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CrEation 

Sophie Fyfe

IS

ACTIVISM

 

Kiash Arjune

The river of regret 

Liza Gugliuzza

 

In every corner of my mind 

regrets run through like a

clear blue waterfall. 

A heart that beats with 

heavy sighs— 

haunted by the thoughts 

of what ifs. 

A relentless whisper of regrets—

kills my happiness, 

even with time, 

a patient flow of time 

never being able to 

help the sound of a river's voice 

carrying the echoes 

where I went wrong.  

In the depth of the river, 

my regrets and mistakes 

rise to the surface.  

             Art by Kiash Arjune

Our Body is Enough

Lily Brown 

 

Tough tendons fibrous bands stretch our body

Attaching muscle to dense bone.

Strong ligaments covered by muscle and tendon eases movement

(Unseen efforts) Hold our bones together.

The fat the hypodermis the last of our body’s defense

From scraping precious joints and popping organs open.

The soft subcutaneous fatty tissue of the skin artfully twists and proudly folds into itself

Allowing our body

To dance ~

To stretch out it’s long length

Without ripping open and

Without exposing cartilage.

Protruding fat of a bloated stomach a history of yesterday’s and the year’s warm meals 

Protruding fat to warm and cushion our insides,

To protect life’s processes from the cold and cruel

To store energy for a desolate day.

Protruding fat.

It’s jiggle it’s bend 

Anointed and validated in a few choice areas,

Merely tolerated, even scorned in some others ~

The same skin, the same adipose tissue throughout our body.

Our body is enough.

Addison McCready
Daniella Flores

Photo byDaniella Flores

Heart is a Time Capsule
Addison McCready

 

Steps in mud,

imprinting the soles of my feet everywhere, 

in whomever,

I have 

been—

 

The fragrance of Amazing Grace and 

estrogen implants itself in the depths of

nasal memories.

Ocean optics flash as the smell passes them by.

Their fondest dream,

their biggest regret. 

Proust phenomenon.

 

Lovers and lust,

I ponder of 

what has been,

what could be.

Letters of affection that have no end, 

until there’s a 

ring on my hand. 

 

Wandering eyes and a yarning soul.

To be craved and touched. A blissful high.

An aura entangled with mine. 

 

Tokens of my essence scattered around, the value of care

vary from one holder to another. 

Coins I carry that weigh me down 

but make me lucky. 

 

Like a feather,

fragile and beautiful. I’ll hold you until polluted with disease. 

Desertion and desire, 

what brings curiosity to each moment I breathe.

So until I die, I’ll keep you safe. Untouchable and ageless,

the absence but presence 

of love.

By Addison McCready

Patience

Maggie Motherway

 

The stoplight lingers, red against 

the empty street, while my hand 

hovers above the steering wheel, 

unsure whether to tap or rest. 

 

In the grocery line, a toddler screams.

I read the cereal boxes, the colors 

blurring as if I could quiet the noise. 

 

Laundry tumbles in the washer, and I 

listen to the thud, resisting the urge to 

check if the clothes are done, though 

I know they aren’t

 

The elevator stalls between floors,

I press the button once, twice, then three times,

but it hums in its own time, 

as if teaching me to breathe slower. 

 

My text message goes unanswered for days.

I place my phone face down on the table,

pretending like I don’t care about the silence.

 

At the doctor’s office, the clock ticks loud,

waiting rooms full of wrinkled magazines

and coughs. I sit, legs still, knowing

I can’t do anything but wait for my name. 

Space.
Abigail Burkitt

 

Our origin, 

birthright. 

 

Gravity encasing,

touching every inch,

holding you.

 

We are judged by our volume and mass. 

The amount of space we hold.

As if 

the stars will carve snide remarks out of their carbon.

Meant to erode our spirits. 

 

Subsequently, we’re taught to retrace

the paths, 

so our neurons can flow with ease,

so the synapse is free of, 

mortal standards.

 

Gravity does not judge,

masses of meteorite do not judge,

so why do we judge,

when the stars will always welcome us 

home. 

Turpentine

Madeleine Bas

 

You abducted me from my atrium,

entrapping my turpentine in your 

jagged bristles.

 

As you pushed me to the linen,

I eroded your phthalo blues,

stripping away your muddled water lilies, 

perfecting your nighthawks, 

and igniting your windpipes through 

sparked parliaments.

 

I’ll bear the endless cycle of suffocating Senneliers 

to intoxicate you 

until I’m hung in the air of your gallery.

Andreas Psarris

How could a toy speak?

Angeliz Pierantoni

I want to master boundaries-

 

Not feeling like the book 

Your grandma gave you to read

That you tossed to the side.

 

Or the plant in your house 

On the poorly lit window sill

That you forgot to water.

 

The rubix cube you found 

In the park down the road,

That now sits on your shelf,

Collecting dust.

 

All the while helpless.

Letting life pass by.

By Andreas Psarris

Silence

Ethan Thody

 

I stare at the wooden plank, only one thought in mind.

The waves surrounding— they fill the environment with soothing silence —

yet the silence was still so loud. 

We lay here wordless, listening to the birds and boats soar by.

As the sun beams down, striking our skin, the rays that once felt dangerous,

now feel harmless. 

The sound of the water striking the kayak is the only thing keeping me awake.

The surround sound chatter of those who wish to never leave. 

While I stare at the wooden plank, I can not help but think of those chocolate eyes—

the ones that used to stare right back at me. 

Natalia Morales

 Natalia Morales

A stain to stay

Jonathan Ramos 
 

“If It wasn't there wouldn't It be so pretty?”

Sometimes I feel like a burden to you.

Understand I didn't ask to be born from your mess.

 

You had a beautiful red dress.

Until your loose hands gave life to me. 

I've spent life wearing a smile across your figure.

 

In our broken home you never stopped reaching 

for the hot water and baking soda.

Does my yellow complexion upset you that much?

 

Enough time convinced I am fools gold.

I still shine bright going down your obliques.

My notability pains her ego —it's not for her.

 

Born from uncertain circumstances.

I'm a beauty regardless if I'm a part of you.

I'll continue regardless as this life was meant for me. 

Faded, Forgotten

Abigail Kaloo

 

I sit with my blank sheet

of white paper;

It’s been a while since I have.

I look over to my left,

reaching for the sparkly box of markers

I've had since I was little.

A simple picture,

a simple scenery

is all I think of.

I run the blunt tip

of the blue marker

across the top of the paper, 

listening to how it squeaks 

like a rusty, old door hinge

with every few strokes.

I frown to the faded pigment 

it left,

with little gaps of white

of what I wanted to be

a fully blue sky.

I press down on the marker 

roughly

as I put the sun in the corner,

and fields of faded green

make the hills.

In the end, there’s a picture.

It isn’t museum worthy

or full of color.

But there is a picture.

A story being told.

A faded, simple scenery

I've made a hundred times?

It may not be sensible,

but it’s special.

I tape the picture I’ve seen a hundred times,

from my young years,

to when I  needed a form of familiarity,

to my wall.

Faded, forgotten

is the dried out markers

that sit on the edge of my desk, 

drained of their life,

longing to be used

once more.

Something yet Nothing 

Makayla Lewis


The feeling of a gunshot wound, shaped sharp

like a thorn on a bush. Dirty drain clogged with

hair, broken disc on replay, rubber tires constantly 

moving, meaningless. 

 

Lost not wanting to be found, silence becoming 

loud. Empty roads, mind crowded, looking for 

a reason. The sound of silence like a 

graveyard. Something there like the shade, yet

nothing but sand surrounding the area.

 

Turf sulking in your shoe, a trash can getting 

garbage thrown into, dark lonely nights. Undiscovered

bodies of water, structured as a question mark. Definition 

but no meaning, end of the tunnel, street light beaming

on the road, darkness hugging around it. 


Suffocating in thoughts, pondering beneath the

covers, a mug of straight coffee. Late night walks,

air brushing across your ear, paranoid. Apathetic 

soul.

Silenced Voices 

Ava Tsolis 

 

Pointe shoes — layers of paper, plastic, and fabric 

stitched together. 

Each step makes a strong, powerful clunk. 

 

Tchaikovsky echoes to the dressing rooms. 

Handmade headpieces saturated with criss-crossed bobby pins. 

Hairspray, fueling some with confidence, inducing coughing fits in others. 

Cameras click, behind which are either professionals or parents, 

unaware their finger missed the record button. 

 

Classes, rehearsals, photoshoots, performances. 

And the shoes are dead. 

Layers now broken down, only capable of letting out a 

weak, muted thud upon hitting the marley. 

 

A resounding voice now silenced, 

overwhelmed by life’s trials and pressures. 

An irreversible state — glue 

may provide temporary relief. 

Mother
Makayla Castillo

 

In the coming of December’s cold,

When I search for refuge in you

And wonder where you’ve gone,
I will instead look to the sun —

The heat you built in my heart,

And follow you there.

Separated
Porter Chetty

 

Illusions of all is well surround me.

I’ve built up these mirages that help me forget

that we are broken—

that we aren’t whole.

Numb. A crumbling wall of numbness.

I’ve spent so much time building it up,

but I will let it fall,

and learn to feel.

Red, blue, yellow, and pink.    
Genevieve Esposito 

 

You sat on the scratchy old carpet in the messy living room,

Waiting for mom and dad to sit down and play with you.

 

You had the board set up, with your designated character,

Just hoping they wouldn't notice.

 

You stole it—

 

Throughout the night you traveled the rainbow road, 

The only road you knew how to cross.

 

Red, blue, yellow, and pink.

 

To the peppermint forest, the lollipop woods, and to lord licorice. 

 

From the hidden gingerbread men, and gumdrops galore.

You absolutely adored it. 

 

But when you took the wrong card, you were back again to mrs.gingerbread tree,

The old woman who started the game.

 

You cried.

 

Mom and dad let you win.

Red, blue, yellow, and pink.

To the candy castle and king candy. 

Lilah Black

 Photograph by Lilah Black

Cookie Jar

Katie Mondry

 

Precious porcelain.

Thrown and pulled.

Bisqued and then painted—

pretty 

cobalt blue.

Fired by careful,

but unsteady hands

wielding tongs;

offering earnest supplication 

for its safety.

 

The vitrified glaze,

sleek and smooth, 

but bubbled roughly 

'round the edges

from the kiln.

But better bubbled

than shattered— 

splintered then shot.

 

Yet, 

reverence wears as 

cobalt pales.

Stored in the kitchen— 

rather than on the mantle.

 

Now cookies nest.

Crumbs invade each crack

and crevice.

Interlopers—

eaten greedily.

Grubby hands and

lids slammed in disappointment;

vacancy staring back from within.

Growing Up
Elise Abbate

 

You start as a seed.

Just a dot in the ground.

Then you poke your head out.

Out of the dirt and familiar warmth.

And before you know it,

you’re a weeping willow in a park,

on the side of a busy road.

Growing up, everyone tells you “time flies,”

or to enjoy something “while it lasts.”

But you can never actually see that time 

whizzing past.

 

From a seed you become a sprout

searching for sustenance,

you dig into the earth and plant your roots where you’ve landed.

You become accustomed to the scent of grandma’s house on warm summer days, 

and the dull sound of mom starting dinner on a cold winter night.

Still close to the ground, 

you’re comfortable.

 

Then from a sprout you turn into a sapling,

roots digging deeper into the ground.

Friendly flowers and smiling spruce’s make up the growing forest surrounding you.

Now you dance through the living room with Amber,

where the high ceilings and big windows make it feel like a stage.

Friends and friends of friends 

slowly become like family. 

 

But now, you’re not a seed, or a sprout, or a sapling.

Now you’re a tree.

With deep set roots and flowing leaves.

Branching toward the sky, you bend 

uncomfortably and dance and cry with the wind and rain, 

sun and stars. 

Now, warm summer days are filled with beachy ocean air,

cold winter nights are spent in loud studios.

Those high ceilings, the living-room stage is transformed into a study spot,

where your silly old dog lays. 

The terrain around you has changed, and will continue to change.

Because the willow tree in the park

was not always and will never be

the same. 

Maryam Malik

Photo by Maryam Malik

Shattered Peace
Katie Mondry

 

Broken glass

scattered across hardwood floors.

Shooting every which way,

disrupting my dormant dust bunnies.

Each fragment embedding itself into the grain.

Waiting patiently to dig deep into the soft sole of my foot.

Choking on my own anticipation,

the stale air thickens

suffocating my frail

withered lungs.

Adrenaline frantically pumping 

the rush of blood

thumping in my ears.

The sudden crash still reverberating

through the recesses of my brain.

Jaw clenched and waiting.

The silence is heavy, humid.

Damp with my paranoia.

Caty Ramos

Photograph by Caty Ramos

Ryan Gulickson

Ryan Gulickson

Criss-cross-applesauce 
Janiana Thai


on the discolored wood floors of Daddy’s office.

Cramped between the looming file cabinet and the cluttered wire rack

who cover craters and cobwebs on the log walls—

hidden from sunlight.

The single battery-powered light hangs 

over Hai’s hunched head.

Hai clamps the three sunrise strings of Mommy’s choice. 

Unwrapped from the Taco Bell box cut-out,

onto the scribbled-over clipboard—

a knot and then criss-crossing all the way down. 

Chin perched on her warm shoulder, 

I get to watch. 

 

The floorboards creak under Daddy’s sandpaper feet.

Shuffling past the scratches on his office desk,

only discovered when pounds and pounds of paper

with left-justified words that I can barely sound out

find their place in the shredder.

Hands folded behind his back, observing.

Dirtied hands, hole-infested and paint-covered T-shirt—

eyes squinted. With dents 

on the sides of his oily nose from his bug-eyed glasses.

 

Between darting eyes and self conscious awakening,

breathing becomes manual.

A forced in. and out.

 

He turns around 

his dry feet drag across the floor, out the door. 

Everything unchanged.

Blade’s edge dull or sharp

Embrace aggression or peace.

God's love, infinite.

Anthony Maraboli

 

With purpose, what can man not do? What pain can they not bring? Faith's limitless boundaries, at times, ignite unimaginable horrors; The Crusades, The Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, the Partition of India. The annals of history bear witness to the paradox between suffering and solace. The same aggressive love inspires humility, selflessness, and unity. Virtues of compassion in Buddhism, charity in Christianity, justice in Islam. A motive for our indomitable human spirit against the cruel indifference of the universe.

Eye Spy
Sophia Hassman

 

Sitting, an eager desire to reign champion—

the letter I sending shivers down the spine of all life.

 

Time sweeps, anticipation springs.

The three letter word that erupts competition. 

 

The irony of the “little eye” 

as the peepers persist determination,

stubborn wide will. 

 

Something difficult perhaps. Something red. 

 

A car. A stop sign. A ladybug. All declared by rivalry.

 

Guesses remained futile, full of failure.

Eye win again.

Ode to a Razorblade
William Iemma

 

A weapon of sculpting, indispensable 

in a war of thoughtless, bloody scars

and scarred, bloodied thoughts.

 

A tool of creation, gracefully cleaving

through cardboard and cardstock

and mending misplaced paints.

 

A utensil of nurturing, a protective flame

born from its shredding of fibers and twigs

or a wound treated by the hastily severed bandage.

 

I thank you for your precise, vicious separation— 

the necessary restructuring responsible for creating

 

a blossoming, beautiful being. 

Featured Artists

   Our Dear Cool Father. 

Walt Whitman_edited.jpg

Congratulations to the Xanadu community!!

We are 2022/23 Crown Award Recipients. This is an honor presented to our digital publication by the Columbia University  Scholastic Press Association. 

 

This award honors the top online student galleries chosen from those of its members.

Xanadu was one out of two online magazines nationwide to receive such prestigious recognition.

Xanadu is the  only gallery in New York selected.

Much thanks to the many hands and hearts who contribute to the magazine.  

Want to know more? Click here.

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