“The creative arts foster within us an aesthetic appreciation of our world and of ourselves. Writing enables us to share our innermost thoughts with others. It may create a tranquil world, a chaotic world, or a world filled with hope.” So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive. The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron. In establishing this endowment Mrs. Bell further said, “I can think of no better way in which to honor the memory of C. Gordon Bell ’50. It is
Front Cover: Kaori Yasunaga, Room 1, watercolor and ink
a gift of love in memory of a man and his love for the lively art of writing.” C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing editor of The Gardner News. Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding. Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.
Delilah Roberts. Lips Like Honey, colored pencil on paper
THE CAULDRON 2017
The Countdown Adarsh Kumar
2:00 I hear a soft beep and then the machine whirs to life with a soft humming sound. “Oh man, I shouldn’t even be here,” I think to myself. However did I get myself into this? I’m in a pitch black room with nothing but red numbers shining at me from the dark.
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie, Avocados, acrylic paint
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie, Avocados, acrylic
1:54 What would my mother say if she knew I was here? This seemed like a good idea at first, but the soft glow of the clock counting down in the dark has changed my mind. If only I had been able to resist the temptations to come here. For this task, it is imperative that I remain absolutely silent, but I feel like the hum of the black machine in the dark is slowly getting louder and that someone will catch onto what I’m doing here.
1:15 How could the counter have gone so far down without me noticing? I remind myself that this will require instant action at the right second, and I can’t afford any distractions. However, I can’t help thinking about the situation I’m in. Is it worth it? All this stress for a reward that I won’t remember the next day? I can’t waste precious seconds thinking about this.
:44 It’s starting to get down to the wire. If I don’t get this exactly right, there will be some serious repercussions. Mainly for me, since I’m the one who started this machine up in the first place. It seemed like a good idea at the moment, but I’m beginning to regret my decisions. :26 If those numbers reach zero, I’m done for. It’ll be like a nuclear bomb going off in my face. :05 This is it. The moment of truth :04 Almost there….
:03 Deep breaths. I got this. :02 Come on….
:01 Now! I lunge forward and jab my thumb on the button on the bottom left. With another soft beep, the machine winds down and goes silent. Success! I press another large button and a door on the front of the machine opens. I reach my hand in and pull a burrito out. I did it! I managed to turn the microwave off before the beeping woke up everyone else in my house! I go to take a bite out of the burrito, happy that I didn’t wake up my parents and get shouted at for making a burrito at one in the morning. My happiness evaporates when my teeth hit an ice cold burrito. I sigh and slip the burrito back into the microwave. Here we go again…. 12:02 am
Poetry Isabel Lieser All I See
Prose 4:17 am
Paul Mailhot-Singer Out of the Loop Farewell Neverland Empire
11:53 am 12:00 pm 7:08 pm
John LePino Into the Light
Sarah Choi Our Units of Time Toys
4:12 pm 10:45 pm
Kaori Yasunaga The Library One Moonlit Night
6:20 pm 11:27 pm
Gretchen Christophe Stages of Neurosis
Maddie Griswold Recovery Light
Authors Unknown Black-out Poem Black-out Poem Black-out Poem Black-out Poem
7:13 am 1:09 pm 2:35 pm 9:53 pm
Adarsh Kumar The Countdown
Kaori Yasunaga Interlunium Youth
2:23 am 11:37 am
Isabelle Constant Hedges Lane
Lucy Zhang The Clock Winder
Mixed Media, Ceramics Scott Lubin Lime Slime Cowtown Heights Charlie Jandrucko Lighthouse Jellyfish Wrapped Sticks Erin Cho Um... The Deers...? Walk Beside Me Untitled David Bird Horse Quail Sunao Takegami Lily
4:17 am 9:02 am 9:02 am 4:58 pm 4:58 pm 9:24 am 4:12 pm 11:07 pm 8:39 pm 8:39 pm 8:39 pm
Photography Lachlan Cormie Spiracles Strung Out Starry Light Trench
Delilah Roberts, Dicey, graphite
4:17 am 11:53 am 4:58 pm 6:20pm
Delilah Roberts, Lipsicle, pencil
Kaori Yasunaga Good For Now Existential Crisis Kingyo Sukui
3:27 pm 3:27 pm 11:40 am
Painting, Drawing Delilah Roberts Lips Like Honey Blackberry Babe Dicey Lipsicle Juicy Spit Bubbles Untitled Tango Refresh
12:00 am 1:00 am 1:00 am 1:00 am 4:58 pm 6:20 pm 9:53 pm 10:17 pm 10:45 pm
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie Avocados Proverbs 4:23 Lamentations 3:23 Psalm 107:1
12:02 am 7:13 am 7:13 am 7:13 am
Kaori Yasunaga My Memories Falling Apart Papa Wait I Hope You Know When I’m (Was) in Love Room 1 Room 2 Maybe It Doesn’t Matter Still Hello Self Portrait 1 Self Portrait 2 You and Me Snowy, Snowy What Color is the Sea? Adeline Last Night
2:23 am 3:11 am 3:11 am 11:37 am 12:00 pm 12:00 pm 2:35 pm 4:12 pm 7:41 pm 9:18 pm 9:18 pm 9:53 pm 10:45 pm 11:07 pm 11:07 pm 11:27 pm
Bryan Chong Pines and Stars
Delilah Roberts, Blackberry Babe, graphite Stanley Hsia Composition Interference
1:09 pm 11:40pm
Katherine Liu Tree of Kent Universe Levitation Virtual Reality
1:09 pm 2:35 pm 9:42 pm 10:17 pm
Sarah Choi A Soft Sound
Erin Cho Coming Out Prayer Untitled
6:20 pm 10:17 pm 11:07 pm
Ana Tikhonova Angel Marijuana Harpy No The Wall Talks Backwards Your head is a temple, and its god is dead
7:08pm 7:08 pm 7:41 pm 7:41 pm 9:42 pm
Interlunium Kaori Yasunaga
“Tonight’s the new moon,” he muttered, looking out the window with a long pipe in his hand. The chilly breeze of evening came whistling through the open window and swayed his long, shaggy hair. He blew a cloud of smoke in the air that shaped itself into hundreds of gulls and flew around the room. “Are you leaving again?” I asked. He looked back and stared at me. I could see his blue eyes peeping through his messy hair. “Will you come with me?” he said quietly. The gulls changed into fish and swam around me. The night fell. I sat by the window and watched the lamplight slowly approach from the distance and stop at the gate of my house. He had stolen a beautiful pony and let me ride her. He led her by the reins and we quietly started off the village. We went down the valley and crossed the wide, wide plain. The stars kept spilling down from the sky and scattered over our clothes. Then we reached a strange port town. A young man in a tuxedo passed by us on a camel. A woman in a red cape stood by the streetlamp, selling empty birdcages that all sang like there were birds inside. “This is a port of dream sellers,” he said. “They come from all places and all times.” “All times?”
Kaori Yasunaga, My Memories Falling Apart, photography
“From future and past. Some are already dead in our time, some are not yet born. They come to this port in their sleep.” At the balcony of a bar, an old man with a turban was discussing with a young man with a white wig. We went down the street and reached to the sea. We sold our pony and bought two ship tickets. Hundreds of lanterns gathered around the shore to show us off, as the ship slowly sailed out to the night sea. “You know we’ve always existed, you and I,” he said, watching the ripples shake the stars on the glassy sea. “The particles of us were here when the small rocks gathered up to form the earth, and they will still be here after we die. We always exist.” His eyes stared at mine and the past collided with the future. We lay down on the deck and fell asleep as unending time spun around us. I woke up the next morning with the sunlight streaming through the window of my room. My half-packed suitcase lay open beside my bed. I got out of my bed and rushed to his place. He was there, smoking his pipe on his usual chair. When he turned around and gazed at me, I felt something quickly slip out of my mind. I tried to remember what made me rush over to see him, but I couldn’t. His eyes wandered beyond the trembling smoke. “You smell of burning water,” he whispered.
Kaori Yasunaga, I Hope You Know, watercolor and pencil
Kaori Yasunaga, Papa Wait, watercolor and pencil
Lachlan Cormie, Spiracles, photography
Bryan Chong, Pines and Stars, oil on canvas
All I See Isabel Lieser
The tree is green. The rock is grey. The bricks are red. The moon is white. I am here. So are you. These are all things anyone can clearly see. But there is more here. There is more here in our shared space than just anyone can see. There are confusing things here. The heaviness I feel when I realize you are leaving soon. The blues I get when I realize I’m not. The thrill I feel when I see you, when you smile, when you laugh. The panic I get knowing that you will never understand how important you are. The melancholy I get when you speak about happy things that I can’t see. The frustration I have knowing you see me as nothing but a friend. The hopelessness I feel when I know you would never let me change your mind The defeat I feel when I realize we will never work. All these feelings confuse me. All I see is an inexplicable blur. But everyone else sees the bricks. The tree. The moon. You. Me. But they don’t see everything. I don’t see everything. But I see you. The bricks are red. The moon is white. And you are here. And so am I. And for now. That’s all I need to see. Scott Lubin, Lime Slime, foam core, wood, paint
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie, Psalm 107:1, acrylic
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie, Lamentations 3:23, acrylic
Adwoa Baffoe-Bonnie, Proverbs 4:23, acrylic
Author Unknown, Black-out Poem
Hedges Lane Isabelle Constant
I lose myself in the sound of water lapping at the sides of my kayak. The musky scent of clay drags me back to reality a moment before I am jolted to a halt: open water becomes mudbank. The afternoon sun glints off an indiscernible blue shape in my periphery. I glance up. A lacrosse stick lies among the graveyard of grimy sports equipment – rusting golf clubs, abandoned cleats, a mud-spattered bicycle – that distracts from the chipping paint and cracked windows of the house directly beyond it. My immediate reaction is to thrust my paddle into the bank and drift back into the current. My house is just around the corner; nobody has noticed me yet: I can still leave without drawing attention to myself. Something stops me, though: the slapping of hockey sticks. I see the eldest boy over the fence: his pale legs seem to glow in the sunlight as he plays street hockey with his brother Jack. His kind but frustratingly blue eyes that offset his fiery hair appear in my mind’s eye as he yells across the yard to me: “Hey! Wanna join?” Aside from the odd Easter egg hunt or Fourth of July cookout, I have had minimal interaction with the Hoffman family since we were driven apart by the force of adolescence. There was once a time when I would sit at my windowsill, waiting for the sun to climb high enough so I could trek through the woods to my neighbors’ swimming pool, an extension of
the mud graveyard of the front lawn, only to be pushed into its shady, bug-infested depths. My knee almost begins to throb, remembering the countless times I’d skinned it on the diving board. Other times we would sit together at their kitchen table, eating cereal for dinner and pizza for dessert. But as Mitchell began to grow, it became impossible to keep up with him. A single leap with his lanky legs would set him whole strides ahead of me. Hockey stopped being fun when I stopped having a fair chance. And as I started to grow, eating cereal and pizza at the same time started to disgust me. So I started venturing through the woods less and less. I no longer knew why the ever loudening shrieks from the other side of the tree line still came, and I started wondering what had changed, if anything. In the following years, entire summers would comprise of my father tramping inside, angrily yelling about how “those fucking neighbors won’t shut up” day after day. And so that’s all they became to me: those loud neighbors. I know I already err on the side of being too late to respond, but I feel compelled to. Just a simple “No, I should be on my way,” or something. Not that it would matter; Mitchell has already begun to brawl with Jack, his fists sending ripples through his pudgy belly. I am too fascinated by them to push back off into the water just yet. This is a novel experience for me. Normally I am only able to hear their
Charlie Jandrucko, Lighthouse, wood, plastics
Scott Lubin, Cowtown Heights, foam core, wood, paint
fights; I am now privy to the sight of one. Realizing my mistake of not leaving when I had the chance, I am almost afraid for him to come talk to me. My heart hammers in my chest as he jogs toward me. “So, uh… you just gonna stay there and watch, or…” He is in front of me now, gasping for breath. “I’m ju-just a little stuck that’s all,” I say, hating my nervous laugh. “I didn’t mean to bother you or anything.” He looks at the front of my kayak incredulously. “You don’t look too stuck. Did you even try pushing off ?” I don’t want to be in front of him anymore. I realize I no longer have his face memorized. Taking my pause as a refusal to comply, he tries again: “Wanna come play?” My need to know what happens on the other side of the woods overpowers my hesitations. With my nod, he hops down onto the mudbank and helps me drag my kayak up the shore. I trail behind him through the graveyard to the parking lot hockey rink, stepping carefully to avoid cleats and clubs. His dirty feet are well acquainted with the disheveled ground; they pick their way across the yard with no difficulty. Approaching the pavement, my foot catches on a dip in the ground. Familiar embarrassment washes over me, as does the memory of catching my tiny foot in this same dip so many years before. Like always, Mitchell takes no notice. He tosses me a stick, remembering my preferred blue righty with a crack running up the side and dirty tape 9:02 am
wound around the blade. We begin to play two-on-one: Mitchell takes my side against Jack. And just like that, I am once again a source of the echoes of slapshots that sprint through to my side of the tree line. The inimitable scraping of hockey sticks on pavement and joyful shrieks at each goal triggers memories: sitting by my pool praying for quiet; silently cursing the disturbers of my peace. But now I am a disruptor. As a child, my concern never laid with those who may have been bothered by my noise. How could someone flinch at the sound of joy? Yet for the past nine years, it was precisely these sounds that had caused me so much misery. Having crossed the hypothetical border set forth by an unspoken agreement,
I found myself transgressing upon the transgressors. So many afternoons by the pool had crawled by, dragged out by my frustration at the noise erupting out of the tree line. But after my moment as a once-again co-creator, I no longer covered an angry ear against the current of the sound, but instead reveled in the joy I once felt so readily.
Erin Cho, Um... The Deers...? mixed media
Kaori Yasunaga We learned today in class that youth is not everlasting. Mrs. Henning told us that we were all given the same amount of youths when we came to this world, and we cannot gain anymore but can only lose them. “How do you lose them?” Peter asked. “You drop them. Everywhere you go, youths fall out of your pocket little by little. You can drop them in your dreams too. Every morning you wake up, you have less and less youths. You’ll keep dropping them until you have no more left.” “How can I try not to drop them?” Anne asked. “Now that’s the difficult part. Many scientists have been trying to find the answer to your question, but no one has ever discovered it. But some believe that there are some activities in which you need to sacrifice a lot of youths, and by avoiding those activities in your life you will be able to keep more youths. Can anyone give an example?” Laura immediately raised her hand. “Yes, Miss Adams.” “Heartbreak. My great aunt told me that she lost twelve youths at once when her fiancé left her for someone else.” Everyone gasped. Twelve! Wow, twelve at once? “Very well, Miss Adams. Yes, many studies have concluded that heartbreak takes away many youths from a person. Some even say that you can drop many youths just by being in love. Things such as love or hope temporarily swell our youths, until they become too big and fall out of our pockets or simply explode.” “So is it better not to love? Not to hope?” Christopher asked. “I do not have an answer to your question either.” Mrs. Henning said. When I came back home after school, I took out all the youths from my pocket and put them on my desk. I tried to count them but there were too many. I was surprised that my small pocket could hold so many of them. The mountain of youths on my desk overwhelmed me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with them. They bounced and danced on the desk for a while and flew back into my pocket. Then I lied down on my bed and thought about Clara, and how she makes me feel when she flips her curly orange hair, and one youth slipped out of my pocket and crashed on the floor.
Kaori Yasunaga, When Iâ€™m (Was) In Love, watercolor and pencil
Out of the Loop
Lachlan Cormie, Strung Out, photography
That night you laughed a crazy laughter, It was crazy because I knew you had no clue what you were laughing at. My feet dragged along as I endured your melancholy mirth—so foreign, so cold Like the steady breeze that now bit my face. My cheeks stung at first but now they only tingled, We’d been walking in loops. You’d only stopped once to empty your pockets. I didn’t know pockets could hold so much.
When it was dark, I asked you what it felt like to lose control— Was it like staring in the mirror and feeling scared? Or was it reassuring because nothing mattered anymore? Did you wind down roads to see if things would make sense? Were you disappointed when all you found was that unfinished pack of gum From last week jutting out from the back seat cushion? Did you scream and pound on the steering wheel? Or did you pull over, wait in the silence and listen to the engine whirr? That night you were lonely in your strange hilarity. I told you I felt lonely too and I hadn’t even gone mad And I explained that if you didn’t drive me mad then walking in loops surely would. After that you talked less and I gave up. At first I’d thought that with madness came some transcendent sense of truth But now madness disgusted me. When I got home I prayed you didn’t turn simple in your frolicking folly But I already knew you would.
Kaori Yasunaga, Room 2 , waterolor and ink
Kaori Yasunaga, Room 1, waterolor and ink
Farewell Neverland Paul Mailhot-Singer
Recently my dreams have changed— My dreams used to be elusive, Slick at the touch, But now they feel permanent and warmer Like I’ve escaped the bedrock Where I was once anchored And can approach an unhindered core. I often dream of afternoon conversations And morning outbursts And sometimes pain that nags And strains at my spine. For once, there is an unparalleled quality to my dreams, As they accompany me in throngs And resound like the falling strains of a pleasing chord. In the morning, I find myself musing over My new, unfamiliar fantasy And its destiny— Either to live on or fade Into my usual, confused Neverland. So, I lie there in bed Enjoying the half-light Breathing deeply And freely And wondering If I’m reaching a new shore Or slowly retreating to the last one. 12:00 pm
Stanley Hsia, Composition, ink
Author Unknown, Black-out Poem
Katherine Liu, Tree of Kent, acrylic on wood
Katherine Liu, Universe, ink
Kaori Yasunaga, Maybe It Doesnâ€™t Matter, watercolor and pencil
Author Unknown, Black-out Poem
Kaori Yasunaga, Existential Crisis, photography
Kaori Yasunaga, Good For Now, photography
Into the Light John LePino
I was striding down the muddy road with jagged ice patches It was dark and I could hear the shriek of Lucifer being carried through the wind I was scared; but I pressed on, crested hill of Sisyphus; then the wind ceased The world lightened up and I could see the puddles reflecting the sun like a mirror The intense glimmering of the sun juxtaposed with the shadows of the arctic was overwhelming It was fire and ice blending on the oasis of self-reflection
Everything was silent, yet I heard the most resonating sound Iâ€™ve ever heard in my life It was all so beautiful; I had to stopâ€”
Kaori Yasunaga, Still, watercolor, pencil
A Light so bright even Apollo himself would have envied it
Our Units of Time Sarah Choi
20 houses we stroll past along the stream, laughing, because none of those houses will ever be as much of a home as we are 15 streets we take lefts and rights, tracing our way to match the map drawn on the inside of my hand
Erin Cho, Walk Beside Me, mixed media
10 strangers we brush shoulders against, realizing the indifferent look in their eyes resemble the look of ours 5 glasses we empty each, trying to forget the wall written on your hand, and to not wake up alone at night 0 meaning we now put in our “how are you”s and “i love you”s 4:12 pm
Lachlan Cormie, Starry Light, photography Delilah Roberts, Juicy, oil on canvas
Charlie Jandrucko, Wrapped Sticks, mixed media
Charlie Jandrucko, Jellyfish, mixed media
Delilah Roberts, Spit Bubbles, graphite
The Library Kaori Yasunaga
I once went to a library In my dream. An enormous library Of unfinished stories, With shapeless, Twinkling thoughts Floating around everywhere Instead of lamps. An old librarian Approached me and said: This is the library Of all the stories left untold, All the words left unsaid.
Come, he led me to one shelf. It was almost empty. This is your shelf. Every thought that arises And dies within you Will be stored here forever. I smiled and cried. So nothing could be truly lost.
From top to bottom: Erin Cho, Coming Out, acrylic Sarah Choi, A Soft Sound, pen Lachlan Cormie, Trench, photography
Anastasia Tikhonova, Angel Marijuana, etching
Anastasia Tikhonova, Harpy, watercolor Anastasia Tikhonova, Harpy, painting
Paul Mailhot-Singer Aheadâ€” The wind whips the city into a murmur And the horizon into a trembling pulse, Belowâ€” I watch the darkness of the buildings And the glow of the streets, Discreetly, I peak through the fence Into the soft autumn of the night
Anastasia Tikhonova, The Wall Talks Backwards, ink
Stages of Neurosis Gretchen Christophe
Fear of noise - Acousticophobia Fear of thunder - Tonitrophobia Fear of monsters - Teraphobia Fear of darkness - Nyctophobia Fear of strangers - Xenophobia Fear of heights - Acrophobia
Anastasia Tikhonova, No, pencil and ink
Fear of getting lost - Mazeophobia Fear of not fitting in - Anthrophobia Fear of being laughed at - Gelotophobia Fear of being single - Anuptaphobia Fear of public speaking - Glossophobia Fear of crowds - Enochlophobia Fear of something new - Cenophobia Fear of imperfection - Atelophobia Fear of making decisions - Decidophobia Fear of failure - Atychiphobia
Kaori Yasunaga, Hello, etching
Fear of helplessness - Agoraphobia Fear of illness - Hypochondriasis Fear of death - Thanatophobia Fear of clocks - Chronomentrophobia Fear of getting older - Gerontophobia Fear of being alone - Monophobia Fear of pain - Agliophobia Fear of passing moments - Chronophobia Fear of being forgotten - Athazagoraphobia
David Bird, Quail, ceramic
Sunao Takegami, Lily, ceramic
David Bird, Horse, ceramic
The Clock Winder In the golden dusk of early June, I tread upon the boundless meadow, clusters after clusters of white daisies rushing out from the ground, kissing my feet gently. After another long and tedious day, the sun can’t wait to melt into the soft embrace of the sea again, with his hurtful power diluted by her tenderness, leaving only a beam of lonely light lingering atop the water. Faint stars with prankish eyes peek out through the clouds, as I chase the cricket whose chirping song grows weaker and weaker and eventually blends into the ceaseless night. Beyond the railroad stroll the silhouettes of a boy and a girl, hands barely touching, heartbeats barely heard. Without a noise, I tiptoe towards them, and the silhouettes stretch, little by little, with a pace matching my cautious steps. A curious breeze, mesmerized by the shades of the warm chestnut brown, fiddles lightly with the girl’s hair and her blue satin ribbon. And then, I stop.
Kaori Yasunaga, Self-Portrait #1, pencil and watercolor
I stop my trembling feet before I disturb this mid-summer night’s serenade. Then the breeze freezes. The silhouettes stop stretching. And the notes of the cricket song wander aimlessly in the air. How I long to stay, to stay in this one single slice of the continuum, perfectly still, safe from the obstreperousness of the outside world! But I can’t. Forward I have to go, and so do the breeze, the silhouettes, and the cricket song.
Nothing but white I see, until the little gray spots appear, blurry and unfocused. I slow down my steps, and the spots grow into larger entities of black, their contours clearer and more recognizable. I see the railroad, old and rusty. I see a train passing by, steaming and roaring into the remote. I see the blue satin ribbon following the train until it has gone out of sight. I see little droplets of tears, tears that melt the white snow and nourish the wilting grass, tears that carry the crushed hope and the shattered dream, a future that is no longer tangible and worth waiting. And now, I stand at the crossroad. In front of me thousands of paths meander, each leading to a different destination. I take a glimpse into one of the paths and see a man kneeling in front of a tomb on which a blue satin ribbon is laid. Silent tears stream down his wrinkled face, as the girl smiles to him warmly, in the picture on the tombstone. On another path, the same man with wrinkled face is stepping off the train, greeted by the
blue satin ribbon in a checkered apron, with four bouncy kids surrounding them like pedals of a flower. Radiating smiles, instead of tears, are forever carved into the wrinkles of their eyes. I close my eyes, amid thousands of different sounds buzzing around me: the sounds of crying, laughter, murmuring, screaming; the sounds of joy, fear, love, despair; the sounds of silence; the sounds of a universe. Off I go onto the path, leaving a trail of lonely footprints behind, until I blend into the unknown. And then, the clock starts running, again.
Kaori Yasunaga, Self-Portrait #2, pencil and watercolor
Pushed by an unknown force of Destiny, I run and run, and things around me start to collapse, topple, swirl, and finally rearrange themselves in a new order. I donâ€™t remember how many withering willow trees or sinking suns I run past, but I do remember the white that encircles and engulfs me, the bleak, glaring, endless white.
Recovery Light Maddie Griswold
Light shines brightest after fiercest rain, Though as you’re trudging it may not seem so, Even when you think you’ll never see the sun again. It might seem as though you’re singing one refrain, Over and over through one thought you go, Light shines brightest after fiercest rain. Just as you seem to be trying in vain, You will emerge stronger and even grow, Even when you think you’ll never see the sun again. And from the darkness and pain, While you may seem to have taken a fatal blow, Light shines brightest after fiercest rain. You will become stronger for the fear you have slain, And your struggle they might never know, Even when you think you’ll never see the sun again. The strength surges as from your body drains, Of a sadness ingrained so long ago, Light shines brightest after fiercest rain Even when you think you’ll never see the sun again.
Katherine Liu, Levitation, charcoal
Anastasia Tikhonova, Your head is a temple, and its god is dead, acrylic
Delilah Roberts, Untitled, oil on canvas
Author Unknown, Black-out Poem Kaori Yasunaga, You and Me, medium sumi-ink and white paint
o, P ray er,
Katherine Liu, Virtual Reality, scratchboard
Katherine Liu, Virtual Reality, scratchboard
Delilah Roberts, Tango, graphite
Sarah Choi the businessman walks home with his briefcase and his straight face stacked with lines and sighs; the shoemaker flips the sign to “sorry, we’re closed!” and the sound of his shoes flopping off brings his wife with more than a kiss; the writer looks out at the crescent moon, and as the night breeze fiddles his messy hair, he writes a story of a little boy who lives on a star; the youthful come out to play like pesky little nymphs letting out laughs sealed in bottles, drinking, fooling around spinning, squealing, and vomiting— so the next time your six-year-old asks if toys come alive at night, tell him no; it’s not the toys, it’s us.
Kaori Yasunaga, Snowy Snowy, pencil
Delilah Roberts, Refresh, oil on canvas
Kaori Yasunaga, What Color is the Sea?, watercolor and pencil
Erin Cho, Untitled, watercolor and ink
Kaori Yasunaga, Adeline, pencil, watercolor and ink
One Moonlit Night Kaori Yasunaga
I saw a man one moonlit night, He too seemed madly drunk, as he Went stumbling, swaying like a kite, Down one long street with none to see: Beneath the moonlight glimmering blue, His ghastly visage wandered low, And with a sudden hunch I knew, Iâ€™d seen him long, long time ago: He sang a strange, familiar tune, The one Iâ€™d heard in olden days: I started sobbing like a loon, As all things vanished in a daze: And suddenly, he turned and said, I know you too, I know you too: Then turned around and went ahead, Into the haze, adieu, adieu!
Kaori Yasunaga, Last Night, pencil, watercolor and ink
Kaori Yasunaga, Kingyo Sukui, photography
Editors-in-Chief: Paul Mailhot-Singer Melissa Yukseloglu Editors at Large: Kaori Yasunaga Jessica Zong Paige Wu
Staff: Sarah Choi Isabel Lieser Sally Jee Ana Tikhonova Sunny Li Audrey Zhang Faculty Advisor: Joseph McDonough
Stanley Hsia, Interference, ink The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedicated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of 570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymously, are selected by an editorial board of students. This edition is set in Adobe Caslon using Adobe InDesign CS5. Allied Printing of Manchester, CT prints and binds the magazine. This issue was printed on paper with 15% PCW. All of the electricity used to manufacture the paper and print the magazine is generated by wind and solar power.
Back Cover: Kaori Yasunaga, Room 2, watercolor and ink