Neutral by Katelyn Daw pale pink hair—gone blond and brittle. biscotti brown eyes now dull-- sunken in. a repulsive pale overtakes porcelain flesh marred by less than pale markings. now a husk living in my skin-- cream turned to murky red. no longer shy ivory, now an invasive, infuriated, rose coral. bruised like aged fruit, stone splotched patterns mixing with the red hues, leaving behind a revolting orchid shade. a ghost of my former self-- my world’s vibrancy plucked from its very core. now lost in the nothingness, that has infected what once was cherished. what is there to adore without the comfort, colors, others receive? without the love or care others receive that lights up their worlds? that breathes life into them? different shades of gray now consume my vision. each tone more depressing than the last. i am spiraling-- unable to control my emotions that are slowly dying off like every one of my colors. a once vibrant soul, all but vanished. life having dwindled to limited shadows of smokey ash; into an eternal feeling of despair. forever swirling in misery— my very own impending doom leaves little reason to continue Rendering Dead by Taylor Simms Mother remains asleep, tried and true: alone again. Forsaken in a disdainful casket. The ocean lulls me to hypnosis, floating between conscious and unconscious thoughts. My own skin fades: morphing into an eggshell blur. My human sheath: fragile, withdrawn, bitter, bequeathed from my dear mother. Born by Anonymous The small strokes on a canvas Leading to a masterpiece Green and, blue Slowly added one by one The little kicks indicate more colors being added White, light pink Both unblended to a pale brown While 9 months start to fly by Soft and slight curves All coming together slowly Finally I am being let out Untitled by Anonymous Exhilaration of the colors, scents, and sounds Spring fills the canvas of my mental capacity With her impassive beauty She patches up winter’s white, With the pastel hues of color. The sweet fragrant smells of fresh abundant vegetation The feeling of renewal with the sparkling spring showers The methodical change of the landscape, flowers blooming in various colors Birds chirp their melodies Baby birds, learning to fly This is the heart of spring. After A bar at the folies-bergère by Édouard Manet by Holly Rodriguez She collected men the way any woman would, with their cleavage poking from their corset. She never asked for such attention, preferring the men to cease their beliefs that she is a prostitute. However, because she is but a barmaid, she is deemed a whore. A well-known, well admired barmaid– a saleswoman, a commodity. Everyone sells different parts of themselves, but the body is expected. The body is the relentless standard. And Paris never slept– it’s thriving nightlife and young atmosphere of pleasure seekers– especially the nights she worked the bar. As her rag wiped the crystal glass in her hand, she paid far too much attention to whether or not the glass was completely polished without a flaw in sight. These were her distractions from the rest of her work. All the while, she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure looming behind her through the mirror on the wall. With a sorrowful sigh, the mask she wore returned, but this time, she didn’t bother with a smile. She gazes out of frame, stoic and remote, his eyes avert to the mirror with intrigue. She never knew he was an Artist as he stood there and stared. It was quite rude to stare. He didn’t seem to mind. Was it going to be another one of those days where a man in a peacoat would beckon her to the backroom? This man had no such intentions as he studied her, long memorizing her features. He noted the light fixtures, how it illuminated her fair complexion. Each reveler in the back made for a lovely backdrop. This woman was no longer a barmaid in his mind, but a model– A muse for his next, and possibly final, piece. Rich in detail, he’ll add a bowl of oranges in his mind in front of her. Her palms pressed to the counter, waiting while he stared. Whiskey or champagne? His days were thinning, he stared a little longer, finding passion with the Folies-Bergère, always seeking art in ordinary affairs. Protection of the Sun by Sophie Blackwell A halo of clouds hug her golden hair as the beams of sunlight stretch for her while framing her umbrella. An elegance about her ripples through her gown as it is carried in the wind. She remains steady in the midst of the heavy breeze, steady for her small love. Her small love who wavers behind her gown, a delicate woven hat atop his gentle stature, he seems to look to her for protection. A small smile creeps upon her face, a reminder to her sweet love that all in their world is okay, as long as she can hold him the way the sun holds her. And in this warmth and comfort, they remain golden for just this one window in time. The Footbridge by Bailey Green sitting on the footbridge rays of sunlight shone down across his cheeks, and his nose, basking in the warmth he stuck his neck up further in an attempt to conceal his issues in this warm, nostalgic moment. the breeze, the flowers dancing, all background noise, melted off of his skin dripping off of the bridge and absorbing into the water. as the light started running from him, he wished he could chase it to the ends of the earth, but on the footbridge, he stayed, stuck with no one but the moon. Owed and Absent Femininity by Anonymous I search the mirror for soft lines, But my body is not soft. Too harsh, too cold, too rigid, am I to ever be softly taken in by another. How do I soften my sharp figure? How do I melt myself together? Melt into something that can be swallowed, warm as it goes down their throats, filling them to a point of contentedness, rather than illness. Soft, so that I do not cut them, as I travel down into the pits of their stomachs. Is it possible, I wonder, that it must be done by someone else? That I cannot melt myself? They may try, And I may let them, But the moment they confront me, up close, staring too directly at the unwavering, taut dashes that compose my face, they seem to be confused. I don’t know how to help them. As they look at me from afar, I am beautiful. My surface smooth. But they always get too close. They exit the room. Moved on from my harshness. I regret that, for a moment, I thought they may remain, And that, for a moment I believed I may be softened, for longer than I have been sharp. His House in Giverny by Anna Gristina I stand in his garden, 95 years since his passing. Overcast, gray. Fog trapping his little flowers in a river of parfum. I wade in that water. I trudge through that gate. To his garden, 95 years late. To paint like an artist in a garden of fancy. To look at the same genus flowers as his eye once could see. On a day like today so gray and humbling. The bumbling of the tourists— absent. In this silence, the flowers are alive. Their hues spliced by the dim light, Like traffic lights on a rainy night, Echoes and reflections across the pond. On a day like today, so gloomy and dark. These muted tones seem more stark. A backdrop of slate Distinct carnelian tones swirl to make petals, Amber finds a home on those crisscrossing fences, Deep crocus purple blooms despite the limited sunlight. Little bugs freckled on verdant leaves. In this garden I am him. My hand simply his: Mimicking and moving, glancing eyes blurred from the water thick in the air. But I am still: my hand holds no talent as his. So I sit still and wait, to be the art-- to live in frames of gold displayed for thousands. Perhaps I need a parasol and some lace To be like those girls amongst the flowers Perhaps I am the blossom, an onlooker Blurred bundles of colors, Simply a light spread thin through the aging eyes of the viewer. *All paintings included are for reference only; Northern Lights Art and Literary Magazine
does not claim ownership of the art presented with the above poems*
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AuthorNorthern Lights is an art and literary magazine full of work from the students of North. Have something to add? Email a submission of writing, art, or photography at [email protected]. |