About us...

About Us....

The Endicott Review is the print undergraduate literary review at Endicott College. It is also open to submissions from outside Endicott College.To have your work considered send an email to: dsklar@endicott.edu



Faculty Advisor: Dan Sklar
Dan Calnan: Editor-in-Chief
Content Editors: Doug Holder and Kimberly Pavlovich







Endicott College376 Hale St.Beverly, Mass.01915http://www.endicott.edu

Saturday, May 11, 2019

Sample Poems from Spring 2019


Stained Glass Window
Allie Hastings

I think what is perhaps most powerful

Is that one single thing

Can instantly make you think of a certain person

And this memory will stick with you forever.

It doesn’t even matter how much

Time has passed.

It could be a few months,

A year,

Or decades later.

You’ll be in the car,

And a song will come on the radio

Or you’ll be on a date with someone new,

Watching a scene in a movie.

You’ll hear the sound of ocean waves,

Feel the breeze of a cool summer morning,

Or pass a stranger in a bookstore

And your mind will transport back

To a specific moment of the past,

A time signified by the presence

Of that one person,

And all the emotions you’ve kept bottled up inside

Will nestle beside your heart again,

Illuminating the images of a story

Embedded deep within your soul.



Bonnie
George Rosatone

Let’s rob the bank

Watch the cameras, they are everywhere.

Be mindful of our hostages, keep them in check.

Don’t shoot the damn teller.

Be patient with the vault, it will take time.

Listen for sirens.

Listen for anything.

Please don’t shoot my goddamn teller.

Make sure you have all the money, every dollar.

Now go buy yourself something nice.

And close the vault on your way out.




3
The Vernal Equinox
Ana Tunberg

It’s distinct

Smells

Fresh plant breeze Not quite, it’s too early Water

From melting ice and snow

Sights

Sun rays

Hit my pupils

Closer

A yellow filter

Sounds

More chatter

Birds, bees, bugs, my thoughts

My inner music

Wakes up

Feeling

Hug of the breeze

Not a punch

Lighter, easier steps

Corners of mouths

Face upwards

Bigger breaths

Less resistant lungs

Salt on my fingertips

Soul feelings

Curiosity

Hope

Ambition

Life is a movie

Instead of reality

The emotional zenith

The seasonal convalescence The vernal equinox





Facial Awareness
Brittany Rogers

It is sweet and supple and i love to write, i hate to read.

The outline of a face: the dark, cloudy eyes connected to thin lines of brows, sloping down into the triangle noses.

People have these faces, you see, they wear their circles of blush and crooked teeth like gravestones every day. Pillows of pink lips and ears that protrude from their heads like tumors. Freckles that stab into foreheads and leave them

to bleed. Thick hair raised from dry scalps. Faces that tell stories and hear sounds. Love and bleed and dance. It’s incredible—lips that hum and noses that run. Eyes that blink, blink until the tears come out or the sleep overtakes them. Brows that raise and lower like curtains to a play you sat through when you were ten. Cheeks that blush and become apples. Brains that think and don’t.




4
Ink
Sophie Bubrick

I drew out my letter in a thick ink. An ink so thick that you could feel my mission pouring out of me. The letters came out in a rampage of cursive, every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed at astonishing speed. His train left at midnight.

I had to write faster. And as I did, I could remember every small insignificant detail about our past, but couldn’t seem to remember the important moments. I remember the way my hands clutched the side of my blue floral skirt that night in the kitchen. His hair was a mess, work shirt unbuttoned at the collar, crimson red tie loosened and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. If a neighbor were to have walked by our window that warm summer evening, they would have thought he was an alcoholic. He was nothing of the sort. He was lost in his work.

My room is dimly lit with two candles. One next to me and my paper and the other on the mantle of the bedroom fireplace behind me. I like to write in front of my dresser mirror because it is only in moments like these where I look up and find a vulnerable visage staring back.

A small tear runs steadily from my eye. It is stained black from the makeup I paint myself with. I wear my dark red velvet gown. I don’t have plans tonight. But I sit perfectly straight on my cushioned dressing chair as if I were the Queen of England herself.




























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