Category: Issue 2 Poetry

Sydney Jordan is a third year Carleton student in the BA of English program. She can be contacted via sydneyjordan@cmail.carleton.ca or 343-260-9593. The piece of literary work submitted is titled “Fate Lies in Red Thread” and is a poetry piece with a word count of 201 words (33 lines). Sydney has not published any of her works in the past.

Simon Turner’s poetry has most recently been published by Sumac Literary Magazine, The Fiddlehead, and flo. Simon is a disabled student in the English PhD program at Carleton, lives with a potato of a cat, and has had four plays staged in Peterborough/Nogojiwanong, either at or in collaboration with The Theatre On King.

Simon Turner’s poetry has most recently been published by Sumac Literary Magazine, The Fiddlehead, and flo. Simon is a disabled student in the English PhD program at Carleton, lives with a potato of a cat, and has had four plays staged in Peterborough/Nogojiwanong, either at or in collaboration with The Theatre On King.

Rey Duff is a writer, wanderer and lover. They write about identity, transit, and, like everyone, love. He’s currently a student at Carleton University where he spends his time walking along the canal, listening to music too loudly and having late-night ice cream cake parties. He’s been previously published in flo. Literary Magazine, Young Voices Magazine, TOP Zine and their bedroom wall.

Rey Duff is a writer, wanderer and lover. They write about identity, transit, and, like everyone, love. He’s currently a student at Carleton University where he spends his time walking along the canal, listening to music too loudly and having late-night ice cream cake parties. He’s been previously published in flo. Literary Magazine, Young Voices Magazine, TOP Zine and their bedroom wall.

I’ve seen you five times now
(or six, or seven),
my eyes catching on your silt-coloured hair
hanging three years longer
than it used to, a forgotten bowl cut
turned curtain, shifting
to reveal an echo
of the know-it-all smirk you once had;
I saw you with a book once,
or rather, my friend did, at a book club
(didn’t say hi),
told me she’d been shocked
to see you and moved on, but my brain
stayed trapped, circling around
that dingy Tim Hortons booth,
that table in the food court where you sat
in a zip-up hoodie,
at a dying laptop, learning about
circuits, or
maybe it wasn’t circuits, maybe I
misread the diagrams
while pretending to look away—
we shared a bus once, only a few stops,
me in a throng of bodies, you on an elevated seat
and for a brief moment I
thought I caught your eye and
you waved, so I waved back,
but then I saw your eyes lock onto another man
waving, pushing himself towards your seat,
starting conversation
about homework and labs and electronics tests
and I shrunk, sinking
into the depths of the vehicle, wondering
if it was my mask
or my height or if
perhaps, you’d never known me,
perhaps, I wasn’t even worth a glance;

I did see you with a book once
at the Tim Hortons, eating ramen noodles
with a tome next to you,
perhaps Eldest,
its red coat and gilt letters
sitting just out of reach of your hands
and I wondered if your reading was banal
and nostalgic—or, perhaps, sarcastic,
self-assigned homework for a scathing critique
of the novel’s oft-cited failings—
I remember how snarky you were,
or could be, latent gems of wit
a backbone, buried so deep
it rarely surfaced, emerging as defence
after months of silence,
swiftly cutting in its descent, or maybe
it was always there, but
only unveiled around friends—
I saw you with your friend a few weeks ago,
a girl I’d passed in hallways and classes and bus stops
and she must have noticed, must have looked me up,
because she followed me back on Instagram;
and I keep seeing your hair,
keep being startled when it sweeps past
and I see it’s you,
keep wondering what I’ll say when I’m brave—
maybe hi, maybe I wish I could say
I miss you,
but I’ve never tried, since I barely knew you,
and you can’t see my face
with a mask on anyway.

Rebecca Kempe is a writer and multidisciplinary artist from Ottawa, Ontario. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in flo., The Ampersand Review, and elsewhere. Her plays Each on Our Side and Signal Breakdown were performed in the 2019 and 2021 editions of the Youth Infringement Festival, respectively. She recently self-published There’s Nothing to See Here/Nothing Happens Here, a two-part zine which explores the stagnant (but at times welcome) stillness of the suburbs she grew up in through photography and prose. More of her work can be found at www.rkempe.ca and you can find her online as @arbeeko.

Thick fog, hanging in the air like a bleak curtain. Remembering, picturing blurry silhouettes standing three feet away. Days like this are easiest, the atmosphere so washed out even dull echoes feel real. Days like this are hardest. A self-indulgent lie. On the ground, lying on a bed of pine leaves and moss and torn bits of receipts and oak leaves from last September. Fists clenched, gripping phantoms that will never heal. Rain falls and the echoes grow louder. If only they were here, corporeal, with matching droplets running down their faces. Would you scream, demand explanations? Or stare, until someone looked away?

Rebecca Kempe is a writer and multidisciplinary artist from Ottawa, Ontario. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in flo., The Ampersand Review, and elsewhere. Her plays Each on Our Side and Signal Breakdown were performed in the 2019 and 2021 editions of the Youth Infringement Festival, respectively. She recently self-published There’s Nothing to See Here/Nothing Happens Here, a two-part zine which explores the stagnant (but at times welcome) stillness of the suburbs she grew up in through photography and prose. More of her work can be found at www.rkempe.ca and you can find her online as @arbeeko.

your eyes protest | it shouldn’t be this dark when you wake up | turn the lights on | pack umbrellas, tickets and cameras | when the sun rises you will uncover its beauty | get dressed | stumble to the bus stop | board, crash asleep | when your brain wakes, uncover your destination | when the noise fails you will uncover your mother’s reticence | why leave when there’s everything you need, she said | is there anything to see there?

how do people breathe here | the wall of walls is suffocating and blind | alone, wandering among glass facades and jammed traffic | wires crisscrossed above your head | everything is timely, so orderly and narrow | could you survive the pool of raw ambition | when the crucible burns brighter, will you melt or will you harden?

gawk at city dwellers | walk in circles, puzzle your way through public maps | wander the busy parts of the city that aren’t real | so spoiled, does anyone actually live here | the fragments of scattered hopes are everywhere | buskers playing horns on a sidewalk | colourful graffiti fills entire streets | every door a history, every street a museum | is there quiet here, or is quiet for the weak of will | for those with shallow dreams

how exhilarating must it be to live here | not forever, but for a while | feeding on the energy but not adding to it 

girls hover near a theatre, illuminated from behind by car light | the square is empty, announcing nothing but its own existence | you stumble back to the bus station | camera out, capturing skyscrapers and moving cars | everything you ever wanted was here | but nothing you truly needed

Rebecca Kempe is a writer and multidisciplinary artist from Ottawa, Ontario. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in flo., The Ampersand Review, and elsewhere. Her plays Each on Our Side and Signal Breakdown were performed in the 2019 and 2021 editions of the Youth Infringement Festival, respectively. She recently self-published There’s Nothing to See Here/Nothing Happens Here, a two-part zine which explores the stagnant (but at times welcome) stillness of the suburbs she grew up in through photography and prose. More of her work can be found at www.rkempe.ca and you can find her online as @arbeeko.

I remember a straight tarred line piercing this dry and arid land, there was a single powerline to the left of me as I headed to a murky lake, the shrubs that adorned the land were perpetually thirsty due to the seemai karuvelam, a thorny bush left behind by the british as a gift that matched their colonial tendencies, the seeds of the bush were thrown from planes to dry out the land and make it uninhabitable for the revolutionaries and now the only things it deters are pesky cyclists like me who enjoy peddling in deserted roads like this, heading to points of interest in the middle of nowhere, such as the murky lake which houses tiny fish, and then I cycle back home with the sun now leaning closer to the powerline, this road is as constant as my isolation, unceasing and persistent, though at times turning and showing signs of becoming less bumpy and less fraught with thorns. The land being consistent, the wind being the only noise I hear, it carries no scent with it except the sense of freedom that resonates with me.

Omar Shaji is a first year Undergraduate English Major with a concentration in Creative Writing. He hails from India and is an international student who’ll be going through his winter term from January 8th. He finds the act of talking about himself 3rd person odd and hopes that you bear with him as he tries to sound ‘correct’. Omar’s experiences with Carleton, resting on the unceded algonquin territory is acknowledged by him and the rest of the students at Carleton.

Nick McKay is a 22 year old English major in their 4th year at Carleton University. They are a non-binary and pansexual poet, but enjoys writing in all its forms, from criticisms to fiction to poetry. While they have written many pieces, they are only at the beginning of what they hope to become a long journey of being published in many different spaces.