I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind.
In her poem "Her Kind", Anne Sexton defies society's view of women, highlighting the grandiosity and wildness of the independent, ostracised woman. Often regarded as - or expected to be - gentle, delicate, and weak, Sexton presents the woman in her poem, and by extension herself, as anything but that. Instead, she is a social outcast, symbolised by the figure of the witch throughout the poem. The "possessed witch" is presented as a "misunderstood" woman, excluded from society by defying their conventions. On another level, Sexton suggests that it is impossible for society to respect a women's independence and unique nature without demonizing her or reducing her femininity. In this way, the author challenges the idea of what society thinks is feminine - a woman can be fierce and different and still be feminine, still be a woman. Coupled with symbols and a captivating rhythm, the vivid imagery used by the author creates a beautiful, yet slightly manic and wild, mood. After all, the woman "haunt(s) the black air", she "wave(s) her nude arms", "flames still bite (her) thigh", and her "ribs crack". All in all, the author makes a poignant point on what it is to be a different woman in society, something that was even more present during her life in the 1960s than it is nowadays - and with her powerful language, she unites these rebels.
February Issue - "Essence of Brazil"
Canção do exílio, 1857 By: Gonçalves Dias
Minha terra tem palmeiras Onde canta o Sabiá, As aves, que aqui gorjeiam, Não gorjeiam como lá.
Nosso céu tem mais estrelas, Nossas várzeas têm mais flores, Nossos bosques têm mais vida, Nossa vida mais amores.
Em cismar, sozinho, à noite, Mais prazer encontro eu lá; Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o Sabiá.
Minha terra tem primores, Que tais não encontro eu cá; Em cismar – sozinho, à noite – Mais prazer encontro eu lá; Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o Sabiá. Não permita Deus que eu morra, Sem que eu volte para lá; Sem que desfrute os primores Que não encontro por cá; Sem qu’inda aviste as palmeiras, Onde canta o Sabiá.
For this issue, which is all about Brazil, I could think of no better way than to show a poem written in Portuguese. This poem by Gonçalves Dias was written during the Romantic era, which coincided with Brazil's search for a national identity, even long after its independence in 1822. Having been a Portuguese colony for hundreds of years, and being home to ethnically diverse people, the nation and its poets were struggling to characterise the essence of Brazil. By describing the country's beauty, its wonderful palm trees and birds, Dias portrays Brazil as a country that cannot be compared to any other, being superior in every way. Obviously, this is a very patriotic text, with hyperbolic references (such as asking God that he may return to Brazil before his death) to highlight the wonder of Brazil's scenery and delights. Poems like this have often been parodied to bring to light some of Brazil's more negative aspects, which the original poem ignores from a perspective of privilege. Either way, it is clear that the writer misses Brazil while he is away - he was in Portugal, after all - which reminds the modern reader that even with all its faults, they would undoubtedly miss Brazil if they left.
February Issue - "Valentines"
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love By: Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.
love By: S. Costa Franco
Panting. Sweat. A lurching feeling in your stomach, As you fall. Fall. Fall. You are falling. Falling. You see nothing. Nothing around you, but you are falling, You know that you are falling. Falling. Falling from an infinite sky. The darkness consumes you.
Dark. The sky is dark. Your mind is dark. Blank. You cannot think. You cannot feel, nothing, Nothing but fear. Fear makes your mind blank. Dark. Blank. Terror. Sky. Infinite. Falling.
You keep falling. You cannot stop falling. Down. Down. Forever down. Where will you go? Nothing. Blank. Falling. You are reaching the ground. You see nothing, but you know. Know you are falling; know you are close. Close to something. What? Darkness. You are close.
Closer. Closer. You have never felt this before. No indication, no sign, nothing. But you know. You fear. Fear for your life. Fear of the falling. Your stomach lurches. Falling. Darkness. Blank. Sky. Down. Falling. Suddenly, you are awake. Awake. Finally, awake.
You stop falling. You never were falling. How?
October Issue - "Halloween"
All Year Round by: A. B. Leite
As the leaves slowly fall And the weather gets colder for some I can’t help but think Of the things that lurk on the corner of my eyes
Ghosts might frighten And vampires might kill But the shadows that are created by our imagination Are more deadly than both
As we pray for the night of the 31st Dressing up to celebrate the night Don’t forget that monsters exist All year round
The Spider and the Fly By: Mary Howitt
"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly," 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to shew when you are there." "Oh no, no," said the little Fly," to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend what can I do, To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome–will you please to take a slice?" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"
"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise, How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple–there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue– Thinking only of her crested head–poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour–but she ne'er came out again!
And now dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly
September Issue - "Semana da Cultura Brasileira"
To be Brazilian by S. Costa Franco
To be Brazilian, Is to be immersed in nature, Forever reminded of the beauty, Of the land we call home.
To be Brazilian, Is to adore a rich cuisine, Forever connected to the Earth, Through that which we take from its soil.
To be Brazilian, Is to always find cause for celebration, Forever moving to the rhythm, Of our collective heartbeat.
To be Brazilian, Is to appreciate the delicacy of language, Forever taught to savour our words, And with them convey a piece of our story.
To be Brazilian, Is to be from anywhere else, Forever caught in a extraordinary blend, Of intertwining national identities.
To be Brazilian, Is to be all these things, and none of them, Forever reminded that for the term "Brazilian", The possible meanings have no end.
And much like this poem, Which did not rhyme, To be Brazilian, Is very difficult to define.
Ser indígena - Ser omágua Márcia Wayna Kambeba
Sou filha da selva, minha fala é Tupi. Trago em meu peito, as dores e as alegrias do povo Kambeba e na alma, a força de reafirmar a nossa identidade que há tempo fico esquecida, diluída na história Mas hoje, revivo e resgato a chama ancestral de nossa memória.
Sou Kambeba e existo sim: No toque de todos os tambores, na força de todos os arcos, no sangue derramado que ainda colore essa terra que é nossa. Nossa dança guerreira tem começo, mas não tem fim! Foi a partir de uma gota d’água que o sopro da vida gerou o povo Omágua. E na dança dos tempos pajés e curacas mantêm a palavra dos espíritos da mata, refúgio e morada do povo cabeça-chata.
Que o nosso canto ecoe pelos ares como um grito de clamor a Tupã, em ritos sagrados, em templos erguidos, em todas as manhãs! Poeta, fotógrafa, e ativista indígena do povo Omágua/Kambeba no Alto Solimões (AM)
Translation: I'm a child of the jungle, my language is Tupi. I carry in my chest, the pains and joys of the Kambeba people and in my soul, the strength to reaffirm our identity that has long been forgotten, diluted in history But today, I revive and rescue the ancestral flame of our memory. I am Kambeba and I do exist: In the beat of all the drums, in the strength of all the bows, in the spilt blood that still colours this land that is ours. Our warrior dance has a beginning, but it has no end! It was from a drop of water that the breath of life gave birth to the Omágua people. And in the dance of time shamans and curacas keep the word of the spirits of the forest, refuge and dwelling place of the flat-headed people. May our song echo through the air like a cry to Tupã, in sacred rites, in temples erected every morning!
April Issue - "Reflections" A Window's Reflection by S. Costa Franco
What does she observe, So utterly mesmerized? Could it be the glowing moon? So enchanted are her eyes... I wonder.
Are the peppered spots of light, Glowing in the deep navy sky, That which make such eyes, Shine bright?
Or perhaps the chilly wind, Which often leaves no impression, Is the true cause, For her overwhelming obsession.
Is it the rustling trees, Which dance and sway, That make her innocent eyes, Glance their way?
What is it that she stares, So intently at? This I cannot comprehend, If silent she stays sat.
Pray, child! I beg. For turn and face me, She does not, And rather stays, Quite firmly put.
I beg and call, and even shout, But not words I utter, Arise in me a doubt, That she will remain, And my calls are in vain.
Yet, again I utter, "Pray tell! What has entranced you In such spell?"
At this, she turns And faces me. At this, all time stood still, As the child sat, Upon the windowsill.
A dreamy gaze, Her skin, milky white. "Isn't it beautiful? The city at night.”
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."