My Campaign for the Expansion of Crayola Crayons by Ashley Yung

September 19, 2023 Columbia Quarto

Crayola Crayons manufacture 120 colors,
and a child’s ability to dream is hindered here.
He or she finds themself drawn within
these bounds, their imagination detained to:

Goldenrod. There is the absence of night-time
in Fairfax, California, so when her mother does
not come home, she can pretend it’s been
one long day, where the valley never blinked.

It stared her right in the eye, Goldenrod, fitted
within the dust of its broad and trodden-down
shoulders. To tell this story is to conjure a photo,
without wind. Because of her, Crayola invented

...

Midnight Blue. In Russian, “blue” is too broad.
Their tongue insistent on the binary between “siniy”
(dark blue) and “goluboy” (light blue)¹. When we ex-
pand Crayola Crayons, we expand linguistics itself.

Midnight Blue is a color without company, it oozes
like watercolor, like watermarks on a page—the
sound of rustling in the garden behind my house,
which is different than Sky Blue: when a good thing

Happens, and we cannot trace back why it constricts
us. The opposite of tears falling freely, as the clock
strikes Midnight Blue. Crayola Crayon places
a vocabulary in our hands. Might not we shatter like

...

Antique Brass, since the Socratic Method was
designed for men². A long, long time ago, when
coloring books were regulated. When tests were
taken in black & white. Before a girl could turn in

A poem as an argumentative speech. And say here
is my campaign for the expansion of Crayola Crayons,
as a legacy. May someone have the language of forget-
me-not-red & broken-by-begonias & tearless ebony &
always yellow to express herself in such a way

Long after me.

Author’s Note: Goldenrod, Midnight Blue, Sky Blue and Antique Brass are all real Crayola Crayon colors.

¹ Winawer, J., et al. “Russian Blues Reveal Effects of Language on Color Discrimination.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 104, no. 19, 30 Apr. 2007, pp. 7780–7785, www.pnas.org/content/104/19/7780, 10.1073/pnas.0701644104. Accessed 18 Nov. 2019.

² Gersen, Jeannie. THE SOCRATIC METHOD in the AGE of TRAUMA.

Ashley (she/her) is a senior in Columbia College studying English and political science. Growing up meant realizing that she has a co-dependent relationship with summer and semi-colons. You can find her on Instagram @ashley.yung

To What Lengths Would I Go To Protect Myself? by Rahele Megosha

August 19, 2023 Columbia Quarto

i imagine not far // there is not much to protect // skin and soul alike mean little to me
// its you they serve and provide for // is it you that would gain more value by my heart
and touch? // is it you that shouldve been my shield? // can i survive without this
service // desiccation in mother cave // wilt without water // it feels dry // the air //
only for you my giver // i bloom // such is my only protection // from the silting of soul

Rahele (she/her) studies dead things and alive things and writes about both. She is constantly finding new disguises in her hairstyles, so don’t worry if you can’t find her…. Anyways, you can find her on Instagram @rahele.megosha.

Perfect by Sophie Askanase

August 15, 2023 Columbia Quarto

Writing in the sun n all of a sudden problems don’t exist
shadows illuminate the contour on my face n I am perfect
We are perfect
The walls between me n the world seem blurred ever since that acid trip
which maybe explains why I usually take on all problems as my own
But today,

Today, the sun is shining after weeks of decay
birds sing in the streets n I don’t wanna strangle them
first sip of my iced coffee’s the perfect temperature

Today, I’m reading someone else’s poems with pure awe n no resentment that they can cough their
phlegm on the page n the spit splatters form words in a way that makes sense
My blood is the same temperature as the wind that cradles my breast

Today, I don’t mind that they exist
That there’s no 9 o’clock shadow crawling up my cheek
No spider kisses for my lover
That I forget I don’t have
For the first time, I’m not trying to write a poem to be perfect
Because I know I am

I don’t mind the grass stains on my jeans
or that they’re tight from the extra 15
I don’t resent the way the sun amplifies through my glasses like they’re readying to turn ants to ash
or that I can see my reflection in my laptop screen
I don’t mind that I see my father’s nose n grandma’s eyes
but can’t see any of my Bunica
I forget I’m in the part of the country with no wild geraniums
or honeysuckles
Because when I make angels in verdant grass
dye my fingers a lush green n brown
I swear I can smell them
underneath the sultry scent of summer
(viscid rainbow icee chins
bounding for the jingle
sweltering tar n cigarette butts
salt n pepper pavement
cool in ur nose but hot on ur skin)
that I wish I could worship
because it covers up the smell of vinegar—that’s something they don’t tell you about gaining weight
I don’t think you could find me blind anymore
Do you remember
jump rope dandelion chains
wild raspberries in central park
crabapples in riverside
goats in the summer
raccoons in the winter
Are the ghosts in my closet
the same as yours?
Do you wish you’d never left
the only place where you’re too busy to forget the world is melting
Where you watch the ants march n don’t envy their simplicity
n single-mindedness?
Do you remember fishing in turtle pond
n only catching that one goldfish
again n again
Until its body rotted
n it looked more carrion than catch
Do you remember fairy watching in the rain
until our clothes were soaked through
because the pixies needed the respite more
or
Getting thrown into Lasker
until we could do the dead man’s float
without floaties

The tree’s fingers choke the sunlight n a kid scooters past n I see myself 15 years ago on my pink barbie
scooter in bright orange bike shorts
luminous, unabashed
frivolously ebullient
Skin my knee n still
I go on

Scooter skids into shadows
the very same that grip my figure so tightly
a tube of toothpaste about to erupt
turn my head n see ur teeth
know they’re forming a smile
cause u usually catch a glimpse
of my daydreams

c'mon
let’s get ice cream
watch it melt on our hands

hey
i wanna see you bite
the eyes off
the spongebob popsicle
please?

Sophie (they/them) is a Religion Major at Barnard, focusing on the intersection of Religion and Social Justice movements in America and liberation theology. They once were ranked 500th in the world at competitive Tetris and are an avid Dungeon Master. In their free time they draw, read, write, badly play guitar, collect records, take black and white photos, and make linocut prints.

Nightfall in a Motel by Ashley Yung

August 10, 2023 Columbia Quarto

In the convention of a Medieval Welsh poem.

Through valleys, thrive ghosts idly,
Jest fiddles justifiably,

Dens, logs and heated delight,
Snails grating against sunlight,

Stolen breath veils standing brave,
Now recant, clavicles newly concave,

Shudders hard—wished shadow,
Footfalls trepid, faults fill Bordeaux.

Dream Thief by Natalie DiFusco

April 19, 2023 Columbia Quarto

Content warnings: death, blood

To write down your dreams,
to translate them from mind to paper
is to steal
and I am a dream thief

I.
Fresh, drenched bodies
scattered among the living
on a long flatbed truck
extending beyond the honeyed Pennsylvanian hills

Some kind of mass drowning accident
and yet,
the silent are the dead:
an old man with a bloody nose
dims next to distant carnival rides
a young girl—blonde, hopeful—five miles from home
and I know she will never get there

You call me on my hot pink landline,
saying: I knew you’d want to hear this story
and I am the Ferris wheel
I am the hills
I am the burning, moldy lungs
and the fresh, drenched bodies will always leave a stain

II.
In late September my dead stepgrandfather but not by marriage though closer to me than my blood-related grandfather—did you know that the Merriam-Webster dictionary doesn’t have an entry for stepgrandfather?—is in front of me in a blue hospital gown in a blue hospital bed with cold, blue hands which caress my own he asks me to get him something but I'm having trouble hearing him “Sorry, what are you saying?” All smiles his touch turns coarse I smile back I’m holding on for dear life or dear death perhaps he doesn’t repeat himself again but I am more willing than someone who is willing less “Sorry, one more time?” His request slips with him he is turning to tiny grains of sand my hand is becoming dry and ashy this is ash not sand isn’t it “Do you need something still?” I’m talking to the black my grandmother moves cross-country and I remember that I forgot to say goodbye to him because I didn’t know that he was really dying but do you think he’ll forgive me for forgetting or for laughing during his wake because I didn’t know what else to do with my mouth?

III.
I sip into my whisky glass filled with Diet Coke
in the bathroom of a fancy Polish restaurant
and I laugh at my ugly twin in the mirror
it’s 2007 and a tornado has just hit Enterprise, Alabama

I’m not supposed to be here
my teeth are not supposed to sink into this soft, fleshy glass,
coating my tongue with sweet shards
but I am here, lone and dry-mouthed
500 miles away, wind speeds reach 170 miles per hour

Two women enter suddenly,
clad in flamingo feathers and mollusk shells
mumbling wrkótce, wrkótce
and I notice the pulsing blue light of the walls
in the next 30 minutes, nine lives will be erased by hot air and debris

The strangers’ slender fingers reach for my mouth,
harvesting my soda-tinted splinters
to carve, silently, into their bare earlobes
but when their red begins to drip,
there is nowhere for it to fall
in two days, President George W. Bush will view the resulting debris in a Marine Corps aircraft

I wonder if tornadoes know the truth of their destructive nature,
like how I wonder if I knew the truth of mine
when I was seven and knocked out my brother’s friend’s tooth with a plastic lightsaber
when stripped, am I any different from a temperamental high-speed air column?

I am now floating, alone again
four hundred and sixty meters stretch out before me
about half a mile below my feet, sweet Southern grass sighs
and a single pink feather explores its new surroundings like a hound
I serve death and obliteration and owe the city of Enterprise, Alabama $307 million

Natalie (she/her) is a sophomore at Barnard studying English and French. She’s from Long Island and can usually be found among the trees in Riverside Park, listening to music. You can find her on Instagram @nataliedifusco.

View from Here by Hanna Dobroszycki

March 31, 2023 Columbia Quarto

Quarto 2022 Chapbook Contest Runner-Up

Click on the image below to read a PDF version of Hanna’s chapbook.

Artist’s Statement

‘VIEW FROM HERE’ is the first draft of an ongoing project. It was written between NYC and Berlin.

Artist Bio

Hanna Dobroszycki (b. 2001, NYC) is a multi-media poet/artist. They major in English with a creative writing concentration at Barnard College.

Bones by Phoebe Mulder

March 27, 2023 Columbia Quarto

Well I heard some people
were made from stars. My mother
liked the hopeful songs. She drank
the sparkly wine and spun
my body round the living room
and how was I supposed to think
of bones when we were planets, in orbit?

I still remember when I bit
the concrete, asphaltish outside
the bus stop. Bloodletting, baby knees
are bloodier, I think. Sweeter, the whole
noon smelled of cherries, but I couldn’t
see the bones. So I didn’t think of bones,
because I was fruit, spilling juice
into a Powerpuff bandaid.

By the time I was a dogbone
on a boy’s front stoop, I knew about ribs.
I chewed myself, the slobber. I looked
like a stranger's bedspread and almost
meant it when I told my best friend
it’s a funny story. Well dogbones don’t
belong on stage. His stoop was a margin,
and by then. I knew it was a slatted rib, too.

Phoebe Mulder (she/her) is a first-year at Barnard College studying English, but please don't hold her to that. She loves postcards and snow in theory.

Requiem by Lida

March 23, 2023 Columbia Quarto

someone has died
it rumbles through the train tracks
on gravel's broken side
and
the caterpillars know it
they spin into white coffins
above the march of ants
with their hoisted rice shrouds

soon they will find the brass of your tongue
the bells of lungs
where beethoven lodged his 51st
and find snippets of sonatas trapped
in intestines and pancreas
in the treble cleft of her chest

and maybe
between the toes
in the frail cap of her knees
the crust and leaves will bleed
her songs

for even swallowed
by Earth’s green lips
she rests
a larynx
to sing God
to sleep

Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a Psychology and Education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with her Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries in both Persian and English.

Ducks by Phoebe Mulder

March 10, 2023 Columbia Quarto

I remembered to empty
the toaster crumb tray
yesterday, and when my brother
washed the dishes I felt as if
the kitchen was coming together.
And the mugs shone planetary
across the evening room, it’s the
evening light, I swear, it’s primordial.

My favorite story
is the bridge-split lake, how the boats
meet each other in the middle, how the
stomach swells and dips when fish die.
From the kitchen window,
the story is hardly poster-sized,
hardly enough
to simmer in a heavy pen,
though the bridge is a fell swoop,
the smooth cull of ink across
a vacant paper body. I remembered
to empty the toaster crumb tray
if only to feed the ducks
the bits, they fall in line,
the feathers scroll and scroll and scroll
and this is how I burnt my knees,
the deck-ish concrete, offering
as water weaved lace against
the heart of my toaster ducks.

Maybe this is my favorite story,
how the kitchen is a stomach
turned inside out, how the family
digs and digs without meaning
to give, and yet it’s all steaming, laid
yolk-like on the basin of a plastic plate,
and from the cliffy dockside
the boats nod and nod and bow
below the bridge, the ducks, the belt
bellows some song I can’t help
but overhear, and when water licks
the shore it is the soapy curl
of my brother’s wrist, above the sink.

Phoebe Mulder (she/her) is a first-year at Barnard College studying English, but please don't hold her to that. She loves postcards and snow in theory.

Of Death and Honey by Lida

March 6, 2023 Columbia Quarto

baba
I thought your death
easy
your voice rising
like an ancient cypress tree
eighteen centimeters a day
towards our friday God
eager to pluck you
for His April buffet

and though you protested
through the log of lungs
the brick of ribs
that the wooden tips of your fingers
would not burn
within a spring night
you were so gentle
in your surrender
that your cries
would not disturb
a sleeping angel

and here
I tremble
that I will lack your grace
my last hour
gritted and gnarled
robed in rage and stinking
of sour lament
unworthy of being called
your daughter

O Azrael:

embrace me
with your living spirit
and pour your fiery mercy
over me

may my end be of
his same lattice of pearls
white calluses of courage
rattling within the heart of a tulip

the saga of my final sigh rising
past the calm incense of my tongue
the cool smoke of teeth
until it is sweeter
than the echo of honey
on the breath of
a hummingbird

Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a psychology and education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with her Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries in both Persian and English.

The Pearl Tree by Lida

February 24, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

She asks if I remember them—I remember
few, I say. Leaning deep into leaves,
my aunt pinched and turned white berries
from the pearl tree in hands as old and twisted
as the branches. She rushed to where I waited,
uncurled her palm and tossed them, rolling
into linen spread of my lap. She squeezed
my fingers into hers and pushed the silver point
through each fruit, tugging on the thread
until my palms were wet with juice.

I feel the grip and weight of a white necklace
soft and warm in the curve of my neck. I return
to the garden, alive again with yellow flowers
and the fresh scent of cucumbers. I am tall
enough now, but she holds my fingers back
and thrusts her own arthritic hand in leaves,
her mind fixed on a memory. One wet finger
unfolds and reveals a palmful of pearls.
She asks if I remember her.

Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a Psychology and Education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries.

Temporarily Closed by Jane McBride

February 21, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

Jane McBride (she/her/hers) is a senior at Columbia studying Creative Writing and Religion. As a general rule, she does not particularly care for bios.

weather event by Sam Losee

February 14, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

an hour in, the snow is eating all the light
and Jules calls me from the national cathedral.
a sibling summoned, I forget my good layers,
remaining easily soakable in cloudbreath.
I happy my numb feet. like a knight, or a rabbit,
I wiggle through the gate towards someone warm.
delight and danger beg for my red breath.
private under thick flakes, paths are becoming questions:
why are you walking ? so funny you little ? wet creature ?
with your bright squishy face ? where do you think
you're going ? you're going towards the amphitheater ?
Jules says on the phone ? and here's ? where the ground
starts breathing slowly ? me and a squirrel
unempty the stairs ? I found you says Jules
and I zip their coat back up do the trees
always look like this ? kaleidoscopic ? just two arms above
the horizon ? let's keep going says Jules let’s
watch all the stoplights turn the snow green and walk
where the cars used to be in this newborn place
between ebbing homes and fingers of sky

Sam Losee (they/she) is a poet, flower farmer, and Adventure Time enjoyer from the Hudson Valley, NY. After they graduate in May, they plan to finish knitting their first pair of gloves.

Wanderer by Lida

February 13, 2023 Columbia Quarto

If you return from the distant seas
to the isle of my solitude
I will break the clock and the compass
before your feet
and burn your wet boat
on the wood of its oars.

You, half woman, half fish
your glittering eyes
revive in my mind
the memory of rainsoaked grass in July
You make me think
that love is something as sublime as a star
in the years before astronomy.

akin to a memorial by Eris Sker

February 2, 2023 Columbia Quarto

i shall be a silent hallucination.
- mikhail bulgakov, the master and margarita

seven of spades:
some muse opens like a moth’s wing
& glancing through the windows of its unsuspecting neighbours
freezes in recollection:

tuesday after july fourth
it’s blue night season:
the whole world comes unspooled each time I mention
cherry coke & birthdays & tequila
& why I cried on chewed-up pavement with an audience of lovers.
& why new york (new york!) is echoing with visions
while I’m torpedoing a phone call in vienna,
discovering nostalgia wine by fountains in the shade
another heated day on parkways in hallucination of the adriatic
that laps shores with hungry tongues, all wet and ready for a bout of plastic sick.
vienna where the churches baptize me with hecatombs & rosaries & incense
& you hold me through the Albertine Monets
the first day, the day after it & every night.
oh! the glory of your hands
passing through riverbanks
chasing off the stink of time and bobcats and ejaculation
while I write thin odes for the leaking freezers
firing drops like snow in august.
like words shot out in golden houses, seven at a time
like guilt huddled in my chest for each cruel moment
launched your way in rome when sun slick love
bled in the attic, still perpetually in awe.

eris sker (she/they) is a senior at columbia college studying comparative literature & society. they like moon jellies and peonies.

epitaph for saint anthony by eris sker

January 24, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

after natalie wee

I miss you like a hum thrums clean
through bone.
resounds, then remains –

a violent infusion.
a church bell calling us all forth.
& I’m no longer bargaining with fate,
only demanding
for you to hold me.
for the room to fill
with the echo of your bell song.

my mind a speeding train
forged in your language: each violent jolt
swings open into memory,

a ghost-door,
panic;

my stomach vast like a lacuna;
like leaking boat upon the lake;
like spleen

where loss splinters the daylight.
where mourning multiplies like cobwebs
sticky & sunlit.

how just like that,
we unravel into whisps
bind solidly with intermissions & spend all main acts of life
pursuing unapproachable relief.

how just like that,
you loved me & I left.
you loved me & then distance.

& a string between us which
still pulls.

eris sker (she/they) is a senior at columbia college studying comparative literature & society. they like moon jellies and peonies.

Galleria nazionale d'arte antica by Panagiota Stoltidou

January 22, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

after La Fornarina

Fond of black cats
bread loaves perfectly
circular the music of
windows flinging
open the inside
of oysters her mother’s
neck dancing her
fingers he

offers a pearl asks
may i her gaze arresting
the shape of his
palm
sì baby, certo she laughs now
cheeks exceptionally
flushed
right hand touching
her left breast,
he reaches for the brush —
wait
she snaps the
pearl winks grazie
fixes her hair folds
the veil, lips beach up
and there it is:

the myrtle bush engulfing
her figure full
flesh chiaroscuro sky
the skin of plums
pearl
in her hair, whatever she’s
looking at must be
splendid.

Panagiota Stoltidou divides her time between Thessaloniki and Berlin. At Columbia University, she is a visiting exchange student majoring in Comparative Literature and Linguistics. She enjoys translating poetry and reading Peter Bradshaw's film reviews.

Sundance by Seowon (Angela) Lee

January 17, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

What if tomorrow the cockroaches decide they like the sun? There is sheer pandemonium as the streets of New York City fill with shiny brown bodies. I see politicians hopping on desks, firefighters being called for extermination emergencies, and certain food-cart vendors feeling vindicated. Someone once described a cockroach as an eclair — crunchy on the outside, mushy on the inside. Ever since, I have not been able to eat eclairs.

After skittering over ripe bananas and fingers, the cockroaches sun themselves on rooftops. They reach their antennae up and stand still in fresh air. But after a while, they go back to a state of unending hunger. Don’t you know? All the Tantaluses of the world are born again as cockroaches.

At first, those with weak stomachs take days off work. There’s a national shortage for RaidTM. People wage war against the creatures, but they just keep coming. Then, a child on YouTube pets one in Central Park and says “pretty pretty roachie” and the nature enthusiasts and Montessori moms are won over. Entomologist Nancy Greig comes forth and informs the public that cockroaches are just misunderstood and we accept.

Now some people stomp on them with their Louboutins and others gently step over them, but the pop and crackle of breaking exoskeletons is part of the rush hour song we sing.

Seowon (Angela) Lee is a Class of 2022 graduate at Columbia University double majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing. She is envious of snails, delighted by warm winds, and currently struggling through writing her Senior Essay on Asian American detective fiction. Currently, she is interning at Grove Atlantic and looks forward to what the future will hold.

here's what i remember: by Callie Updike

January 17, 2023 Columbia Quarto

This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.

a father teaching his son to ride a bike.
a camel with two humps.
a baseball cap atop the skull of a man
with the longest nose i’ve ever seen.

i chuckled.
it was all i could do,
gazing at the thick oak tree in the
backyard.
worn from sixteen years of memory –
souvenirs, permanent impressions,
recollections
of a fresh-faced girl
pushed on the swing chained to its
branches.
higher!
higher!
chasing herself around the gazebo
that housed vows and promises.
a twig was her wand,
her imagination was her greatest strength.

i could only laugh,
a reflection of the guilt of adolescence,
transfixed on the silhouette of autumn leaves
in the dusk.
my youth just out of reach before me,
breathing shallow as the home i once knew
fell from beneath.

i’m sorry that this is how
it has to be.
incessant apologies
met with nods & grunts
sniffles
laughter.
laughter?
grief tainting my spirit
as the last bits of my fresh-faced facade
held on for dear life.

the girl
damaged by a childhood
too short-lived to grasp,
laughing in hysterics to the ancient oak.
asking for a single second
of their blissful romance to return,
for just another year
spent daydreaming under His branches.

as the screen door pulls shut,
an echo of the fresh-faced girl manifests.
now weeping.
wailing.
an ear-piercing sound
unheard since her birth.
He bows down,
branches knelt in her honor
wise in the knowledge that
only for so long can one find solace
in the shapes of leaves.

Callie (she/her) is a second-year Columbia College student studying Film and Creative Writing. She is an (overly) proud resident of Western New York and owns a big, dumb German Shepard-Husky mix. Callie wishes you nothing but love and happiness and can be found on instagram @callieee.jane.

What's the Opposite of a Chick Flick? by Reese Alexander

December 14, 2022 Columbia Quarto

Max says I collect male movies
Like shot glasses of places I stayed a single night.
I view masculinity through a smudged car window–
Like a kid clinging to the 8 mm film he found in grandma’s attic–
No sheet to project on, frantically
Holding his hand
just
so
to catch the light.
Long-dead strangers' smiles broken
By the lines of a little palm.

Reese Alexander (she/her) is a sophomore at Barnard. She is an English major, and plans to concentrate in creative writing. Reese is originally from Birmingham, Alabama, and her two favorite triple word phrases are Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Pumpkin Spice Latte.