MUA: Tawyana Athey
PHOTOGRAPHER: Lechele Jackson
MODEL: Jasmin Hannon
PHOTOGRAPHER: Lechele Jackson
MODEL: Jasmin Hannon
0 Comments
Aaron Brown I rode horseback on my black stallion, during one of these rare occasions. The weather was warm and calm in this town of Everstung. A Northern town with a busy populace, Everstung contained buildings of every kind, taverns, barbershops, brothels, and stables. On the outskirts were fields of hills, and small wooded areas were plentiful. It wasn’t often I was permitted to leave the manor and be present among the commoners. At present I had an errand to complete for my father, saying he wanted me to make a “special purchase” at the market. A usual task for his errand boys, not myself. Still I welcomed the breath of fresh air and another experience of public life. All the experience I had came from these rare trips outside and to my backyard.
Everstung looked exquisite as I laid eyes upon it. Voices of the many townsfolk were rampant in the air. Shortly, crowds of people came into sight on the marketplace. People stood around stalls, auctioning off their items, and conversing. I knew people here purchase products of all sorts, from medicine to guns. There was one time I bought an ointment from my father when he was plagued by a genetic skin disease. It worked decently, just as the salesman had described. Now I hope to counter that same honesty today. “What was it again that my father wanted?” The note in my pocket simply read, “GORILLA.” Gorilla, like the animal? Gorilla didn’t mean anything to me other than the animal. They were savage beasts that ate mostly fruit and plants, but could grow to a size twice that of a man. Assuming my father wanted such a beast was unrealistic, but worth a thought I suppose. Clarification would have been helpful, though he may have had an issue with that. Hmm…whatever it was, a gorilla was what I needed to bring home. Surely someone here knew what it was. Thamine Nayeem At age six, I carried a secret deep inside of me. Sometimes it would summersault inside my stomach and stroke its dirty fingers against my fragile heart. Sometimes I would look in the mirror and see it morphing, attempting to define me. I would ask myself, “Impure—sinful—is that what I am?” When I closed my eyes, it would creep its way into my thoughts, propelling me to remember the feeling of his hands navigating across my flat chest—like nails against my skin. “He is your dad’s friend and he cares about you,” I would think to reassure myself. Yet I could not comprehend why I still felt as if I was a bud who was being pried open—robbed of its beauty; after all, I was only six.
At age ten, another secret burned deep inside of me. Every day it would boil in the pit of my stomach and scrape its dirty claws against my broken heart. Every day I would look in the mirror to only see that this secret now defined me. I would tell myself, “You are impure and Allah does not like those who are impure.” I was too frightened to close my eyes, knowing all too well that the darkness was the gate to the menacing memories of the unfamiliar man’s hands gripping my developing breasts—like fire licking across my skin. “This man is hurting you!” I would cry to myself helplessly. I hated him for ripping the petals off my already forced open bud. Yet, I felt as if there was absolutely nothing I could do; after all, I was only ten. At age fifteen, I discovered that my little sister had carried a secret deep inside of her since she was seven. She told me that sometimes it too would summersault inside of her stomach and stroke its dirty fingers against her fragile heart. Sometimes she too would look in the mirror and see it morphing, attempting to define her. She would wonder if she was impure—even sinful. When she closed her eyes, it would creep inside her mind, making her remember the feelings of our childhood friend’s hands sliding across her flat chest. With wet stained cheeks, she told me it was like nails against her skin. I took her into my arms, and told her it did not define her. I told her she was not impure. I told her that her petals would grow back far more beautiful than any other girl’s. I saw these predators year after year look us in the eye and smile as if they could not see what they had robbed us of, and my hatred towards them continued to ignite. But I had to move forward for my little sister, who needed to know that we could move forward. Steadily, I liberated myself from being an object of their harassment—I taught myself to forgive. Thamine Nayeem I frantically scribble—racing the spark;
the spark ignites the Event. Finish! Everyone else thought only what their minds lent, while I hear the breeze brush against tree leaves— alone, so alone. The spark spreads its fingers, reaching the pages I hold; Alas, it’s time for me to go, go to the place my heart was sold. What have I done? Abigail Sohkhlet I am queen
I am intelligence I am wise I am beauty I am father's joy. A woman who I am meant to resemble Father's joy? But this "father" I don't know who you are An adult and a child whose bond was tied by pieces of paper You were a shapeless form who ran through the house You came and went with the light of night You were a shapeless creature who occupied the house I never knew you When i reached my hand out to investigate what you are it passed right through you But as soon as you left your outline grew I saw your glasses then face then curly hair Then your whole form became clear Who are we really? Society dictates that I call you father What does father mean? What is wisdom? Intelligence? Beauty? Queen? If you are my father then am I your joy? But how could I be? We are only strangers who used to live in the same building So then I am Abigail - Nobody's joy A. Oliveira Sobre un soliloquio originado por la muerte de cuarenta y tres estudiantes mexicanos y una subsecuente preocupación porque pasen al olvido, en un cementerio más, como una flor más, con todos sus días restados a cero. Tocan a mi puerta dieciséis manos al mismo tiempo, mientras leo un ensayo sobre una orgía de curvas que termina en ganancias económicas para una empresa ficticia. Me levanto y doy vuelta a la manija, encontrándome con un manojo de caras morenas con despeinados cabellos, algunos pañuelos blancos y muchos ojos atentos a mi aparición. Son personas. Me avientan, empujan, saludan y sonríen mientras entran angustiosos a mi cuarto ubicado en el segundo piso (si se empieza a contar de abajo hacia arriba), de un edificio enfrente de otro edificio. Y comienza una plática un poco nebulosa, mientras empiezo a sentirme extranjero en mi propio cuarto, víctima de un complejo de calcetín al revés. – ¿Quiénes son? – pregunto con cautela y firmeza mientras los veo desfilar frente a mí. – ¿Importa? – contesta un chico que tiene amarrado un pañuelo verde a su mano, quizás cubriendo alguna herida. – Supongo, no sé quiénes son y acaban de irrumpir en la tranquilidad de mi lectura nocturna. No son nadie para entrar así – comento esto, mientras termina de entrar la totalidad del colectivo. Luego me dispongo a cerrar la puerta, notando que increíblemente todos cabemos en un cuarto hecho sólo para una persona. – Mirá, acá somos todos estos – dice señalando al colectivo- contra vos solito. Diminutivo de solo y no de sol – comento en mi mente. – Nosotros sólo andamos huyendo de un Cometa de Cempasúchil que nos persigue. Si vos nos aguantás acá esta noche, mañana mismo nos vamos a otra parte. – ¿Cometa de Cempasúchil? – pregunto, mientras atravieso la marea humana y me siento en mi cama tratando de entender y de alejarme un poco de la multitud. – ¡Sí, hombre! Vos no entendés nada – responde uno de los jóvenes que cierra las persianas mientras me mira con un poco de ventana aún en sus ojos. – No entiendo porque no hay cabida para hacerlo – respondo tajantemente – ¿Acaso no ven lo irracional de esto? Ustedes son un mont… – Cuarenta y tres, somos cuarenta y tres – musita un chico interrumpiéndome amablemente. – Bueno – comento mientras reformulo mi retórica – son cuarenta y tres y acá, con sus olores, sus despeinados cabellos, lloscabe, becallos, llosbeca y su habladuría no voy a poder dormir a gusto y menos aún seré capaz de terminar mi lectura. – Te voy a explicar – dice un fulano surgido de entre las múltiples caras, poniéndose al frente del colectivo – Si vos no nos salvaguardás acá, el cometa nos alcanza. – ¿Y qué si eso pasa? -¿Cómo que qué pasa? – Escucho el diástole de su enojo mientras retoma su explicación con paciencia – ¡Imagínate ese cataclismo!, una enajenación primaveral, un fugaz perplejo, una dicha esporádica, un choque cósmico, cosmovistoso, cosmoleído, cosmotratado, cosmoescrito; una especie de colorido pero breve solcito. Acá – me digo - diminutivo de sol y no de solo. Comento, para mis adentros, que ese chico, junto con su explicación y su carácter, me recuerda a un profesor. Lo observo desde la distancia de un nuevo soliloquio y pienso también que, sin pretenderlo, ejerce algo así como una influencia pedagógica sobre mí. – Está bien, quédense – contesto, analizando la importancia de proveerles posada – pero sólo esta noche. Y que también quede claro que mañana me uno a ustedes y vamos juntos a buscar otro cuarto, también hecho para uno, pero que nos acoja a los cuarenta y cuatro. – Me parece, así ni colorido olvido ni hacinamiento estático. – responde el chico con el ahora pañuelo rojo. Luego del acuerdo, él me da la espalda y todos comienzan a hablar entre sí, mientras me vuelvo a encontrar solito como solcito y me doy cuenta que, al final, abrir la puerta a cuarenta y tres profesores fue la mejor manera de interrumpir mi lectura, porque así me enseñan a leer un poco mejor. Solcito de sol y solito de soledad… Haneen Abu Al Neel قررت أن أنام بعض الوقت لشعوري بالتعب الشديد يضرب جسمي. فأغمضت عيني وبدأت الغوص في عالم الأحلام, ورغم تعبي الشديد إلا أنه أخذني بعض الوقت. بدأت تتخيل لي أجسام تقارب لتكون حقيقة.فتحت عيني وأبصرت صديقي محمد! ما الذي أتى بك هنا؟ ماذا تفعل في وسط هذا الطريق الطويل؟ ومشياَ على الأقدام؟! وما به إلا يجيب ب"أنا أتأمل ما حولي من نعم...من كنوز وأكاد أن أبكي حزنا..فالناس لا يقدرون ما يملكون وما عندهم". انجرفت كفياضان الهائج بالنقاش لأثبت له أنه على خطأ فادح ولكنه حافظ على هدوءه ولم يكن يجب بالكثير ولم يكن بمستوى انفعالي. بعد أن قلت له كل ما في جعبتي, بدأ هو بالحديث بصوته الخافت الهادئ معدوم الانفعال قائلاً :" نحن من كنا نظن أن العالم أجمع مثلنا مرتاح البال بلا هموم سوى ما سنأكل وأين سننام وماذا سنفعل لقتل ملل اليوم, لكني في رحلتي منذ بدايتها وأنا أرى أتعلم وأتألم وقلبي يمتلئَ حزنا على من كنت وكيف كنت أفكر قبل بدء رحلتي هذه. مررت بالكثير من القرى والكثير مِن مَن يعيشون في الخيام ورأيت ما يعانون فهو لا يقارن بما نفعل نحن. أنا لم أعد أنا الذي فكرت بهذه الرحلة للتسلية فعند عودتي سأصحب الناس لأريهم ما رأيت, لعلهم تغيروا كما تغيرت. نحن لدينا ما نحتاج لنعيش لكن ماذا عنهم هم؟" وبدأ يمشي أسرع من قبل وأنا أجاريه وأحاول الحديث إليه لكن أنفاسي وكلامي كانا يتسابقان من أنجد الأول, فلا أستطيع إلا أن ألتقط أنفاسي فتيأس الكلمات من أن تُنجَد فتتلاشا بين تسارع شهيق وزفير. وفجأ بدأ المشي يتسارع ويتسارع إلى أن تحول إلى ركض فبدأت أسرع.
CasSandra Calin I am still moving
I'm bound in on either side I have debris running through my veins Sometimes slow, sometimes stuttering But I am still moving Twigs, branches, logs, whole tree trunks Create an obstacle course A series of hoops for me to jump through Or over or around But I am still moving The clarity of my waters has been lost I have taken on the colors Of rocks, of rust, of mud I cannot be seen through or into But I am still moving Once I've climbed the steepness Of a boulder in my way I tumble over its edge Moving even faster now I remember footprints Of those who've stepped into my depths I sing the hollow song Of loss giving way to hope breeding growth When I am strong I overtake boulders and whole tree trunks When my tides are low I am still moving CasSandra Calin We say I'm fine
Like a weather reporter says It's sunny and 70 out While clearly seen behind her A tornado destroys homes The sky is darker than charcoal And flooding streets gulp at his knees We say I'm fine Like a firefighter says she feels no pain As she crawls out of a burning building With smoke pumping through her veins and ash filling her lungs We say I'm fine Like a soldier tells his comrade Everything will be alright While they both watch Him bleed out Through a whole in his stomach the size of a fist Fine is the easiest lie And the thinnest disguise CasSandra Calin My Belly
Is the very first place I ever received a gift Umbilical cord delivering love and nutrients She, my belly, is evidence That I put into myself My culture's culinary expression Edible poetry My bell Is the first place to bear attack Therefore she needs to be Strong, round, and unapologetic They will sexualize my thighs And objectify my chest But my feet will carry me And my belly will lead the way My belly juts out Validating my three-dimensionality I am here I am not a cardboard cut-out I live and carry life My belly asks questions Causes disruptions To your cookie-cutter standard of beauty I have filled my belly With warm buttery rolls And pumpernickel bread And gingerbread men Whose bellies look like mine Do you think that gingerbread men Look into mirrors and hate their bellies? My lips are thin My hair is matted My eyes are brown My belly is round And I am proud The umbilical cord has been cut But there is still love Flowing in my belly. |
Spotlight ArtistArchivesCategories |