FVS Athenaea - Spring 2021

ATHE

NAEA

Spring 2021

Athenaea Spring 2021

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Table of Contents Cover..................................................................................................................................Annie He iii. Dedication....................................................................................................Lisbet Jackson 1.

The River.......................................................................................................Quinn Lander 2.

Where I Was......................................................................................................Layla Esrey 3.

Weeping Willow..............................................................................................Ava Sperber 4.

Return to the Sea.........................................................................................Marina Bayles 5.

Joumana.....................................................................................................Elsa Dorrance 6.

Where I’m From.........................................................................................Mason Burdett 7.

Go-To Punishments in Hell..............................................................................Ezra Potts 8. too many rules........................................................................................Reilly Kaczmarek 9.

Che Guevara.......................................................................................................Yuraj Sato 10.

Your Goddamn Angel..................................................................................Lisbet Jackson 12.

Grandma Kay...............................................................................................Marina Bayles 13.

Untitled.............................................................................................................Ava Sperber 15.

Untitled....................................................................................................Morgan Osborne 16.

Untitled....................................................................................................Claire Rosenberger 17.

Sometimes I Miss the Rain........................................................................Quinn Lander 18.

I Dream a World (Community Poem)................................................FVS Community 21.

Red Project........................................................................................Beckett Judd-Wade 22.

Untitled............................................................................................................Mia Sanchez 23.

Where I’m From............................................................................................Claire Brown 24.

French Fries in Chocolate Milkshakes.....................................................Lisbet Jackson 25.

Where I Was.................................................................................................Morne Vanzyl 26.

Self Portrait................................................................................................Aiden Aguilar 27. Beware, For...................................................................................................Quinn Lander 28. Haiku.........................................................................................................Various Authors 31. Red Project.............................................................................................................Abby Lin 32.

A Collection of Hours..........................................................................Honors English II 33.

Untitled............................................................................................................Maya Magee

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Dedication

Why pretend this year was easy? It wasn’t. Between quarantines and canceled events and virtual classes, we experienced a tumultuous year. Yet, with every new hurdle or mountain to climb, we’ve persevered. And while it’s cliche, it’s also true. But how? Well, we have done so thanks to one of humanity’s superpowers, the ability to adapt. We have always been adapters, changers, and innovators. From wearing shorts in August to parkas in January or from waking up early to catch the bus on Monday to sleeping ‘til noon on Saturday. And this year we became next-level, comic-book-worthy, super-duper adapters.

So, I would like to dedicate this issue of the Athenaea to our gift of adaptation. The superpower we all have. The power to adapt to online education, to mask-wearing, to the word “quarantine” in our everyday vernacular. To the knowledge that every tomorrow will be different and we will have to change again and again for the rest of our lives. So here’s to being changers and shapeshifters, to wearing diverse hats and walking miles in others’ shoes. To the writers who see the world change and grasp for pen and paper to preserve a moment before it disappears. To the artists who capture moments of whimsy and movement in a brushstroke or the shutter of their camera.

Now put on your capes, strike your best heroic pose, and sit down to read this Athenaea. Let stanzas blossom into new ideas and let sentences rewire your preconceptions. Read with the eyes of an adapter, humanity’s greatest hero, and be ready for the next adventure.

Thank you, Lisbet

iii

The River

I stood there on that inglorious beach, in the thinning hours of dusk, peering at the thing. It sat there with a certain sense of place, a particular tranquility of stature. Its smooth, winding curves extended in each direction as far as I could fathom, standing in perfect position, bulging on its turns and thinning on its runs. Its complanate presence was accentuated by the jaggedness of the surrounding rocky landscape. The thing seemed so calm and so still in its setting; yet it was in constant motion. I watched as it burbled and churned, running over trees and rocks with an ease unparalleled by anything that’s ever lived. In parts it was placid, its glass surface inversely reflecting the surrounding mountains in an ameliorating filter of deep blue; only slightly disturbed by the occasional eddy or stone. And in parts it gushed with vitality, its vigorous roilings appearing as liquid cotton. Despite the diversity of the thing, it maintained a perplexing consistency; in each individual place, the flow was unchanging, almost as if it had always been there. It held an adeptness in its fluidity, a knowledge in its simplicity.

As the sun began to set, I considered the peaks of the surrounding mountains.

Looking past the tree cover, I saw the slopes the thing had made. The layers had been peeled back centuries upon centuries, uncovering earth that hadn’t seen the light of day in millions of years; time ushered forward from the past. This thing bored through hundreds of feet of rock, gouging millions of tons of stone from that place. It had sculpted all that appeared around me, engraving its intention mere atoms at a time, a patience surpassing that of comprehensibility, in a period of merely one existence.

What always runs, but never walks, often roars, but never peeps, has a bed, but never sleeps, and has a mouth, but never eats?

-Quinn Lander

one

Where I Was I was home alone, of all Places. My father Was out in town— Picking up my brother— And I shuffled through music, Selecting one for this moment, Scraping my knife against dry toast: Melting butter, topping with jam, Putting on creased boots to take The dogs on a winter hike.

The day I don’t remember much About: snowy, cold, so bright It hurt my eyes.

The memorable thing was My aunt’s text. How I expected An invitation to dinner. How the Second I saw the words, how this Could not happen in my own town.

But it wasn’t the news I feared. Not The worsening of a pandemic. Not That my uncle tested positive. Not That she was texting from The hospital. Not that he had Lost his sense of taste first, and Now he was on a respirator Just because he frequented a store, For an early afternoon snack.

two

Hard to understand the text.

But what the words amounted to Wasn’t the worst thing; not Anything that had to do with The confusion, the news, the shooter, The horror in a building We shopped at when We were farther south in town.

But rather wondering where my dad was, And hoping he didn’t go shopping today.

-Layla Esrey Weeping Willow Beautiful tree, Why do you cry?

Your name is like a lullaby Your limbs droop low and brush the ground Your leaves in wind make a rustling sound The children run to you and climb They lean on you and pass the time But your doleful boughs block out the sun So they leave to climb to mulberry one Maybe you were planted too close to the pond Maybe we lost you to aphids and moths But one thing’s for sure Your roots weren’t secure Now the bridge to the mulberry is the old willow log

-Ava Sperber three

Return to the Sea My name is Marina and I was born of the sea Its siren song calls nightly and speaks to me Of waves and dolphins, secrets and dreams Of places that only a mermaid has seen I am drawn to this like Odysseus to the shore I feel the waves rhythm and want to explore that place where I came from long before Its dark depths and shipwrecks of ancient lore Watery graves of pirates that are no more The crystal blue water home to mysteries that lie beneath us Veiled in secrecy that only Poseidon can see

four

And each morning I awake In this landlocked place A cruel banishment I must face Where mountains and prairies are jails and I have no use for this mermaid’s tail

-Marina Bayles

-Elsa Dorrance five

Where I’m From I am from heat and humidity From petrol prosperity I’m from where it shines at 4 And by 6 it pours I’m from next to the sea The land of the oak tree Where the air is perfect And the land is well kept I’m from where the lakes are warm And nobody is prepared for a winter storm I’m from where outer space Matters more than the term “contact trace” I’m from a home underwater We flood like no other I’m from terrible infrastructure Despite our beautiful culture I’m from the worst type of climate But can we keep that private?

Where I am from A 16-year-old drives a Lexus Yes, indeed, I’m from Texas.

six

-Mason Burdett

Go-to Punishments in Hell

When they enter the door, we bombard them with long forms asking them to confess every moment they went against God’s will, with a stubby wooden pencil that hasn’t been sharpened since the dawn of time (literally). Over 20 times, the form asks for name, number, address (the home address and billing address must be filled out separately even if they’re the same), and other personal details which will all be thrown away after the first sheet. Everyone in Hell has the feeling that they need to poop, but the toilets are impossibly difficult to find and are stocked with one-ply toilet paper and automatic soap dispensers that trigger when you take your hand away, leaving a pile of foam on the floor below.

After people get through the first days of forms and restroom fiascos, they will usually go to the supermarket. On the way, your music is never loud enough to be heard over the excruciating and unshakable wind noise. Once finally in the parking lot, there are never parking spots and whenever a car backs out another car takes the spot with impossible consistency. Santa always greets you at the door to the supermarket with five cowbells. Inside, the floors are squeaky. All food is provided by Flik Dining. All eggs are cracked in egg cartons. If you buy a grapefruit, the white layer below the peel never peels off, and it tears easily to prevent any possible satisfaction. The mold is exquisitely located in the center of the strawberry package, thus undetectable, yet it manages to touch every strawberry in the container. All cashiers try to make small talk and stare directly into your eyes while your card is being read. Plastic bags are pre-torn.

Other miscellaneous punishments also exist. Hell will stick people in Ford Fiestas on cornfield-surrounded roads to cities but the road never ends. If they aren’t punished enough by that, we add a semi in their blind spot and a rock truck in front of them (this truck has NRA and Playboy stickers on it with a Confederate flag flapping above the passenger’s seat). For those who die in college or high school we assign homework but never post it; annotations are always checked for a grade. All Apple products have a crack in the home button and have unremitting Cheeto stains on them. No products can be bought to get rid of ads, and all ads are the anti-meth commercials.

-Ezra Potts

seven

too many rules Stop on red.

Don’t plagiarize.

Don’t do drugs.

Ace of spades starts.

The tag goes on the inside.

Phone off at the theater.

Brush your teeth before bed.

I before E except after C. Avoid processed foods.

Stay in line.

Don’t take risks.

Follow the rules.

eight

-Reilly Kaczmarek

Why is it that when you break the rules and turn something upside down that that’s when the real lesson is learned?

If I want to learn a lesson, then butt out and let me learn my goddamn lesson.

If I want to break the rules of poetry, then let me.

Pleonasm.

If I want to live my life free from the set hierarchy of rules, then let me.

I’ll learn my lesson.

-Yuraj Sato

nine

Your Goddamn Angel Get me off this pedestal.

The marble burns my feet, and the height gives me vertigo.

I want to faint, to collapse, breathless back onto the soil, To tarnish my creamy dress with roots and worms And sink silently into the rich ground where you kneel in misdirected prayer far beneath the altar I never asked for.

These wings you made me out of cardboard and masking tape are tearing up my shoulders, bowing them into a paper cut sob.

I’m praying now, for myself, for rain, for the hope that my wings will dissolve, becoming mashed fiber at my feet and in your lap.

Becoming proof that your idol crumples under a single tear.

Proof she is not wholly stone.

Release the halo you’re pulling down around my ears.

It slips to my gentle neck - tightens.

That fluorescent light of your expectant smile, morphing into shackles, cutting deep.

You draw blood, burn blood, steal blood and hold my breath in the folds of your fingers, twisting it into ribbons of enlightenment, that you devour despite their tastelessness.

ten

You open my hands, Expecting the holy text where all answers will be written between the creases of my palms.

You tear my lifeline up between your teeth, biting it in half and letting the frayed end spill back onto my fingertips.

You thought it would pacify the ache just to the left of your soul.

It didn’t.

I know why you cling to me.

My warmth, smelling like cotton sheets, is new to your shaking chest.

You have too long been left shivering in the back alleys of your mind, where hate drips from the gutters and freezes in droplets on your bare neck.

Where you wander blindly off the curb and the streetlights turn their backs on you.

But I am not your savior or your answer or your angel.

I am a human with a heart that slit itself open till it was big enough for you to crawl inside and wrap yourself in its feathers.

But if all you’ve known is heartlessness, only lived starved of soft words and softer lips, sure, I’m your goddamn angel.

-Lisbet Jackson eleven

Grandma Kay “If you can’t accept death, then you don’t accept life, for the two walk hand in hand.”

—C. M. Bayles A phone call at 3am announced the end of a life That I thought would never stop, Like the warmth of the sun and the moon at night.

Things that I trusted, things that don’t end.

Memories of her come back to me like dreams I never dreamt. Sometimes I feel her hands gently Caressing me, and her voice singing me to sleep.

Her life, a living history book.

She saw and did things that I can only imagine.

She was 98.

She left without saying goodbye, Like a birthday card never sent I’m not angry There are no goodbyes to a love like that.

twelve

-Marina Bayles

Untitled She was but a lump of coal In so many ways She was young Eleven A rather complex age Supposedly someday she would shine bright Like a star But she could only think About how that all felt so far She changed under pressure How she looked How she felt Adapting was her coping That was how she dealt She tried to focus on that shining star That she would be But then she gave up hope She was lost at sea The pressure got so great That she finally surrendered And was taken to the surface The ground was lush and tender She saw the world around her That was virtuous and pure And the little jewels said We are glad you’re here

thirteen

After quite some time She saw herself and she discovered She gleamed like the sun All because she’d been uncovered They taught her how to glisten How to see How to listen But there was one thing They never taught her How to do it on her own So when the world split them apart She was lost And alone She stayed in place for so much time That the pressure soon returned It swallowed her back up But in the darkness She learned She taught herself to fight How to cook And how to write She learned so much more Than she ever did before She nearly taught herself to struggle So it wouldn’t hurt anymore Someday All those jewels Will return to the surface But she will be stronger And she will find her purpose fourteen

I suppose At this point You probably can see The diamond was within her And the diamond always will be

-Ava Sperber

-Morgan Osborne fifteen

sixteen

-Claire Rosenberger

Sometimes I Miss the Rain What a wonderful thing the rain can be, Especially at a time when your world needs it most.

I miss seeing the clouds darken over the hills to the west.

It’s not a feeling of impending doom or celebration, But rather a perfectly acceptable yet inescapable happening.

I miss the way you almost always doubt the first drop you feel, The way the pavement gradually turns to a deep castor gray, Each globule changing the color in one place, one drip at a time Until the entire surface becomes wholly monochromatic; It instills a sense of unity, a oneness with the world around you.

I miss how it forces you take a rare moment of respite; A break from the, hauling, heaving, or cleaving It gives you nothing better to do than sit back and watch the rain fall; A few precious minutes attributed to thought and thought alone.

I miss listening to the rain and the sounds it makes.

The way it lands on leaves with quiet splats as if trying to be subtle, I miss hearing the gutters sputter while it swamps the ground; Water culminating on its surface like a clutched sponge.

The distant rolling of thunder just before a thick crack of lightning, As if to say: “I brought you into this world, and I will take you out!”

What I miss the most is when it rains while you fall asleep.

The ceaseless melodic beating of trickling droplets on the roof; It’s not too much white noise as to deafen your thoughts entirely, But just enough to slow your incessant train of thought to a tolerable speed.

It cradles the worries of your mind, and sings you right to sleep.

Just as a mother does to her infant, the earth does to you, as you are its child.

-Quinn Lander seventeen

I Dream a World (Community Poem) I dream a world where all people feel safe and loved and live a life full of compassion.

I dream of a world of no judgement, where people accept each other for who they are.

Where every child feels safe, every child has clothing, warmth, food, and shelter.

A world of acceptance, where ignorance fades into the darkness of night; a world of acceptance, where tolerance has no ending and no beginning.

I dream a world of patience as I grow older, the acceptance I must seek grows within me I dream a world where dreamers thrive; a world where we are all people lead and act with kindness.

Where I can breathe air without smoke Where I can think without being told to slow down Where I can speak without my mouth being covered Where happiness is a right not a privilege Where I can see fireflies in the night.

I dream a world where I get into a good college where feminine products are free the electoral college does not exist the color pink and blue don’t have genders and money does grow on trees.

eighteen

I dream a world where political discourse is peaceful and respectful.

I dream a world I dream a I dream I Dream a world where everyone feels appreciated and enough, in their own body, in their own skin, in their own community, in the validity of their words and dreams.

I dream a world where you sell your sarcasm to buy bewilderment. Where our oceans aren’t filled with plastic, our trees are not cut down, and our icebergs aren’t melting.

Idreamaworldwhere the ice cream machine works men paint their nails and women feel safe.

Where the birds sing their secrets and the mountains whisper promises of hope; with oceans filled with nothing but blue and forests grown up to the skies I dream a world overflowing with kindness where beauty never dies.

nineteen

I dream I dream a world where tests don’t determine someone’s abilities where every child has access to education where -isms and phobias aren’t so casual.

I dream a world dancing through the night sometimes I can catch it some days it floats on by.

A world of passion and creativity where Covid is part of history A world where people value love and their time on earth more than money or status.

I dream of a world where the only criticism is for conformity.

I dream a world where my passions aren’t stigmatized.

I dream a world where truth spreads and wildfires are contained where no one stares at me and my girlfriend in the supermarket where school is fun and everyone gets recess where therapy is cool and lemonade is always made with real lemons.

I I dream I dream a I dream a world.

twenty

-FVS Community

-Beckett Judd-Wade

twenty-one

-Mia Sanchez

twenty-two

Where I’m From I am from gears, Cranking through the aspens And scraping your shins raw.

From the rusty clay stuck in your nails, From the scrub oaks and wild sage Clinging to crumbling granite.

I am from the crisp air that blushes your cheeks And wails through the snow.

I am from moss, Cushioning ten little toes that run amok.

From castles and fairy dust and acorns, From the black soil in the garden.

I am from magic and monsters, From dandelion paint And dancing in the rain.

I am from daisy chains, Weaving through hair and wilting in the sun.

From sweaty pinky promises, From giggles drifting through the hot summer air.

I am from sunscreen in my eyes And tangled hair And the melody of ice cream.

I am from the places I’ve been, And the places I’ll be, From the small oyster that’s not ready for me.

I’m from the rumbling earth and the skies above, From strength and wisdom And hope and love.

-Claire Brown twenty-three

French Fries in Chocolate Milkshakes After school, my father drives us to Wendy’s.

The smell of fry oil seeping into the back alley, Where we wait on grey truck seats, rattling.

The lady on the speaker crackles alive.

Chain of orders, and now pulling around to wait in line.

Following the commandments of the fast food Gods.

Next door, a yellow brick wall burns in three o’clock sun.

Back door in the middle – Employees Only.

Record shop, smoke shop, bike shop, yellow-walled shop.

At the window, hot paper under fingertips.

Ketchup in drink holders - cold condensation on cups.

Stealing fries because tradition holds.

Lids off milkshakes - salt and chocolate.

Hot potatoes melting in frozen cream.

Stacks of napkins stuffed in the glove compartment.

Then the driving back to houses, and homework, And cartoons at four, and the perpetual ending of the day, Because May afternoons in little old trucks last forever.

-Lisbet Jackson

twenty-four

Where I Was I was sitting among my friends, packed in the Chapel, of all places. Feeling the vibrations of the room. Anticipation for what was to be said for what was to come and change.

The rumors encompassed the campus, holding the attention of students better than any teacher could hope; milling through everyone’s heads why this meeting now in the middle of the day and the week?

But it was not the news I feared. Not that spring break was canceled. Not that all students would have to wear masks. Not that the school had an outbreak. Not that the health department called, warning of the disease.

Hard to understand the meaning, the lasting impact, the changed society the normalization of the unnormal.

Hard to see the emotions bubbling over into tears as everyone attempted to grasp this new reality.

-Morne Vanzyl

twenty-five

-Aiden Aguilar

twenty-six

Beware, For There exists a beast far below the earth, Who bares scales of a deep luster green.

This beast came to be of no heavenly birth, But rather a product of all the world’s dreams; He lives in a place where time holds no worth, A province of soul- an existence past the seam.

The beast resides in a realm that is cold and lifeless, A land where pain is all that’s conceived; He lay in a cave, so warmth to make the mindful mindless, Such heat one can do nothing but breath.

The beast has the stature of a hunched over cypress And a voice of thick honey one can’t help but believe.

When one arrives at his cave, he’ll speak with mellifluous fire “I see that you’re cold, why don’t you stay here with me.

With this warmth I will comfort you, rid you of all you desire.”

But if one stays with the beast, waste is all they will be For when one stays that hot for so long, they will surely expire, Too torrid to eat, too sultry to sleep, and too hot ever to flee.

So beware of the beast if you find yourself in a cave; Don’t listen to dragons who speak of nothing but gold; Indeed, the cold can be hard, but far better than the grave, For the fate the beast brings is far worse than a freeze, or so I am told….

-Quinn Lander

twenty-seven

Haiku falling asleep to a green light recharged

-Ezra Potts boys beached brains shells sounding swiftly wet sandy breaths -Nathan Thomas resfeber sun hugs the earth

-Isabella Fernandez January morning crisp winter’s air coffee mug becomes a chimney -Colin Devanny autumn night a stone in the lake wrinkles the moon

-Santiago Nárdiz Valentine’s day even the name has possession -Steuart A Richardson*

*These haiku will be featured in the summer edition of Modern Haiku twenty-eight

frostreaper of baby’s breath

-Amelya Tucker tropical storm warning crab shards dry on a table -Lisbet Jackson ice cream drips onto warm pavement huckleberry moon

-Kimberly Macdonald*

fresh snow makes lost travelers stay lost -Luke Patterson

prom night flirting with my reflection

- Aaron Dorrance* gentle snowfall upon the bowing ponderosa her half smile settles -Leo Li

twenty-nine

snow no more sunshine

-Reilly Kaczmarek divorce pendings even some planets have rings...

-Leo Li

the sun calls my name I sneak a peek d rk sp ts

-Kimberly Macdonald distant white motorboat a skipping stone under the full moon -Colin Devanny cold moon reflecting on the service*

-Morne Vanzyl butterfly idles on sun dried linens argument pending -Layla Esrey

thirty

-Abby Lin

thirty-one

A Collection of Hours The hour that marks the start of a new year The hour when you wake up on Christmas morning The crackling hour that dances between her lips An hour of thirst in the blaze of the sun The expensive hour that drains the bank The hour that I keep The hour of unknown things in the night The hour that changes your life The lost hour at the airport The productive hour late at night The deafening hour that commands your attention The hour you can’t take back The rhythmic hour of rainfall on the roof The quiet hour when the sun wakes up The golden hour passing too fast The hour when the lullaby sings -Honors English II Class

thirty-two

-Maya Magee

thirty-three

thirty-four

Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors

Lisbet Jackson Elisa Liu Claire Brown

Athenaea Staff Maya Magee, Quinn Lander, Mason Burdett, Ari Child, Aaron Dorrance, Spencer Berv, Francis Zhou, and Rene Aronson Printed by Colt Print Services Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.

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