It’s the sound the sun makes, screaming
through tinted windows. Your ears cannot
hear it, but your eyes can;
Listen to the citrus breathing through the
pages Gracing your words as they fall. Feel
the feathers fall into order;
If you stand in the right place You can hear how
they long for wind. You can make out their
meaning in the shadows. Can you see them?
Don’t stand too close to the sun; If you
block out his screams, We will no longer
remember What it’s like to wield feathers
in the sky.
The water drops dot the metal maze.
Neon glows through falling glass beads,
like stars seen from an Asian haven.
The burning gold yawns its slow roar, Churning
through the leaves, pouring her grace. The
green ribbon’s lace forming light; they grasp
tightly loose vines so as not to lose a sunshine’s
The white lights, crawling cracked columns,
last fickle lamps against brittle winds.
The lanterns are beautiful, bright, elegant, and white.
They perch elegantly and seep their sweetness.
Unassuming, yet readily strong; Shy, yet moving in
the golden light.
Thirty-five Bus to Griffintown.
Instinct of a boisterous night.
The sun grows ladled long.
Break apart morning radio-song.
South Wind. East Tide.
The sun from
Never the other side.
As moon approaching,
Clouding the Griffintown.
Yokes my text messages
With the deleted phone books,
Dearing on the other side.
I slipped and fell
three times this
Once in front of the poorly shoveled music building on Sherbrooke,
trying to rush past a slow couple, to no avail.
The second was when you told me that it
was so nice to finally meet me, in person.
I fell for you again the next day, when we
ate food from the same fork; I asked if
you wanted a clean one, but you said you
didn’t mind sharing.
Confession: I had lunch before we
met, But I didn’t mind stuffing my face
If I was doing it with you.
This winter I learned that even though I didn’t break a bone
slipping on (your) ice doesn’t mean the pain didn’t linger,
And just because I had to stand up right away to
make sure I didn’t raise attention, doesn’t mean I
didn’t want to sit in my ice-cold embarrassment
for just a few more moments.
I learned that the warmth of your smile
leaves a mark stronger than any Montreal
And just because now I learned
what it feels like to fall,
for you again.
If I may breathe fresh air Into
simplicity, dust its shelves And
ponder the pieces that once Fell
into place here
I would sleep well for
once Knowing the house
Behind all houses.
on the phone the scientist
in me wants to solve a problem —
wants to make glitter rock
into pebbles, measure the light
something broken gives off. the statues
of the living are very life-like. Whoever —
however — made this must be better versed
in the craft. give me four billion years,
and then some, maybe I too could chisel
some precise curves — say I woke up
with the toolbox of an empty mind,
could weigh rocks on my shoreline without
skipping them away, my hands would curve
like spines of new questions: little disbelief hatching
into this same unknown life.
i have a retrograde dream about an
anti-baby shower where no one expects
me to contribute to the gene pool. this is
how things happen. reaching into a
soapy bucket of who-knows-what
teeth-first like an animal bobbing for an
apple like a serial party-ruiner decked
out in a funeral dress twisting a pin
around in my fingers swelling with pride
at the pop of a balloon or a womb. i don’t
want to hear you breathe or your flutter
heart beat buried under a mound of
tissue, thin and grass-like. the party gets
lame, i am assaulted with dewy
realizations like the fact that if i started
spontaneously puking or bleeding or
pussing from my eyes there’d be no one
to take me to the hospital or hold my hair
back or make sure i’m alive. the guests
gather around to congratulate me on an
empty chest. on cold mattress fevers on
stretching my arms out to find more bed.
i take my birth control when the alarm
goes off; i feel for the small pill pack in
my pocket and swallow a pink capsule
like a baby bird. my body will shudder
from estrogen and we’ll all laugh at the
prospect of having to take care of
anything at all. the guests file out one by
one, dropping pink parcels packed with
nothing in my skinny arms. i feel like the
mountains descended to kiss my face. i
feel like my abdomen opened up and
moths flew out. i feel better if better is a
safe enough word.
Slumber no longer
awaken to rhythmic words
let it cook
let it cook
Viscous forms are shaped, molded into light
a swath of bricks lays ripe with mortar
a swarm of locusts becomes more than the sum of its parts
they suffocate with writhing legs, arms, wings, pincers
lift each block of clay, smash them, green and sickly
The words return
whispered in acid tone melodies
expectation breeds disappointment
at once, be long and desire instead to be wide
be thick, full, and desire to be narrow
Hunger to fill hollow wombs of longing
expel in thunderous combustion and chaos
the rage of the creator
drive out darkness
Dive into the very pool
which provokes scaring
like a tub of razor wire
Wither away like gourds in cold air
with righteous nets
soon their lights will go out
The McGill Tribune is proud to present the Winter 2019 Creative Supplement, highlighting excellent creative work by McGill students, including poetry, photography, illustrations, and mixed-media.
We would like to thank the Arts Undergraduate Society Financial Management Committee (AUS FMC) for funding this project, and Chad Ronalds & Hebdo Litho for printing this issue. Moreover, we appreciate all the artists who submitted; it was a pleasure to review your work.
Although McGill doesn’t have a formal visual arts program, students find their own creative outlets. The Creative Supplement serves as a platform to highlight these endeavours. McGill students are notoriously bright and hardworking; we hope this issue proves that they are also immensely talented.
Abeer Almahdi, Opinion Editor
Katia Innes & Sophie Brzozowski, Arts & Entertainment Editors
Elli Slavitch, Creative Director
Tristan Sparks, Web Designer
Erica Stefano & Arshaaq Jiffry, Design Editors
Melissa Langley, Copy Editor
Marie Labrosse, Editor-in-Chief
This project was funded by the Fine Arts Council (FAC) and the Financial Management Committee (FMC) of the Arts Undergraduate Society of McGill University.