1. Our favorite artists are human. I’ve always questioned the accessibility of Romantic poets. I’ve always been hesitant in the faces of vast catalogues, of established names, of Enlightenment reactionaries, the free-roaming, the supernaturally-inclined, the metaphysical, the intensely personal. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Byron, Blake— skimming the tops of these collections in my AP Literature course had always had the adverse effect of revealing just how much there was left to know. When it comes down to it, William Wordsworth owned a copy of Paradise Lost bound in the skin of his pet dog, Pepper. No one is perfect.2. We don’t walk nearly enough. According to hosts of concerned locals, Wordsworth often composed his poems while pacing back and forth over the high mountain trails and lovely cobblestone streets of Cumbria.
The air of urgency came as little surprise. It read in the face of the woman who closed her parchment store early for a front row seat. It read in the wringing hands of the man who wore a Hillary campaign hat and a fixed scowl in upper left corner of the auditorium. It read in the feet of a pack of book-toting poetry students rushing over late from their Monday night workshop. The silence that sits before speech had never felt so fitting.A poetry reading was held in the basement of the Cambridge Public Library this past Monday, the 30th of January, to premiere a deceptively small and unassuming chapbook of thirty-five different poets titled "Poems for Political Disaster." It was jointly hosted by the library staff and Boston Review, with Review poetry editor B.K. Fisher making the opening remarks.
Took the Manifesto to the playground today— it was a new white day,and I went to the playground with the Manifesto and with Josephine, Adam, Adam’s new girlfriend— who is beautiful in a looks-way that I would like to be— and her child. They were mediating an old story of themselvesin winter— arms out, sparse trees, pink light on a range or a smudgeon a viewfinder unperturbed by sunset, not clear which. Too cold to read a magazineor have idle conversation. Too cold to have idle conversation next to a stack of magazines,so the story came out like it otherwise might not have, and Josephine left with her black hair.We all missed Josephine naked in the Yukon, swearingshe might dedicate all of the real estate on her back to an excerptof Neruda’s speaking voice. Josephine, with the Manifesto spread to a headerthat made her laugh, who never thought about motives.
Summer spreads us denizens of 21 South Street far and wide. The "Summer Reads" series features just a few of the very best things we read during our time apart. It took us an hour to get the bonfire going at my friend Fred’s house on one of my first nights back in town for summer vacation. A few others made a delicious tray of Texas Toast to pass the time, and we somehow fell into an intense discussion about theoretical physics, something that none of us specialize in by any means. It all led to one great book recommendation, however. In the veins of the morals of both personal and scientific evolution, "Children of the Sun: A History of Humanity’s Unappeasable Appetite for Energy" by Afred W. Crosby is an illuminating and eternally relevant read. It’s not the sort of book I would have likely chosen for myself, but I am much more apt to give a chance to anything coming directly from a friend’s bookshelf.
In anticipation of the coming DANGER issue, we reintroduce the Symposium—a collection of artistic creation centering on a single topic. This month, Ariana Chaivaranon, Owen Ojo, Francesca Violich, and Sarah Toomey contemplate “Danger.”
"Wait" is part of a series of paintings that place figures within a narrative of death. This series, painted on loose canvas, is tacked directly to the wall of the exhibition space, lending a rough immediacy and implying transience. The subjects are dislocated from the time and space they occupy through the use of distinct coloring and paint application between the figure and ground. Both the formal elements and the narrative of the piece play to the disturbance of the viewer.
By Ariana Chaivaranon ‘18
so i have taken taekwondo, broken a board with one hand the summer going into fourth grade.