Montage 2012

Montage

Literary & Arts Publication

Quinnipiac University 275 Mount Carmel Avenue Hamden, CT 06518-1908

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Syed Taneem Salim, 2012

Gaby Catalano, 2013

Danielle Susi, 2013

Olivia Brandi, 2015

Montage Staff 2011-2012 Emily Keene, 2012 Editor-in-Chief

Jessica Spencer Poe, 2012 Editor-in-Chief

Cover photo courtesy of: Jonathan Grado

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Letter from the Editors: 30 years ago, in the fall of 1981, a professor of English by the name of Mark Johnston created the very thing you are holding in your hands: Montage. It featured 18 poems produced by students at this university, bound and stapled in a black and white, paperback booklet and distributed for free for the Quinnipiac community to enjoy. Over the past three decades, Montage has transformed not only into a full color magazine, this year featuring 37 pieces of literature and 28 pieces of artwork, but also a celebration of student creativity and individuality. Too often do we fail to realize that our brain is capable of more than just homework and studying. We forget that we have a university filled with students who are capable of producing beautiful poetry, prose, and artwork, as exhibited in this 30th anniversary issue of Montage. In the first edition of Montage, Mark Johnston dedicated the magazine to “the memories of Alice Remail and Olive Kennedy.” We see it fitting to dedicate this edition of Montage to the memory of the man who started it all: Professor Mark Johnston. Thank you for reminding us that, sometimes, the work performed for no grade is the most important work you’ll ever produce.

{

Keep Creating, The Editors

}

Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.

John Donne, Holy Sonnet #6

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Table of 5 If I Had a Dollar, Nia Blackmon 6 Stand Alone, Neha Malhotra 7 Lights, Farah Salam 8 Soaring, Courtney Italia 9 Indian Summer, Hanna Peterson 10 I Want To Be Artistic, Jillian Ebanks 11 Your Mind and the Car, Syed Taneem Salim 12 Hollywood, Jonathan Grado 13 Love to Love Love, Shanon Joseph 14 Old-Fashioned Love, Amy Maciejowski 15 My Name (Is)n’t Dale Rothstein, Christine E. Little 16 Innovation, Samantha Barracca 17 A Dream Deffered: Redux, Cory Maffucci 18 Free, Albert Valerio 19 Like Ice, Julia Olson 20 Run for Cover, Dan Callahan 21 Functions of Intimacy, Morgan Pellecchia 22 Field of Flowers & Candy Trees, Farah Salam 23 Sleeping Giant Mountain, Emily Keene 24 Heaven’s Fire, Dan Callahan 25 The Central Eye, Eric Esposito 26 Loro Cariamarillo, Jordan Berman 27 Missing Carriages, Anna Wagner 28 Burn So Bright, Danielle Susi 29 The Beard, Vincent Bond 30 The Sea Does Not Reward Those Who Are Too Anxious or Greedy, Ashley Adams 31 A Chance to Learn Pythagorean Theorem, Rebecca Humphrey 32 Blue, Amaris Mujica 33 Isle of Skye, Rebecca Ivester 34 Absent Chirps, Kira Smelser 35 Let’s Go Fishing!, Lesly Alvarez 36 Rebuttal for English B, Noah Golden

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Contents 37 Stairway to Heaven, Kelly Moran 38 Red Lady, Chelsea Hood 39 Lefkes, Lauren Wolman 40 In the Crack of Love, Rondale Williams 41 Sleeping Giant, Bryan Randall 42 Grandpa’s Love, Samantha Austin 43 Gaze, Gaby Catalano 44 Smiles, Monica Torpey 45 The Death of a Cactus, Sarah Violette 46 Toxicity Report, Jessica Spencer Poe 47 Strolling, Chris Gillotte 48 Fiore, Courtney Italia 49 Terra-Pact, Danielle Reid 50 In a Summer Breeze, Mary Greeley 51 Flower Petals Curl, Alyssa Dunn 52 Faded Entrance, Chris Hart 53 Graduation, Gina Faustini 54 Intoxicated, Valerie Massa 55 Reflection, Heather Corraccio 56 Urban Schools, Carol Ann Jackson 57 Remembrance, Nicole Lewis 58 In the Midst of April Showers, William Vessio 59 Grains, Chery Victoria 60 Ms. 4.0, Jeoffrey Bispham 61 Birds and Boats, Chrissi Rochester 62 This, Our Bastille., Shantia Hanna 63 Sunset Sprinkles, Kay Walker 64 Motion in Time, Diandra Petrocelli 65 La Giralda, Monica Torpey 66 Live a Little, Saba Shahid 67 Hunting Season, Melissa Binari 68 Is That Your Baby?, Gaby Catalano 69 Acknowledgements

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If I Had a Dollar

Nia Blackmon if i had a dollar for every time i decided to compose a text message, read through it and never send it. these words unsaid, i deleted every sentence, every punctuation mark and every letter in attendance.

And i have a tendency to search your name in my contacts and just stare at it because you were on my mind. i would rewind to the time we reclined. or just think back to us doing some dumb shit. if i then had a dollar for every time my thumb slipped and i accidentally called you and how quickly i hung up. i wonder if you seen it. so i would then hesitate to press dial for real this time and to find out. but i never go through with it. or how about when i reread our past conversations just to put a smile on my face, and then get mad when they automatically erase a couple weeks later. i hope you write me again soon. if i had a dollar for the many days i woke up to a “good morning� as i shut off my phone alarm. or a dollar for the countless times you told me you missed me, and you can add on another dollar for the amount of times i believed you. i wonder if you do the same. with all these dollars saved i remain on the other end of the phone like a visitor to a prison. without a doubt i would bail you out. too bad you cant buy love though.

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Stand Alone Neha Malhotra

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Lights Farah Salam Light erupts from my heart and runs in my veins.

The bright, burning aura burns in my veins like opiates.

They expand.

Feverish, I grow.

I am the size of Atlas, and touch the dusty surface of the moon.

My fingers cool at the touch, but they melt the lunar surface.

I keep growing, and go beyond the planets, I see diamonds in the shape of stars.

They entice and enamor.

I stay among them.

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Soaring

Courtney Italia

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Indian Summer Hanna Peterson we're here stranded in a cold desert kicking up sand to feel it on our faces not a trace of water even to scrape winter's hand is on our shoulders we haven't seen sun in over three weeks and the landscape is starting to settle in us

our blood begins to pour making earth a deeper shade of red and the grass finally returns in waves soon our spirits will dissolve taking with them our old thoughts of god and all hopes for forgiveness

remember those rumors about that pagan dance that brings forth an Indian Summer we could change things for a while

we're not savage, we're tasted we're not savage, we're tasted under time we fall apart under god we have false starts we're not savage, we've tasted we're not savage, we've tasted now a new faith in dance old spirits and chants we're starting over

shuffle your feet shake off your clothes bathe in clay so nothing shows feel that rhythm building building human heat

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I want to be artistic.

Like the cool kids who write poetry.

Be able to share with the world my story Make the lyrics that cause fans to tears People telling me I’m wise beyond my years Epic movies with countless awards My face on your favorite product’s billboard.

I want to be artistic.

Like the kids who can write so well.

Conveying countless emotions making eyes swell Change people’s lives, become an icon Have people dress like me and mimic my fashion.

I want to be artistic.

I Want to Be Artistic Jillian Ebanks

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From the moment your fingers turn the key in the ignition, a massive process begins.

Your hands must co-ordinate motion on steering wheels, aware that even the slightest tilt means a much larger turn. The right foot must now shuffle between two pads, both which react differently when pressure is applied. The slightest tap results in modest acceleration or a slight barrier to speed – a much larger compression causes the engine to pump loudly or cause the car to come to an ear-splitting, mind-numbing halt. The foot is able to discern just how much of the pad must be depressed to optimize the motion of the car itself.

But the brain isn’t simply working on keeping your hands and feet in check. Your eyes begin one of the most complex operations that never gets enough credit. Just imagine! First, your eyes are constantly shifting to one of three mirrors – two on the outskirts of the car, one pointed straight towards the back. Each of those mirrors judge the number of objects – other vehicles, the road, the curb, poles and posts – surrounding you and your car, causing a near-constant adjustment. Not too close to that curb, steer a little clear of that lane marking, watch out for the car speeding up behind you from both the left and right! Your eyes are constantly shifting, constantly analyzing, constantly making the brain’s processor compute and calculate.

And then there’s the issue of what is in front of you. Your eyes cannot simply concentrate on the back, they must look forward as well. Looking straight ahead, they are downloading data about everything – and I mean everything. While you might think you’re simply looking ahead, your eyes and brain are together debugging the road, the cars, the sky beyond and the clouds above, the impact your lights are having, the reflection those lights are making, adjusting to limit the intensity of other lights coming from cars, traffic posts and neon sign alike. You wonder what your pupil must look like, whether it is in a state of incessant contraction.

And people wonder why you think driving is so tiring.

The brain is processing all these muscular and ocular cues to make sure that you can stay on the road, control a machine that weighs far more than any man could hope to lift, a beast that can instantly harm or maim you but provides infinite benefits. Your brain is working hard to ensure that you stay clear and stay safe, while remembering the lyrics to the song on the radio, forcing the mouth to sing along or pay attention to the commentator on public radio.

So why would you think your mind was clear enough to read and write texts, too?

You don’t realize just how complex the notion of driving is because you’re not aware how complicated reading is as well. To do one or the other requires dimensions your cerebral material does not have.

And you know it, too.

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Your Mind and the Car Syed Taneem Salim

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Hollywood Jonathan Grado

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Love to Love Love Shanon Joseph A real, intoxicating, perfect-health, Soulful, summer-like, put-you-on-like-perfume, What-I-assume-you-shall-assume Kind of love.

A reaching around of arms From behind to remind You that you’re mine Kind of love.

A green leaves, dry leaves, Shine and shade, No need to be afraid Kind of love.

Am I mad for you to be In contact with me?

Increasingly, electrically!

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Old-Fashioned Love Amy Maciejowski

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My Name (Is)n’t Dale Rothstein

Christine E. Little It was sixteen years ago that she left. I was only a year old. I blame him. The way he talked to her, and the way he treated her. I resent him for it, but I suppose what makes everything worse is that I resent her more for not taking me too. She left me alone with him.

I can barely even call him my father. He was away more often than not on business trips, leaving me to be raised by various housekeepers. The final housekeeper had a daughter my age. Up until two years ago we were like siblings, and almost became inseparable.

She kissed me one night, blurring the line between us. She kept pressing to become more intimate. She never realized my discomfort. There were nights when she’d sneak over from the guest house, and climb into my bed. I always felt her touch my groin, as the feeling woke me.

I wasn’t sure how to handle it. When I asked my friends, they simply informed me to ‘man up,’ and allow her to violate my body.

But what they don’t know, is what I saw.

In the middle of the night, there was a light coming from His room, surprising me even more. The closer I became to the cracked door, the louder the sounds became. Looking inside, it was clear what was happening. I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent any noise from leaving my mouth. There she was, writhing on top of him. His hands gripped her waist as she moved. It was clear it wasn’t the first time they had done this.

And she had the nerve to enter my bed the next night in attempt to touch me the same way.

They’re disgusting. All three of them disgust me. My father. His lover - his seventeen year old lover, who wanted to become mine as well. And mostly, my mother. It’s her fault. She could have taken me away. She could have stayed, and maybe the bastard wouldn’t have felt the need to taint the possibility of light I found in my life.

I needed to get out.

I saw each of them one more time, at my graduation ceremony. Neither my mother, nor my father, spoke to me. It was for the best. I never saw such dark looks in either of their eyes before. Guiliaine’s replacement family accompanied her. Nicholas brought Heather, who had a surprising bump on her stomach. Her mother was fired shortly after, from what I heard.

They are no longer my parents, and I will forget her too.

I left. I will never look back.

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Innovation

Samantha Barracca

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What happens to a dream deferred?

I pray I never know.

Yet I’ve stood near the mountain top And saw the peak through the snow.

But when I fell I fell so hard I almost reached the ground Battered and bruised I looked up high But the peak was nowhere to be found I tried so hard to block it out Forget all about the climb But just like clockwork it comes back to me And burns from time to time What happens to a dream deferred?

Sadly now I know Like a wound it burns and festers And with time only grows

A Dream Deferred: Redux Cory Maffucci

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Free Albert Valerio

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Scream like ice screams.

Dark and hard like the ice screams.

Not frozen but anchored, not cold but sacred.

Little boy with ice cream, he screams not as ice screams but as trees tear at their leaves.

Gnarled branches rip and tear – tear and tear and tear until shivering and bare the tree stands and the boy he screams, but not yet how the ice screams.

Like Ice Julia Olson

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Run for Cover

Dan Callahan

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Functions of Intimacy

Morgan Pellecchia Approximations increase emotions, endurance, Thinking there’s value in content close relations.

While integers of fidelity exist, it’s true There is double standard to integrate through.

Continuous incompetency and cowardice functions, Such critical numbers in the true care of lovers.

Affection’s a center with no maximum volume, But the amount is eroded by physical nature.

Low self-disclosure with artificial endpoints, Express satisfaction, slowly diminishing.

The short distance from now To the future of lovers Routinely avoided though minimum styles And equations, resulting in positive communication.

The real point is, just affirming, Affection’s a curve, finite to some extent.

And where there is no maximum bound A minimum function value will always be found.

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Field of Flowers Farah Salam

Candy Trees Farah Salam

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Sleeping Giant Mountain Emily Keene I had a dream he woke up. He arched his ancient back, licked his cracking lips, exhaled an unimpatient yawn and left.

And once he was gone, a voice like a dusty hymn settled over me, and whispered: “The heart of the matter is that yours is a story of grace, and when the flood waters recede, a salty crust of light will remain.

I will slow dance with you, barefoot, in the kitchen. I will give you jazz chord progressions and a language begging to be set on fire.

I will give you solid ground and thirst and morning.

And I will love you, I will love you, I will love you.”

And it was meant for the high school poetry teachers, for the jailed, for the broken, and for the kids who will never know what it’s like to get new sneakers. It was for the girls up on pedestals, and the boys who put them there to look up their skirts, for the quiet, the forgettables, and the professor whose handwriting is barely legible. It was said for the infants who look at their mothers and see god, for the divorced and the afraid, for the drunk and the abused.

It was for those who still think love is shaped like a heart and you. It was meant for you.

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Heaven’s Fire Dan Callahan

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The Central Eye Eric Esposito

*Donald Hall Poetry Prize Recipient That unfound heart, Expanding in our center And engulfing the wide plains Of our minds.

That dark mystery Of stars, shapes, and sands; And ivory waves of joy Which churn through us And make us feel— As a new-born, Waddling into the island of razor thin lives, To contemplate the spark and speck Of our unfathomable eyes.

And there beats still A central eye: That ever expanding heart; Hidden to the world, Yet the primary part Of our motion.

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Loro Cariamarillo

Jordan Berman

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Missing Carriages Anna Wagner

She entertained herself by counting baby carriages in parking lots and shopping malls.

Roaming Through second hand stores Cradling baby shoes As if they were to Erupt into dust If she held them too Tightly.

She’d end up sobbing in public restrooms, staring at the bloody red patch on her underwear.

The stain, reflecting a barren land That dwelled inside of her.

Intoxicated by the hope that lies within the pink plus sign, She feared the blue minus, those little boxes that sat next to gum and condoms at the drug store. cheap miracles that lead to devastation.

Her womb was a wasteland and there is only so much my mother could possibly bear, when Bearing was the problem.

April is the cruelest month, But I don’t see how.

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Burn So Bright Danielle Susi Trees are at their most beautiful Right before they dry for a season Right before they die for a season And right after you walk away, I cry for no reason Because I know you won’t be here again We will never have this moment And you screw me over constantly But you don’t ever own it Like that tree, you cut me down And sold me for firewood And as I burn, I crackle And my bark splits the way it should At night I am snuffed out When the neighbors go to sleep My wooden heart is still a puzzle Too many pieces for you to keep Tomorrow night, he re-lights the fire The master sees two eyes, staring back at him Blazing with desire In go the matches, and I spark up Smoldering so softly Brimming with lost luck Like that tree, you cut me down And sold me for firewood But as I burn, I burn so bright My flames reach higher than yours ever could.

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The Beard Vincent Bond I wish some day this itch would just be gone, With eager weeds buried deep in my face, Some say my stare is one of manly brawn, I wish this damn hair could be more like lace, It’s dark and cold as midnight’s latest hour, It pricks and scuffs like scarves of dirty wool, It stinks and sags like a deceased flower, It takes me weeks of work to grow it full, Upon my field these black soldiers stand tall, For miles and miles these fibers stretch their legs, So cold and musk like the afternoons of fall, Its hands grab and hold my breakfast’s old eggs, It’s a place that no man can ever secure, It is a curse I bear, my skin’s torture.

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The Sea Does Not Reward Those Who Are Too Anxious or Greedy Ashley Adams

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A Chance to Learn Pythagorean Theorem

Rebecca Humphrey The underlying growth of men steeped in antique learning and a handful of gray ashes who from their labors rest claim the status of gods.

With heads bigger than a grandfather clock they walk on water their juicy brains amped up at the thought of complexity.

All while bodacious long stemmed broads pick at fruitful cuticles waiting for their cue to laugh the silent yoda awaits a destination, plastering walls until his hands bleed and his mind no longer wanders, flashing total strangers for her five year old because they never had the chance to learn Pythagorean theorem.

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Blue Amaris Mujica

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Isle of Skye

Rebecca Ivester

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It is my day to see if the chicks have hatched, to rock back and forth anxiously in my navy blue school shoes.

I hear no chirps calling for food.

It is unusual, the silence filling the dusty air.

Cotton skirt itching my legs, I walk over, a filmy cracked plastic cup in my hand.

The radiating heat seeps through my mystery fabric blouse as I lean over the incubator, curious.

The eggs are cracked, some with baby chicks poking through.

The heat seems too much, wrong, I call Sister Regina.

Absent Chirps Kira Smelser

She waddles over, her dusty hem brushing my ankles, and peers into the heat infested home.

She sucks in a breath and shuts off the heat, opens the incubator ever so slowly.

She touches a still baby chick, her face emotionless, then leads me back to my seat and continues the math lesson.

The next day the incubator and the chicks were gone, every kid oblivious to the chick’s tragic end.

Except me.

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Let’s Go Fishing!

Lesly Alvarez

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Rebuttal for English B

Noah Golden The teacher said, Harlem Renaissance – Read, write, imitate, respond To the words of those great writers And make it yours – GO Walking down out of class, past the throngs of multicolored students, I scratch my head. I ponder those words said so enthusiastically. Am I the one that should be honoring and representing these men and woman whose prose changed the world? Whose verbs shattered people’s stereotypes? Whose nouns started a revolution?

Why, you may ask, as if it isn’t glaringly obvious? I am white. Very white. Painfully alabaster white.

I was born and bred in Guilford, where the only thing remotely dark is the gravel on the driveways of the McMansions owned by more pearly, milky white people.

The disapproving face of Langston Hughes seems to glare at me. That high forehead, thin mustache, neat, cropped hair. His genuine eyes, that seem unable to lie, scream disapproval. His leering, jeering face seems to say, “What have you gone through! Has anyone stared at you in horror just because of the look of your face?”

But to the phantom, booming voice I say: Well, my face may not be dark. I may be able to sit wherever I do please. But my people, much like yours, have been unable to sit at the Adult Table of society. My people have been under an oppressors thumb; our backs have been raw and bloody with lashes; people have looked at us with fear and loathing and they don’t even know why. It’s just as learned and wrote as their ABCs, 123s, passed down from one generation’s spiteful eyes to another’s. We have wondered the dessert and lived homeless without a place to call our own. We too have raised our heads to the heavens and asked God, why, why oh lord.

While you may be a proud son of the tribes of Africa and I may be a proud son of the tribes of Israel, we are both now proud sons of America. The hands of our ancestors made the bricks that made this country – all the livelong day. I too like to eat, sleep drink and be in love. I too can now listen to Bessie, bop or Bach. I can che-cheche-che like the Duke does or shoo-be-doo-wop like Ella. ‘Cause they are now as American as apple pie.

That is why, Mr. Hughes that I can share with my writing With all of these people, who may not know who you are.

Without an abjection, because we are different yet one in the same And that is my page for Creative Writing.

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Stairway to Heaven Kelly Moran

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Red Lady Chelsea Hood

The red lady Writhes from behind the mirror—slowly. She… Crawls.

Perched next to the bed, she Breathes. Her breath it Beats upon brother’s bones, heavy as blows.

The red lady Exhales, Spraying the damned fate upon brother—as smog it Stains the air—it Drips on brother— Soaking him ‘til he Sticks with the sick dewy sweat of death.

The red lady Grins crooked teeth through dank dark Smothering body with bound embrace as brother Battles to Bite loose of brace.

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Lefkes Lauren Wolman

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Tears Laughs Coughs Screams Moans What are these sounds I hear Coming from this crack in the wall

In the Crack of Love Rondale Williams

Is it me or is it you Maybe the both of us You say we should get it fixed I say leave it be As you cannot see you say This crack can kill us Destroy us Destroy our love And our home That crack won’t do that It will just grow Bond Grow fond Leave it be and it will be something all our guest can see Let it try and break us Which it may But I bet there will be something there in the end This place may bend Leak Grow weak But still do you hear the Crys Laughs Screams Moans I put this crack there last night As a symbol of my love for you For all the times when I went left and you went right Or things didn’t seem to flow down that narrow path you hoped for Now let’s seal this thing up Before this wall collapses And the only thing left is us

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Sleeping Giant

Bryan Randall

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Grandpa’s Love Samantha Austin

*Donald Hall Poetry Prize Recipient I saw him watch them, prancing around In skeleton heels too flimsy to hold their last fast food deposit Real women wear stilettos, have breasts he told me The large kind you can cup like silly putty, encompass and mold Into whatever they need to be: secretary, cop, a nurse.

My grandfather loved women Fell in love with one whose chest blossomed from yellow canvas Before his eyes, a sinner awakened in a cross walk Cross walk, crossed lines, crosses on a list Of the girls he caught with spider’s string Placed gently around her throat, and led home Because she was a real woman The kind with the heels and the breasts So tell me does my worth sting? Are the words too clear, Cellophane glances go right through, a binding lacking text Too white to read, too hard to see, to care?

My grandfather loved women, real women With pins in their nests and perpetually blushed cheeks Walking the streets, walking home, in the kitchen, the bedroom, The stairs, children, greeting cards, saints and prayers And a cross outside the bedroom welcoming a sinner With a poker face and her in his hand My grandfather loved women It was his wife he couldn’t stand.

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Gaze Gaby Catalano

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Smiles Monica Torpey

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Are we the only ones on Earth who mourn the loss of life, the end of times, the death of those around us or rejoice the born?

For instance, when the cactus takes first breath, it celebrates its birthday with the sun.

The wind and desert joins it as its guests.

But then perchance it dies; its life now done.

Its friends come round to keep away the pests that lurk nearby. The sun and water stay to watch the poor thing as it’s decomposed.

Its green core squishes up like mush, turns gray.

The weakness in its needles really shows.

And then it’s dead, but still the friends stay ‘round to mourn the withered cactus on the ground.

The Death of a Cactus

Sarah Violette

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Toxicity Report Jessica Spencer Poe You sit in front of me, just a child, Though this should not be the case Because I’ve seen you, young and wild, We’ve made and shared this place.

I no longer give you name Because that would give you soul, And after months of this juvenile game I’ll assume the maternal role.

Where’s my girl September Full of love and life to brim?

No, I cannot remember her, That façade has grown too thin.

Your face now seeps of solitude, You sit in your bed alone, Sulking an internal feud That I have never known.

Your friends have made you venomous They’ve sucked your lungs of air Only to leave you fearing trust For they no longer care About you or your reveries, Your lust for a bigger life.

They only care for what they please, They’ll cut you like a knife.

And yes, the bleeding may smolder and smoke Til the tears pour out sublime, I thought you’d win out that weighty choke, Not return a second time.

So fool me once, fool me twice, The mockery has hit an end, I’ve wised up, I see the price, They’ve stolen you, my friend.

But you’re too blind to even see That they’ve taken all your heart, Instead you let their beating be And leave your world apart.

Where’s my girl September Who knew nothing of friendship sinned?

Your body lies like ash and ember, Fleeting the fickle wind.

I beg and try to know you But it hazes up my eyes I want your spirit to free your blue, And soak away their lies.

I’ll wade out this sickening flood And storm, grave and profane, Until you let that toxic blood Flow out your worried vein.

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Strolling

Chris Gillotte

*Donald Hall Poetry Prize Recipient

Persistence modified is a garden with petals pulled.

I stand in a circuitous route that has led me to where I was before.

No grandeur, no elevated state of charades Just a moonlit muddy mess next to a road, beside a choice that must be taken before my optimism disguises itself as a cardinal direction on my compass once again.

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Fiore Courtney Italia

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Terra-Pact Danielle Reid

A beautiful time Magnificent sky, the sun is trouncing behind the twine like clouds.

Even the sun needs quiescence.

The sun shifts wearily into siesta The tree abated by the shade The woods are sanctified Sacred Native grounds fortified The spirits long ago, swore to protect it And keeps it striking and energetic The burly winds a reminder of its might And its instinct to fight Defiant it cannot die No matter the misuse and abuse Its utter and candid fortitude to survive Thrive Protecting its inhabitants Scaring away any challenger Warrior, Mother, Bearer Keeper of Promises Loyal, as it is honest A Pact sealed in its elements Broken only when forever abandons it

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

In A Summer Breeze

Mary Greeley

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Flower Petals Curl

Alyssa Dunn Flower petals curl like the lower lip of a woman determined to get what she wants.

Curling, curling.

Curly, twirly, frilly – like flowers are expected to be.

They are expected to smell pretty too – but never do.

The fleshy nose always goes to meet the waxy petal, forever disappointed by the sharp and cutting scent of death.

The aroma of toxins thick like carcinogens filling the nostrils to the throat and continuing to permeate the lungs.

Stuffing every lost hope and deepest sadness into every corner, filling like smoke, masking the pure air, suffocating it until there is no more – just the falseness of a pretty thing, which deflates soon enough, leaving an empty shell standing, staring.

No thoughts but the half-hearted ‘at least they look nice’ – until the petals curl.

Curling like the lips of a woman determined to get what she wants.

Curling like death inhaling the life from the room: expanding itself on the nourishment of warm and happy air, sucking all it can before resorting to its meager self, draining life from itself, turning on itself – like a woman determined to get what she wants.

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Faded Entrance Chris Hart

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

(Found poem, taken from poster advertisements on a Metro North train going from Union Station to Grand Central.)

Instructions are not always wise.

Evacuate premeditations from your mind.

The future is mobile, Cruising through millions of plans made by everyone but you.

Control what is written on your palm.

No need to chase research or instructions.

You can trade the thoughts under your cap, For discovery—your own setting.

The handicapped feeling won’t last long.

Potential builds up until it’s smoking out your ears.

The chaos of a carnival, With the uneasiness of a hospital.

This door keeps you stationed like armor.

And old feelings build like glucose in a diabetic.

Turn your deep dark secrets into reality, Meet your future.

Graduation Gina Faustini

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Intoxicated

Valerie Massa

Fire ignites in my veins; the poison has only just begun its course.

I am invincible, like the immortal hero of my childhood.

Racing in and out of my brain, spastic thoughts rule my body.

I am one with the wind; light as air, floating away from myself.

I leave my body behind, observing from above; my own angel.

Wings raise me up high, higher, and highest; my mind growing fuzzy.

Exhilarated, I think I will never land on my feet again, toes free in the air.

My eyes are like marbles, glassy and bright; I am transparent.

Look through me for I am empty; filled to the brim with clear smoke.

I cry out like a wounded animal at myself below, but she doesn’t listen.

She is impatient, unyielding; she is a train run off its tracks.

I am the only one who can help her, yet she pushes me away.

She pushes me hard, like storm of tornado winds; up into the sky I swirl.

The storm is constant and inexhaustible; she doesn’t allow the sun to shine.

As I rush higher into the heavens, I find the sun and I beg.

I beg it to push through the clouds for her, down below.

The sun peers out from behind the clouds, its rays piercing her skin.

She is awakened by the warmth, and calls for me to return to her.

I press my soul to her body and she pulls me in, never letting go.

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Reflection Heather Corraccio

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

So they say I failed you might agree Because I’m 18 years old and in the 10th grade And I barely know how to read algebra looks like Hieroglyphics And my teachers say my attitude is going to hold me back But they’ve been saying that since the first grade- and I made it to the tenth They say my friends that dropped out in the eighth grade failed too But they just were tired of going to bed hungry at night, besides They couldn’t read either, so what’s the point of going to school?

Teachers told them they weren’t going to make it So they traded in their college dreams to sell dope & weed Stereotypical kids from the ghetto Still cant read But at least they’re stomachs are full when they go to sleep They say I’m a failure, And maybe you agree But I think the system failed me Classrooms overcrowded, and having no where to sit On top of lack of adequate space, they didn’t have enough books for every kid I can’t remember my teacher’s name But that’s because I’ve had 5 this year It’s funny because they say I failed, when 5 of my teachers quit This building exist, for a purpose that isn’t being achieved I learn more on my own, at home, watching the history channel on TV Than I do in the classroom, because my teacher can’t teach The say urban schools are like jungles, and most of the good teachers think they are too chaotic To take the risk of entering their doors But I find it ironic that they are suitable enough for students, or should I say soldiers Because we’ve been molded for war Metal detectors and police everywhere, I feel like I’m in prison But, I know better there’s actually one across the street The difference between the two?

I think they receive more governmental funding than my school, see They try to appoint the blame on kids like me However, my reading level clearly doesn’t accurately reflect My intellect, my depth, or intelligence I was able to compose elementary masterpieces in my mind while I sat in elementary Even if they are miss-spelled, And I don’t know where to place every period, comma, or apostrophe I know that it’s not the students; It’s the- urban school system that’s a catastrophe They teach us for testing, because our test scores dictate whether we will succeed Knowing we are destined for failure when kids like me, barely know how to read So they want to feed young minds, antiquated lies, about an American dream That with hard work & dedication we will be able to succeed But maybe they are ignoring the fact, that’s there an education gap And despite the promise that no child will be left behind I’ve repeated the 9th grade once, and stayed back two times So they say I failed But I disagree I’m destined to succeed Even though the system failed me.

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Urban Schools Carol Ann Jackson

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Remembrance Nicole Lewis

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

In The Midst of April Showers William Vessio She said she did not know a place to start – this was in the midst of april showers – So I twisted the sinews of my heart And made for her a flower My love – I said – take this and know only that my heart is for you – every thread She held it forth as if to show me – It looks like a lily – was all she said.

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Little grains of sand In the pleasant land Much expanded and irregular in size and form The waiter roars it through the hall “We don’t give bread with one fish ball” A handful of ashes long, long ago at rest Each in his narrow circle toiling for himself Just to gather some competence or wealth A transverse section through the jaw will show the elevation For all the saints, who from their labors rest For he himself must be a sharer or a spectator

Grains Chery Victoria

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Ms. 4.0

Jeoffrey Bispham

*Donald Hall Poetry Prize Recipient

It’s Saturday night, as you look over your paper That's the reason I overlook the women of alcoholic nature Who forgot the liter-ature, Miss.. congeniality, Miss.. "I maintain my spirituality and retain my individuality" 'Cause conformity is sickening like an allergy Miss..excuse me, miss, I want to be the man of your dreams and favorite part of your reality.

See, don't let me get in the way, cuz by your side is where I rather be.

As much as I miss you, your graduation's what I rather see Don't worry about the past semester, Don't let the bad grades fester, We can't always get that letter I bet you will do better..

Miss..I can't say you:" name Ms. 4.0, Nothing to do with your GPA though But you're the perfect grade, You do it all for me like the perfect made Or maybe Salle Mae, You're university known, But the boys that don't ride the scholar ship, You leave 'em a loan You work smart, them the hard way, And while they waste time and parlay, You prioritize before you partake in par-tays That's why I honor you monumentally Constantly complementary, and it's not really flattery..

You went from SAT practice and AP classes To GREs and MCATs, Kaplan's Endured the summer, well, more like lacked it So instead of trying to be an actress, enslaved by the masses You rather engage in your Masters 'Cause your shine is immaculate and you reign over these classless undergraduates.

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Birds and Boats Chrissi Rochester

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

This, Our Bastille.

Shantia Hanna How can this be that you consider us people, While in every circumstance we are rendered not?

And how you speak to me should be well composed, But your words form disarray.

Murder! Murder!

Is our war cry You unworthy scorn.

Can you see our destitute face?

And they, you, sit and calculate While some of us are rendered mute by ignorant rage.

Why then, my people, is it that we disengage?

Disengage!

Murder! Murderer!

You disengage.

So, we will no longer behave, While you render us victims to this dystopia.

This first world attitude that makes me less.

It’s damned and more so deranged.

But, how I wish to be the victor, Now given eyes to see and words To call to arms my people.

Your people.

Will follow me.

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Sunset Sprinkles

Kay Walker

4/9/12 3:20 PM

Motion in Time Diandra Petrocelli Until the next day and the next and next To the quiet whispers of dandelions And wind pushing up against endless time The wave of eternal movements that will Wrinkle each generation to magma Or the contours upon the oceans floor Where Somewhere Everywhere Wherever the Width across the sphere of land and water From one end to the other we can make The crisp twist into our latest magic Letting creation blend until frozen

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La Giralda Monica Torpey

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Appreciate the life around you, Look up and seize the clouds too.

Stop, and breathe in the air, Show Mother Nature you care.

Open your eyes and live a little, Sit in the grass and solve a riddle.

Climb to the top of a mountain, Drink out of a natural fountain.

Look where you step, That critter is more than just a speck.

Take snapshots in your head, So you can relive them when you reflect lying in bed.

Listen to the wind blow, Watch the stars glow, Listen to the music made by the rain, Walk on a foreign terrain.

Wake up early and watch the sun rise, Learn to talk with just your eyes.

Find that special someone, And fall asleep outside next to the midnight sun.

Do something that scares you, Defeat that fear and make yourself anew.

Challenge yourself to delve into what is unknown, Make a bucket list and have it be your stepping stone.

Appreciate movies in white and black, Take your moments rewind, pause, and redo.

Relive the precious flashbacks, And never say adieu.

Live A Little

Saba Shahid

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

Hunting Season Melissa Binari Alienation, degradation, mass intimidation No gratification, miscommunication, no affiliation Give me your wealthy, your uninformed, but not your poor Let’s talk about scandal, corruption, But not war

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4/9/12 3:20 PM

When she first asked me, I stared at her blankly; Eyes wide, mouth half open, head tilted slightly to the right.

Only something a typical American would do, finding themselves in an actual ‘application’ situation, Racking their brain for the right answer—in the proper tense, with the correct vocabulary, and the use of accurate pronouns.

But, all of my Spanish classes had not prepared me for that question.

All of my knowledge of Spanish speaking countries had not prepared me for that question.

It was one of those things that books will never be able to teach you how to solve. “¿Es ese tu bebé?

“Is that your baby?”

It echoed in its confusion as an answer tried to formulate in my head.

“No, no es mío.”

“No, he is not mine,” I said with an uncomfortable giggle, wiping the sweat from the brow of the baby.

I took a breath of the garbage-incensed air— It was more of a sigh, filled with concern and dedication, That I exhaled towards the little life I held in my lap.

Yet, even if I had replied ‘yes,’ she would never have asked, “¿Qué está mal con él?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Even if she wanted to.

Although looks asked me this even before I had gotten on to the small and cramped bus.

They had spotted the bandages around his neck, the ones that were pure white, surely covering something vile.

But directly above the coverings were bold deep brown eyes—glaring up, curiously, inquisitively.

The conversation ended after I responded with my stern and broken phrase of Spanish.

Both of which, For the rest of the bus ride, I sat next to that woman, feeling her eyes fixed on me. seemed to match mine.

For every stop and turn we made through the chaotic city, her eyes gave me a sense a false motherhood responsibility, judging me and saying: “Then why are you here?”

I had nowhere else to look but out the window at the vast dust of the South American industrialized countryside, and at the baby that sat on my lap.

Both looked back at me for help.

Part of me wish I had said that he was mine.

Even though, for the rest of that bus ride, I pretended that he had been.

Is That Your Baby?

Gaby Catalano

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Stepping off from the hectic platform of the bus, onto the hectic platform of the street, I hurried my way to the hospital.

With every glance I took at the unfamiliar setting, I met different eyes that searched my facial features with the same question, “¿Es ese tu bebé?

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The Staff and the Editors of Montage would like to thank the following people who helped with the magazine’s production and all other endeavors in the 2011-2012 academic year:

Lila Carney (Faculty Advisor) Ken Cormier (Faculty Advisor) Jamie Deloma Daniel Brown Samantha Schlemm Nancy Cunningham & Campus Copy Quinnipiac Univeristy Media Groups All those who submitted pieces to be published in this year’s magazine

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