POETOGRAPHY
from frame to phrase
INKy
Poetry by Clara Carter-Klauschie
Photography by Nina Segal
IN the quiet, a declaration
Poetry by Tamara SK
Photography by Nina Segal
The stain is a Rorschach test
I see a dragonfly
And wonder if my wall is alive
I’m making two pinpricks in the blotch tonight
And one will grow larger than the other
So I will tape a picture over the ink and let it be
One afternoon, I will remember the insect
Capture it with my talons
Go to the red room and paint it blacker
I will think that dragonflies cannot be real with their
Eyes that see in every direction
But in case that is true,
I will leave it in the red room to see in
Black and white
I will encode its wings with the ink
That collects in the corners of my eyes
The next day
The holes in my wall will sprout wings
And they will diagnose me
With some deadly neurological disease
Or maybe,
just a concussion
Writing is just a collection of lines,
And a pen is useless without someone to write.
And a tapestry’s just a snapshot in time,
A face stamped on some long-forgotten dime.
A voice is just a sound in a cacophony,
Gagged and wrists bound, still nothing is stopping me.
For as long as one thinks, their word’s getting out,
A bird with wings clipped doesn’t need means to shout.
An idea is just an affirmation of doubt,
That honey-sweet comforts aren’t all life’s about.
Posters on walls ignite a storm in the mind,
Thoughts are more unruly than a stab in the eye.
A word is a platform to undo years’ shackles,
Stations along a railway of society’s strange debacles.
Wars perpetually caused by a noise in the quiet,
A whisper’s always the start of a forbidden riot.
A photograph’s the only version of a memory unmistaken,
Though a picture is with means and intentions when taken.
One doesn’t require a grand reputation,
Opinions will forever weasel their way into a nation.
Oppressors be damned and silencers fell,
For if not, I’ll start a fire with an inkwell.
NEst​
Poetry by Mae London
Photography by Nina Segal
My bleary eyes wander lazily skyward, catching the light and burning mirages into my vision.
Weak rafters creak overhead, catching rays of sunlight, holding them in their palms, slipping like sand onto the ground.
The keen of a cicada breaks the silence, the buzz rings and fills the hollow building, its hum filling the cracks in the floorboards.
The sun rises as if on cue, smearing the sky into gradients of deep royal and cerulean blues.
Watching the dawn through a cramped window, hands outstretched as if I could stain my palms the same shade.
Moths unfurl their feathery paper wings, nesting on dim lightbulbs, craving warmth, craving light.
I close my eyes, mirages and patterns burned into my vision, resting once again.
Up on the hill
Poetry by Rebecca Johnson
Photography by Clara Carter-Klauschie
Deserted forever,
Nothing ever lasts forever
Each piece of history, framed for eternity.
Each tells many stories
Though some lost in the breeze.
Many of its past inhabitants still wander
Lost but in the shadows
Invisible to the non believers
A handful would say unstable
Yet hear creeks in the distance
They lie to themselves
Play it off as worn building ambience
But really we know what lives
In the house up on the hill.
​Ephemerality
Poetry by Mae London
Photography by Nina Segal
TANGRAMS
Poetry by Clara Carter-Klauschie
Photography by Nina Segal
For a moment,
the whole world is caught in a breeze.
Every leaf, frond, and branch
sways in tandem,
every bloom and bud
blossoms and flourishes.
For a moment,
the air was brisk and clear
the sky shone with the love from above
and the sun spilled into every crack in the concrete,
but only for a moment.
A tangram is a puzzle for children
Involving polygons that can fit together in a perfect square
But only if one has the patience for it
Ours were wooden
And I secretly wished they were green
Green things are better to look at
Because they aren’t “blue”
Or “yellow”
Our tangrams were wooden and
I never could make them a square
You’d pattern them across the green of my face
Frame me as an indecisive, impatient wanderer
Trap my being in the grid of their meeting
I’d quietly run from the titles you cast
Turn pink under your rigid construction
But despise the canopy cover just the same
Hidden or falsely entrapped
​
Paint over the green
And hunch my pink back until I could fit
in the blankness between your lines
Maybe one day I’d steal you away from your solid shadow
And show you that though I am patient,
I will never fit them together
LOST​
Poetry by Rebecca Johnson
Photography by Nina Segal
Lost in the wild
A forest
Yet all the corners around
Trapped me in like a box
No matter where i walked, turned, leaped
I always ended up in the very same spot
I see glimpses of hope
Seeping through the box’s cracks
Though i'm unable to reach
Maybe just Maybe
If I climbed, took a ladder even
To reach the unreachable
Maybe I'll find what I truly seek
In this forsaken forest
Sunshine & Rainbows,
Daisies & Braids​
Poetry by Tamara SK
Photography by Nina Segal
I wish to live a life laughing in the heat
With my cheek pressed against a window.
I want to rest my head on someone’s shoulder,
To not have to worry about who I’ll see when I wake up.
Hands clasped, knees knocking, snowflakes whipping in the wind.
Where I’d never be lost and even if so,
Unburdened by the worry of finding my way home.
I wish to live a life of giddy grins,
Doubled over in laughter words bounding,
A pair of Jackrabbits in the spring running,
Until I’m grasping for breath as would a beggar for coin.
Taking flight without a chase,
The slap of heels on concrete
Without a deadline wound around my wrist.
To sprint when I know where I’m going,
And continue even faster when I’ve no clue.
I wish to live a life with daisies strung in my hair.
The supple scent of morning dew to keep me company,
Days untethered by floods of doubt.
The soft lull of songbirds in the breeze,
Inhibitions bubbling up into a froth and blown away,
Parted alongside wishes on dandelion fluff.
I wish to live a life where I don’t count the days.
Where every morning is colors and braids.
THE FALLEN SOUL
Poetry by Rebecca Johnson
Photography by Clara Carter-Klauschie
Crawling through the fire
Unrecognizable
Smoldered from the heat
Crawled upon ashes
Its saddened eyes
Not bright nor hopeful
Reaching for the light
Only to be trapped
Tis a dimmed soul
Cresfallen forever