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By Dennis Jin V

and at that moment

the darkness, the night, the rain could not

outshine the flowers, bright, beautiful
their cheery optimism their hard perseverance
poking out of the

soil

without a

care

in the world.
and the next day

they were brighter than ever before
an idyll, beautiful

if only temporary.

and at that moment

the heat, the baking heat, the rain could not

dampen

the enthusiasm of those birds
those children
without a

care

in the world.
no one minded

the baking sun the hot rain

they return home

sweaty

laughing

sticky

happy

not caring that

they have to go back
to that place
at the end

and at that moment

the chills, cold, but not cold enough
the winds

the leaves
the wonderful, mysterious, magical
fluff of those strange yellow flowers

but i dont want to!

they cry as their jackets

nobody wants to

those cute little squirrels
racing about preparing for

the winter, the evil winter

rushing about and digging

without a

care

in the world.

the fiery reds, the deep oranges, the bright yellows
causing that unfettered joy
that comes

and goes.

and at that moment

the snow, the cold snow

that the kids love to play in

covers everything

nevertheless

they build forts, men, civilizations
without a

care

in the world.

brighter than all with the sun
two magical forces at work

the bare tree limbs
begging

for something to fill them up
and as the sun comes out again

those civilizations go away

but

it’s time for spring

and at that moment
the road, the horrible traffic
the office, the coworkers; friends, almost
the deadlines, the paychecks
the rents, the bills
and suddenly
there are
all of the cares
in the world

By Cole Oberg VI

Boom, waves scatter across the pool, cool surrounds the enthusiastic cannon ballers
A drum beat of rain descends from the dark cloud, loud wind whipping the dripping
  rain
Roaring from the showerhead, jets rushing, flushing the dirt away
Thundering, water from the cliff crashing, smashing the ground below
Psssshh, as the can pops, drops rush down my throat
Ahh

By Lukas Franken I

skeleton trees speckled with luminescent
leaves adorn the noir landscape of his
everyday travel through
the Adam’s graveyard:
something he was used to.
the soft white glow of swaying leaves
shining onto crumbling bark
only expanded his understanding
of the ghastly liveliness of the afterlife.
he liked the trees
they stood for something
deep roots that cemented their place
in common existence
which most people took for granted or
paid no mind

By Jonathan Weiss

Before we begin, I would like to make a special shoutout to appearances. Namely, seeing is believing, looks are deceiving, and perception is an illusion. See what “eye” mean?

But what does Jacob Collier have to do with appearances? As a multiple-Grammy-winning, 25-year-old jazz prodigy, isn’t his music more important than his mien?

Well, the intermission of Jacob Collier’s Djesse Volume 1 premiere concert was a unique moment where my eyes were not transfixed by his act.

Praise to my eyeglasses, which bring into focus the spidery phantom of Jacob Collier, a multiple-Grammy-winning, 25-year-old jazz prodigy, as he flees the audience.

Praise to the ochre walls of MIT’s Kresge Auditorium, behind which Jacob Collier now splashes water on his face.

Praise to Jacob Collier’s Instagram story. In the transient universe beneath my iPhone screen, Jacob Collier proclaims the release of Djesse Volume 1 atop a balcony in Kresge. The pipe organ’s many pipes illuminate him, orange-sweatered, like a Jack-O-Lantern.

Praise to the pipe organ, which today shines a few photons onto me.

Praise to the program’s font, spindly like Collier’s hands, that spells “All Night Long” and “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.”

Praise to the boy sitting next to me shouting buzzwords like “negative harmony” as his father thumbs through the program.

Praise to my bladder, which throbs against its overflowing contents like a drunken wildlife instructor trying single-handedly to stop an avalanche.

Praise to my daydreaming brain, which forgot to make my legs take me to the bathroom. My fingers, touching the factory-painted green of my chair, search for a memory.

Praise to Kresge Auditorium, which once loomed over me at my elementary school’s Field Day. As I shook the sand from my shoes after a weak long jump, I practiced playing Debussy in my head and gazed at Kresge.

Praise to my piano teacher. I didn’t know it as a ten-year-old, but he graduated from MIT.

Praise to the factory-painted green sign of the “Made By Me” pottery store in Cambridge. I would always scooter around my verdant neighborhood, my ten-year-old left leg stabbing the ground like a ravenous connoisseur’s toothpick, and turn right at the green “Made By Me” sign. Flying down Sacramento Street to the playground, I gathered my friends, and we would ride to my neighbor’s house and play under his magnolia tree. This neighbor, an MIT professor of music, gave me my first keyboard, but I never really thought about that. Such was the defect of a childhood spent dreaming.

Praise to Jacob Collier’s childhood, which was most definitely spent dreaming.

Praise to the intermission of this Jacob Collier concert. Amid the premiere of the four-volume album of a spunky creature from across the Atlantic, there is a pause.

Praise to the members of the MIT Orchestra, who proceed onstage gingerly. They would probably be cramming for their biological engineering exams and computational linguistics exams, pursuits which a cheeky Jacob Collier told the audience were far more interesting than music, if not for the years and years of strumming and humming arpeggios in a moonlit bedroom, wondering.

By Cole Oberg VI

Weapon
Wood, Graphite, Carbon
Babolat, Head, Wilson
A Soldier’s Choice

Ammunition
Red, Green, Orange, Yellow
Penn, Dunlop, Wilson
A General’s Choice

Battleground
Hard, Clay, Grass
Australia, France, England, United States	
A Country’s Choice

By Willem Santry II

In the winter,
on my way down the basement stairs,
I pass my fishing rod hanging bowed on the descending wall.
Tension reeled in tight and summer suspended,
I cast ahead.
Releasing invisible blue line, unspooling like bubbles,
I shoot the lure forward in the wind.
Arcing high, memory unfurls along a shining plane.
There is no splash on water.

By Raj Saha VI

Crunch, crunch, crunch
was all I could hear as my feet hit the ground scattered with leaves. 
When it felt like my heart would pump right out of my chest,
only the sweet smell of dew could put it to rest. 

Soon my legs became weary and my muscles felt tight, 
until my eyes started drifting to a bench sitting lonely in broad daylight. 
It stood so stubborn I could not contend,
for I knew my journey must come to an end.

My moist hands gripped the serrated surface of wood
and surrendered to the bench’s indignant stance,
as I hopelessly fell with a gasping breath.

While rays of sunlight seeped through gaps in the trees and tiny acorns
fell onto the leaves, it was the melodious
sound of songbirds which turned my brief respite into sleep. 

By Cole Oberg VI

Seagulls Flying, Dolphins Diving, Turtles Nesting, Ocean
Surface Blue, Not a Color You Knew, Ocean
Waves Pounding Against My Chest, Tight, I Lost My Breath, Ocean
Wind Whistling, Sun Blazing, Skin Bronzing, Ocean
Waves Thundering, Water Thrashing, Foam Spraying, Ocean
Sand Chilling, Stars Dancing, Moon Illuminating, Ocean

By Lukas Franken I

sleepy eyes and streaking grey skies
drifting through a ghost town
bolton like the singer
soulless carcasses
hovering over
creaky
floors
a plangent groan
echoes through the night
while grandfather’s clock strikes
grab your boots
grab your walkman
grab your pearls
hold your kids
the witching hour has
begun

By Krish Muniappan VI

We all know that scary feeling.
When our hearts speed up,
And our minds begin to 
Spiral. When a million 
Thoughts are running 
Through our heads 
Like scurrying ants.
When our faces 
Quickly heat up 
And adrenaline 
Is pumping. 
When our 
Breaths
Become
 Short

It’s nothing new but 
it’s definitely very old.
A reaction, or instinct
that has always been
there at our sides.