The Lamson Library and Learning Commons is pleased to welcome the collaborative efforts of the PSU Poetry Club and PSU Art Club in a joint exhibition of art-inspired poetry. The exhibit will be on display through Winterim 2009 in The Commons Cafe. Click here for more artwork and poetry.

5 Cents for a Piece of My Heart

by Alexandria Capello; artwork by Adam Bastille

Would you like a piece of my heart?
5 cents a slice.
Take a slice and enjoy the delicious, savory goodness of love.
Don’t care to eat and enjoy now?
Let me throw in a heart shaped box just for you.
I will cut of pieces of magazine and paper Mache your take home piece of my heart.
Handle with care please.
I am very sensitive.
I am very gentle.
I trust that you will take care of my special piece of heart.
I cheated. I didn’t give you the same slice as everyone else.
You put my feet on clouds of pearl when you sooth me.
You hurt my smile when you make me laugh; it hurts to smile so hard.
I want to give you a seed to plant in the piece of my heart.
I want you to water the plant. Give it love. Give it serenity.
I want you to make the lily grow in the little piece of my heart.
Can I hold you until the sun come up?
Can I brush my finger tips through your hair and forget everyone else around us?
Can you keep me floating just for a little while more so I can keep swinging?
I want to fly on my tree swing hanging from the sky for days.
I want you to push me as I swing.
I want you to water the garden of lilies that will flow out of the piece of my heart.
Why you ask? Why is your heart so magical?
You touched it young sir.
You touched my heavy heart and made it light.
Now take your imperfect life and grow with my heart.
Be my shade under the oak tree in the fields of flowers.
Be my gratifying drink so I can no longer have this uncanny thirst for you.
Be my sensuous meal so I can curb my appetite from this hunger I have for you.
I will meet you on the other side of the bridge near the ocean.

Looking at a Painting

by Michael McClory; artwork by Ashley Rouillard

You are wound together,
a swirling vortex.

You are the magnificent clouds
looming on the beach before the thunder.

You are a lesson in geometry,
the golden ratio.

You are a storm,
the top view of a hurricane on a Doppler radar.

Steam and marshmallows
drifting clockwise in a cup of hot chocolate.

The Sistine Chapel
to a drunk on his back.

You are
a snow covered turd.

What’s this? A small white card.
A title: “Cinnamon Roll”

You are
breakfast.

A Silver Heart

by Lauren Tiner; artwork by Alexander Rybak

I slaved away at Café Paradiso, mechanical, until I met Pedro. Perhaps the shrillness of metal grinders, the smell of burnt water in the bottom of a coffee pot or the aroma of baked bread, which embedded its scent in my hair, drew me to him.
Maybe working seven to nine, six days a week, watching the clock’s arms slowly circulate, whipping up lattes, pressing Paninis and flirting with “the regulars” helped me to understand love.
He stood by the doorway, short, dark and handsome with curly hair, green eyes and velvety, caramel skin. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and adjusted my black apron as I called out to him.
“Sit anywhere you’d like, sir.”
I felt funny calling him sir; he looked about twenty-seven, my age. I wondered what made him pick here.
He acknowledged me, nodding his head as he sat at a high top by a corner window, watching children scramble around the playground outside. I noticed his nametag from the Jiffy lube downtown: PEDRO.
“Coffee?” I asked, holding a fresh pot.
Pedro shook his head, cradling a thick, heart-shaped locket in his hands.
“You see this,” he said holding up the silver heart, glistening in the sun.
“Yes,” I said a little confused, “I see it.”
“Meet my wife,” said Pedro. His green eyes turned a darker shade in my shadow.
“Excuse me?”
Pedro coaxed me closer, my fair skin white as a ghost against his in the window’s reflection.
“Today’s our three year-anniversary. I met her here, a Sunday just like this.”
Old man Arthur lit up a cigarette from across the room, its burning stench lingered in my nostrils. I shuddered at the thought of singing ashes.
Stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I leaned beside the table, apprehensive, fixated on Pedro’s passionate face, his wide eyes and thick brows, careful not to gawk at the shiny heart.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “She must have been so young.”
“She was—she…”
Pedro’s voice trailed off. He looked up at me.
“I’m sorry, Sara is it?” he asked checking my nametag. “I should get back. I’ll have a chocolate croissant for the road. Two.”
He followed me up to the countertop where I carefully wrapped up the flaky pastries, adding a few extra in. His rough hands grazed mine as I slid over the bag.
“How much do I owe you, Sara?”
“On the house,” I said.
Pedro smiled modestly as he stood up.
“You remind me of her,” he said.
Mesmerized, I watched him walk out the door, grasping onto the silver heart as though he were holding a hand, and for a moment I swore I saw Pedro walk out of Café Paradiso with his young wife by his side.