Editor’s note: This article is a humor column.
A much more important and extremely necessary Editor’s note: The following is a letter from the “q.u.i.r.k.y. society.” You may know this secret organization from their recent anonymous grant to the University, pledged to “making the Bryan Hall bathrooms smell less like petting zoos.”
hello university community!
for those of you who know us, you’ll recognize that we q.u.i.r.k.s. value freedom of speech very, very highly. as for those of you who don’t know us, keep it that way. we’re a secret society, after all.
recently, it came to our attention that traditional literary publications such as v mag and the virginia literary review muzzle submissions that aren’t “aesthetically significant” enough for their tastes. we sought to rectify this by staging a flier campaign across grounds — soliciting truly unfiltered poetry from talented student writers.
as it turned out, finding the work of talented student poets is much more difficult in practice than it is in theory. we found an estimated 47 percent of our submissions to be ai-generated, 22 percent to be blatant plagiarism and at least one to be written entirely in wingdings. regardless, the remainder of our submission pool was extremely competitive, with roughly seven authentic submissions from writers across the university’s 12 schools.
exhausted from the process of selecting these poems, we q.u.i.r.k.s. also decided we didn’t feel like designing our own magazine, so we instead took advantage of the cavalier daily’s open-season stance concerning guest letters. we hope that you enjoy!
worst regards,
the q.u.i.r.k.y. society
The Raven (Edgar’s Version)
By Allan P.
Once before a midterm dreary, while I Clem Four’d, weak and weary,
My caffeinated whimsy clearing, I let slip a sudden snore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a yapping,
As of some bird strangely flapping, flapping around my Clemons floor.
“’Tis a raven,” I muttered, “flapping ‘round my Clemons floor —
Only this and nothing more.”
Presently my will grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Bird” said I, “or Raven, whatever, truly your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is I was napping, but so loudly you came yapping,
And so strangely you came flapping, flapping all ‘round Clemons Four.”
Said the raven, “Lock in, dude, submissions are due tomorrow at four”—
That I did, as the bird implored. But y’all get this, and nothing more.
Cav Man & Capitalism — A Haiku
By Brie G.
I wonder whether
Cav Man pays for tuition.
He’d better; ain’t cheap.
The Fall of the House of Ellis
By Ken C.
There was once an investor named Bert
Whose texts show his feelings were hurt
By Lawnies and Guides
And most things Grounds-wide,
So now it’s the Board he’ll desert.
Elegy Written in John Paul Jones Arena
By Eli G.
The scoreboard tolls the knell of ending play,
The shooting guards wind slowly over the key,
The head coach homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the court to darkness and to me.
Perhaps on this neglected wood is laid
Some basketball, that Bennett signed;
The echo of three-pointers that Isaac may have made,
Or maybe a dunk that Buchanan was behind;
A mid-range jumper, from Saunders’ hand,
That tyrant of the paint on Virginia’s good days;
Or the infamous Power, when he once walked these lands,
With many a brick, until he was taken out of play.
Their names, their years, spelt by the transfer portal muse,
That place of fame and NIL supply:
And many a sponsorship they ardently peruse,
‘Til they end up in the midwest, D3, to die.
Here rest their Nikes upon the lap of Grounds,
Left searching for Fortune and Fame unknown.
While coaches and players can always be found,
The only true Wahoo remains Gertrude alone.
Strong are his layups, and his soul sincere,
And even post-scooter he did not withdraw.
After it all, that mighty guard remains here,
So we tip our hats, and give a hearty “Wahoowa.”
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