Hibou magazine is a student run journalistic outlet aiming to hold intellectualism at AUP accountable and to voice our critiques of and goals for the AUP community.

Les Coups de L'Inspiration

Les Coups de L'Inspiration

Indigo Paradise

I imagine a utopia

An indigo paradise

Where the people only speak in poetry

They know no other way to communicate,

but to find the most artistic words and weave them into a poetic wreath

In this enchanted reality, jazz plays when the wind ruffles the leaves, and classical music streams out of the faucets

There are no clothes in this little world. Just skin-on soil-on skin

And when a child is born, we all raise her. We know we share the same blood

In my utopia the brooks babble, the hills laugh, and the desert sighs-

You can hear it I swear

God talks to us through the clouds, and the sun flirts with us every day at 3

There’s a bookshelf next to every bench, and paints and brushes in every metro

Colors are seen as through MDMA, and kisses are given as when drinking rosé

We grow our vegetables, and pray to our gods, and to ourselves

In this world, senses are emotions are thought: our conscience is masterfully fused

We change,

we listen,

we create,

we breathe,

we accept

And yes, we love

My Moody Girl

I’m in an emotionally volatile relationship.

Oh, how I love her though

It’s hard for me even to begin to complain without being reminded of how wonderful she is.

Lush gardens, decadent buildings, she’s my muse.

Her music is rich, like the red wine that runs through her veins. Her lights flirt with me, her language seduces me, and her river caresses me.

Oh, how I love her

Except,

Well, she hurts me just the same.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s aware of it, or maybe it’s some just some sick aspect of her charm.

She can be cold and distant, pretending not to even notice when I’m struggling.

But she knows.

She likes to overwhelm me- she drowns me in people, and drains me of energy.

She slaps me around with rainy months and seasonal depression.

She mocks me with financial stress and suffocates me with bureaucratic red-tape.

Oh, how I hate her!

But,

Well, I always come crawling back.

When she’ll have me. When she’ll love me.

When her birds sing and her café is sweet. When her beauty consumes me, and I can only see en rose.

She always kisses my bruises after she makes them. A little scarring is sexy after all.

I can’t leave her

she's my city,

she’s my love.

Letter From The Editor

Letter From The Editor

Walking Into The Past

Walking Into The Past