WRITERS
Senior Editors
Camille Kuroiwa-Lewis
Valencya Valdez
Editors
Nandita Kumar
Catherine Leach
Lauren Savas
Clara Smith
Advisor
Prof. John McDonald
Cover Design
Valencya Valdez
Cover Image
Joaquin Valencia
Writers Logo
Designed by Reece Smith
Writers Photo
Natalie Gordon
Fall 2024
University of Portland
Letter from the Editors
Dearest Friend of Writers,
It’s been four years since the conception of a Fall edition, and our digital issue has continued to speak to the love, the anger, and the grief felt by our contributors. The Fall edition has always been the smaller issue compared with the Spring’s and Res Publica is no exception. In light of the political environment, both in our global neighborhood and our local community, Writers pursued a theme that would allow students to express their beliefs, critiques, and grievances on pertinent public matters.
The word “republic” derives from the Latin term "res publica,” which directly translates to "public matter" or "public affair.” In a republic, the government is considered a public matter rather than the private property of a ruler or select few. This concept is central to the idea that a republic exists for the common good of all its citizens. Tied to “res publica” is the body politic, which finds that citizens make up a society in the way limbs make up the human body. Overshadowing the body politic is the stratification of these limbs the state’s leader makes the head, while other institutions and people fall beneath as they form less sacred parts of the body. Yet, the head needs the feet, needs the arms, and needs the heart.
It’s tempting to say that we find ourselves in unprecedented times yet, the reality remains that authoritarianism, persecution, censorship, and violence have characterized America since its colonial roots. A republic of common good has never been promised to us, but that doesn’t make honest and open discourse any less worthy of upholding.
Throughout this issue, our contributors bare their hopes, values, and musings on the current political and social state of our campus and beyond. Our visual artists give us illicit images of bodies the state attempts to claim, as in Mollie Klingberg’s Patriarchy: Hands Off! Explicit illusions to anti-war efforts are found across several written works, including critiques of media propaganda in Leonidas Grimshaw’s 5’oclock and Shane Ruyle’s satirical Open Letter to the Poor.
Res Publica represents the cultivation of direct participation in pressing public matters, exemplifying how the people create the society in which we meet one another. Though we may not always agree, such discourse is necessary for building a flourishing and well-represented community. Writers will always intentionally create a space for the voices of our students to be represented through creative means; and further, we encourage our community to continue navigating difficult conversations with perceptive engagement.
Camille Kuroiwa-Lewis & Valencya Valdez Writers 2024-2025 Senior Editors
“People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them.”
– James Baldwin Notes of a Native Son, 1955
Forgetting Their Children
Shane Ruyle
Does grammar matter when people are dying?
Clarity valuable?
Intentions worth what?
Fine lines from killed to killer on words’ tightrope
“Losing hope, the wind moved him”
But see, this takes away his hope too And gives it to the wind – which might Have a hard time holding it
“Losing hope, he was moved by the wind”
But instilled in us by a teacher whose name we forgot
Passive voice is to be avoided like the plague
So meaning is traded for accuracy
Grammar bites tongues and distances them
And why couldn’t the wind have hope?
It took me awhile to
Misunderstand correctly:
Forgetting their children, the conquerors destroyed them... Or
Forgetting their children, they were destroyed by the conquerors Which means more?
Times Have Changed
Parielle Shapard
Open Letter to the Poor
Shane Ruyle
Feeling stuck, my loves? Inflation getting you down with eyes gazing up at all you could be, drooling over comfy seats out of reach as you feel your bones grinding, even under the covers? I was once one of you. It’s possible to escape, all in your hands, truly. Meritocracy, opportunity, social mobility – it all applies to you too. You’re not special. I worked for it, so can you. What are you gonna do about it? Not to fear, here’s a generous hand in the form of a poetic exposition: how to make money.
Sell munitions to nations at war, sell relief supplies for distribution at war, fly diplomats around to talk about war, pay speech-writers to equivocate about war.
Drill for oil to burn our sky, design an economy based on oil, sprinkle in the wealth of clean energy green energy electric vehicles, name it energy independence not climate collapse, put all eggs in the basket of the shortterm, manufacture alternative facts that belittle the long-term, give us its power.
Buy the land of your own to disown their poverty, demolish and build over rubble, be a hedge fund or sell to on, raise rent more higher more raise again, wipe the land’s slate clean, wrap in a bow of urban development, revitalization, position sky rises to block the view of history squirming under the shoe of growth, expand forever upgrade always, this is an upgrade right?, they had nothing of value right?, bad right?, label what’s good, we are good, market it.
Pump sugar, corn oil, salt into food chains, shove organic into the corner of the elite, make junk food, market junk food, sell junk food to the mouths of the poor, overprice medications for people who eat junk food, produce content on how to mitigate effects of junk food, skinny good, poor bad.
Buy drugs and their companies, sell drugs, criminalize cheaper versions of the drug, fill prisons, buy prisons, sell labor of people in prisons, I mean criminals, oh yeah convince everyone they’re criminals, skim off the top to do drugs, allow ourselves fun after hard work of locking up kids for having fun, was it fun or was it escapism desperation exploitation?, no excuses, here’s some bootstraps, pull them.
Remove kids from homes, federal funding by the number, contracts kids to companies (“non”profits, same difference), pay homes like the ones they come from, no vetting save money, no monitoring save money, understaff save money, only good people want a monthly government stipend (wait but not welfare), how hard could it be except for the parents who put them there, 11-year-old dies of abuse (not killed not murdered) in foster home, look how much money we saved.
Pay lobbyists to convince legislators to not legislate against war, petroleum, hedge funds, junk food, drug prices, prison labor, foster kids for profit, say it on repeat: greed is our natural state, greed is natural, we are greed, pay writers to write beautiful words on weapons, real estate ads, junk food, drugs, to keep victims searching for the beauty, send junk food to war zones, put out press releases that are basically junk food, make political speeches about politics, prevent thought, people need more, keep telling people they need more, make millions killing people, buy votes to install judges who let us keep killing people, it’s awesome how much money you can make killing people, haven’t even started on guns, really big money there, why not you on the gravy train, get your share, the bottom’s chase propels the top, you’ll get there if you want it enough, it’s so easy, to learn more, click HERE.
Sincerely,
Your way out and the reason you need one
Patriarchy: Hands Off!
Mollie Klingberg
The Land Remains
Mia Kilmister
The Land remains
The water filled veins that run freely
The still pools of mountain rush
Her ridged and jagged curves that kiss the sky
They have stood there unchallenged
Pellets of rain that have rushed their stony tops
Carving their stories into the rock
We carve and create and paint
We make our own meaning
Yet the Lands story is not for us to know
We can theorise and philosophise
But She has been here longer
Her life line is scattered and cracked
Spread across wilderness we believe we have conquered
We imitate Her and harness Her beauty
We legislate Her blood and soil
We choke Her with Her own hands
We choke ourselves
Our delegated reign weakens
The usurpers to be usurped
She will tell us who She is She will make us listen
The burn of autumn orange Is blackened with soot
Yet the land remains We willingly erode our existence
We crucify our Mother
But She heals herself un-begging
If we will not love Her She will retrieve herself as master
She will roll Her own stone
Heat swirls in the east
Cruel rains fill the sky
A rumble groans in the west
Starved by inconsiderate convenience
Stripped of evergreen
Shame
Shame
The whip that cracks is flagellate
Shame
Shame
The Land remains
Still Life Of
Women who cry on the city bus, How heavy are your eyes, laden with weight The years have pressed upon your cheeks, And shoulders, worn, made red and raw From bearing life's burdens, stuffed in The canvas bags taut in your grasp. Still in your sticky plastic seat, you linger, Reading across the shifting aisle, the public ads: Waist trainers for a woman your age, An Anglo family dentist's gentle care, Apartments with a balcony and gas stove. "If only you'd settle down," they seem to say. Yet, you stand still, as hours slip through your hands, Losing men in fifteen-minute intervals, Passing parks where babies don soccer gear, And "For Rent" signs tease your aspirations. Would it be too much? The wish To afford that shiny car, To park it by a picket-fenced yard. Your envious gaze rises, even on the bus, Those eyes that well up, searching for the Right stop, to find themselves at home. Have you seen through the dusty, streaked windows, Stained by bug blood and guts and rose and rot? For beyond them, the world outside unfolds, Storefronts adorned with neon signs aglow, Dim alleyways and rain slipping off rooftops, As the setting sun bathes the city streets In golden hues, while your tears flow silently And your flimsy groceries bought with EBT, Sit with impatience on your lap. You imagine a different life within the frame Of a ten-minute walk or eight if you jog Where the milk jug does not grow lukewarm and The avocados can last through the commute; You place them gently on a marble island
Valencya Valdez
While your husband feeds the baby by spoon. Instead, you must take the fifty-minute ride –Because collective endeavors urge time –Gripping tight to the bright yellow pole, Counting heads by rows.
You stand for an elderly woman who trembles, Her legs unable to find a moment's peace, Eyes as puffy as yours, though still. Unaware of waist trainers and dentist's reviews, She holds no carrion – something hangs From her, almost fresh, new.
She sees not the puddle of piss in the back row, Beneath the emergency window, with its whistling crack. Its tune blends with the leaky rubber tires, Scraping the paved concrete with each turn. Or perhaps it is the rubbery driver, Calloused hands and eyes divided, one askew, Overseeing the payment station and Grazing his crossed eye over the blind spot. Yet, you do not blame him, for your thoughts Are elsewhere, lost in the city's rhythm.
Your quiet tears, the shuffling passengers, The driver’s wandering eye, and the passersby Occupying the world outside in a gentle blur. You do not see it coming, nor does he, The rumble of a steel semi-truck Hurdling into the bus’s ribs and Colliding with your still wetted seat.
Ethereal Solitude
Diana Hutchings
rabbit hole
Branna Sundy
i stare at this little black hole in my pocket and fall inside forever
i can feel my brain fogging out i can feel my heart abdicating i can feel the apathy coming over me when did it become so easy to close my eyes? to swallow the words and the news and the death without blinking? how did i let that happen?
i know something’s wrong and yet here i am, sipping tea and laughing at flamingos and running my mouth about being late to class not about the late children, the dead bodies in bags, the American bombshells cracking clams apart across a stretch of sand so full of people i seem to have lost my head somewhere on the way to obey my superiors if you find it, could you bring it to court and bang me awake with your gavel?
and old judge, would you let me pass through this sentence without looking at me like that?
i know i deserve it, but the yelling doesn’t help it never really changes a thing, does it? does it?
what a mockery of society we seem to be a waltz of lobster-red faces and bellowing bigots on both ends do you see how stupid it all is? no, really, do you ever look in the mirror? and think “what a waste of a golden afternoon” to be shouting at each other with our ears folded shut burning books and drinking in some foul masquerade of morality while dormice like me snooze the days away and we all erase the pages of something so curiously beautiful instead of letting the wild be wild and letting the people be people
we send marching, hairless characters to commit massacres that we call wars too big for our boots, too small for our guns and the long-toothed, lumbering Carpenter and the mock-crocodilesobbing Walrus stand at the top of the ladder, so close to the sun you could melt a raven’s wings into ink
so close to the blended bliss of a world that we gently tend to, a world of winding forest paths and quiet meadows full of white roses and carnations and chrysanthemums in bloom, olives heavy on the branches, anemones spilling down the valleys, crocuses and hyacinths dipping to drink from a freshwater stream, daisies sparkling in the sun among mustard and marigold and Jerusalem sage, tulips and buttercups peeking brightly from the meadowgrass, the delicate blue of linum usitatissimum swaying in a summer breeze, blooming beneath our kind, soil-rich hands, the only crumbles full of plums and peaches, pomegranates and mulberries, and the worst that would happen is the rabbits get into gardens where they lived long before us
and yet the Carpenter with the elephant trunk and the Walrus with the donkey ears are hypnotized by the blackened sky and the blinding white tower, looking down on the whole from an eclipsed earth, spitting on the wailing baby-faced oysters and the squawking broken-winged ducks and the burbling Jabberwock with its head cut off from its body
look! at the mushroom-booms of caterpillars that’ll never butterfly look! at the spitting hatred of the snorting duchess and her peppery piglet who inherits it all and look! look! look! there’s a world through the looking glass that we could reach, a dream we’d make real if we took a good long look at the mess we’ve dressed up as a red-blue chess match check your reflection, dear heart do we want to live behind the glass forever? or will we smash through it and make the bleeding stop?
Coherence
Scott Winkenweder
Back when I was the wizard on the rock–O yeah, baby, back then–the big clay rock photobombed into the fat foot of the mountain, when me and the other councilmembers smoking in our tunnel-trances watched the meteor cadaver through the split lightning sky, when still we all were stoned, and greedy I caught a capsule of bees for the pollen I might glue through my gums, the wind was already dying and the cruel giant-ghosts had already hemlocked the whole of their weight into the concrete.
You wonder how it’s something I survived?
Survived, baby, black the ash skyscraping, the rash of heat, inundated in tar, pigs hot with their horns, hawking with handcuffs state traitors to bleary confessionals–in the mapped and fast-burning forests I wonder if at night we ate pork or if we ate nothing. If we were so deeply cowards that we could not light a fire or boiling shudder silent in the cold. Survived, baby, alone with callous luck for the tentative reach behind your eye.
I’ll tell you now about what I did or did not do when the white bird called me by my old name, the ragged syllable my parents tagged me with. When the trees stood up and withered into dust, when under the cracked towers I crawled with rats in my mouth,
boiled down to hunting and sheltering, at the loaming word alone I lost my hunger, the drought of my thinking, to prayer: O baby, when I prayed low and humming to the brutal bones sunken to the earth, only then did my shaking turn to speech.
I’ll tell you now about what I did or did not do when the white bird called me by my old name, the ragged syllable my parents tagged me with. When the trees stood up and withered into dust, when under the cracked towers I crawled with rats in my mouth, boiled down to hunting and sheltering, at the loaming word alone I lost my hunger, the drought of my thinking, to prayer: O baby, when I prayed low and humming to the brutal bones sunken to the earth, only then did my shaking turn to speech.
CATHERINE LEACH Someone Will Remember This
Tommy McCaffrey
Now saves an hour of lust, greed, and power
Take hold of land and reign, And lose the good and true in what they do, Forget their people’s pain.
An apple shines, and shows no lines, In beauty of its red, But so within the core, its truth no more Than vile, foul, and dead. So is one land that breaks its oath For wealth and earthly pleasure.
Endure, all now, in logic lives, For it’s something mobs can’t measure.
Performance, speaking, vowing things That anyone can say, but quick
To change the subject, so again, The truth lies sure away.
Poor people drown in sad divide, What do you stand for now?
In what dull hour will you call for help, With tears poured from your brow?
For peace, sow strife. For heart, chase greed. With sharpened tongues, spew crock.
Behold your gross, sly winks make gorges rise, Too foul to even mock.
To last a day, or year, or something more For nothing good or true
Gives rise to violence, curses, hate, and death, So very well, adieu.
May one day come, when one looks back, And cries, laments, knows shame
At what once knew a One, a Three, or something more Than placing, passing name. But still endure injustice, three pillars great, For now, hang in, be strong, For leaders come and go, and go and come, How relatively long? It was and is, and so will be Until that one great day When those of Babylon, Persia, Greece and Rome Of now are done away.
Angie and Annette banned from
love
Mollie Klingberg
Lunna C.C.
Querida luna,
Todos te miran con amor
Hablan de ti
De tu belleza
Y la verdad nada se compara
Muchos te hablan
Empiezas a conocer sus secretos, dolores, penas
Y se que uno de tantos es el amor de mi vida
Siento Celos
Ya no me habla
Ya se fue
¿Entiendes este dolor?
Mi luz, mi brillo se apagó
Igual que el tuyo
Cuando no esta tu sol…
Dear Moon,
Everyone looks at you with love
They talk about you
About your beauty
And really nothing compares
Many speak to you
You begin to learn their secrets and pains
And one of many is the love of my life
I'm jealous
We don’t speak anymore
He has left
Do you understand this pain
My light, my shine shuts off
The same way yours does
When the sun is not around
Scott Winkenweder
Sanguis Insectum
Alex Melendez
From the president, digging down, underground Past even the mayors
Dirty mole men hide under sediment layers.
These trusted tyrants attempt to satisfy with treaties and bills, yet when rivers must run red, only our insect blood spills.
To squash a bug under the mighty boot is to lose a pawn from a line ten million strong. It looks the same, appears as long.
With an afterthought’s yawn, Fox faced industries and evil armies push on
And with an afterthought’s yawn, A single pawn is forced into careless sleep And a mother weeps, for her single pawn matters none when there are plentiful players
Insect blood drains while those dirty mole men hide under sediment layers.
We have seen that it is good
Catherine Leach
I have seen this land bound with rough twine. Bound by the wrists and bound by the ankles.
I have seen this land thrown onto the pyre, crashing into the stack of firewood like rotten meat.
I have seen this land nurtured in our hands. I have seen us sow seeds inside of her. I have seen us delight in the bounty she has given us. I have seen us claim her as our own.
I have seen us take her body
I have seen her skin break under our fingernails as we cling on to her Like feral cats fighting over territory Like lovers fighting over a woman.
I have seen what remains of her, embedded under our nail beds.
I have seen this land cower in the shadow of the blade we raised against her. I have heard this land scream in pain as we violated her, again and again. I have seen our blade sink into her flesh, and I have seen this land’s blood spill from her bosom. I have seen her blood pool and splatter on the kindling, like gasoline for our desire.
I watched us set her body alight
I watched her flesh melt like wax
I smelled her hair burn
We watched her fat drip into beautiful patterns on the dirt below her, And we saw that it was good.
We joined hands and danced around her fire
We worshiped her charred body as an idol
And we told ourselves that we are God.
Joaquin Valencia
5 o'clock picture this:
Leonidas Grimshaw
there is a man on your TV screen you know him. he speaks; not in circles. but in zig-zagging lines but he mostly says that if he just had more time he’d fix what ails you but fast forward. he didn’t fix what was wrong. you still have to choose between rent and food on the third week of the month you still break your back for the people who pay for that man to be back on your TV screen at five o’clock pause. fast forward again. picture this: it’s 4 years later and there is a new man on your TV you don’t know him yet but he promises to fix everything wrong he actually sounds like he knows what is wrong, for real you give him a chance the rookie and then the bomb drops on a country 6000 miles away on kids at school and on their mothers and on centuries of tradition and the blood that carried that knowledge spills out onto the roads
CNN shows a red scarf blowing on the wind over what used to be an orchard there are bodies on your TV.
you are outraged! why is nobody outraged?! you scream and you cry and you march
“but he promised to fix things!” the crowd roars back “things are better now!” you cannot win zoom out. pause.
you still work for the same company that uses the money missing from your check to pay for men to promise it was justified you still break your back you still come home to count ones and snake a cigarette at your kitchen table in your greasy jeans you bought 10 years ago while there is a man on your TV screen zoom out. further.
there is a bomb with your name on it that your labor signed somewhere above a little boy named Mohammed. in three days, Mohammed and his baby sister will be dead.
change the channel. picture this instead. there is no man on the TV you know your neighbors who work hard, just like you there is a garden down the block where the old corner store got demolished 6 years ago and you carpool with your friend Jaime there is no bomb on a plane across the sea because we don’t pay for them to get made anymore we don’t let men on the TV make us empty promises anymore we feed our neighbors and their children with fruit from our orchards instead and we let everybody do the same
About the Contributors
C.C. (she/her), c·c, proper noun:
1.
Leonidas Grimshaw (he/xe), lee·oh·nigh·das grim·shaw, proper noun:
1. lover of aquatic animals; 2. avid ethel cain enjoyer; 3. butch
Diana Hutchings (she/her), dy·an·uh, proper noun:
1. Passionate artist; 2. Mom of the group; 3. Cherry Coke connoisseur
Mia Kilmister (she/her), my·yah kill·miss·ter, proper noun:
1. Bella Hadid; 2. Big Back; 3. That one Kiwi on the Rowing team
Mollie Klingberg (they/them), mall·ee cling·burg, proper noun:
1. candle hoarder; 2. exclusive postcard writer; 3. owner of your favorite scuffed cowboy boots
Catherine Leach (she/her), cath·ur·ine lee·ch, proper noun: See definition for 'Editor.'
Tommy McCaffrey (he/him), tom·my mc·caff·rey, proper noun:
1. Coffee enthusiast; 2. Admirer of Cats; 3. Lover of Dogs.
Alex Melendez (he/him), al·ex mel·en·dez, proper noun: 1. grub eater; 2. inside your walls; 3. getting kicked out of your party
Shane Ruyle (he/him), shayn (rhymes with "rain") rool (rhymes with "school"), proper noun:
1. perpetually popping wheelies; 2. provocateur; 3. short king
Parielle Shapard (she/her), pa·r·i·elle sha·pard, proper noun:
1. coffee shop enthusiast, 2. theatre and arts administration major, 3. loves a good giggle coffee; 2. love coffee; 3. art is nice
Branna Sundy (she/they), bran·nuh sun·dee, proper noun:
1. one who requires an inordinate amount of Band-Aids; 2. kicking their feet over The Abyss; 3. will honk if provoked
Valencya Valdez (she/her), va·len·s·ee·uh val·dez, proper noun: See definition for 'Senior Editor.'
Joaquin Valencia (he/him), wa⋅keen va⋅len⋅see⋅uh, proper noun: 1. won't stop talking about capitalism and its discontents; 2. is too funny (so he thinks); 3. sees life through 35mm film
Scott Winkenweder (he/him), skott wink·n·weed·r, proper noun: 1. louse of a dying house; 2. a rumpled crawler; 3. a stunned convection
About the Editors
Valencya Valdez (she/her), va·len·s·ee·uh val·dez, proper noun: puts the ‘Senior’ in Senior Editor; 2. running around like a rat stuck in a coffee can; 3. an extraordinary machine.
1.
Camille Kuroiwa-Lewis (she/her), kuh·meal koo·row·ee·wuh lew·iss, proper noun:
scrolling on YouTube shorts; 2. Tucson, AZ apologist; 3. trying her best 1.
Nandita Kumar (she/her), nan·dee·tuh koo·mar, proper noun:
1.
king of the Clark library service desk; 2. will force you on a long walk if you stick around too long; 3. is slithering down the big metal slide in the Columbia Park annex right now if you’re free. Are you free?
Catherine Leach (she/her), cath·ur·ine lee·ch, proper noun:
one who is often ten minutes late to their 8 am course; 2. a human who enjoys pumpkin bars; 3. a land-roaming creature that often listens to rock music. See also definition for ‘nerd’. 1.
Lauren Rees Savas (she/her), lo·ren ree·suh sah·vah·suh, proper noun:
1.
novice crocheter; 2. lover of wind storms, iced chai, and animals with human names; 3. The Most Gullible™
Clara Smith (she/her), clare·uh smith, proper noun:
obsessive; 2. compulsive; 3. happy to be here 1.
Acknowledgments
Writers is never a singular effort, and we are immensely grateful for the support of the following people:
Professor John McDonald, our trusty faculty advisor, for giving us constant encouragement while simultaneously allowing us the space to make and fix our own mistakes.
Our contributors, for their amazing poems, musings, and art pieces. Writers simply would not exist without you and is better because of you.
And, most emphatically, the Fall 2024 Writers Editorial Board, for their adaptability, creativity, passion, and patience.
Submission Policy
Writers Magazine accepts submissions of original creative work by current students of the University of Portland. These works include but are not limited to short prose, poetry, short plays, photography, visual arts, and cartoons.
All submissions are evaluated by the editorial board. Submissions are kept anonymous throughout the evaluation process.
