The Culture and Confidence Issue: Poetry Roundup
Sun-Kissed and Earth-Held by Aria Mallare
Our skin is sun-kissed
Our touch bears the warmth of the sun
And we radiate like each one of her glorious rays
Our skin is bronzed and goldened by the earth
We have been held in her warm embrace
We are born of fresh, rich soil
Watered by the sunlight
Born to bloom more sweetly than the flowers
More confident than the trees
Our skin is full of life
Know that we have squeezed the sun like an orange
Drank her light and let the juice stain arms and wrists as it runs down our forearms
Adorning us with a lifelasting morning glow
We are the children who savored the daylight
The children chosen by the sun
She has smiled upon us
Our skin is the mark of her love for us
Skin kissed by warmth and by brilliance
Our skin may be dark
But is it full of light
You can find Aria at:
INSTAGRAM: @arriiiaaaa.cm
Confidence by Cindy Hseih
I am extremely good at word searches. by miharu
I am not your puzzle piece.
I am already complete.
Do not break me down and fit me with parts that I already found.
We are not each other’s.
I am not yours.
I hate my hands. by miharu
I built my fingers out of straw and they still catch fire when I breathe.
It is hard to see through these buttons, black then blue,
but I have sewed them and now they are stuck.
Hot glue runs through plastic veins and my paper mache skin stiffens over time.
You tell me I look brand new.
My skin is soft enough for you when you wear gloves,
and you can feel the air that passes through me.
When we sleep you hear rustling,
and my head is too light on your chest.
You start peeling back the newspapers as you begin recognizing dates that are long gone.
It is hard to hold my hand.
So, you stop.
The glue runs thick and your fingerprints leave ink on my cheeks.
You find flesh and it disgusts you.
Your words scratch at dried paint and glitter leaks from my face as I apologize.
I am sorry that it took so long to show you these scars.
I am still stitching them up.
I Cried During Prom Pictures by miharu
I only know if girls are attractive or not, never boys.
You can take that in however you wish.
I will only ever be able to see a girl
and let her leave me awestruck in her magnitude
because I’ve only ever been bombarded
with what it takes for a girl to be beautiful.
I know what is wrong.
And what is right.
I see the checks on high cheekbones and the scribbles on acne.
I see waists as tape that measures the breaths we hold when eyes begin glancing.
Every nail is a portrait and every wrinkle a hazardous ditch.
My lips can only spell out a score from 1 to 10.
Angry is ugly.
Happy is unattainable.
Trade your smiles for pouty lips and red paint.
Draw on the walls and drink bleach.
Whiten what you cannot and make it pure.
I can see the rips in your skin,
but they are nothing.
Slash the tires and veer off course
until you are back in line and marching
in beat to the sounds of someone else’s heartbeat.
Battle cries in perfect symphony
and floating down the blood-filled river,
with a smile.
I only know if girls are attractive or not, never boys.
So, on a scale from 1 to 10 –
Who am I?
Initiating Self-Destruct Because You Won’t by miharu
My chest is an empty casket.
It fills with heavy breaths and your insecurities.
The funny thing about having mechanical feelings and a stopwatch heart is that the weight will only continue
To push and
Push and
Push,
And your tiny metal chest will bend, but never
Break.
You can find miharu at:
INSTRAGRAM: @notmiharu
Dabke and The Soul of Syria by Renee Yaseen
“Yeah right, so you’re all just gonna hold hands and sing—“
Yes. As a matter of fact, We are all going to hold hands and sing!
And dabke (stamp our feet) in mirthful circular formations, Laughing as our eyes whip from side to side and peer
humbly down to keep in line with our neighbor
And not step on their toes
There is not a body ahead nor behind.
all of us are in our place
-- you must only enjoy the staying and the soul of shared breathing.
Aristotle’s decreed that
Man must rule and be ruled in turn.
The dabke, then, is a model of complete community.
And the circle is the perfect center of our happy city.
Where the currency is walking steps, And all the awkward shuffling of learners, the missed steps and off-time kicks,
The bumps in the line, are muffled and forgotten in the pounding of the drum
Who’s passionate beat trains our hearts to be bellowingly loud
And consistently forgiving.
And the excellence is the flying, the leadership and utter creative freedom, achieved
By the person at the front of the line,
They alone will set the pattern for the round, And show us how they break it.
We yell nonsense words of encouragement to this person.
And this administrative office, is truly open to any of those who have worked to be light of foot and loose of knee.
Who have tried and failed and tried again -
To any of us, young or old, who are brave enough to be seen.
My dad would teach the dabke steps to me
on the deck in the summertime like Step 1,
Step 2, KICK, And…. crush the cockroach with your foot! (or the scorpion! My dad has allegedly seen many scorpions).
Once you have smushed all of the roaches that you want,
I think you can move on to uglier fears
- with the spike of your heel and pointed toe, with quick lightness and grace,
they are gone,
and the dabke music will carry on for you.
Renee Yaseen is a student at the University of Notre Dame, where she studies Economics and Arabic, with a minor in PPE (Philosophy, Politics, & Economics). She is a Syrian-American poet, artist, and musician.
INSTAGRAM: @reneeissance_ / @renee.yaseen