Phoenix Magazine, Fall 2023 by UT Office of Student Media

Literary Arts Magazine

ISSUE 67 The LOVE Issue

FALL 2023

PHO ENIX

Like a Gong ................................................................................... 15 Rose Crawford From Strangers to Lovers, to Strangers With Memories ......................... 12 Joss Kitts Underoverwater .............................................................................. 03 Faith Yared Artist Spotlight ......................................................................... center Francis Akosah Artist Spotlight ......................................................................... center Can you get my back for me? (Quarry Summer) ................................. 01 Overlaps (of you and me) ................................................................ 14 Chloe Wack Selection of Bassagama Wood Fire Kiln Radiolaria ............................. 08 Hannah Langer I Want to Ruin My Life Tonight .......................................................... 05 Carrie Cheng an ode to my lover’s hands .............................................................. 04 Cara White Run, Run, Roadkill ........................................................................... 07 Lidia Biggs Untitled (After Past Lives) ............................................................... 13 Anna Trevathan Self Portrait ................................................................................... 06 Self Portrait with an Egg .................................................................. 11 The Long Way to Building 7 ............................................................. 10 Somerset Alley

CONTENTS

Oh, Deer! ....................................................................................... 02 ladies to cat .................................................................................. 09 Matthew Blessington

Oh, Deer! Matthew Blessington

Wild yellow mustard flowers Cast wide skyscraper grasses Bowing to the will of the wind. Deer’s natural footpaths Laid down green manila Beat down battered Pulpy meaty soils. You borrowed them the last day Sleeping during the last night Awaken – at last – to a new day!

Can you get my back for me? (Quarry Summer) Chloe Wack

You rub your crusty eyes And leave your rest at the exit, Unzipping worn navy nylon stretched on Tent skeleton; frugal architecture. See your stories, the scratches in the fabric Your front doorstep, now pulpy and meaty Yesterday’s footsteps say hello to todays Projected in front of you: this image. Here! “Oh, Deer!” Beautiful! Beautiful! The horseflies ballet around her Like a tetherball on gossamer. Carousel halo rings. Miss princess, the babe, a doe She passes coy behind her lover. Prince’s look locks in stare towards you. His branches, holy crown, antenna to god. Behind the lovers, skyscraper grasses Stretching for hours and hours Wild yellow mustard flowers. To share this moment! With these beings! Godbless to You! And You! And You! 02

an ode to my lover’s hands

After “Ode to the Beloved’s Hips” by Natalie Díaz

Cara White the things they hold, the way they play notes upon my skin with such precision and care and a roughness that is found only in the callouses on the crests of their palms and the swipe of your thumb on my bottom lip— sweetened by their grip on my thighs, the twin pressures on my hips your hands, devoted instruments of means— means to build, create, and undo me with their gentle attentions and determined pulling of soft sharp melodies from my parted lips

Underoverwater Faith Yared

the skin there, at the sacred altar of my aching body, different from the rest of you yours to pray to, yours to explore rougher, warmer— with curious intention, smooth expanses of palm and stretch of fingers and the scratch of your blunt nails against seek thee out the secrets of this temple, the softest parts of myself those hands shall be rewarded strong, sturdy hands— those hands, aiding in your worship your hands, worthy of symphonies, worthy of soft kisses pressed to cracked knuckles, worthy of my fervent whispers held in their holy palms— dependable like marble, susceptible like my will to yours, my love, your hands are the very parts of you that do your loving for you. 04

05 I want to ruin my life tonight Gorge in a ridiculous sum of fries Eat hot food then chew crushed ice Stay past when the sun sublimely dies And write dozens of nonsensical lines As if I’ve waltzed to my deathbed high Because this isn’t the event that will end my life So why treat it like it is when I’m not doing this every night? I know what constraint is I have my best health in mind So don’t restraint or limit How I live out my own life. ‘Cause my heart beats too fast, too unevenly, to lie so I’ll Say “fuck”, “damn”, “shit I’m so lucky” Cause I made a hole in one Or made a rhyme so punny I’ll go sit on the floor legs spread So unfeminine but gently Right before the TV screen Let it snatch my attention easily Then copy “ain’t”, “y’all”, and most importantly, “Fuck.” Cause that’s all I’ve been doing Fucking up my life Like how life fucked me So I mix gummy bears in ice cream And lick the juices off the knife clean And walk on the curb assuredly childishly And twirl in the rain until I’m so dizzy And stash snacks for when I’m hungry Because it all makes my heart beat Astonishingly carefree. I have hidden from critical eyes Before I could even speak Because no matter what I try It’ll be found to be damaging So might as well ruin my life tonight And be the reason why I’m I Want to Ruin My Life Tonight inexplicably happy. Carrie Cheng

Self Portrait Somerset Alley

Run, Run, Roadkill Lidia Biggs

Selection of Bassagama Wood Fire Kiln Radiolaria Hannah Langer

Yesterday, driving through the countryside far from home, music up, eyes open I watched a squirrel run all brown-haired with its pedestrian instincts & fluffy tail fictions & I stopped for him before I had the chance to imagine another dead animal on the road with hatred I can only picture belonging to truck drivers & boys who played baseball in high school. His body stopping halfway in expectation as if he too imagined dying & I attest I saved a life that day, tallied up my good place points & labeled myself a savoir-08

ladies to cat Matthew Blessington In the mile that stretches from ladies to cat, You will find a particular ecosystem, rife with forest water topiary marshes cars dancing thru and thru street swath brush strokes radiator heat oil soaked bodies drip drank drunk pockets of opium tires, mansions of minnows Fifty years ago, cobblestone gravel 50 years of tarmac tape delay God pinches our paths Long reeds salient shore lines pluffing mud and dimples sprawl brooks babbling , crabs crabbling* moss curtained masses of molasses a taste in the air you can almost Smell further than his pinch, far wide wider settings roll past like drapes across your window You and your and the tires touching tearing streets And me, me, hunched over in your passenger seat** *i.e. assuming the behavior of a crab

The Long Way to Building 7 Somerset Alley

From Strangers to Lovers, to Strangers with Memories Joss Kitts

There’s a place within me that radiates a warm glow. I’d like to never leave, though I know I must. And quite frankly I love it, but I keep it hidden mostly nowadays, from fear of causing cracks. You’ve lived there now for some time, along with everything else that comes with you. I go and visit sometimes to sit awhile. We talk in low voices, and share warm glances, as we swing on the porch. The leavings of our pastries just across. With our customary cappuccinos beside, one decaf, always. And the layered rings remind me that time does indeed pass though I surely wish it didn’t. I used to love Sundays.

Self Portrait with an Egg Somerset Alley

There, the forever in your eyes hasn’t left yet. A gentle breeze brings assurance and our laughs fill the porch with warmth. I seem to never stay long enough. You never know you would spend forever doing something until it’s over. We share eyes as what we’ve said ruminates and while the silence fills with memories, I hold preserved petals in my hand and find solace. 12

Untitled (After Past Lives) Anna Trevathan It took me watching a film to understand us, The damage, the delusion, why I cannot let go, And I have discovered that it’s our past lives. It takes 8,000 lifetimes of chance meetings, For two people to find and stay together, In each lifetime I believe my soul stayed. My soul sings me to sleep, telling me that In another life we are kissing in the rain again With wet noses smashing into each other In another life we are fourteen years old And you made fun of my knee high converse But shoplifted me a new shoestring from the mall In another life we are sixty and we met in Florida At some god-awful retirement home we wound up in, And we play Rumey together on tuesday nights.

Overlaps (of you and me) (mini quilt) Chloe Wack

In another life we are thirty year old painters And we share paint covered denim overalls And a small studio overlooking the ocean In the next life, we are sleeping together, And our souls are reminiscing on our past lives. 14

Like a Gong Rose Crawford

Hugs Chloe Wack

ARTIST SPOTLIGHT: CHLOE WACK

While I acknowledge that the specificity of my subject material could be seen as limiting to viewers, I would argue that it is through the specificity viewers are able to find fragments of a universal connection we all have to feel safe, to feel loved, and to feel at home.

It is through the process of tracing, cropping, and collaging that I am able to re-enact and relive the moment. The physical act of my hand tracing is my tether to this moment, place, or person. Tender tactility and labor is expressed through the material choice of drawing, sewing, and embroidery. My process is unable to perfectly reproduce the original photograph as it is filtered through my marks and material. This results in a fragmentation of information that mirrors the fallibility of memory.

The concept of home is often thought of as a where: where you live, where you grew up, or where your parents live. My concept of home is something that is built and cared for, that changes over time, and that exists not only as a tangible house or city but as the experience I have when I feel safe and loved, and when there is a moment I don’t want to forget. I acknowledge that this fear of forgetting is an impossible task. Our minds do not perfectly recall that last conversation you had with someone, or how it felt when you got home from that trip to go see your grandmother who you know you might never see again. But I am compelled to record, to tell the stories, and to preserve these memories while I am able to.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Between scouring university archives and editors’ notes from the last 63 years of Phoenix history, I still can’t figure out how our magazine found its name.

During two weeks of open submissions this fall, 43 artists from colleges across our university submitted 103 works of creativity for our consideration. That’s community.

In the Fall 1960 edition, during the second year of the Phoenix’s flight, Editor-in-Chief Jeff Greene wrote that the publication was “a rare bird, indeed”. Other editors have spoken at length to the fire of our unlikely experiment, and images of the phoenix itself grace covers spanning decades. Perhaps the analogy needs no explanation. With that being said:

With a labor of love as fragile as ours, torment is an inevitable step in the process. In the Winter 1977 issue, Editor-in-Chief Connie Jones described expecting the search for quality work to be “an exercise in frustration”; luckily, her fears didn’t come to fruition. The power of our artistic community at its strongest only makes it more heartwrenching when engagement lapses, a fear that hovers over every submission call.

To the ancient Greeks, the myth of the phoenix dictated that only one of the elusive birds could exist at a time, living for precisely 500 years before ascending to the pyre that would beget its rebirth. Don’t get me wrong, I see the idea: that free, creative expression is eternal. That as much as the powers that be might try to sanitize, vilify, censor, or ignore the arts, they will rise again, make a spectacular mess in the process, and be all the more vibrant for what they have endured. With 437 long years of our Phoenix’s lifespan apparently left to go, it is the solitude of this allegory that strikes me as antithetical to the publication we create. The Phoenix was born, in all its fire and fervor, from and for a community. Without its community, our dear magazine would never have been able to waddle from its nest, much less be flying six decades later.

We hope that you’ve found this installment of the Phoenix as meaningful as we do.Thank you to our readers, to the visual artists and writers featured between these pages, and to our phenomenal staff team and faculty supporters. You are the reason this exists. -Diana Dalton, Editor-in-Chief

STAFF Diana Dalton > Editor-in-Chief Maggie Meystrik > Lead Designer Max Edmonds > Art Editor Abby-Noelle Potter > Prose Editor Adin Lamb > Poetry Editor Madisun Richardson > Social Media Manager Carrie Cheng > Copy Editor Raina Watson > Community Engagement Lidia Biggs > Support Staff Bre Lillie,MFA > Faculty Advisor

Transformation Francis Akosah

ARTIST SPOTLIGHT: FRANCIS AKOSAH

African Mask Francis Akosah

At the heart of my creative process is a deep love for the art of creation, for the act of taking raw materials and transforming them into something beautiful and meaningful. I am constantly exploring new techniques and pushing the boundaries of what is possible, always creating work that is both technically stunning and emotionally resonant. My art is a tribute to the resilience, richness, and beauty of Africa and its people, and an exploration of the interplay between materials, symbolism, and cultural significance.

Through my art, I aim to create a never-ending circle of connection between myself, the materials I use, and the audience that experiences my work. Whether I am using traditional techniques such as waxing and stitching or more contemporary methods like digital manipulation, my goal is to create pieces that feel both timeless and modern, rooted in the past but also pushing toward the future. I aim to honor and pay homage to the diverse cultures and traditions of Africa while also exploring the intersectionality of materials.

As an artist, I am inspired by the rich cultural heritage of Africa, the interconnectedness of different art forms and how they can be combined to create something unique, and the rich diversity of materials and cultures. I am fascinated by the tactile qualities of burlap, the organic warmth of wood, the vibrant patterns of African cloth, the raw texture of the plaster, the intriguing forms of metal scrap, and the timeless beauty of the stone.

Unity among divinity in ethnicity Francis Akosah

f a back o n the . 2023 i n road 14th, Mexica king, n June d on a e drin died o an For f bing Americ ight o ring last n rusted punctu e h , h abuela t y sing t to tee that m Proces ila in m told sed, g tequ s. I a he pas turnin y part before ould us bod n egg cken w s precio with a rn chi nto hi ed him n unbo born i cleans ehow a t was with at som il tha racked and th the ev of skin c g out all of egg’s pourin absorb r, the bodyave Howeve t his . I cr d body. ds lef d bloo replay is wor browne ds. I his. H and th the l chor a n any uth wi is voc g up o his mo n of h s, hun m to bratio sinuse for hi the vi f his I beg again, ythm o life. s body d the rh of his ugh hi o arm an w aspect ng thr n and r every raveli crimso And fo lood t to be plush. have b blood k and r this be pin gain. and fo ks to once a s chee y ear for hi e in m breath him to

My brother’s liver Anna Trevathan

Sometimes Alison Mazzola d th rl rm wo wa e r th ne f in o r st ou re th he wi t s to ve r in el ea th rs cl wi ou t es g ou gs ur e? in r n m ct at ou lu n ru oc p hi my st t ff et m d wi su y o d te fr ep in an in t de ta ty es ar m un o au ey he e fr be ur my th lf nt o ow re d rs le se , ll he in ve it up opp ye n eh se t l i e b e l e n m at ? xp i ey p e se a irl for e th he th s w ac I t at t l i e’ s con s, l pl in ea th i me ti er at y pa br nk? can s unt in ti n th h l n t i u n o o t e s ard me y ke t th h, ti s, se So cr tic or tw po ow o ug mo ie y ? y I no col ou , uns h t t eno e ter me eg wa e es ga at r ng ? I e et ha ed r n a u w g i g ? r g o d e Th w tim a or ? W on gat d st in e, de st y i l h Ho me e’s u f el d l ti an er si o lk o ar t So er yo fe en nmi ys th e- h n wa t il me t n n u t o g Th wa I e o im sa n t s wi n rai in a pr e ir Ca s e w d a e a b th Ho I tho g , tan is up, wh r s t n If l gin es s th e ty ou ci ea i Al og tim ou is ad mp l y m m e el r Cl me e y r l el e d at ev So se nde al ea s t h th s I wo it ye s me I s our e me ti Wa y our ti me Is y , me so Do I so ur Am ur o Yo ll Wi

Framed Brian Fuson 16

Thursday mourn Dani Summerlin There are fl i from leavi es in the ng al house l ’ e s e doo I bel rs op i e en. And l ve I asked ock t my ne he ‘ w D h o g a o i n r r d s fun l to le tw ny shut’ ice I l m i e k em a e n, that, but, she’s too p u So r m a y be it dy to ferg it, is I wh o f e w rgits o r k th when I Sound e nights w h a ‘N us sleep in m ile she’s in’ a y bed ll , o h m y l o h rd, ot wa eatin’ my ter, food There are fl i F r o m leavi es in my m ng al outh l ’ e s e doors open.

My mother wouldn’t let me bring them in the house. Eliza Frensley

I Will Not Write Your Father’s Obituary Dani Summerlin l but e for the funera So, I can be ther ituary your father’s ob I was 11. No— I will not write ral morgue when ru a entified mine in Just because I id en twenur loss, tell the news wh I’m sorry for yo me you think to t be the first na re me waiting ( but I should no ur contacts befo yo are lined up in ty other people ) iend than I am. to be a better fr no The truth is of an infant with lence the wails I could sooner si tongue h. u’re going throug then know what yo

teeth or ripened

ll be prayed for, I promise you wi y to talk to god. But I’m too angr t on his deathbed ) you what he mean g in his sleep. I will not tell , he was twitchin saw my father on ( the last bed I The truth is— comatose man— ed the laments of a ar when I realiz If I could read st my freshman ye ued psychology pa I would have purs people. great at helping I’m just not that

They Always Wore Plaid Janessa Ladson

ncerities, I can send you si sincere. ew up. And they will be , only that I gr if it gets better But I cannot know lost, and I’m sorry you’re r the funeral I can be there fo ven’t met me. for the man I ha when she looks at but I cannot cry your mother weep nose that makes like I have his us. ) es how he abuses ( god personaliz than sorry. nted ot offer you more have known you wa I’m sorry I cann fake. I couldn’t wers I sent were I’m sorry the flo them to rot ave. Beside a stone gr emated. My father was cr , oulder to cry on I can be your sh wet, o heavy sopping But if you’re to o. I’ll fall back to 12

untitled Carrie Cheng

To Trap the Memories that We Hold So Dear (detail) Hannah Langer

What I Is the see first Every thorns. o n The he e sees the a fl that p lthy petals ower, rotect That p retty your core: Of smile y o u rs– But o n e Has he s close l And ta d the stem sted b On loo t d h e i Becaus r fingertips e . Yo u ’ r e like a Onl p y i c m t e u They h ant for eye re, a s But le ve a snapsh . f o t o f Guessi t blind who yo n u are Becau g on what s y e o who. y they don’t u’ll be do ing. ou. ar know But e. w h a Captur t can I say ed by ? It on ’ l s y e t v h Despit ident you g e small bi ts. e that rew up But I wret c c h Becaus an’t accept ed stem e when it. to t I d o e u s c p h e r soft ately M y h wanted a n d wrap ness, ped ar o u n d t hat st em.

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a septet for boys Matthew Blessington

th e brea s – fir s h hall tongue throug olical th bounce – diab of dea Words crease think every o – I I hear ould d hild w As a c fire ll of uppose eat ba y, I s big gr One da p in a , blow u embers I will still ashes, lds s and my the fie omatoe ll find iddle i w erry t h c will r armers their them f ongst . among red am tunias scatte the pe teeth mongst vets a and ri ut it lk abo ill ta ork They w a firew nciful how fa e pie omemad ers. e. over h of flow t on wid bouque l pris and a a smal e make e thes ts lik e Though d rins n . tall a d lady m my s ad-eye ge fro at a s d I emer aring ollowe ds, st have f nder. my han ign we and wo by a s before I pass times nds of thousa Man? and a rother ot a B

Am I n

The Poet’s Hymn Jensen Smalling When I I will die become wi t h a l l the a cicada. C who oth hir in s e p t r i ink in ll had word dead poets g , s Having their pens. in their minds never and thou wri g t h t I held i ten down ev share n e y d s r i to tel the things de. Having l you I nee never . I s till h ded ad thi But I n g w s i l t l o sin tell y on h o t ou. summer g with the when cic da ni g a y h o t u s s . can’ The f r t o o m t n e e t l s h l pleadi eir humming your thou gh n , yours g melody, t their des ts perate fo hei r t h , e listen r poems ing.

Self Portrait Joss Kitts

I sit in a restau ra nt wi th wa tc a room full hi ng me , watching of eyes you. Your words cut th ro ug h me a coward dr like a jagg essed ed knife in a su it and tie. Women give me sympat hy looks while men ad vert their eyes. I hug myse lf . My arms wrap tightly ar ou its pr nd my ey waist like , a snake subd I beg my ar uing ms to gi ve ba ck Your th e sa wa pp rm hi th re you ripped eyes th at I used to ad sit on two away. different fa ore ces one I kn ow th e ot her I choose to ignore. People te ll yo u to keep your At me voice down At my heart My kindness My love that I wish I had none of You place yo ur arm arou nd me and squeeze you tell me “I am so so rr y baby.” You kiss my head “It’ll neve r happen ag ain.” You mass ag e my shoulder s trying to wa rm me up but my hear t is alread y too cold I couldn’t feel more al one. Your hands know my body my heart kn ows your wo rds and my mi nd kn ow s what it feel with a s like to si sm il e plastered on t meant only my face to placate the eyes in the room watching yo u, watching me.

Room Full of Eyes Emily Ellis 06

03 ed

rken he sun ulder da ild of t n my sho was a ch eckles o ss rief, I l the fr ing acro Before G ght unti by break in sunli goodbye I bathed ssed me e sun ki es until th cope ski kaleidos colorful gh trees es throu ng and shin is passi comes up sun her day The sun hat anot bed, the nds me t tting in not here and remi y for ro you are s me laz ay that and call nother d d it’s a r rises an uperpowe andype of s mothers be the t d ed love to and gran I thirst I found mothers sed, but ve hers and f posses ter a mo only fat or mysel ehind af except f t left b everyone ouseplan like a h edfor love nd knock window a me to my nough to Grief ca t hard e Instead, t way bu h kind sof ry enoug not in a ane, ang together window p lding it break my crews ho er the s to shatt uld woman wo e way a He, no ollow th as to be ave me h He (He h love e and le o my lif ometimes come int e that s leave showed m you love He did), l those elt unti is not f ckles, e s my fre were her un kisse wish you s, the s . and i Sometime ere here sunlight sh you w hered in and i wi ere smot i wishsh you w ting and and i wi ere swea sh you w ky and i wi of the s mind me aven idn’t re me of he he sun d t remind i wish t ky didn’ e sh the s remind m and i wi n didn’t sh heave u again. and i wi r see yo ill neve that i w

Over Time Line Hannah Carney

grieving the sun Anna Trevathan

Yes , Hal it’s f p as that I ’ t h m o s you like a even wling & b you (the s stunn tears lack-w i u bef told m n) te ng shi on the ind tw ste o ili pwr e a ha d g e b our re we n h t pre out Yo my de ck. Th ds. aga pt te Wh face in: i u s r s h n a d t m P c a b I wa racke -laug roble rating orning o , d whe y t nt no d, cr hed ab m i n w n a h ou c a — w k t nev ant of neve twili ing. t it r e g on r coul an un shout ht-now d t s a d h — i t ap erst So he w s a o y p n b o e s t d b in teal m ly di n whil ing th u (the o inha vin pie e I b at, moo g ce e fr a n) it a o n r b s m m d e o a a o to transm f rad this w rd at perche lly, i s d a i in un and t one ant gl tchmak my wit a r ’s ass er’ dos moo eb en an s e n d w o a f yes us, “I and ter d. d , y log CAN fract esper ou ge ’ d v e g SEE Y ions- ate al tre me one asu OU, (t ien r re ” e h n e t ire sta adio w l rs) y ave lun : s ar.

Sleep-Drunk Luke Leftwich

The Temptation of Gold Nathaniel Evans

Contents

Over Time Line ....................................... 04 Hannah Carney The Temptation of Gold ............................... 02 Nathaniel Evans They Always Wore Plaid ............................... 11 Janessa Ladson Artist Spotlight ................................. center Francis Akosah Artist Spotlight ................................. center Chloe Wack Self Portrait......................................... 05 Joss Kitts Sometimes ............................................ 15 Alison Mazzola

grieving the sun ..................................... 03 my brother’s liver ................................... 17 Anna Trevathan My mother wouldn’t let me bring them in the house .... 13 Eliza Frensley a septet for boys .................................... 07 Matthew Blessington Framed ............................................... 16 Brian Fuson Sleep-Drunk .......................................... 01 Luke Leftwich To Trap the Memories that We Hold So Dear (detail) ... 09 Hannah Langer Untitled ............................................. 10 Carrie Cheng

The Poet’s Hymn ...................................... 08 Jensen Smalling Thursday Mourn ....................................... 14 I Will Not Write Your Father’s Obituary .............. 12 Dani Summerlin Room Full of Eyes .................................... 06 Emily Ellis

PHOENIX

literary arts magazine

FALL 2023 issue 67 The TORMENT Issue