Ephemera: (n. pl.) printed records of passing interest that later become memorabilia.
Ephemera is the Clark Honors College Creative Arts Journal. As a student-led, student-run publication, we seek to showcase excellence in prose, poetry, visual art, and creative work produced by honors college students. Our aim is to foster a creative tradition within the CHC community as a platform for student expression.
As students, our time in the Clark Honors College and at the University of Oregon is all too brief. By collecting, publishing, and chronicling students’ creative work, the journal seeks to transform the ephemeral into the eternal. We aim to preserve within our pages works that recall and represent the CHC experience, lengthening the lives of our art into a lasting record that reflects our changing creative community.
We may not be here forever, but Ephemera allows us to make our mark.
An Artist’s Last Letter to his Love
You are only beautiful because I paint you so.
Your yellow hair I render with gold,
And lend sparkle to your eyes with the white of my brush.
I set soft hues of rose into the curves of your cheeks,
And round your lips with my shadow of blue.
Your ordinary neck I flatter with soft light
The dull blue of your eyes I paint to brilliance
I lie in your portraits whilst your hungry eyes shine in delight
(the only time your eyes ever shine)
You are not my muse, my darling.
I am sorry to leave,
But not for casting shade
On your impossibly vain love, your only love;
by Christel Gomes
Replicate the Mind
Simple. See the girls in the summer dresses, hear them flock like geese, “Like, duh,” “Like, duh,” “Like, Duh,” to the tall blond one in front? Easy. Predictable: just so many ones and zeros clip-clipping heel-toe down a sidewalk.
But that girl – septum piercing, dark hair, a short cut, homemade knapsack, walking barefoot, reading– she holds mystery.
Ask her if that’s Kerouac.
She said, “Like, duh.”
by Jordan Wilkie
My phone number crops up for the Gallup Poll,
and the surveyor asks me to rate my life on a scale from 1 to 10.
I can’t explain that I don’t understand the math required to integrate
"incomplete" and "so happy I’m scared."
I can’t even approximate with a complicated sum.
+ diligence with decimal burnout.
Add seeing my friends and not the future, minus root past,
plus in love and in progress, times loving this hope for the progress at hand.
Raise this to the power of grateful,
and let x = a sunrise that I recognize with joy
without knowing where my sum of sunsets falls.
"Five and a half?" I offer in defeat.
"Which do you want, five or six?" she evenly demands.
Oblivious to the lie she extracts and what turmoil ensues,
the surveyor dials anew.
by Taylor Wilson
I was stranded at
The head and foot of
Two adjacent stairs,
You heard a piercing
Before my head fell south,
Knocking each step, but
Skipping always more
While my lidless
Corpse marched surely toward the sky,
But its thin blood fountains from
A dark egress in its chest,
Because my gray heart
Mindless and formless,
Between the high and low,
From tangible decision.
by Simon Narode
the things i want to say
want to jump out of my mouth
like a puppy
yes a puppy
soft and heavy and warm
messy and noisy and breathing all over the place
i cover them up with a blanket
try to trick them to sleep
by Jessie Erikson
I wish I could move like
Out on the swings
In the woods.
I wish I could flicker,
Through some branches
And leave silhouettes of life on people’s skin,
Morphing, ballooning, dwindling
In accordance with the winds
And the shiver of their
Rebel green leaves
That really should be red
Or brown, or yellow,
I wish that where I were not
There would be shadows.
My absence would be felt
By the sting of a darker sharp chill,
And my presence would be missed
Like the warmth of a candle
Or the sun on the autumn swings.
by Simon Narode