The Ivy | #4 | April 2015

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Editors’ Letter As the fourth marking period begins, we should embrace this perfect opportunity to consider how far we’ve come since September, and where we want to be by June. This issue of The Ivy features submissions that touch upon love, loss, stress, religion, war, identity, heartbreak, and everything in between, allowing you to find something that speaks to you, prompting you to reflect on the past and look towards the future.

Staff

Editors-in-Chief: Haley Clark Victoria Gebert Before you continue, we would like to point Managing Editors: out that this is the first issue of The Ivy to Asher Wulfman contain hand-made jewelry. We’re always Sarah Spergel ecstatic when we have the opportunity to Secretary: showcase a different artform! Anyone out Caleigh Dwyer there with comics, hand-made clothing, novel excerpts, collages - we welcome you to share Review Board/Copy Editors: them with us!

Phoebe Whiteside Talya Shatzky Our next issue will be our annual Black & Business: White issue, and we are already looking Stefan Pophristic (Manager) forward to another round of submissions.

Winona Guo (Secretary) If you’re reading this and thinking, “maybe I should submit, maybe I shouldn’t,” please Public Relations: note: the very fact that you’re considering Katie Vasquez (Manager) submitting something means that you absoJasmine Charles (Secretary) lutely should. The next issue will be the last Technology: of this school year, so don’t let this chance Angie Keswani pass you by!

Isabelle Joyce Maha Hadaya Finally, we’d like to thank the bold, creative students who submitted their work, Advisors: the teachers who gently (or not-so-gently) Mr. Gonzalez nudged their students to submit, and the Ivy Ms. Muça staff members who worked tirelessly to bring this issue to life.

That said, we hope you all enjoy this issue of The Ivy! Sincerely, Haley Clark & Vicky Gebert 2

Table of Contents Abstract Horse Saint Louis, Missouri (East and West) I (Don’t) Believe; Contrastée rognée I (Don’t) Believe (cont.)

Interview with Kate; 11:59 Clarity; Cold Oatmeal

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The Stars Are Always Above SAYO Cancer; Insomnious Omniscience Our View of Things; New Year Untitled Untitled (cont.)

Winter’s Crystal; To Owe Numbers; Tomato in Bowl Sea Sky; Golden Wave A Summer Reflection; Ocean Avenue Wire and Stones Great Leap; Behind the Curtain The Dancers The Forgotten Choir Remember; Ferguson Protestor Falling Motion; High Impact Interview wth Halle; Bug Untitled Venezia

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Julie Clement Caroline Forrey Kate Schofield; Cami Poniz Kate Schofield The Ivy; Nina Zhong Cheyenne Setneska; Harrison Bronfeld Rutha Chivate Nicole Oliver Fia Miller; Asher Wulfman Katie Vasquez; Caleigh Dwyer Elle Klein Elle Klein Nicole Irizarry; River MacLeod Amy Guan; Keri Zhang Caleigh Dwyer; Cynthia Ma Elina Roychowdhury; Leah Bakoulis Genevieve Garlock Andrew Bai; Nathan Drezner Katie Vasquez Sierra Zareck Ashley Dart; Halle Copeland Sierra Zareck; David Jackson The Ivy; Noel Xie Bronwyn Hines Stephanie Tam

The Ivy began in the 1960s, but its serialization began in 2014.

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Abstract Horse, Julie Clement

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East

It smells like night and chlorine.

The grey cement is rough and warm.

The joint of the french doors presses into my back.

I love this timeThe sounds, the colors, the smells, the feelings I want to capture it all But no picture can truly hold it all And the time is always fleeting, fleeting, fleeting.

Why am I always called back inside?

Pulled back just when I find myself on the brink Saint Louis, Like a word caught on the very tip of my tongue Missouri There is never enough time to remember it.

Caroline Forrey Told to step into the light.

I can’t tell if it is better to be a participant Or an observer.

Though I know which comes more naturally.

I must remember.

This is no metaphor.

West This is real.

A city’s This is a time, Heat rises And a day, Beneath me, And a place.

Fading in the air.

Though I have known It is warm for late September, the same way many times before, And laughter and joyous talk crackle; This has lasted the longest.

The sounds filter up from the street.

A cool breeze passes between iron bars And a highway roars like some mythical beast To my left the light above the treeline frames a single boxy tower There it glows the color of rust and dried blood To my right there is a flaxen glow pasted across faded clouds Ahead of me is merely northwest But the whole of the continent lies there stretching and stretching Hard to imagine that people once walked that way, making the land their own.

The TV flickers behind me, cameras flash and headlights streak the night below, the warm yellow of the streetlights seem like the fire’s light. The flame of the West glows beneath the gently flapping flag.

The darkening but still bright sky, the glow of fluorescent bulbs in the city’s walls, the swiftly setting sun.

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I (Don’t) Believe, Kate Schofield Dear God,

I’ve been to church quite a few times in my life. Ranging from towering castles to simple white chapels, I’ve gone to church. I’ve read the Book and I’ve sung the hymns. I’ve given my pocket money to the ‘greater good’ and I’ve looked to the sky for answers it couldn’t give.

The stained glass never stopped looking pretty to me. I never understood why they made people and scenes out of them, because I always thought it would look nicer with no direct image plan. I suppose could still appreciate it, though. When my friend pulled me into a massive cathedral, I was initially disturbed by its darkness and gothic architecture.

While they prayed in silence, I sat beside them and looked at my hands, covered in shattered rainbows. I thought it was beautiful. My friend told me that I was supposed to find You prettier.

When I was young, I was told to sit in a wooden pew. Before me was a man, beaten and bloody, nailed to a cross. ‘Be good, he died for our sins’, the priest told me. I was transfixed on his expression of agony paired with his holy halo. I pitied him. I didn’t know then, but later discovered that this poor man died for a deadbeat deity claiming paternity over him.

No parent watches their son die and does nothing. >

Contrastée rognée, Cami Poniz

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You were weak. You made excuses. He didn’t die for our sins, he died in vain. That was Your fault.

As I got older, I started to disdain the idea of You. I didn’t understand the need to make glorious monuments and infrastructures devoted to You, while You had yet to ‘grace’ us with Your presence. I guess You’re just too famous to show up on time. Or when I need You. Or even when I don’t, I always think that maybe You’ll descend from the high heavens and tell me it’s all going to be okay. I thought You’d be watching over me.

All I’d need to do was abstain from pleasure or plunge into holy water and the world would get a little brighter.

So I took the plunge, but the water didn’t feel blessed. I resisted from joy and was met with depression. When the sun shined down from between the cracks of grey clouds, no foreign figure came down with it. I endured Hell, and was told it was the road to forgiveness. But I don’t want Your ‘forgiveness,’ for I have nothing to be guilty of. I sat in Your churches, I sung Your hymns, I praised Your name, and I gave my money to keep Your pearly gates from rusting over.

So when I came face-to-face with Saint Lucifer, I kindly said, “Hello”. He didn’t ask for my money. He didn’t ask for my praise. He didn’t ask for my devotion or to live by his rules. He told me, “Worship yourself, for indulgence is no sin.” I am my own goddess, and My flesh is My towering cathedral. My soul is ‘wretched’ fire of passion, and how I love it so! So go ahead and watch me burn. Shake Your head and sigh because You and I both know that a place in the clouds with You would be My eternal punishment.

And You could’ve avoided that.

But You were never there for me. You stood by and watched me suffer. No matter how many times I put a spoon under my pillow, lit candles for Your martyrs, or threw myself before Your dying ‘son,’ I was always met with a deafening silence. You were never beautiful, You were always a monster.

I don’t believe in You anymore. I can’t.

Sincerely, A Human Being

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Interview - Kate Schofield When did you start writing?

I started writing the minute I learned the alphabet.

Why do you write? Do you have any inspiration?

Writing is one of the best things I have when it comes to expressing myself. If things ever feel overwhelming, writing about it also helps me sort things out on paper. I’d have to say that my inspiration is drawn mainly from spoken word poets because I’ve always connected with their delivery and free verse.

What’s your favorite piece of writing? Describe it.

It’s really hard to pick my favorite piece, but I’d have to say “Catcall =/= Compliment” by Anonymous. The language used is direct and powerful, so the reader can really feel what the writer is trying to convey.

11:59, Nina Zhong

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Clarity, Cheyenne Setneska

Cold Oatmeal, Harrison Bronfield

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The Stars Are Above, Rutha Chivate The trees are above me the concrete below the pain’s overwhelming and so I let go I’m drifting, I’m floating I’m blowing away For on this meager planet I was never meant to stay Now the trees fall below me Skyscrapers above And I cannot help but reminisce About a life I loved to love The clouds reach above me the cities are below I knew my days were numbered as the buildings, passing slow For after all, an existence filled with pain and strife is but one among countless millions on the endless journey of life And now at last I’ve reached the ultimate destination I look around the blossoming dark with childlike fascination So with a final glance back I wonder, I sigh Was it worth it to leave?

Could I ever say goodbye?

But I accept all the struggles I accept all the pain Brooding over things long past Will have for me no gain So I thrust my head upwards To the future unknown For the stars are above me the scars are below 11

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SAYO, Nicole Oliver

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Cancer, Fia Miller you’re trying to think about words and your words aren’t words any longer and your face is getting louder and your teeth are getting stronger and your voice is bearing over i feel as though i’m on the floor but i’m standing here in front of you screaming, daring you to do everything you say you will right after you take your pill that helped you walk and talk in life didn’t i see you through that plight and the painting that you loved so much the one that you made such a fuss it’s blue and yellow and all alone and i didn’t even get your voice on the phone hospital bedrooms are not friendly and you are not mending did not mend your back couldn’t bend sleep came violently but you died silently

Insomnious Omniscience, Asher Wulfman

at 2:30 am life starts to feel so cloudy is this real light? even the dark glows time compressed, I sigh at days passed too quickly and nights drawn on too long

motion feels forbidden I’m in a state of self-imposed paralysis guilting myself into shutting my eyes as if real darkness is any less frightening

the cracks in my phone screen have burned lines onto my retinas and blue light courses through my neural pathways it’s becoming painful I’m trying to make time from false light and instead it ceases to move and everything is still except my mind 14

Our View of Things, Katie Vasquez

New Year, Caleigh Dwyer

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Untitled,

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Elle Klein

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Winter’s Crystal, Nicole Irizarry

To Owe, River MacLeod There’s no such thing As owing your heart You can’t buy love they say and no You can’t Not with words Or kindness Not with love itself And so She owes me Owes me nothing Though it feels differently Though it feels like anger Like pain There is no crime in falling out of Love 18

Numbers, Amy Guan I am 6 years old with a tangled mess of hair and cracked lips, With 3 stuffed animals and two front teeth missing.

I am 6.

I am 12 years old with a bow perched on my ponytail and gloss smacked onto my lips, With 1/2 of a ‘Best Friends’ necklace and the $15 shirt that was on display at the coolest store in the mall.

I am 12.

I am 18 years old with pin straight hair and plumped up lips, With an SAT score that’s 200 points below what it needs to be and looking at colleges with GPA’s 0.3 points higher than my own.

I am 18, and I am a number.

Tomato in Bowl, Keri Zhang

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Sea Sky, Caleigh Dwyer

Sometimes, on a silent summer night, I imagine the sky and the sea trading places for a moment. The building crescendo of breeze through leafy trees is the call of billowing waves, sucking and heaving before they explode in whites and blues. As the breeze picks up, I await some behemoth wave to send me upside down and backwards, spinning and sputtering and wondering if I’ll ever feel air again.

Sometimes, on such nights, I imagine fireflies gathering in the seasky. With baby stars on their backs they form iridescent, aqueous creatures.

Above will fly a mammoth jellyfish, speckled in blues and pinks reminiscent of the dormant setting sun. Their glittering tentacles float over great shining whales, whose eyes are emeralds and whose spray is that of the whispers of clouds. Now and again, an aircraft will cut through my sea-sky with the power of a jet ski in quiet tides. It parts shoals of wayward clouds and mimics the pulsing light carried by the fireflies. Perhaps if I look deeper, I’ll spot the edges of a coral reef nebula. The shimmering fish that dart and float about the reef give a spectacle equal parts light show and free-flowing dance.

Beneath wandering space junk will hide a vibrant crustacean, only daring peeks into the thriving community before him.

Right now, I want nothing more than to swim in the sky above. I want to let it seep over me and smother my skin with grains of stardust. I want to stroke my hand over still water, feel my fingers corrode the tension between molecules and sink into the calm of shallows below. I want to set out on a small wooden rowboat, listening to nothing but the slurp of a paddle and the quiet strumming of a tabby cat on his banjo. Maybe we’ll hum along to some old folk song no one remembers. Maybe we’ll snack on trail mix and hush puppies. There’s no doubt we’ll let the moon be our guide, paddling when we want to and letting the current do the rest.

Golden Wave, Cynthia Ma

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A Summer Reflection, Elina Roychowdhury

Ocean Avenue, Leah Bakoulis

Ocean Avenue has too many people. Dozens of groups of six or seven people, all here for the bars, food and fireworks. So we walk up Parkway, on our way to the car, nothing on our shoulders since the other two are sitting with all of our stuff from the day. The sun overheats our right ears and leaves the left side of our bodies covered with a thin layer of salt water.

We are dwindling down through the weary days of mid-August. I can no long walk up this road in just my bathing suit. The sun and black pavement don’t provide enough heat. Instead, I have to have shorts and a sweatshirt on, too. But I don’t feel like my summer is sprinting past us because I am not thinking about it.

I just feel my knotty hair tied together with clumps of sand and salt.

I feel the rash on my stomach from the particles of the surf get thicker and redder. I feel the heat on my neck like a small match that has been moving closer to the hairs on my neck as the sun rises in the sky and moving further away when the sun begins its ascent. I smell the moist red bricks. And finally hear the ocean and sand take her moment’s inhale and exhale between the families there all day and the young ones that party deep into the night.

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Wires and Stones, Genevieve Garlock

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The Dancers, Katie Vasquez Our friendship began in the summer of 2012, the last summer before high school.

I tied my hope to her wrist and kept trying to breathe the toxic air we were born in.

In June, we waltzed in abandoned beach houses and got wasted on our dreams.

In July, we danced in the sunlight when The Insiders were on the beach.

Desperate Lovers sat in front of us in the parking lot but were too blind to see the tragic spectacle that society has grown to enjoy viewing.

At night, The Dancers would sleep in the trunks of empty cars and wait for The Bells of Empathy to ring but in the heart of the night, Insiders sound like nothing.

While The Insiders were in bars and The Lovers were at the racetrack, The Dancers scraped their tears off of the streets and made clothing out of rags.

In August, The Insiders’ lies killed us and the truth tore us down. she cried when she told me what The Insiders had told her.

I cried when she told me she agreed.

She left me here and I hated them but I didn’t hate her when she went away.

It’s the last day of November and the year is 2014.

Eight hundred twenty-one days later, I still lay here in the dark and The Bells never ring.

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Great Leap,

Andrew Bai

Behind the Curtain, Nathan Drezner

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Remember, Ashley Dart

Ferguson Protester, Halle Copeland

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The Forgotten Choir, Sierra Zareck America, singing? Yes I, I hear America singing The black man singing as he glances at the white woman hurriedly crossing the street as she walks in the city The young girl singing as she stares into the mirror and just sees flabby bulges where gaunt bones stand The filthy body singing as those with warm abodes walk on by the soggy cardboard home The confused child singing as it is ripped from its mother’s arms, cries full of anguish as she is exiled to her poor home country The drunken man singing as he awakens and remembers he has hurt her once again The ashamed schoolgirl singing as her stomach calls loudly for something, anything to fill it The mother singing as she collapses knowing she’ll never see her brave soldier boy again The jobless father singing as he puts the barrel to his head and pulls the trigger The tormented boy singing as his sallow skin breaks and the blood begins to drip.

The human convict singing as he sits in his cold dark cell solitary on death row Each one singing what belongs to them and many others The night belongs to day and at night the broken ones sing dismal, haunting, forgotten songs Oh yes, I most definitely hear America singing, but, Very.

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Falling Motion, Sierra Zareck

High Impact, David Jackson And I turn my head to the right.

A bus, barreling towards me with shining lights.

No time to move, no time to dash.

In front of my eyes, my life does flash.

I am born, I walk, I feel so livid.

The image in my head so vivid.

That I won’t live a full life.

That I may die drowned in this strife.

And I turn my head to the right.

A bus, barreling with two lights.

But I am pushed just before the end.

A bullet taken by my friend.

And in a buzz, a haze of dark.

And on my life another mark.

And so tomorrow I walk like never.

My mind so burdened by my own savior.

An angel, fallen, rises again.

To float up to the skies own end.

And while I try to keep him here, He is further though he’s near.

I wish that he were here today.

That I had just pushed him away.

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Interview - Halle Copeland Halle’s painting is based from “A Moment of Stillness” by Adrees Latif. It is in the issue with permission from Mr. Latif.

When did you start making art?

I’ve been into drawing and painting ever since I was a little kid, but it wasn’t until maybe 8th grade that I decided I wanted to go into art as a profession.

Why do you make art? Do you have any inspiration?

I make art because it’s fun and a stress reliever. I’m also really bad with words so expressing how I feel through paintings and drawings is much easier. My inspiration comes from everything around me! Nature, people, television, other art. I think seeing other people making art motivates me to work even more and to try different mediums.

What’s your favorite piece of art? Describe it.

This is a hard question because my taste in art is always changing, but one piece I’ve admired for a really long time is one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits.

It’s one of the more famous ones and I’m not exactly sure what it’s called, but it has a lot of blue and orange-y tones. His use of color is just so cool and his style is so different from mine, so it’s almost refreshing to look at his works.

Bug, Noel Xie

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Untitled, Bronwyn Hines In the grand scheme of things If there is a grand scheme of things, There is a map unseen in the swills of sand Brushed tickled by wind Like a hand’s soft touch upon my cheek That I long for, or imagine but never feel.

For how does someone find me, only one grain Among these many?

Even buried beneath the shifting dunes living where crabs dwell and not where seagulls see or diviners look for buried treasure And yet, if I were discovered, like sea glass smooth and polished Then you might then know that which I know.

For I am not what you dream or what you desire And the map for me is not writ by your hand, nor His. Let me follow the wind that blows and tosses sand upon some new shore, In the scheme of all things.

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Venezia, Stephanie Tam

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