Category: Poetry

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. 

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.

Li Conde (they/them), a nonbinary amateur artist and writer, submitted three short poems: Coming of age in manic depression, Trying to moult when young, and It’s maybe 30% trauma. These works offer a glimpse of their life after having been diagnosed with type one manic depression (bipolar disorder) in September of 2021, at eighteen, after suffering a psychotic episode and being hospitalized for it. What followed was the pressures resulting from being sub-textually told they were insane by the medical establishment. Their attitude to writing and art is a therapeutic one. They ask: how can we increase our aliveness in a system that tells us we can never heal? How can young, queer, mentally ill people be finally allowed to be treated more like adults when no one trusts them? How do we “fix” lifelong diagnoses and gender dysphoria that are not supposed to be fixable? 

Conde’s poetry is meant to be meticulously paced and easy to absorb. They strive to create art moments that are meaningful to everyone, and are fostering an impulse of imbibing their life with as much art and literature as possible.

Li Conde (they/them), a nonbinary amateur artist and writer, submitted three short poems: Coming of age in manic depression, Trying to moult when young, and It’s maybe 30% trauma. These works offer a glimpse of their life after having been diagnosed with type one manic depression (bipolar disorder) in September of 2021, at eighteen, after suffering a psychotic episode and being hospitalized for it. What followed was the pressures resulting from being sub-textually told they were insane by the medical establishment. Their attitude to writing and art is a therapeutic one. They ask: how can we increase our aliveness in a system that tells us we can never heal? How can young, queer, mentally ill people be finally allowed to be treated more like adults when no one trusts them? How do we “fix” lifelong diagnoses and gender dysphoria that are not supposed to be fixable? 

Conde’s poetry is meant to be meticulously paced and easy to absorb. They strive to create art moments that are meaningful to everyone, and are fostering an impulse of imbibing their life with as much art and literature as possible.

Danie Maxelus, a fourth-year English student and dedicated advocate for women’s rights, is a black immigrant Haitian woman with a profound passion for writing and reading.  Danie Maxelus developed an interest in Carleton University’s writing program when she immigrated to Canada, and as a student, she continues to pursue her passion for writing. Beyond academic pursuits, Danie aspires to contribute to the university community through her advocacy, seamlessly integrated into her writing. Enclosed are three pieces that showcase her creativity and commitment to storytelling, the first is Ancestral Song. The second is The Story of my Fall. And last, The Prayer of a Sinner. Despite lacking prior published works, she is enthusiastic about learning and evolving as a writer within the Carleton community.

Danie Maxelus, a fourth-year English student and dedicated advocate for women’s rights, is a black immigrant Haitian woman with a profound passion for writing and reading.  Danie Maxelus developed an interest in Carleton University’s writing program when she immigrated to Canada, and as a student, she continues to pursue her passion for writing. Beyond academic pursuits, Danie aspires to contribute to the university community through her advocacy, seamlessly integrated into her writing. Enclosed are three pieces that showcase her creativity and commitment to storytelling, the first is Ancestral Song. The second is The Story of my Fall. And last, The Prayer of a Sinner. Despite lacking prior published works, she is enthusiastic about learning and evolving as a writer within the Carleton community.

Christian McPherson is a poet and novelist. He lives in Ottawa with his wife and their two kids. He has written a bunch of books including, The Cube People, Saving Her, and My Life in Pictures. If he isn’t out walking his dogs, he is usually sneaking off to the movies.