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On Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome Writing
On Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome Writing
What is it that Saint Jerome was writing?
And why can’t the art take that history back?
It seems the wine-soaked pills made vision lack—
Was Caravaggio with all the gods fighting? -
In Abeyance of a Colonic Resection
By: Patrick Johnston
At some point, nearing the advent of his 56th year, Atticus Johnson became aware of a small god that inhabited a cave in the back of his mind. Although he had not been previously aware of the small god’s existence, it nevertheless seemed to him that the small god must always have been there, for the cave was ancient and seemed to have been inhabited for a long time.
When Atticus Johnson became aware that the small god was dwelling in a cave somewhere at the back left of his mind, he also had the sense that the cave was situated slightly to the left, which he found slightly odd, since whilst it seemed obvious to refer to parts of his brain in such simple spatial terms, it had never previously occurred to him that his mind might share a similar geography.
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Bon appétit
My body hums with a symphony of stings,
wounds throb like pears rotting in heat.
My aching skin, flakes like a snake,
Each browned bite, tart and sweet. -
The Dichotomy of Being
By: J.B Polk
“Immigration is an act of great courage, facing unfamiliar lands with the resilience to build anew.” – Isabel Allende.
This year’s trip was different. Not better or worse. Not more gloomy or joyful. Just different. Introspective, for the want of a better word. Throughout the trip, it felt as if that particular aroma of lime trees blooming at the end of July reached deep into your lungs and squeezed—squeezed tightly. As if that peachy pink-and-cornflower blue, with strands of violet woven into the clouds, descended on your retinas and scraped—scraped hard, leaving wispy trails when you were about to return.
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The Crow Was Finch
Last night I had a dream
that Finch came back as a crow,
blackened wings folded like maps
he never got to read.
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Larkin Street
Last night I dreamed
I was back in that house on Larkin Street—
the one with the red door,
the broken lock,
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Looking at My Reflection
Looking at My Reflection
Looking at my reflection,
I have to frown—
I’ve clearly gone and
Let you down.
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They Can’t Know
She couldn’t grasp onto her inner self.
She thought she had a hold on it,
but it slipped through her fingers—
like they had a mind of their own,
like they sabotaged her.
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World in Love
The world is in love.
Didn’t you know?
It proclaims it every time
its wind ruffles
your hair,
like a lover’s
fingers,
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Dandelions
You mustn’t know, but when you speak,
Your lips turn bloom, and you release
From murmured wells between your teeth
A cloud of dandelion seeds—
Invisible to all but me. -
God Wouldn’t Do That To Me
As the autumn leaves fall,
I reminisce on us.
I forgive myself
for how I lowered myself
for you — my false idol.
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Just Need an Extra 10 Minutes
Wait!
Wait for me to catch up.
Can you slow down a bit?
You’re going too fast.
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The Exam That Changed a Generation
By: Kaiping Han
The path from elementary school to middle school, then to high school and university, was once seen as natural, almost taken for granted. In ordinary times, it was simply the way life unfolded. But for those of us who came of age during the Cultural Revolution, that smooth progression was abruptly broken. The dream of higher education, once so close, seemed to fade like a distant shoreline. Schools were shuttered, teachers silenced and denounced, books treated with suspicion and fear. The years that should have been spent bent over desks, turning pages, solving problems, were instead spent toiling in fields and factories, our hands rough from labor, our minds growing quiet from disuse. The chance to attend university felt impossibly far away, as though it belonged to a world we could no longer reach.
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Manifestation
A thought takes flight in the quiet mind,
A whisper shaped from the heart’s design.
It stirs where silence meets the soul,
A pulse that seeks to be made whole.
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Thirty Years Abroad
By: Kaiping Han
Thirty years ago today, on January 6, 1988, I stepped onto a plane bound for the United States, carrying little more than a suitcase and a heart full of dreams. It was a day that would divide my life into two halves—the past I was leaving behind and the unknown future that lay ahead. For more than two years, I had toiled relentlessly, overcoming hurdle after hurdle, passing exam after exam. It felt as though I had traversed a battlefield, breaking through five barriers and vanquishing six generals just to arrive at this moment of departure.
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Why Baby Why
Why, Baby, why, do you stay in my soul?
I sigh, Baby, sigh-your love makes me whole.
You haunt all my nights and breathe life through my days,
A whisper, a flame, a soft-burning blaze.
You dance through my thoughts like the wind through the trees,
A song I remember, a sweet aching breeze.
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Summer Sonnet
He loved her like the sun loves open skies,
A blaze that warmed the months they made their own.
Her laugh was July’s wind, her touch surprise—
Like sudden rain that finds you all alone.
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The Road We Walk
Today unfolds, another step unknown,
A moment meant to call you home.
The weight of choices lingers near,
A path ahead both bright and unclear.
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Beneath the Boughs
The moonlit path lay soft and still,
Beneath the yew on the shadowed hill,
Where time wore thin its ancient thread,
And whispers stirred what words had fled.
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As the Day Begins
The dawn leans close with a gentle sigh,
A tender blush in the waking sky.
The night withdraws, the shadows part,
And morning rests on the beating heart.
