Zephyr 2010 • Volume 50
Dear Reader, Welcome to the 50th edition of Zephyr Art & Literary Magazine! The staff and I are honored to present to you this year’s magazine. There is one idea that has stayed the same throughout the years: We choose the pieces we love to make the magazine we love!. So please relax, take off your shoes and let the magic that is Zephyr surround you. Here is Zephyr Vol. 50! With love, Alexandra Khoder Editor-in-Chief In the tradition started in 1961, we present you with the creative literary and visual efforts of the students of Rye High School. In response to the challenges of difficult financial times we have trimmed our expenses in ways that don’t diminish the love and respect we have for Zephyr. That said, this may be the last issue of Zephyr you will hold in your hands. The following was written by the very first editors of Zephyr : “ The opportunity is here offered for each student to express freely his thoughts and opinions, for certainly free expression is the very essence of scholarship. Whether one write an amorous poem, a critical essay, or paints a flower or a picture depicting social ills is of little importance to the Zephyr. What IS important is that the poem be well written, and the painting well drawn; what IS important is that scholarship be the supreme test of the worth of this magazine. Each piece is a creation which begins as an idea of one person, is transformed to the printed page, and thus is communicated to the minds of others.” (Susan Kaslow-Anne Sterling 1961) We the staff of Zephyr the 2010 students of Rye High School agree that free expression is still “…the very essence of scholarship” We are honored to have been part of this phenomenal tradition. Enjoy, Zephyr Staff
Cover Mixed Media • Erin McCarty
1-2
Table of Contents
“Cycle of Existance” Matt Olson Drawing Kelsey Smith
3-4
“Breaking My Finger to Take Off This Ring” Katrina Gibbs “Smile” Jessica Tremayne Digital Photograph Iabel Conte
5-6
“Doodles” Molly Jordan “Winnie” Janina Langmann-Doné Mixed Media Alexandra Khoder
7-8
“Untitled” Dale Neuringer “Anchor” Katrina Gibbs Digital Photograph
Katherine Marchand
9-10
“Street Jazz Extravaganza” Dale Neuringer “I Summon You” Jenna Langbaum Mixed Media
Ali Zaslav
11-12
“Esoterica” Dale Neuringer Sculpture Alexandra Khoder
13-14
“My Bible” Katrina Gibbs “Stand Still” Jessica Tremayne Drawing Emily Stone
15-16
“Incubus” Matt Olson Painting
Aleksander Stojković
17-18
“A Mornings Marriage” Dale Neuringer Digital Photograph Isabel Conte “Scream” Jenna Langbaum Sculpture Grace Byrne
19-20
“For a Few Wobbling Moments” Katrina Gibbs
21-22
“Galapagos Adventures United!!” Leo Neuringer
Sculpture Alexandra Khoder
Drawing Maki Nakajima
23-24
“Tapestry” Miriam Ward “Untitled”
Leo Neuringer Digital photograph
Justin Passaretti
25-26
“Dust” Sarah Niss Digital photograph
Julia Pasqualini
Colophon The 50th volume of Zephyr Art & Literary Magazine was produced on Dell computers running Windows XP, Adobe InDesign CS3, and Adobe Photoshop CS3. Headlines and display text are set in Century Schoolbook. Body text is Garamond Premier Pro. Rye Printing Inc. Printed 500 copies on 80lb matte stock with a 100lb cover. Zephyr was made possible by the financial support of the Rye City School District and the fabulous individuals who contributed all of their time, art, and effort.
Table of Contents • Sculptures • Alexandra Khoder
Cycle of Existence Poem • Matt Olson Drawing • Kelsey Smith
An idea Is the ripple That starts the whirlpool Consuming all that we worked for in a giant swirl of wind and fire Until nothing is left to tell us what happened A flicker explodes into a struggle for survival After the siege of life is over We can peak over the stars To look upon a bare canvas Ready to be filled with our memories Not exactly what I had in mind But it’s hard to remember much Blocked by a partially cracked doorway That refuses to budge Pure light sneaks through the cracks of the door Trying to escape the confined space To spread and engulf all it touches And purge the galaxy of darkness Uncovering all that was once concealed by shadows Not necessarily sinister But unknown Depicting it as a true and whole concept Starting and ending with An idea
Breaking My Finger to Take Off This Ring
Profusely refusing to ever fall down the well and drown in someone else’s bucket alongside the rats and mice who swim contently with the lifeless current For I don't trust a stagnant stream
Poem • Katrina Gibbs
Smile Poem • Jessic Tremayne Digital Photograph • Isabel Conte
Have a great flight I am instructed, By a soldier of a small army Suited in tight blue polyester And a lipstick smile I stare at the seat in front of me Willing a television to appear from the checkered fabric And instead pull out homework due too soon Knowing that I will instead spend my time Staring at the white blanket to be thrown beneath me. But hey, now I can say I tried. When I am released by the heavy silver doors And sent along, I turn around to see the woman from hours before. She laughs animatedly Bidding farewell to a superior Lips spread wide over her teeth But it is when they part That I see her painted smile stiffen and falter And become merely the garish lipstick of a clown
The whirring radiator and a monotone voice dim my thoughts and an endless swirl, spiraling into a tranquil void, calmly assumes its place in the upper corner where the date once was.
Doodles Poem • Molly Jordan Mixed Media • Alexandra Khoder
A chalkboard’s screech turns my peace to agitation and an aggressive flame, made vicious with detail, spews from another corner and consumes the explanation of molecular bonding. Growing confusion inspires a bubbled question mark, dotted like the teacher’s blouse and lightly shaded with pencil, that hangs precariously from the line meant to hold the answer. A brief moment of ingenuity aroused by sudden comprehension produces a heptagonal prism, an honorable creation notable for its uselessness and unhappily squeezed between paragraphs. The page is soon sentenced to a lonely binder where there is nothing left to warm its shaky bones of knowledge except an inky coat of creativity.
“I never ever want to be pregnant” said Winnie during our first conversation. “Why not?” I asked. “Because they can pull a baby out of you and I don’t like that.” “Oh.” I glanced back at the TV as Winnie switched through the channels. We sat on a sofa the color of regurgitated tomato sauce, my teenage butt taking up most of the small loveseat. As Winnie watched a Spanish soap opera, laughing loudly during the make-out sessions between Pablo and Maria, I turned my attention towards her. And so I observed this six-year old girl; her skin was muddy milk, her decent profile completed by her olive-shaped nose. Winnie turned to me. “Maria is going to have a baby.” She stretched her thumb across the remote. The next image on the screen was of a woman, dressed in a costume constructed of solely fishnet pantyhose. She thrashed her hips at the camera, each hand on a fishnet-covered breast as she “danced” to Daddy Yankee’s beat. “Daddy Yankee!” screamed Winnie and immediately stood up and imitated fishnet-woman, her little hands on her flat chest, her pigtailed head bobbing from side to side. I watched Winnie like this for the three-minute and thirtyeight second duration of the song, until she sat back down next to me on our throw-up colored couch, droplets of sweat on her olive of a nose. Her small thumb switched the channel back to Pablo and Maria. “Oh, Maria,” she said with a sigh. Then let out a giggle as she adjusted herself on our seat, her little hand, on my adolescent knee.
Winnie Non-Fiction • Janina Lagemann-Doné
Untitled Poem• Dale Neuringer Digital Photograph • Katherine Marchand
Anchor Poem • Kat Gibbs
Looking steadfastly at the loamy ground I bent Tucked my cheek into the dirt and whispered, “today, it is my birthday. I wrote my own name amongst the stars In fast expansive script, And at the end I left a flourish, One so big A deity could rest there. I stomped my own pattern Into the islands of lava And if the gods talked amongst themselves About a precocious little girl, I didn’t hear them. I was far too busy Kicking up sand mountains And 10 mile puddles To carefully mark this birthday Before the dirge of midnight Condemned me to night time For one year more.
Restless Mind... Capture Moments like little unsuspecting fishies Who will some day soon Wither away in transparent tanks Trap your tears In jars of paint Let the paper soak in your soul And never lift that burdened brush Because you just might float away..
That skippity skip street scat for unknowing toe-jazz.
Street Jazz
Extravaganza Poem • Dale Neuringer Mixed Media • Ali Zaslav
Heel-toe, heel-toe goes the voluptuous behind in front of me, careful not to stain her heels with beleaguered use. She’s looking down when she should look up, every fool knows the cat that finds the quarter is never the one looking for it. Besides, what does one ever find in one’s own cleavage anyway besides sweat, and the odd coin, purloined, from your fingers by your bra. Baby stop looking at yourself and you’ll find EVERYONE else! Shining beings, not unlike children, pilgrims, if you will, of these streets that you strut they are looking Perhaps, with you, they can nest, and take root.
Perhaps it is easy to blame love songs, to blame the chitter chatter of buckled knees soaking in simple lyrics; Spiraling songs of surrender to some unnamely force. I would like to pluck out each chord Rearrange it an order less beautiful, Less pure, less tantalizing. So the seams will be seared, And the love song Will slither into Fragmental syllables of symmetrical disaster Perhaps I sink into the eyes of love with undying admiration because of these sliding, slippery words, Or perhaps they search me out, Sirens sounding out for thick despair And I am summoned, sleeping soundly on their silver surface Unaware of how far my feet dangle from the ground.
I Summon You Poem • Jenna Langbaum
Esoterica Play • Dale Neuringer
Sculpture • Alexandra Khoder
Man walking down a city street, at 7:30 AM, to get to work. He is a thin, decent looking guy, but he comes off as overwhelmingly average. He has a meandering gait, so we know he is biding his time before work. His name is Tim, he is 29, and he is thinking about nothing, and the grey hair he found on his head this morning. He is mildly worried. The other character is a homeless man, or so we assume. He is a spry looking older man, between 60 and 70, and he is sitting completely still, with his legs Indian-style and his palms facing up on his knees. The sky is that early morning gray color, it is summer, and they are on 28th st, NYC. *enter Tim, absentmindedly walking by homes guy* HG- *eyes closed* Today is going to be different for you. *traces a circle on the sidewalk with his fingers* You are special today. TIM- *stops walking* excuse me? HG- You heard me. If the universe trembles at it’s core for just a moment, does anyone hear it? *crack one eye open to look bemusedly at Tim. We get the sense that he might be nonsensical, but not insane.) TIM- *puts hands to forehead and rubs, like he is stressed) I don’t know. Does the universe do that? HG- did you hear it happen? *opens both eyes, then looks all around* If you heard it, it happened. Your personal reality is the truth of every moment. You sir, determine, if only for a second, everything we know we don’t know slipped up and stopped moving. *closes eyes again and straightens posture* TIM- *starts pacing* Me? It’s all on me? That’s a heavy burden. I have… I have papers to sign, I have dogs to feed. I have blocks to go here. HG- Tim, it’s every you, every her, him, me and it. It is a constant battle between each person, and what they see fit to exist. I, I imagine a rotting banana peel on this sidewalk, but you do not, so we are at odds. Who is more sure of the presence, or lack thereof, of someone’s detritus? We see a triptych of views of this scene. HG’s face, serene and weathered, Tim’s face, worried and unfocused, and in the middle panel we see sidewalk, with a banana peel blinking in and out of sight rapidly for 4 seconds. Then it disappears, at the same exact moment HG’s eyes open and focus on where Tim is standing in relation to him, and Tim refocuses. *return to previous scene* TIM- what is your name?
HG- You didn’t even ask me why today was different, why you are special today. *inspects his fingernails* How unusual. TIM- *exasperated* I just assumed you knew something I didn’t. I walk by here everyday, past this spot every single day, and here you are. You never move. So I figured we had a rapport somehow, a tacit acceptance of each other’s oblivious presence. Today is special? Why? Because I’m wearing new shoes today? Or that I shaved? Or is it because I have never wanted to not go to work so badly, and I’m depressed about the shape my life has taken, this shitty, fatty, amorphous shape of work and travel and work and frozen dinners. What is it exactly about today that is so goddam f**king special, might I ask? HG- *speaks slowly, still looking at fingernails* My name is nothing. My name is Nameless. In telling you my name, I present you with an opportunity to define me further. *smiles beatifically up at Tim* You haven’t earned that yet. In knowing your name, I have already put you in a box and stored you away. *nods sadly* Such is the way of it. TIM- I…I don’t believe I told you my name. HG- No, you didn’t, which means I took it from you. I suppose that’s unfair. *looks up at Tim and scrutinizes him* You can take it back if you want. Set yourself free from the bondage my awareness of your name has created. Take flight TIM- *sits down dazedly on a nearby garbage can* But, but won’t you still know my name? If we use your circular logic here, don’t you still have me by the scruff of my name? I should go to work you know, I should go make money and retain my status as a functioning member of society, but sometimes, I admire you. It’s warm today, and I’d like nothing more than to take out a mat and sit in stillness all day. *looks around determinedly* I would LIKE to sit next to this mildly stinking garbage can and just think about the universe. HG- It’s too bad you can’t then. A shame really. TIM- who says I can’t? Who made that rule? HG-*speaks softly* only you. You’re the only one who made it. *smiles gently, then looks up at the sky and lets the sun warm his face* It’s really a beautiful day you know. Really just… something else. TIM-*sadly* It is beautiful. Utterly, sadly, frighteningly beautiful. I.. I have to go. Thank you, for nothing, or something, or just making today a little different I guess. Tim turns to leave and has walked about 5 steps, when the Homeless Guy appears by his side. He smiles kindly and gives Tim a card, nothing else. It’s a business card, white with plain black font, and on the front is written “the things we know to be true are nothing more than visions” and a telephone number. The back is blank, with a tribal looking curlique in the center of it. Tim pockets it thoughtfully, and continues walking. Pan to a quick shot of HG. He is back on his mat as if he never moved. He is looking intently after Tim, who has not gone far. HG- Hey Tim? *Tim turns* HG- *smiles and puts his hand over his chest* I still know your name. END SCENE 1
My Bible Poem • Katrina Gibbs Drawing • Emily Stone
Scream peace When we grovel at Buddha’s feet. The world is too crowded For salvation; Too chaotic For enlightenment Follow some distorted eight-fold path But beware the mines, For this great Bodhi tree Is no shelter from bombs… Follow these leaders Who cry “in the name of ” Deus? Pillage your children, Plunder your culture, And steal your eyes All to wander in darkness, Down like lemmings, Deep into the pits of their hellish conflagration
Stand Still Poem • Jessica Tremayne
Sitting close to the road, He held a cigarette close to his mouth with one hand The other dangled off his knee. A few greased hairs Surrounded his scalp Like paperclips placed on a swollen dome of water. I could look only in passing As I was on my way, in motion, as always But he? From nowhere to somewhere, maybe Or something to no one.
Incubus Poem • Matt Olson Painting • Aleksander Stojković Looking out over the plains Trudge through the muck and the mire Only to come upon another field Eternal and profound Try to escape the nightmarish wasteland Creatures concealed by my shadows breath Embodying all my fears Cornered by my thoughts Helpless As they mangle my petrified body My face contorts and looks as if about to unleash a howl of terror No sound escapes my gaping mouth Nothing can liberate me from myself Delve deeper into the affliction spawned from my trepidation Savage winds rupture my body as I envision the sea swallowing my ship Groaning and cracking under the pressure Until the final beam breaks Bursting into billions of gleaming daggers that rive and ravage my skin Gouging out my guts The scream finally breaks free from its cage of flesh and muscle Making it appear that I have awoken From my hellish sleep Not completely conscious But in some sort of paralyzed trance No use in trying to wake me Endure my agony Stupefied But unable to recollect the experience Lying alert dreading the dark slumber Until my eyes slam shut Glued together by the weight of my exhaustion Dragging me back into the darkest crevice of my mind
A Morning’s
Marriage Poem • Dale Neuringer Digital Photograph • Iabel Conte
Tangled in the starry cautiousness of the morning’s future embrace We rushed to the altar Of breaking dawn, and the inky silence of trees. We mumbled our “I do’s” and Mother Nature’s gnarled visage Gave a dirty little wink As we ran our fingers over bark In awe and sensuous abandon She looked on as we gave ourselves To the flushing scarlet of first light, As we surrendered ourselves to the Purple edging, the eyeliner of the abating night sky. She approved, because she whistled Like a thousand crickets sighing, And a gentle zephyr took us, By the hands and by the knees, to lead us toward the shadowed moon.
Scream Beside the rough currents of my insides Lay the crinkled notes and vows of you, my sister’s orange sneakers she purposely lost, my tangles; my poems that have fluttered about and settled for good. Beneath my shell of crisp eyes and pink cheeks, Lie globby wells of mud and water, the bricks of rust that have escaped my ramshackle roof, the map I used to arrive here. Above my crooked lungs, Lies a heart zipped shut; silver zigzags pulsing up and about. the crimson disaster of my feelings, a symphony on standby about to fully devour its audience. In the open spaces of my throat, Lie foggy drops of songs I have forgotten, a garden of garbage bags festering out of my vocal chords, and butterflies shooting up my spine waiting for their turn to scream.
Poem • Jenna Langbaum Sculptue • Grace Byrne
For a Few Wobbling Moments Poem • Katrina Gibbs Sculpture • Alexandra Khoder
Some things you crave and you don’t know why Like chicken and chocolate, Salty air of the ocean, The last hint of your ex-lover’s perfume that still clings to your pillow Like you clutch to naive, pathetic hope Pick your poison, your happy little vice Your small, selfish fix I choose the bumpy turbulence of an airplane ride For it makes my heart skip a beat but Not like the butterflies of frantic love Not like bike pedals slipping out from underneath your feet It quickens my mind This bumpy wind outside our claustrophobic tin can Violet sky outside my window seat, frown on my stranger’s face, rigid line of a mountainous region a thousand-plus feet below my exposed toes. I question our recycled air and our extra leg room. And I, for a few wobbling moments, hope and pray With the same hope as the forgotten ex-lover That each person on this wwinged sheet metal craft Shares the same pulse Shares the same pumping adrenaline Yet, as I look around me Reality seeps in like octopus ink As my neighbor’s mouth curls upside down Staring blankly at a lost television signal At least an addiction of mine is fulfilled As my heart and brain excitedly pulse as one Every thought brushing death, tickling life, chuckling at waste Down, shake, down, shake I feel lighter with each boulder in the sky I feel closer to myself with each gale force thud Sigh, smooth, release The turbulence fades into smooth landing And I am unglued. The baby behind me cries
Drawing • Maki Nakajima
Sometimes when I sit in Spanish, I like to close my eyes and navigate. I think myself to an island off in the middle of the Atlantic; the Galapagos. And I sit with my plush textured penguin shaped paragons of an immature imagination. We sit together and we discuss what we are doing here. I’m spilling my guts about living under the unbearable pressures of my understanding incapable mother, And they are actually eating the guts of fish on an adjacent rock, and with each bite, they seem to digest what I’m saying. I feel better without bile stinging my throat, and they feel better when they aren’t hungry. Mrs. Maika would say it is a mutualistic relationship. I just think it’s called friendship. My favorite penguin comes up to me, and we sit together on a rock in saturating silence. His name always seems to escape me. My eyes are bark brown, his sea green. Neither of us want to talk, but we watch as the sunset tie dies the skies nearby, and we wait. We are waiting to be yanked back to real life. Suddenly, the sun flares red. The penguins are in chaos. They bite at my skin, angry that my intruding life is distorting their imaginary one. As I am ripped back into Spanish class, prematurely, in that goddamn mirror room, my heartbeat slows to a lazily painful 10 beats per minute. I look at my paper. I look at my teacher. I look at myself in the mirror. I am as gray as slate, and my body aches. I watch my class in the reflection until i look back, at the boy with that elusive name I cannot recall. He’s looking in the mirror too. We share eye contact, and his face is slate gray. My eyes are bark brown, his sea green. The bell rings and the mirrors shatter. My face is slammed against something. Hard. I open my eyes, and I’m lying on the ground of the mirror room. Feet shuffle past, and my teacher calls me to the front of the room. Something about my recent narcolepsy spurring from the beginning of the subjunctive tense. She is going to call my mom.
Galapagos Adventurers
UNITE!! Fiction • Leo Neuringer
Tapestry Poem • Miriam Ward Digitaln Photograph • Justin Passaretti
Depression and I became but one. It became routine: I danced in my footsteps. Gave into my murmurs of yesterday, Suffocated in silks and patterns, Drowned in my puddle of pity and needles forgotten, And decided that it was comforting To weave in my weaknesses, To drown in this tapestry, To see how much this spindle could take, Until I let it burst.
Untitled Poem • Leo Neuringer 3:04 pm. I walk into the kitchen. Something is out of place; Where? I catch a glint of color in the corner of my eye, And like an owl to a mouse, I zone in on the prey. I suspiciously make my way over to the counter, And see a cup of black coffee, and a post it. Dad’s in France. His coffee has been sitting here staining an “I *heart* dad” mug, since he left at 4:36 am. Ten hours and twenty eight minutes After his departure I am informed that he is no longer on my continent. I stare blankly at this jaundiced cube of paper, with a folded corner, and a full day of wither on it, Which now bears a resemblance to old tofu, And ask myself why he doesn’t bother to tell me when he is leaving. If only this was tofu. Then I could curry it, or put it in soup, and digest it in pleasant obeisance, But I don’t want to internalize this. The note stares me down, With its wingman emitting the odor of burnt caffeine. This is my inheritance.
Dust Poem • Sarah Niss
Little Ant I have stepped on, will you be missed? Is there a family at home, expecting your kiss? Will your funeral be filled, each tiny pew packed, with tears, memories, and your honor in tact? May I attend the proceedings, thougth be it ironic? To ease your family’s pain I’d like to share a certain tonic: One day I will return to the same ground as you. No better, relenting to a cycle always true. The day will soon come when I too am crushed. We’ll meet again, decomposing, as equals, as dust.
Digital Photo • Julia Pasqualini
Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief Alexandra Khoder Niki Gollan Jerry Nolan
Layout Editors
Art Staff
Gracie Byrne Catherine Hedge Misako Ono Julia Pasqualini Jessica Roth Ellie Tremayne Bonnie Avery
Leo Neuringer Gwendolyn Weigold Alexandra Khoder Ryan Cavataro Sarah Krikorian Sarah Jordan Daniel Acevedo
Dale Neuringer
Senior Literary Editor
Miriam Ward
Junior Literary Editor
Sarah Niss
Secretary
Katrina Gibbs
Treasurer
Literary Staff
Stephanie Alimena Spencer Black Elizabeth Burns Gracie Byrne Robert Coords Rosario Gallagher Katrina Gibbs Niki Gollan Sophie Hessekiel Miles Hirson Molly Jordan Alexandra Khoder Sarah Krikorian Jenna Langbaum
Clay MacGuire Leo Neuringer Sarah Niss Jerry Nolan Matt Olson Misako Ono Meggie Rix Eleanor Smith Kelsey Smith Nathaniel Smith Nat Stein Jessi Tremayne Miriam Ward Gwendolyn Wiegold
Faculty Advisor Catherine Telfer