Mandala 2015

Mandala

2015

Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine

May, 2015 Northfield Mount Hermon School Mount Hermon, MA 01354

Table of Contents Untitled........................................................... Katie Sprankle.................................Cover Sonnet I........................................................... Shannon Duffy....................................... 1 China.............................................................. Isabelle Magbie....................................... 3 The Boat.......................................................... Simon van Baaren................................... 4 Andrew............................................................ Katie Schroeder...................................... 6 Collage............................................................. Annie Huang.......................................... 7 Synthesize or Deconstruct.................................. Lauren Scott Corwin.............................. 8 Black Oxford.................................................... Peter H. Weis......................................... 9 We are what we were......................................... N. N - Edozien..................................... 10 Drawing.......................................................... Paige Fenn............................................ 12 Photograph....................................................... Sharon LaBella-Lindale......................... 13 Bento............................................................... Sean Reilly............................................ 14 Sweat Lodge..................................................... Katie Schroeder.................................... 16 Breath.............................................................. B. Jorgensen......................................... 17 Hands.............................................................. Olivia Cleary........................................ 18 Standing at the edge of everything...................... David Warren....................................... 19 Declaration of Independence.............................. Andrew H. Kim................................... 20 Sabino Canyon Creek........................................ William Roberts................................... 24 5 A.M. ............................................................ Eva Laubach......................................... 25 Is that your heartbeat or your tears going thump thump thump ........................................................................ Anonymous.......................................... 26 Earie................................................................ Olivia Cleary........................................ 27 Haunted by Waters............................................ Andrew H. Kim................................... 28 Tower............................................................... Brianna Young ..................................... 30 Tiny Feet.......................................................... Isabella DeHerdt.................................. 31 Untitled........................................................... Pablo Borra-Paley................................. 32 Better the Hornet.............................................. Daniel Cohan....................................... 33 Memory........................................................... Kate Nouhan........................................ 34 Teapot.............................................................. Delaney Corrigan................................. 35 Staircase........................................................... Assel Shardarbekova.............................. 37 Acknowledgement........................................................................................................ 39 Editorial Staff............................................................................................................... 41

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The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.

Friedrich Nietzsche

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Sonnet I From all the cracks and chasms of the world, From ev’ry city street and rural town, It creeps out of the dark and comes unfurled And weakens us until we all bow down.

It came from Hades bringing all its hell And wreaking havoc, tearing things apart By putting ev’rything under its spell And raiding ev’ry cold and loveless heart.

It blinds us with its cold deceiving lies And causes sorrow, suff ’ring, and despair.

Unfeeling fingers cover naïve eyes And drag the body down its dingy lair.

There’s only hope for those whose hearts are pure Because right now for Hate there is no cure.

Shannon Duffy

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The Boat I feel their voices in my bones. They travel forgotten conduits of the old wooden walls, funnelling down through the still, dark hull of the ship. I attempt to remain rational as I hold my breath, afraid the slightest motion might betray myself to the caress of the soft sweeping sounds. Each noise envelopes me with phantom fingers, reaching out of the motionless void to clasp at my fear, running their icy fingers down my spine. I can all but see the hands, rising up out of the dark from some lost dimension, sephia echoes fading in and out with television static. The spectral syllables slip down inside me, forced sips of fate, filling me to the brim with their syrupy density. And yet they leave me parched, desiring more. I don’t feel I can survive such torture much longer.

I encase myself in the bulwark of my mind, laying concrete foundations and steel walls, constructing layer upon layer of desperate defense, my best attempt to steal myself away. Yet the spectral wind reaches over every wall and through my meager insulation to find me still. I am chilled to the bone.

For every measure of ignorance I bestow upon myself, those ghosts yet find their way to this place, creeping through the tiniest fracture of resolve. My best efforts to remain sealed away are transfigured to tissue paper by those clawing hands. I fight a moment longer, distracting myself from the inevitable. Finally, against better judgement, I allow myself to be subjected to the sound.

There must be some scrappy little girl, accompanied by likewise ruffians I presume. It is impossible to tell from the windowless hull of the boat. No older than eight, they patrol the sloping sands with guileless curiosity, hurtling towards adventure with all the innocence of youth. They are barefoot surely, and clad in faded splashes of color, bearing well worn smiles like rich feast platters. I can see them so clearly, the way the surely must be. Their beaming forms paint themselves in the air before me, slowly coming into focus as the laughter draws nearer. Each giggle adds another stroke, each shout a highlight.

There is a sudden rush of light as the children tackle one another, tumbling over the sun soaked sand in a sudden burst of color, illuminating the stillness I was cloaked in so methodically. Their voices swell, so close, separated by no more than a foot of rotted wood and a single rise of shore. As the spontaneous grappling continues to reverberate in my ears, a few final flourishes are added to the masterpiece before me, and the spectral children take flight. They mimic every sound, jubilant actors unknowingly constructing their greatest performance for a silent audience of one. Each flip of hair, blink of the eye, twitch at the edge of the mouth, brings them closer to reality, closer to me. I cannot help but be enraptured by the technicolor of their elegance in the otherwise inky staleness. Is this a dream? Or perhaps something more abstract? It matters not, I suppose. My thirst is momentarily quenched by the warmth of their antics, washing over me in a wave of momentary bliss.

Despite myself, I begin to grow attached to the pale imitations before me. The elegance of ghostly innocence expands to fill the entirety of this dark space, the preceding stillness inconceivable in its wake.

Their ballad of youth is intoxicatingly relaxing to my strained heart. The defenses that were so desperately constructed have crumbled, ruins of ages past swept away on the winds of hope, welcoming now to this jubilation. It fills my heart, spreading warmth to every extremity, forcing isolation out through the soles of my feet into the ancient planks of the boat. Rising stiffly to my feet in hopes to meet them in temporary reprieve, the light within the chamber matches, for one fraction of a moment, the golden sunlight the children tussle in outside. I take a tentative step towards the conjurings of youth, anxious to join them in merriment, yet unsure that such a thing can be done. Their hands reach for me, welcoming me into the fantasy. A small, desperate laugh of my own joins the chorus.

And just like that, their laughter ends. Some mother calling from farther inland surely, summoning the children back, away from this old, weather-beaten wreck. There is a light pitter patter of 4

feet on the beach, and the delightful chorus of shouts pick up once more as the group races homewards, off into the tumult of life. Their peals resound upwards, streaming over the sands behind them, funneling down into this place of regret, one last crescendo. And then they are gone.

I knew this would happen. There was no other outcome to it all, no way to stop the inevitable from laying waste to the dreams of peace I could not help but let into this tortured frame. I feel sorry for this poor old boat. The numbing chill of silence was all this place had ever won, all the triumph it ever deserved. And now it lacks even that, invaded by the falseness of phantom jubilation that I could not help but succumb to.

The silence quickly eats away at the tapestry I have constructed. Already the light in the room is receding, soaked up by the cracks in the inky pine planks like a sponge. The ghosts dance on obliviously, immortal in their elation as they rebound off dusty crates and swing from low beams, scarce more than fervent whispers. The whole scene is collapsing in on itself, the colors drained away, shrinking down to nothingness. The children fade before my eyes, one by one relinquishing themselves from my warped vision of serenity, each taking yet more light with them as we part. I helplessly swing my arms, snatching at remnants of the elation that once filled the room. Each attempt finds only the failure of darkness. I spin, desperately, reaching out to grab something, staggering to snatch anything left behind. But it is a useless endeavor. Finally, I collapse to my knees from the strain, enveloped once more by the dismal shroud of loneliness.

One ghost yet remains, offering up her pale hand. The little girl. She transfixes me, her fingers floating so tantalizingly outside of my reach. She still wears a broad smile, her innocence dim in the oppressive quiet, a candle in the dark. Offering all the hope that she can. I want to join her so dearly, to let her lead me towards the light, into the orchestral melody of life.

No. The moment of salvation has passed. Nothing can bring light to this desolate place. Some meaningless mumble tumbles from between my lips and floats out into the room, swirling around her in ethereal dance. I am thankful for her efforts, and answer her smile with a half hearted grin of my own. She beams, and I let the moment linger, drinking in her purity for as long as I can allow myself. And then it is time. With a heavy high, I regretfully shake my head, lowering my gaze to the floor. Her spirit can do naught but contort this place further.

When I finally bring myself to raise my weary head, she is gone. All traces of the light that for a fleeting moment illuminated this broken place are gone, a hazy mist of memory that cannot quite manifest itself. What a fool, to think such an environment could foster joy, that such a fabrication of desperation could be made tangible through hope alone. The temptation which overtook me with its tantalizing lies has gone stale in my mouth, turned to chalk by reality, so utterly, overwhelmingly fruitless. All the ghosts are at peace, vanished from this mortal dwelling to frolick in the sunlight.

Darkness rushes back. The everlasting onyx void fills every crevice and corner, seeping into the wooden planks, a thick, viscous liquid. Its return overwhelms the ancient boat, and I know we have surely capsized. There is no swimming, no escape from its oozing expansion. It pours into his hull, and fills every cabin with icy depredation. The boat is drowning, struggling against the tide, flailing with jerking strokes as it is engulfed, desperate to stay afloat. The fire within me cries out as I reach upwards through the darkness, reaching towards the invisible light that surely lies beyond, that soft hand which floats just out of reach. But then I am extinguished, lost to the tides. The boat groans as it succumbs to the crashing waves of silence, and all is still.

Simon van Baaren 5

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Black Oxford for Ben Tiefenthaler Apples: smooth, red, green, crisp, sweet, sour, for wayside eating thoughtless or pressed relentless into cider drunk at a draught.

Black Oxford, you are none of these.

You arrived, token, jewel meant to be held and beheld.

Beauty to be wondered at.

Dull green pocked russet, russet pocked purple, purple pocked dull green, leaf-scuffed, roughened by wind, branch; you plead for polish, you will not get it.

Your imperfection’s perfect.

Heritage, they call you, heirloom.

In Adirondack October in last century’s youth coming off Wolf Jaws grandmother gathered your forbears in Maghee’s clearing.

She left her soul in you; skin papery, star-spotted; upright stem her perfect posture never touched a chair back.

Stern psyche pitiless never gainsaid ever scorning waste says eat.

Your apple flesh agrees, my heart says wait.

Peter H. Weis 2014 October - 2015 February

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A poem inspired by an article (http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2014/apr/18/kalahari-bushmenhunting-ban-prince-charles) on the introduction of development into the lives of the Botswana San people.

We are what we were.

Do you remember Papa?

The life we had, traveling from place to place.

The smiles on our face, the spring in our step, The land that was open, not property but life.

Do you remember Papa?

The birds in the trees, wild and yet tame.

The wind that blew through the leaves and the grass.

Close your eyes, Papa.

Please remember.

The quiet. The calm. The overwhelming tranquility.

The hunting and gathering of food for the community.

The bond we share with those around us, We took and we gave and they did the same.

We took what we needed and left everything.

Hold my hand Papa. Yes, hold it.

Close your eyes now, tight, believe it.

Remember it with all your heart, your life.

Remember it with what’s inside, your breath.

What lies beyond the curtain now, is of no concern.

We’re here, all here, and here we’ll stay till you leave.

Remember Papa, Your community.

Not those who’ve come, but us, your family.

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Yes, that’s it, smile.

Close your eyes and remember.

Leave what this place has become behind you.

The limitations and judgments.

The noise and the people.

The inconsiderate claim of wisdom The belittling expressions.

They said they could help, But what they said was wrong.

You see how even their medicine did not heal you.

The small pellets they placed on your tongue.

And while you remember we’ll remember you.

For Love is stronger than death, For you and all others who have left.

N. N - Edozien

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Bento He still calls me Matt. No matter how many times we go over this, he still calls me Matt! Laura isn’t that hard a name to say, is it? It’s only five letters, two syllables. He’d been so good at accepting this change, but he still couldn’t call me anything other than Matt. My only option to get through that thick, flannel-wearing, Canadian skull of his was yet another conversation over pickled vegetables. That’s one thing that hadn’t changed. Mother’s cooking. She still makes the same meals she did when it was her son matt who she’d call down for school in the morning. They were still packed in the same black and red Bento box. The same box that charlie, the flannelled fiend, was ravaging through as I just smiled and protested about the name once more.

“Alright, I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t mean to say it. The times they are a changin’,” he apologized, smirking at his cheeky Bob Dylan reference.

“It’s alright… just try to get it right.. ok+?”

Amidst his digging through my bento, I heard a mutter of “yeah, yeah, im workin’ on it.” Charlie, despite his difficulty with my new name, he was practically the only person who still treated me like I was normal. The way he treated Matt.. my parents had accepted it and allowed my requests to see a doctor about certain treatments, yet they only spoke about my new life choice in hushed tones and secretive voices in public. Their eyes always lingered uneasily on me in my dresses, as if it were my great aunt’s corgi wearing the garment. We’ll work through that though.

“So,” Charlie muffled, his face stuffed with my leftover kimchi fried rice.

“Do you like guys or girls now, eh?” asking giddily as he shoved the rest of my Bento’s contents down his gullet.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t really thought about it that much.”

In truth, I never really stopped. Staring into the river on top of that high wall, with my legs swinging free in the wind. It seemed like an ever more pressing concern.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the day I took pictures of the LGBT protest at the Ottawa Capitol building. Even as a twelve-year-old boy, the pictures I took and the things I heard still affected me now, as a 17-year-old woman. The colored flags, the courageous signs, the mustered confidence, all recorded in film. Those were the first photographs I ever sold, to the school newspaper for a candy bar, but still.

“How can you not know?” He asked, finally satisfied with his destruction of my perfectly arranged leftovers, that the Bento Box dividers were so good at separating. I dont know what his fascination was with my mother’s food. Part of the reason we had become friends was because he revered my “authentic” Japanese culture. He loved the fact that both my parents were japanese emigrants.

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“I just haven’t given it much thought, ok? Can we please not talk about it,” I said, frustrated.

He looked as though he had just dropped my prized camera in the river below us.

He obviously had realized he offended me, and he proceeded to apologize. “I’m sorry, I know all of this can’t be very easy for you, with the new treatments and Father Jacob being so bigoted. I shouldn’t be so pushy.”

He was right. It hadn’t been easy. Thankfully, most of my close friends and family had been accepting of this new part of my identity. The church we attended however, Father Jacob in particular, was not as welcoming to the new black sheep amidst his flock.

Father Jacob was not a lenient man, and taught the bible as a ruler slap to the hand rather than a forgiving embrace. So when word spread to his pious steps, my family and I were quickly turned away from mass.

My parents pleaded with Father Jacob, but his only response was, “Until your Son comes back a Son, you will never be allowed in my church.”

My father had pleaded, “Please, don’t blame the bo… girl, it is not her fault. She still believe in god. You don’t need punish her.”

My father’s pleases didn’t help, Jacob still turned us away. We found a new church, one that is more tolerant of people like myself and don’t view me as something to convert or shun. Its further away from where we live, but my parents still wanted to make the trip every sunday to show that they believed in me.

“It’s ok charlie, its just been difficult, i’ve been lucky to have both you and my parents at my back. Lets go see if my mom has some Mochi for you since you’ve already devoured the bento she made.” I said with a forgiving smile. With that, we hopped off the wall down to the sidewalk, charlie practically squealing over the thought of Mochi, and I still happy to still have a friend like him.

Sean Reilly

15

Breath

Your words Escaped like shuttered birds Frantic, swift, splintered.

My response Cleaved the air Primal, sour, graceless.

“What?” “What?”

You always asked.

I never had an answer.

B. Jorgensen

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In the form of T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, We present..

Declaration of Independence Let us leave then, you and I, T’is our basic rights they can’t deny; No longer patient, etherized upon a table; Let us go, on across the ocean splits, The rocking fleets Of restless flights in-one fight against British bells And the endless rows of loiter cells: Deeds that hallow freedom over Parliament Of insidious dissent To lead us to an undeniable secession….

Oh, do not ask, “Why is it?”

Let us go- truth be explicit.

In this gloom the Brits come and go Robbing our bread and dough.

The willow men that labors for them foreknow pains, The willow men that scrub their muzzles surely foreknow pains.

Brits with tongues most deceiving, Lingered upon our lands and stand high in vains, Let fall upon our backs the soot that falls from their chimneys, Strip thee and tear us, and so on, they reap.

And seeing that it was we who fear their might, Curled once about the house, and so soundly fell asleep.

And so for this deed there will be rights For the willow men that slides among the Brits, Rubbing their backs upon the foremost pains;

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There will be rights, there will be rights To prepare a mace to meet the faces of those Brits; There will be rights to nurture and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That sift and drop to secession that form our states; Regime for you and regime for me, And regime set for a hundred divisions, And for abundant visions and revisions, To prevent the achings of those in need.

In this gloom the Brits come and go Robbing our bread and dough.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do we dare?” and, “Do we dare?”

T’is not time to turn back and descend the stair, With a shameful distraught we used to bear(They will say: “How docile are our patrilineal kin?”)

Our mourning throats, our dollars mounting firmly under their feet, Our comply bewitched and modest, concerted to their simple feat(Soon they’ll say: “How their farms and eggs are sanguine!”)

Do we dare Disturb the universe?

This minute will be wise To re-list why t’is our best to disperse.

For we have reasoned them all already, reasoned with them all: Have appealed for relievings, farmings and safe communes, But they have fettered our votes and we won’t attune; We know our brethrens shall be starving with the coming Fall And t’is why we shall fight to keep our freedom bloomed.

So how then shall we presume?

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We shall say, we seek the liberation from thy kings and queens Thus to establish independent leaders chosen by Our people’s trustful wills.

And when from time our said regime exhibit flaws, Then it shall be fixed with prudence, indeed.

And one day our brethren shall live so blissfully!

Truth to thy forever lingers, Freedom…Liberty…and their bringers, Stretched out here beside you and me; Stood by, after all the foul deeds and devices, To defeat the despotism that once rose to crisis.

But our fight shall remain kept and lasted, kept and displayed, Though much of t’is day’s comrades shall fight and be shattered, Over decades our people will profit- and t’is cause shall be greater; We have seen the divine signs grant our right to vote, and hopes flicker, And in those endeavors, we pray.

And this shall be worth it, after all, After the crux, the wild blades, the deeds, Among the forceful rulers, among the deaths of all those indeed, It would be worthwhile, To have beaten the despots back to their land, To reclaim our prosperity as a whole, To roll our freedom timelessly through generations, To say: “We are our own status, separate from thy rest, Governed by own sovereignty, and let freedom befall us all”British rules, once cruel and grotesque, Shall perish under our God’s hand.

Let freedom befall us all!

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Let us go! We do not serve the Camelot, nor its decree; We shall move toward, a new world, one that will do To deal progress, part from their old doom, Rise against the prince, that sleazy brood.

We’re Quintessential, free from abuse, Beneficial, cautious, and judicious; Cleaved from their remnants, happiness profuse; At times, indeed, almost limitlessAt last, live by our rule.

We grow bold… We grow bold…

We shall bear the burden of these hours and never fold.

Shall we be idle and stay behind? Do we dare challenge their reach?

We certainly shall no longer endure British siege.

We have reckoned the voices of freedom, from reach to reach.

From t’is day on America will be free.

Behold, our great nation, shall not fear British blades, And in this liberty we will hold each other’s back, When the harsh blows of rulers strikes once again.

We have lingered here robbed of our right to be free By those rulers who disgraced and ruled over our town, Till we make our roaring heard, and dissipate from the British Crown.

Andrew H. Kim

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is that your heartbeat or your tears going thump thump thump there is a time and place for silence. it gets scary in your head, so you constantly need a voice to tell you it’ll be okay. i’m not saying that emptiness is melodic, but it’s set to the music of your footsteps, or the clicking of keys when you finally find the time to expel what you can’t feel. your tears are made of invisible words that you need to say and don’t know how. i admire your ability to ignore yourself, because that in itself has enough meaning, just like the way i can’t see my future because the government decided i need to eat this many calories to have a healthy body. did they ever think about our minds? neglect isn’t supposed to ring through poetry. we must be doing something wrong. could we silence the silence? people always say the love conquers hate, but why does “i love you,” have notes of bitterness and insincerity? so i never say “i love you,” and expect it to mean anything. instead, i tell everyone that i am sorry, because i am sorry for the abyss you’ve created for yourself and it’s ironic because i’m sad for your sorrow. that’s the only way i know how to care, for myself and others. maybe that’s why you’re so empty: you spend all your time trying to fill this silence with more silence your chasm with voids in your heart and your sadness with other’s sorrow. i’ve heard of abusive relationships before, but normally you can’t give yourself a black eye or a broken heart or a broken song to try and piece it all back together. a song to the tune of “i’m so sorry, i’m just so so sorry.”

Anonymous

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Haunted by Waters Once upon a time, two fishermen stood beside a spectacular river with an enormous steelhead trout in their hands, its scales glinting like a dragon’s.

“Wow, where’s that?” asked Andrew, our hero.

“That’s the LA River,” said Mr. Kopp, brandishing the ancient Los Angeles history tome that depicted the two fishermen. “Back before we turned it into a gutter.”

The LA River runs below the Glendale Bridge, a cursed concrete structure blanketed in trash. Even the Mr. Kopp said finding fish would be like finding a pea under 100 mattresses. Still, though the prestigious fresh-water species hadn’t been seen for 60 years, Andrew knew he’d have to test the legend himself.

The next week he prepared by pinpointing eddies and local insect hatcheries. Arriving at the river with his Royal Coachman fly on a #4 hook and his rod in his hand, he began casting upstream. Behind him, several young villagers approached curiously.

“¿Qué estás haciendo?” they asked.

“Fishing,” he said. “You see, you have to use flies that ‘match the hatch’ of the ecosystem…”

“¡Hijos! Ven aquí.”

The children scampered toward the older man who appeared above the river. He frowned at Andrew, the way evil kings frown before beheading a jester. The message transcended language: What are you, crazy? There be no dragons here.

Andrew fell into a despair suited only for lonely fishermen and maidens trapped in towers. At nights he imagined the trout. Gulp, gurgle, splash. What would such a beast desire? In the dark, the answer came thick and squishy—a giant slug. The next day at the river, Andrew replaced his fly with a matte black Stonehead Nymph on a larger #4 hook. Then, to suspend it mid-depth, he added clay weights and a styrofoam buoy, imitating the delicious gastropod.

Suddenly—SPLASH!—a flash of golden scales and a sharp tug at his rod. A silent crowd formed behind Andrew—the family from earlier in the week, the father’s arms crossed skeptically. The battle had begun.

From the street, lines of villagers gathered to watch the knight joust with the mythical creature. The gargantuan beast heaved, nearly wrenching free to the roar of the crowd. Vamos! they yelled, Let’s go! With the last bit of his Herculean strength he pulled, loosing a barbaric YAWWP. Then he saw his catch and the yell died on his lips. A horrific, swollen, garbage-fed mass of a river carp. A toad no princess would kiss.

With a sigh he threw the creature back and trudged home, ignoring the applause behind him.

And so, night overtook the kingdom, and no steelhead rested on Andrew’s mantle. Not a knight, not a legend, he thought. Just a boy, with a boy’s dream.

And he set down his rod and went to bed. But elsewhere in the land, great events were stirring.

In the morning, walking along the river, familiar faces greeted Andrew—the children and their father, grinning greatly with freshly bought Walmart rods. Andrew 28

helped them cut off the plastic and demonstrated how to string the rod and tie a fly. The king, no longer so evil, clapped the knight on the back.

“All day my sons cannot stop talking about fish.” He laughed. “Because of you, I have no choice.” Behind them, the children took their first casts. Their smiles glinted brighter than the scales of any dragon.

Now, when I pass the river, I join the small crowd of LA River fishers and listen to our bards sing The Ballad of Andrew the Fisherman, now passed into legend.

That’s the beauty of fishing: you never know what you’ll haul out. My optimism didn’t just catch a carp; it started a beautiful culture. Many years have passed in the half-light of the concrete canyon, all of us fishing there together with few fish caught—a community bound in the beauty of impossible dreams.

I am content as a fisherman, but my contentment lies in no one, static place. No, it flows ever onward, from the dirtiest patches of concrete to the bluest northern water. The river is an elusive melody trapped in my head, and its hymn constantly reminds me that all good things in life are inevitably elusive, but still obtainable. Every risk I take-running for senior class president, embarking on a Model UN trip to an unknown country, applying to the college of my dreams, or even asking a girl out-are casts of fishing lines.

So, what’s the point? Simply this: I never know if a fish will bite, or even see my fly. It’s a hopeful bet; my imagination concocting what waits at the line’s end. But in the end, that doesn’t matter. For even when I do hook a big one, I’ll take a second, enjoy the moment, then release it back and move on to the next, bigger catch.

As the writer Norman MacLean would say, I am haunted by waters.

Andrew H. Kim

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Tiny Feet Tiny feet, leave marks in the sand.

Grubby worms between soft hands.

Little heart, just learning to love.

Far below, heaven above.

Newspaper hats in far away lands.

Knights and dragons of boxes and cans.

To your eyes, the sun’s so bright.

Though you yearn to grow with all your might!

So take it slow!

Or you’ll never know that the star’s bright cries, are for your eyes.

To miss this glory, is such a sin.

For how all long, to be young again.

Isabella DeHerdt

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Better the Hornet I was born From a furtive exchange of glances Dad flipped burgers Mom was more curious than hungry I was born Six weeks early Mom going into labor blowing up balloons For my sister’s birthday My two earliest memories: I wailed when a hornet stung me in the head under a plum tree.

A Dallas motorcade A sniper’s bullet A dead president Better the hornet than the bullet I was born I intend to exit Quietly

Daniel Cohan

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Memory I went to the old house because I wanted to say goodbye. Clutching a crinkled slip of paper in my hand, I reread the address for the hundredth time.

“508 Cherry Street”. Staring at the broken down mailbox with the numbers

five-zero-eight dangling off the side, I muttered to myself, “This is it”.

I pulled my rusty red Honda into the dirt pathway. Years ago this place was so

full of life. I faintly remembered the smell of warm chocolate-chip cookies baking in the kitchen while snowmen and angels lined the yard.

The snow crunched beneath my feet as I took the metal tin from the car and

walked into the backyard, hopping over the lined fence. The bank may own this place now, but it can’t keep me out.

Immediately I recognized the backyard. Memories of me and my brother

playing as kids fluttered back into my brain as I stood there speechless. I wandered over to a tree and noticed a carving in it. “Scarlett and Ryan Siblings 4Ever”. I kneeled to the ground and lay my face down in my lap as tears streamed down. Memories fluttered in my head of my brother and me frolicking around the yard, pretending we were in some magical land, like Narnia or Neverland. Grasping the metal tin, I opened it and spread my brother’s ashes throughout the yard, silently hoping that he would never be forgotten.

My now blurred vision caused me to wobble while standing up. I fiddled

through my jacket pockets and found my car keys. As I made my way back to the driveway, I looked back at the tree, took a deep breath and got in the car, wondering if I would ever return.

Kate Nouhan

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Acknowledgment The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.

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Editorial Staff Isabella Lombino ’18 Kevin Ouyang ’15 Eve Pomazi ’17 M.C. Robben ’16 Sandy Subkuryard ’15

Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor

Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.

Mandala

2015