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The Mountain Mirror

St. Andrew’s-Sewanee School 2021

The Mountain Mirror Saint Andrew’s-Sewanee School Staff: Nailah Hamilton, Taylor Irwin, Elizabeth Jenkins, Isabel Patterson, Janae Rabess Faculty Sponsor: Kinion Pond Cover Art by Charlie Barron Spring 2021

Table of Contents Poetry and Prose Morning Dew, Elizabeth Jenkins After “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Iliana Pate Untitled Poem, Sevie Griswold Rose Colored Spectacles, Amelia Pond What Remains, Jasmine Render Nantahala, Karen Badgley What will I say tomorrow morning, Janae Rabess Who I Was, Isabel Patterson The Snow, Birds, and Leaves, Mia Val Canyon Reflection, Caroline Neubauer The Voice, Audrey Ward Fantastical Dreams, Kendall Elder A Story from a Spaceship, Emery Preslar Truth, Luciana Mollica And Finally, the Sun Sets Over August, Charlie Barron What We Once Had, Onawa Henson Nothingness, Elijah Stark Colors, Ketiah Ingangi

1 3 4 6 7 9 10 11 14 15 18 19 21 22 24 26 27 29

Art Myers Gorrell Loulie Frazier Emily Ren Reese Michaels Kathleen Perkins Tania Gonzalez Horstmann Annie Zhang Libby Neubauer

2 5 8 13 17 20 25 28

Morning Dew Elizabeth Jenkins I see the sun shining off the morning dew, like droplets of heaven thrown to the ground. Carelessly, yet perfect. Assimilating the nature of Earth’s surface and its inhabitants. Its hills and valleys, its roses and thorns. I wait for the sun to shine over the rolling hills. Illuminating the crevices in which dark and dauntless things lie, but there is no need to be scared of the dark. Because though it is different it is still the same. It waits. Watching. But just like us it sees the green tendrils of Earth reaching up to the sky, drowning in gaieties. Absorbing the sunlight, taking in everything good, good and bad. It too esteems the life that springs from rivers and forests and canyons and deserts. So they dwell in the dark corners. Hiding from their own impertinence of what they see around them. But no one can ignore that blatant beauty which nature beholds. Everyone sees the sun shining off the morning dew, and the reaching grass. Everyone yearns to soak in the rays of sun, shining over the grassy hills.

Myers Gorrell

After “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” Iliana Pate Guilt drives us all on, Towards redemption or to despair. Like an unsympathetic ocean Breaking first your body, Then your mind, And then, if you can’t swim away, Breaking the deepest convictions of your soul. Stop. close your eyes. Breath in breath out. You’ve spilled blood in the water, But you can’t let your own fall too. Reach out, Close you desperate fist Around your frail identity. Guilt, formed by your own morality, Only seeks to clear away the cobwebs From the widow of that same morality Through which you view the world. So, hold on, hold on To the fire in your soul. It’s only yours to have, And only yours to judge. And in the end, the choice is yours. The guilt, the pain, is your possession. The world decides what you endure, But you decide the final resolution. You can strengthen your resolve Or you can let your fist uncurl And let your life become an empty broken-record rhyme.

Untitled Poem Sevie Griswold A boy sits in class, bored. He’s finished his work. The classroom looks familiar. But he doesn't know where from. Now he watches his classmates. His friends smile at him. Or they would but they all have on masks. The annoying people, he can't stand being around them. Then he glances at the girl he likes. She looks up just in time to see him look away. He looks down and begins to worry Oh no could she have seen me. Then she walks up to him and talks to him. He can't believe it, it seems so unreal… Hold on something isn't right He looks around and begins to understand. The bricks on the wall line up perfectly The tile on the floor has no cracks The desks...they have no marks. He slumps back in his chair as things begin to unravel and disappear from his world. He watches as she vanishes with everything else. A slight beeping becomes louder till it's almost unbearable.

Then he wakes up That dream seemed so realistic Yet so unreal it couldn't have been true. He slams his alarm clock why is it set to 3 am. He lays down as sleep takes him over He drifts into a dreamy state. Does this classroom look familiar? He finished his work...now what.

Loulie Frazier

Rose Colored Spectacles Amelia Pond Through their rose-colored spectacles, they see normality. Through those tinted pieces of glass, they see conversation hear jokes notice actions of passion and understand everything. But I strive to live free of those rose-colored spectacles. To see and hear and understand these things for what they are, without the shimmering translucent lenses blinding my sight: I see talks of gossip and rumours hear verbal shaming notice actions of jealousy, not passion and acknowledge that I, nor them do not understand everything. But alas, not everyone can accept life as it truly is, without their ruby-toned wonders. I have, with reluctance, realized that I must come to accept this bizarre sense of perception as reality, For it will take more than one person To create a society independent of the rose colored spectacles.

What Remains Jasmine Render And then she woke Dried the evidence of the night’s weakness Glancing around the empty interior She was alone Her breaths not joined Her thoughts not validated But she didn’t feel alone Not anymore She felt the presence of those in her life Those that chose to be there Not leaving when it suited their journey Their growth, their peace Their skewed reality In those moments of sorrow when the world seemed to close in She couldn’t help but retreat back to her old regime Allowing invisible predators in her mind Wreaking havoc on her growth But as she runs her hands over her face She realizes Her smile remains radiant Her body remains beautiful Her love remains fierce Her heart remains pure Her strength remains unmatched She was never alone

Emily Ren

Nantahala By Karen Badgley There is an old cabin far away from home. A mournful little house, a house full of dreams it seems to have been around forever. It doesn’t fit in with the jade and emerald leaves or with the young brook who babbles. The moss and stones and homemade curtains spin their own tales. The small fireplace and unfinished floors are bards of old legends. Traversing through this place of untold stories my whimsical imagination flies away with me. Races through these haunted halls, filled with the ghosts and spirits of those who loved and lost. The long dead tears and laughter echo. But who were these vibrant souls of my own creation? What tale does the disturbingly blood-like stain on the curtain recite? The tiny doors leading into nowhere? The tunnel in the basement that seems an endless void? Was it a crime of passion? Vengeance? Cold blood? an accident? What tragedy so profound left this house unfinished? I know that this is all in my head. That my imagination is probably overactive, yet I can't help but wonder about this little house tucked away at the edge of fairyland. Set amidst the rustle and crackle of the woods. What happened to you, somebody's little house of dreams?

What will I say tomorrow morning? Janae Rabess The fireflies outside proved to be an efficient distraction as I pressed my cheek onto the stiff, cold glass of the windowpane, and I was beginning to think she could tell how nervous I was, how tired my eyes were of chasing green tails, as I flicked my eyes back to her left forefinger and thumb pressed against the glass and her eyes trained on her right hand pressing firmly into the flesh of my knee, like she, too, had grown bored of the haphazard dots of luminescence twirling through the air, and was now personally invested in the stretch of my anatomy, her gun-barrel eyes, callous and unforgiving, climbing up my body -- her hand still on my knee -until she met my eyes and I realized far too late that I was staring, that my heart was an erratic throb against my ribcage, and, worst of all, by the way her eyes glistened skittishly, she could tell, but abruptly, in one sharp breath, she pressed her body forward and lowered her lips to my temple, just where the wisps of my hairline would brush against my brow, her lips nearly a smile but not quite as she fully detached herself from the window, my knee, the room, solemnly padding across the room and out the door, leaving it to swing just briefly from its hinges.

Who I Was Isabel Patterson I was born in the Cradle of the Revolution, a landscape pressed with sweeping mountains and roving hills that descend onto the course of the flowing Gan river, from the broad rice patties dressed properly in hues of green to the brown soil underfoot that began the Long March. I was born into a country brimmed full of breath, beauty, and the inevitable reality of loss, spoken throughout the country and echoed in resounding chambers of my heart, constantly probing for the definite answer. I was taken to the land of the Great Lakes, an icy winter tempress and a mild summer sentinel that yielded its gaze from the changing temperaments of the mighty lakes and their surrounding course around her supple and tender edges. I was taken to state replete in the joy of being a child, an area of picking sour green blueberries or falling forwards in the snow covered ground, bounding up the high-storied library, waiting for my dad to catch up. I was taught with the world as my playground, an ever shifting environment tempered by my will to stay grounded and in control like the heated harmattan spewing red dust into every corner and crevice, before the torrential summer rains washed it out. I was taught in the humid Ghanian air and through the tepid Zambian breezes,

catching myself stuck in my little British books, my little British friends, Nigel, Harry, all us peculiarly together, foriegn friends in a foriegn book in a foriegn country. I was raised on the high peaking Cumberland plateau, a photograph of tranquil stretching woods filled with prowling deer, twisting their dainty necks and perking their ears up at the noise of a passing car, akin to a curious child unaware of the danger. I was raised reconciling scattered piece of my life together, struggling to find an explanation concealed in my maze of memories, hazy fragments fading in and out of focus collectively congealed in a perfectly imperfect unanswered answer.

Reese Michaels

The Snow, Birds, and Leaves Mia Val The trees were frozen and stiff, bending in the wind. The white carpet felt like wool, falling silently. The only colors were brown and white, not even a trace of green. The water was frozen, transformed into slippery mayhem. The grass was green like yarn, soft and bright. Birds and butterflies filled the air with their wings. The sun shone brightly in the clear, warm sky. The air filled with rain, cleansing the last snow away.

The ground became hard, dry, and a darker green. The rain stopped falling, as it became hot. The temperature went up enough to burn fabric. The breeze stopped and kids played in the water.

The air became colder, kids put on their sweaters. The ground turned red, yellow, brown, a carpet of crunchiness. The harvests started producing once more, a variety. Clouds started gathering in the distance.

Then the cycle repeats. Each season, separate yet the same. Winter then Spring. Then Summer and then Fall. And then Winter again.

Canyon Reflection Caroline Neubauer As I jolt with the rhythm of the crashing waves, freezing water pours down on me, coating me in a jacket of fear and excitement. I’m in a raft with my family, our paddles moving in unison, the only rhythm in this tumultuous maze of water. We top the last rising dome and eddie out in the shadow of the canyon towering above. Our success is buzzing in the air as we relive our perfect run. We head down the river a little farther and stop on a sandy bank to eat lunch. Sitting on a rust colored rock, my feet in the icy and refreshing water, we enjoy our meal. With our bellies full, we hike up a little side canyon. After climbing up the sandy and steep cliff my breath catches in my throat. My mind clears of all previous thoughts, now seemingly insignificant, as I struggle to take in all of the immeasurable beauty of this paradise in front of me. The canyon is layered in colors, each with subtly differing tones casting a spell on me. The walls bend and curve, giving life and movement to the otherwise stationary rock. Streams of crystal water flow through this canyon gathering in pools and spilling over boulders, creating a real-life painting not even my imagination could cook up. We all sit in silent awe soaking up the immense

beauty sprawling around us. Eventually we get up to explore. Racing through the water, I try to memorize every part of this moment, every mind-blowing detail. As my legs propel me through the mini canyon I feel as strong as the rocks themselves, as if I’m as beautiful as the dark green plants elegantly cascading down the rockface to lightly touch the immaculate water. In this canyon I am beautiful not because of my appearance or the feeling that I have achieved any “social standards”, but because these standards are stripped away like the canyon walls, leaving bare layers of my true colors. With no one expecting me to be more or any different than I am, an invisible shadow extends its dark wings and lightly flies away. In this canyon as I explore and absorb every feature with my family by my side, I gaze into a liquid mirror, yet instead of seeing my appearance reflected my eyes only find my true being, my soul, and that is truly beautiful.

Kathleen Perkins

The Voice Audrey Ward Hands trace the vivid colors of violets, picked by the hands of god. Love permeates through them, as they place divine creation. They see what we do not, yet the puffs of cloud remain within our sight. The sun, a testament to our devotion, not vengeful, not forgiving. Vines grow throughout the world, through their own conception. Trapped within sacred life, God stays to comfort invention.

Fantastical Dreams Kendall Elder I dreamt of giants The ones bigger than houses. Whose steps made me fly And could squish me without batting an eye So I dreamt of pixies The ones that fit in my palm The ones who jumped when I stepped And oh, how I hated it when they wept Instead, I was into a traveler, The stars my guide. I saw fields of gold, And seas of copper. But the stars don’t talk, And the gold lost its shine. I felt alone, With no one by my side. My last dream was of you, With eyes that shined And spoke a million words. I didn’t need anymore.

Tania Gonzalez Horstmann

A Story from a Spaceship Emery Preslar With a soft Crack the small shell on the ceiling crumbles open, revealing all of the goo held inside. A green slimy goo that smells strongly of sulfur. As the Green slime slides out of the shell Captain reaches up to touch it, I am not quite sure why. Possibly to feel the goo? Look at the shell? I can quickly tell something is wrong from the look that passes over his face as soon as his fingers come into contact with this snot-like substance. A glimpse of pain, but then a calmness. A terrifying calmness, as he looks at me straight in the eyes and reaches to lock the door. I lunge to stop his hand from hitting the switch, but to no avail. I flick my eyes from the now slimy, and dissipating lock, to him. Or should I say IT. There is a blankness to his eyes as he reaches for me. I start backing away, fumbling with the bright red button on my belt labeled H E L P. My finger finally closes around the beacon of safety, and I press it with all of my strength.

Truth Luciana Mollica You swallow air, Corrupted by the one that hurt you. No point in heaving. For years you’ve tethered hatred to your lungs, While grudge flowered in the chest cavity, Extending its lengthy petals like bronchioles. Her oxygen is yours now. No air is wrong. Breath, my child. For years I formed a picture of my face Through shards of a broken mirror. For years I cut divots into my smile, Not knowing that I could be whole again. Go to the shop on the corner. Buy the mirror wrapped in lace. Steal it if you have to, For truth belongs to no one. Hand yourself limitless Panes of reflection. Hand yourself wholeness. Truth flows from wide, wailing mouths And echoes between hollowed hallucinations And silence. Truth flowers in the wet garden That feeds the hungry soul. And waits not for you to believe in it. It takes a sunrise to understand Truth, To forge into rights and wrongs

That surge beneath hot skin, Boiling under the scope of society. It takes a sunrise to warm your skin With the truth of a million voices. To face the fear of difference. Truth radiates on Grateful Faces, Faces of those that bend their branches To the sky they think they deserve. And they do deserve it, They do.

And Finally, The Sun Sets Over August Charlie Barron I dream of a sea When I sleep -- which is foreign these days. An open land, a sprawling green, Washed white and gentle by compassionate rays. My sole, raw and calloused, Holds firm against the bow. And the lapping waves silence finally The voices so familiar now: See you soon, says March, optimist and naive. Unprecedented times, May rebuts in a flurry of subject lines. Alone alone alone alone alone, screams June. Or maybe it was July. Broken glass pours sunlight through a crack in the window blinds. Like the body of the bird which drapes my shoulder, Today begins over and over and over. Think Sisyphus, think mountain, think boulder. In August I see salvation; The crest of the horizon, my second wind obscured by the bend. But like so many promises broken, A beginning is just a disguise for another end. Lead does no justice. Weight; so modest as to be a lie. Consumed within a litany of false assurances “And yet I could not die.” In the waves, in the sunset, in the welcoming wind, A beauty which demands declare: From the knowing -- which is to say the haunting, “I bless them unaware.”

Annie Zhang Fish is a must have dish at the New Year's Eve dinner. People buy fresh live fish the day before New Year's Eve to prepare for dinner. In the bazaar, people's faces will unconsciously overflow into festive smiles. This smile is from the heart, it is a kind of family reunion, everyone together to celebrate the biggest holiday. I think there's a lot of human touch in this picture. No deliberate pose, no need to dress up, just a quick snap, a vivid, heartfelt smile, and real life.

What We Once Had Onawa Henson The town from which you came Is the same that bears your name I didn’t think you would soon be gone But I never imagined you’d stick around so long You quickly became friends with mama kangaroo And you went on many an adventure too Yes you had quite a life Then you settled down and she became your wife We put you in cheap costume jewelry that we thought was like gold When even then it was old We dressed you in clothes that were pretty Probably the nicest in animal city One of us – I don’t remember who – Pulled off your soft black nose I sewed on a button because we couldn’t fix it with glue Now you smell of mildew And its been ages since you went through a door You never even leave my drawer

Nothingness Elijah Stark As the fog rolls in I see it, nothingness. The snow settles along the treetops, like a blanket that chills at a touch. I watch the ice coat the branches, adding to the nothingness, a blank canvas yet so full of life. Suddenly a single bird chirping pierces the nothingness, a red dot in the monotone world. Perhaps it sees what I see, nothingness

Libby Neubauer

Colors Ketiah Ingangi Red, black, orange, pink. Watch the colors flow, the ink so magical and slow. Like a gentle stream they rise. Like a velvet dream they fall. Like flowers in spring, they’re unaware of their deceit. White, grey, black. Like crows they demand, and so they take flight across the roughness of my page.

Saint-Andrew’s-Sewanee School 290 Quintard Road Sewanee, TN 37375 www.sasweb.org