From Dylan to Donne, there is a unique universality that is innate in love poetry. I mean, who doesn’t adore a good love poem? Since this is the love and sexuality issue, here are four poems from four undergraduate-student poets at the University of Saskatchewan, reminding you to gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
by Ky Mason
Somewhere out there, in the beautiful vastness of space, in the incredible galaxies and far beyond, in the mystery of existence itself,
I like to think a little alien is holding its darling lover the way that I am holding you.
A little alien that would be fascinated by how our strange arms can wrap around each other,
A little alien who sees its lover in ultraviolet hues, on light spectrums we can’t imagine,
A little alien mystified by the idea of a creature like us, falling in love with every cell in our squishy beings.
Somewhere out there, in the stunning solar systems, in the strangeness of each space rock, in the unquantifiable nothingness peppered with just a little magnificent somethingness,
I like to think a little alien is loving like we do, at peace, and soft, and gentle, but maybe a little different, too,
A little alien unafraid of loving, who doesn’t shake as they introduce their sweetheart to their friends, family,
A little alien who exists somewhere, it’s loved like we aren’t, who won’t get weird looks and whispered jabs,
A little alien that wouldn’t comprehend why we let go of each other when we see someone we know,
Somewhere out there, in the intricacies of galaxies, in the wonderful, monumental worlds beyond us, in the unfathomable beauty of it all —
I like to think one day we will love like the little alien — fearlessly.
Ten Confessions of Being Infatuated with Your University Professor
If the age gap is less than ten years, it’s fine right…?
I fucking love yo—urrr method of teaching
Your voice is a fire alarm in my mind, I rush out of my house in the morning because I am not going to be late to your lecture
I am on fire to sit in the front row
And I am HOT for your knowledge
I looked forward to coming to your class more than any other class
I was expecting my professor to be old
I promise I will never be a kiss-ass in class, but I wouldn’t mind kissing your ass after class
My academic evaluation form is like a love letter missing rose petals and lipstick stains
When you winked at me during the final exam and I knew it was a “you’re gonna do great on your final exam” kinda wink
But I kinda wanted it to be a “you’re kinda cute” kinda wink
A wink that was kinda like an “I’m undressing you with my eyes” kinda wink
I could listen to your voice for three-hour classes
We have two mutual friends on Facebook
I only had one class with you, but I would take it again if I had $700
I’m Sorry I Sold Your Gear for Drug Money
by Ghost Note
I wanted to tell a story tonight.
So I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the downstairs couch.
I cried for a few hours —
this is where all my best stories come from.
There are load-bearing walls in my brain
that I’ve desperately tried to demolish.
But you are a fine foreman
and I don’t want to disappoint you.
“You are doing it”
is a rallying cry
for an army of one.
If I could have my way with the world I would see myself with your eyes
or you with mine.
There is a discrepancy here
that feels immoral.
To think so highly
of those who curse your name in heated discussions
of those who bring about fire and brimstone with the touch of an angel,
fallen from grace
of those who do not build.
of those who plug their hearts into dead bathroom sockets
of those for whom brightness comes so easily
of those who scream
of those who will tell your stories when you cannot,
to put so much trust in them
when so many others have been let down
This is worse,
than all the demon clowns I could make up in my sleep.
These are fourth-grade, camp-cabin horror stories
but still afraid of the real threat of ghosts stealing your breath during the night.
This night is not unlike any other
I’m still crying
I’m still broken
and you’re still there for me
which is more than I can say for myself
so here we are
I’m sorry for the days where you saw something moving inside me
I’m sorry for my moving of the tectonic plates I’m sorry for my road trips
I’m sorry for getting angry about taxes
I’m sorry for passing out
I’m sorry that I’m easily swayed from the righteous path
that you have to look at me,
and pull me up from this pit,
when all I want to do is sink,
and slowly descend into nothingness
If you saw an earthworm
sitting on the floor
of your favourite coffee shop,
would you pay it any mind?
Or would you just
There are magnifying glasses that are sold with dictionaries,
fonts too small to read
and you have the audacity
to order a chai latte,
rewrite your resume,
and rant about the sun.
There is an equilibrium
of sorts —
creation and destruction.
You are the fish,
and I am the bear.
You are the well-constructed fortress
and I am the opposing soldiers
you lay down your weapons at the gate
and allow me to reign free.
by Blake Graham
O my blood’s like a red, red rose
forming puddles in early spring
I let my arteries close
removed Desire’s heart-burning sting
to my eyes and feet
explained why love is blind
and my knees go weak
I felt chemistry betwixt biology
soulmates via arterial connection
let love pour through capillaries
perform aortic vivisection
you plucked on heartstrings
a venous violin caused murmurs
an arrhythmic beat sings
how absence makes the heart firmer