All Harp, no Lyre

Derozio’s poem starts off dead, with no one to touch its strings. The harp who once played beautiful sounds is no longer alive as it withers away.

“Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou,

Like ruined monument on desert plain”

I can’t help but draw a comparison to Percy Shelley’s “Ozymandias”;

“Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

In Shelley’s it tells Ramses II whose empire crumbled to sands, and is long forgotten about. Bleak, how “The Harp of India” starts. The Harp takes on personification, “her fatal chain”. More importantly it becomes a symbol, a symbol of Indian culture, and its death due to Western ‘Influence’.

Fortunately, unlike Ramses II, there is hope, the writer hopes that “the mortal” will be revived again. There is hope for the Harp to be played once more, for India to reconnect with her roots, and play songs of cultural importance. The Harp signifies a heritage, a cultural background. Which is why the Irish hold so dear to it, it’s part of their rich history. A beautiful instrument, nothing quite sounds like it. Its a call to arms to acknowledge Indian art, and to not forget it.

The States in 2019

Esther Quintanilla

(Modeled after Percy Shelley’s England in 1819)

An old, brave, crippled, despised, and wise immigrant;

Children, the seeds of their vibrant culture, who trudge

Through public sneering, — mud from a muddy spring;

Deplorables who neither see nor feel nor know,

But expect them to change their identity

Till they no longer have one, without a regret.

A people starved and ridiculed in the media;

A caravan, whom seek freedom and shelter

Make their way to land of the free;

Golden Gates and sunny skies promised;

Freedom in belief and Godly in nature;

A sacred wish, stripped away by red hats—

Are made impossible for any to achieve, but a dream may

Catalyst, to illuminate the future.

Washington D.C.

Dave L.

(England in 1819 by Percy B Shelley)

The politicians lie and scheme and steal,

To slate the needs of the people who pay.

Said private interests can do what they feel,

Chuckling up their sleeves all the live-long day.

Journalists can also go suck my nuts,

Every word from them is a shitty lie.

Spending all day cravenly kissing butts,

Nothing would be lost were they all to die.

The people who vote can all go to hell,

These people think they are so important.

They think the government does what they tell,

Then forget it quick in the next moment.

I want to bring back the old-timey king,

Who just told us all what we had to do.

Could be good or bad, with always the swing,

For a king I think we’re long overdue.

I hope Vlad the Impaler comes again soon,

In D.C. everyone deserves their body parts strewn.

(I’ll gladly help, I have nothing better to do.)

Percy Shelley’s Philosophy in 2019

[Please note that this is a parody of Percy Shelley’s “England in 1819”. It places his philosophies and constructs in the modern world and satirizes them.]

A sad, angsty, bewildered, misunderstood, and frustrated boy

Romantic at heart, the product of a fortunate face and a mischievous mind, that ponders

The integrity of social justices; How God walked the halls of University,

Knowing not the dissociation between his love for knowledge and his unwavering hold on power,

Calling it blasphemy to marry the arts with the scientific

Segregating a love which only the Socratic could call lust.

How far would you wander to see the two consecrated?

Born again through your ideals, as a product of your own romances?

You knew not of Camus, nor Sartre or Bataille; lingering yonder in the morrow

Nor how they two would hide their ideals between their teeth;

A lie bound tightly by what the “Virgin” Mary would call promiscuity

Borne again through Creatures and Monsters, playing God between graves

“But behold,” still you preface, Frankenstein in hand, “This touches not the philosophical. Nor the modern day, somewhere in the distance.”

-Savie Luce

Atwater, CA, 2019

Driving through the town,

Next to where the buildings end

And where the land becomes green with brown,

There are traces of sweat that drip down from the bodies that bend.

The hands have scars from the labor,

The workers know cries of pain,

But being able to rest is not something they favor

Because they’d lose a workday’s gain.

The workers begin to sigh

As they look down on their stained boots,

But there can be no tear from any eye

Because they are their family’s roots.

Most of the time they are tired,

But they continue to go back to the fields.

They cannot afford to be fired,

Since to their children, they are their shield.

-Maria G. Perez (William Blake’s “London”)

Laura Romero “The Field”

United States in 2019

An old, orange, bald and ignorant President,

Who does not think, know or have empathy for anyone,

He clings on to his presidency

As he fails, cheats and realizes he will lose all real power soon;

Families getting separated, women getting attacked, threats of walls,

That only make people rude and aggressive towards minorities;

Democrats who want it to stop,

Republicans that side with the clown called president,

Russia scandals that are now being acknowledged;

A country that continues to live in the past,

That cannot seem to progress,

But only worsens instead.

Freedom and justice for all, no not quite.

• Sandy Morelos

UC Merced in 2019

A recreation of Percy Shelley’s “England in 1819”

A new, unaccommodating, greedy, and horrendous university;
Chancellors and deans, the supposed “leaders” of schools
Who walk by indebted students,
“Leaders” who neither understand nor choose to see the needs of students,
Drive by in their Mercedes Benz,
Come home to silk lined king beds,
Never having to worry about next month’s rent.

The Financial Aid office, who rejoices and laughs
As they take away one’s Middle Class Scholarship and Bobcat Grant;
Insufficient classes offered, not enough professors, and not even a waitlist exists,
The Registrar obviously has no care;
The Transportation and Parking Services, handing out tickets
Left and right;
As if the tuition, books, and parking permit were not expensive enough.

Charise Cating