Blue Review 2020

2020

Blue Review Volume XXVIII

VOLUME XXVIII

Editors-in-Chief for Art: Ryan Bland ’21 and Jay Howley ’21 Editors-in-Chief for Literary: Birdy McDonnell ’20 and Lian Wang ’21

Managing Editor: Julee Rodgers ’20 Cover Designers: Jay Howley ’21 and Ali Nurkhaidorav ’20 Spread Designer: Jay Howley ’21 Art Staff: Lucy Bowman ’21, Stanley Fang ’21, Michelle Feng ’22, Dalila Melkumova ’21, Ali Nurkhaidarov ’20, Dalilah Winter ’22, Joie Xiao ’22 Literary Staff: Carina Cole ’22, Sabine Ellison ’21, Dylan Gantt ’21, Clara Getty ’21, Sarah Noorbakhsh ’21, Emma Shuford ’22 Faculty Advisors: Kristen Pixler and Michele Poacelli

Blue Review is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association Published in 2020

By Mercersburg Academy 100 Academy Drive Mercersburg, Pennsylvania 17236

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Table of Contents 1 Mother Tongue

2 Ata

3 Bedraggled Blossoms

4 Cow Portrait 5

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 20 21-22 23 24 25 26 27-28 29 30 31 32 33-34

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Painted Imagery Golden Acres Potato Farm Expansion Medusa Me and My Paintings Fleur de Corps Life Must Go On Teapot When I See a Swallowtail Return Reflection Face 7.

Anthem Prayer I don’t need a medic I need top Terrestrial Affliction Self Portrait Gray Pasts Self Portrait 1 Self Portrait 2 Culture Shock Conflict in Winter Story of a Girl Late Night Perspective MPH Eat Bugs

Lian Wang ’21 Julee Rodgers ’20 Aidan Ferrin ’20 Taylor Chepren ’21 Samuel Nobile ’21 Jay Howley ’21 Birdy McDonnell ’20 Joie Xiao ’22 Anonymous Birdy McDonnell ’20 Emma Shuford ’22 Jeff Han ’21 Clara Getty ’21 Shin Miyamichi ’22 Alexa Marsh ’21 Isonah Marlyse Ngouabe Dlodlo ’22 Jesse Zhang ’20 Jesse Zhang ’20 Ali Nurkhaidarov ’20 Cole Smith ’23 Selina Xue ’20 Alison Huang ’22 Zareena Sorho ’22 Zareena Sorho ’22 Clarissa Thompson ’20 Naia Jurgenson ’21 Saskia Mentor ’21 Samuel Nobile ’21 Jay Howley ’21 Chelsea Seaby-Bruno ’21

35 Bananas in Watercolor

36 Banana Pieta 37 The Jones

38 Am I Melting???

40 Fleetwoodmack

41 In the Face of Fear

42 Cliff

43 Burnout

44 Ben De

45 Black and White... and Blue

46 Window Panes

47-48 Making the Stranger I’ve Become Familiar Again 49 Turn Right

50 medium

51 Red Anger

52 False Innocence

53-54 Ruined Books

55 wild blueberries

56 Emergence

58 Kinda

59 while you were swimming

60 give me a hand22

61-62 Trips to Johns Hopkins 63 My Nerves

64 Cramp Man 2

65 Intermeddlers

66 Reflections of a Shattered Mind 67 Color Theory

68 When the Moon Fell Down 69 Bruit

70 Stanley Drumming

71 an elegy for the falling sky

72 Promise

73 Look Up

74 Cabhrú

Clara Getty ’21 Clara Getty ’21 Zoe Gooch ’20, Natalie Titus ’20, Clarissa Thompson ’20 Shin Miyamichi ’22 Ali Nurkhaidarov ’20 Allison Schuldt ’20 Kenneth Yonke ’22 Natalie Titus ’20 Julee Rodgers ’20 Selina Xue ’20 Birdy McDonnell ’20 Sarah Noorbakhsh ’21 Lucy Bowman ’21 Sean Fiscus ’20 Dalilah Winter ’22 Samantha Gerstel ’22 Eliza DuBose ’20 Sean Fiscus ’20 Naeemah Winter ’20 Ali Nurkhaidarov ’20 Farah Yahaya ’21 Ali Nurkhaidarov ’20 Mel Cort ’23 Dylan Gantt ’21 Jay Howley ’21 Mel Cort ’23 Zander Patent ’20 Shin Miyamichi ’22 Carina Cole ’22 Maggie Betkowski ’21 Jay Howley ’21 Lian Wang ’21 Stanley Fang ’21 Mia Ingram ’21 Julee Rodgers ’20

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Mother Tongue

by Lian Wang

How do I describe that when I first mumbled “mama,” she didn’t know if it was English or Chinese How do I describe that it’s a futile search for what sounds my lips first molded to, what language first constructed my thoughts, when I am still drafting my definition of “first” How do I describe that it’s neither fork nor chopsticks feeding me morsels of sound that fuse on the heat of my tongue That I don’t detach my tongue and switch to a spare like one might a screwdriver or a wrench

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But my words do rust, they tarnish and crumble when I no longer forge their shapes And when I try to reassemble the syllables, they become screeches of metal on metal, ugly to my ears clumsy between my teeth That sometimes I call my mom over the phone and forget how to cry in Chinese, fluent in “anger” and “sorrow” but not in nu and ai She begs Merriam Webster to relay her daughter’s voice, but I know and she knows we’re searching in different dictionaries, and the shelves between us only grow

“Ata”

Julee Rodgers

Acrylic Painting

40” by 36”

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Bedraggled Blossoms

by Aidan Ferrin

Lonesome lilacs on the wall, you, the fairest of them all.

Crowned with daisies, buds of white, blooming within shadowed light, Resting dark on concrete floor, silent, speaking nevermore Verdant vase is singing softly, stuttered voices none can see.

Summer-seeking flowers weeping, Limply wishing just to be Shady curtain, drawing closer, dim and foggy, murky blight.

Spineless blossoms, fearing umbra, bend directly, ever-gently, Into regions lantern-bright Lovely lilacs on the wall, leaflets drifting, tilting fall.

Closing daisies, yellow hearts, sheltered beneath petals’ parts, Sitting graceful on the floor, life so short, speak nevermore

“Cow Portrait”

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Taylor Chepren

Mixed Media

22” by 18”

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Golden Acres Potato Farm

by Jay Howley

An old barn’s boards set with a slightly sunken sun slowly slipping sluggishly sideways into a honeydew horizon as a happy hello for an old friend long missed who slips through a silver sliver of the smile of the man in the moon who goes and gazes upon the golden acre’s gilded gates of green grazed grasses and grains aplenty baled and bedded in a bedlam of barley and buds of tillers and tows which the son had sowed and brought back to the old barn.

“Painted Imagery”

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Samuel Nobile

Alcohol Transfer

10” by 15”

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Expansion

by Birdy McDonnell I lay to rest in my Cradle of down Soft snow My gaze keeping watch On the icicles chiming From the trees Composed by gentle winds Made harsher by the hour In the spring I will thaw And my limbs will reach Into the soil And I will grow roots From my veins But for now I will watch Glassy eyed As the snowdrift grows In a silent symphony

My body will be A topiary A nursery for life Fragrant flowers Will bear sweet fruit My bones will calcify And provide trellis For the vines Where my veins used To carry my life I will grow toward the blue sky Like my once frostbitten Lips now turned Petal pink with the bloom Of a flower born of me

From below I will Extend up towards the New sun “Medusa”

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Joie Xiao

Ceramic Sculpture

9.5” by 9.5” by 8”

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Me and My Paintings

by Anonymous

I sit in a hidden corner of a familiar place with my “artworks” sheltering my side, as I finally allow my mind to wander through the convolution that is my heart.

Loving is scary.

Offering yourself to another being with no assurance that they will welcome you that they will want you is scary.

I want someone to find me and my paintings here.

I want someone to find me and my paintings here.

I’m filled with an insatiable desire for life that I can’t seem to quell or satisfy.

“Fleur de Corps”

Birdy McDonnell

Mixed Media

12” by 36”

I want someone to find me here with my paintings.

I want someone to find me here with my paintings.

I want someone to paint me.

Please find me here.

And don’t forget my paintings.

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Life Must Go On

by Emma Shuford

His fingers have touched every surface, His footsteps echo down the halls, His laughter.

The stain from his favorite Ben & Jerry’s ice cream On his worn chair beside the fireplace.

The one I could never live without, Gone to a better place, they say.

All I know is the house is empty Without his humming as he cooked, Hand gripping mine during a scary movie.

Life must go on, they say.

How do I adjust to life’s new emptiness?

Always here for you, they say, The one I need most will never come again.

But life must go on.

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“Teapot”

Jeff Han

Ceramics

5” by 5” by 6”

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When I See a Swallowtail

by Clara Getty

I reminisce about a time when I thought the most abstract thing in life Was a kaleidoscope.

I held the cylinder And glanced into the hole, one eye shut.

My five-year-old self could not comprehend how all these moving pieces Came together to form one piece of art.

Dad said to me, “Look. There’s Grandma now.”

And even though none of it really made sense, I believed him.

Five year old me also did not understand When my mother sat me down one day and said, “Grandma is really sick.”

But Mom and Dad seemed to know what was going on, And part of me thought that someday I would get it too.

I cannot explain why I feel my grandmother’s presence When I see a swallowtail butterfly.

I’ve never been able To separate the pieces of the kaleidoscope, But I still remember the pattern I saw While I was standing there Looking through the glass.

The day she died, A yellow butterfly flew right by the window.

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In that moment everything came together To form one image I’ll remember forever.

All the gleaming, rotating gems Were in exactly the right position.

“Return”

Shin Miyamichi

Digital Illustration

16” by 15”

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Reflection

by Alexa Marsh

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the corner of a shattered mirror. for a split second I stare unfazed at an unrecognizable face and wonder at its sharp features, its pale, tender skin and icy eyes, until I gasp and feel my trembling fingertips shroud my quivering lips.

I turn away.

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“Face 7.”

Isonah Marlyse Ngouabe Dlodlo

Photography

30” by 24”

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“Anthem”

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Jesse Zhang

Digital Photography

16” by 20”

“Prayer”

Jesse Zhang

Photography

20” by 15”

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“I don’t need a medic I need top”

Ali Nurkhaidarov

Digital Painting

8” by 8”

Terrestrial Affliction

by Cole Smith

The sound of water dripping from the ceiling of the cave was in unison with the throbbing of my leg which had been injured from the fall. I suppose that I was lucky under these circumstances.

I made it out of a thirty-foot fall with only a few broken ribs and a leg cut deep by rocks. I suppose it was only natural that, while investigating the source of countless disappearances, I found myself in trouble. I kept moving, even though my leg was practically torn to shreds, knowing that if I didn’t, I would be doomed to die alone in the dark.

I stumbled around from wall to wall with my hands in front of me, grasping for any sense of direction. Ahead of me, I finally sensed light emerging from the darkness. I practically sprinted towards the light, almost falling multiple times, but as I neared, I realized that the escape I was so desperate for was not an exit at all. I did a double-take as I entered the dimly lit room that still almost blinded me after the darkness that had surrounded me before. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling were nearly completely covered with fungi of various shapes, sizes, and colors. Even the air itself had a strange haze that seemed to be emitting from the fungi.

The red and blue glow of the mysterious fungi lit the room, allowing me to actually see where I was going. As I moved forward, the fungi seemed to pulse and grow brighter. I was able to see that the area I was standing upon was actually the overhang of a deep abyssal pit that remained pitch black even though the lights above were still growing brighter. It took me multiple minutes to realize that my injuries had driven me to the

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ground. I started to feel exhaustion setting in from the hours I had spent blindly stumbling throughout the cave, and I decided to take a break on the edge of the chasm.

I stared out into the void, my thoughts unnaturally peaceful.

The air around me seemed to grow heavier, and the haze that had before only been a thin mist had turned into a thick, impenetrable fog.

That was when the darkness above the chasm started to glow. It was almost as if the walls that had been surrounding the pit had come to life, the once stagnant fungi taking on a mind of its own, moving off the walls to float above the chasm. As the creatures began to move towards me, I saw the mist that seemed to be everywhere in the passage behind me emitting from them as well, as if they were made of fungi themselves. I counted about nine of the creatures, although one of them seemed different than the others, more important, more powerful, more deadly.

As the creatures finally took their positions in front of me, my already weak body seemed to grow heavier, holding me against the ground. I simply sat there as the lead creature and eight followers converged upon me, the haze growing even thicker and the mushrooms creatures becoming almost unbearably bright. I tried to stand and run, but my vision was going dark. Somehow I managed to get to my feet, my heart practically soaring with triumph, but I was back on the cold rocky floor before I could even process my success. I once again stared out into the void, looking upon the beast that ruled over the other monsters. I saw its head open, revealing a mouth previously hidden to me, and the last thing I saw before my vision blacked out was rows upon rows of large fangs glistening, waiting hungrily to eat.

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Gray Pasts

by Alison Huang

Reflections daunted me, reminding me of a past that I’d like to forget.

My scars haunted me, and when I tried to cover them, they resurfaced like bubbles underwater.

I thought if I ignored them enough, they would have gone away.

I shielded myself from the rubbles of the past, as they came crumbling down left and right.

The stench of sour cringe polluted the air, as if you could feel the emotion from the atmosphere.

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“Self Portrait”

Selina Xue

Silver Gelatin Print

24” by 26”

But she (I) picked up the broomstick and started sweeping.

She (I) cleaned up our mess And hid them under the big, heavy blanket.

She taped my smiles up and tied puppet strings to my body.

She taught me how to pretend to be fine.

She said we are all just pretending.

And I learned.

She is my reflection.

She is I.

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“Self Portrait 1”

Zareena Sorho

Digital Photography

20” x 15”

“Self Portrait 2”

Zareena Sorho

Photography

20” x 15”

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Culture Shock Excerpts from a Journal

by Clarissa Thompson On the 17th of August, 2016, my family and I moved from Cape Town, South Africa to Mercersburg, Pennsylvania, USA. 18/8/2016. I have never seen so many seemingly identical houses on the same street before. As we pull into Overhill Drive in our blue rental Honda, I gaze in wonder and bewilderment at the rows of fence-less, flowerless gardens that look like they’ve been pulled straight out of a children’s picture book.

19/8/2016. My eyes widen at the legion of fast food restaurants beside, in front of and behind me. Their doors are gates to a conveyor belt in which food enters only to come out as something lumpy, brown and fried, only moderately resembling food.

3/9/2016. I feel shabby and out of place but excited as I walk down the perfectly manicured path towards Maths class. All around me I see Gucci, North Face, Adidas and Nike. Money is no object.

11/9/2016. I learnt lots on my first day of school, but not about fractions or German verb conjugations. I learnt that outdoor hiking backpacks from Patagonia and North Face are actually school backpacks. I learnt that no girl goes anywhere without her obnoxiously large water bottle. I learnt that Apple laptops, iPads and iPhones were the only way to go; Samsung doesn’t even exist.

I also learnt that the amount of money and expensive clothes these people have doesn’t make them treat me any less kindly.

2/8/2017. Siri tells me that I have arrived at my destination. I

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don’t expect much, but bring my wallet just in case. I have never felt more blindsided. I expected a few measly racks of seventh hand t-shirts, but what meets my eyes are rows upon rows upon rows of a variety of cool clothes in great condition. I walk away with a bulging bag of goodies, the name “Goodwill” written proudly across the bag in lettering colored the same blue of the American flag.

6/8/2017. Today I learnt that describing someone is rude. Can I describe someone as having brown hair? Yes, that’s fine. Can I describe someone as having brown skin? Sure, if you want to be called racist.

13/9/2017. Lunch in the dining room today was an astonishing experience. I cannot fathom why someone would use their finger to push rice onto their fork when there is a perfectly good knife on the other side of the room, just screaming to be used. Seemingly unaware of the asset that is the knife, people try to cut chicken with the blunt side of the fork. Knives don’t get nearly enough credit in America; forks are the clear favorite, the star of the show.

24/7/2018. People selling sunglasses, art and car chargers no longer hassle me as I wait for the robot to turn green again on my way home from school. In Philly there is no one poking their head and merchandise into my window uninvited, begging for ten rand. Selfishly I miss this South African cultural norm, yet I’m grateful that here, there are more jobs for people to keep them off the streets.

29/12/2018. I got in the wrong car door again. I may as well just learn to drive so I don’t have to keep going back and forth from the driver’s to passenger’s seat.

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Story of a Girl

by Saskia Mentor

She was a girl who you observed and saw to be blue eyed and wide eyed and grinning.

She was a girl who heard the black crow caw and threw her own back, set on winning.

She is a girl who you observe and see to be blue eyed and closed eyed and thinking.

She is a girl who leaves the black crow be because she, too, can feel her heart sinking.

She’ll be a girl who you’ll observe and see to be blue eyed and bright eyed and trying.

She’ll be a girl who the black crow will free and both creatures will soon emerge flying.

“Conflict in Winter”

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Naia Jurgenson

Graphite Drawing

20” by 15”

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MPH

by Jay Howley

The ambient pitter-patter of bugs gored on the windshield bathed in an ochre-tinted luminescence of a lonely faded headlight act as my passengers and unwitting witnesses as I collide with the mottle-marked mass caught in my bleary view.

The thing limps off, trailing a sanguine zig-zag into the white-tail’s wood, and I scurry off towards the pavement recesses from which I came.

“Late Night Perspective”

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Samuel Nobile

Alcohol Transfer

10” by 15”

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Eat Bugs

by Chelsea Seaby-Bruno Nutritious, waste-conscious, and easily hidden, bugs are the food source of the future. Don’t believe me? Ok, let’s compare them to the dastardly cow. Cows produce a whopping 18% of all greenhouse gases, more than the combined exhaust of all transportation. They generate 150 billion gallons of methane, which is 25-50 times more toxic than carbon dioxide and accounts for 80-90% of US water consumption. Look deep into a cow’s beady eyes; it is the true culprit behind global devastation. Compare this to crickets, who use 95% less water than cows and produce less waste (80% of the cricket’s body compared to only 40% of the cow’s body can be consumed). Did you know that if 50% of meat consumption was replaced by insects, it could help stabilize global warming and prevent further environmental damage? They are also proteinpacked, can be incorporated in food, and add a nutritional punch. And don’t worry, squeamish folk, these insects have no distinguishable flavor whatsoever. Food brands such as Crické and Exo Protein Bars, which are sold in major food distributors across the country, already use crickets in their products.

With all this information, it would be selfish not to consider eating bugs. But what stops us is our conditioned physical repulsion to bugs. This disgust comes not from our own volition, but rather from the whims and fancies of marketers and stocks. The agricultural industry doesn’t want cows to be less profitable, instead, they brainwash the public to be revolted by the little critters. By doing this, they capture loyal consumers, milking them for their money and gathering their assets like cattle. In order to fight the blood hungry capitalists and save the Earth, we must adapt our eating habits and replace meat with bugs.

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Is it a hard sell? Perhaps in a Western-centric society, but heed this. Those businessmen in their skyscrapers want you to want cows. They flaunt the cow’s legs, luring us with their tasty flesh. Succulent hamburgers, juicy steaks, delicious roast beef they mock us with the promise of flavorful meat. Those sexy, sexy cows. After the warnings I have passed on to you, why give in to the industry’s desires? One must not be slaves to instinct, simply because we are programmed to desire the dripping flesh of the innocent. Why hate the little cricket just because it looks icky? Is it because of its negative public perception? If so, shame on us. Shame on us for valuing appearances more than substance, shame on us for choosing based on prejudice, and shame on us for ignoring the truth. When the world is at the brink of destruction, where do you stand? With the cows, keeping to the status quo that chains humanity to its grave? Or with the crickets, the humble underdogs who only need a chance to shine?

Who will get the chopping block? The choice is yours.

1 Phillip Ross, “Cow Farts Have ‘Larger Greenhouse Gas Impact’ than Previously Thought; Methane Pushes Climate Change,” International Business Times, last modified November 26, 2013.

2 Ibid.

3 Gayathri Vaidyanathan, “How Bad of a Greenhouse Gas Is Methane?” Scientific American, last modified December 22, 2015.

4 “How Important Is Irrigation to U.S. Agriculture?” USDA: Economic Research Service, last modified October 2016.

5 Signe Dean, “Switching Just 50% of Our Meat to Insects Can Seriously Reduce Land Use,” ScienceAlert, last modified May 17, 2017.

6 Holly Van Hare, “The Future of Protein Really Bugs Us (‘cause It’s Crickets),” Los Angeles Times, last modified December 7, 2017.

7 Dean, “Switching Just 50% of Our Meat to Insects.”

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“Banana Pieta”

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“Bananas in Watercolor”

Clara Getty

Watercolor

18” by 6”

Clara Getty

Sculpture

6” by 10” by 10”

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The Jones

by Zoe Gooch, Natalie Titus, Clarissa Thompson

The dog next door watches me through the window I watch it back and stick my tongue out The Jones think their shih tzu, Ferguson III, is the better dog But I can carry more rawhide bones around than he can My opposable thumbs help with that My mommy tells me to stop pooping in the yard but I do it anyway Got em.

“Am I Melting???”

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Shin Miyamichi

Acrylic Painting

14” by 16”

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“Fleetwoodmack”

Ali Nurkhaidarov

Digital Painting

8” by 8”

In the Face of Fear

by Allison Schuldt

Fear-my eyes widen my jaw drops my incandescent heart freezes until it’s all I can feel.

Numb like a statue, I think to move my body or even blink, Nothing.

My brain moves in a million directions Fast, thinking the next move.

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In the Grim face of Fear I have a choice To run away or to confront, To let Fear shepherd me down a tunnel of its control Or look dead in its eye and say, “You do not rule me.”

My body swells with energy as a shield, So mighty and grand, acts as my guardian angel. With a breath in, then out, the shield soars forward driving Fear in a lightning retreat, The gold light, blinding like the sun expanding at a thousand miles a second Amplifying its omnipotent power in all directions, Overthrowing anything Fear presents.

In the blink of an eye What encompassed my entire body in darkness, Courage has banished, vanquished.

It’s now all I see, all I know, all I am.

“Cliff”

Kenneth Yonke

Sculpture

6” by 6” by 24”

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Burnout

by Natalie Titus

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Burning, out.

I thought you lit the flame that without the oxygen of you there was no way it could continue But I burnt out instead Because you see For me The issue went deeper than visible glory Rooted in more than just the captivating sea Of red and orange and heartbreaking disparity Those flames were just a scapegoat A distraction from the raw catch in my throat When I said, I’m fine, to answer a throwaway question my own self-protection Because sometimes it’s easier to place blame on a blown fuse of two people To assume that after three new moons and cut wires we will rebloom

Ignoring that maybe the roots below the destroyed bud are what’s really starving for lifeblood, a lifeline But no one sees below the pipeline No one’s ever performed surgery on a soul Reaching blindly under the dirt the superficial surface of hurt The only way to fix is to uproot, press reboot Because even after I swept away the shattering ashes of our past, our unbearable aftermath Damage remained So before any new flowers could replace the one of you and me I had to replant my tree Water my roots and start again

“Ben De”

Julee Rodgers

Acrylic Painting

18” by 36”

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Window Panes

by Birdy McDonnell

We understand each person Through a unique window, One cracked, One stained, Another tinted, Each pane painting a story Partially obscured by warped glass, Reflected images Looking back at each other.

The window through which I see you Is fogged and on it I draw hearts Each imperfect.

The glass shatters Into diamonds, Tension released Rippling out like water.

From my outstretched hand Condensation drips down to Meet your chest below And it lands on your heart.

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“Black and White... and Blue”

Selina Xue

Photography

24” x 16”

I look down And see there is no window Between us now.

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Making the Stranger I’ve Become Familiar Again

by Sarah Noorbakhsh

The world’s perception of him embodied the essence of a confident stride. My father, the elephant, never lacked precision. He seemed to fill whatever meadow he strode into and everyone noticed his subtle generosity. When his steps were heard, ears perked and minds wandered.

His eyes, yet weary, were a golden brown, one which both captivated and repelled company. These golden colors were doorways to a place far away, a land that molded every wrinkle on his trunk, a land he rarely spoke of but missed dearly. And his laugh was a hearty one.

Though infrequent, it was a beginning to a room full of content. All the animals of the jungle revered his existence, for the riches around them were placed by his cuts and bruises. When things went wrong, he fixed them, for he had a power few possess. The elephant was the beginning of the jungle and the flow of the stream.

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But that is simply a perception. My father’s fearless walk and consuming presence was always purposeful, the image he felt the world needed to see. At times, the elephant’s edgy nature would break free and his eyes would turn from golden brown to a fiery red. The struggles he faced while leaving his homeland created an animal. The elephant craved a love deeper than the jungle could offer, but yet, he never allowed himself to grasp even its small, intimate moments. Moments of sweet bliss lay within his ever-changing smirk, and I will forever wish he would show me how great of an elephant he could be. He took great pride in his wounds, but never gave them enough time to heal before cracking the skin open again. He could never surrender to the “king of the jungle” facade he had created. My father, although the greatest being I know, made so many mistakes. He is now a stranger to even himself. He’s learning to make himself familiar again. I model my trunk after his, I see the same aggressive, fiery tint in my own eyes, but I’m learning through the great elephant’s mistakes. I’m starting young; the process of making the stranger I’ve become familiar again.

Your perception of me takes the form of an intimidating bright-eyed stare. I never lack confidence. Here I stand amidst this jungle-like world, consumed in my own thoughts, desperately avoiding the inane socialization of the thundering, watering hole. I watch as every creature gallops past me on their way to quench their thirst. This metaphorical water is merely a plus, everyone knows what each other is truly seeking; camaraderie, a glimpse into the heart of another.

But not me...I never lack direction. I simply can’t afford to stray from my ambitions, not even for a shared, heartwarming experience. My fiery eyes, yet curious and wide, grow dim and tired from attempting to remember all the things an elephant would say. Although these vessels serve as doorways, they constantly push me into empty, mirrored rooms filled with images I no longer find familiar. All the animals of the jungle respect my existence though they do not understand the purpose behind my actions. I carry immense weight with undeniable confidence.

I do not waver in my beliefs or quiver underneath intimidation. I am the steady flow of a ravenous stream, tearing through the jungle. A beautiful image...a scary, cold misconception.

But that is simply a perception. I’m much too aware of my image, creating a bubble of preconceived self-confidence. I find confidence through my appearance, but I lack confidence when confronted by those who simply wish for casual conversation. While, for most, the watering hole symbolizes freedom and leisure, to me it alludes to a sense of uncomfortability. I never lack persistence; a blessing and a curse.

My animal-like instincts crave the heartwarming feelings that evolve from hard-work, but inside I crave fulfillment and belonging. I wish to gallop like the antelopes, swing like the apes, and soar like the bluebirds, but here I am, stuck craving success and accomplishment. I am forever attempting to achieve the great status of my father, the elephant. My soul is kind and kindred, but my character appears cold and noble. I, unlike the elephant before me, desperately surrender. I do not want to conform to the intimidating being I have forced myself to become. I take the first step and gaze into my reflection shining across the water. There I see the fiery, magnificent gaze of the esteemed before me...and I am content. I’m learning from the great elephant’s mistakes. I’m starting now; the process of making the stranger I’ve become familiar again.

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medium

by Sean Fiscus today, I watched an elephant squeeze into a soda can and then winced when my baby bumped his head on the door frame on days like today, when you wake up and big things are small and small things are big, it is comforting to know that medium-sized things never change.

“Turn Right”

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Lucy Bowman

Acrylic Painting

27” by 27”

50

“Red Anger”

51

Dalilah Winter

Alcohol Gel Transfer

15” by 10”

“False Innocence”

Samantha Gerstel

Alcohol Gel Transfer

15” by 10”

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Ruined Books

by Eliza DuBose

In my grandfather’s house, there is a room at the far back, just beyond the mini bar, that is, to me, the most beautiful room in the world. The walls are the gentle yellow of early spring sunshine. A fireplace in the corner is filled with real pine logs that are ready to be set ablaze. Above them is a painting of the ocean that is more a window than art, the waves iridescent with the setting sun. Two glass doors open up to a porch, which overlooks the Chattahoochee River. A plush couch is pressed against the wall, its cushioning so soft that sitting in it is sinking into almost immovable comfort. There is even a secret door that leads to the master bedroom just beyond the arm of the sofa. All of this, however, pales in comparison to the books.

These are the books from Franklin Library’s list of the 100 Greatest Books of all time (as of 1984, anyway). Aristotle’s Politics is nestled next to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

These books seem as if they are volumes extracted from fairytales. They are bound in real leather, in rich reds and golds, the royals of the book world. Their pages are shimmering gilded edges, and each copy comes with a booklet, detailing why this particular piece of literature was chosen, giving each a sense of irreplaceable importance. The most influential books of our history line my grandfather’s shelves.

Yet, when I asked my grandfather which book was his favorite, he told me he could not say. He hadn’t read all of the books on those shelves. In fact, he’d never read any of them. His claim is proven when the spines of the books crack as I carefully extricate them from the shelf, and reinforced by his utter bewilderment at the fact that Robert Frost, a poet of

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all things, could make such a collection. It all seemed like a lurid crime to me. I asked him why he had never taken the volumes down for himself. He told me, in words that still ring through my head, “Some books are not meant to be read.” He was concerned about the ruination that comes with human handling of such novels. The ripped pages, the food stains, the folded corners and the other terrors that haunt all books. Looking at the beautiful spines of those volumes, I understand his fear.

But never will I agree with it. You see, there is nothing more beautiful to me than a well-worn book.

I love ruined books. I love them because the story of the reader is captured on those wrinkled pages. I love the battle scene that is smeared with curry, where the reader, rapt in the gory pages, let her spoon slip. I love the coffee stain on the corner of page 507, where the cute barista acted as a tether to the real world, forcing her to put down the book for a cup of conversation. I love the torn book jacket when the horror of the character’s plight forced the reader to throw the book across the room. I love the water-wrinkled edges where her damp fingers creased the pages as she bathed, unable to pause even for the mandatory business of cleanliness.

I love ruined books. The absolute truth of the matter is that books deserve stories just as much as we do.

The books in my grandfather’s library, along with the painting hanging over the fireplace, are the only things I have asked to inherit from him (something he likes to tease me about, given the countless priceless pieces of silver and painted china that decorate his house). Those books deserve to be read, to have new stories crinkled onto their yellowing pages. Now, just to be clear, never will they be subjected to the perils of food stains, or tea marks, much less the horror of the battles at the bottom of my violent book bags. But they will be read. Over and over and over again.

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wild blueberries

by Sean Fiscus

i reach into my little pocket for one of those marvelous mountain blueberries that tasted so heavenly on the windy ridge earlier but the once crisp orbs (squished from all of my traipsing about) are now a gooey stain yuck things don’t last long so if you can eat everything straight from the bush

“Emergence”

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Naeemah Winter

Acrylic Painting

48” by 48”

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“Kinda”

Ali Nurkhaidarov

Digital Painting

8” by 8”

while you were swimming

by Farah Yahaya

I was drowning in the same water you were swimming in Simply mass, aimlessly moving through space, through time, through actions Yet my soul, a dim flicker rather than the beacon of my body, reluctantly searched for purpose To find a rhythm in the chaotic medley of unsynchronized beats and rumbles To salvage meaning from betrayals To find peace within my past To decipher words from noise in the air above All whilst the pressure of water overwhelmed me Remember that I was drowning in the same water you were swimming in That a frenzy underwater sent gentle ripples to your fingertips and in the bottom of your heart

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you knew that there was a war being fought beneath you You were a bystander I was the victim A warped cycle of pain, the perpetrator But then I swam up to the surface and my tears glistened the same as the water and soon my silent body became a tsunami And in your desperation, you searched for the swimmer closest to you in hopes to detach yourself from your own anchor And my mind was not numb to the pain And my body still remembered its abuse I am no lifeguard, but damn, there I was treading water with you “give me a hand22”

Ali Nurkhaidarov

Digital Painting

10” by 12”

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Trips to Johns Hopkins

by Mel Cort

Sometimes When I was little and Held down to a gurney by Starched hospital sheets That were far too thin and with arms too feeble to move them I would look up At the fluorescent lights, always watching, (Monitoring) That made everyone in the building look sick Not just me With leather bags under eyes and spittle dotting chins and ball gowns that don’t close all the way and needles dripping saline into blood and I would look into the bulbs the way they watched me and let my eyes roll back into my broken head (which would scare the last bit of hope out of my parents, who held a stronger gaze than the lights overhead) And I would pretend, For just a moment, That it was the soft light of a natural sun flitting through the woods, resting on my Healthy face That was tanned and strong, As I ran in between trees and over rocks and creeks and twigs and logs Instead of rolling over linoleum with my feet on rests.

Rabbits and deer roamed and looked at me with nothing but patience

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No tool waiting to poke and prod my skin and tongue but Rather a question And invitation To follow them, To run, To be healthy and wild and free.

I would be woken again by a vital check (with everything being too low, not good enough, as the frown on the nurse hinted) But I’d return soon after to the woods Until late at night and my mind wasn’t open for exploring any longer, And the night nurses replaced their coffee pots and bedpans, Until my ward mixed with my forest And IV stands sprouted roots that dug deep and hand sanitizer flowed over the banks and the berry bushes grew penicillin and Tylenol.

Wheelchair skids were carved into the dirt and Nurses tweeted songs from their nests above.

The mud smelled of disinfectant.

The deer and the rabbits were being dissected And their fluffy tails transplanted.

My mother shook me awake again, A scolding hand telling me to not scare her like that, But I wasn’t planning returning To a tainted forest Or slipping from a sickly body into A sickly mind, So I nodded And drifted off with A few drops of Melatonin RA.

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My Nerves

by Dylan Gantt

I tell myself my nerves can’t control me When I go out to play each day, this game To conquer one’s mind is to not be beat But when ideas crowd the conscious, I see My feet lose their balance, my arms untamed I tell myself my nerves can’t control me Flash: intense pain sears through my gritted teeth Once again I give my body all blame To conquer one’s mind is to not be beat Fateful days when energy is not free And playing tennis only brings me shame I tell myself my nerves can’t control me And those odd days when the hurt doesn’t flee My legs unstable, my shoulder inflamed To conquer one’s mind is to not be beat So during matches when I’m without glee I try to find another reference frame I tell myself my nerves can’t control me To conquer one’s mind is to not be beat “Cramp Man 2”

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Jay Howley

Pen and Ink

9” by 9”

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Intermeddlers

by Mel Cort

I don’t know if everyone Is pretending that they’re not there Or if they Don’t see them at all.

But they stay, And they won’t let me forget this, Hovering, Watching, Their colorful judgment cocooning in the empty space in my brain.

I wanted to fill it with something Worthwhile, love or New knowledge or Something other than them, But they sit nestled and I carry Them with me.

Just me, my backpack, and the things in my brain.

Sometimes they try to get out.

Desperate to be seen, heard, felt by another who wasn’t as used to their flapping as I was.

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As I am.

They don’t pay rent, My little mind roommates.

I’d complain, but they won’t let me.

So they stay, And I carry them with me.

One day, They whisper on nights When they don’t let me sleep, One day, You’ll break. We’ll break you open, And we’ll be free.

Everyone will love us so!

They shout, pressing at the edges of my skull and fracturing the seams.

Everyone will love us, and forget you, Broken on the ground.

One day.

But for now, They finish, Carry us.

“Reflections of a Shattered Mind”

Zander Patent

Digital Painting

20” by 41”

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When the Moon Fell Down

by Carina Cole

Sweet silver moonlight Drips into my saucer eyes As I beam at the speckled void above The blades of grass Scattered with water droplets Slash at my ankles As I run across the mossy Earth I waltz with the swift hands of air that grab my waist I am delicately spun in circles The wind playfully tugs at my hair in sporadic jolts While the night sky laughs down at me I look up and welcome the Cool drops flowing down my face Like tiny streams holding glints of light Pockets of moonlight dance across my face As I tell the moon I am not ready to say goodbye to the night again

“Color Theory”

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Shin Miyamichi

Digital Illustration

14” by 14”

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“Bruit”

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Maggie Betkowski

Acrylic Painting

42” by 42”

“Stanley Drumming”

Jay Howley

Acrylic Painting

36” by 36”

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an elegy for the falling sky

by Lian Wang

pitter staccato notes played on limestone, orchestrating the carillon below. the hum of a voice and its words unheard by the fog that shrouds saints carved in glass and stained in tinted dusk, by the moisture that melds with sweat gluing black denim to polished wood, by the droplets that tumble down knotted strands of hair to crawl their cool touch on skin.

drooping down to the earth. and we had to wait for it to fall

why didn’t anyone look at the dimming sky, where that moth-shaped cloud ate away the sun and spread its wings until blue became grey, and grey became darker, heavier,

so the progression fades: the rain left with the bells, taking each lost note each syllable failed to be uttered, until it was but a whisper. patter

to realize it was falling. we had to wait for the thunder to believe the storm, we had to wait for the downpour conducting its symphony until major chords became the slamming of piano keys, to reach for our coats and notice the rain. and only when we felt the rain did we recall the sky before the storm.

“Promise”

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Stanley Fang

Mixed Media

11” by 15”

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Look Up

by Mia Ingram

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Look up!

That’s not me asking It is me telling You people never look up anymore Always staring at the world that has been brought to your fingertips Never at the one actually surrounding you I decided to look around Beautiful colors ran rampant through the sky New ideas about life swirled in my mind Thoughts brewed like children in a lazy river on a summer day That little teeny speck of the world we all carry in our pockets It cannot be anymore beautiful than this Colors, emotions and pure creativity reign true in that world Sadness, political battles and wars happen in the world in our pockets But watch out The world in our pockets might

soon enough be the more attractive one This world outside is rapidly declining in health The colors are fading and the skies are changing The air isn’t fresh and sweet anymore The smog and grog are sweeping the nation as we speak Soon enough you won’t have the chance to look At the true beauty that is still amongst us That is a sad reality of this society Mining and fracking away at the natural world So look up Only for a second and your world will change I cannot guarantee anything If it doesn’t satisfy The world in your pocket will always be there But give it a chance What’s the most that can happen?

“Cabhrú”

Julee Rodgers

Acrylic Painting

36” by 60”

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Colophon In the 2020 Blue Review, we explored the cacophony inherent in the creative process. Whether it is auditory, visual, intellectual, or emotional, discord both surrounds us and lives inside of us. While it may be initially difficult to find beauty in cacophony, it is from this richness of human experience that order arises and change is born. Artists and writers embrace this clash of senses and express it through their work. They narrate the conflicts of their lives through syllables and brushstrokes, reflect upon them in stanzas and clay, then emerge with a new lens through which they view the world.

chapter pages. When viewed from a distance, the fuzzy patterns consolidate into a single shape, embodying the unity of collective discordances.

In December, the Blue Review team hosted Café Out Loud, a creative event to inspire the Mercersburg community. Members of the community gathered on a Friday night to compose found poetry, piece together fragments of old magazines to create collage, enjoy spoken word performances, and revel in heavy metal and a montage of whimsical film clips. Bombarding visitors from all angles, this experience invited them to embrace the cacophony of senses and create.

Blue Review is an extracurricular publication at Mercersburg Academy. Submissions from all artistic disciplines and literary styles are drawn from the student body from the start of the Fall Term to the start of the Spring Term. The submissions are then critiqued by staff members who evaluate them based on a rubric. Roughly 60 pieces, which are accepted for their strong merit, are paired and ordered in a thoughtful progression to advance the theme of the book.

This spring, the Mercersburg community, along with every citizen of the world, was forced to embrace the cacophony of the COVID-19 pandemic. Students never returned to campus from spring break; Google Meet replaced the busy dining hall, twisted paths to each building, central quad, and the classrooms. As the community transitioned to online school, so did Blue Review.

The 2020 book was assembled during this challenging time by Blue Review editors and staff scattered across different time zones, meeting virtually several times each week to continue this work.

Blue Review is Mercersburg Academy’s annual literary-arts journal. It serves not only as a showcase but also as a motivation for students to share their creative work with the school community. An annual literary review has been published since 1901, with visual arts introduced in 1993.

The cacophony of 2020 is reflected in this year’s book. The recurring motif of static guided the design of the cover and

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The layout of this book was designed by our staff on an iMac 6-core Intel Core i5 and a Macbook Pro Quad Core Intel Core i7 using Adobe Illustrator CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe InDesign CC. The body text was set in Source Code Pro and the title font was set in Erica One. The book was printed and bound

by Mercersburg Printing of Mercersburg, PA.

The contents within this book are expressions and opinions of the author and artist and do not necessarily reflect the Mercersburg Academy community as a whole. For further information and to order additional copies at the cost of $20 each, please contact us at: Blue Review Mercersburg Academy 100 Academy Drive Mercersburg, PA 17236

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