Excelsior – Fall 2024

EXCELSIOR

FALL 2024

A journey is never just about the miles traveled.

It’s the quiet ache of loss. The spark of discovery. The twist in the road you never saw coming.

This issue is a map. Not with neat lines and printed labels. The stories, are waypoints.

Breadcrumbs left behind by travelers who have wandered the winding streets of memories and the rough seas of change. Some of whom’s stories are still unfinished, The last sentence extending past the edge of the page.

So browse this edition and see where the road leads you. And, of course, don't forget to enjoy the adventure.

Your Editors, Archisha And Sanjna

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover Image by Renee Bou Mansour Prologue Table of Contents Image by Suhani Jerath The Crow by Arjan Singh Image by Sanjna Thoguru Same Name by Olukayomide Odusote Image by Olukayomide Odusote Mind in Your First Hand (somewhat story poem in another perspective) by Olukayomide Odusote Image by Sanjna Thoguru How to Catch a Falling Thought

by Olukayomide Odusote Image by Sanjna Thoguru Work the Day, Live the Night by Thomas Lemme Image by Maya Shamiyeh Flowers by Aanya Jeganathen Image by Suhani Jerath Forgiving by Ojurereoluwa Kassim Image by Jay Raval The Journey of a Madman by Clement Lacroix Image by Sanjna Thoguru Life’s Regatta by Kelli Chang Image by Archisha Sonig Acknowlegements Back Cover Image by Sanjna Thoguru

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The Crow

By Arjan Singh

I started on the road with no idea where to go, Surrounded by lush foliage and the harsh caw of a crow.

The marvellous black crow, with feathers sleek and fine, Its sharp, knowing gaze held secrets dark as mine.

It cawed once more, and I looked up to see This crow, scarred and battered, still soaring so free.

Each scar told a tale of sorrow and strife, But also of triumph, and the strength of its life.

The scars were a sign, a promise, a way, That even through struggles, we’ll see a new day.

Remnants of a past where it had seen brighter skies, Yet still it soared onward, refusing to cry.

Now the crow flew free, gliding through the air, Now the crow flew strong, without worry or care.

It taught me a lesson I’ll never forget: That no matter the struggle, we mustn’t regret.

Past choices and troubles, the things we can’t change, Are scars on our souls, but they’re not out of range.

It’s not where we’ve been, it’s how we have grown, That defines our journey, the path we’ve been shown.

That day on the road, I learned something true: It’s not where you wander, it’s what you will do.

And no matter the trials, I’ll find my own way, Soaring like the crow, with grace through the fray.

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Same Name

By Olukayomide Odusote It’s not fun, but I’m used to it A washed out flame, never relit Pain is distracting, so I eat my mouth Always got swallowed, so plan goes south head needs to implode, too bad its resistant Feelings so different, though combined in an instant Death would be a crime, in such a peaceful hole It is climbing out, i wish to disapate my soul Desires are cruel, a room i wish to flood Drowning is boring, but such a tasteful sip of blood The future is corrupting, spreads with no cure Such a relief from nothing, a thought to pure Stomping my feat, to little released Crushing my head, could only decrease Sadness is unwanted, but always too inviting Life is annoying, but forever delighting Powerless to do anything, but anything i cant It is over nothing, when i make the biggest rant Ringing in and out, no where to hide Exposed too much, how dreadful outside Paralysis I managed, Sound is piercing Forced to lucid, torture of time’s ticking Anger lures all, such an immortal pest Fingers in ears, as failures manifests A slit in thought, inviting pain for a meal As i reopen it up, as soon its sealed Arrival at the end, embarrassment to walk I tie up whats left, knowing that’s only just talk The silence in absence, not lonely without Alone with thought, but with no way out I will cry when im hopeless In truth So I sit homeless reliving youth

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Mind In Your First Hand (somewhat story poem in another perspective)

By Olukayomide Odustote Where are You? I don’t care for where I am Besides it’s to dark to discern any land I’m focused on You, eyes locked on Yours But it seems like your distracted, I can’t seem to see you anymore What are you looking at, looking for?

It seems like your stalling for something more Or is that You? You’ve lost Yourself, i can tell from Your senseless face Your gone, with Your empty body left in Your place Your eyes are trapped behind open doors of light Or does it close You off, blinding Your sight You hide in the night, sinking into the sky But no, You create the darkness You fall into, as pours from Your eyes You’re drowning Yourself out…

Black ink drips off Your face, unwarranted it continues flooding Thats why You normally live life on the shores, for the fear of drowning I always asked why, because i know you can swim But You always say, how can i, if He will drag Me in?

I know They escape from within, into the warmth of Your hands but She comes from a source, more immense than any of Our lands I don’t understand It but i forever understand You… I will pull You out.

I will save you.

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How to Catch a Falling Thought

By Olukayomide Odusote

Though it takes some time, success is intangible Failure is dead, so always stay audible Speak what you can receive, although your given none Many will follow, so your chance is one I see it through your eyes, how wonder eats you whole The thought is always common, but yet it finds your sole Quiet you say, though your words are clear as a blur How energy is unused, you stay standing as you where Your pupils swim fast, racing across your eyes A mouth with no sound, yet filled up with lies Ears are blind, so why is your nose so deaf A simple task lost, so you are stuck with nothing left

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Work the Day, Live the Night

By Thomas Lemme The instructor said, “Go home and write a page tonight.

And let it come from you—then it will be true.”

Sixteen years on this island of Nantucket, Where the waves crash after one and another Like my work schedule that never ends.

I ride my bike down that same old road With rusted gears.

The duck store requests, And I deliver.

Twelve hours long in a sunburned trance, Where I fold shirts, shake hands, And sweat in my cloth employee shirt.

The ocean is rough, like my daily grind.

Its waves pull me back with no peace to find.

I stand there and take hit after hit, An unbroken wave crashes over me with an endless force of tasks to make myself rethink why I went into these waters. The same wave never quits during the long shifts at work.

Each task rolls in with one after another, There is no break in sight.

However, when night falls, The tide recedes, And I am finally free from the store’s greedy needs.

The sand cools beneath my hot feet while I run to the beach where we all meet.

I laugh loud under star-lit skies.

It is like I finally wake once the sun dies.

For these moments that feel like I am not being commanded by no greed, Instead I am in control of my own decisions.

The ocean’s roar is always near, Which is an aggravating reminder that morning will soon reappear.

Another day, another wave to the face, Where I am back to the grind and stuck in place.

Does the water win?

Do I sink or swim again?

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Flowers

By Aanya Jeganathen my grandma grew in a field of flowers a field of Gorgeous Poisoned flowers Burdened by a patriarchal institution built on the shoulders of all the women that came before her forced to quit school in 8th grade; forced to marry in 11th grade; forced to be silent forever. each plait she braided in her hair was braided with the Invisible chains that strong armed her into her femininity every cup of tea she made had the Bitter taste of dysarthria mixed into it my mother grew in a field of flowers a field of Gorgeous sprouting flowers they grew fighting the poison that infected the flowers that grew before them strong; But weakened by poisoned weeds that grew in their own garden Weeds that spread ideas such as Starvation for Validation Weeds that placed a scarlet letter on every woman that dared to remove the patriarchal chains wrapped around her roots I grow in a field of flowers A field of gorgeous Powerful flowers We grow fighting for the flowers that grew before us Uniting to tear down the weeds were once wrapped around our roots Replacing their plaits with our free flowing hair Unbinding the chains they once attached to our scarlet letters

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Forgiving

By Ojurereoluwa Kassim

Your actions hurt more than words could say Actions no more acknowledged than a normal tuesday Our relationship fragmented and filled with insecurity A simple argument that should have embodied maturity Days later I’m left with convoluted feelings A major offense too complicated for healing Friendship splintered, a struggle entails Tension increasing our heartstring frails A wall erupts, two sides divided Disconnection ensues, our bond unwinded A vast divide seemly impassable Our connection fails, rekindling impractical An illuminating light is cast out from across Our fading relationship after all is not lost Across this great chasm a hand reaches out With an effort for two a new beginning sprouts.

A return to compassion seemed so bizarre Not quite as how it began but not quite so far Friendship amended not without a few scars I forgive you 13

The Journey of a Madman

By Clement Lacroix

A journey which few dare embark, fearing to trespass upon some sacred ground in which logic defies reason. Walking along the razor thin wire of sanity, peering down into pools of effervescent clarity, sizzling with bubbles of lost humanity clawing at its silvery surface.

Diving beneath this guise of purity, only to marvel at the tarnished fringes of a fractured universe. Thoughts and dreams plastered upon its frayed edges like silvery water droplets upon a shimmering web. Isolated. Beautiful. Trapped. A great architect had once stood over this vast mindscape, for incoherent ramblings cannot exist without the presence of monumental intellect. Now, in its wake, a world of stillborn potential, with its natural laws composed by a madman, singing some distant symphony for a bygone crowd of equal sentiment. Or perhaps this lost soul has found his own salvation, a sanctuary deep within the woods to the soul? Would it be cruelty to save him? To take him from his serenity and indoctrinate him back into an equally mad world, devoid of human empathy or selfactualization? So passionately he sings his anthem, how alluring it’s melody, bursting at the seams with manic vitality. It finds its magnificence deep within oceans of crystalline memories, immortalized in song, splintering into a somber mosaic of what could have been; The search for fulfillment draped in a cloak of lyrical verse to the tune of some old song whose name has been lost to time. Melodies soar past the heavens, enveloped by twilight, and climbing ever closer to the distant sun. Has Icarus died in vain, a cautionary tale driven to obsolescence as a congregation of hopes and dreams take to the skies, daring to fly a little higher, push a little further, trying to satisfy their insatiable hungers? When the line between ambition and delusion ripple into desperate determination, was madness ever that far away?

Cradled by their broken wings, poets and prophets and saints alike feel flesh tear to bone, stripped of their brilliance as they fall, fall down to the jagged Earth. When rocks of teeth and skin of stone tear through the soft bodies of fallen sparrows, does death sit and marvel at their resolve? Or do their now fragile, shattered minds, undermine their fall from grace? Once a fire dies, no matter how bright it once was, all there is to see now are ashes. Sparks of white glimmering upon dark charcoal, as if trying to mimic the twilight they had once encompassed. The journey from brilliance to ruin, as tattered fortresses kneel down to the hand of time. The journey of denial to false sanctuary, when dying fires optimistically think of their past radiance. The journey of redemption, a samsara of disgrace and rebirth. The journey of a madman.

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Life’s Regatta

By Kelli Chang

The sail ahead is not simple, As waves of dread ripple and lodge the rudder, Windshadows of greater boats block the wind, Every unforeseen gust dipping the edge into the water, As if whispering, “You’re only one jibe (jyb) from going under.”

Insidious words puncture my mainsail, Unfelt bruises endured from docking alone, Salt water evaporating white and dry, The mainsheet’s rope biting my gloved hand, As my own swinging boom threatens to knock me off the side.

Those who claim “first in spirit” suffices, Speak it from still waters, Had their own stunning boat from a young age, A parent to properly guide them through the bay, Their voyage fueled by passion not desperation. Know, If I ceased to sail on, To some ambiguous destination, The recovery of each sink would not be a piece in my journey, (But the fact that I had a boat), Would prove only my incompetent nature.

When someday (pray not too soon) when I tack back, Scan the bay I've battled through, Reel in my sail as my telltales signal towards home, And I return once again battered from my voyage, In the chance I don’t succeed do you think they would still dock my boat?

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Editor-in-chiefs 2024-2025: Archisha Sonig ‘25 & Sanjna Thoguru ‘25

Co-Vice Editor-in-Chiefs: Ojurereoluwa Kassim ‘26

Features: Kelli Chang ‘25 Aanya Jeganathen ‘25 Clement Lacroix ‘26 Thomas Lemme ‘26 Olukayomide Odusote ‘27 Arjan Singh ‘27

Special Thanks to...

Ms. Angelos, Club Advisor Dr. Loy Dr. Chodl Ms. Bautista-Burk Mr. Domanski

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