Wabi Sabi | Spring 2023

Calliope

WABI SABI

PIECES OF PERFECTION

Calliope WABI SABI

FENCED OFF

EMILY PAVLIK

The front door to my garden. A cherry wine painted red with a golden knocker. Fenced in, a simplistic wonder hides beneath the picket fence. A plastered white peels with solitude as my shrubs gently slide through the cracks. Ivy covers the outsides in hopes of peering out at the world. Only the branches of my hydrangeas are visible on the inside. My neighbors stick their noses between the posts, envious of what I could be hiding.

They’ll never see the heart of my flowerbed. However, my garden has never been a secret. Rather, it was built as a gateway to another world. But no one has ever knocked. If you ask why I couldn’t tell you. This small enclosure seems to hide the most power on this planet. A piece of life in a world of death.

Death has always pricked at the sight of my garden, but the picket fences have always kept him out. He was envious of the only green spot left in a world of darkness.

Death may take the sky, and shower poison through the rains. He blows hard winds downward praying against my wishes, but vultures never come cawing.

I dare not trust the forbidden words of the world against my precious plants, for that, I’ve locked them away. Hopefully one day they can reflourish and reach their crusted-over leaves towards the sky, their green will shine brighter, and the world will return to what it was. Maybe in another season.

FAVORITE SEASON

ISABELLA ZACHARY

As I lay in the warmth of my bedroom I see the crisp fall leaves creep up to my window Asking to be let in I love the leaves, But for one reason or another, I turn the other cheek Afraid of what they might disturb or damage So I leave them to the dull serenity of the wind Even though however, They’re so pleasant to look at I love the way they make me feel And their soothing sounds how they are swept up in the air with minimal effort how each crumple and divet of a leaf is so imperfect, yet perfect The way I feel safe. So desired and yet familiar and maybe it’s you for you are just like the leaves.

BROKEN ANTIQUES

CYNTHIA SEWELL

SCULPTURE

SCOTT GONZALES

Cutting, chipping, clicking

Tiny crackles within a pristine body

Jagged china turns to smooth glass

And then back again

He turns to she

And then back again

Sharp collar bones and corners of a smile

Embroidered with plush thighs, hips, and An ambrose chest. Watering eyes–

As he will not be made into

The savored sculpture of the hellenists

Clicking, chipping, cutting

Saccharine skin on the stained glass

Used in cathedrales

A body embellished with two silk

Tattoos on the same ambrose chest

Cutting, clicking, chipping

The marble stained with gold and silver

Not made to be a sculpture, but still a Work of art

YOU’D BE PRETTIER IF YOU SMILED

MY ANCIENT ROME

JIA KIM

I’m not the brightest person out there. I’m not the smartest, and for sure don’t understand everything. Like logarithms, the citric acid cycle, the concept of time, or colligative properties. But out of all the confusing things and people I’ve encountered, you manage to top them all. You, my darling, never fail to amaze me with how warm your smile makes me feel and the rush of blood I hear whenever you come near. There’s a joy that blooms in my heart with you by my side, and it seeds flowers and buds of affection for you in my soul. With these amazing qualities of yours, I simply cannot fathom why you would belittle your accomplishments, scar yourself with hateful intent, or even bite on your tongue to keep words from spilling out. My love, you are perfect in everything you are and do, and the fact that you don’t see your own worth confounds me beyond words. No matter the burdens you hold nor the scars that litter your soul, you are deserving of love more than any being I have ever known. I cherish you as I cherish the craters in the moon, the cracks in concrete, the sting of cold air, and the rain that comes forth with rainbows. Mother Nature is not loved for her perfection, but loved for all the unique life she brings forth. And like her, you awaken the life in me and call it to sing serenades to you at night and offer the finest flowers from Eden’s garden. You worry endlessly about your appearance as if that would affect how much I love you. Rome is loved despite the cracks and how time has worn her down, and like her, I wish to capture you in photos to hang on my walls — the memory of you. You are so tired from the hurdles you were forced to shield and protect yourself from and fear that it has chipped you apart into brittle pieces; Dearest, a chipped sword doesn’t make it any less than all the other fine blades in the barracks. It is a sign of bravery and elegance that many mistake as brokenness. The flaws that you bear does not make you unloveable, but rather shapes your heart to a more unique form that my soul can recognize and forever cherish even as time will inevitably corrode my memory. It’s akin to a puzzle piece I have been unknowingly longing for, longer than lifetimes. You believe it’s coincidence — I believe it’s fate. My ancient Rome, my beauty, my flower, do not carve your skin out of hate, but feel the ones you already own and recognize them as symbols of strength and fortitude. I long for the day you’ll look at yourself the way I see you every day: a beautiful reincarnation of life itself.

PURPOSE

BELLA PEHAR

We had never met by accident

Instead on purpose

For a bigger purpose

We don’t yet know why Can’t seem to grasp the underlying secret being passed That’s what makes us strangers; We have yet to unfold each other Share that secret

And giggle once we realize how imbecile it was And how we are no longer the strangers we thought we were.

The cup cracks under the pressure of your tea. “It’s too heavy!” It screams, pleading that you stop. You don’t hear it cause you’re in your own world. Too worried about your work that is failing at school. You’ve tried so hard to do your best, and even though the test was easy. Oh, why did you say that aloud? Soon, the tea spills over, puddling on the small saucer. It too shouts, “Please stop pouring!” You don’t hear it, the fat, red, bleeding, F sits on the table in front you just taunting. Your parents are coming home soon and you need it signed. You know what’s going to happen, and why not just forge the signature? You didn’t dare try. The tea bubbled around the lip of the saucer, draining the pot of its contents. One last drop hits the surface of the piled tea, breaking the tension. It drips onto the table, causing it to whisper. “Put down the pot.” It falls on deaf ears as you hear the door open. Alarmed, you drop the pot, watching it shatter on the ground in front of you. Your parents are going to be so disappointed when they find out you broke their favorite set. You take a deep breath and pick up the pieces. If they see you cleaning it up, you might not be in as much trouble as we were in the beginning. Working quickly, you move the broken pieces to your room, closing the door. You hear your parents’ muffled voices through the door. The bottle of glue sits on your desk, as if it was waiting for you since the beginning. Then you remember the old container of gold leaf in the back of your closet. You pull the jar out, putting next to the thing of glue. Together, you mix glue and bits of the gold in a small bowl. The gold leaf in the glue sparkled in your lamp light as you applied it to the shattered pieces of ceramic.

Eventually, you’ve put back the pot together. The only visible parts of the teapot were the bits of gold shining through. You smile, as the pot smiles back, happy that it looks better this way than it did before. You remember that not everyone is perfect and that not everything lasts forever.

RECONCILED IMPERFECTIONS

AMBER HWANG

THE BEAUTIFUL MOTH

RENEE CHOE

CARCASS

LILY FITZGIBBON

You say you are an infection, your fingertips rotting and corrupting. I believe there is beauty in the decaying flesh you don, because the membrane flaking off your hands reveals bone, cold hard carbon stained by the blood of previous wounds. You find it terrifying, but I find it intriguing; how the persona and skin you adorned are now nothing but a shed husk and you are beautifully bone.

RULESOFCHAOS

TIACHAIKET

ELYSIAN BARK ALISHA

NEW OPENINGS

SOPHIE LIPPERT

I moved into a new house the other day Everything was innovative; The smell of newfangled paint, The cabinets that didn't creek every time the door opened, And even the doors.

Later that day, My two feet shadowed the large door That awaited my room. It was then I realized, The ridges from my usual key Were not going to fit in the Old, Unfittable, Lock.

So, There I was, Picking a new and shiny key at the local Abt Eager to get into my house. I liked the black key, With a swirl of white Going all across it.

When I finally got the door open, I felt a sense of peace. Even though it was a pain to lose something I had been used to, It made me realize, The same old keys cannot open new doors.

SIR MATTIUS

ELSTON WARDZALA

DANIEL BODEN WILLIAMS

We chose the highroad today, our gang, crawling up that palm tree road with those real raybans on for the driver and the know it all girl; she tried them on like she could buy them in gold while the rest of us searched our sun-kissed brains for some plastic rims; luckily, I had just bought a set in all colors, sixteen, cherry pop singers. 2

But God it was hot; the sun beat down heavily —at least there was a solution, AC and windows down at short intervals of speed as we drove in midday on 95; we had to stop at another light, so back our windows went up high.

3

Daniel was on the stereo so you know I wasn’t going to complain, though the prolonged heat extended time like when you so badly had to pee in the backseat of your Mother’s new Sedan; you begin to think of the state of world you’re in, the poverty of the homeless family on the side of the road, begging for charity; the sad cry of a boy who just wants to get through to the next day —I wonder what would happen if I peed. 4

Sorry, I’m all out of money, I hope the best for you though, with smiles I say; I think I gave some money to some other man when you told me to help a guy in a wheelchair, the one with his legs cut off at a gas station; I don’t even think he was homeless, oh well, we did our good deeds for the week; I’m tired, when will this light turn green?

5

You’d keep drumming on that steering wheel, turning up the song in sleek motion, for Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane, sadly, were just going to get some ice cream while the car’s headlights aren’t burning red this afternoon overshadowed by the muse of sorrow on the heart breakin’ Floridian plain; sadly this isn’t a place for the crawleys to play.

6

You’d drum the wheel to the beat of the song you’d sing in awful melody; I actually thought it was funny, I giggled as your hand poked my non-muscular thighs and moved the car in zig zags from left to right as we zoomed down another Floridian road.

7

They always looked so bare but so full, with the random oyster bar and an authentic Mexican gem, beside a 3.50 per gallon Wawa gas station, and a group of boys straight out of the goonies, swaying with each other’s bodies as they all searched for a lake to release their bait.

8

I looked outside; we finally passed another lathy road with a poor asphalt finish, while I lay with my back curled in my seat, with a hoodie in Florida summer heat.

ON SOULFULNESS

VERONICA KOLESNIKOV

When I feel pain, I feel it half heartedly. The other half belongs to you . The tears I weep, one for me, the other for you And when I laugh, I laugh alone, in a lucid wave of embarssament, for the joke is for me and me only. And maybe there’s that one person, who lungs my pain back and laughs at my stupid jokes, maybe that person is lost somewhere, perhaps trapped by the thing we call a soul.

BACKYARD SPARKLERS

ARMLESS

ELENA YOSHOVSKA

The statue stretched Leaning into the air, as if relaxing into nothingness For what, I didn’t know

It was quiet when I saw him first I wonder what he thinks

He wore a robe around his hips, coated in milky white

He shone like the smell of thyme in winter

I knew the yearning like the roll of my tongue I mimicked him

Gingerly weaving our hands in an iron lock

Imagining a damaged skin like mine to hold On perfect marble, I kissed imaginary lips

Even this was enough

CLARITY

RAY WILLIAMS

DEATH IN PIXELS

EMILY NORTHRIP

APRIL SEVENTEEN

ADHWAITA ROSHAN-NAIR

april seventeen, comes along with sheets of rain, the swift wind. the streets flood, the rush of water down the sewer. branches break, plants drown, ground erodes. yet, when i walk through the destruction all i can see are drops of goshenite draping broken trees and ripped leaves. they sparkle, my own night sky, reflecting light like prisms and creating rainbows galore.

CELESTIAL BLUE

JUNIOR YONG

It’s the way the fog creeps towards you, wrapping around your body like a cloak. You sigh, taking another breath of the chilly air. Staying up at night was a memory you shared. There were bad days, and there were good days. Only when the world was asleep were you at peace. The endless silence stretching miles into the woods, untouched by the city. You spoke once, wishing to be one in the dark. To live a life to its full, and not be trapped by standards that aren’t possible for those like you. You still do. You still want to. Yet there were things in the world created for people to get lost in. To fake the world you dream of. That is what gets those who follow those dreams into trouble. They wanted to get lost. You wanted to give to them what you couldn’t have.

“Hey.” They asked, opening the door to the patio. “Didn’t the doctor say not to stay up so late?”

“Old habits die hard…” You sigh, setting down your hand from in the sky. They smiled a bit. There was that smile that made you melt from within. The one that made you believe there was still some good in the world.

“Have you heard of Theseus?” You asked, eyes as big and round like the moon at its fullest.

“His story?” They looked over the fence and into the trees. It was midnight, so the neighboring houses were dark.

“The one version where he gets pushed off a cliff.” You take another breath, watching your exhale in the dim light. They hum. An owl hooted in the distance, breaking up the silence. “He’s still falling.”

“Perhaps he landed on an overhang.” You whisper. “He’s not dead yet right?”

“Hopefully not, I think the current hangover is holding him just fine.” They watched the same owl fly off in the moonlight.

“What happens when there aren’t any more edges for him to hang on?” You turn to them, something close to worry written on your face.

“Then we have failed to do what we said we would.” They stare back.

The two look at each other for a while.

Sea blue begging celestial bronze to stop speaking in riddles. Yet, that’s what sea blue loved about celestial bronze. Their ability to take the world and turn the problems into sentences. Maybe that’s why you loved them so much.

Celestial bronze blinked, reading every emotion that surfaces in sea blue. There’s more than one at a time. Celestial bronze loved how open sea blue was with emotions small and large. Maybe that’s what made them trust you. Maybe that’s how it all started.

MOON DRUNK MONSTER

ANNALINA KLATT

FALLING IN LOVE WITH LIFE (AGAIN)

Floating atray

Afar from the same space

Simply a mind divagating across planes

Apart from disengaged Deranged. A ghost without a host Discontent, partly asking, pleading Don’t make me stay in this state

Questioning a point

Why do I feel so disjoint?

Let me fantasize and fraternize about another time Coerce me into another existence

Fall in love with life once more, Is that alright?

To feel like myself

Despite surrendering her at times

Partly losing touch with a deconstructed mind

Live as I am, as opposed to what you ask of me Presently infatuated with my wandering mind To which utopia will I escape to this time?

Embrace the space reengage

Remind me of what it is to embrace

Build upon moments, pull me into present Contort and glide joyously upon the stars

As melodious mixtures fill the air at which I am pleased to breathe Race along a beach barefooted, blissfully in peace

It seemes there is too much I have yet to percieve

I yearn to scream those words till they rip my lungs

Roam the forest, among other things

Fall in love with someone

That loves me as I am, despite a lost sense of reality

You Create • We Collaborate • Calliope

We hope you enjoy our newest edition of Calliope, Wabi Sabi, as much as we did creating it. As Glenbrook South’s literary and visual arts magazine, we showcase a variety of poetry, short stories, essays, photographs, and visual art. We value all creative students at GBS and their work, and we strive to present their incredible art to our community.

EDITORS

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Sydney Kim

Mina Kim

PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR

Bella Pehar

PHOTOGRAPHY

Ava Hager

Abigail Gifargis

POETRY

Sonali Vyas

Allie Shelest

PROSE

Meghan Noe

VISUAL ARTS

Alexis Seed

Olivia Km

ADVISOR

Mrs. Amie Elliott

STAFF

Mariyam Aleem

Isabella Castillo

Scott Gonzales

Zellie Hammond

Isabella Jung

Ishmael Khandokar

Jax Kim

Sophie Lippert

Alexis Marquez

Samira Quevedo

Boden Williams

Ann Xu

Isabella Zachary

GRADUATING EDITORS

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Sydney Kim

POETRY

Sonali Vyas

PROSE

Meghan Noe

VISUAL ARTS

Alexis Seed

STANDARDS

FRANCES O’ROURKE