The Ivy | #17 | November 2018

THE IVY ISSUE NO. 17 | PHS

THE IVY

ISSUE NO. 17

Editors’ Letter Dear Reader,

Hello; bonjour; hola; zdravo! Welcome, friends, to the first issue of the year! Hopefully seniors aren’t feeling too stressed amidst a flood of applications; but, if you are, pick up an issue and unwind (that goes for you too, juniors and underclassmen). We hope this compilation of works provides some repose.

This issue of The Ivy displays your beautiful submissions, and we would like to thank you for each and every one of them—without you we wouldn’t have this magazine. This year, literature has truly shined; we are proud to display prose spanning genres and styles. The artwork continues to portray all of your creativity.

As always, we wish to recognize the hard work of our amazing staff. The Ivy staff members put together the spreads and worked diligently to combine the pieces of art and literature to create the publication that is in your hands right now. Finally, we would like to remind you that our email is always open for questions and submissions! We hope to hear from you at theivy.phs@gmail.com. If you would like to see older issues of our magazine, check out our website ivymagazine.org.

Enjoy, and thank you for your support, Maya Popeye & Angel Moose

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Table of Contents OF AN AMERICAN WRITER.............................6 Kyle Max

IN SPACE NO. 2....................................... 20, 21 Eli Nathan

IGRAJ MOJA HRVATSKA, .................................7 Maya Pophristic

SCHOONER LIFE......................................22, 23 Ella Kotsen

MIND FULL.....................................................8,9 Brenna Kennedy-Moore

L’APPEL DU VIDE......................................25,26 Charlotte Gilmore

JUST A MEMORY......................................8,9,11 Anonymous

FLORIDA SUNSET...........................................27 Richard Krok

BEYOND THE DARKNESS.............................10 Janki Raythattha

CAR SICK..........................................................28 Khadeeja Qureshi

UNTITLED........................................................12 Anonymous

SLEEP................................................................29 Siena Moran

BOXES.................................................13, 14, 17 Eli Edelman

NAP UNDER SUNSHINE........................30, 31 Amanda Sun

HELEN..............................................................15 Anya Sachdev

CEASELESS..............................................covers Brenna Kennedy-Moore

CONTEMPLATION ........................................16 Alexandra Po SHE NEVER TOLD ME HER NAME, BUT IT WAS DEFINITELY. . . ........................18 Lydia McGrath

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OF AN AMERICAN WRITER, Kyle Max The pen dances on a parchment

Like thoughts through the mind, Fingers waltz to the rhythm of keys With the haste or some lethargy Of scribe’s fever.

Ink my blood and Muses mana, So I, of many, do tell a tale.

A story told, in part, by me, Yet not mine to tell.

For it is America’s.

I am but one of the many, Who is unable to color my own, How can I speak for multitudes?

But I must for those Who cannot.

This is a reason for writing.

To teach, to learn, to live: reasons, for the creation of such wonders.

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IGRAJ MOJA HRVATSKA, Maya Pophristic

photography XVII | 7

JUST A MEMORY (I), Anonymous

You were just a memory now.

There you stood, a stranger of my present, a You were just a memory now. celebrity to what I once was.

There you stood, a stranger of my present, a celebrity to what I once was.

You autographed my heart; I kept it.

You autographed my heart; I kept it. One day it would be worth more.

One day it would be worth more.

One day I could show the world the rare sigOne day I could show the world the rare signature youyou gavegave me. me. nature Eyes would widen, looking upon so rare, looking so treasured.

Eyessomething would widen, upon something so rare, so treasured.

This is just what I wanted; this mattered little.

You were just a memory now.This is just what I wanted; this mattered little.

You erased the signature; You were just a memory now.

I never knew it was written in You pencil. erased the signature; I never knew it was written in pencil.

You signed my heart “nevermind� as if I never would.

I still had our things.

At a time they shined like trophies.

A reminder to myself that I won.

I won a prize versus what seemed to be unfathomable odds.

And I continued to win.

Every single day a new trophy was handed to me.

They were my pride and my joy, but you stole

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You signed my heart “nevermind” as if I never would.

I still had our things.

At a time they shined like trophies.

A reminder to myself that I won.

I won a prize versus what seemed to be unfathomable odds.

And I continued to win.

Every single day a new trophy was handed to me.

They were my pride and my joy, but you stole them, they played with my heart like a toy.

They played with my heart and rearranged the word “nevermind” into “goodbye.”

You were just a memory now.

My signature is gone, and my trophies were stolen, memories were all that was left.

However, they were only beautiful because they were mutually valued.

MIND FULL, Brenna Kennedy-Moore photography XVII | 9

Janki Raythattha

BEYOND THE DARKNESS

photography

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JUST A MEMORY (II) Anonymous I was lonesome now.

I valued memories alone now.

You were just a memory now.

How how how how?

Everything to nothing.

Always to never.

Love to apathy.

All so fast.

You were just a memory now.

What is next?

Let me tell you.

Erase the words written on my heart and write “you were wrong.”

Give yourself trophies rewarding you for just being.

Put the old memories in a box labeled “do not disturb”

and hide it under your bed.

Create new ones.

Make your path and wait for someone to follow.

You were just a memory now.

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UNT

ITLE

D acrylic

Anon

ymou

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s

an

BOXES

I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here; I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here; I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here; I love it he-I love it-I love-I--

(I)

Eli Edelm

I repeat my words The same thing day after day Like we all do, Like I have always done.

We never stop; Not even when we sleep Not even then, when curtains close do we take our final bow We etch these words again and again onto our soul Until we are convinced that they are our own

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BOXES (II), Eli Edelman

Why? Why do we repeat?

Repeat Repeat Why do we do eat, sleep, breathe?

To survive We repeat because it’s the only way I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here; What happens if we stop, nobody knows Why would anyone want to know Want to stop?

Want to change?

These words are our own; we crafted them Did we?

Did I? These words echo familiarly And yet I don’t remember when they didn’t I don’t remember making them I don’t remember I don’t remember Remember I close my eyes and think I try to recall a time before the repeating 14 | PHS

HELEN, Anya Sachdev photography

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acrylic

CONTEMPLATION

Alexandra Po

BOXES (III), Eli Edelman

I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here My box is cramped; my box is cold I do not love my box I hate it here I stop repeating I am free I try to leave my box A soft voice starts to speak I listen I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here ‘No’ I yell I scream I will win --System Reboot-I am in my box It is comfy and warm I love it in my box I love it here; I repeat my words The same thing day after day Like we all do, Like I have always done.

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SHE NEVER TOLD ME HER NAME, BUT IT WAS DEFINITELY ...

Lydia McGrath

And Venus eternal rises anew Crowned golden by her sun Arms bared, voice calling, Twining through these trees.

I trespass upon this overgrown pool, This azure dream of Venus But she welcomes me in, and from her touch Pours ceaseless summer heat.

Come twilight frost, come winter wind, I need not fear the cold And Venus, fair summer storm goddess, Leaves me with this echo of a dream.

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lead/charcoal on paper

EMOTIONAL, Sydney Vine

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IN SPACE NO. 2 Eli Nathan

photography

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SCHOONER LIFE, Ella Kotsen We live on a boat with almost no electricity, two toilets that only flush if you pull the lever down fifteen times, and a red pump with a bowl as a shower. When we sailed up to the cove, it was starting to get dark. The sun in the sky was bleeding pink. The waves in the water were crying silver. The sails coming down were holding onto the wind for dear life as it whispered away. A cloak of dark hid the land across.

We brush our teeth by sitting on the side of the boat and spitting far enough, so we don’t get the black paint covered in toothpaste.

Then, we let the kings and queens of dreams escort us to wherever our minds wanted to take us.

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I wake up to a rock and a shake and a groan of the boat. Like a hammock floating in the air, our ship on the vast sea. Tied to no trees. The unlatched doors of the heads slam until someone gets up to fix them. I wonder what dragon has enough breath to blow a ship like this. I wonder if we bob like a cork. I wonder if the side that I sat on, where I just spat out my whole day coated in mint, wants to tip over. This is what a true sailor feels like I tell myself.

My head and toes bang against the old wood that stifles the sides of my bunk. I am happy that I lie not parallel to the bow and stern or I certainly would have fallen onto the greasy floor far down below. The rock relaxes me, I feel one with the waves and the wind and the spirit of the sea.

When we wake up, a fog almost as dark as darkness itself shades our little world.

I sit on the side rails again for my morning brush; and I can almost touch the water when we rock down my way.

The crew says we plan to go to shore today. We feed ourselves a plate of excitement, a dollop of hope, and a sprinkle and fear so we’re reading for what’s to come.

The crew rows us to shore in many groups. While I am not scared of the waves that jump into our small vessel, I do hold more respect for the floating cloud that I haven’t left for almost a week.

When we get to shore; my legs act first and jump into the water to get to land.

This is what solid ground feels like my limbs say to my brain in case it forgot.

We hike to a lighthouse where we write poems. The wind is strong but not stronger than me. The bugs are out in force but they don’t bother me. The sun gets higher and higher but it doesn’t burn me. My mind feels like the lines in my journal.

We walk back and the crew paddles groups to our ship. I stay behind.

The cove curves to my left, it curves to my right. Rocks on one side, a lighthouse on the other. Water that doesn’t end, only interrupted by a boat bobbing in this vast playground. I feel like I can see the curve of the world going down. Only we feel the feelings of this part of the world. And as I run into the water with my best friends around me, I can feel the edge of the world pulling me. Not where the sidewalk ends, but where the sea ends, where the water ends, where the earth ends. Alluring me, asking me, to never leave.

The water kisses me. The rowboat back hugs me. The black deck of the ship dries me. All is good in my world.

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L’APPEL DU VIDE , Charlotte Gilmore

BUFFALO, Morgan Mavoides photography 24 | PHS

L’appel du vide — the call of the void — sticks my feet at the side of the hill, sways my back and buckles my knees, as I drown without moving in the gap of the

trees beneath my feet. this is why I don’t think I could ever visit places that throw l’appel du vide in my face. standing at the grand canyon, I have no faith that I would not simply fall because the emptiness beneath my feet pulls so strongly at that within my chest. and, next to a waterfall, the only thing that feels right is to collapse

under the wreckage and let nature take its course. there is a Niagara that bubbles just

underneath my skin, one that has its own appel du vide. there is so much hate within me; disgust and distaste and it’s bursting

from my fingertips, roaring through my head, until I’m standing, dizzy, at the edge

of the driveway, spinning slowly because I cannot stand still with this hate inside of me.

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L’APPEL DU VIDE (II), Charlotte Gilmore I want to strike down cities and ride horses to battle and run until nothing is left to pass. but I have to ignore this call, l’appel du vide inside of me, or there will be no cities left for me to wreck. a bruise on the inside of my lungs replaces the rushing water when someone is hurt who I cannot help and it’s much easier to ransack a city than to watch it go down in flames with nothing to extinguish it.

I am so afraid of l’appel du vide — not l’appel of the cliffs I sway on, the water I almost trip into, because I know that call is inevitable — someday I will succumb, will return to whatever pulls at my chest in such a way. no, I am afraid of l’appel that grabs at me from the back of my throat, acidic and sadistic and sweetened so easily with a sip of power when I turn on someone. pain tastes sweeter on my tongue if I know it is bitter on someone else’s.

I am scared of how easily steel slides over my face when the water rushes down my throat and how the sound of it becomes white noise, like a siren song, or like the void itself, calling.

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FLORIDA SUNSET, Richard Krok photography

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CAR SICK, Khadeeja Qureshi in direction we move forward and straight. but i feel the engine’s motion in circles this car’s seat is a carousel’s saddle metal pole is too slippery to hold i am flung behind constant rotation of all these red flashing lights that blind me nauseating revolving one-way signs i find no comfort until suddenly when I regurgitate Afternoon’s meal the taste abandons me just as quickly and we are racing forward hurriedly— Straight direction to Some destination. yet i do not recall how I got here i was brought along for the ride and I clung onto the grab handle for safety until we eventually arrived until i could finally escape the enclosing shape of the machinery which thrust both my own edged knees into me and forced my spine outwards away from me So my feet have forgotten how to walk.

My bones never knew how to hold me up.

And mind is failing me––wait––who am

i?

RUPTURED, Nina Li acrylic 28 | PHS

I remember when we were enemies, I fought your ruthless battles, struggled against the arms that carried me to you where blankets bound me to the night until the room was spinning, or I’d fall and land right back where I was again — the impossible games you played with my mind — still, my father told me to treat you nicely because one day we would be friends.

I remember laughing at him as twilight snuck upon the house, shadows creeping through the cracks in the door as I pulled a foam sword from my hip and challenged you to a duel for the right of consciousness. but my father was right as he always was. somehow the days began to wear me out and I welcomed your softness on my tired body; the warmth to soothe my aching muscles, the wet to close my eyes. we were more than friends by the time I was seventeen, but the days wore on and I began to feel differently.

I worked too late and you waited patiently, but I woke too early too, you grew angry and restless, so you brought back the tricks from my childhood; stirring me in the night with sweat dripping down my back and a heart throwing fists in my chest.

sleep, Siena Moran

I grew angry with you as I realized you were the ropes that held me back, the reigns on my thoughts, the black hole that devoured Time.

I tried to escape you but could only manage for so long before you’d pull me back into your arms.

I fought you with teas and coffees and spoonfuls of sugarbut you painted bags under my eyes and a frightening glare in my pupils that put my friends at a distance. this battle is too much for me now the weight of my tired body pulls me into the ground in a forceful surrender. how foolish I was to think I could fight you. one is not meant to love like this, but here we are again. dear Sleep, I am sorry, I accept defeat. it is a cruel love, but love is cruel and I cannot live without you.

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NAP UNDER SUNSHINE, Amanda Sun photography

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This is the Ivy The art and lit magazine This is a Haiku

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Email us your ad! theivy.phs @gmail.com!

Thank you for reading!

We hope you reach out to us, Angel and Maya For things such as rates, Also what sizes we have, And other info!

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STAFF LIST ADVISORS

PUBLIC RELATIONS

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

COPY EDITORS

Mr. Gonzales Ms. Muรงa

Maya Pophristic Angel Musyimi

CREATIVE DIRECTOR John Liang

MANAGING EDITORS Shane Spring Ashley Wang

SPREAD DESIGNERS Eli Nathan Jane Lillard Vera Ebong Alice Feng

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Abrielle DeVeaux Cecily Gusber Rida Ahmed

Andre Biehl Chris Shen Travis Thai

BUSINESS Matt Karns

SECRETARY Anya Sachdev

GENERAL STAFF Han Jiang Lydia Jane Nina Li

COLOPHON FONTS

The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone besides the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand. Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes” or “no” on a Google form. All art and literature pieces with higher than 50% approval were published. A few others with at least 48% were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts. We keep a consistent art-to-literature ratio. We are Princeton High School’s only art and literature magazine, we are an extracurricular club that meets after school, on normal meeting days we meet for half an hour on Tuesdays. When we were on layouts we meet for three hours every day for four days. For Issue XVII there are four hundred copies circulating the school.

COVER AND TITLE PAGE| Baskerville regular 60pt, 12pt, Freight Display bold 1500pt, Open Sans light 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans regular 12 pt, 18pt, Open Sans Light 12pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 15pt, 18pt, Minion Regular 18pt, 20pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt, Minion Pro regular 12pnt, 14pt, 18pt, 24pnt, Minion Pro italic 14pt, DN Manuscript Bold regular 25pnt, Lora regular 13pt, Lora italic 13pt SUBMISSION AUTHOR | Open Sans light 13pt, 14pt, Minion Pro regular 15pt, 18pt SUBMISSION MEDIUM | Open Sans light 12pt, Minion Pro regular 15pt, STAFF LIST | Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 24pt, Open Sans bold 24pnt COLOPHON | Open Sans semibold 12pt, Open Sans light 12pt, Lora italic 12pt, Open Sans bold 24pnt, Lora regular 13pnt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing, 2018 regular 14pt

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