Calliope Spring 2018
Dear Readers,
A Letter From the Editor
On behalf of myself, Ms. White, and the entire Calliope staff, welcome to this year’s edition! I continue to be impressed by the quality of the submissions each year. GPS is full of literary and artistic talent, talent that we hoped to capture in this issue of Calliope. Our staff spent so much time cultivating this year’s magazine, and we hope that hard work shines through along with the incredible talent of your peers. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Meg Marshall, ’18 Editor-in-Chief
Editorial Staff
Editor in Chief
Senior Layout Editor
Literature Editors
Assistant Layout Editors
Meg Marshall, ‘18
Nikki Goldbach, ‘18 Clare Hamn, ‘18 Kate Schlegel, ‘18 Lindsey Wyatt, ‘18 Sarah Foropoulos, ‘20 Erin Maxwell, ‘20 Zoe Stamey, ‘20 Isabelle Torrence, ‘20 Aria Cooper, ‘21
Faculty Advisors Corrie White Lee Wright
CeCe Turner, ‘18
Maya Bhutwala, ‘19 AnnaKate Stipanov, ‘21
Art Editors
Corinne Spann, ‘18 Larkin Brown, ‘19 Jackie Michaud, ‘19 Mary Kate Kirksey, ‘20 A special thanks to Amy Walters! Cover Artwork by Abigail Hegwood '18
1 Year Later Aria Cooper, ‘21 I don’t know myself. My best friends don’t know where I live I carry trash bags full of clothes back and forth I mourn for the family I should have everyday. I had been living as a prisoner within myself, oblivious to my own structure. 5 years 3 apartments Person occasionally turned property I responded to “I love you” with “thanks” I saw love leave one and stay with the other. She says everything is for us I tell her she’s done it all wrong. He slept on a twin bed in his closet
Larkin Brown '19 I looked at the black ceiling and traced sentences with my finger. I’ll never tell my friends how much I need them That means I need something And that means I depend on someone And that means I can’t take care of myself And that means I’m not myself. Sometimes I don’t see my mom for 36 hours. Why did the body of the marriage have to be so beautiful? Why did its smooth skin wither, glassy eyes glaze over, full lips close, and a fresh breath just stop? Why did it have to die? why did I have to watch it?
Battle Cry
Beth Day, ‘18 The only slingshot I have known Is my voice carrying in an empty room. My God never gave me a stone to throw To topple Goliath; He never fashioned Me a sword out of steel, or bronze bullets, Telling me to shoot until the snow Is blooming with crimson roses And all I can hear are the pulses of canons Where heartbeats used to be. The only weapon my God gave me Was a soft tongue and a silver pen, That these men who only know Rage and violence may have half a chance Of taking me on. I will never know a battlefield; I have never been commanded To shoot my neighbor between the eyes Like a sick dog, or have been forced to rape Women and children just to make them afraid. I have never delivered a severed arm Cut like bark to a woman and said “Here is your son.” I never want to. And I know how many lives Have been sacrificed for me, Given unto me, But I will never understand The ability we have To beat the light out Of another’s eyes, hiding Behind gods and wars That we don’t understand. I may never hear the shot Of drums follow me into battle, But everyone will know my battle cry.
AnnaKate Stipanov '21
Pinwheel
Mia Hammonds, ‘21 A spectrum of abundance, more vibrant than the widest eyes White is street lights shining down on a misty road White is foggy window panes that remind you of days long since past Red is the color of her dress as she dances, hyper and loud Red is the sound of creaky hinges, in an old barn Orange is the harsh slap of a paper cut under citrus Orange is getting sugar stuck in the straw as you sip your tea Yellow is the sense of tranquility after sunrise, but not once the heat settles Yellow is feeling so happy you could die Green is the sound of a thousand horses tearing down the third stretch Green is inexplicably awake Blue is a mad man, wild eyes that can never find a subject worthy of their attention Blue is broken, battered, beaten, left for dead in a sea of stars Indigo is wiser Indigo is learning from Blue’s mistakes Violet is the calm after the storm Violet is the cause of the storm Black is scarred, Black is remembering Black has been every color there is, and has every regret
Phoebe Mills '18
The Last Time With Him Catherine Gray, ‘20 The wind dances through my hair as I pull my cardigan tighter across my body. Hopping to avoid the cowpats as we bumble through field after field, my fingers grasp tighter to the calloused, working hands of my grandfather. When the rickety planks of the bridge and the sturdy railing finally peak over the tops of the chest-high meadow grass, my shoulders sag in relief; we didn't take a wrong turn. We pick up the pace as we cross the bridge, both of us eager to sit after such a trek. Grampy settles into the same worn oak beam as always, and I perch closely beside him, avoiding the knots in the wood. We rest while looking up at the familiar cloudy sky as the sweet smell of wildflowers swirls in the wind, and the sun rays find their way through spaces between the leaves. Our full-bellied laughter bounces from bank to bank, eventually being swept away with the flow of the rhyne. I’ve never heard this story before, but I can tell the basket willows have, by the way their twisty branches sway to the cadence of his voice. He shows me how to see the beauty in such a place that others would overlook. As he points out how each willow tree wedges its roots deep into the dense peat, and how the vibrant duckweed bobbing on the surface brings life to the murky water. The wild pale-yellow primroses grow on the steep banks, refusing to be swept away. An orange glow is cast on our backs by the setting sun as we wander back to the lane, the dull thumps of our feet echoing the calm beats of our hearts.
Carter Davenport '19
Carter Davenport '19
The First Time Without Him Catherine Gray, ‘20
My hair stings my face as it whips in the wind and I shrink further into his coat. Mud cakes my welly boots as I trudge through field after field of chesthigh meadow grass. Hands burry deeper into pockets, searching for any remaining warmth, as the whistling wind seeps through countless layers of wool. The thick weathered planks of the bridge are familiar under my feet as I tighten my hold on the now rusted railing. Leftover dewdrops seep into my jeans as I sink to my knees, and the chill that it sends through me clings to my bones. The ridges of the oak dig into my knees, and I find my fingers shaking as I let the last of my grandfather flutter away with the wind. This was his favorite place as a boy, and now that he has come back again, I see him everywhere. His deep chuckle is the gentle breeze that rustles the tall reeds that grow on the banks, and his smile is the sunlight that streaks the water different shades of green. The fox, the rabbit, and the hare, the badger, and the mole tell his stories now. He laughs with the cows in the fields, and he stands on the steep bank of the rhyne smelling the wild pale-yellow primroses. He waltzes with the wind, and once they’re done dancing he helps her kiss our cheeks until they’re rosy. As he waves goodbye one last time through the twisting branches of the basket willows, I wander back through the fields. The hollow sound of my boots hitting the dense peat rings in my ears, and echoes in my chest. I do not stand at his grave and cry. He is not there. He did not die.
Once Upon a Time Katy Day, ‘21 Once upon a time, we were all as soft as satin, Our fragile hearts made up of glass. But they shattered at the falling of our first real tear, A hammer taken to our hearts by the hypocrite Who said his was stone. The ring Of shattering spread across the sky like the seeds on the dandelions
Tries to fix us, tries to make us not be the hypocrite They once feared too. But our ring Around the rosy is too much and no soft satin Apologies can mend what broke after every tear. New people now play in the fields of dandelions, And their fragile hearts are made of glass.
They are a stained glass Window, depicting only who we used to be. Now we We had once scattered. Our long-forgotten dandelions see ourselves as the hypocrite. Lay decayed on the beds of satin The one we all still fear. Watching the new children We once skipped across. The ring play, we long for our dandelions, Of light our eyes once held has turned to two-way glass. And wonder what happened to the ring No one can tell if they can’t see in or if we can’t see out. Of flowers in our hair. It occurs to us sometimes that Now, the hypocrite the tears That ripped us apart has run out of things to tear. We shed hurt too much and we wish to be again soft as satin. He sits alone, still not forgotten, and sheds a single tear. Our old dust and ash now beckons us; there are dandelions Still left there, but in all our despair, we hardened our- selves into the hypocrite We once feared. The hollowness, like black satin, Has mended our fragile glass Hearts. Yet, because of it, we no longer wear flowers like a ring
And instead wait for the ring Of monsters to tear Us apart again. But they too are only glass, Ready to break with the wind like dandelions Do. Our hollow hearts, now of satin, Have turned colder than the glass they were. And a hypocrite
We speak our minds now in soft, satin tones, and dry eyes at the first sight of a tear. It’s hard, but healing begins when we slip onto our heads flowers made up in a ring.
CeCe Turner '18
The Night Carolina Kelley, ‘21 The indescribably beautiful feeling of stillness and emptiness fills my lungs as I breathe in the breathless air. My fingers leave my hands as they grasp the cool smooth breeze. The sky, filled with stars making me feel utterly and completely alone, yet too many people crowd my presence. Everyone in the world is asleep except for me. I yearn for time to stop, for the seconds to go by slower and the years to go by faster. The bewitching blackness of the night awakens me from the shallowness of my mind. The world is so much bigger than the things we think about during the day. The lack of sunlight allows our mind to think so much deeper. Deeper than the ocean's opaque and silent waters. And that is a scary and amazing feeling that you can only feel in the night.
AnnaBlair Self '18
Derailment II Nikki Goldbach, ‘18 The poem I was writing today fell apart. The blood from my right hand Stained the page there are no more vowels. I am abandoned with mere consonants. The page I know should be burned. It is a danger to the others we are all Now labeled at risk what if the blood seeps through. The poem fell apart it exploded it was born. It will die it has died I’m unsure Quick catch the others before it spreads, That poem the poem I did not write it. Today it was born. Today it fell apart.
Larkin Brown '19
Lozzo Lipogram Hannah Grace Kornberg, ‘23 Long before the chicken revolution, two boys were running home. They were in their evening routine; rushing to their ticker’s content, you could listen to the pounding of the thumps of their uncovered feet hit the cold, rough ground. They were on their course home to the region known by most by the big brown house on the green field in the town of Lozzo. Lozzo is much different when it is set side by side with other cities. For one thing, the residents include only the two boys that run there seven times every week. Here, they live by themselves. The boys do things differently, too. They lurk in the corners; they never express or tell too much. Though these boys would be more secretive upon being questioned, these boys love their lives. They don’t desire for it to be otherwise. They possess several kinds of brotherly love; this keeps the two thriving in a world where it’s difficult to be like them. Even though the brothers don’t possess much, their love for life is strong. These boys work to their limits every moment possible. Nobody knows if their mother truly intended for them to go by them, but they go by the nom de plumes of George with Mike Lozzo. George works with the living things while Mike puts his effort to the foods grown. Together, they run their home. So there they were, running home to the big brown house, but this time it seemed different. Mike looked in the direction of George; he whispered to him, “There’s someone else here.” For the first time, they stopped in their evening routine. Utter silence fell. George whispered to Mike, “I don’t think so. Why? Do you see something?” Mike never responded. He stood frozen like he couldn’t move. He did see something, and then so did George. It stood by the brown house. Its feet were so big, you could feel them move the ground. The boys mouthed “Ogre!” The monster seemed to be looking for something, but the boys soon figured out who it desired. Frightened, the boys tried to hide, but the ogre quickly found them. George lost consciousness while Mike slowly lost his too. From here, they don’t remember. Nobody knows the truth of the story, but most believe the ogre still lives in the big brown house he conquered. Forevermore, the Lozzo boys would be missing.
Ameera Bhatti '18
Fireflies
Beth Day, ‘18 Sometimes the amber glow of street lamps Is more comforting than fireflies. And even though I have never caught a firefly Or have known the nighttime road From the perspective of a lonely driver, I have seen the ground bathed In the golden light, blinking Like a heartbeat, 1 2 1 2 1 2. No, I am more familiar with the glare Of headlights against a window pane, Illuminated with raindrops. And even though I no longer pick dandelions and blow their wishes into the wind, I can still pick my friends And I can catch their hands in mine the same way I would catch lizards, Palms open and fingers extended. Even when my hands are too cold and blue with frost, They will weave their fingers into mine Like the braids in our hair, and hold me tightly Until the ice melts away. I dance with them to the tune Of the sunset, the rhythm Matching the sway of our hips But I still think the prettiest song Is their laughter on a Saturday night. And I know that when the colors in the sky
Turn dark with nightmares The stars are still there. The stars, even though they are obscured By the thick blackness that I have created With my own mind, are still shimmering silver and purple like the bottle of moon dust Resting on my dresser. I will always remember the castles that we have built Out of cobblestones and our own blood. Even though they are echoing with silence, We can still hear the voices That once filled the emptiness With a ceaseless passion So that when we return We can still find those things that gave our lives color. We know that even when those voices are quieted with grief or remorse, When that silky blood runs still, There will always be another moment when Our voices are louder than an orchestra, And our scarlet hearts can't keep The beat to our stormy pulse. Even when someone takes your heart And shatters it like a porcelain egg, Whether accidentally or on purpose, You will always be able to pick the pieces out of your arm
And glue them back together again. If you can't fix it by yourself, You will be able to find someone who can help you. And for every tear you have cried There has been a willow tree Who has cried the exact same way. When the yellow glow from the headlights And the sun fade to navy, There will always be a pink and lavender sky To wake you in the morning. Even if the morning is as gray as cavities, And your bones are heavier than text books, You can remember the way it feels To be hugged unexpectedly, To have a friend rest their sleepy head on your shoulder, To have their little finger curl around yours. No matter how much it hurts your veins to be stitched back together Like patchwork, you still Pull the needle and thread, Ripping the floss with your teeth Because you know it will be worth it in the end, The new memories making your blood rush Like Niagra falls, the fish leaping in and out of the water. Now you can make new memories with new thread. Sew together new fingers that have caught different fireflies And have peered behind different headlights. But never forget the old fingers. The ones that held your wrists until sunrise. The ones that hold your secrets and will never let them go. Remember those hands as you grasp the new ones.
Waiting in the Cold Jadyn Matthews, ‘20
Waiting, waiting, waiting. I wait for you, like I do for snow on a desolate Winter’s day. I hold my breath in nervous anticipation until you finally come. I stand outside, mouth gaping, until I savor the sweet coolness of a snowflake Just for a quick second, and then it’s gone. Yet, the chill still lingers and I tingle with anticipation, wanting more. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I long for more snow, But it is not a light flurry that comes, no, now it is a blizzard! No more light, airy, snowflakes, no more tingling anticipation, no more lingering tastes. Instead, a storm of fear, frustration, and an overbear ing taste. I think of how I used to wait for the snowflake, for you, in the vulnerable cold. Now, I’m stuck in my house, And I can’t ignore the burdensome thought in my head. The thought that keeps reminding that, I, am now trapped.
Kelli Lewis '19
some nights
Shanzeh Rizvi, ‘20 you will feel like there are a thousand galaxies exploding in every inch of you and you are burning too bright to ever be looked at directly and some nights you will feel impossibly small like your whole body could slip through the space between atoms and never reappear in this world again and some nights you will feel like a paper doll carefully crafted and easily blown away fragile too delicate to ever be touched and some nights you will feel like each cell in your body is made of the strength that holds the whole planet together and that is okay because you are made of stardust and minuscule atoms and breakable bones and the building blocks of everything in the universe and you are too alive to never feel anything more than Human
Priyanka Sud '21
Abroad (Abridged) Kate Schlegel, ‘18 Summers ago I went to Budapest and Vienna and Prague. I went to Budapest to teach Hungarian teens how to speak my language. I already felt bad. Hungarians spoke English to me as soon as I got off the plane. I felt even worse when we got to the camp. I learned that these kids were learning English Of their own volition In their own country To get ahead. Because who cares about Hungary? They made me feel like I was less American. I didn’t have a choice I’m American. These people did. They chose this for themselves. So I went home and added to my Duolingo account: Hungarian. This was completely symbolic. I learned a little, But all I really know is that “hello” is “sziya” And s isn’t s unless it’s followed by a z, Otherwise it’s s-c-h. In Vienna, I didn’t learn much except that taking the subway in a country That doesn’t speak the same language as you And thinks that German is perfectly easy enough to learn Is hard. Now Prague. Prague is the home of the largest Jewish Quarter in Europe. And the largest Jewish graveyard in Europe. Tombstones are piled on top of each other, with bodies 3 deep. Some of the toppled tombstones can be attributed to Nazi boots, But they left a bigger mark.
Hollis Gaffney '18 Bordering another side of the Jewish quarter Is a museum. Inside, are the drawings of children from the Terezin Ghetto, Last stopping place before a certain death, Named Auschwitz. Carefully buried by their teacher, In a suitcase Which her husband dug up. These paintings, which I had to look up on the computer, Because of how they made my stomach churn, Document holidays and sea life and trains racing past. They document not pain and agony, but hope and love. These children, seeing nothing in front of them, Wished for the world to remember their love for it. It’s safe to say that this summer was intense And hard But learning isn’t learning unless it’s hard And it hadn’t been hard But now I know.
Transubstantiation Annsleigh Jones, ‘18
Abigail Hegwood '18
It begins in a garden— Eve eats an apple or a starfruit or a date And the world becomes sin while she picks the flesh out of her teeth with her fingernails. There is pain even at the beginning of the world. She feels it most sharply in the rib under her left breast, The one that used to belong to Adam. The one that burns when she thinks about venom and heaven and the sticky-sweet taste of honey off her skin. Eve tears off her fig-leaf shirt, Braids her hair, presses her palms together and kneels. When she finishes, she stands up, brushes off her knees, And walks past an angel with a flaming sword Who bows to her as she passes. “Sister,” Lilith says— One hand finds the Bone-That-Is-Not-Hers And her other hand finds Lilith’s. The angel watches them walk away.
It begins to rain. The angel hears Adam wake up. The angel lays down his sword.
Sana Nisar '20
To my beautiful body
Kate Schlegel, ‘18 Through those days Where my chest was left heavy with words never spoken, When my eyes burnt with the tears I wouldn't let fall, And when I couldn't move for the weight of regret crushing me; You stayed strong, My constant companion Leashing me to the ground While letting my mind wander. You showed me what others thought, And formed my first conclusions that I would challenge their earliest perceptions. For those days when I thought you were too big for me, I sincerely apologize. You were always just enough for me And I never let you know that You were beautiful.
I see you
Molly Ballenger '19
Anonymous When I take a phone interview, I don’t subconsciously hide the different dialect of my culture to ensure my place. I don’t have to give the policemen my greatest grin, because they already know I’m friendly, right? When I type in “beauty” in the search bar, I can see people who have the same glowing hue as myself. I am represented. I can leave Sephora satisfied, with my perfectly matched foundation in hand, paid for by my new job. When I speak in a room full of listening ears, my opinion is not subconsciously labeled as the “colored” one, and I am not defined solely by the pigment that makes one beautiful. I have no idea why it ended up this way. I am lost attempting to help. But I see you. You, the one who avoids hands in pockets, And you who are innocent, but change direction with sight of the police, And you who only sees young white women on Google’s beauty page, And you who can’t find a foundation to match your worthy skin, And you whose point of view is demeaned down to just your meaningful color instead of who you are. I see you.
Running Meghan Gardner, ‘23 Running. Faster and faster, along a dark and haunting pathway. A pathway full of ghosts. Or so it was said. My footfalls ring across miles of gravel walkway. Angry shouts cut through crisp air. Ash burning my palms. Worry burning my mind. I dart into a shop, hoping to shun a mob of furious warriors. My two companions duck into cupboards by a stack of books, and I follow suit. My shirt is torn, granting cold air a path to my arms. My hands burn, black with soot. I disdain warriors, so corrupt, filling our town with stupid notions. But nobody acts. Until now. Now, many risk fighting. I risk fighting. A knocking sound fills my mind. A gaping band lights up my vision. Doors bang on rusting hinges. A hand grabs my shirt collar. Chills run through my body. I fall onto a hard, cold floor. A boot stabs into my back. “Why?” A low growl, hardly a sound at all. “You are ruining all that I know. Nobody fights. I want that to stop.” My face is damp now, I am whimpering. But I must finish this. I stand and swing a blow at my captor. And I run; I can’t stop now. Running. Faster and faster. Still running.
Phoebe Mills '18
baby’s breath By Emma Dexter, ‘21
Eliza Diamondidis '18
there is a cemetery here, in nowhere. in a full car i feel alone we are down in the valley i am used to the security of elevation the green eyes of the plains open for me this must be the closest thing we have to the garden of eden soil touched only by the hand of the lord the soil where i will ask the earth to swallow me up she will say “of course” because she is gentle to me and she will cradle me in patience death is not beautiful but mother is there is a cemetery here, in nowhere. its only visitors stopped visiting years ago and the “johnsons” underground rest gained three guests bury me in nowhere only may my husband and son greet my coffin i do not want to join the mass rest of those artificial hills there is a cemetery here, in nowhere. rest baby’s breath on my tombstone lock the church but ring the bells I will still love the muffled sound of them cry for me once a year and when he asks where I am sleeping tell him there is a cemetery here, in nowhere.
corinna May Olson, ‘21 a graceful bird that flies alone with pride, she sulks in selfish blood and narrow-mind, boldness as glistening, has never died, inspired by her light, so deep, and twined, by her love of voyage and wanderlust, narcissism maintains her perfect life, resents purity- pursues retched lust, she urges her ego and creates strife, despite her foible, she has a spotless grace, appeal, charm that takes her near and far nerve strikes those unknown, but never pompous her boldness, glistening like all the stars she walks awry but in a way, she is the very faultless woman i call sis’
What my father holds Khadija Aslam, ‘18 The bottoms of your feet covered in words and mud, the cornerstones of time. Between your eyebrows where ghosts go and I stare, a place of feeling. Your earlobes soft between my fingers, unmarred and sound. But your hands, calloused and worn like they’ve fought in wars Now settle around a mug. Your hands: I held your index finger; my fist fit in your palm. I rest my head.
Maya Bhutwala '19
CeCe Turner '18