A Love Poem Where We Go to a Party to celebrate Everything and Nothing! – Jadey Holcomb

There is so much evil

in the world! I am running

late to the party! I shouldn’t

have worn Doc Martens.

I can feel the blisters now.

Isn’t vegan leather softer,

springier? Sure, there are

things I don’t like: these holes

forming in my socks, poems

where every line is capitalized.

But you’re here and I’m here

and there is so much joy. You brought

me a pomegranate! It’s not ripe

now but that’s fine. That’s fine.

These party lights glow

so blue, how alluding,

how seductive! It reminds me

of college. I wrote a screenplay

about a clown turned

dominatrix. Made the whole

class do a dramatic reading.

It smells like marbles

in here. Can you smell

that orby shine? You took

the train here, the wind in your

hair. Oh, I know the windows

don’t open. But let’s imagine,

let’s imagine the wind together.

Pyre’s Night – Audrey Donnell

Cracked stone throbs like sorrowful hearts,

Their stones ajar as an open maw.

Midnight drips from the rafters, waxen,

Air damp with musk.

My skin appears bare—

Absent of scratched metal,

Chilled at the thought of missed battles,

Ghosts appearing as brands.

Their whispers no longer a shock,

Inflicted with madness long

Before my first blood,

Struck with a curse of prophecy.

I’ve grown used to the accusations—

Witch! Witch!

But was it really madness to hear Heaven speak?

Was it madness when He beckoned me through the fervor of the world?

He struck me, broke me open,

Burdened me with glorious knowledge,

Now I’m bound in the language of men,

Confined by their false God.

Yet I know the silence that follows command,

The hush before the arrow’s hymn.

I rode where the earth bled smoke,

A command beneath the wind’s roar.

The fire burns outside, impatient,

Waiting for my calloused flesh,

Radiant and jealous as if it will be

Robbed of its next meal.

Let the pyre burn—

Let the seeking tongues of flames ashen my name—

He will cup me in his hands—

And seek my retribution.

Somersaults – Melissa Baker

somersault;

over over over

in kaleidoscope colors.

S’faster this way to go

down down down

the stairs-

Tag!

You’re it, stay in in in

curled fern.

You’re in the way okay?

Just hop, jump, skip

the hug-

Go Fish,

One word, five letters, four!

You pants are on fire,

The truth is whatever she wants.  I-

Sit. Sit. Sit

Until-

Heart Heart

Spade spades spades

in Solitaire.

Straight to jail,

Do not pass go.

Sorry!

one, two, three

spaces free.

Isn’t Mommy the bestest ever?

No one will ever ever

Love you more so

Etch!

Etch!

Etch-a-sketch

Don’t Break

the Ice its thin thin thin.

Self-immolation – Gospel Chinedu

I am the one holding the lit match.

                 And I am the one burning. And

                            I like that the fire is kind enough

                  to leave me a body in another form.

And I am the one pouring the

                   water of my eyes to quench the fire. 

                           To soak the weight of my heavy heart.

                   Because, I do not want to light like

a feather, vulnerable to soft winds

                   of hope. I just want to be light

                            enough to fall without a fracture.

                   Lit enough to drama through the

night in the company of my shadow.

                   All my dead are after me because, I carry

                              memories of them in the depth of my

                   head. One summer, grandpa descended

as a wet tendon of rain on the roof,

                 his gait pattern pattering so loudly, I began

                              to shiver. I have mourned a lot of things

               because my father mourned them. The

truth is, nothing ever comes to pass,

                    everything comes to be remembered. The

                              past has a place in the future. And maybe

                    this poem is about the past and the future.

I am the one holding the lit match.

                 And I am the one burning. And

                            I like that the fire is kind enough

                  to leave me a body in another form.

Oleanders Sing at Night – Anupama Choudhury

 Delphinium and oleander

      oleander spritz, my love—

            as irreverent as I make it sound

                I did love you—I do love you

                     you that were the exoskeleton

            of my eye and my reverence

     You that taught my consecration

You that taught me to discern

     star from fruitflesh, moon

                    from God, and held my

      hands together in prayer, first

                 something something the swallows

         fly northwards home, and your

                  collarbone divots deep like the

       dip in my chest, like the dip

               a kingfisher makes before catching

       its prey, like my throat catches

                  before saying your name, like

        your name catches before

     my palms hit

                                            the Earth.

October Sonnet – Elenya Hempstead

If light upon this river would not dim

If moonbeams lingered, stars would yet dwell near;

If when our Summer sang her final hymn

The shadows kept themselves far from this sphere;

I would, in earnest, make attempts to stay.

But Dusk climbs over every mountain’s peak

It’s spectral glance turns living things away 

And quiets all those who would wish to speak

Still farther on, like wind across vast plains

I forge ahead, the scenes subdue my eyes;

By hidden roads, or those sight stricken lanes

I breathe, I wander, seeking calmer skies.

What use have I with cold and barren ground?

To Heaven, not this earth am I thus bound.

Ofo – Anselm Eme

The miracle did not shout my name.

It came like a soft tap inside my chest:

A delay!

A missed step!

A quiet feeling that said,

Do not go yet.

I once turned back for no reason.

The bus I missed later broke.

People called it luck!

I stood shaking!

Knowing something unseen,

Had stood where I could not.

My people say “Chi m nọ ebe a”

(my spirit is here with me).

They believe each life walks,

With a helper that does not sleep.

Call it angel.

Call it chance.

I call it care.

As a writer, my words once dried up.

No sound!

No meaning!

Then, in the night,

One line arrived full and clear.

Like it was not mine.

I wrote it down,

And my breath returned.

In the West, elders whisper “Àṣẹ”

(may it be so).

They say good words travel ahead of us.

That blessing can wear human skin:

A smile!

A warning!

A hand that stops you,

From falling.

Miracles frighten me sometimes.

Because they ask questions:

Who is watching?

Who counts our steps?

Why are we saved,

When others are not?

I do not know.

I only feel the weight of mercy.

Now I walk slower through the world.

I listen more.

I thank what I cannot see.

Because something good,

Keeps happening,

Without asking permission.

And that quiet goodness,

That is the miracle.

Letter from the Managing Editor – Fall 2025

Dear readers,

It is my absolute pleasure to present the Fall 2025 edition of The Tributary literary journal! As per tradition, our Fall edition consists of work submitted from only Lycoming College students and edited by Lycoming College students. Check out the list of contributions here.

The accepted pieces for this edition ranges in topic, but every piece deals with identity in a different way, from personal relationships with the divine to retrospectives on life to essays on how we create the art share.

This is my first edition serving as managing editor of The Tributary, having contributed in my freshman year at Lycoming and served as the nonfiction editor my junior year. I’d like to thank last year’s managing editor Aiden Brown for giving me the opportunity to organize something so dear to me as the spread of love through art. I’d also like to thank the entirely new roster of editors, without whom this edition would’ve been impossible. Finally, thank you to all who submitted and to all who take the time to see what is possible when we can share in art.

With all love,

Chase Bower

Contributors – Fall 2025

Poetry

Denia Gooden – Broken Glass, From Me to Him, The Woman

Denia Gooden is a 21-year-old Senior attending Lycoming College. She is originally from Memphis Tennessee and plans to return home to become a middle school teacher after she graduates. Denia started writing poetry during her freshmen year of college originally to cope with being in a new environment so far from home. Now, Denia writes poetry to reflect on periods of her life in a therapeutic way. All of Denia’s poems are feelings that she has felt and could only express in writing.

Julia Martin – End Song, Very High God

Julz Martin is a senior at Lycoming College, with majors in painting and art generalism and a K-12 Art Education Certificate. Poetry and songwriting are hobbies of hers. To follow her journey, follow @julzagain on instagram! 

Sarah Bach – Anatoli Burgoski

Sarah Bach (she/her) is an Astrophysics major and aspiring writer in her sophomore year at Lycoming College. She hopes to combine scientific and social knowledge into meaningful and relevant writing. She has a particular interest in nuclear history and science fiction.

Art

Joli Innerarity – Please Do Not Touch, Fragile by Design

Joli Innerarity is a Freshman majoring in Business. She’s a children’s book illustrator with seven published works and a passion for whimsical, story-driven art. Her work often explores imaginative worlds that balance lighthearted whimsy and deeper emotional themes.

Megan Klansek – Untitled

Megan is a senior with a double major in Communication and Media Studies and Fine Arts with a specialization in photography. She is also involved with the Lycoming Swim team. In her free time she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, and creating artwork. She has been interested in art since her childhood but really developed a love for photography in high school. For her senior thesis, she is doing analog photography and experimenting with double exposures and overlaying photos on top of each other. 

Kira Clements – Reaching for Nostalgia

Kira is a sophomore majoring in criminology, and minoring in both philosophy and painting. They are an avid player (and loser) of intramural badminton and the housing manager for the creative arts society! 

Nonfiction

Alex Setliff – A Review of “One Piece” in One Day

Alex is a senior here at Lycoming College pursuing a degree with the majors of Religion and Film and Video Arts. He has never submitted to the Tributary before, but after the experience that led him to write this submission, he knew this would be a good opportunity to express my opinions about art that he’d care about. While it would be much more his speed to write about something that related to his majors, he decided to challenge himself and examine a piece of media that he was not familiar with. The experience that he had that led him to write the submission and the experiece of writing the submission allowed him to partake in art that he had not considered having deeper themes regarding humanity. Through this process, he has expanded his perspective of art and wishes to share his experience with others. 

Editors

Managing Editor – Chase Bower

Poetry – Eliza Flanigan

Fiction/Poetry – Charlie Bach

Art – Alexis Rockwell

Art – Maddie Kracker

End Song – Julia Martin

I found myself in people and

the girls I claimed to love.

I threw my fits and skipped my class

and I almost gave it up.

I gave you all I had. I tried

to take it back, at times,

and I wouldn’t now

if I had the choice. And I

walked in an angel and

came out a sinner.

But God, I fucking did it. I

made it through the winter.

And every time

I thought I was alone,

You pulled me out

And showed me I was home.

Late night meetings,

but can’t open my eyes.

Shit talk addiction,

let’s go on a drive.

YouTube in my living room;

Ran out of my good shampoo;

Breakfast in the afternoon.

There’s a party, can I come too?

There’s a party, could we come too?

Should I take an edible or smoke a bowl?

I find myself where I found you,

finding myself where I find you.

The Woman – Denia Gooden

I saw her

She sat there with a comforting smile

With me in her arms as I cried

I wailed as I told her how long I’ve been stuck

After all I tried

She wiped my tears

Caressed my forehead

And told me things that I’ve already heard

But I cried again

This time it held me

For it was her word

She laid me on her chest

And rocked me as she sang a lullaby

The smooth pattern of her heart matched her voice

Pulling me to a calm cry

Being able to think cleared I wiped my eyes

Wondering who this woman could be

No longer blinded by my tears

I see her and I know she sees me

I looked her in her eyes as I thank her for her care

She did not speak

Just a smile and a stare

I no longer wondered who this woman could be

I recognized this woman

For this woman was me

From Me to Him – Denia Gooden

He asked me what is love.

I told him to imagine that he was stranded in a desert

and just as he was about to take his last breath,

He hears water splashing nearby

I told him to lie on his back

straighten his spine

and watch the tension leave his bones

while basking in his calm relaxed sigh

I told him that love is more than an emotion

That it is a state of mind

I told him that in order to love you must hate

For they are both of the same kind

What is love, He asked me.

I wanted to say that…

Love is how all the smooth and rough parts of his skin

molds together and glows in the light

Or that love is how his structure is a puzzle

Gently hand picked

piece by piece down to his height

I wanted to tell him that he was love

But I didn’t want to come off too strong

I stared into his eyes

Touched his face

And assured him nothing was wrong

He trembled in my hand

And quickly turned away as a tear escaped his eye

And in that moment

I told him that he was love

For love is when perfection cry.

Broken Glass – Denia Gooden

In this mirror

I reflect a girl that isn’t me

On the outside

I recognize her skin and features

But her mental is limited

Unlike the woman I claim to be

She is so beautiful

With curves from her lips down to her thighs

But her soul screams her truth

That behind those eyes

Are endless wars and cries

And she tries

So frequently to stop the cycle

Because she knows

That once this obstacle goes

She will consistently grow

Beginning a state of revival

My only hope is for this girl to become stronger

In this reflection

I now see her battle clearer

An agonized soul

Staring at me through a mirror