Ain't Nothing Changed
By Jordan Marshall-Smith
To this day,
since we were first snatched from our freedom for other man’s gain so long ago and put on those slave ships.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we are still being snatched from our freedom but only now to be put in a cell to remind us that we are animals to them.
To this day,
since we were forced to obey the other man’s every command and work to death every single day to be fed "just enough" not to die.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we have to work graveyard shifts that only put "just enough" in our pockets because we weren't offered the same opportunities as the other man.
To this day,
since we were blamed and lynched for rapes, murders, thefts, etc. that we didn't commit but had to be punished for because we "fit" the category of being capable for those things.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we are still blamed and shot down for rapes, murders, thefts, etc. that we didn't commit but had to suffer from because we "fit" the description.
To this day,
since we had to sit in the back of the bus where we were too far back to be seen by the bus driver so we couldn't ask for help if we needed it
sat in the back to show the world that we understood that the other man was the superior.
Ain't nothing changed,
as this generation has unknowingly picked up on those "old" segregation habits certain kids subconsciously want to sit in back because they think it's the cool thing to do not noticing that the other kids in the front get tended to and acknowledged more from the teacher.
To this day,
we have been treated exactly the same as we were then.
Ain't nothing changed.
By Jordan Marshall-Smith
To this day,
since we were first snatched from our freedom for other man’s gain so long ago and put on those slave ships.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we are still being snatched from our freedom but only now to be put in a cell to remind us that we are animals to them.
To this day,
since we were forced to obey the other man’s every command and work to death every single day to be fed "just enough" not to die.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we have to work graveyard shifts that only put "just enough" in our pockets because we weren't offered the same opportunities as the other man.
To this day,
since we were blamed and lynched for rapes, murders, thefts, etc. that we didn't commit but had to be punished for because we "fit" the category of being capable for those things.
Ain't nothing changed,
as we are still blamed and shot down for rapes, murders, thefts, etc. that we didn't commit but had to suffer from because we "fit" the description.
To this day,
since we had to sit in the back of the bus where we were too far back to be seen by the bus driver so we couldn't ask for help if we needed it
sat in the back to show the world that we understood that the other man was the superior.
Ain't nothing changed,
as this generation has unknowingly picked up on those "old" segregation habits certain kids subconsciously want to sit in back because they think it's the cool thing to do not noticing that the other kids in the front get tended to and acknowledged more from the teacher.
To this day,
we have been treated exactly the same as we were then.
Ain't nothing changed.
Bathroom
By Caleb Teague
I place my hand upon a mirror
Or perhaps it is a window
And I gaze through to a reflection
Or perhaps a fellow prisoner
I press hard against the barrier
Maybe an attempt to break it
And reach through to whatever soul
Maybe an attempt to affirm it
I close my eyes and whisper
As if to call out to myself
And beckon an invitation of clarity
As if to ask for a reply
I place my hand from the glass on my cheek
And I feel warmth and violence and chaos
Splashed like stains on white cloth
I leave that mirror behind
And away from the window, I turn
To look into the absence once more
It is a truer reflection than any
By Caleb Teague
I place my hand upon a mirror
Or perhaps it is a window
And I gaze through to a reflection
Or perhaps a fellow prisoner
I press hard against the barrier
Maybe an attempt to break it
And reach through to whatever soul
Maybe an attempt to affirm it
I close my eyes and whisper
As if to call out to myself
And beckon an invitation of clarity
As if to ask for a reply
I place my hand from the glass on my cheek
And I feel warmth and violence and chaos
Splashed like stains on white cloth
I leave that mirror behind
And away from the window, I turn
To look into the absence once more
It is a truer reflection than any
Canto
Hannah Jenaraine
I woke to find a blaring noise intrude my
mind. As a deafening cry ruptures in my head,
my senses reel with a petrifying sigh.
Beyond this circle there is not a shine.
Instead, there is crying, howling, and wailing
of millions of children that pollute my mind.
"Master," I said, "what souls can these possibly
be? Who are confined, handcuffed, tied to chairs,
and scream out in anguish constantly."
Before he could reply, I heard a mutter.
Amy Winehouse uncontrollably wept beside
me murmuring faintly about her brother.
Devastated with pity, I once more spoke:
"Poet, I should be glad to have a word with
her. The one who is covered with a cloak."
Thus, as soon as the wailing became suppressed
I called, "O tormented soul if none restrain
speak to us. Why are you in such distress?"
And she to me: "I dared to carouse, I succumbed
to my desire. My breath betrays the drink that
brought me to the burning wrath of Satan's for tongued
rage. We spent out wealth on plenty alcohol,
not thinking of the pitiful children who had
none to eat and now they scream and bawl.
We are stuck, starving, deprived of an essential;
it feels as if large swords pierce through our stomachs
the torment we endure driving us mental.
Before I could reply, my head started to pound,
and suddenly myself unconscious I found.
Hannah Jenaraine
I woke to find a blaring noise intrude my
mind. As a deafening cry ruptures in my head,
my senses reel with a petrifying sigh.
Beyond this circle there is not a shine.
Instead, there is crying, howling, and wailing
of millions of children that pollute my mind.
"Master," I said, "what souls can these possibly
be? Who are confined, handcuffed, tied to chairs,
and scream out in anguish constantly."
Before he could reply, I heard a mutter.
Amy Winehouse uncontrollably wept beside
me murmuring faintly about her brother.
Devastated with pity, I once more spoke:
"Poet, I should be glad to have a word with
her. The one who is covered with a cloak."
Thus, as soon as the wailing became suppressed
I called, "O tormented soul if none restrain
speak to us. Why are you in such distress?"
And she to me: "I dared to carouse, I succumbed
to my desire. My breath betrays the drink that
brought me to the burning wrath of Satan's for tongued
rage. We spent out wealth on plenty alcohol,
not thinking of the pitiful children who had
none to eat and now they scream and bawl.
We are stuck, starving, deprived of an essential;
it feels as if large swords pierce through our stomachs
the torment we endure driving us mental.
Before I could reply, my head started to pound,
and suddenly myself unconscious I found.
Canto XII.V, Circle VII: Round I.V
By Morgan Suchin
There was the previous crimson river I
traveled. With violence against thy neighbor,
round one and a half, I now see, full of sky.
It was unlike preceding circles of hell
Violent sinners were in a paradise
Blue and green engulfed my senses, all was well
Virgil looked at my face, it was full of peace
Over yonder, I sight a bare man nearby
Then, my view succeeding, made my smile cease
I questioned Virgil as to who that man was
“Circle seven: round one and a half carried
the sinners of agony. Rape was their cause.”
Pulled by force, the Stanford swimmer stepped into
the water. As he moved forward, the sky changed.
A blood soaked high sky, thunder roared and dust flew.
Paradise, gone. Deep cuts appeared on the boy.
He went forward, into the salt-teared water.
He screamed and cried. No longer filled with his joy.
The burns wept throughout his body. Oh, what ache.
Each sinner was reminded of the dread caused.
And their victims’ words echoed along the lake.
Booming was her voice, “You don’t know me, but you’ve
been inside me…” 1 Each sinner heard their actions.
Approaching the man, the sky began to move.
Bliss returned. Sinners were forced out of water.
Security in paradise disappeared.
I said to him, “Why? What did thou do to her?”
He screamed, “I thought I was safe, but I was through.”
And with Brock Turner, appeared other rapists
Goodwillie, Robertson 2 and Vandenburg, too 3.
The accused yearn for desperate survival.
One’s farce punishment should be on a trial.
Notes:
1. http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/stanford-university-rape-case-the-victims-letter-in-full-a7067146.html
2. http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-edinburgh-east-fife-38651041
3. http://crimefeed.com/2016/06/ex-vanderbilt-football-player-doled-out-condoms-before-raping-unconscious-woman-prosecutor-says-brandon-vandenberg/
By Morgan Suchin
There was the previous crimson river I
traveled. With violence against thy neighbor,
round one and a half, I now see, full of sky.
It was unlike preceding circles of hell
Violent sinners were in a paradise
Blue and green engulfed my senses, all was well
Virgil looked at my face, it was full of peace
Over yonder, I sight a bare man nearby
Then, my view succeeding, made my smile cease
I questioned Virgil as to who that man was
“Circle seven: round one and a half carried
the sinners of agony. Rape was their cause.”
Pulled by force, the Stanford swimmer stepped into
the water. As he moved forward, the sky changed.
A blood soaked high sky, thunder roared and dust flew.
Paradise, gone. Deep cuts appeared on the boy.
He went forward, into the salt-teared water.
He screamed and cried. No longer filled with his joy.
The burns wept throughout his body. Oh, what ache.
Each sinner was reminded of the dread caused.
And their victims’ words echoed along the lake.
Booming was her voice, “You don’t know me, but you’ve
been inside me…” 1 Each sinner heard their actions.
Approaching the man, the sky began to move.
Bliss returned. Sinners were forced out of water.
Security in paradise disappeared.
I said to him, “Why? What did thou do to her?”
He screamed, “I thought I was safe, but I was through.”
And with Brock Turner, appeared other rapists
Goodwillie, Robertson 2 and Vandenburg, too 3.
The accused yearn for desperate survival.
One’s farce punishment should be on a trial.
Notes:
1. http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/stanford-university-rape-case-the-victims-letter-in-full-a7067146.html
2. http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-edinburgh-east-fife-38651041
3. http://crimefeed.com/2016/06/ex-vanderbilt-football-player-doled-out-condoms-before-raping-unconscious-woman-prosecutor-says-brandon-vandenberg/
No One
By Olivia Arnold
Do what I say
I bust my ass to put food on the table
And dinner isn’t even cooked
I give you a house
And you can’t keep it clean
That’s it
I warned you last time
No one will hear
No one will care
You want to vote?
Your opinion doesn’t matter
You aren’t even a part of this working world
You obey me anyways
No one will hear
No one will care
These are my children
Remember who provides for them?
You can’t leave me
Unless you want to lose them
My kids aren’t going to no shelter
I dare you to leave
No one will hear
No one will care
Listen to me
I’m sorry about last night
I was drunk
I didn’t mean to hurt you
It isn’t a big deal
We’ve already had two kids anyway
You know I love you
No one will hear
No one will care
We can’t help that we’re stronger than you
Businesses can hire who they want
It’s not sexist to have a preference
No one will hear
No one will care
Woman are already equal
But your womb?
That’s sacred
We need to protect the children
How could you want to hurt an innocent?
Just deal with it
No one will hear
No one will care
He did what?
You’ve got to be mistaken
He’s a good man
What were you wearing?
No one will believe you
No one will hear
No one will care
You don’t need feminism
You just hate men
You can’t do half the things a man can
She will never get anywhere dressing like that
How many people have you slept with?
No one will hear
No one will care.
By Olivia Arnold
Do what I say
I bust my ass to put food on the table
And dinner isn’t even cooked
I give you a house
And you can’t keep it clean
That’s it
I warned you last time
No one will hear
No one will care
You want to vote?
Your opinion doesn’t matter
You aren’t even a part of this working world
You obey me anyways
No one will hear
No one will care
These are my children
Remember who provides for them?
You can’t leave me
Unless you want to lose them
My kids aren’t going to no shelter
I dare you to leave
No one will hear
No one will care
Listen to me
I’m sorry about last night
I was drunk
I didn’t mean to hurt you
It isn’t a big deal
We’ve already had two kids anyway
You know I love you
No one will hear
No one will care
We can’t help that we’re stronger than you
Businesses can hire who they want
It’s not sexist to have a preference
No one will hear
No one will care
Woman are already equal
But your womb?
That’s sacred
We need to protect the children
How could you want to hurt an innocent?
Just deal with it
No one will hear
No one will care
He did what?
You’ve got to be mistaken
He’s a good man
What were you wearing?
No one will believe you
No one will hear
No one will care
You don’t need feminism
You just hate men
You can’t do half the things a man can
She will never get anywhere dressing like that
How many people have you slept with?
No one will hear
No one will care.
Recipe for Quiet Reflection
By Caleb Teague
A street, or a name in a book
A remembered but untouchable object
Maybe the affection for the moon
All these things distilled in a glass
Served on ice, but not too cold
Nostalgic, but not quite romantic
The past is far too damaged and violent
Roaring as a lion in a crib
Almost shattering but never breaking
Always served with cake
The kind you eat with tiny forks
And remark at the lemon on your tongue
Maybe you were happier there
But you couldn’t have held those memories forever
And expected to still have them in golden film
But you would ask to anyway
And the cake must never be too sweet
And the abstracted mind never let loose
For these are dangerous mistakes
And recipes are meant to be followed
By Caleb Teague
A street, or a name in a book
A remembered but untouchable object
Maybe the affection for the moon
All these things distilled in a glass
Served on ice, but not too cold
Nostalgic, but not quite romantic
The past is far too damaged and violent
Roaring as a lion in a crib
Almost shattering but never breaking
Always served with cake
The kind you eat with tiny forks
And remark at the lemon on your tongue
Maybe you were happier there
But you couldn’t have held those memories forever
And expected to still have them in golden film
But you would ask to anyway
And the cake must never be too sweet
And the abstracted mind never let loose
For these are dangerous mistakes
And recipes are meant to be followed
Canto 4.5 – (More) Limbo
By Jake Espenscheid
One man is alone standing on the plain.
He looks out into the waste, tears in his eyes.
I walk to him and see he rests on a cane.
“I see you are alone, may I ask your name.”
He replies “I am Tenzin Gyatso.”
“Why are you here, what is your claim to this fame?”
“I am the Dalia Lama, the fourteenth one.
In life I was a Buddhist monk from Tibet.”
“I’ve never heard of any Tibet under the sun.”
“The country that I ruled is small but very good.”
“What things could a Buddhist do to come to Limbo?”
“I tried to spread peace like any leader should.”
“I am sure you were a great leader in life.”
The Dalia Lama tells me he is grateful.
“Why do you watch and cry at the sinners’ strife?”
“I feel pity for them and am lucky to be here.
The afterlife is not as I imagined.”
I notice that he is about to shed a tear.
“Why don’t you join the others by the castle?”
“I have little in common with these great minds
and getting to know their names will be a hassle.”
“Nevertheless, there is much that I can learn
and they are the ones to teach me.”
We said our farewells and I watched him turn
And walk away towards the other dead greats.
I face my companion and walked
toward where souls are burdened by greater weights.
By Jake Espenscheid
One man is alone standing on the plain.
He looks out into the waste, tears in his eyes.
I walk to him and see he rests on a cane.
“I see you are alone, may I ask your name.”
He replies “I am Tenzin Gyatso.”
“Why are you here, what is your claim to this fame?”
“I am the Dalia Lama, the fourteenth one.
In life I was a Buddhist monk from Tibet.”
“I’ve never heard of any Tibet under the sun.”
“The country that I ruled is small but very good.”
“What things could a Buddhist do to come to Limbo?”
“I tried to spread peace like any leader should.”
“I am sure you were a great leader in life.”
The Dalia Lama tells me he is grateful.
“Why do you watch and cry at the sinners’ strife?”
“I feel pity for them and am lucky to be here.
The afterlife is not as I imagined.”
I notice that he is about to shed a tear.
“Why don’t you join the others by the castle?”
“I have little in common with these great minds
and getting to know their names will be a hassle.”
“Nevertheless, there is much that I can learn
and they are the ones to teach me.”
We said our farewells and I watched him turn
And walk away towards the other dead greats.
I face my companion and walked
toward where souls are burdened by greater weights.