The Ivy |#16 | June 2018

THE IVY ISSUE XVI | Princeton High School

THE IVY

The Ivy began in the 1960s,

ISSUE XVI

but its serialization began in 2014.

Editors’ Letter Dear Reader, It’s here, it’s here! The last issue of the year! We hope this issue serves as a fitting goodbye as well as a welcome close to the school year: with many works by PHS seniors, Issue 16 is our au revoir to those heading off to life beyond high school. We wish you all the best.

While in the past the art-to-literature ratio has been roughly 2:1, a more literature-heavy magazine rounds off the 2017–18 year. It’s been an honor to showcase your work. Thank you for your trust—it’s wonderful to see what you have shared with our community.

As always, we’d like to thank our staff for their dedication and support. We’ll always remember discussing page aesthetics while patiently waiting for always interminably late pizza.

Our inbox is always open (but not limited!) to any suggestions, comments, summer break photos, melancholic sonnets, and memes you may craft over the summer.

You may email us at theivy.phs@gmail.com, or perhaps venture to knock on the heavily timbered and iron-studded door of the English department’s lair to visit our advisors with your ideas.

Valete & vidimo se uskoro, L35 L33 and Maya Pippi Longstocking

Table of Contents BREATH, Nina Li

6-7

THE SPONGE MAN, Cole Toto

MIRROR PHASE, Nemo

8-9

CALYPSO’S SONG, Melanie Smith

I’M NICE AT PING PONG, Eli Nathan

10-11

SPICY FOOD, Harrison Tsui

LET THE RAIN FALL, Elle Ferguson

12-13

UNCONVENTIONAL, Mildred Ouyang

OPPDRAG

14-15

Ruth Schultz

BLUES, Alice Feng

16-17

A SCARRED CANVAS, Cecily Gubser

LONELY ROAD, Samuel Auerbach

18-19

PEOPLE WHO I’LL NEVER FORGET, Anonymous

SPRINGTIME, Angel Musyimi

20-21

DEAR AESOP, Matthew Wang

BOATS IN LIMA, PERU, Amelia Wright

22-23

THE SHIFTING WIND, Signe Owen

ANCIENT, Lisa Mishra

24-25

OBSEQUIOUS, Abby de Riel

BOP ON TOP

26-27

Anonymous

MIDSUMMER #1, Han Jiang

28-29

GULP OF REGRET, Grace Zhang

FALLEN CATHEDRAL, Grayson Shanley-Barr

30-31

STACKED, Rutha Chivate

ROCKY ROAD,

32-33

Shane Spring

RUSTIC CITYSCAPE #143, Valeria Torres-Olivares

34-35

BERLIN, Emily Han

I am the man

colored pencil

BREATH, Nina Li

Of the mystical sponge

6 | THE IVY

With arms much like rubber

THE SPONGE MAN, Cole Toto

And legs quite like tongues

I slip and I slide Through a house with no name ’Til I sit and I sulk In my solemn dismay You see, for a family I have but none See, he sucked and he sucked But roses by dozens All the people deserving I purchase for one Until his power

Became oh so disturbing That one who has brought

His whole family to shame He soon lost control of his God-given gift By using his pores Losing himself to holes in his wrists To suck people away And his hands, and his legs, and his feet, and his arms

He sucked up the cows and the pigs on the farms

He sucked up the mailbox But the worst, still today Is how he had sucked His whole family away

It is for that reason That he buys these flowers Not out of self-serving greed, No, never would Howard

Nay, they are not for me

They are for those who are within

The people I love

But who I ruined through sin XVI | 7

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Him The one I fell in love with His first word was CALYPSO’S SONG, Moon Melanie Smith Always waxing, always waning I watch as it illuminates his sails As I ruminate on my island I count the snails As they linger on the shore I look up at the dark sky It’s always night time here Even though time doesn’t exist here I make patterns in the stars Trying to make sense of the Nonsensical I smell eucalyptus as the dragons snore politely I hate the gods and what they’ve done to Me They will sing his song for eons And I’ll be preserved in my misery The worst part isn’t that he took everything/ I had to give Without giving anything in return It’s that I would do it again in a heartbeat A heart that beats for him And he has a heart that beats for Her Whose voice he hears in the trees Whose hand he feels in his when he feels the breeze Whose hair he smells in the flowers that grow around Us And I realize that in order to love him To truly love him I have to let him go home with the moonlight as his guide A curse I am doomed on this island If I had let him stay He would have never loved me

r

la

ita

dig

8 | THE IVY

No matter how much I tried to make him love me He would still be thinking of her And would drown himself in the sea But if I let him go Sacrificing everything for him Everything to me It would prove my love A love not meant to be A love woven in secrets and intimacy And when I realized what had to be done I slipped out of bed and began to run Before I could stop myself I reached the center of my island A cave hidden in desire And from there I pulled out the moon Watching my own plan transpire As I hurled it into the sky As I walked back I saw my hero cry in the luminescent light Of his astral compass That conquered the night Now I know that when you read of me He will be seen as a Hostage And I will simply be The nymph with lovely braids But know that I too was a captive And in the end I was the one who was the hero And even though he is back with her As I sit alone under a great cypress tree When they walk outside He will see Because of the moonlight I gave him He can now be free

rt

XVI | 9

10 | THE IVY

I’M NICE AT PING PONG, Eli Nathan

SPICY FOOD, Harrison Tsui

I went and grabbed some takeout today

It was from that Chinese joint that’s like two minutes away

They’ve changed owners I think once or twice

But they really have this spicy fried rice

The rice is unique for it’s really quite cheap

A buck ninety-five that’s all you need

But let me tell you, the rice packs a punch

The spice, it gets to you from the very first munch

It burns like a fire—oh wait that’s too light The fried rice has much more of a bite

Imagine being thrown real hard into the sun

Except you’re eating fried rice, man it’s no fun

So you may ask why I’m still alive

And my reply is simple:

It’s only a buck ninety-five

digital art

XVI | 11

LET THE RAIN FALL, Elle Ferguson He is water and I held him in my hands Precious cool silver light One day I looked away and he was leaking through My fingers

Where

Did

You

Go I held on so tightly but you slipped between the cracks I tried so desperately to seal I am watching you drip onto the floor and I am wondering

When

Will

You

Stop You are water and now you are raining On the earth it is a beautiful silver Downfall and you swear that the sky is Ours to share my hands are empty now But you are everywhere

I

Love

You

12 | THE IVY

UNCONVENTIONAL, Mildred Ouyang acrylic on canvas

XVI | 13

Translated by Google Translate

I’m writing this poem Because I do not know a shit If English and Norwegian are similar To be both though free.

I’m going to tell you about poetic things now Like how the clouds in the sky create a ring.

And how, every day I’m getting more vague About if I’m going to use a case Or use a layer.

I’ll tell you now about a poetic place Like where the animals are made from wood.

And how the word biscuits Consider a delicious food But when a man is handsome He looks nice And you might want to spot If a handsome man had some cookies.

I would have told you about poetic people Music, love, and train stations, But soon I have to leave So be fine I hope you have my toner toned.

14 | THE IVY

Et dikt på norsk (en oppdrag fra engelsk klasse)

Jeg skriver dette dikte Fordi jeg vet ikke en dritt Hvis engelsk og norsk er nok likt Til å være både skjønt fritt.

Jeg skal fortelle deg nå om poetiske ting Sånn som hvordan skyene i himmelen skaper en ring.

Og hvordan, hver dag Jeg blir mer og mer vag Om hvis jeg skal bruke en sag Eller bruke et lag.

Jeg skal fortelle deg nå om et poetisk sted Som hvor dyrene er laget fra ved.

Og hvordan ordet kjeks Mener en deilig mat Men når en mann er kjekk Så ser han fint ut Og man ville kanskje skjekke Hvis en kjekk mann hadde noen kjeks.

Jeg ville ha fortalt deg om poetiske personer Musikk, kjærlighet, og togstasjoner, Men snart må jeg dra Så ha det bra Jeg håper du har kost min toner.

OPPDRAG, Ruth Schultz Translated by me (for an English class assignment)

I’m writing this poem Because I don’t know at all If English and Norwegian are similar enough To be both be understood freely.

I will now tell you about poetic things Like how the clouds in the sky create a ring.

And how, every day, I become more and more vague About whether I will use a saw Or use a team.

I will now tell you about a poetic place Like where the animals are made of wood.

And how the word “cookies” Means a delicious food But when a man is handsome He looks nice.

And one would maybe check If a handsome man had some cookies.

I would have told you about poetic people Music, love, and train stations, But soon I have to go So farewell I hope you have enjoyed my musical notes.

XVI | 15

16 | THE IVY

photography

BLUES,

A A SC

e

S, C A V N

A

C RRED

ser

ub cily G ,

s me

sse he pa

hen ke w i b d re on a s i e h a tired red bike. its wheels groan and groan, its paint chipping away. the man is chipping away too, now etched with scars from too many/ years of a harsh reality. but, a fading light in his eyes stares the world down. they say to me, “I am King of what little I have.� he does not look right or left for cars, does not care if they stop for him. why should he? this world has never given him anything/ but pain. he used to wonder if another path were/ possible, but he has no hope left, no tears left. his paint has almost chipped away.

his path is onward, past honking traffic, and through the red light of a busy/ intersection, on tired wheels.

Alice Feng

XVI | 17

PEOPLE WHO I’LL NEVER FORGET, Anonymous

V.

A small man, rotund, checkered, loafers: a small man. Went up to the blackboard, greener than it is black, and in sweeping grandeur wrote his name. It wasn’t quite his name, because he didn’t give us his surname in full, and his title was “Mr.” The three letters were quite tall, tall enough to take up half his height, and they teetered on the edge of some invisible platform. Anyway, this small man came in and cleared his throat to drown out our clamor and barked out orders. His handwriting just makes him all the more peculiar, because I had expected squarish, serif, somber penmanship. But no, no: this small man came in and, as if brandishing a sword stolen from the costume department, sliced through the green chalkboard and wrote down his name.

M.

I don’t think she catches what I say most of the time. She is drowsy, she is complex, she is a piece of slippery paper folded over too many times and unfolded every step through.

He is a blaze, he is the definition of kindle. He dresses as if he is choosing colors from a color wheel blindfolded. He is outspoken and wellspoken. He is the only person I consider brilliant.

L.

Lacks many, many electrons. Overwhelmingly positive. I’ve not much to say to her anymore. Her enthusiasm seems to know no limits. Open, yet measured. Knows her resources.

The girl to dream of summertime sadness. Likes swaying to del Rey and becoming some Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Narrow-minded. Terribly insecure. Probably already a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

18 | THE IVY

S.

M.

XVI | 19

photography

Samuel Auerbach

LONELY ROAD,

DEAR AESOP, Matthew Wang The tortoise and the hare Decided to have a race Both loved the competition And agreed upon a place

“Slow and steady,” said the tortoise “That’s how I’ll win.”

The hare smiled and shrugged Pitying the mass delusion

The tortoise trained all week Toning those insane calf muscles The hare just simply relaxed And prayed to Bill Russell

Finally the day arrived Eager to begin The crowd cheered really loudly For the underdog to win

The two met at the line Both prepared for the run There was a silent moment Waiting for the gun

The hare smoked the tortoise. Won with ease.

He didn’t take a nap.

20 | THE IVY

y

An lM mi

IM E,

us yi

RIN ge GT

SP

graph

photo

XVI | 21

22 | THE IVY

THE SHIFTING WIND, Signe Owen i look around there is no land in sight the ocean is our battleground, on which the boat we fight

our sailboat, quite fast with the wind very rough the main sail tight to the mast with not even a luff

we fled homeward-bound in the direction north-east where a soulless patch we found where the wind seemed to cease

the sky grew darker the wind, softer yet there we were the boat without even a stir

all we wanted was our feet on the sand but there we drifted so close to the land

we got out our paddle and began to row amongst the night’s lull under the moon’s glow

sand was soon hit with a sigh and a cheer the wind, our culprit, creates excitement and fear

BOATS IN LIMA, PERU Amelia Wright

gouache

XVI | 23

ANCIENT, Lisa Mishra

oil on canvas

24 | THE IVY

OBSEQUIOUS, Abby de Riel Culture was a tangled set of headphones, tying itself into knots based on arbitrary labels that had more to do with geography and lineage than politics.

Left and right earpieces listening to themselves, dismissing a jack plugged into the same machine.

Generations gradually inundated with and drowning in the snack of entertainment, a quick hit of surrogate nonsense.

Somewhere between Colbert and Facebook blinded to a cult of celebrity, which, after enough hammering, had been mistaken for clout.

Yelling at one another with bombastic enthusiasm, vitriol backed by smoke.

Learning from headlines and regurgitating as gospel, listening to anything that might sublimate an opinion.

A population devout—only—to something with a screen.

Nations of apprentices, disciples of leisure and amusement.

A marketing glitch, a mass of consumers—wondering what happened.

Thinking news failed, when news has only ever served on a platter whatever it believed might please.

It was thought that was missing, critical thinking, because when all you’ve been fed is cheap laughs, you miss the joke.

XVI | 25

BOP ON TOP, Anonymous

A cautionary tale in the style of Dr. Seuss I biked to my home as the blue skies turned grey But for my neglect, I would soon pay Round the corner I flew That split second I knew

All would come tumbling down

Me and my bump, we sat there, we two Oh, how we wished we knew what to do Soon some fine man dressed all in blue Came up to me and said, “How do you do?”

Tell me…

Do you have any gashes?

See splotches?

Have rashes?

Are nauseous?

On this nice evening, were you being cautious?

At this point the darkness had started to loom So I found myself in a well-lit waiting room Though our collective conscious teems with words My brain it seems, had joined those of the birds

My eyes were clouded People’s faces were shrouded But from the abyss Questions would persist

26 | THE IVY

“What’s your name?

What’s the date?

Wow what a bump Now tell me, who is the President?”

“Ugh... it’s Trump”

In ran Thing 1 and Thing 2 With their scrubs of blue We rolled to the CAT No, not the one with the hat

“Now, now, have no fear, Have no fear,” said the doc “My tricks are not bad” The doc seemed to mock

Amid the chaos to sleep I tried to surrender But I still seemed to remember The sound of ambulance thunder The feel of needles going under Then the rest was a blur As I succumbed to slumber

One fish...

Two fish...

Red fish!

Blue fish!

The murky waters of words were finally clear I could again see and hear

Now I feel fantastic though next time some hard plastic Might help this kid’s story To not be quite as gory

XVI | 27

MIDSUMMER #1, Han Jiang

watercolor on paper fan

28 | THE IVY

When karma shot him in the bubble tea shop, they

shot you too. Heart fell straight out of your chest, plopped across

the bamboo floor, thrashing like a fish out of water. Its ugly veins

rupturing, spitting ostensibly.

A desiccated, carved-out

hollow. You can imagine the tapioca balls exiting the

revolver, ricocheting off the walls, smearing all the

love letters you traced with him in spilled sugar. How

to not burst whilst rearranging burnt

bergamot orange and darjeeling tea to call each other

“honey.” Now he bleeds oolong like he used to

inhale it from your mouth in between shifts, in

between the eternal spaces where you didn’t utter it

back.

GULP

OF

REGRET

Grace Zhang

XVI | 29

FALLEN CATHEDRAL, Grayson Shanley-Barr The flying foxes landed on your branches, Their wingspan filling the sky.

At dusk we gazed at the beautiful beasts, Flying home for the night.

I played in the crevices of your roots.

Built fairy houses in the hollows.

Used the old rainwater in ponds, To sail away from the city.

One day I came and you were gone.

I stared up at the open sky, Where your branches were missing.

My eyes forlorn at the sight.

They put cement on your stump.

An inch thick.

30 | THE IVY

STACKED, Rutha Chivate red rows. some new, the grey-blue mortar still early sun, a fiery collision with the thick rows the old ones, slightly tarnished, chipped at the an indent, where scarlet and strawberry shades connects the earth and stone, the stone and sky down to each brick, to each edge, to each and the grey-blue mortar still ision with the thick rows tarnished, chipped at the let and strawberry shades stone, the stone and sky to each edge, to each and

fresh and damp. the grass viridescent in the of foliage and somewhere, a cricket chirps edges, with a white fence on the border, or meet in a corner, a quiet corner, a place that which, swollen with color and life, reaches every delicate stem, settling on a red rose.

red rows. some new, the grey-blue mortar still early sun, a fiery collision with the thick rows the old ones, slightly tarnished, chipped at the an indent, where scarlet and strawberry shades connects the earth and stone, the stone and sky down to each brick, to each edge, to each and fresh and damp. the grass of foliage and somewhere, edges, with a white fence meet in a corner, a quiet c which, swollen with colo every delicate stem, settlin

fresh and damp. the grass viridescent in the of foliage and somewhere, a cricket chirps edges, with a white fence on the border, or meet in a corner, a quiet corner, a place that which, swollen with color and life, reaches every delicate stem, settling on a red rose.

fresh and damp. the grass viridescent in the of foliage and somewhere, a cricket chirps edges, with a white fence on the border, or meet in a corner, a quiet corner, a place that which, swollen with color and life, reaches every delicate stem, settling on a red rose.

red rows. some new, the grey-blue mortar still early sun, a fiery collision with the thick rows the old ones, slightly tarnished, chipped at the an indent, where scarlet and strawberry shades connects the earth and stone, the stone and sky down to each brick, to each edge, to each and

red rows. some new, the grey-blue mortar still early sun, a fiery collision with the thick rows the old ones, slightly tarnished, chipped at the an indent, where scarlet and strawberry shades connects the earth and stone, the stone and sky down to each brick, to each edge, to each and

red rows. some early sun, a fie the old ones, sl an indent, wher connects the ear down to each b

viridescent in a cricket chirp on the border, orner, a place r and life, reac g on a red rose.

fresh and damp. the grass viridescent in the of foliage and somewhere, a cricket chirps edges, with a white fence on the border, or meet in a corner, a quiet corner, a place that which, swollen with color and life, reaches every delicate stem, settling on a red rose.

XVI | 31

ROCKY ROAD, Shane Spring

32 | THE IVY

photography

XVI | 33

BERLIN, Emily Han Yesterday we explored Berlin together In the summer when we would TITLE, Artist Name laugh at our sweat stains forming the seven continents When we would play tic-tac-toe in the wetness of our plastic cup of iced coffee When we would bike home balancing pizza boxes on the back rack When she would teach me how to play volleyball When I would bring her to my favorite thrift store When we would eat Indian food When she would take pictures of me as I biked back and forth in front of the same building trying to get one good picture When I would teach us how to count to ten in German When we would count our favorite graffiti paintings When we would buy artisan lipstick from the flea market When we would live When we would laugh When we would love Today there are mountains between us She has the California beach The Pacific sun I have the Jersey shore The Atlantic chill But together we have the earth in our hands.

34 | |PHS 34 THE IVY

RUSTIC CITYSCAPE #143, Valeria Torres-Olivares TITLE, Artist Name art’s medium

XVI | 35

36 | THE IVY

FREE AD SPACE, Email us!

This is The Ivy The art and lit magazine This is a haiku To help inform you That we are accepting ads!

Fill this space right here Wish to advertise?

Do you have a lovely ad?

This space could be yours!

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

For things such as rates, Also what sizes we have, And other info!

Thank you for reading!

We hope you reach out to us, Leslie and Maya

XVI | 37

STAFF LIST ADVISORS

Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muรงa

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Ashley Wang Aileen Wu Emily Han

Leslie Liu Maya Pophristic

Matt Karns

MANAGING EDITORS

SECRETARY

SPREAD DESIGNERS

Anya Sachdev Lydia McGrath-Manuilskiy

Amelia Wright Valeria Torres-Olivares

Alice Feng John Liang Jane Lillard Jingyi Zhang Eli Nathan Shane Spring

PUBLIC RELATIONS

Angel Musyimi Nina Li Leah Williamson Siena Moran Cecily Gubser

38 | THE IVY

COPY EDITORS

BUSINESS

Shane Spring

GENERAL STAFF

COLOPHON 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 but the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand.

Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes,” “no,” or not at all on a Google form.

All art pieces with higher than 75% approval were published. A few others with at least 60% were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts.

The only exceptions were when a single artist submitted more than one piece with a rating higher than 75%. In these cases, the higher of the two was selected. For literature, the cutoff was lower, at 50%. We did this because fewer literature pieces were submitted, but we still wanted to maintain a healthy art-to-literature ratio.

FONTS COVER AND TITLE PAGE| Baskerville regular 60pt, 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 24pt COLOPHON | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 12pt, Lora italic 12pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing, 2018 regular 14pt

Two hundred and fifty copies of the magazine were distributed to students in Princeton High School.

XVI | 39