Symposium Spring 2024

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What We’re About

Symposium and Semicolon are the official publications of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council at the University of Western Ontario, published bi-annually. For more information, follow us on Instagram at @ahsc_pubs or email us at ahscpubs@gmail.com. Previous editions are available online at issuu.com/ahscpubs.

Symposium features creative works from undergraduate students in the Arts and Humanities. We accept pieces of creative writing and visual arts works.

Sharing one’s work can often be daunting. The Publications team thanks you for your submissions and your trust in us.

Vice President of Publications: Julia Piquet

Associate Vice President of Publications: Abbie Faseruk

Academic Managing Editor: Samantha Ellis

Creative Managing Editor: Asha Saha

Copy Editor: Katherine Barbour

Copy Editor: Kiersten Fay

Social Media Coordinator: Mabel Zhao

Cover Designer: Emma Hardy

Layout Editor: Chahat Ghuman

An Arts and Humanites

Students’ Council Production

Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the artists and authors. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC).

Volume 11 Issue 2 Spring 2024

Letter From the Vice President

Well, folks, we did it!

The Pubs team of 2023-24 has wrapped up our Spring edition of Symposium and Semicolon, successfully releasing the last half of volume 11. A lot of memories were created in this long but rewarding journey; I consider myself extremely lucky for the team I had this year, as they are the reason the Publications portfolio had an amazing inaugural year. Without them, I would not have been able to fulfill my role as Vice President of Publications nor put out six publications with nearly as much ease.

In your hands, dear reader, you find Volume 11, Issue 2 of Symposium or Semicolon. For this semester, our chosen theme was “Punk!” Punk is a subculture that emerged in the 1970s in the US and the UK that promoted the importance of individual liberty and self-expression. From new music genres like punk rock to new hairstyle and fashion trends, Punk paved the way for out-of-the-box ways for people to reinvent themselves and the culture that they indulge in. As you read this volume, ask yourself: What does reinvention mean to you?

I would like to take this last paragraph, and my last official words as Vice President of Publications, to thank my team. Abbie Faseruk, Sam Ellis, Asha Saha, Mabel Zhao, Kat Barbour, Kiersten Fay, Emma Hardy, Chahat Ghuman, and Kelly Loubandha: you guys are the backbone of Pubs. Without you, I would not be writing this message. Without you, there is no Pubs! Each one of you walked into our portfolio with a kind soul, a strong mind, and an open heart, and you exceeded all expectations I could even have dreamed of.

Happy reading,

Bang Bang

By: Noor

Falling Apart

By: Chloe Serenko

George’s By: Laila Bloomstone

8 By: Gurkiran Gill

Valentine’s Issue

By: Marissa Slack

Kali By: Noor

Battle Vest

By: Madyson Cooper

Goodbye, Stranger

By: Marissa Slack

Coiled Secrets

By: Kiersten Fay

Flag of Death

By: Zahra Musa

Leap

By: Ambar Kaushik

Out of Stock

By: Emily Kings

Golden Girl

By: Faiza Khan

Let it Linger

By: Sophia Heppenstall

I Want Many Dreams at Night

By: Iris Zhao

Psychedelic Chaos

By: Jadhen Pangilinan

My lilac bedspread

By: Mabel Zhao

Open Road Therapy

Please Leave a Message

By: Gray Brogden

Pieces

By: Susy Castillo

STRAP!

By: Emil Stoetzer

Salmacis Disappears

By: Claudia Kindrachuk

the gaps she’ll leave

By: Katherine Barbour

By: Kiersten Fay Time and tide

By: Siddharth Maheshwari

Untitled By: Sophia Heppenstall

Table of Contents
10 11 13 14 15 16 17 34
5 6 7 8 9
18 19 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 30 32

Gouache, Acrylic, and Ink on Watercolour Paper, 18 by 24 in.

Bang Bang

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Falling Apart

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on
in.
Watercolour
Paper, 9 by 12

Acrylic on Canvas, 24 by 24 in.

George’s

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Flowers floating in a pool at night

Young boys with gentle hands and sharp sparkling bone

Dancing

In circular patterns,

touching

Hand in hand

Opening together like balls of tangled jasmine

In fresh, hot water

Swans in the middle of the inky sea

Ripping open the black curtain, time:

I, the daughter, step into the cool night

And there is a Man shaped like a stone

At the bottom of my circular pool

Old men with flaccid ropes struggling

in vain to grab at the stone

Which is so many things but a man

He is covered in moss,

green, slippery

In the morning, my tea leaves convulse in the water

I gouge at their centers to pull them apart

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8

Valentine’s Issue,

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on Canvas,
20 in.
Oil
16 by

Kali

Acrylic and Ink on cardboard, 18 by 24 in.

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Battle Vest

My hand steadies as I drag a paintbrush against fabric

Keeping the lines as straight as possible

Painting a logo I can only replicate through tracing letters onto black denim with white chalk

Pricking my fingers as I sew and sew and sew

Filling the black denim with colour and life and

Letting the blood stain the fabric

Letting love and creation bleed into

My battle vest

Poking holes through the denim

And damaging it beyond repair

All to put some spikes onto my shoulders

So I remember to keep them pulled back

With my spine straight and my head up

I wear my beliefs painted onto my skin

Into my skin

So they can never be scrubbed off

Or diluted

Into nothingness

The pins I meticulously mapped out

Stating it for all to see

Stating me for all to see

My friend tells me they wish that they could wear their gender so loudly

They called me brave for shouting it to anyone who would hear me

When they called me brave

All I could remember was the old joggers I would wear

Day after day after day

Until they were nothing but threads

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And the slumped shoulders

And bowed head

That I let myself walk with The silence I forced myself into Because small towns are not for queer punks who believe in too much

The day I got my first pair of combat boots was the first time I felt like me

The first time I walked like everyone else should get out of my way

The first day I wore my battle vest was the first time everyone saw me

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Mady’s First Pair of Combat Boots Mady’s Battle Vest (Last Changed: January 2023)

Goodbye, Stranger

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Acrylic on Linen, 3.33 by 5.2 ft.

Coiled Secrets

In the dusky ambiance of the bar’s dim-lit embrace, A lady exhales tendrils of smoke, tendrils of thought, Her lips pursed around the slender stem of rebellion, As wisps of grey dance in the air, weaving tales untold

As too many men have tried to tell them for her.

A snake winds sinuously around her forearm,

Its scales etched in sleek ink, a symbol of power,

Coiled and poised, a silent guardian of secrets,

Its emerald eyes gleaming in the dimness, holding truths untamed,

Her gaze, a mixture of defiance and allure,

Meets the world with a smouldering intensity,

Eyes that have seen the depths of darkness,

Yet sparkle with the fire of untamed desires.

Her presence, a contradiction of elegance and edge,

A delicate, savoury flower amidst the gritty, alluring sweetness

Of the sugar-rimmed cocktails,

Yet there’s a rawness in her, a primal energy,

That draws the eye like a snake to a charmer, tempting fate.

In the haze of cigarette smoke and whispered confessions, And drunken gazes and dirty thoughts,

She sits, an enigma wrapped in silk and leather, A silent observer in the dance of life and vice, With her snake tattoo coiling, a silent witness to it all.

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Flag of Death

Strawberries and Raspberries

All the way to Cranberries.

Tomatoes, radishes, rhubarb, and beets.

Blood filled the land.

Turn one way to see E Hastings Street, Turn the other way and see Richmond Row.

Icy snow and foamy water

All the way to shaped clouds.

Snowy owls, snowbells, snowmen, and snow angels.

Melting polar ice caps.

One day it is frostbite cold, and the next, dripping pig sweat hot.

One day, five layers of clothing, and the next, shorts and tank tops don’t cut it.

Maple-filled air, showcasing the growing trees and growing anticipation of who the next victim is. Is it the stain of wine or the stain of another fallen from the rapidly growing black, indigenous, person of colour deaths?

Poppies and begonias

All the way to maple leaves.

Ladybugs, fire ants, corn snakes, and northern cardinals.

Rusty water plaguing the reservoirs.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,

The True North strong and free!

God keep our native land glorious,

Our home…

O Canada!

Our blood-stained home and

Stolen land!

O Canada!

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Leap

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Digital Dimensions, 12 by 10 in.
SPRING | VOLUME 11 | SYMPOSIUM 17
Out of Stock
Acrylic on Canvas, 30 by 40 in.

Golden Girl

Golden locks flowing, cutting through the crowd, Adding warmth, chasing away the gray shroud, In the hustle and bustle, she’s a ray of light, Turning the mundane into something bright.

Those long golden strands, playing in the breeze, The car seat feels warmer, puts my mind at ease, Her touch lights a fire, wild and tough, Only her soft kiss can calm it enough.

But then, a twist, a turn, a sudden change, My golden girl, in a world so strange, Lying on the floor, her light now dim, The once vibrant gold turns crimson.

Her locks, once golden, now tainted red, Echoes of pain, words left unsaid, In the silence, a question starts to grow, Where did my golden girl go?

Through the games of love, a battle so endless, Her brilliance fades, leaving me relentless, In the modern script of love and woe, The sunlight dims, the vibrancy low.

Yet, these words echo a plea, a call, To revive the golden girl, break the fall, In the language of now, let her shine, A tale reborn, where love draws the line.

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Let it Linger

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I Want Many Dreams at Night

I want many dreams at night.

I want stars falling out of my hair.

I want the sun omnipresent, Souls in the ashes more transparent than candy wrappers.

I want a pomegranate to explode in my body, Spewing out the sky and the earth

In all the flowers growing small, solid hearts.

I want sorrow sweetened from now on.

I want arms to embrace enemies and poppies.

I want people who suddenly disappear to walk on the street steadily, And for those who weep, there is always a comforting hand on their faces.

I want my anger to bloom in my throat.

I want death to be butterflies and pain to be velvet.

I want millions of corpses back to life, Waterfalls’ echoes worshipped by all ears.

I want the most dangerous freedom.

I want us to kiss in the dance steps, Tears flowing out of the air.

I want the smiling ones to pass through each night safely.

I want them not to be shattered by the caterpillar tracks.

I want the necessity of silence in celebration, the necessity of shudders in the crowd.

I want the brave not to endure blood and iron any more, And the innocent prisoners remitted by rain and crickets.

I also want every bluebird to fall in love with her,

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As with the moon and the tides.

I want her to forever have a crown freshly woven, Arms of mighty strength. And all the good weather in the cosmos promises her A frozen cloud in the North Pole will stay forever.

I want many dreams at night.

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Psychedelic Chaos

Acrylic Paint, 30 by 30 in.

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My lilac bedspread

Do you remember me? I laid here once, My foggy breath on the window glass. Two rings lost underneath the bed, Crumbs on the carpet, my lilac bedspread.

Can you find me? The things I left behind, Initials in the dust of all the boys I loved, A street view I looked at but never truly saw, The three layers of paint, holes dotting the wall.

Lipstick smeared on a pillow of dried tears, There were mystery books and potted plants here.

Stale air, mothballs, and body spray, You watched as my childhood slipped away.

A proper goodbye is what I never got to say, To a place my memories like to go to play. So a part of me that I can’t seem to shed is in that old room, on my lilac bedspread.

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Open Road Therapy

Driving with the windows down is good for your depression.

Ideally fast, down country roads in a black Ford F-150, The golden retriever in your passenger seat agrees.

There is a reflective touch screen stereo that will give you a new pulse and

Is a lot better than silence,

Regardless of the static from being in the middle of nowhere.

The truck is a good investment despite the current housing crisis and a Who-knows-how-big student loan.

Toss your shoes as you race the invisible man parkouring from tree to tree,

Running like you haven’t in months and

Near break your ribs to reach your torso out of the window.

Shrug off that white zip-up sweater like you shrug off mental illness, Though you may shiver.

Whoop in the night,

Offer your arms up,

Catch the wind in your hair, your ears, Your strawberry lip gloss, And take as much morning air as you need for a new set of Lungs

Because

Like hell this is all the world is.

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Please Leave a Message

Hi, you’ve reached Gray. I can’t answer the phone right now because I will do literally anything to avoid answering my phone. I’m sure whatever you wanted to tell me can come across just fine in a text anyways. Besides, who has time for a phone call these days? I’m not sure about you, but I don’t answer my phone because I’ve been learning Latin from old textbooks and the Duolingo Owl is hunting me for my betrayal. I write him letters telling him that just because something is outdated or dead doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m watching my water boil. Just to prove everyone wrong. Because everyone knows I love to be right. And I forgot my phone on my desk when I went stargazing last night. Did you know that if you tilt your head just an inch, every single constellation spells out my name? Sure, I heard the phone ring, but I was dancing around my apartment naked. I was scaling an open rock face. I was exercising my imagination using cloud shapes. And why are you calling me when you know that I’m probably writing. I’m 42,386 words into this novel and I’ll be damned if I stop now. Leave a message and maybe I’ll get back to you with a poem. BEEEEEP.

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Pieces

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Silkscreen Print, edition of 24

Gouache on Stonehenge Paper

STRAP!

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Salmacis Disappears

Welcome to Mars: between the harsh desert sun and icy tundra winds Salmacis disappears.

Men speak in tongues foreign to my ears, pretty girls let themselves be led by invisible leashes to miserable beds.

I know I am not fit for the usual she-fate.

I won’t shave my legs.

I won’t contour my face.

I won’t cling with my clipped-short nails to a womanhood that was never meant for me.

But

I want to be the fluttering helix of butterflies in orbit.

I want to be roses growing through wrought-iron gates, I want ribbons and flowers and birdsong and lace.

I want a perfumed chamber, honey strained through stained glass.

I want work, I want a kitchen,

I want strawberries and kittens and chickens,

I want a china teapot and the sweet whistle of a kettle, I want strong nimble hands that can work a needle.

I want the fire in the core of me to spill from my pen like smoke from a recoilless,

I want to be heteropatriarchy’s murderess.

I want future,

I want freedom,

I want all my sisters safe—

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Like man never even existed in the first place.

Let me be free in the femininity I’ve created for me.

[24/07/23]

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the gaps she’ll leave

chloe wears a shirt with more holes than fabric she has pale pale skin & deep brown nipples that shy away from the light my skin has always been a bit tanner than hers softer from days spent reading she has the body of a dancer bad knees & low body fat percentage

chloe is not drunk enough i can tell because her nipples are still soft chloe always has hard nipples after too many drinks

as girls it’s hard not to compare her lean limbs & my fat ankles but she is still waiting for her first boyfriend while i remain burned from my last she can’t smell the smoke that still lingers on me she ends up with her head over the toilet bowl every night nipples hard & back heaving she never lets me hold her hair back

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i’ll miss her when she is gone the muscles of her back the deep black of her hair i’ll miss her compliments that she hands out like candy

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Time and tide

Aplenty

There’s opportunity and determination

Someday, humanity will be cosmic

We are trees without roots

Falling over our own ambition

Blind to all but sight

We look to you, all you constitute

Every cosmo, micro and macro

To epitomize desire

We yearn, counter to reality

Persistence, akin to Devil’s Snare

Acceptance is not surrender

Forward is not up

These tools and contraptions, we have birthed to understand you

But if we turn inward

They can spark revelation and indemnify exploration

Like the dome that surrounds us

We can thrive, but we must first survive

You see crisis and wonder why

When we have the remedy

Denial and space, are both our escape

My planetary ode is personification

My plea is internalization

There are galaxies within us and forces that connect us

We can be dreamers

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Our goals are utopic

Even a tedious path

Will place us on the stars

So we burrow and dig deep

To find the launching pad that will set us free.

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Untitled

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