by Irving Rodriquez
Irving Rodriguez is a traditional artist born in the Dominican Republic. His feelings of being Dominican are expressed through art, using complementary colors to represent his personas and he attempts to use the concept of dualism by using his palette divergently. Irving likes to experiment with pens and uses dry mediums involving chalk pastels, graphite pencils, and charcoal. Irving’s main interest is exploring how lines react and form to create one final product.
by Jeremy Orozco
Jeremy Orozco (b. 1995) is a photographer from New York City. In 2021, he is currently studying to receive his degree in Commercial Photography. He is passionate about Photojournalism as well as cultivating images that speak and give light to subjects that are often overlooked.
by Destiny Rosales
Destiny Rosales is a 19 year-old Brooklyn-bound Creative Writing major with interests in Visual Art, Theater, and Film. She hopes to become a professional screenwriter or an author/illustrator.
When we were asked to write a “home” piece, it was really hard because I moved a lot and I never felt that “home” feeling, even until this day it still feels like something is missing. I was inspired to personify my old homes by Colson Whitehead’s “City Limits” where he talks about being a New Yorker and what stories your old apartments would tell. I liked the idea of my old addresses being sort of an old babysitter that looked after me and taught me things. I was also heavily inspired to open up by Sonia Alejandra Rodriguez’s “Witness Mami Roar.” I cried deep belly tears reading her essay and related with it so much.
I did not intend for my essay to end the way it did. I actually left my mom looking like the bad guy at first, but the more I revised it and started finding the double meaning to “welcomed into this world.” I realized that she never felt at home either and she struggled to be accepted in this “world” that we were more easily accepted in because we were born here. This piece helped me open my eyes about a lot of things as I wrote it.
Because of the pandemic, I had time to go back to school and take a writing course. I think the quarantine helped me slow down and reflect on a few things. I forgot that I loved reading and writing. What has happened during the pandemic is tragic and it still feels very hard but I would say writing again is the silver lining to it for me.
Read Madelyn’s nonfiction flash “Into This World.”
Image credit: “Apartments,” Stu Rapley. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
by Stella Gleitsman
I thought a towel in my room was a man today
I thought a clothing rack was a man when I went out shopping
I thought there was a man behind the shower curtain this morning.
I keep on being a delusional woman
I keep on seeing shit that’s not there
Is this what being a girl is?
Having a vision that is untrustworthy, a mind playing all these tricks on you.
Making these accusations,
yelling at nothing, screaming at clouds,
At all the birds who pierce through them.
I tell everyone how small that boy made me feel
How he violated my spiritual space, harassed my body.
They burst out laughing, tell me, everything’s fine, no one’s out to get you, relax.
But I can’t relax, see, I am afraid of everything, even shadow puppets.
I see a man everywhere
I see a death everywhere
And aren’t they just about the same thing?
You see the man and then the woman’s body turns up a day later, bloated, mangled, frozen, ripped to shreds.
At times I think what I’m seeing are ghosts, stuck here, going through the motions of violence until it ends differently.
The ghosts are ten feet tall and breathing down my neck, eyeing my every move.
I am frozen and shaky and stupid before them.
I’ve noticed I’m always waiting for male violence to end differently,
to end in softness,
in tears, in love poems.
But the truth is that man was waiting for me to get out of the shower
The clothing rack man had been stalking me in my closet for weeks
The towel followed me home from the corner store– blocked my path, asked me to come back to his place
When I said nothing — when I said I needed to get home
He covered me in his starchy terry cloth
He wrung me out dry
I don’t bathe for years,
I reek of sweat
My hair in knots
Oh, I’m so tired of soap
Oh, I’m so hungry for dirt.
Listen to Stella Gleitsman read her poem “Towel.”
Stella Gleitsman grew up in the Lower East Side of Manhattan and is a Writing and Literature major in her freshman year at LaGuardia. She has been writing poetry ever since she was 13 years old, often about mental health, feminism, Jewish identity, and spirituality. She views poetry as a place of healing, catharsis– a safe place to speak freely–and hopes that her poetry can connect with others and touch their lives in some way. You can find her on Instagram @stell__uh, and as well as her poetry account, at the handle @stellaisapoet.
Image credit: “Towel,” Kevin Steinhardt. Flickr CC BY-SA 2.0.
by Stella Gleitsman
We think we are big men
But the only big man is the sun
The sun is the biggest crone in the galaxy
And we owe her our life
She is stretched and blistered skin on the back of an aged woman
She is the witch in the nursery rhyme
I see her lying on the corner every day, I keep my eyes forward and up
The sun is everything that makes your head ache and sway,
It is every hateful thing women have done to themselves,
Every descent into madness from heatstroke
Water that’s so hot it’s icy
Love that looks so much like hate it grows back as love
When it’s so hot, your tears melt your cheeks away
When it’s so hot, your skeleton shivers,
When it’s so on fire that it’s home again,
It’s mother’s arms again,
dressed in blood again.
Stella Gleitsman grew up in the Lower East Side of Manhattan and is a Writing and Literature major in her freshman year at LaGuardia. She has been writing poetry ever since she was 13 years old, often about mental health, feminism, Jewish identity, and spirituality. She views poetry as a place of healing, catharsis– a safe place to speak freely–and hopes that her poetry can connect with others and touch their lives in some way. You can find her on Instagram @stell__uh, and as well as her poetry account, at the handle @stellaisapoet.
Image credit: “Sun,” Nigel Howe. Flickr CC BY-NC 2.0.
by Amir Bouanane
the gathering of ether,
the dancer in the morgue
and the crow perched
awaiting the toll of 6 p.m.
then it bites the night, this
gavel that fares better for
its midday patrons, no matter
still; it’s an alcoholics reception.
that’s the way it oughta be,
says my father. it all breaks
into the dregs of autumn,
and i protract a thought—
segment it, parse out the
divinity. i offer it bare,
flesh pink—throbbing and
portly. he just nods.
stifles breath to muffle
and on cue, death begins.
real death; he who commences
the unspooling of shadows
Amir Bouanane is a New York City based, Moroccan-American poet, writer, artist and life observer who finds comfort in the gentle magic of words—through which he aspires to translate the soul imbued in scenes of life to give others a measure of catharsis or amenity.
by Amir Bouanane
she bought two bottles of raindrops—
matched the evening with a light.
drowning rituals, exhales for past
-time; in every game—an outcome.
the memory vendor omits
this part—
it doesn’t undo the feeling of
ghost company. death too can
be a bargain, like the words
“if suddenly,” followed by
pause. then who is it that comes to
collect the bottles; why is it, now, when
i press my ear to the world, i am starved
to the sound of everyone living without
me.
Listen to Amir read “October Silhouette”
Amir Bouanane is a New York City based, Moroccan-American poet, writer, artist and life observer who finds comfort in the gentle magic of words—through which he aspires to translate the soul imbued in scenes of life to give others a measure of catharsis or amenity.
Image credit: “Bottle,” Bruce Osborn. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
by Senhui Zhao
Senhui Zhao is a student at LaGuardia College who likes animation and painting. He was inspired by the observation of daily life, showing the life of oranges through stop-motion animation.
by Iris Triunfel Flores
My mind is a thief at the bank of comfort;
drop of water lands on tissue
disease makes the body ache
hug lasts too long
ball bounces far out my grasp
glue keeps my back against the wall
sugar rush brings me down
mosquito hums too close to my ear
tiny bass player
an affliction of the heart
a flea sticks to fur
My mind is a white room with one window;
I love you leaves you speechless
pill with a long list of possible side effects
speedily acknowledge
words slice another’s soul
possibility of boarding a train about to leave
balloon was supposed to soar high
crushed snail
Daylight illuminates the rough edges
Moonlight reigns over someone that’s not me.
My mind is the brake to a speeding car;
a flower that blooms
box decorated with truth
an extension cord of all connections
home to the curious
unit with omnific intent
it is the wick that burns
Iris Triunfel is currently a sophomore at LaGuardia Community College, majoring in Writing and Literature. She started writing poetry in her second year of high school and has since been dedicated to further expanding her knowledge of writing. She never had taken a poetry class or shared her writing before but LaGuardia Community College, more specifically the poetry writing course, was the first place where she shared her writing pieces and learned what it meant to truly write. There is a certain vulnerability in sharing your creativity with others, but Iris believes one of the most valuable things is the feedback you receive from people that want to help.
