Circus

Don’t worry, you’ll see them all over campus. We’ve made quite a few changes for this issue, so be sure the check it out!

To A Burglar
by Susan Snively

Better to read a fat-leaved book
or to write a flutter;
better to see through stripped branches
or to embrace a thicket;
better to tighten the hinge
where daylight folds over
or to snap on lamps too early;
better to know who you might be–
rank, sketchy, venal, desperate–
or to guess what you thought
as you raked drawer by drawer
into a sack–earrings, necklaces–
and oozed out of the door,
an amateur schooling into a pro,
fast kid turned stunt driver
taking slick curves on two wheels?
Better to let it all go
or to assemble a list, as if
a new phase of the moon might disclose
your cool cache dumped in the woods?
Will I spy you in the village,
a truant with skanky piercings,
overhear you on a bus
in full brag, or worse,
recognize you by the one print
you left–your fleshy sole
the size of my own, your love of color
a jewel on both our tongues?

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Waiting for the Last Train to New Rochelle
by Marina Weiss

It follows like droplets from a broken faucet,
the same question, the same answering plink.
Now is the uneasy gray winter,
sliding like nausea down the esophagus.
This is a draft, and I should toss it.
There is a draft, here and blink,
gone, and I am a hinterland
cooling on the outskirts of fuss,
the lone visitor to the toilet
in an echoing empty metro station,
holding my jumping shadow
to myself for dear breath.
The stale air tells of grease,
bustle and combustion, and brushes
grimy chill fingers round my ears
like a stern old fashioned schoolmaster.
I am raw grey matter, quivering
clay for my own discovery
of the animals in the clouds
and in the droplets that fall,
the same question, the same draft
rephrased in the empty metro station,
rebounding against the naked space
my naked voice, stark, reverberating
into the shadows and steam.

====================================

Meditation on Falling Leaves
Mirah Curzer

And they fall slowly, spinning lost
in their own rhythms, no two alike.
Wild gyrations of mismatched
tempos. Do they dance
because they dread the touch of wet
grass? Backs arched and arms
outstretched, stage cold under
kinetic feet; do their toes cramp
as they grip the wood so they can’t fly
away? They spin out
of control, yet their descent is
impossibly slow. Whirling side to
side but always
down. Frantic movement instead of crushing
thought: what happens when the music
stops? Swimming through thick air
soaked with music, lungs and heart
burning, straining for the surface.
Vertigo.
A diver drowning in the Olympic pool: powerful
leap, three heartbeats of motion and then the water. Cold,
blue, refreshing–the disease forgotten
in the ecstasy of flying returns to life.
Vertigo. Oh god
which way is up?
They touch cool grass, scorching
asphalt–all the same. The journey
ends. Gone,
the blueness of the sky, the light
soft touch of wind. The music
over, the silent weight
of water pressing down. And they die softly,
a fluttering sigh as they settle. Observe:
are they not beautiful?

====================================

Zoo (zou) n.
by Neal Allar

1. (a.) a park created           so kids can scream
at a cliffed-in lion,           whose loose skin,
malnourished and discolored,           flops in anger
as a fat man’s           double chin;

(b.) a park marked           by the distinct smell
of urine on pavement,           be it giraffe’s, jaguar’s,
cheetah’s or chimp’s,           or even the child’s
who over-indulged           on free refills
of root beer           at the sidewalk stands;

(c.) a permanent circus,           where high schoolers
are part-time carnies,           where monkeys make
trapezes of trees,           and elephants amble
in dusty circles           with pleased passengers
on leathery backs           smiling “cheese”;

2. (sl.) a place of little           apparent order,
a free-for-all,           a living farrago.

We’ve come down now off the elation of our last post, and so we figured we’d introduce ourselves. Circus is Amherst’s literary magazine; we publish a neat little volume of student art and literature twice a year. As always, you can contact us–to send us your work, to get involved with the magazine–at circus(AT)amherst.edu

We at Circus must say that we are tickled pink that we finally have a face on the internet (to the internet?)–and we’ll hopefully make up for lost time. In the next few months we’re going to be showing much of our content online so that those of you that lost your copy of Circus (or never got a copy, or spilled food on your copy in Val) won’t have to be so glum.

We’ll leave you for now with a preview from our upcoming edition:

To Touch Her
by Neal Allar

It takes a sun-leathered neck to feel her fatigue,
a wind-burnt face to meet her kiss,
cracked lips and a dry tongue to return it,
and ashen eyes to see hers gleam.

It takes fingering your own lacerated knee
to know the violence of her past,
broken ribs to feel her breasts
against your body as she breathes.

But most of all, it takes letting her sleep,
her hair cool and fine along your cheek,
her downy ass against your thigh,

a mild touch, to feel her youthful heat,
to smell the callow musk about her ears,
to hear her soft-sighed lullaby.