Poetry

Reflections on The Craft

By Connor Huffman There are times I wonder if I’ll succeed. I question my definition of success. Will I be known? Remembered? Will I fade? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me. I question my definition of success. Does it exist simply in the making? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me, the thought my name will not be relevant. Does it simply exist in the making? I lie awake—await reassurance. The thought my name will have no relevance, a dreadful tormentor

Poetry

mounthopemagazine

May 142 min read

Reflections on The Craft

mounthopemagazine

May 14

Eleven Years

mounthopemagazine

May 14

Tomorrow

mounthopemagazine

May 14

Reflections on The Craft

By Connor Huffman There are times I wonder if I’ll succeed. I question my definition of success. Will I be known? Remembered? Will I fade? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me. I question my definition of success. Does it exist simply in the making? Perish the thought, yes—still, It troubles me, the thought my name will not be relevant. Does it simply exist in the making? I lie awake—await reassurance. The thought my name will have no relevance, a dreadful tormentor

POETRY

mounthopemagazine

May 142 min read

The Ultimate Machine

By Theo Carreiro It watches, patiently awaiting the cog wheel turn from the meticulous movement of callused hands, to bite the hand that feeds it, worn from the long hours of work. Sweat on her brow, heel to the floor, the work begins. The ticking needle with its methodical hum: the artificial heartbeat. Is all creation like this? To gamble suffering in one's ambitions, needle to cloth, pen to paper. No, we must move forward accepting— in creation, there is misery and worry,

POETRY

mounthopemagazine

May 141 min read

Nothing is "Just Following Orders"

By Finneaus Audette Planes soar above like Eagles of War, toward little school children who sit on dirt floors. They say there was nothing lost of any worth, morality judged by money's girth. The Children of Overthere deserve no remorse, Our war heroes call it just “recourse." They were just following orders of course. It wasn't your child. Why should you care? They are from overthere. At most your grief is tame. After all, you can use your second plane to fly to your house

POETRY

mounthopemagazine

May 141 min read

When Love Became a Cage

He said love was trust, and I wanted to believe it— so I handed him the key to every soft part of me. At first, his words were warmth, a sun I stood beneath just to feel seen. But slowly, the light burned. What I thought were arms, became walls, what I thought was safety, became silence pressed against my breath. He called control “care,” called my trembling “love.” And I— I called it normal, because I didn’t yet know love shouldn’t make you small. When I fi

POETRY

Paige Williams

Nov 30, 20251 min read

Two Poems

"I Do Not Love You" I will say I do not love you until my mouth forgets your taste, until I can wipe my hands clean from our sins and my blood can stain a new soul. I will write I do not love you until my fingers forget how your hands feel, wrapped in mine, and my poems no longer reek of sadness and desperation. I will believe I do not love you until it becomes impossible, or until I begin to love someone new. “The Way I Love” I do not love you the way I once

POETRY

Killian Finn Paris

Nov 30, 20251 min read

Auerlia Aurita

Be gentle with me as I lose myself in the crashing tides. Landing at your door, guide me away from shore where I can find my way back home. Let me be a visitor from a distant, salty world. MJ Sangster Dorchester, MA MJ Sangster is a sophomore marine biology and aquarium science double major. She is passionate about marine conservation and aims to connect both science and art through her work. She would like to thank her high school english teacher Mr. John Hopkins for inspiri

POETRY

MJ Sangster

Nov 30, 20251 min read

Pomegranate

Sweet pomegranate of six seeds, whatever will it be? Taken for granted, they say, in the holiest books of land, with a masculine, phrased hand allowing nectar of self-image to drip, drip, drip until the pomegranate has been deprived of precious, selfless life. But what shall be done now since she is left with no sweetness? No originality? No morals? Not a thought of her own? Just bitterness and spite. Obedience and strife for a man’s word. The seeds being th

POETRY

Alexis Terzioski

Nov 30, 20251 min read

My Drive Home

I’m stuck in a routine: class, work, drive home, repeat. Most days, I drive with reggaetón blasting, trying to quiet the thoughts that never stop. Sometimes I talk to myself about unfinished work and the next steps ahead. Somehow, my tired body runs on caffeine and a dream. But today’s drive was different. My phone died, and the radio was boring. Silence found me, and in that silence, I began to think. I thought about my life, being a first-gen college student, and

POETRY

Coralee Garcia

Nov 30, 20252 min read