Winter Workshop 1.0
Introduction
Winter Workshop 1.0 marks The Berkeley Pulse’s first curated creative release of the year — an intentional gathering of emerging student and community voices brought together through workshop, conversation, and creative risk. Rather than an open submission call, this issue reflects a selective, dialog-driven process rooted in craft, vulnerability, and experimentation. Each piece here has passed through a shared editorial space that values voice over polish and sincerity over trend.
The Berkeley Pulse exists to amplify developing writers and artists at moments of becoming. This collection reflects that mission: poems that sit with discomfort, prose that traces memory and identity, and hybrid works that test form without apology. Winter Workshop 1.0 is less a final statement than a record of movement — a snapshot of writers writing toward themselves, and toward one another.
Hello, World!
In 2017, a Muse began to whisper lines of poetry to Leslie Reed in the wind by the crashing surf at Louisa Bay in Broadstairs, England. To capture these words, she wrote them with beach chalk onto the seawalls, photographing each before the rain and tides could wash them away. Returning to California, the Muse found her again among the trees by Cordonices Park in Berkeley, where she has written over 85 poems onto the fence along the Tamalpais Steps.
Leslie regularly reads her poems throughout the San Francisco Bay area and participates in U.C. Berkeley’s Live Poets’ Society (LPS), where she has also presented about her graffiti poetry process. The U.C. Berkeley Daily Californian podcast, Poetic Pontification, produced an episode called On Spontaneous Poetry about her work https://open.spotify.com/episode/24ON78yLUziSZrfnDjeobL. Voetica, the spoken poetry website, hosts recordings of Leslie reading U.K. and U.S. graffiti poems at: https://voetica.com/voetica.php?collection=4&poet=1038.
Also a visual artist, Leslie is currently producing ekphrastic icons, which incorporate her poetry into multi-media pieces. Leslie has self-published two photo collections of her poetry, Berkeley Wall + Piece: Graffiti Poetry in 2025 available on Amazon and Graffiti Poetry: Broadstairs + Berkeley in 2023 on Blurb.com.
Leslie Reed holds a B.A. in Russian Studies from Colgate University and a Master’s Degree in French Literature and Civilization from Middlebury College. Leslie is a Fulbright Scholar.
LET
LET GO
AND GROW
EXPAND
AND GO
BEYOND EXPECTATION.
YOUR DEVOTION
TO SURRENDER
TO LISTENING
DEEPLY TO
THAT HEART IN YOU
MAKES EACH STEP CLEAR,
THE UP AND OUT.
LET FEAR-LESS-NESS
LET RECKLESSNESS
LET BOLDNESS
GUIDE YOU THROUGH.
November 28, 2024
KICK IT
KICK THE CAN –
“ALL ‘E, ALL ‘E,
IN COME FREE!”
KICK THE CAN!
JUST REACH OUT TO ME!
NO BLAME.
NO ROOM FOR SHAME.
JUST YOU
AND ME,
AS WE USED TO BE.
IN LOVE,
GENTLE,
GIGGLING,
SNUGGLING
BACK TO OK –
NOTHING TO SAY.
NO NEED TO EXPLAIN.
COME IN FREE.
KICK IT!
CALL ME.
I’M HERE.
TEXT ME.
I’M READY TO RUN
BACK INTO THE FUN,
NO LONGER CAUGHT
AT THE CAN,
TAGGED OUT,
SITTING IN DOUBT,
KICK THE CAN –
AND SET US BOTH FREE.
Hi! My name is Lauren Lutge. I’m a senior transfer student, studying English and Creative Writing. I love a good sci-fi short story, some silly salsa dancing and saying hello to every dog I see. Thanks!
This is a poem about fragmented attention. How our phones fracture our ability to be fully present and attune to the world around us. A poem about moving through life too fast!
Condense the World into a Can!
No one taught you otherwise!
move so quick your bones fracture like shattered plate
glued together in a hurry,
be in all places at once,
but not you - just those tiny shards of you cut off.
Give ‘em a slice of your thoughts and move along
before they digest it.
You got a bright box in your pocket and the sun don’t shine through it
but the picture sure look pretty,
and it keeps buzzing,
and you keep buzzing.
forget the sound the world makes
forget the sound of stillness
forget it's even there.
Antoni Klopotowski (he, him) is a 27-year-old author from the San Francisco Bay Area. He is inspired by the unknown edges of his own life, observing the world he leaves the computer screen to live in each day and returning to the keyboard to type about what arises. His stories have been published in seven literary journals and blogs.
In this story, a train-hopper finds himself on Berkeley's Telegraph Ave. for the night. There, he meets an unhoused man, as well as his best friend, Charlie, a tough, scarred street cat who has seen as much life as him. The man tells the story of how the two came to be such good friends.
Here’s To These Chance Stars
As I wandered down Telegraph Avenue at what was rumored to be the golden hour of sunsets in hopes of finding a place to sleep, my inner ghosts befriended an outer one, feeling sorry, from what I know: a gray-bearded man tossed away to the streets, swathed in a sleeping bag— much too old to be staining his happy yellow tie-dye shirt— was nearly howling for passing faces to buy him some cigarettes. Hopping trains gives you an acceptance for other souls’ boots, no matter how grimed or tattered— makes you want to put them on and kick some feelings into folks. I’m sure the man would have agreed. When I came back with a pack of Marlboro Reds, the day’s begging spent, the man gripped my shoulder. To make sure I was real, I guess. I could tell a lot had beaten the sorry guy down, a certain shadow hung beyond the matted strands of gray hair flying about his face, beyond his skin gone pale in the cold wind foretelling a cold night, even beyond his own blue eyes blossomed wide in near rapture. In a choked voice, the man swore: “You know, you’re something long gone in the unforeseeable movements of these chance stars: a fellow human being.”
“Well, God knows I try,” I said, sitting on the red curb, taking a stoge for myself.
“Yup, it’s just me and Charlie tarnishing these streets,” the man grumbled after taking a few decent drags of the smoke, pausing to clear his throat into a fist. He sat mostly in his sleeping bag, though if he had lain down, his spine would have been in the fetal position already. His free hand was scratching Charlie, an all-black, skin-and-bones-thin cat with one eye, an ear torn clean off, scars all over his hide, and a tail altogether missing. He also had no collar, leash, or anything to keep him late. The cat nuzzled his head against the man’s trembling, ash-gray, yellow-nailed fingers, his holy purrs resounding over the passing traffic’s neglected sins, I’m sure.
“Yup, Charlie here is my best friend,” the man said, smiling at the cat, grunting a rather sweet laugh. “We met in a right sorry state, sure did. One night around two or three I was woken by screaming— I thought someone was robbing a woman. Trust me when I say this,” he said hushed, intent, leaning in as if telling me a secret. “I’ve reached nirvana twice, so trust me: when no other waking soul had heard, I knew God was speaking to me.” He took another drag and inhaled sharply through his browning teeth. He waved the cigarette around as he rambled. “Well, the hullabaloo had me bolting towards an old dumpster, and when I looked over the top, sweating, panting, thinking the noise was some kind of prank that’d leave me beat up or in handcuffs or both, I regarded a sight that made me doubt even my sanity: a black frenzy fastening its jaws on a raccoon, drenched in blood both, straight doin’ the tango!” The man laughed like a child, rocking back and forth, patting Charlie on the head. His cigarette fumed into the streets’ apathy.“Charlie’s gotta handle business, don’t ya, buddy. The hollering was all the raccoon, wasn’t it, buddy. Yup, this poor little guy knows the feeling of a shove to the concrete. Yup, he sure does.
“Well, seeing my ugly mug glowing pretty in the moonlight, the raccoon booked it, and when he did, I saw what the whole fuss was about: a pigeon, its wing bent, dead. Guess some of us have luck flying ‘round and others are just last night’s meal— but all that came afterwards. Nearly paralyzed, my eyes wider than an alley is when your own mother calls you hopeless, I saw the reason God kept my heart knockin’: lil’ Charlie here bowed his head and pushed the carcass towards me with his little pink nose. Yup, he knew how hunger felt, but he still gave me his last bits.”
With the cigarette in his lips, the man leaned forward and opened up an old pizza box, inside which he had nothing but dried-up slices of pepperoni. When he gave the grateful cat one, I understood why he had saved them. He gazed with warmth as Charlie scarfed up dinner. The cigarette almost spent, he took a handful of drags in succession, kissing the comfort. He blew out the smoke. He took a breath in as if about to speak, then hesitated. He then grew sullen, shaking his head at the concrete.
Coming to a sudden decision, the man disentangled himself from his sleeping bag and sat with his knee jutting out of his torn jean leg. On his knee was a cross-stitch scar, the kind a doctor must have sewn. “I have a bum knee,” the man rumbled. “I used to skateboard, you know, back in the late 80’s. We would skate down hills fast, man. It was the best feeling: the wheels roaring, the thrill of braving speed wobbles, how the wind struck your clothes like it was something you could grasp. Waking every morning to skate was a dream, man. Well, fast is fun until you fall. I was going downhill maybe twenty-five miles an hour. My kneecap is still ground into the street, I bet, though who knows? Not me, ‘cause I’ve never been back. Well, when those good-for-nothing bastards of friends took me to the E.R., the doc said without surgery I’d hobble around for the rest of my life— and given I never had any health insurance, that was true in ways beyond conception.”
“Well, I guess when you’re resigned to hurt and your passion’s gone, you’ve gotta pick up a new pastime. My new wheels were much easier to roll on. Yup, I found myself going down many hills in the pills the doc prescribed, sure did. I liked the spinning, I liked the warmth, I liked the respite from the court judges hounding me every second of every day, wherever a man decides to go— You hear that, you bastards?!” he yelled past us, at no one. “Well, who was I to argue with destiny? With the grime on my clothes? With the trash bags I drag through this too-far-gone universe? How could I keep Charlie from his escapades? Or the homes he could warm himself in? Knocking down Christmas trees by the fireplace with giggling children and all? My habits taken into account, it was a rational decision. So, I pushed him up the hill in a grocery cart to the Tilden Park woods, sick with shame. I told him it’s been good times, but he could have even better times with someone else— someone better off. When he just began lickin’ himself, I took him in my arms and set him down on a bench. I’ll never forget how he looked at me then, like he thought I would sit right down next to him. It took all of me to turn away and not give him another kiss. Well, I went back to my alley and shot up, telling myself the needle was the only friend I needed. Sure I was two days sober, but the withdrawals were coming on, man.”
“I deemed the matter awful but over, like the rest of my wonderful memories. My own mother called me hopeless, you know. I haven’t spoken to any of my family in over a decade, they’re better off forgettin’ about me, like I forgot about me. Heroin can make you forget like that, it’s part of the reason people shoot up. Well, I figure I had a lot to forget, ‘cause I took too much that night. Puking, breath not coming to my lungs, my heart beating too slow, I heard him,” he said, his cheeks blooming red, leaning in again. “I could recognize his voice a hundred miles away. Charlie was trying to calm me down, and though I couldn’t make out the words, I knew it was him. I knew that because once I realized that, I heard his purrs. They came from every surface, drowning out all swearing, traffic, illness, fear, pain, everything.”
“I still don’t know how, but near dawn I picked myself up and stumbled back to the park dope sick and nodding out of my mind. And by a miracle, there he was: perched on the same bench where I left him. Yup, he knew me well enough to wait.”
“Well, I fell to my knees sobbing. When he came and nudged his little head against me, and I hugged him, and he was purring, and I told him I was getting sober, he said he would help. I went through the horrors of withdrawals with only him, hugging him close in a parking lot not far from this spot. I couldn’t sit still, I was both freezing and burning, puking my guts out—”
He paused, smiling, shaking his head at the concrete.
“Now there’s probably weeds growing from my puke, blooming pretty flowers. He laughed again, bending over, shaking his head, then broke into coughing and wheezing at his fist. “Well, I’m proud to say I’ve been sober for one month. I’ve used the cash I used to spend on dope and bought some wet wipes, and I nursed him up a bit. Look at him, you wouldn’t see a handsomer gentleman in the White House. Ain’t that true, buddy? Yup, he’s so handsome that no homeless shelter will take him. Well, with the extra dough I had, I bought him kibble, his bowl, his bed, this peacock feather he likes chasing. Yup, we’ve both had our run of bad luck, but we’re done with running, sir. I promise, sir. Hand on the Bible, sir.” “You call it bad luck,” I said, my voice trembling a little. I hid my tears behind my hand, as if I had smoke in my eyes, any smoke at all. “But you two sound like the luckiest pals in the unforeseeable movements of these chance stars, if you ask me.”
Sabre Ferdinand Iglesias
This poem highlights how life truly begins upon finding mutual companionship. The speaker feels fulfilled and satisfied when spending time with that special someone, demonstrating that life is incomplete without experiencing love. Furthermore, nature serves as a means to symbolize the bond between the speaker and their partner.
Strawberry Creek
The hour of my living had begun -
not when my feet first touched the frigid earth
upon which all’s beheld by time and chance,
nor when my lungs first took a breath, and thus
commenced the ceaseless counting down of days.
Instead, it started with a mutual laugh -
a playful joust of words between us both.
Defeated, yet intrigued, I must submit
to your ideas, wit, and eloquence,
and like a raven swooping over prey
you always seem to be two steps ahead.
We speak each other’s tongue, and though unsaid,
it’s clear what’s running through our minds at once.
Some sort of witchcraft, magic, sense unseen
- perhaps - or maybe everyone on earth
is destined to a life of aimlessness:
unending actions of monotony,
half-smiles, gestures, meaningless the same -
until they find the one to pull them out.
These thoughts consume my mind, but then I’m back:
the orange hues of twilight bless our heads.
And so we travel down this rustic path
with wooden benches, trees, and bushy squirrels.
The trickle of the mesmerizing creek
creates the perfect serenade for dusk.
They say the sunset symbolizes death,
while mornings mark the starting point of life.
But walking side by side, the dying sun
continues to illuminate your face.
We see the hills consume its final light,
and yet, because you’re near to me, it’s clear
the hour of my living had begun.
In this poem, the speaker highlights nature's ability to free one from the stresses brought by civilization, such as failed hopes, unrealistic expectations, and fruitless routine. To escape this reality, they simply close their eyes and imagine themselves to be at their favorite refuge - a nature trail.
Nature Trail
Surrounded by concrete streets,
my heart would beat to the rhythm
of anxious feet following routine -
poisoned by direction,
an insurrection of clones
headed to their slaughter
in a manufactured world.
So I escaped
among the trees and rivers and creeks,
hoping they still held an answer,
a cure to the illness we inherit.
And beneath the oaks,
where a breeze of mint evokes a sense of peace,
I found myself freed from the chains of routine -
a rabid, vicious cycle
of ticking clocks and sidewalks.
No streetlights to dictate go and stop;
we let the pines lead us to freedom.
Sometimes, when on the verge of collapse,
amidst the relapse of bullshit,
I close my eyes and slip away.
I retreat to that most cherished day
when the warm, crimson sun
blessed the leaves
with its scattered light.
You see, in every mind
lies a sacred place—
a refuge from the pressure,
the chaos, the disgrace
that comes with failure.
In my refuge,
the whispers of rustling leaves
replace the whispers
of judgmental voices,
as the crisp, clean air
drowns out the suffocating smog
of unexpressive freeways.
When expectations are not met,
when hope reveals all its lies,
when all that’s left
is to forget our inescapable demise,
I close my eyes and slip away.
My mind goes blank,
and once awake,
I find myself at peace -
at home,
on the nature trail.
Jonny V. is a junior transfer, who’s been developing upon his writing for the last ten years of his life—it wasn’t until he lived on the streets of San Francisco that his writing became anything worth a second glance. His poems have been published in several locally grown anthologies, followed by award winning research papers and short stories
For the last six years Jonny has been promulgating criticisms of the government, consumerism, and social media at poetry readings all over Southern California. He realizes that everything isn’t always bad. His recent works have aimed to take a look at the brighter side of life. You can find a sample of his work on his website, jonnyvasquez.com
SAN!TY
When I get down & stuck in my head
I have trouble letting it out
so I write down then sit & pout about why things don’t change
(side note) things stay the same if you refrain from sayin what’s on your brain
it’s strange, you’ll find, it’s almost as if your actions affect the world around you
again, we have to choose which thoughts we amuse
I sometimes remind: If it’s not servin you, cut it loose!
Anyone here ever get those thoughts you don’t want anyone to know you’ve got?
Well I’ve got A LOT and they never seem to stop.
So I just smoke some pot
escape usin another cash crop
stock market go flop
getting barked at by another racist cop
I think it’s time we drop the act
Emotions actin outta wack
hopin that girl will give me a call back
hopin that i can get my life back on track
that shitty grade just gave me a heart attack
It’s hard to be reminded of all that
and that’s okay—we’re only human
we’ve gotta take it day by day and hope we’ll find our way
Somewhere along the lines I think I’ll find my mind
Somewhere along the lines I think I’ll find my mind
Somewhere along the lines I think I’ll find my mind
*attention* If you find my mind, please come to the front desk.
Or better yet take the stress, & solve it like it’s calculus
holy shit, this is a mess
but I am blessed that the people around me
don’t fall victim to malarkey
shadow of doubt looming darkly overhead
but we can break it down with the words from our mouth
sit down and really try to figure out what all these thoughts are about.
What are you going to do to let all of these feelings out?
Chase Charles Curnow is a Berkeley undergraduate philosophy student focused on consciousness, ontology, and philosophy of mind. His work explores the limits of knowledge, experience, and metaphysical explanation, often blurring the boundary between analytic inquiry and poetic expression.
These paired pieces—a poem and a prose reflection—interrogate the status of reality, experience, and matter through metaphor and argument. Together, they challenge physicalist intuitions by treating reality as rumor and experience as philosophically primitive, gesturing toward an idealist orientation without abandoning critical tension.
Whispers of Reality
Reality is like gossip for the Gods.
It can be distorted
or contorted
or at least they can contour it to a point that is beyond recognition.
We live in infamy.
We are the infant tree entrenched in obloquy.
Obliquely obsequious yet flouting wantonly.
Reality is a rumor.
Ambiguous yet assumed.
Ubiquitous yet unknown.
Reality is ambiverted.
Reality is Pheme.
Reality is like gossip for the Gods.
On Matter, Of Mind
It is in what is only obvious that waning tenability becomes physicalism. Intransigence is the albatross of truth. Whence is experience cadged? Shall I hosanna matter lest it God? So it follows, then, the piddly of experience - and my demur.
On the primacy of experience. It is in refutation-experience; for it is in experience - refutation. To contradict, then, is to contradict. To know is to be what it is to know; to be what it is to know is experience. To know, then, is to be what it is to know.
William Jordan
I am a published author of a trilogy titled Lost Boy - a reflective and vulnerable exploration of self and consciousness. Writing for me serves as a vessel to process complex emotions, confront personal dilemmas, and traverse the seismic shifts of existence. My prose is reflective, honest, and philosophical, blending vulnerability with accountability as I explore themes of isolation, growth, equilibrium, and the necessity of facing unfiltered inner truths.
This introspective personal essay chronicles a man's journey from late adolescence into adulthood, where routine writing has served as a therapeutic tool for processing emotions, confronting inner turmoil, and navigating isolation amid significant life changes.
Chaos: Confronting the Shadow
I am a grown man now, a far cry from that innocent yet troubled late adolescent brimming with curiosity I happened to be during the dawn of my 20s. That was when I began writing, not simply on occasion, but routinely. Writing is of course therapeutic in many senses of the word. We grow closer and more intact with our own emotions, for it is here in this space where this world is entirely our own. Furthermore, I’ve always been an introspective person, someone who often looks within when confronted with hardship. This approach functions as a double-edged sword, offering me guidance and a safe space to dabble into my emotions and the most deeply rooted components of my nature. On the other hand however, there’s a tendency to isolate, to presume one’s core tribulations are too plentiful a burden to offer other people awareness.
We all process emotions uniquely and subjectively. There are of course healthy and toxic methods of doing so, and I don’t believe anyone is exempt from this theorem. Writing, working out, hiking, and spending quality time with my fiancée are my favorite grounding activities. Naturally, these are healthy endeavors, some that offer me clarity and understanding, others peace and reconciliation. On the flipside, there is a spectrum of my being I would prefer to shun from the world. This isn’t attributed only to myself. Before I began my journey as a writer, I believed there was inherently something wrong with me. As a 20 year old adolescent attempting to make sense of the world around him, existing in an at the time quarantined society, I was granted the opportunity of thorough self reflection. As therapeutic as it’s always been, writing has never been the cure to the dilemmas I am faced with throughout a given time in my life, for it is only me who is responsible for taking action if I wish to create momentum of any notable magnitude.
We all come across opportunities in life. I’m not merely referencing the opportunities centered around our careers or love life. While conveniences of this degree appear in our lives also, I am primarily referring to the times in which life will grant us the chance to look ourselves in the mirror. No more blaming, no more hiding, no more escaping–we must confront the darkest, most camouflaged fear hiding in plain sight. You see, gazing at oneself in the mirror elicits a reflection beaming right back at you. Of course that reflection is of yourself, it is the physical manifestation of who you are. This reflection consists of the only living being you share a relationship with from the time of birth to the date of death. Yet, there often remains a side unexplored, a beacon of uncharted territory for us to grasp.
Writing has allowed me at times to get in touch with this shadow element of myself. Habits I developed at a young age that I’d perhaps neglect out of fright and ignorance were now at the forefront of my curiosity. When trembling with fear regarding a difficult circumstance in my life, or struggling to grasp an addiction that had been eating away at me for years, I didn’t have to bury such adversity within. If I wish to create order in my life, I must seek out and withstand chaos. The only way to begin was by facing those petrifying emotions and holding oneself accountable. We will forever be met with disorder in some capacity, for without any strong sense of antagony there is no growth in this dualistic plane we abide by.
I actually just now realized it was December 20th, 2020, that I began writing my first book, and here I am five years later on the exact day documenting my thoughts. You see, I’m in a completely different place now. I’ve moved out of my parents home, fallen in love, bought a car, gotten engaged, been in and out of full time jobs, and am in the midst of learning what it means to be an adult. Within all of that evolution, as beautiful as it is, there have been challenges beyond anything I’ve ever faced that have presented themselves. Free time has been at a premium, but that doesn’t mean it’s been nonexistent altogether.
To be honest with you, the reader…this is the first time I’ve sat down and written anything in nearly 3 months. I’ve grown disconnected with this habit that became my greatest form of therapy. As a result, I’ve turned back on those old habits I once had, and have not properly sat down with myself and confronted my emotions or at least explored the thoughts burning through the depths of my brain in quite some time. Life is all about momentum. Habits are often formed from a young age, but in order to cede from toxic cravings and create healthy routines, we must take action. There is no sob story, no tip toeing around it. Accountability falls on the shoulders of the individual. If I want to get back to writing consistently and rekindle that spark, perhaps creating an even more potent flame than before, I must begin. I’m here now. The next opportunity I have, it will be up to me to sit down and willingly enter this space.
With the immense amount of change I’ve endured during the past 2 years, it’s uncomfortable to document all the heavy emotions that come along with finding oneself in a completely different place. The hardest part about my life during that span has been discovering equilibrium. Having a full time job, I must be able to provide, but I must simultaneously prioritize my fiancée and family as a whole. She is the most important person in my life and I love her dearly. At the same time, I strongly desire time with friends who have molded me into the man I am today. There are other chores around the house that need to get done, and responsibilities I must handle now that I’m a 25 year old man. However, with everything and everyone in my life, I must not forget to take care of myself. That is an obligation, to treat ourselves like someone we are responsible for tending to.
I need to find the time to dig deep, to better understand how these changes have shaped me as a man, to remain where my feet are and reestablish those healthy routines in my life. Despite it all, there must be moments in which we are prioritizing ourselves. That double edged sword of isolation isn’t necessarily something to correct, but to evolve. My writing prompts are glimpses into my unfiltered headspace. That is something we should all value.
No matter what your way of confronting deep rooted emotions happens to be, you will never outrun your own shadow. You must accept that it will catch you, that you are human and inherently alarmingly more complex than what appears at the surface. Every single one of us has issues and insecurities, many of which we would never willingly admit aloud. Reconnect with yourself, prioritize yourself, learn more about who you are, and always be willing to glance in the mirror.
Julio Magallon
The Mystery of a Border and the Mystery of Your Love
You promised and you conquered,
and you took me on a journey through the
everlasting train that coils through
the heart of my home. Showing me
the doom and gloom that comes with
the hope of wanting a slice of life.
We saw the worst of our people;
the disheveled corpses of children,
the rotten limbs of those who persevered,
the frantic crying of wanting to return home,
and the people who carry with them the
hope of wanting to be better, but carry the
stain of being human. The same stain
you hid from me. The stain that covered
me as you took me, as you pierced through
me, destroying me, promising that it would end
soon, as I lay on the scorching ground
with my limbs battered on this month-long trek
across a fictional border. And you left me
with all your love still inside me.
Katie Nguyen is a Cognitive Science student at Berkeley who uses visual art and poetry to explore themes of identity, mental health, and human connection. She draws inspiration from everyday moments, weaving those subtle insights and emotions into her work.
This is a poem for the women who made it possible for me to be who I am today. The ones who stood up in ways both big and small so I could have the ability to choose what path I want in life.
Woman
With your woman hopes
Woman dreams
Woman body
Told:
Grit your teeth
‘Til they grind smooth
And bite your tongue
'Til you taste metal
And yet,
You stand
Is that not how it's been?
How it's “meant to be”
To be remembered
As Adam's rib:
a spare
Just a mother
Just a wife
Just a woman
No different, a dog:
Leash passed
from father
to husband
then son
No different, a product:
Consumed
By sons
Shaped
Into pretend-men
And yet,
You stand
You'll stand
for grandmas
sisters
and soon-be-daughters
The could've-beens
and born-wrong-timers
Stand, woman, stand!
Stand
Stand
STAND
My name is Jamie Ruth Mayer and I’m a graduating senior at UC Berkeley for Fall 2026! I’ve been writing poetry since I was in 5th grade and quickly developed a love for it. Since being at UCB I have grown and developed as a writer so I hope my current work speaks to that growth.
I wrote a sonnet focusing on the simplest of loves: holding hands, where budding love starts and ends. As a hopeless romantic, I’ve realized that is what I miss most about being in a relationship; just having that simple type of physical connection with another person. I hope that the loving expression of holding another’s hand and the accompanying peace it brings can come through.
Hand to Hold
I miss someone who lovingly listens
To stories they’ve already been told
Twirling my opal ring as it glistens;
Honestly, I just want someone’s hand to hold.
Missing that connection, built in silence
Even when the world starts screaming.
Our fingers make a sacred alliance:
We’re in this life together, no leaving.
Craving someone’s hand to gently caress,
Giggling pinky swears will do for now,
Our love a flowing river with no excess
As intertwined fingers lock in our vow.
A kiss makes its way to my patient lips,
While steady hands wrap around my hips.
Morgan Garcia is an English major at UC Berkeley whose work explores innocence, trauma, and the quiet mechanisms through which power, memory, and language shape identity. His poetry often blends narrative restraint with symbolic precision, focusing on moments where ordinary spaces fracture under emotional or ethical pressure. Across his work, Garcia is drawn to voice as both refuge and limitation—particularly the ways silence, naming, and survival language operate within institutional and intimate settings.
In “Millie’s Ordinary” the poem uses Ms. Clover’s first-person perspective to create intentional distance, relying on dramatic irony as adults recognize harm that Millie herself treats as ordinary through practiced obedience and survival language. Concrete gestures and classroom imagery emphasize how institutional spaces regulate what can be spoken, while Millie’s lack of language underscores how innocence is distorted under abuse. Structurally, the stanza breaks function as scene-cuts that track shifts in power and setting, showing how an ordinary school day fractures into an irreversible moment.
Millie’s Ordinary
she sat in obedience
as I called her name: Millie.
I said, come see me at my desk.
I was concerned, after all—
the mark was apparent, at her hairline, but she
smiled as if it was an ordinary day,
and obeyed as if she had learned
it was better to listen and refrain
from testing my patience, and
responding the wrong way.
I’m okay, she whispered with
a smile, however quaint—
and wiggled her toes to
feel the pain subside until
her brutal homecoming, but
twirled her hair and
plucked it out, slowly,
as if pain could be braided into quiet.
don’t do that, Millie,
I said as she looked at
me with glossy eyes.
I ran my finger across the
purple scuff as she shivered
for a second and she thought
to say, don’t touch me, but
she kept her mouth shut—
like the classroom had rules
for what you’re allowed to name.
so I sent her to the office
and I told the news—
careful, measured—
to the principal;
an unfortunate truth
I could not erase with chalk,
or lesson plans,
or the bell.
and Millie felt banished and
distraught at the prospect of
punishment and wondered,
why would miss clover send me here?
but she sat in front
of the principal—
a bold man with
a quiet voice.
his lips were pursed
and his suit was clean,
but his jaw worked once,
as if he was swallowing words.
his eyes were wet—
not spilling, not loud—
just shining with a weight
he could not set down
in front of her.
and she didn’t know what to think.
not dying. not bleeding out.
just sitting—
watching adults turn careful,
watching kindness look like consequence,
and feeling, for the first time,
that her ordinary day
had a name she couldn’t say.
Founder’s Note
To everyone who submitted work to Winter Workshop 1.0: thank you.
This project exists because of your trust —your willingness to share your thoughts, vulnerable drafts, and voices still in the process of becoming. The Berkeley Pulse was built to make space for exactly this kind of work: writing that takes risks and values sincerity over certainty.
Whether your piece wrestles with memory, identity, form, or silence, it contributes to a larger conversation about what it means to write honestly in community. I’m deeply grateful for the care, openness, and courage each of you brought to this workshop. This issue is stronger because of you.
— Morgan Garcia
Founder & Editor-in-Chief, The Berkeley Pulse