shelter

RPI, overall as an institution, cultivates a distinct value system based on logic and de-politicization, as does the larger STEM-based environment. The conversation and implications of this in itself could be an entire project, but here it is not. A (perhaps somewhat small) part of this culture is opposition to artistic expression; Rensselaer students are encouraged (by each other, by university policy, by employment advertising, and by a whole host of other factors) to see emotional attachment as frivolous and arts and humanities fields and anti-intellectual. As such, not only is there no official space to showcase personal and artistic literature (the main branch of the Folsom library doesn’t even carry fiction), there is no unofficial network to support it either. The idea of creating a literary magazine-type space at RPI was in effort to counter the dominant (and sometimes overwhelming) tide of apathy. This class and the projects in it contribute to a list of things which make m

After nearly an hour barefoot on the tarmac, and warm from the sweltering heat, the grimy shadow of a dusty crescent a fraction of an inch from his leathery skin, realized that in life, there are no practice shots. Every muscle sculpted for this purpose fixated on the orb he felt burdened to make proud. He refused to let the orb’s palpable impatience damper his hyper focus but the uncontrollable toe-tapping that ensued was unmistakably a feeble attempt to soothe his nerves. Serene brain ripples recorded on the machine, detected from sensors in the blacktop, looked like sine waves interspersed with QRS complex spikes of sheer terror bleeding though, that the equipment thought was within the margin of error. But he was more than well acquainted with the simple concept that he had absolutely no margin of error when it came time for his shot. S.K.

The night he told me he was done dancing, we stood in the middle of my bedroom and hugged. I tried to keep myself as composed as possible, but I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face and there is only so much blubbering a person can choke down. As I cried for the loss of our partnership, I couldn’t help but think that that moment was what true intimacy is. That was by far the most vulnerable we had ever been with each other. The intimacy came from a place of sadness; it was the bolero we never had a chance to practice because we didn’t feel comfortable moving together that way yet. I know that pain makes for good art, but it’s a truly terrible feeling when your dance partner gives up on you. He held me as I cried and I couldn’t help but notice how perfectly our bodies fit in that hug; we were standing in our smooth frame body positions, exactly where we have trained our bodies to fit together for the past two and a half years. But the topline was different. Instead of the big

As a child Before dusk, in summer I thought about nothing And was happy Now before dusk I am numb and I don’t know it’s physical or emotional. Sometimes I feel badly that I couldn’t explain this feeling to anyone if I tried but then I remember that they all feel it too.  I hate when people act like sadness is poetic or intellectual; this feeling is common, it's everywhere, we can watch it being manufactured. But when I was a child And was happy I wouldn't have changed anything Sadness is stupid, but it’s motivating If it is because if evil men, holding the word in their hand and pouring on more and more sadness like sugar, that I can fight, Thank you for the rage ari

I used to live as if in a dream— if such a thing can be called living. My mind and my heart were surrounded by a blinding night. Fleeting visions came and went and morphed and faded into fantasies. Ephemeral sounds washed through my ears and stained my tongue a sickening yellow. My steps fell away from beneath my knees. The golden yarn connected all but broke apart, reconnected, unraveled; tangled and unleavened, hanging from the ceiling. Unwearable. In my sleep, I tossed and turned with a stomachache, then the hazy twilight melted into dawn. The sun rose from below the horizon, and it lit the yellow walls a deep blood red. It shone through my closed eyes; I squinted at the light—a moment— but only until I felt the warmth on my face: on my eyes, my ears, my lips; on my feet and hands. I opened my pupil and white to the light. I turned and set my feet on solid ground. I took the red yarn waiting patiently next to me, and I cast on anew. I

O, Moon, dear friend, why do you close your eye? I’m like the wolves, enchanted by your light. When night-time flower smiles up at the sky, Her radiance mirrors perfectly your sight. When darkness falls upon your nightly gown And ocean tides rise up to sink the shore The heart takes shelter, oft without a sound, To ride it through the storm flat on the floor. But never will the storm remain for long As wind takes back the clouds from blackened sky. The wolves will sing again their reverent song As you, my queen, show once again your eye. With every pass of closing crescent moon Comes back the sliver light, and ne’er too soon. Jessica Onion

Whilst in the claws of ice, the earth is thawed By Helios's sun, low in the sky. In weather almost like a cool July, Life reawakes in softened earthen clod. Out come the daffodils, through frost façade, As soft a yellow as a firefly. The crocuses and tulips let you sigh And set aside your heart to wand'r abroad. But Phaëthon returns the biting cold Before the trees can grow their branches strong. The flower petals brown from morning ice. Protect your roots, my darling, I have told You time and time again. Flow'rs don't stay long 'Til real spring doth remove old winter's vice. Jessica Onion 2012