The Phoenix Fall 2010 / Issue 1 / Volume III The Phoenix is the Isidore Newman Middle School literary magazine. This is the third year that it is being published, and the idea came from the Upper School literary magazine, Pioneer. Since quite a few members of the middle school were entering pieces in the Upper School magazine, we decided that the Middle School should have its own. Students from sixth, seventh, and eighth grade chose to be in The Phoenix club. Then, announcements were made, bake sales were hosted, and pieces were submitted. The pieces inside The Phoenix are a mix of poetry, photographs, drawings, paintings, and short stories. The Phoenix is a great way for Middle School students to share their talents with others. Enjoy!
The Phoenix Committee Hannah Bernick Alexa Friedman Jamie Hawkins Miranda Heath Haley Johnson Sarah Lane Peyton LeCorgne Julia Pindaro Alisen Reed Raven Rice Julia Son Julia Wellons Sarauniya Zulu
Faculty Sponsors Ms. Alexis Watts Ms. Jamie Keene & Dr. Jacob Leland
Front Cover Graphic Art Christy Mo
Back Cover Graphic Art Jamie Hawkins
Table of Contents The Eyes of a Love, Lost Miranda Heath Doc1 Jamie Hawkins Untitled
Design Tree Rory Cummings-Dise Wind
Dr. Michael Guill
Annie Laura Cherbonnier
Kanuga Trees Alisen Reed
What If? Graham Drennan
By Dawn Anonymous
Design Bird Rory Cummings-Dise
Locker 788 Mr. Roger Hibbert
Wedding Photograph Dr. Ronald Cram
Beast of the Stars Toby Luongo
This is New Orleans Eric Margolin
Underwater Bubbles Christy Mo
Design Rory Cummings-Dise
Little House Ms. Alexis Watts
8 Graham Drennan
A Poem for Katelynn Miranda Heath
Eye Miranda Heath
Where Are We? Jamie Hawkins
David Ross Kyla Bernberg
No Words (Falling Whistles) Miranda Heath
Fort Lauderdale Annie Laura Cherbonnier
So Much Worse Miranda Heath
Spring Might Be Here Sophie Evans
Robot Dragon Ben Cohen
A Childhood Snatched Miranda Heath
Ms. Alexis Watts
Untitled Ms. Alexis Watts
The Eyes of a Love, Lost Amelia‟s brown, shining hair flew behind her shoulders as the wind whirled, whipping her with its force. Her red trench coat hugged close to her body, providing her the warmth she so eagerly craved. A clicking sound vibrated against the walls of the subway station, heels clacking against the floor. Amelia sat on the cold, metal bench next to man, whom one couldn‟t help pity. He was quite obviously wealthy, but rather sickly as well. The tube that provided him with oxygen snaked around his neck, dipping down to connect with the tank he had situated next to himself. Amelia was sure that if the man beside her stood and began to walk she would burst into tears; the sight being such a depressing one that this man would probably haunt her to her death and perhaps beyond. The man simply looked up, unaware of the pain he was causing the young woman next to him. But his motions caused his eyes to be visible to Amelia, and her heart sunk at a shocking realization. The senile man‟s eyes were a shocking blue and she distinctly remembered them glowing ecstasy when she had professed her love while looking into them; and he for she, as well. Amelia could remember arguing with those eyes, accusing them of wrongdoings. Crimes committed out of love, which eventually led to the severing of all ties they had once held. Amelia opened her mouth to greet the old professor, but was cut short by the very man himself. “Don‟t look so surprised, dear. I‟m fine. Working my old job is all.” His voice was soft, but not raspy as she had expected. She gasped as he disconnected the tube from the tank; an action that should have caused a rather painful death. “Amelia. It was nice seeing you.” He stood with the effort of a man much younger than he appeared. The man lowered his face to hers and Amelia was given the opportunity to see that the wrinkle present on his face were a product of his expertise at his trade: mere makeup. He pressed his old, withered lips against her own and Amelia was unsurprised to find his lips not tasting a day older than her own. She smiled at the familiar feeling. A pop resounded in her ears as the man pulled away, turning his back to love for the job. Again. Amelia felt a silent tear make its course down her cheek, the most vulnerable kind. “Jacob,” Amelia whispered. Miranda Heath
Doc1 drawing 3
Untitled Wants To be strong To stay Fears Afraid of death Afraid of failing his father Features Peaceful Serene blue eyes Loving Generous Himself
A haiku inspired by the poem The Consent (1975) by Howard Nemerov Ginkgo leaves turn gold and fall to earth overnight. Winter is coming. Dr. Mike Guill
Annie Laura Cherbonnier
Design Bird graphic art
Rory Cummings-Dise 5
Locker 788 Locker 788 Has a cell phone in it The cell phone has an alarm The alarm‟s going off It‟s not loud but It‟s Driving Me CRAZY Mr. Roger Hibbert
Sarah Lane 6
This is New Orleans
The sun is rising on a warm summer day. You‟re lying in your nice bed inhaling the amazing summer air. You have your A/C turned on high and your house is still hot. Your alarm just went off and it‟s playing WWOZ. You stare out your window looking down on Bourbon Street thinking, “I can‟t believe it‟s so quiet.” There are no car horns, no people, just you and your radio. The only moving things are a nice fog and a sweet sax solo playing in the distance and you think what a life to live in this great city and to have such a great house. After ten minutes of lying you put on your warm robe and walk outside to the potent smell of seafood shells. You see the sweet bloom of the magnolia tree. Then you see it, your neighbor is standing on his roof playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” You look down the street and see a Fleur De Lis on every house. In less than a day this street will be flooded with people, but for now it‟s time to sleep. This is the best city in the world. This is New Orleans.
Underwater, A glimmering sphere of life. Floating up, up, up, A jellyfish in the deep, A pearl waiting to be free, The jewel of the sea. Common before your eyes, But to try and keep one, Pop! You will find none. Christy Mo
Design graphic art
Rory Cummings-Dise 7
Little House photograph
Ms. Alexis Watts David Ross
Writing What to write I cannot think I tried to write a story (It turned out really bad) I will try to write a song Wait that would take too long A poem maybe No one will like it I still donâ€&#x;t know what to write Help me PLEASE This is too hard I give up So here you go My excuse My terrible excuse A poorly written Unimportant Excuse Because I canâ€&#x;t write
His eyes fluttered as they called out names He clutched his hat beneath his moist palms Listening patiently, waiting for the man with the puffy bold voice to say it His own name So this tall awkward man can follow through Go through this transformation This step The step believing himself can be capable A Martian becoming a man A frog becoming a prince David Ross. He stood up, walked through the murky room Taking his time because he knew, He knew these moments are the last moments before he becomes a frog As he approached the stand he glanced around the room Filled with people of different cultures With beautiful accents speaking different languages The bald puffy man stuck out his hand Congratulations David greatly accepted the handshake Gripping it firmly Because this handshake meant the world It meant pride. Welcome to our family, you are now a British citizen. He took the certificate in pride I am now a Prince.
Kyla Bernberg 8
No Words (Falling Whistles) Rough, dry grass scraped against a young boy‟s hands. The calluses of an older man had already formed on the young boy‟s fingers. His eyes are round and full of a faith he knows will fail him. “What if I lose?” The voice of innocence. Even though the boy, the one who speaks and fears the loss, has seen more than you or I will ever see. His father‟s eyes bore into his, glistening with unshed tears. “You won‟t lose. You can‟t lose.” He could, though. The father knew he could. And if the boy lost, there would be no words to describe the father‟s loss. For in the event of failure, the boy would be at peace, at one with everything. But the father -- for him, the world would be aflame with grief. The father grasped the black metal in between his fingers and his palm, letting go of everything when he let go of the gun. His eyes met his son‟s and he vowed, “You won‟t lose. You can‟t. I won‟t let you.” And the small boy, dressed as a soldier with a weapon nearing his own size in his arms, smiled. His father‟s calm washing over him; he was ready. He walked off into the swarm of young children like himself, all of them just as abused as he. “I love you, Dad,” he whispered. And he laughed. A shot rang in his ears and he died, laughing. The cheerful peal almost drowning out the father‟s agonized shouts. Miranda Heath Author’s Note: There is a non-profit organization called Falling Whistles designed to rehabilitate the child soldiers in Congo, a country located in central Africa. This story was inspired by their mission.
Fort Lauderdale photograph
Annie Laura Cherbonnier
Spring Might Be Here I wake up in the morning Smell the fresh humid air See the flowers popping up The trees blow without a care It just could be Spring Even though itâ€&#x;s Fall I wonder if the trees know Or even care at all The ducklings and the geese Follow 1 by 1 Swimming, splashing in the water Having so much fun Maybe it is Spring! The calendars could be wrong Listening to the birds Singing their cheerful song Oh, the snow is starting to fall The calendars are right The nights are getting colder The windâ€&#x;s beginning to bite The people bundled up The Christmas bells ring Mother Nature, do me a favor: Hurry up and make it Spring! Sophie Evans
Ms. Alexis Watts
A Childhood Snatched James watched as blood pooled around the slice in his index finger. The red fluid shined in the warm glow of sunlight, as his motherâ€&#x;s cool hands quickly wrapped the adhesive of the bandage around his throbbing finger. The playground looked so very appeasing, and all his limbs ached to do was quite simply climb to the highest point. His mother released him from the comfort of her arms. James was quickly to the green and blue structure without so much as permission from the shocked mother he had left behind. As his feet hastily climbed the aqua steps, a sound reached his ears. A shrill scream erupted from the place he had just fled from and he turned to see his mother wrapped in the arms of a burly man. James watched, helpless, as his mother shrieked and squirmed, desperate to escape the large, unfriendly arms of her captor. She rather suddenly stilled, and the man dashed toward the road and hurriedly escaped the scene. James rushed down the steps, tripping on the last one and scraping his knee against the rough concrete as he fell. But there was no mother to comfort young James as he attempted to stop the scarlet liquidâ€&#x;s flow, staining his hands and screaming in his pain. She was gone. Miranda Heath
Design Tree graphic art
Wind She howls at cracks she troubles to reach, He terrorizes with his screech. She goads on rivers, storms, and seas, He glides and rips through the trees. Stealing away all their leaves. She rearranges at her will, He never bothers to keep still. She picks and hurtles things around, When done, you hear her laughter sound. This prankster king to try and catch, The best will finally meet their match. Yet, In hot summer days, Without any shade, A gentle breeze she may be. He alone reaches the far corners of the world. He is the right hand man of nature. Oh the trouble mankind go through for her, To find her, To call her, To use her. To stop her, To block her, To catch her. What a fickle creature he is, For she alone is wind. Christy Mo Gray A wave of exhaustion Encompasses your entire body, Wrapping around it like a Thin, poor-quality cloak. You take in the morning after A fearsome storm, Marveling at the eerie calmness of Everything around you. A dull ache pounds in the Back of your head, Never considered severe but Never leaving you alone. A single tear cascades down your face As you quietly mourn the loss of a friend. A loved one who always Was someone special in your eyes. A wave of numbness Clogs up your throat, Refusing entry to Happiness, fond memories, and Any existing emotion. Gray is calm, But a quiet, unheard suffering.
Miranda Heath 12
Kanuga Trees photograph
By Dawn The rain is falling Down it comes Hear it tapping Tip, tap, tip The rain has gone Tapping no more Wait „til tomorrow It‟ll be gone by dawn Boom, Boom Storm is here Boom, Boom Power‟s gone out Children crying Don‟t have no doubt Storm will gone by dawn Rumble, rumble Earth is shaking Crash, crash The buildings fall If you pray Well it may Be gone by dawn House is robbed All is lost I say this ain‟t going to be done by dawn
Haiku What is a haiku? A strange Japanese poem How do I write them? Graham Drennan
Wedding Photograph, City Park, New Orleans 2010 photograph
Dr. Ronald Cram
The leaves are falling down Every plant turns to brown Winter knocking at the door All the birds start to soar Migrating for the cold wind shall come All our fingers start to numb Brrrr!
Bricks stacked up Green shutters which enclosed the house with love & happiness My favorite destination. A beautiful garden, A rose blooming. Perfection. August 29th, 2005 Windows clash 12 feet of water allowed the love and happiness to seep out. Emptiness Destruction Everything. Gone. The few t-shirts packed -- I will never let go. Bricks scattered.
Sitting around like a bunch of goats We grab our mittens and winter coats We trudge outside with so much glee However there is nothing to do we all agree We have no ideas not one There is nothing to do without the hot summer sun Finally an idea is found We shall all sit inside until summer comes around
A Poem for Katelynn
I’ve got a new pair of shoes. When I step, the autumn leaves crunch beneath my feet. I’ve got a nice long walk home I subconsciously walk to the steady beat. I’ve got “Banana Pancakes” playing into my ears. The music runs around like circles in my mind. I’ve got nothing to worry about Because in this moment, everything is fine I’ve got a new text, sitting in my inbox He says he just might die I’ve got to hurry to his house For sure, this is a lie I’ve got to figure out why he would… He opens up the door I’ve got to realize there’s no more time His blood upon the floor I’ve got to do a lot of things But I‟m incapable of achieving I’ve got the impression he’s hurt himself I hardly am believing I’ve got so much, some have much less.
Eyes of the grass. Lips of the sea. Hands of the sky. What should it mean to me?
But I‟m still careless, I will confess.
I'm told I should marvel, At the beauty of life. But it's with ignorance, I make my plight. I'm new to this life, But the words I write, Will never grow old; They shine in my light. Or lack therof, Perhaps I should say. Darkness is more of my way. I‟m all alone, My hands are tied. A sliver of brightness, Catches my eye.
I don‟t know what I’ve got until it‟s lost. My words are death. My lies, they kill.
I‟d never thought of the worth or the cost. I’ve got to give.
It shouldn't be my place, To instill, The learnings that, I do not know.
I’ve got to live. I’ve got to give it all I’ve got. Jamie Hawkins
These feelings that, I fear, Must go. Miranda Heath
Where Are We? Where are we? Set us free Where worthy days, are guaranteed The Wind… has only just began to soar Smear ripples in the air space. Bare expressions Cryptic remarks are all to be heard As aimless sounds… are forming words This is disarray, With widespread verisimilitude In this mad existence We‟ll run away, not to be searched for You‟ll never reach me or the ones you adore Our collected impressions are past withdrawn At last, you wonder but we‟re too far gone Pinch me now again… And share regard, Sustained from deep within The flooded streets are static With encompassing community Staring blankly In this calm existence You can‟t keep a secret for more than 1 minute We compose phrases that you transmit They all believe, because they presume Do not distress. We will be home soon. Jamie Hawkins
Ms. Alexis Watts
Graham Drennan 17
Baseball Baseball is a game of life. Sometimes we strikeout and other times we hit a home run. When a player strikes out they get in line and try again. If a player makes it home they get the satisfaction of finishing what they started. The entire time the players play this game, they have fans and people to support them and give them encouragement. They might make enemies along the way to success but many of the players are capable of making it home where they started, home where there team awaits. Anonymous
So Much Worse Mahogany coffin. White satin inside. Black suit, Black tie. Red eyes. Clear tears. The boy I love. Rope burn „round his throat. In the closet, He was too brave. His body pale. His nails are purple. I painted them. I cry now. I kiss his lips. A final farewell. They taste of death. I cry forever. I love him. They say “It Gets Better” But this feels So much worse. Miranda Heath Author’s Note: In light of the recent homosexual youth suicides, a trend of videos entitled, “It Gets Better,” has swept the internet. These videos are designed to reach out to the LGBT youth and any other minorities to give them hope and support, to tell them that life is the answer. Robot Dragon graphic art
Published on Dec 8, 2010
Published on Dec 8, 2010
The Phoenix is the Newman Middle School literary magazine. It was first published in 2008, and the idea came from the Upper School literary...