March Issue - "Winds of Change"​

Winds of New by S. Costa Franco

Among the fields of vibrant flowers,
And through the sky of vivid blue,
Years are made to feel like hours,
Now swept away by winds of new.

Winds that are intangible,
Quite simply imperceptible,
That serve to sweep the world afresh,
And free us from our fortress.

Stagnation, monotony, sheer inertia,
Challenges we all must face,
Turned trivial by winds of change,
If only these we would embrace.

Still, we turn a blind eye yet,
Towards all the chances that we get,
To look within, and set ourselves free,
From the person we think we should strive to be.

For change is an entity of inevitable power,
And over us, it always does tower.
Try as we might, we cannot escape,
Or avoid the future it tries to shape.

So let us allow the winds of new,
To sweep through our lives in gusts of change,
As a seedling of hope they carry through,
To live in our hearts, to grow, to age.

November-December Issue -
"Celebration and Festivity" 

 Happiness Poem by S. Costa Franco:  

​You all chase me blindly,  
For you know not, 
That I must come and go, 
And cannot be caught.    

Although some wish it, 
I must never be eternal, 
For it is my absence, 
That makes my presence memorable.   

 Only in sickness, 
Do we appreciate health, 
And only in sadness, 
Is the longing for me truly felt.    

Those of us who can soar, 
Up to the greatest heights, 
Are also those who must face, 
The darkest nights.    

Many say that achieving me, 
Is what they strive for, 
But I am not a prize, 
Nor can I be kept or stored.    

People seek me in others, 
Similar or different to them, 
As well as in objects, 
But find me, they rarely can.    

I cannot be found anywhere, 
Only inside your soul, 
For I come from within, 
Although I, you cannot control.    

Seeking happiness in others, 
Means creating expectations, 
Those of which cannot be met, 
As external happiness has limitations. 

  Some believe those who are happy, 
Are forever in a wealthy state, 
But less valued is each penny, 
As one’s wealth becomes too great.    

Being content gives life purpose, 
Those who believe this are dreaming, 
As it is the search for joy, 
That really gives life meaning.   

 We must learn to cherish this quest, 
To see beneath the surface, 
And through it, we are blessed, 
With a broadened consciousness.   

Now, we have a nation.  
A nation in unity, 
Under a flag, 
Of yellow and green.   

The celebration of victory, 
Of a singular team, 
Joins us in festivities, 
No matter how dark times may seem.   

So let us rejoice, 
Hold hands in solidarity, 
As now we have the choice, 
To end the year cheerfully.   

In these exciting times, 
Continue to search for me.
   
But in the future remember, 
Focus more on the journey, 
As unlike me, 
Those memories last forever.  

October Issue - "Halloween"
​

Poem by D. Favrin: 
A piece from one of our very own students, Diogo Favrin, talking about the features... and dangers... of hiding behind masks, a custom typical of this holiday season.

It cannot be left unsaid
a mask is true to a lie,
though lies can be permanent
All masks eventually die.

By use of protection,
they hide personality.
This wall, barrier formed
Cascades to a dishonest mentality.

They're fragile and weak,
as they are as pure as an imagination,
though at their peak,
they grow into a contamination:

Hundreds into thousands,
thousands into millions,
all personalities hidden,
all originality forbidden.


Pre-existing Featured Poem: 
​
True to his morbid nature as a writer, Edgar Allen Poe has produced many pieces that can get us in a spooky mood, contain dark themes, terrifying symbols, and a creeping sense of apprehension. We present to you: Ulalume: A Ballad.

The skies they were ashen and sober;
      The leaves they were crispéd and sere--

      The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

      Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

      In the misty mid region of Weir--

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.


Here once, through an alley Titanic,

      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--

      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

      As the scoriac rivers that roll--

      As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

      In the ultimate climes of the pole--

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

      In the realms of the boreal pole.


Our talk had been serious and sober,

      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--

      Our memories were treacherous and sere--

For we knew not the month was October,

      And we marked not the night of the year--

      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber--

      (Though once we had journeyed down here)--

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.


And now, as the night was senescent

      And star-dials pointed to morn--

      As the star-dials hinted of morn--

At the end of our path a liquescent

      And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

      Arose with a duplicate horn--

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

      Distinct with its duplicate horn.


And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:

      She rolls through an ether of sighs--

      She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion

      To point us the path to the skies--

      To the Lethean peace of the skies--

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

      To shine on us with her bright eyes--

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

      With love in her luminous eyes."


But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust--

      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--

Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

      Wings till they trailed in the dust--

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

      Plumes till they trailed in the dust--

      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.


I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:

      Let us on by this tremulous light!

      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming

      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--

      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

      And be sure it will lead us aright--

We safely may trust to a gleaming

      That cannot but guide us aright,

      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."


Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

      And tempted her out of her gloom--

      And conquered her scruples and gloom:

And we passed to the end of the vista,

      But were stopped by the door of a tomb--

      By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,

      On the door of this legended tomb?"

      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume--

      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere--

      As the leaves that were withering and sere,

And I cried—"It was surely October

      On this very night of last year

      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here--

      That I brought a dread burden down here--

      On this night of all nights in the year,

      Oh, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--

      This misty mid region of Weir--

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber--

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."


Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it

      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--

      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--

To bar up our way and to ban it

      From the secret that lies in these wolds--

      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds--

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet

      From the limbo of lunary souls--

This sinfully scintillant planet

      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"