Welcome to another installment of Pathos Literary Magazine’s online art gallery! The flowers are blooming and beautiful, and the warmth of the Spring sun is finally shining on campus. The most recent issue of Pathos is currently on the stands around the hallways of PSU. We hope you consider submitting your unique artwork, poetry, and/or prose for publication in our next issue or online. Check out our social media pages to stay tuned for continuing updates and inspiration!
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“Each of these photos were taken over the summer. They are representations of things I learned over the course of the summer. Disappearing Comrade is from a theater production I was in (over the summer) about WWII and current day performed entirely in German (this photo was taken during dress rehearsal); the character depicted in the photo is talking to one of his friends who was released from a concentration camp and he is unsure as to where his friend’s allegiance lies. Fine Wine is a representation of how we as humans and our style has changed over the years but our fundamentals remain in-tact. Protektor is a friend I was in the theatre production with who helped me when stress was added and feelings were hurt– he talked to me and kept me from anymore hurt feelings, not to mention he made me smile when I wanted to cry.”
– Josephine Claus
Disappearing Comrade
by Josephine Claus
Fine Wine
by Josephine Claus
Protektor
by Josephine Claus
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Take a deep breath and…
by Jessica Layman
5
Count the grey flecks on the 16 doves in the ash tree.
The arch where we made our own rain.
Table set to tea for two, but it’s too cold now.
The dead and drying vines threaten from the fence.
Mug of coffee, still warm.
4
Fingers frozen against glass pains.
Tangles of hair twist and tickle red ear tops.
Blankets wrapped around shaking shoulders.
Bite of concrete on skin.
3
Revved engine trying too hard on back country roads.
Rustling from the compost.
Someone, somewhere, is mowing their lawn.
2
Petrichors thick from the last rain.
Aging dog with the sunshine teeth grinning.
1
Too much cream.
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You Can’t See My Sick
by Jessica Layman
i slurp up my brain stem
resting in a bowl of spinal broth
touch of basil sprinkle the jalapenos
sliced, not diced
reveal the seeds
sprout new roots
on the roof of my mouth
it hurts
not as much as last time
still the noodles scream
slightly salted and crushed moon
to settle the ache
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Sabi Sands
by Karla Powell
Along deep rutted roads our guide’s keen eyes detect minutiae traced in dusty earth
decipher faintest prints, in paid pursuit of that most precious wild
which still remains, such as this lounging pride
whose direct gaze disarms
whose measured strolls, so nonchalant, glide past us
where we sit in open jeep
without legs we’re neutralized in these lion’s eyes
like torsos of store mannequins, we are an incomplete display
tourists of ecology, toting souvenirs of early man within our DNA
the oldest of these lazing cats rests his bloodied mane
atop the cavernous remains of last night’s kill
our tracker warns us not to stand, not to lend them recognition
should one charge would we reenter our fateful history
that enduring interplay, which pivots on uncertainty
over who is predator, who is prey?
