Category: Poetry 2021

Towel

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.

 

Ode to the Sun

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.

 

rancour, black

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.

October Silhouette

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.

Educe

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.

Tears of a Clown

by Brianna Jo Hobson

Eyelash curl, the insect lipstick is wet.
Heartstrings cut, the eyeshadow castrate.

My smile, a deep segmented crack—foundation coils to jack in the box my neck.
No matter how much I stroke, the painting won’t dry on its own
The vanity brush is artifice down my throat.

My eyesight bloodshot, the tile beneath my feet, solidified pus
Conditioning at its finest, the mirror tells me;
“I’m prettier in folds of hemorrhage eyelids.”

Hidden behind bile eyeliner, the tears of the clown have now widened
Nosebleeds run thin and stain the inside of my bra lining
“Did you hear she hides her flaws with blush and highlighter?”

They say you can’t be proud if you choose to play your face
Feminism is not about what they give you—it’s about what’s taken

When beauty is at stake, makeup becomes the knife on your plate.

 


Brianna Jo Hobson is a poet, essayist, and short fiction writer from the Bronx. Her work skews more towards horror as she is heavily inspired by folklore, surrealism, dark fairytales, and the gothic subculture. She was one of the recipients of The Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Writing in 2020 and is a part of LaGuardia’s graduating class of 2021. She aspires to have a career in book publishing and will be attending Baruch College in Fall 2021, pursuing her Bachelor’s in English. You can find her blog here and find her on Instagram @m0thluv.


Image credit: “Palette,” Toshiyuki IMAI. Flickr CC BY-SA 2.0.

Prosthetic

by Brianna Jo Hobson

Apron string, tied and undone like an umbilical cord
Stitching needle loops through hypodermic buttonhole

I cinch every waist that dears to breathe,
Every pupil that tears to cry or prickle

Corset skin beset like silken organdy—unraveled, cut, slip knotted,
Kept, like, a woman, I suppose

The presser foot stands on the bulge of my neck,
But I survive, I survive. Every time through the skirt of pleated breath.

Prosthetic scissors are phallic, like Freudian appliqué.
I do what I can, to hide my dysmorphia, like crinoline under a dressing gown form

I slit, I snip, I rip, I sigh, but I can’t thread material to twill free-will
or save my midwife life,

With birthing pangs ruffled and sharpened to needlepoint,
My bleeding heart materializes as wire hanger anger sewn

Mannequin arms, and legs, attached by a string of crewel,
I, lay figure, abortifacient of expectations, am shot, sutured and brutally reused.

Only bodkin eye holes left to pierce and peep tom through

I stab and seam, bind and weave, emotions, only to have them locked away and closeted,

Rope of my rapist’s mother’s homespun tapestry, hangs there, in embroidery, “We always weep what we sew.”

A pincushion of unblinking gender sits in chest; caught mid-swallow,
between lips, amidst deep throat,

Undressed and depressed, crocheted in Kitchener stitch, I am a gentle whore,
Abhorred as a replica bore, forever, an Eve dummy

To be knit upon, hit and, ignored.


Listen to Brianna Jo Hobson read “Prosthetic” below.


Brianna Jo Hobson is a poet, essayist, and short fiction writer from the Bronx. Her work skews more towards horror as she is heavily inspired by folklore, surrealism, dark fairytales, and the gothic subculture. She was one of the recipients of The Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Writing in 2020 and is a part of LaGuardia’s graduating class of 2021. She aspires to have a career in book publishing and will be attending Baruch College in Fall 2021, pursuing her Bachelor’s in English. You can find her blog here and find her on Instagram @m0thluv.

Something Lost

by Louis Febres

It started out small. Borrowing from brothers, sisters, cousins, and neighbors, until it grew strong enough to stand on its own. We took it from our tiny village as we braved nearby lands, and from the lips of a few it blazed like wildfire. Across cities it went, propagating knowledge, wisdom, and tales of our people. Through it our ancient gods sprang to life, our world was given form, and our heroes gloried in triumphs across terrestrial and celestial battlegrounds. Spoken, written, and sung, it birthed our every thought.  

One morning, the strangers came. If not for their outlandish clothing and ornamentation, they would have appeared to be our brethren from the Eastern border. When we spoke our words of welcome, they were received with bewilderment and returned with jumbled sounds we could not comprehend. And when we presented to them our words of proclamation and law, they met our eyes with scornful gazes and spat upon our parchment and clay.

Soon after, blood was spilled. The fighting lasted many weeks. Their enormous ships piled upon our shores in great flocks, on their backs the never-ending rows of warriors, delivering destruction and death with their strange and barbaric implements. When our cities choked on rot and ruin, and our babes suckled the shriveled breasts of dying mothers, we could no longer resist; we bent our knees, and our land was theirs.

In time, it became small again, like in the early days. It was spoken only by a few elders, but by then the temples were rubble, our halls of learning cinder, and the sacred scriptures and wise words turned ash. And when the elders perished, so too did our language disappear, like a whisper in the sea.

 


Check out our Questions for Louis Febres.


Louis Febres worked by day and studied by night but since the pandemic, it’s been a big blur of work and study from home and he no longer knows when the days begin and end. He knows he was born in Brooklyn and has lived in Queens most of his life. He was once a musician bursting with creativity, and then the 9-to-5, family life, health issues and an assortment of events derailed him. He likes to think he is back on track, finding a new creative outlet in writing, and soldiering on like everyone else.


Image credit: “Languages,” ArTeTeTrA. Flickr CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.