If you’re a StoryStudio writer and have been hoarding those sonnets and haikus, locked away in a drawer waiting to be found after your death (....well you get the picture), come on out of the poetry closet and send us your words.

In this section of COOLER we’ll be publishing poetic work by any and all StoryStudio students and instructors. (You don’t have to be currently enrolled in a class.)

To get the details, visit the Submit page.

And while you’re here, read this sonnet by a guy named Will. He’s pretty good for never having hung out at StoryStudio…

Sonnet 73
by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.