November Poetry Collection

November in Drapery

By Allison Stein

in this weather, everything

is thin fabric. the sky is cotton weave

with holes between the threads for

the stars and in the rain, you & i & every

building turn dark and don't dry

for days. somehow, this is nothing like

we imagined, the blowing in heated wind,

the softness of the sidewalk beneath

pinky fingers until we have rubbed it

raw. every tree and lamp with a pink draped

veil bunching up at the ground, home for

moths and newborns. everything

descending into shapes, so you wouldn't

know a thing without touching. somehow

still there is a glow and a smoothness and

we can walk through the air sweetly

opening our eyes against the cloth.

A Thousand Blades

By Farzeen Rashid

Never ending torment, like a thousand blades darted at me, for the stamp punched on my forehead, this system gifted me. Erupting laughter and objectionable glances, jabs me till I bleed. Your bundles upon bundles of envy that you hurl at me concealed behind that word, digs deep into my bare skin. They leave behind wounds. But when I make an effort to become you so I can amuse you and your parallels, you fire another bullet and call me a wannabe. Raising my palm in class for all the answers magnetizes your resentment, cloaked behind the bullets that sit on your tongue. My admiration for education is granting me hostility instead of praise. Detrimental destruction is achieved on my end of the bullet, it’s more than just a label, sticker, or a foolish petty name. I’m broken all because of you and your stupid phrase.

St. Peter’s

By Cheyanne Beaumont

My body creaks,

as the winter breeze,

blows down the last foundations,

of a home I had made for myself.

The architecture of my body,


Veins raised,

I hike my fingernails across the skin,

and the scars I leave,

are stained-glass windows,

made to be peered in.

The kaleidoscope you see,

harbors the very soul,

that pours into me,

that violent, overzealous, crimson,

murder scene.

The sins within this church,

have damned me to hell,

like when I let somebody touch me,

and how I hide the secrets they tell.

It’s foul,

that stench of gluttony, greed, pride,

wrath, and envy,

how it burrows itself within the mind,


with the breeze,

lift, fly,

and scour my body,

to find places to root and then die.

This cycle of life,

within the bones of the only home I know,

hopefully will withstand the ferocity of winter,

s for the many, many sheltered within,

St. Peter’s Basilisa.


By Ai Jiang

You've forgotten the colour of the sky,

and replaced it with the blue of illuminating glass.

You've forgotten the scent of flowers,

and replaced it with the smell of stale air behind covers.

You've forgotten the voice of others,

and replaced it with the static, robotic, smothered sounds.

You've forgotten the nine to five struggle,

and replaced it with late mornings and even later nights.

You've forgotten the warmth of smiles,

and replaced it with digital photos that pale in comparison.

Soon, you will also forget yourself,

and replace it with only a helpless fragment of the past.

Mea Maxima Culpa

By Nana Opare-Addo

Mea Maxima Culpa;

it is my most grievous fault.

Bounded by childish naivete,

I foolishly believed the masses.

Only dreaming about life, as if it would

be Utopia, my thoughts consistently

flooded with illusory aspirations.

Mea Maxima Culpa;

it is my most grievous fault.

If the misfortune dubbed as “reality”

wasn’t enough, transgression fulfilled the job.