Letter from the Editor
I find pleasure in the possibility that Bukowski is somewhere watching over us. Alone and contemplative, an unlit cigarette between two fingers. There may be a collection of Shakespeare’s greatest works hanging about somewhere. If not tucked away in a box, then a nearby corner where one can just barely make out the title. I don’t know much about the writer (nor am I sure he’s one I would have considered a friend if granted the opportunity), but I believe he knows a lot about people and the feelings they experience.
I became reminiscent of Bukowski’s poem collection “You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense” a couple weeks ago after I had picked up another one of his books. Flipping and skimming, I came across a poem towards the end of the collection called “How Is Your Heart.” The final lines of the poem read: “what matters most is / how well you / walk through the / fire.” I am sure when I read the lines my first time, I was pleased by the words. However, after my most recent read, I related to the sentence in a way that pushed me into a sort of dazed wonder. Despite the simplicity of such words, there was something about this poem—that final line in particular—that made me feel as if Bukowski knew me in a way not many others did. That he somehow had a way of deciphering my emotions (and the emotions of others) before I was able to decipher them myself. This is a trait I’ve noticed (and I am sure you have as well) most commonly in writers.
While I can never know exactly, I presume what Bukowski meant was that all hearts have endured states we never would have deemed possible. They’ve beat too fast and too little, have frosted over and turned to ash. They’ve lost feeling and stopped beating, been misplaced and overworked. Tattered and torn, sliced and scarred. The heart is one of our most vital organs and yet, it’s been overbearing. Betraying. Helpless. The condition of one’s heart, however, is not the determining factor in whether or not we make it through the fire. It is walking through the fire, despite the condition of our hearts, when we realize. That each and every single one of us encompasses the strength and ability needed to make it through any circumstances thrown our way.
Much like I did with Bukowski, I found the writers in this issue have a talent when it comes to displaying and understanding emotions. In each piece, I didn’t just learn about the author or the character they created, but people in general. I saw others in these pieces, and I saw myself as well. I experienced feelings and thoughts I was certain were only contained within my own mind. These teens showed both the fragility of emotion as well as the bravery and strength that lies ahead for all of us. In Madison Lazenby’s “I’d Like to Think I Was in Gymnastics for a Reason,” we can identify the feeling of lost hope, yet not quite giving up the question of just exactly what enough passion and diligence can do. In “The Tree Stump” by Sylvia Nica, we see that despite pain and displeasure, a new beginning is still something near. And in our cover “Needy,” artist Riley Duemler shows that even in our deepest and darkest moments, there is still a glimmer of light that awaits us, even when it seems unreachable.
The question of whether or not Bukowski is watching over us is comforting, but it doesn’t truly spark too much concern. I think even if I did have the answer, I wouldn’t feel much different than to what I feel now. For we have an entire new generation of writers waiting patiently. Ready and aware of just what it is that lies beyond those fires. And I am ready to hear their stories.
Marriah Talbott-Malone
Prose Editor
Courtney Felle Editor-in-Chief
Maheen Shahbazi Poetry Editor
I find pleasure in the possibility that Bukowski is somewhere watching over us. Alone and contemplative, an unlit cigarette between two fingers. There may be a collection of Shakespeare’s greatest works hanging about somewhere. If not tucked away in a box, then a nearby corner where one can just barely make out the title. I don’t know much about the writer (nor am I sure he’s one I would have considered a friend if granted the opportunity), but I believe he knows a lot about people and the feelings they experience.
I became reminiscent of Bukowski’s poem collection “You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense” a couple weeks ago after I had picked up another one of his books. Flipping and skimming, I came across a poem towards the end of the collection called “How Is Your Heart.” The final lines of the poem read: “what matters most is / how well you / walk through the / fire.” I am sure when I read the lines my first time, I was pleased by the words. However, after my most recent read, I related to the sentence in a way that pushed me into a sort of dazed wonder. Despite the simplicity of such words, there was something about this poem—that final line in particular—that made me feel as if Bukowski knew me in a way not many others did. That he somehow had a way of deciphering my emotions (and the emotions of others) before I was able to decipher them myself. This is a trait I’ve noticed (and I am sure you have as well) most commonly in writers.
While I can never know exactly, I presume what Bukowski meant was that all hearts have endured states we never would have deemed possible. They’ve beat too fast and too little, have frosted over and turned to ash. They’ve lost feeling and stopped beating, been misplaced and overworked. Tattered and torn, sliced and scarred. The heart is one of our most vital organs and yet, it’s been overbearing. Betraying. Helpless. The condition of one’s heart, however, is not the determining factor in whether or not we make it through the fire. It is walking through the fire, despite the condition of our hearts, when we realize. That each and every single one of us encompasses the strength and ability needed to make it through any circumstances thrown our way.
Much like I did with Bukowski, I found the writers in this issue have a talent when it comes to displaying and understanding emotions. In each piece, I didn’t just learn about the author or the character they created, but people in general. I saw others in these pieces, and I saw myself as well. I experienced feelings and thoughts I was certain were only contained within my own mind. These teens showed both the fragility of emotion as well as the bravery and strength that lies ahead for all of us. In Madison Lazenby’s “I’d Like to Think I Was in Gymnastics for a Reason,” we can identify the feeling of lost hope, yet not quite giving up the question of just exactly what enough passion and diligence can do. In “The Tree Stump” by Sylvia Nica, we see that despite pain and displeasure, a new beginning is still something near. And in our cover “Needy,” artist Riley Duemler shows that even in our deepest and darkest moments, there is still a glimmer of light that awaits us, even when it seems unreachable.
The question of whether or not Bukowski is watching over us is comforting, but it doesn’t truly spark too much concern. I think even if I did have the answer, I wouldn’t feel much different than to what I feel now. For we have an entire new generation of writers waiting patiently. Ready and aware of just what it is that lies beyond those fires. And I am ready to hear their stories.
Marriah Talbott-Malone
Prose Editor
Courtney Felle Editor-in-Chief
Maheen Shahbazi Poetry Editor