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Quetzal | University of Waterloo’s Online Arts Magazine2019-11-17T16:01:16-05:00

Photography

Poetry & Prose

Exhaustion

Exhaustion

by Aniqah Beharry

The wrinkle under my mother’s eyes

After 6 waning hours of teaching.

 

The creak of the childhood rocking chair

Crying as with another rock forth,

Another day passes.

 

The lowered neck of the deep-rooted Poui tree branch

Sulking for as the time passes, so too will her beautiful flowers.

 

One second here with her,

The next, gone with the moving winds.

 

The grandfather clock swings his hands monotonously,

There, another 24 hours has passed,

So much in the world has changed,

But the heavy bags remain, exhausted but persistent.

Firsts

Firsts

by Sarah Khalid

young girl,
you are too young to love,
but love you will,
and he will you.
the first to hold your naive heart,
but you will speak of lifetimes together,
for you two do not look further.
he will titanic your worries,
and you will learn his tongue
so every syllable he mouths,
you know like childhood.
and his hands will map out the oceans and sands of your body,
and find home with every touch.
and you will share buried stories,
until you both tire stars.
and you will feel his electric current run through you,
with enough power to charge all of your city lights.
but in time you will fall,
and you must allow yourself to fall.
for when your knees are deep in acid,
the corrosion
will bare your strong bones,
to remind you
that your first fall
will always be the hardest.
and when your lungs
feel so full of lead,
you will still breathe,
and you still stand,
and you will learn to love again.

I Don’t Fear The Darkness

I Don’t Fear The Darkness

By Shahad Kashmiri

The dark does not scare me, no. . .

Nor do the shadows at the corners of this room…

It’s the daylight I fear…

It reveals all that is far, and all that is near…

It brings to sight everything, even what we hold dear…

This is the ship I steer,

and all the demons I fear…

They don’t belong in the dark,

they belong in here,

where the light shines brightest…

We cast our gaze aside,

too afraid of what we don’t see, than what’s in the light…

Nothing from what I cannot see can harm me,

not as much as what lights up the room…

What possibly seems to fool us is that bright light we see,

it is nothing but a fire…

Eating away our sanity…

Using the fuel of our fear to light the flames higher…

Twinkle…

Twinkle…

It goes up to the sky,

it soars…

That bright seductive light that we flock to like sheep…

There’s no darkness I fear,

as much as this sanity of mine aflame,

There is no darkness I fear…

and…

Who is to blame?

For a moment of solace from all the light that’s driving me insane…

Where is the solace?

The sanctuary in this game?

Calavera

Calavera

By Jessica Van de Kemp

As we speak, the veil is lifting

between worlds. Spirits are coming in

contact with us like prank calls

from a fake friend. The night

is sleeping with one eye open,

winking at thousands of crows:

the black veil worn by nuns

in marriage. A candle is slipping out

of the jack-o’-lantern’s mouth,

as if from a vending machine,

white, warm, flying

sugar, can you give me my skull?

And the dream of your teeth

falling out comes true.

Note: A calavera is a sugar skull gifted to children on the Day of the Dead

House

House

by Tanvi Patel

House

I want to go home.

It’s what you say the the end of a long day. 

It’s what you say when the social circumstances of your immediate environment make you feel uncomfortable. 

I want to go home.

What a child says staying over at a friend’s house for the first time. 

What a college student says eating ramen for the fifth time. 

I want to go home I said. 

I wanted to go home but then I realized that I didn’t even know where home was. 

Is it where you currently live, is it around people you think you love, is it an intangible feeling.

It scared me when my friend asked “what feels like home?” Then I panicked because I didn’t know, nothing came up. 

Home, where you’re supposed to feel safe, as I’ve heard but I wish the dwelling I reside in resembled anything even remotely close to safe. 

Invaded in my own home and I wonder where home is now. Floating from dorm to dorm, from friend to friend I can’t find home and so why do I want to go home so bad. 

Where is home when you don’t belong in the four walls you call your house. 

Nursery

Nursery

by Martha Brennan

The bed is tiny

Just a few feet long

A warm summer breeze wafts through the window

Playing with the pink gossamer canopy

Tickling the tassels on the purple silk pillows

A miniature china tea set littered across a tiny table

Imaginary tea in empty cups

A teddy bear with just one ear waits at the table

He wears a pink tutu

And a plastic tiara

He shares his tea with a blue-eyed baby doll with golden curls

The third chair is empty

On the tiny vanity is a wooden box

When the box is open it makes beautiful music

It sings a lullaby to a tiny ballerina

A tiny ballerina who never rests

She just dances

Round and around

Listening to the music from the box

A tiny ballerina

In an empty room

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