
and my bones are forced to crumble under the pressure
His love moves me like a current, and I'm drowning
My heartbeat consumes my senses when I feel his love
and my breath is so heavy, so thick
Has love ever felt this raw?
Where there are no walls, no boxes
No structure, no rules, no straight lines
Where passion is real and messy and filthy
His love is toxic
and I'm addicted to what burns

I Sold Out...But Didn't Get Paid

 

Charles Liedl

 

Undergraduate/Undeclared

 

Tell me I am ugly

and I'll cover you like a Snuggie

be the horse to your buggy

but no matter how much I like it,

I'll never be your hubby

So put away the bubbly

  cuz the institutions dead

who still gets married

   before they get in bed?

You know sex don't mean shit

 it's what’s inside the heart that counts

not what's inside the chick--

not all desires come from my dick

and dudes like that make me fuckin' sick

So send 'em to th' academy

 to learn more than just anatomy

the heart is a part of me

and the parts are very sad in me

    The bad in me

often outshines all the good

Like a junkie on the corner

  of a nice neighborhood

 You know if I could

change my ways I would

That is what most people never understood

The Idiocy, Theodicy

 

Evan Gillick

 

Undergraduate/Spanish

 

With a cavalcade of righteousness he strode into the dungeon.

All hail the Grand Inquisitor, the kindly old curmudgeon!

With whips and flails and swords and sticks he'll bring the men release,

justice in the form of pain wrought by the Prince of Peace.

 

Draped in San Benitos, headed to the Auto de Fé

march the damned, delirious, whose faith they did betray.

“Bind them to the posts,” says he, “make sure you do it tight.

We cannot let these men escape the coming of His light.”

 

Ignite, did they, a burning grace.  Divine, holy police.

Scriptures from the Word of God, spake the hooded priests.

“Our work is done, we pardon none, we treat them all the same.

The only way to cleanse their sin is burn them in the flame.”

 

A war, fought He, of righteousness against the plague of sin.

All you need to win their souls is melt some mortal skin.

“Padre!” they'd cry.  “Padre!” they'd say.  “Le ruego perdóname.”

Salvation didn't come for them, no matter how much they prayed.

 

Thus left the Grand Inquisitor, back to his lavish keep

to feast upon what he stole from all the frightened sheep.

As their lives surrendered to the night with ember's sound,

the holy work was finished, yet no holy man was found.

 

Many know this story, far too few find it odd

that while they murdered in His name there was no sign of God.

To you, the fallen heretic, I tip my glass of wine.

Tonight we burn together of their ignorance divine.

 

the things we (can) do to each other

 

Stephen Hilger

 

Alumni/Political Science and History

 

If I were a soldier,

I would fuck you

With one eye in sorrow,

And the other,

   Reveling in my future death.

In a reckless haste

            I ejaculate,

marooning you

   on an island of pregnancy

Stepping into my boots,

   I dissipate

into a mirage of camouflage,

and never

  look back.

 

If I were a musician,

   You would beg

            to fuck me.

In greed

            You struggle

with a ferocity, a depravity,

  known only to despair.

            Seeking to steal away,

a flicker, a beckon,

of my muse

to Illuminate

your banal existence.

           

If I were a banker,

            And you my wife,

I arrive home,

not knowing,  

  what is for dinner

And whether

you will be fucking me, (or thy neighbor).

 

If I touch you like this,

(where I know you like)

Will you come outside

into the sun,

and let your body

shudder,

As our souls bask

  in the sunlight of creation,

If not just for

 a moment?

 

           

Will you forgive my insecurities,

            And

                        Fall

into my arms

                        trembling?

(As I do for you?)

 

Silent Sibling

Emily Diehl

Undergraduate/Print Journalism

A bowl of long blond hair sways below his ears
his green Rod Stewart shirt creases as he curls a
strand with his finger. The aviators fit like a vintage
leather jacket.

A three parted goatee shows style only he masters,
the cakey shorts go unnoticed on this cloud covering
afternoon. A young man in need of more sleep,
“Foolish Sucka” he quotes.

He loves a Blatz at three in the afternoon and watching
Eagle vs. Shark. His four roommates share the corner couch
and forward to the best parts.

Around five, they walk through the alley to friends and start
the night. A live band sings "How's It Going To Be?"
and some old spiced rum is passed around, the beer
tastes like rust, must be Keystone.

The house begins to settle and we walk down 11th street
before the rain. At the crosswalk I see a teal-green shirt and
innocent eyes.

Their breakup was oppressive, five years, maybe six, disturbed
by a rupture in words. Rough, like practicing karate hip high in
the ocean.

She was once my friend, a misplaced smile, and an absent hug,
wishing to not let that boy get to West Avenue without me,
he wants to depart, I can feel the feet between us, like a hesitant
courtesy act at an intersection.

She invites him to a hug, trying to settle this traffic. He declines
and starts to cease this yield.

An acknowledged existence comes, but I turn to the nervous
shoulders and gloomy faced kid, he is calling a friend to give
directions, the hushed silence follows us like a wisp of cologne
drenching the conversation.

I pat his arm with my invisible hands and am shorted by an
Attempt to find my beautiful words for him.
Nothing.

Yet I know he will be all right, I am there, and he is too,
my brother, who gives me reason to track down
those flawless verbs.

Animal Facts- Volume III- Marsupials

 

Patrick Fritz-Morkin

 

Undergraduate/ Information Systems

Ben Villwock

 

Undergraduate/ Environmental and Public Heath

 

The koala bear is actually not a bear, but a marsupial.

In Australia, a male kangaroo is called a “boomer,” a female is a “flyer,” and a baby is referred to as a “joey.”

The wombat has a backwards facing pouch, so that dirt doesn’t get inside it while digging.

Kangaroos are excellent swimmers. They have been spotted more than one mile from the shoreline.

Tasmanian devils love food. One escaped from captivity and ate over 50 chickens in two days.

The pouch on a marsupial is called the marsupium.