Epic Spring 2012

MIX Paper from responsible sources

epic

spring 2012

1

The water fountains at K-O are POSSESSED. And epic submissions (“submit by April 25 now”) may be the problem. Ever since the “submit to epic” signs were put on the water fountains they mysteriously stopped working. Coincidence? I think not!

There must be some kind of omen manifesting itself inside the “submit to epic” signs. I knew what I had to do. I ripped off the sign and I pressed the drinking water button. Glorious refreshing water splashed all around. For the first minute I just splashed my face at the water because it felt so good. 2 MONTHS of dehydration and drought, solved. But maybe the reason I submitted to epic in the first place was because I saw the sign. The signs may have omens, and they may be causing worldwide drought, and they may be around the school in the hundreds, but dang can they make someone submit to epic.

– Jon Wu

Editors-in-Chief

Thom Giardini and Zarah Mohamed Section Editors Art Poetry Prose Online Catherine Boyle Catalina Salazar Carolyn Mitchell Alec Zimmerman Emily Sullivan Becca Frank Sarah Steinberg Marketing Outreach

Maddie Reich Emily Ford

Xochil Rivera Ruthie Dannehy Staff Brandon Best Mike Hathaway Elana Colangelo Caley Henderson Jackie Dunn Ben Isenberg Catherine Eatheron Grace Jarmoc Brooke Goldsmith Rayva Khanna

Allison Mendola Molly Miller Chiamaka Ndibe Molly Papermaster John Peavy

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Allie Kyff Casey LaTorre Mary Lessard Carolyn Marcello Ned Meade

Shelby Smith Eva Stys Mark Toubman Kiki Thorington Zoe Waldman

Faculty Advisor Asha Appel

Contents

epic Omen, prose

Jon Wu (’13) Pair of Feet, pencil drawing Catherine Boyle (’12) Θέλω, poem Carolyn Marcello (’12) Rolly, print Thom Giardini (’12) 9:15 Flight, over Boston, poem Caley Henderson (’13) Only Waiting for This Moment to Arise, photograph Matt Kahn (’13) My Little Isosceles, My Little Wonder, poem Ruthie Dannehy (’13) Boats against The Current, die-cut Nicole Wetsman (’12) What I Learned in Geometry Class, pencil drawing Brandon Best (’12) Small World, pencil drawing Zarah Mohamed (’12) Completely Imperfect, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Jo-ann Burke (’17) Brotherly Love, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Griffin Gildersleeve (’16) The Meadow, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Joanna Williams (’16) Smiling, poem Nicki Roth (’14) Double Rainbow, photograph Brandon Best (’12) Color of Grace, poem Grace Jarmoc (’14) Turtlenecks, painting Emily Sullivan (’12) Footprints on Beach, photograph Céline Haeberly (’12) Milk Cartons, prose Varun Khattar (’12) Paddy Hat, photograph Ben Shoham (’12) Sound of Silence, poem

Claudia Udolf (’14) Baby’s Breath, photograph Ned Meade (’13) Vases, painting Mary Mort (’15) Adolescent Elephant, acid reduction print Rachel Dietz (’14) Crikey, What a Beaut!, photograph Rohan Singh (’12) Frozen in Time, wax sculpture Molly Papermaster (’14) Rocks in My Shoe, photograph Molly Miller (’13) ROUT{e}INE - Hartford, CT, pigment print Greg Scranton (faculty) That’s My Boyfriend, photograph Céline Haeberly (’12) Certain Expectations, poem

Mark Toubman (‘13) Reflection in a Puddle, photograph

Natalie Goldstein (’14) Footprints, photograph Catherine Eatherton (’14) The Boy Who Couldn’t, prose Denae Cousins (’12) Fear of The Rose That Blooms, poem

Cole Adams (’15) CT-106, pen drawing Ben Cowper (’12) Felurian the Fallen, poem Monica Ambrozej (’12) Intolerance, poem Ava Tankala (’15) Judgment, poem Emily Lowit (’15) Untitled, poem Gabby Wolinsky (’12) The Teenager who Went Forth, poem Elana Colangelo (’14) Untitled, poem Anya Delventhal (’15) Favorite Literary Lines Editors

Clandestinity, photo Matt Kahn (’13) Innocence, photo

Lydia Bailey (’15)

2 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 20 21 22 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 36 37 38 40 41 42 44 45 46 47

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4

Home, poem Carolyn Mitchell (’12) Bikes, photograph Jonah Lazowski (’12) Confusion of Existence, poem Jack Sullivan (’14) Nostalgia, poem Catalina Salazar (’12) Shoes, photograph Naomi Letourneau (’14) Wonderland, photograph Ned Meade (’13) Shaded Fort, photograph Claire Halloran (’15) Dunes, photograph Amy Swords (faculty) Wyvern, pencil drawing Rachel Paley (’14) Eden, photograph Jake Waskowitz (’13) & Kent Byrd (’13) Rudbeckia, photograph Natalie Goldstein (’14) Eye, photograph Rudy DeBerry (’12) Dermatillomania: A Self Portrait, oil pastel Catherine Boyle (’12) Lights, photograph Rudy DeBerry (’12) Certain Expectations, poem Mark Taubman (’13) Sugar Cane, poem Xochil Rivera (’12) Smucker Up, photo Thom Giardini (’12) & Brandon Best (’12) By the Sea, poem Allie Kyff (’14) A Reflection, painting Zoe Waldman (’12) Southern Comfort, poem Emily Ford (’12) Across your Bridge, poem Molly Papermaster (’14) (un)disguised, poem Zarah Mohamed (’12) i’ll still miss you pt. 2, poem Taylor Kennedy (’14) Fathers, prose poem Addie Waskowitz (’15) Spines, photograph Caley Henderson (’13) The Candle’s Battle, poem Katherine Gianni (’14) My Grandfather’s Eyes, pen drawing Brandon Best (’12) Memories, poem Julia Bayer (’15) The Goose Girl, poem

Hope Kim (’14) The Bus, wood carving Maleeha Naqvi (’12) Please Don’t Be Bored of Me, poem Gabby Wolinsky (’12) On Turning Old, poem Max Bash (’15) If I Could Write Like Bukowski, poem Catalina Salazar (’12) Light, photograph Carolyn Mitchell (’12) Wave, poem Jackie Dunn (’12) Innocence, poem Xochil Rivera (’12) Fingers, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Carolyn Mitchell (’12) We, as We, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Gabby Wolinsky (’12) Cole Adams (’15) Stretch Marks, Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner How We Made It into The Maryland Monthly, prose Sophie Kruger (’14) Time Off, poem Drue Pines (’14) Shade, poem Jackie Dunn (’12) Lake Sunapee, poem Noa Silverstein (‘15) To Touch, poem Eva Stys (’13) 90% of Life Is Showing Up, prose Becca Frank (’12)

48 49 50 51 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 68 69 70 72 73 74 75 76 78 79 80 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 90 92 93 94 95 96

Pair of Feet

Catherine Boyle

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Θέλω (Greek for I want) Carolyn Marcello

I hide my heart inside a stone, drop it in a river and hope the rushing waters wear it away. Hope that someday a nice someone will stumble across my heart, just about to break free or still fluttering feebly inside unyielding rock, and give it back to me with a shy smile.

Do caterpillars know they’re going to die? Do they know they’ll be forever changed and not be themselves any longer? I wish we didn’t change. I wish we stayed the same, you and I, living in this town where nothing ever changes but everything does.

Do caterpillars care that sometime in the future something beautiful will come from their death or do they just eat and grow as change creeps up on them slowly, insidious and strange and inevitable as the sunset?

Do you know you’re going to die with your warm hand gripped tight between my cold ones, yours slowly losing heat until we’re the same and then growing ever colder so once again we differ? Do you know and choose this: not know and still choose this, or have me lying here on this linoleum countertop with my jeans hanging around my ankles and nothingness where my heart should be? We are choosing and we are chosen and nothing happens and everything does.

And maybe that’ll never be enough, but nothing beats driving down the empty highway at 80 under the blazing sun or the endless night sky with a song on the radio matching the one in your heart and the wind singing along and stinging your eyes.

So lock your heart away behind your eyes and maybe someday I’ll find a rock with the faint fluttering of wings yet unbroken, still protected inside, come up to you and say “I think you dropped this” with a shy smile and my heart held in my other hand.

I’ll offer both, and you can take yours or mine or we’ll both take half and maybe have something left when this ends, this strange new thing not-yet between us. And maybe that’s best of all, or the best we can hope for.

6

Rolly

Thom Giardini

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9:15 Flight, over Boston Caley Henderson

The city is over bright, in the black from the sky. Its lights are scattered—fallen into order, corrupted.just enough. for symmetry.

My window is bent by children’s fingers, blurred by breath. Fires of headlights, street lamps, cigarettes burn indistinct.

I hope the darkness on the horizon is not mist but hills,

without homes.

I will live there, someday.

I will sleep with the sun.

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Only Waiting for this Moment to Arise Matt Kahn

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My Little Isosceles; My Little Wonder Ruthie Dannehy

You are a Bermuda Triangle (of sorts) in my life A vast sea of endless fog (infinite, broad, sweeping, limitless, etc.)

Drawing boats in closer and closer Pulling them into an undeveloped center You will drag me in (and then what?)

I disappear with a (pop?) or shimmer in a moment of time –suspended– and then dissolve into nothingness.

I should like to sail to your center and find something to hold onto (or really just find something) something that tells me (over and over) (i mean to say: reminds me) that i am not lost just missing and that makes all the difference but i will never know when i reach the center (will i?) i could be there right now and my romanticized wanderings are nothing but a haphazardly inconsequential mooring point an anchor rooting me to you and you are just not all that much to anchor to.

10

Boats against The Current Nicole Wetsman

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What I Learned in Geometry Class Brandon Best

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Small World

Zarah Mohamed

13

Completely Imperfect

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Brotherly Love

Jo-ann Burke Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner

Griffin Gildersleeve Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner

Lately all I see in the mirror Is a collage of different imperfections.

I’m not complete.

I’m a leg that needs to be straightened, A foot turned out, An ankle strengthened.

And so I start playing a game Where I glance at myself In the middle of class, Catching myself off guard, Hoping to reach perfection.

I am the pugnacious brother, tripping him, stepping on his toes with a smile on my face.

He sees pleasure in my eyes as my fist meets his arm.

Sully thinks that I am evil.

He hits me back and runs, he hits me back and screams.

I strike back.

I tickle him and make fun.

He thinks I enjoy it, as he tells on me, believing I deserve it.

But he doesn’t understand the brotherly love, the push-pull of our relationship.

Two boys at the quarry, Climbing up the rubber mountain.

As I reach the top, Sully’s foot slips, and I extend a hand to help him.

Then, together, we slide gleefully to the bottom.

As we head up the path for a repeat performance, I smile and put my arm around his shoulders.

“Mom!” he calls “Griffin’s touching me!”

I squeeze his arm and run.

He doesn’t understand this brotherly love.

The Meadow

Joanna Williams Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner The white light of the sun surrounds him.

Flowers burst bright colors.

The sky, blue, clear, crisp.

On the edges of vision, Dark clouds swirl close to the meadow.

Wafting winds wander with warm scents.

The grass so soft, Welcoming bare feet.

The call of a crow circles over his head.

Cringing shadows become bold.

Lakes lit by the gleaming sun.

Rabbits bounce and playfully pounce.

Loose lilies float lazily down stream.

Light is fleeting.

The clouds close in and strangle the meadow.

Gloomy fields on all horizons.

Heavy breathing of short-lived sweet summer air.

Feet caught in entangling shady grass.

Harsh rivers flow.

The glorious life leaks away.

15

Smiling

Nicki Roth Smiling, you are a joyful child, Blissful, pleased, beaming, grand: Your white teeth, shining eyes: Smiling, you are as bright as the sun.

Smiling, you spread the light; Sharing your warmth with all; Smiling, kind and lovely as you are; A full moon.

Smiling, forever innocent, Heart-filling, ever giving, Attracting people towards you, Starlight in an otherwise dark night Then, As if all joy drains from the world: Your beaming ceases, The delight retreats from your eyes, and you...

You are stoic again.

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Double Rainbow Brandon Best

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The Color Of Grace Grace Jarmoc

Sixteen My nourished mind and pure heart Learning to differentiate dreams from realities, Learning who we are Who we want to become— Nervous to become something we are not Searching for the hidden pulse and secrets Having to dig into the eerie unknown Accepting my destination Waiting for the inevitable

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Turtlenecks Emily Sullivan

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Milk Cartons Varun Khattar

What if those teens on the milk cartons, posters, billboards and Walmart bulletin boards weren’t kidnapped? What if they, one day, simply decided to leave and never come back? What if they were fed up of their lives and decided to make a change?

Why do dogs run away from home?

Ambiguity

Celine Haeberly

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Paddy Hat Ben Shoham

21

Sound of Silence Claudia Udolf

the quite and stillness was amplified by the dancing dust particles as the sun shined into the dawn’s morning as the lakes began to melt everything was so silent and still nothing to be heard nothing to be said just the sound of silence peaceful and at rest in all its beauty and grace just the sound of silence

Baby’s Breath Ned Meade

22

Vases

Mary Mort

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Adolescent Elephant Rachel Dietz

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Crikey, What a Beaut!

Rohan Singh

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Frozen in Time Molly Papermaster

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Rocks in My Shoe Molly Miller

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ROUT{e}INE - Hartford, CT N41° 50’ 40.92”, W72° 38’ 26.16” Greg Scranton

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That’s My Boyfriend Celine Haeberly

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Certain Expectations Mark Toubman

With the spectacular sights come Certain expectations – A transportation To the first magical night Atop his father’s shoulders.

Yet trapped in this metal box, Sealed plexiglass barring him from the world, It is anything but heartening.

The views are the same, but his other senses are crippled The smoky smell that ought to envelop his nose is absent Someone has pushed the mute button on his festive night He’s not showered with oohs and ahs – Nor is each explosion escorted with its fitting (crackle, boom, kapow).

Instead he gazes at the lackluster fireworks, Wanting more.

30

Reflection in a Puddle Natalie Goldstein

31

Footprints

Catherine Eatherton

32

The Boy Who Couldn’t Denae Cousins

In my mind I pleaded with you not tell me your sob story, because I promised I wouldn’t cry.

Not to tell me your dreams, because I didn’t believe you could fly.

Not to ask me for a hug, because my body gave off no heat or support.

Not to ask me to love you, because in a weird way it was my way of saying I do.

To me, you are more than meets the eye.

I think about you night and day.

I’m proud of you for achieving what I couldn’t.

I’m happy you found someone who was brave enough to tell you all this.

I wanted to cry with you, I wanted to dream with you, and believe in you, and support you, but my ego wouldn’t let me.

Now I’m left without you, alone and pathetic.

I know it doesn’t mean anything now, but I’m sorry.

Sincerely, The Boy Who Couldn’t

33

Fear of The Rose That Blooms Cole Adams

I often worry that I’ll be forgotten, like a traveling cloud or a cottonwood seed in the wind.

I want to leave my mark, like a footprint in mud, mud that is permanent, constant, and unwavering.

But don’t we all?

I’ve found that the world is running out of places yet to be marked.

I want to make a change, but it will be difficult when I’ll need to play a game of tug-of-war with everyone who’s trying to do the same.

And it’s a foolish game indeed, one I don’t intend on playing.

I realize my fate is unavoidable.

Impressions in mud just don’t last, and no amount of petulant desperation will change that.

Soon I’ll leave just like everyone else.

I will have come and gone, like a blooming rose, with scarlet petals that eventually wither to black and fall to the ground like ashen snow.

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But unlike a rose, words do not die.

They are not finite.

Words do not disappear in the unforgiving vortex of passing time.

Words are infinite.

That is, until they’re forgotten.

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CT-106

Ben Cowper

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Felurian the Fallen Monica Ambrojez

Felurian, strong and brave Drifted through the heavens.

She was an angel, Voluptuous and pure None, not even her fellow angels could compare.

Her downfall was her love of Mortals, Full of fury and fire They raged battles Full of passion, Down she soared To the mortal realm There she mingled and mixed And learned their ways.

She fell in love with this race And they adored her.

The Ancients, rulers of the heavens Turned their eyes to Felurian For she had committed the greatest taboo: Revealing her true self and secrets to humans.

Felurian, unawares, continued Happy and free, yet not for long.

The Ancients made a decree: They sent her to the crimson fires She was stripped of her wings and power.

Felurian, the once holiest angel, Fell.

She embraced this Now-mortal self For she could truly be With the ones she cared for and loved She was the angel of and for the humans.

Her story is told to children To beware the Ancients And be brave and true like Felurian the Fallen Who was made anew.

37

Intolerance Ava Tankala

The wind blows lightly through the trees on a warm summer day The sun smiles down on the earth Its rays shining brightly across meadow Dew still clings to each tender blade of grass Butterflies float around in groups, swirling around one another Daffodils dancing like a Spanish couple Twisting in their own intricate tango And in the center of this Utopia A single purple tulip lies Beautiful, sweet, innocent The epitome of perfection But suddenly, without warning of any kind A single Petal Drops Then everything changes A chain reaction is triggered Shaded, ominous storm clouds gather over the clearing A ring of fire rises, reaching for the now-pitch black sky Consuming the trees that are already frail and weak From losing its branches, which have fallen, fueling the fire below All at once the flowers wilt and die Bang!

Lightning flashes, thunder crashes Rain and hail pour down Beating down the previously dew-kissed grass The wind picks up, roaring like a magnificent lioness Color fades from everything like an old photograph Faceless, flawed, forgotten the beauty it once contained.

The butterflies have fled They hide their cowardice under the protection of some trees Far from the disaster that has occurred The fire spreads, quickly advancing like an army of red ants

38

Over the long-since browned grass Somehow the rain does not extinguish the inferno Nor does it nourish the grass For hours and hours the storm rages on and on Until finally slows down to a halt Everything is calm But this only emphasizes the complete and utter destruction that remains In the center of this Dystopia A single purple tulip lies No longer innocent Its beauty marred by the ruins around it The only survivor of the massacre

39

Judgment

Emily Lowit I look at myself, and think about myself, And what I see you shall not see, For who I am to you is not who I am to me.

I look deep inside my soul, I search and look at myself while watching the ocean waves.

My soul, every aspect of my existence, relates to this world, this universe.

All of this world is connected, connected with links.

I, now fourteen years old, am looking at who I am, Hoping to be exactly who I want to be, Opinions and recommendations have ceased to matter.

Being exactly who I want to be, but never forgetting who I was.

I hold those traits of good and bad, I will be forever me.

40

Untitled

Gabby Wolinsky your heart jumped over mine like two frogs playing leap frog and i wish that i could catch your heart in a net with mine and sling it over my back as I walk towards safety. i wish i could yell “no, stay here� because the isolation is the location of safety where doubt and disappointment linger only slightly as your heart and my heart tangle themselves in the entrapment of feeling too much.

41

The Teenager who Went Forth Elana Colangelo

The teenager who went forth on his way to place he dreads every day.

He strolls past the big pines and the ominous wooden fence not stopping to look at its grief.

Advancing to the midnight black cement where he used to play ball with his brother on fall afternoons, He meanders to the sidewalk with crevices big enough to fit a mouse, caused by oaks growing from the fertile soil.

He is escorted by the old, checkered dog to the once red octagonal sign, now plastered with graffiti.

Unsure, he turns to the next road and spots the wild green leaves that poke out from the woods across the sidewalk-lined road.

He looks up the road, scarred, as far as his eyes can see, where racing cars unleash black smoke, filling the earth.

The cars unusually excite him on this normally gloomy day, and he runs up the road, passing the elegant white and blue houses lined with flowers that remind him of his mother’s garden.

He reaches the busy street and advances across it while the cars are still and silent.

Out of breath, he trudges up the sidewalk, back to his unexciting and sad walk, glancing at the early 20th century homes that eye him back.

He reaches the end of the long stretch of cement and turns the corner to find another one.

The apartment buildings tower over him, placing a shadow over his whole path.

He shuffles down the road, cold from the shade, hoping the days will soon lengthen, so his unfortunate daily, dim stroll will become bright and cheery.

42

The colors of red, yellow, and green begin to reflect in his eyes, almost as bright as the sky will become as the day ages.

He steps across the crosswalk, white and black, white and black cover the street where he is walking.

He hooks a left on the familiar street that glares at him everyday.

He wanders up that concrete walkway, greeting him with a smirk as it does everyday, he arrives at the site he knows all too well.

High School.

43

Untitled

Anya Delventhal

44

Why do people hate the rain?

It can show so much emotion with a single drop. It installs such life and vibrancy in everything.

That’s why I love the rain It becomes a curtain, hiding you from the world. Yet, at the same time bringing you into your own light, into your own beauty.

It washes away everything. All the bad in you, all that you hate in yourself. Then, when that’s all gone and done, new begins to grow in its place! New good, new feeling, new LIFE. That’s why I love the rain.

It… sprouts. Sprouts! That’s what rain creates. New sprouts. Sprouts of… of… everything. Everything, and yet nothing. After all, you don’t know what kind of flower it will be before it blooms. So, it’s nothing… nothing, but at the same time, it’s something. ‘Cause it’s there, you just don’t know it yet.

That’s why I love the rain.

It gives you new loves, new hates. Although most people don’t see it. Not until they know what it is at least. And by then it’s too late to know it came from the rain. So everyone goes on hating it.

I wonder why that is. Why do people hate it so? Why do people groan when they flip on the TV and see the little grey cloud? Is it because it makes them cold?

But you see cold, it wakes everything up. New thoughts swirl around your head, new feelings in the pit of your stomach. Sure, it makes you numb, but… that’s new too! After all, you’re not numb all the time.

That’s why I love the rain.

It brings good, along with the bad. It’s sort of… sort of perfect like that.

Besides, it will always happen no matter what you do. So what’s the point of hating it?

Why not just… embrace it?

That’s why I love the rain.

It’s everything, everything in the world. It’ll always be there, even after you’ve moved out from your parents’, even after you’re long gone from this world.

No matter what happens, rain… rain is there. To help you sleep at night, to wake up everything in your garden. Always.

That’s why I love the rain.

That’s why I go out every time I hear the pitter-patter on my roof. Why I sit, with my face to the clouds, and let it wash away, wash away all the dirt from the road and tears from a hard day.

That… that is truly why I love the rain. Truly.

Editor’s Picks: Favorite Literary Lines Allie Kyff: “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

–Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost Grace Jarmoc: “She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies.”

–She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron Elana Colangelo: “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one

alive who is youer than you.”

–Dr. Seuss

Thom Giardini: “Oh, God, I don’t know what’s more difficult, life or the English

language.”

–Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames Molly Papermaster: “Then they came for me

and by that time there was no one

left to speak up for me.

–They Came for the Communists by Martin Niemoller Xochil Rivera: “Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics

without strategy is the noise before defeat.

–The Art of War by Sun Tzu

Eva Stys: “Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow.”

–Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein Becca Frank: “If I’d been someone else in a different world I’d have done some

thing different, but I was myself and the world was the world, so I

was silent.”

–Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

45

Clandestinity Matt Kahn

46

Innocence Lydia Bailey

I thought that you would never leave again.

You really are the jerk they said you’d be.

I guess I’m drowning in my innocence.

Through all of this what did you think you’d gain?

Did you ever think that I wouldn’t see?

I thought that you would never leave again.

They all realized it just from a small glance But I never thought that you would hurt me.

I guess I’m drowning in my innocence.

Did you really mean to cause all this pain?

You hurt me and it filled you up with glee.

I thought that you would never leave again.

Pecking around in the dark like a hen, The door I found did not go with my key.

I guess I’m drowning in my innocence.

I’m not used to all this independence, I do not think I want to be this free.

I thought that you would never leave again.

I guess I’m drowning in my innocence.

47

Home

Carolyn Mitchell Home is that place where everything is gauche Where waking up makes breathing look simple Because the bed is weighed down by the day Of nothing to do and everything to say And nothing is real Everything is left And nothing is right Turn the rudder and adjust the sheets And you sail away from here You smell like strangeness; like home

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Bikes

Jonah Lazowski

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Confusion of Existence Jack Sullivan

Confused, you look for help, Doubtful of where to go Contemplating whether to stay, Yet not even ready to leave.

Confused, you are a lost puppy, By itself in the middle of Nowhere, Running the full three hundred sixty degree circles, Lacking knowledge of any kind.

Confused, you look for light, When all that can be seen is darkness And when the world spins rapidly, It seems frozen to you.

Confused, you still trudge on your journey, Uncertain of where you’re destined You follow the path that certainly leads to Somewhere, Though all you can see is a vast Nowhere.

50

Nostalgia

Catalina Salazar I miss the feel of lips, Of yours especially.

I miss the raw desire, Blazing That aged away with the time Into a bitter lust, Stale like the morning.

I’d like to write you A love poem, darling But there’s no love left To write.

The pages are empty Like the unmade side of the bed Where I used to feel you breathing I miss the feel of you breathing.

Now you’re gone And so is the desire And the poetry.

Run Away With Me Naomi Letourneau

All that’s left is nostalgia And that’s never enough.

51

Wonderland Ned Meade

52

Shaded Fort Claire Halloran

53

Dunes

Amy Swords

54

Wyvern

Rachel Paley

55

Eden

Kent Byrd & Jake Waskowitz

56

Flower

Natalie Goldstein

57

Eye

Rudy DeBerry

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Dermatillomania: A Self Portrait Catherine Boyle

59

Lights

Rudy DeBerry

60

Sugar Cane Xochil Rivera

The sugar of a cane, too bitter to be sweet If the sugar is sweet, the cane is bitterness That’s just how love is supposed to be, I guess, Every kiss so sugary, moments apart; unsweetened.

In Spanish, “Te quiero” means I want you. Desire is sour But “Te quiero” says, “I love you” and that is the honey.

Not, I will love you, because I probably won’t And not that I had loved you, because I still do Simply “Te amo”: I love you. And that’s why, from The hug to the kiss, XO suits me best.

For the hug screams to yearn for, while the kiss Silently says love. But please don’t confuse it for lust.

Too much passion can come off a bit distasteful Maybe sometimes confusing it for adoration Just like pigs being able to fly, a stupid joke and lie Well then, when the deception is not loving, that’s when The real love occurs. Love’s a lie. And the ones who lie, Are the ones who feel the most. Those understand: A heartbreak is the truth we can’t put into words. What it means To be alone. L-U-V, is not the same as L-O-V-E. And the delectable honey that means “I love you” We desire too much of it when it is out of reach

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Smucker Up

Thom Giardini & Brandon Best

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By the Sea Allie Kyff

If I could turn and live by the sea, the sea mist would spray against my sun-soaked skin The supple sand would plunge between my toes like spears of dew-covered summer grass on a June day Sea glass in celadon, azure, and the most spectacular pink would coat the shore like a first-fallen snow We would walk along the sand while the lucid cerulean waves collide along the stony coast You laugh I laugh And we would share the small hours of another summer day together beneath the stars, Lightning might make the skies glow shades of amethyst You might smile and say “I wish the sky could stay this way forever” I may throw my head back and laugh, and I will always wish I hadn’t

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A Reflection Zoe Waldman

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Southern Comfort Emily Ford

I’ll keep on as the wind blows particles of poison and the sun shines rays of infection the night’s blanket will only put us to sleep (for so long) dreaming will become all that’s left as we sit and wait for the television to blow raging with urgent news told by the blonde from the outside her knowledge is rare from the inside her mind reads the script in Webdings font with lipstick smudged in both corners of her borrowed smile from news too burnt to fix, she says, “We are the throw up that Earth spit up, We are the mess too hopeless to try, We are the infection that couldn’t bear What once was here. This, is it.” the kids cry ‘cause Momma cried with blank eyes that pealed from the T.V. and latched onto safety– “What’s it mean, Daddy?”

Pop takes a swig from his flask in hopes of Southern Comfort comforting the kids as he wipes his mouth the words come out, “We’re fucked.” the kids scream ‘cause Daddy cursed on a Sunday and took a baseball bat to the T.V. screen

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Across your Bridge Molly Papermaster

There it is, The fantastic bridge.

Gloriously close, close enough You can almost Touch it, go over.

You wonder what’s across Yet you don’t go.

You want to cross But everything holds You back.

That bridge, The one you idolize, Extends over The river with the water Being swept by the wind, Creating tiny waves.

Gathering courage, you Peek over the ledge, See the fish squirm As they try not to get caught In the current.

The water is majestic, With the sun shining Down, making the water Transparent and more Beautiful than ever.

Propping yourself onto the ledge Feel the magical sensation of Goose bumps, covering Your exposed skin, as you sit On the cool stone.

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The wind gusts around you, And blows your hair.

You close your eyes and let The wind soothe your heartbeat.

Fantastically, you stand, Dancing your feet on the Ledge, watching the trees Around you sway from the wind.

Step by step, As if you are Floating over land, You make it to the other side.

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(un)disguised Zarah Mohamed

i smile to hide my quivering lips but sometimes masks don’t work. instead, i am a glass window, sterilized so clean, i(t) might be empty. but when i(‘m)(t’s) filled with misunderstandings and anger, that disguise may as well not exist, like a salad fork, ignored. i am not a little girl.

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i’ll still miss you pt. 2 Taylor Kennedy

does time exist in space? if not, please go there with me i’d like to feel a love surreal, sans a date of expiry yet off you go with memories your feelings must decay ‘cause here on earth you have to leave, our stars won’t let you stay the love invested in the winter began to bloom a rose now spring begins to take its leave and summer burns your nose time is passing supersonic! it’s leaving my dreams dizzy... and in the way my smiles fade you too cannot stay with me i’ll still miss you.

---for now, your hand (tucked in mine) is a statement of finality telling me “baby girl, you’re here and i hope you always will be.”

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Fathers

Addie Waskowitz The cold winter begins to kill the flower.

Realizing it is finished coloring for a while, the purple crayon Goes to sleep. It is sad, which affects the innocent.

Wanting to start new, he pulls out a fresh page But second-guesses his decision. He is drowning In his own world, acting just like his father.

The hard life angers the father, And he longs for spring to bring him a flower Or a sign of hope. Struggling, he goes outside, but is soon drowning In his own tears, the same color of a pale blue crayon.

His mind clears like a blank, white page.

With dull eyes, he looks at his innocent son. He is reminiscing, wishing he were once again an innocent, But he knows he cannot change his life as a father.

His life is a book, but each day is the same page.

He remembers how the clouds used to dance like a flower Swaying in the breeze. But outside it is cold, and the crayon Is sleeping, and time is slipping away, drowning.

He needs to escape the downhill spiral, but is drowning In his previous life too quickly. He loves his innocent But cannot break his heart like a used crayon Snaps in a child’s strong hand. He thinks. “My father.”

He now realizes. “I’m just like my father.” He needs a flower To bring him rebirth. He is going too fast, filling up the page.

Love is impossible when he is stuck on a page Filled with harsh words that are already drowning Him. His heart needs to grow like a flower In the early weeks of spring. His innocent Loves him like he used to love his own father.

He needs a new book to color with a new crayon.

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The picture of the happy family drawn in crayon Is what he wants to appear on his page.

He sees the smiling children and the kind father, Which is all he ever wanted. That picture is drowning His happiness, for he knows it will never come alive. The innocent Sees him in despair and hugs him. This is his needed flower.

The father is filling in the lines with a new crayon And the flower is blooming on a new page.

Sadness has stopped drowning him, yet slowly moves into the innocent.

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Spines

Caley Henderson

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The Candle’s Battle Katherine Gianni

The candles cast black shadows up the wall Curls of smoke rising high above their light Strike a match and watch a new flame grow tall Every unique flame burns; a glowing ball They emit their blaze using all their might The candles cast black shadows up the wall Shown in vivid passion, never to fall Wax melts down the side, pliable and white Strike a match and watch a new flame grow tall A short and hurried gust of air is all It takes to extinguish the lively light The candles cast black shadows up the wall But the candles don’t falter, not at all They continue to burn despite their plight Strike a match and watch a new flame grow tall The light glows freely, not held in a thrall Not afraid, there is no breeze in plain sight The candles cast black shadows up the wall Strike a match and watch a new flame grow tall

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My Grandfather’s Eyes Brandon Best

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Memories Julia Bayer

Memories, You try to remember them, well, the good ones.

But you cannot remember them all.

The good ones you take pictures of.

You try to remember them forever.

But the pictures aren’t the same.

You’ll never experience that moment again.

The bad ones you push out of your mind.

You try to forget them forever.

But you never will, the moment will come back to you.

Hold on to those good memories, like you held onto that balloon string when you were three, Afraid it would float away.

Hold on tight or the memory will become a balloon, it will float away, forever lost in the clouds.

Let go of the bad ones, just like you let go of the balloon.

Let go and the memory will float away, never to be seen again.

Free yourself from those bad memories, never forget the good ones.

Remember one thing, memories are a part of you, they shape you, they change you, they make you, you.

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The Goose Girl Hope Kim

Once again, I find my hands Trying to brush through my long yellow hair, Feeling the dried markings of coal Coating each thin strand upon my head.

The sights, sounds, and smells Of the straw houses behind me Begin to fade away.

My heart skips a beat at every slight Suspicion, every glance A person gives me, Or that I believe to see, But I may not show fear– Fear has cost me too much in the past.

I step closer And closer To our destination, Following the black-haired girl, Her hair the same color as the coal Darkening mine Along with my identity.

A soft breeze caresses my skin And appears to whisper a secret To my ear.

I strain to hear it closer, But all I receive Is foreign tongue And the distant honking Of the geese I care for.

As I look around The strange sights, sounds, and smells Of this kingdom well-known 76

To everyone But me.

Memory is no friend of mine.

I must keep looking ahead But the thoughts just keep coming back.

How much more time will I have Until the day I must make my stand?

I wait for that day Living amongst others, Living with no idea Of who I may be, For they only see A goose girl A black haired maiden Who is supposedly Me.

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The Bus

Maleeha Naqvi

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Please Don’t Be Bored of Me Gabby Wolinsky

teenagers sitting on dirty comforters sending text messages to teenagers sitting on lopsided couches that prompt the generic “what’s up” and receiving an even more generic response: “not much, I’m bored.” and he’s become a teenager whose trying to avoid boredom: shopping at Goodwill and various thrift stores, spending days organizing nonsense, and categorizing the data that accumulates in his head and the feelings that stack up in his heart; he is the teenager sitting on his dirty comforter who in his free time, in his busy time, sends texts to a girl who sits on a lopsided couch hoping that he won’t become bored of her– the way that he has become bored with his life.

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On Turning Old Max Bash

I can’t believe I’m saying it It’s the big 7 0 I’m old as dust I’ve started to rust Luckily, I have retained some of my lust My skin’s so rough I look like a bust My kids say I’m not old Well ain’t that a lie Bigger than any pie I’ve ever eaten The pillbox is bigger and bigger Advil, Tylenol, Motrin Any NSAID you can name It’s in my box The arthritis comes and goes Sometimes I can even feel it in my toes Me and the gout are always in a bout And over the past years I’m slightly more tout I used to be superman I could conquer the world I could say “YEA” I’m here to save the day I remember those days All I wished was to get paid Life wasn’t laid out I decided its path And sometimes took out my wrath.

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You could say I was paranoid All I cared about was that Droid

At 20, they’d always tell me Sir, your card is void At 30 I struck it rich But, got countless tires stuck in a ditch At 40 I’d say to myself I’m so old Now I say I am mold Aging and it stinks When I turned 50, It was me and Marie On our way to Paris, Ready to live life to the fullest Our last years of youth Everyone made a big deal at 60 So what? I can now get social security Ain’t that a pity I retired As did Marie But I had the misfortune of not traveling with her I’m stuck on Earth So now I’m 70, Resting here in God’s waiting room: Florida Not knowing what we’ll happen next This retirement home sucks All the people like pucks I’m always bored to death Maybe one day It will finally take me I no longer jump Now I fall I no longer run Now I wheel I no longer play hockey Now I watch it Life used to be fun Now I’m 70

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If I Could Write Like Bukowski Catalina Salazar

If I could write like Bukowski, I’d live alone in the mountains with only my thoughts and some cigarettes.

I’d sweep the ash off the porch each morning to the sunrise and the trees and then sit with my mug of coffee and read the words of those inferior to me.

Boys and men, women and girls; they would all fall in love with me.

Not for my hair or my kiss, not even for my intelligence.

They would fall in love with the sick and beautiful way I could put my words together.

They would show up at my house in the mountains soaked in beer and liquor and quote me until they started crying and I would watch in empty amusement.

If I could write like Bukowski, I would drink my feelings and smoke my thoughts before finally scribbling them down onto paper.

And I would write all of my life; isolated and lonely but content with myself.

I would die a poetic death of course with a smoke still clinging to my lips and my eyes open and still looking.

If I could write like Bukowski.

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Light

Carolyn Mitchell

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Wave

Jackie Dunn The moon whispers sweet nothings Pulling me closer as I try to hear I’m drawn in, listening for its voice But then its gone, and I fall back The words have disappeared The soft voice is gone Until it rises again.

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Innocence

Xochil Rivera You won’t be able to see through my disguise I try my best to keep myself out of sight; I just keep telling myself stupid lies There’s nothing more for me but these dumb guys Whom I sneak off with every single night; You won’t be able to see through my disguise Maybe it is my life I should revise There is nothing left in it to excite; I just keep telling myself stupid lies Or maybe it’s just you who I despise You have always been way too uptight; You won’t be able to see through my disguise But won’t you give me one last surprise?

That will take away all of the delight; I just keep telling myself stupid lies I no longer believe you are so wise So please leave me now and go out of sight You won’t be able to see through my disguise I just keep telling myself stupid lies

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Fingers

Carolyn Mitchell Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Hands are good for a lot; Fingers are good for much more.

Your pinky finger—that’s for promises.

The word is tattooed in invisible ink on every pinky in the world.

(The ink stands out more on the right pinky than the left) The ring finger is the rock: the one less used, carrying the most weight.

Science says it’s the weakest finger; Old women say it’s the strongest.

Hate is for the middle finger.

It makes children tattle and friends giggle and drivers rattle other drivers.

Some say the brain lies in the head but experience tells us it lies in the pointer finger.

It has all the knowledge absorbed through words written and books read.

It gives knowledge by showing and doing and pushing buttons.

Its best friend, the thumb, is the rascal of the 5.

He looks different on everyone but can always catch sexy cars.

(Every car is sexy when you need a ride) He’s got game like that.

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We, as We

Gabby Wolinsky Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner i like: the night sky and late night omelettes and the smell of chicken noodle soup in the morning, when you have little specks of spinach in your teeth that everybody can see because you’re smiling so big, and burnt out light bulbs, but the color that you put into my world. i like the flower patterned quilts you purchased at Salvation Army and the extra large flannels, and homemade knit sweaters big enough for both of us, when you gently touch my knee under the kitchen table, the times you ask me about my father, and when you ask me about my cat whose name you remember. i like: the sharing of champagne and the counting of constellations, the family games of scrabble and pick up sticks, and we’re both winning, the day when you surprised me with a blueberry scone and hot tea, and hugs and kisses with your eyes when your eyes smile just for me. i like the typewriter on the antique desk you bought in Canada, i like your words on paper next to the printer, and the handwritten cards i wrote you that hang on the corkboard above the computer.

And i like the tangle of wires like bodies, the lilac taste of your neck and the little bite marks on mine. i like bicycling to the Starbucks on Albany Avenue and sharing a piece of warm banana nut bread, and when you read me The Way I See It facts on each of our coffee cups, and i like people watching with your hand in mine, i love when your hand is in mine in public. i like you and i like that you like me and i know we like each other because we don’t like people very often, but that’s why we are a we.

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Stretch Marks

Cole Adams Gwendolyn Brooks ’12 Winner Sometimes I like to look at the cracked surface of the ground and pretend that the rifts and fractures are just stretch marks, from the Earth growing up too quickly.

But the funny thing is, I don’t even know what “growing up” means.

And sometimes I question how leaves can be so green, how flowers can grow in such extraordinary hues of scarlet and crimson, yet still lack blood and be unable to feel I suppose it’s because I’d like to think that they can hear me and understand me.

Or at least I want them to be able to.

Sometimes I get lost admiring the color of snow.

It seems so clean, so unaffected.

But after a while, it starts to turn brown, dirtied by smog and exhaust and mud from factories, cars, people.

And sometimes I wonder what the Earth’s heartbeat would sound like, if it had one.

I bet lots of people would want to think it would be stable and sharp, but I imagine that it would be patchy and frail.

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Sometimes I like to think back to when I was younger, how I used to draw pictures on the fogged windows in the backseat of the car.

After a few minutes, the drawings would just fog up again.

So I’d draw them.

Again.

And then they’d fog up.

Again.

And sometimes I get sad when I watch clouds go by, because I know that they get to go wherever they feel like, and no one can make them stay put.

And most of the time, it feels like my head is going to explode.

And sometimes I don’t want it to.

And sometimes I do.

And most of the time, I want nothing more than to be done with this.

But it’s the yearning, the waiting, the wanting, and the pacing that keeps me from falling apart, from tearing at the seams, from rupturing, from spilling out onto the ground, like some sort of nervous water balloon that won’t stop expanding.

I don’t mind that I can aleady see stretch marks extending across the shell that is my skin.

In fact, I admire them.

I pretend that the rifts and fractures are from growing up too quickly.

And the funny thing is, I don’t even know what “growing up” means.

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How We Made it Into the Maryland Monthly Sophie Kruger

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The day Auntie Gertrude found the hideous picture of herself in our 2003 family photo album was a bad day, to say the least. Gerty, as my mother called her, was the least amiable of the three Manniss sisters – Gertrude, Hallie, and Irma.

Gerty never had any children to become our cousins, but she was married to a shy and slightly awkward man named Francis. Last year on Thanksgiving, Auntie Gertrude claimed she had trained Francis to adopt a new personality.

“Francis says he wants to go away and try his personality on a lot of new people!” exclaimed Auntie Gertrude in her usual disgusted-at-the-world tone, while Francis stood silently behind her, looking exactly the same. Then she looked back at Francis, gave him an attempt at what was meant to be a smile, and cackled.

“Remember, you’re still physically repulsive to me, honey.” She punched his arm with shocking force and he skittered away. Auntie Gertrude had her special way with people, but I, for one, still wasn’t sure how the additional put-downs supposedly altered Francis’ already unstable personality. She was capable of imaginative rudeness that only the Manniss family was privy to on holidays.

All that being said, Gertrude Manniss arrived at our house in good spirits on the last Thursday of November 2004. In fact, she was in such high spirits that she was willing to look through the family photo album from 2003. All was well and fine until page 47, picture 3. I don’t blame Auntie Gertrude for being upset; the picture was pretty unflattering. She had been trying a new exercise regime where she would run a quarter of a mile forward and then return to her starting point by running a quarter of a mile backwards. The whole thing made no sense because she would stop running to eat a doughnut and claimed that her half-mile trip did a lot of good in shedding weight. Looking past the strange regime, Auntie Gertrude’s run was truly comical. Her form was so terrible she couldn’t even claim the merit of looking remotely similar to the run of an old athlete. It was a kind hopping from foot to foot trying to balance her wide set hips on her tiny feet and not falling forward over her large abdomen. Anyway, the picture: my cousin took it while hiding in the bushes, so it looked like it had been photographed through gauze and Auntie Gertrude’s lovely straggled hair didn’t do too much to help cover the crazy look in her eyes.

In my dreams, Auntie Gertrude laughed at the unattractive image and told an embarrassing story about someone else in the family, but I’ve already told you enough about Gerty that you and I both know that is not what happened. I would really prefer not to get into the details. There is no blood or gore, but the house did need a renovation and everything in my room, including the frame, did come crashing down when she used the leg of our kitchen table to crush the support system of

the upper floor.

I really wish I could tell you more, but then I would run the risk of dear Auntie Gertrude getting a hold of this personal account. I only have one thing left to say: if you’re really interested in the details, look at the Maryland Monthly because the story I just shared with you is the true story of how the Manniss family war made it to the second page of the state-wide newspaper.

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Time Off Drue Pines

The perfect day Sitting just relaxing Doing nothing just sitting there Tanning by the pool Just sitting there Doing absolutely nothing Talking to no one Just relaxing Doing nothing Drinking and just sleeping Having it be 85 degrees Not a cloud in the sky Just sitting there doing nothing When it turns to night I’ll be looking at the stars all day Thinking about the perfect day

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Shade

Jackie Dunn I speak out in a crowd, But no one listens.

I act out in a group, But no one sees.

No one notices if I’m not me.

No one cares if I am.

I can scream,

I can cry,

I can laugh, I can try, But nothing changes,

Because I am just a shade of me.

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Lake Sunapee Noa Silverstein

My eyes open and I see the Sun’s sparkling reflection.

Blue, endless water.

Unspoiled, unpolluted, free.

My silky swimsuit, Warm skin, Soft sand like a blanket envelops me.

Toes at the edge, A cold hold enfolds.

Waiting at the precipice.

Should I jump or stay?

Brain telling me to plunge, Body forces me to wait.

Safe on the warm sand.

Let myself lay, vulnerable and free.

Sand against skin, sun shining in.

Worries away, Perfect day To lose myself And be me.

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To Touch Eva Stys

Can you come a little closer from all the way over there?

I can't touch you if you're so far away.

I want to kiss you, To be held by you until you can't anymore.

I want to soak you in.

Making every second count.

To touch and be touched by you, With you, For you, Is all I could ever hope to want.

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90% of Life is Showing Up Becca Frank

I think over time I've started to become that person who doesn't respond to emails. I think I've started to become someone who won't do things right away. I'm a senior and I procrastinate now more than ever. Why is that? Is it because it's the end of the year and nothing seems that urgent anymore? Is it because I've always been that person who wants to get things done right away, but I'm starting to realize that's not the way everyone else thinks, so I'm changing my ways, too?

But it is true that things don't need to be done right away. Take some time and think about it. There's no rush. It will all get done. Just calm down. Nothing is urgent. Sometimes that's what I want to tell people.

90% is just showing up, right? Who said that? It's a quote, I know. Woody Allen! That's it! Just putting effort into something is enough, at least for now. Nothing needs to get done right this second, but eventually you'll have to do it, and it's that little bit of effort that makes people meet the deadlines. It's that bit of effort that makes me respond to an email or write this paragraph for you to read.

So if 90% of life is just showing up (putting in that effort), then the other 10% is pulling through and actually finishing the work, and in the end, I think it's that last 10% that counts.

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