Poetry Corner


Is it the days of grog and a runny nose that matter most or least?
I sit in the sun, unsure if it can awaken me. You see, I forgot how to breathe for a moment. 
The air was not knocked out of me, my feet planted firmly on the concrete. 
I shall try to make a friend of my lungs, 
I hope my eyes can widen 
out of their droop.

There’s a million things to say,
a million ways to pick up energy
I’ve found it feels best when you create it.
Shuffle or wiggle your feet,
Shake or turn or comfort yourself with a small twitch, 
but when you realize safety,
There is calm in every agreement, breath, 
to free the eyes of dullness,
To see instead an array of colour and vibrancy in every material 

This Lovesick Thing — My Heart
Maryam Uddin

It was when you’d make the surface of my heart sting, 
Tingle the way gentle goosebumps do on smooth skin, 
A mystery it was if this is what love is, if it’s coined passion, 
Or if it’s the gradual eradication, evaporation of my heart 

Like the split seashells that scarcely scatter along the seashore, 
There is an animalistic aching that lines the edges of my ribs, 
Just as scarcely — but oh, it’s there for you, like a constant sore, 

Your knuckles, your hands — the ones that shape me, 
When will they turn a clump of clay like me into pottery? 
I sit in the wilderness where my heart is prowling in the bushes, 
And my forsaken beloved, I really do not mind if we’re a fling, 
That may last as fleeting, as brief as the breeze from a bird’s flapping wing, 
As long as my veins flow with any fine melody you will sing, 
As long as your mountain-like knuckles know the mighty cliffs 
On which my hips rest, my hips that a woolen shawl drapes, 
I feel like I can breathe, be able to tame the beast in my chest, this lovesick thing

I Don’t Have the Jaw to Be Famous
Aidan Thompson

nor the tongue. for words fall out of me untwisted ugly and brutish 
stubbing toes, i’m stubborn and messy
i make mistakes as bad as my meals and prefer to fall to my knees rather than from the heavens

perhaps i could be famous one day, by some mistake on fate’s part or a stroke of luck on mine
i’d drive around in fancy cars with holes in my pockets and crocodiles around my waist
and snakes on my shoes
i’d go to fancy restaurants and order overpriced meals that taste just as bad as they cost
i’d be good friends with benjamin franklin and i’d forget about george,
i’d leave him in my pockets and throw my pants in the washer
and i’d make friends who are also famous. we’d smile at cameras, and in the tabloids
i’d forget about normalcy and maybe lose my sanity and in the quiet hours in the lonely mansion 
with the depressed wife whose obsessions nearly cost the dream
i’d tell myself that no one one really wants normalcy and i’d tell myself I believe it

But instead, maybe I’ll stay normal. i’ll buy my own groceries, and fall asleep in front of the tv
i’ll have friends who care about me and family who love me. i’ll know truth and i’ll know sanity
i may be poor or i may not. but no matter what I won’t be broke.

Copy Editor (Volume 49) | aidan@themedium.ca —Aidan is completing a major in Professional Writing and Communications at the University of Toronto Mississauga. He previously worked as the Associate Editor for the Arts and Entertainment section of The Medium, and currently works as the Copy Editor for The Medium. When he’s not catching up on course work or thumbing through style guides, Aidan spends his free time exercising (begrudgingly), singing (unmelodically), and trying (helplessly) to read David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. The latter of which has taken 3 years to reach the 16th page. You can connect with Aidan at aidan@themedium.ca.


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