Photograph by Nicole Dahlmer

The Lament of the Restless Ophelia by Pauline Cruz

Act 4, Scene 8

[Ophelia’s Ghost enters on stage]

Ophelia’s Ghost

Oh, Hamlet! Why did you drive me to this?
Why throw me in the abyss of despair?
I loved you and I thought you felt the same.
But was it all a ruse, an illusion?
Did I become like dead flowers to you?
Once you treated me like a fine red rose.
Then you abhorred me like I was nightshade.
Is it my fault for abandoning you,
When you needed my love for you the most?
Should I have disregarded my father,
And ran towards you when I had the chance?
Should I have ignored my dear brother,
And given you my violets instead?
As the rain falls strongly so do my tears.
My tears run like the brook that took my life.
Surrounded by flowers, I drowned and died.
Madness led me to believe that I’d live,
That I would melt into the blue waters,
That I would be restored like the flowers,
Heliotrope, Lily of the Valley
Orange Blossoms and the Forget-me-not
After all, they are most beautiful wet
But instead life is worthless as weeds.
I gave you everything and look at me.
I have no reason to exist again!
Now the king and my brother seek your death.
There is nothing I can do to stop this!
All I can give you now are these few words.
Take care, my dear Hamlet, tread carefully,
Or end up a wandering ghost like me.

Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist by Lucas Olson

Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist

by Lucas Olson

- Preface -

Here.

Here I sit.

Book at my feet,

storm rolling by above my window.

There is no better time to write,

I think

than in the evening

while nature happens upstairs.

It's a poetic occurrence,

that begs a poetic response,

begs the writer to write,

the reader to read.

“Now.” the thunder roars.

Yes, then.

Now.

- I -

Portrait of the young man

as an artist

Can the former

be the latter?

Young has connotations.

Youth, even more.

It doesn't call to teenagers

as much as to children.

To me at least.

To my ear

and eye

and finger.

It summons

what the young call young

The elementary

and the kindergarten.

Pouting on foam letters

because I annoyed my

best friend too much

But it's nothing in ten minutes

(When looking backwards,

all time ten minutes)

Because we'll run over rocks

and over a red wooden playground

(That's gone now

I used to have a splinter as a keepsake.

That's gone now too.)

Ten minutes later

we're around a spring pool

filled with tadpoles and April mud

In ten minutes

it's dried.

In another ten minutes

the park is gone.

In ten more

so is he.

Pulled

into a deeper Mass.

He's a different person now.

Of course, so am I.

The caster of the shadow of my former self

But it was nice while it was there.

I met him

when we moved in,

actually.

Into the light blue apartment

(like a castle to me then)

The rug was dark blue,

thick,

snagging.

I always scraped my knees on it.

There used to be

a bush in the front

(two actually,

but one was

the hornet's castle)

If you crawled under a break in the brush

(your knees squishing the

powder blue berries

into green juices)

you could climb through the web of branches

and peak into the outside

from your cavern of wooden arms.

It's gone now

(Both of them)

Pulled and tugged

from the place it called home.

To make room for patches of dirt,

I suppose.

- II -

I didn't want to include

my age in the title.

Seventeen

has connotations as well.

More apt to conjure images

of a magazine built on stereotypes

than of a young man with a notebook.

(Though it's not like I'm

the target audience)

That's the problem with

branding an age.

They've stolen a year of associations.

- III -

B is a loaded letter,

isn't it?

It's one that stings

and one that questions.

What is it to be?

Furthermore,

what is it to be a bee?

Though I suppose many of us know,

since it's hard to be a child

and not dance through a field thick with pollen

breathing in the smell of June.

(That's a smell right?

That's not just me?)

I know that I have.

I've stood in more June fields

than you can count on one hand.

I've stood in June fields in

August

and in

November

and in

February.

I've stood in June fields in

the pine forests

and

on grainy, sweating beaches.

It's not so much an actual place to me

as an idea.

A picturesque grassy field

fenced in by leafy trees

waving “Hello” as the wind prods at them.

This isn't somewhere real.

Not really.

If it is, it's uncommon.

It's a usurped memory.

The seeds of a whole forest

planted in our heads

perhaps by media

or

perhaps by evolution.

Whatever the case,

we've all run through Elysium

and come clear out the other side.

We forgot where it was,

so we just made more

and projected them on top of

other memories.

- IV -

Does the world

ever really get older,

if there are still young eyes looking at it?

It seems to age personally.

The 80 year old war veteran next door

certainly didn't live in my world.

Nor me in his.

His was a old world

with new things coming in

and trying to change it.

My world is new things.

My world is change.

But somewhere there is a newer world.

Where someone still doesn't know how it works.

Or how we think it works.

Or how I think we think it works.

Where there are still witches in the basement

and dragons in the attic.

And where your room can

still become a forest

if you think hard enough.

I can still turn things into a forest.

It's different though.

I have to describe the stretching,

snapping,

bedposts as they grow thick

and throw their rough limbs outward.

I have to describe the carpet,

as the light brown

melds into a darker one

and softens into earthy loam

thick with curling leaves

and orange needles.

I have to describe the walls,

as they melt away and fall into

the trees behind them

taking along the ceiling

leaving only damp leaves

and moonlight

in its stead.

I have to describe the air,

as it thickens

and deepens

and the smell of petrichor

and moss

begin to bleed into the oxygen.

I have to describe the sound

as the roar of cars

and the ring of speakers

tilts into moving water

and chirping crickets.

I can still do it.

It's different than before,

but it can be done.

I can put the thoughts in the ink.

But it may take a lot of ink.

Empty House by Lucas Olson

 

            Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. To him it felt like an unnatural, uncomfortable darkness, as if his eyes had refused to adjust. But that didn't make any sense, because he could see everything in his room. Actually, there was light leaking in through the crack of his door. Stumbling his way out of bed and into the hallway, he came into the bathroom. He tried to remember leaving the light on, but that thought trailed away from him. He simply wanted to go back to sleep. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, he thought, and he flicked off the light.

            Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. Finding the bathroom light flooding into the hallway, he got out of bed and turned it off. As soon as the light was off, Mark was left in the same blind darkness he'd woken in. He rubbed his eyes, giving them a few moments to readjust, when he looked up he saw something written in condensation on the mirror. Yet Another Walker in the Darkness, it said, in rough, uneven strokes, as if by an urgent finger. It occurred to him that he really shouldn't be able to read anything in this sort of darkness. And that there was no reason for there to be any sort of mist on the mirror, unless someone had been breathing on it. In that moment, Mark was keenly aware of his own discomfort. Of the standing hairs on his neck. Of his tightening muscles. He was quickly overtaken with the idea that if he could grab a flashlight it would be okay. It would be okay. But the flashlight was downstairs. Then he'd go downstairs, he thought. He moved hastily out into the hall, and wrapped his fingers tightly around the bannister, urging his feet to move forward.

            Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. He got up to turn off the bathroom light, and found discomforting words written in the dark on his mirror. He felt a pull to get his flashlight, and rushed to push himself down the stairs. Moving as swiftly as he could down the wooden stairway, he was overwhelmed with a sudden thought: Eyes Front. He'd be alright if he kept looking forward. If he just kept his eyes facing front wherever he looked, he could make it to his flashlight. Just, don't look in the periphery, he thought, don't turn around. Eyes Front. Do not think about what might be behind you, or around you, or above you, or below you. Eyes Front. He just needed to keep his eyes ahead of him, and get to the flashlight in the second drawer below the cupboard. The big metal Mag-Light flashlight with the rubber grip. Eyes Front. He moved over the linoleum of the kitchen. The cold floor made his back shiver for a moment. At least he thought it was the floor. He hoped it was the floor. He made it to the drawer, and urgently yanked it open. Too urgently, as the drawer fell out and its contents spilled across the linoleum floor. He swore, and clamored over the mess, feeling for the flashlight. He let out a relieved breath when he found it, and let his eyes wander again. In the periphery, out behind him, he caught a shadow flick away from the base of the stairs, into the living room. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. That had been foolish. Eyes Front. He thumbed for the button on the flashlight. He was suddenly taken with the idea of leaving the house. Yes, he thought, get out of the house. The flashlight came on, splashing light against his back door. He moved to follow it, and clutched the doorknob.

            Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. He got up to turn off the bathroom light, and found writing on his mirror. He rushed to get his flashlight, keeping his eyes from noticing too much. He got his flashlight, but his vision betrayed him. He was moving quickly out of his house now. The flashlight was making deep shadows as it washed over the copse of trees in the rear of his yard. There was a term for that sort of thing, when it was used in art. It seemed to escape him, but the word Chiaroscuro came to him after a few moments, as if coming in through a back door. He couldn't think about that though. He had to focus now. Keep the light on. Eyes front. Get away from the house. He couldn't take the car, the keys were back inside. He'd move around the house then, following the long dirt driveway. The road was out there somewhere, behind the trees. He moved with the same urgency as before, keeping the light in front of him. But the light only made the darks seem darker. And twice he swept over a pair of glowing orbs, leering out from the edge of the lawn. The trees rustled above him as he moved. At first he thought it was the wind, he hoped it was the wind, but it was only one tree at a time. Worse than that, every now and then he would hear something behind him. Noises. Organic noises. Breathing and moving and pulsing and living and stalking. He ran now. He gave up on just an urgent pace. He ran. That seemed to be a mistake though. It was harder to keep the light focused. To keep his eyes front. He caught edges of shade and tips of shadows. Still he kept moving. Then he tripped, falling forward into the dirt of the drive. He kept his eyes closed. At least this darkness was his own. He had wanted to get back to sleep anyway.

            Mark woke up in the dark, reeling from a hazy dream. The darkness seemed impenetrable, except for the light from the hallway dripping under his bedroom door. The words left his mouth before he knew what he was saying. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream Again.

Life's Music by Sarah Zuidema

Life's Music

A whisp of words,
A tinkling of notes,
The soul's sweet voice raised on high.
The harmonious trails of silence ring in our ears,
And intonations built on emotions
Reproduce their origins in passers-by.
The bottles of screams roll down cheeks,
Smiles squeak and bounce to pull past teeth,
We wiggle and sway,
To the rhythm of our hearts' familiar grace.
The peace of sorrow,
The heights of joy,
A burst of pure life,
No flat sound do we hear.
The colors of sunrise,
The trickling of rain,
A vitality so near,
A pounding in sync.
We vibrate within our shells,
Creating melodies of our own,
Adding to the waves we receive,
And building our song.

Photograph by Nicole Dahlmer

I'm Stuck by Sarah Zuidema

I'M STUCK.

I'm stuck.

in a hole,
in gum,
in a chair.

I'm stuck.
in conceit,
in deception,
in despair.

I'm stuck.
in sin,
in mistrust,
in lies.

I'm stuck.
in stereotypes,
in expectations,
in a perspective.

I'm stuck.
in work,
in impressions,
in words.

I'm stuck.
in the past,
in the present,
in the future.

I'm stuck.
in hope
in touch,
in love.

I'm stuck in the net of the human race.
in the world's norms,
my own goals,
my life's pounding.

Time to break free.
Who but me holds me here?
Who says I can't live with integrity?
Who says what I've done is worthless?
Who says I'm not already who I want to be?
Who says I'm stuck?