2012-13 Hippocrene by Avon Old Farms School

Avon Old Farms School

Hippocrene 2012 – 2013

The Arts and Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School Literary Editors Michael Pumphret ’13 • Peter O’Leary ’16

Writers Jamie Bell ’14 Jordan Blackington ’13 Charles J. Carpenter ’15 Jackie Chen ’15 Luis Consguegra ’14 Alec Ferry ’16 Matt Gill ’16 Wyatt Hamilton ’13

Donghee Kim ’16 Samuel Kim ’14 Sam Loizeaux ’14 Christopher Macca ’13 Seamus O’Brien ’13 Lukas O’Connor ’13 Luke O’Connor ’16 Peter O’Leary ’16

Michael Pumphret ’13 Tucker Roy ’16 Jaekyung Song ’13 Tucker Symes ’16 Reid White ’14

Artists & Photographers Nick Bernie ’14 Austin Brawley ’14 Vincent Caputo ’16 Jiuhua Chen ’15 Justin Cho ’14 Arden Coleman ’16 Diego Davila ’13 Jake DeSaint Phalle ’16 Frankie Driscoll ’14 Cooper Fairbanks ’16

Daniel Heitmann ’16 Young Jun Song ’16 Donghee Kim ’16 Min Hyoung Kim ’13 Kurte Linke ’16 Darren Longbottom ’13 Yusuf Mansoor ’15 Orion Marco ’16 Devin McKenna ’15 Luke O’Connor ’16

Michael Perrone ’16 John Rick ’15 Max Rieser ’16 Nate Rosemond ’15 Henry Schopp ’14 Zach Sibert ’14 Young Jun Song ’16 Sinthorn Xie ’16

Advisors Seshu Badrinath Bradford Carpenter Michael Dembicer Gail Laferrière

Grace McGee Cristina Pinton Gayle Robinson

Cover by: Min Hyoung Kim ’13

—Max Rieser ’16 —Max Rieser ’16

Prep School Drums I find myself in a classroom, full of people I have never known, and answering enquiries that I had never considered. The squealing chalk glides across the blackboard, leaving only a trail of numerical enigmas for us to decipher. The clacking of fingers against our calculators is a symphony of annoyance and wonder. The teacher’s instruction is like a starting piece to a puzzle. One hint, and suddenly over time, the most abstract of questions becomes the as clear as the water in my cup. As the bell rings, a chorus of sighs and sarcastic Thank God’s sound off, amongst the rustling of papers and the slamming of book covers. My classmates throw on their jackets like baseball jerseys, signifying their freedom from the educational dungeon. As they leave the room, the sound of Timberlands and Sperry’s flow against the pavement and cobblestone. The prep school drums are sounding. —Michael Pumphret ’13

Fearlessly Afraid I am afraid. Unafraid to admit it, foolish as this may be a sort of contradiction of the highest degree. Not of death, no. afraid of an unsatisfactory legacy. what will St. Peter say when I reach those gilded gates shimmering with the power of the almighty? Am I worthy to reside in the kingdom of accomplishment? what worth do I have? how much value is my legacy? will I be remembered for the man I was or at least aspired to be? or will I be forgotten? the simple forgotten memory of a former love encased in the mistakes and follies of my being. Perhaps Kacey Musgraves is right, for “you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t, so you might as well just do whatever you want.” no book, no church, no executive can tell us what we want nothing tells us who to be because I am not a thing, I am a body and I am the only body that can tell me what to do for I understand myself better than any doctor will but my fear controls me. like a medication that starves your appetite or restricts your antics because they are deemed “unfit” for society however, society is made up of differences America itself is a melting pot. but fear is the resonating and restricting chain of control. it is only when we are placed in a box and buried that we are given the tools to break the chain. shatter it. live your life evading fear for that is the true face of death. —Michael Pumphret ’13

—Arden Coleman ’16

—Cooper Fairbanks ’16

The Pitch The pitcher is tired, worn out, and dehydrated--- everyone can sense it. He shoves his size 14 black Nike Swingman series spike off of the torn up, white rubber, placed ever so precisely on top of the dirt mound that baseball pitchers call their home. The ball looks as if it just glides off the long fingers of the tall and lanky pitcher. The ball is thrown with so much force and effort that the pitcher grunts in discomfort as he follows through with his release. A spectator’s jaw drops as he witnesses a faint vapor trail behind the white projectile. The seams on the ball are revolving fast, so fast that the ball doesn’t look white anymore, it looks red from the revolutions of the seams. The ball is just about half way between the mound and the old, tan, leather, dried out catcher’s glove. Something very strange happens, the ball suddenly takes a dive towards the ground, the ball thuds against the ground and then rolls a little and comes to a stop. Everyone is baffled by what has just occurred. The umpires are just as astounded as the players and fans. The umpires have no clue what to do. Do they call it a strike or a ball? Do they end the game? Do they have a re-do? No one knows for sure what to do, because no one was expecting this. The umpires talk amongst themselves and then call for the coaches to come in and talk with them too. Imagine this: you’re on the mound in a crucial game, you’re one pitch away from winning the championship, something very awkward has just happened, and the outcome of the game is riding on someone else’s call/judgement. The umpires break out of the talk amongst themselves and the coaches. What will the call be?

—Matt Gill ’16 7

Pushed, Punished, Pride You’re fat, You’re ugly, You’re Gay, I heard your boyfriend broke up with you today. Facebook Message, Send, Text, Beep. I hope you understand this is on the internet for keeps. Will you be Pushed, Will you be Punished, Where’s the Pride. Over 80% of teens use a cell phone regularly, Making it the most common medium for cyber bullying on the contrary. 81% of young people have an easier time getting away with bullying online rather than bullying on his or her own time. Shall the percent go higher? Or can cyberbullying retire? Will you be Pushed? Will you be Punished? Where’s the Pride? Touch, Type, Call, Skype, Offend, Pretend, Hear it Again and Again, These are all examples, Of keyboard tramples, A stampede, Of unrighteousness,

These words of messages say, The golden gate bridge is over that way. Will you be Pushed? Will you be Punished? Where’s the Pride? Where’s the good, The happy stage, Where cyberbullying doesn’t get its own Bubonic Plague. It’s on its way, Is that the price we will have to pay? How ‘bout a good page one with Pride, You’re great, You’re Awesome, You’re athletic, Anything but pathetic. Facebook post, Click, Call, Wanna come to the mall. Don’t be, Pushed Pushed, Pushed, Into things you don’t want to do, Just answer the questions and you’ll know how to get through. Will you be Pushed? Will you be Punished? Where’s the Pride? —Alec Ferry ’16

—Justin Cho ’14

Freedom A Poem By the Poet Tucker Georges Miller Roy Is it the blindness that we use as excuses to bypass responsibilities The slim percentage on a pie chart where the rest is covered by laws and guidelines making us blind following into the dark cave like a country following a dictator Covering yourself in mud and slipping yourself under fences attempting to create a better life for your family in a land of opportunity When you walk out on stage in front of millions to spread a message of hope Or when you take away from some to give to others When you breathe that last breath on a field with wounds no doctor can heal When a child is born and held in the arms of its mother Freedom, a collection of fears disarming the citizens Presenting the image of world peace, while in the guts of that body, disease is spreading The people being betrayed by their government Believing in what they are forced to believe in Following the dreams they are persuaded to follow The idea of freedom is different from the reality Freedom is in the hands of our generation Freedom is the kiss goodbye when a child is on their way to school N.B. Tucker Roy ‘16 earned an honorable mention in the “What Freedom Means to Me” Poetry Contest sponsored by the Connecticut Civil War Commemoration Commission, the Amistad Center for Art and Culture, and the African-American Affairs Commission. Tucker was invited to recite his poem, “Freedom,” at the New Year’s Celebration at the Connecticut State Capitol and at a celebration of Martin Luther King Day at the Wadsworth Athenaeum.

—Tucker Roy ’16

—Min Hyoung Kim ’13

The Cave’s Fire They dance and I’ve heard them sing their voices echo echo so prettily through the room room and the shadows the shadows dance across the room room is not very large but it has has a very large a large echo, and I’ve watched so many shadows begin their dances and their singing and listened to the echoes echoing through the room until the dancers grow smaller and the echoing and the singing singing grow louder until the dancer is done and drifts through the air so small and so black and the new dancer begins until once again all you can hear is the sound of echoes echoing around the room room of the dancing shadows until the echoes make no sound that you don’t sound yourself and the shadows the dancing shadows remain silent as the echoes echo around the room and you can’t stop singing and the echoes don’t stop and the fire paints such a sharp shadow the shadow of a man dancing and singing and the fire won’t let me stop moving and I can’t stop screaming —Seamus O’Brien ’13 13

No touching I woke up this morning from the coldest night sleep in a long time Or at least it felt that way Shaking all night Shivers running up and down my spine so fast it felt like I had fallen asleep on an ant hill As I laid there, numb, Teetering on the border of sleep and insanity, but not quite able to make it over the edge to peace and tranquility I am soaked in a pool of regret, freezing me over The image of your beautiful half cocked smile displayed out in front of me That smile that so matched those eyes, beautiful, colored, deep, But empty and shallow with no emotion left to give It kept me up Last night more than most The image was so real that it baffled me, left me thinking that you were really here In a delirium I got up and screamed for you, and like an ignorant fool I reached out to try and grab you Obviously there was nothing there to grab, Just a fading memory. So I just laid there as if I was looking at a priceless piece of art, the Mona Lisa Looking Admiring wishing wanting But not touching And like others before me looking at the Mona Lisa I pondered your smile A smile that had made me so happy it gave me new hope picked me up from my pre dug coffin But that was then, now it is empty, and even as I try and fill it with emotions of every nature, they seem to seep through like water through a broken mug That smile that I loved I now loathe

That smile made me now breaks me That smile that gave me sight left me blind That smile that drove me crazy drives me mad That smile That smile That smile And Now The emptiness that is, replacing the joy that was. Once You —Luis Consguegra ’14

—Luke O’Connor ’16 15

Life? I am not here today to give you any answers and try to pretend I know what I am talking about; rather I am here to ask one single question. What is life? For me life is like a game, a really hard game; in fact it is the hardest game you can ever play. No one will tell you how to play this game, because no one really knows the rules. Maybe we just make up some rules so we can have something to work for, to look for, and to give us a dream, a hope that there is a way… to win. Maybe there aren’t any rules? Maybe we are playing this game because we are simply, just playing. However, we are all forced to play, since they day we are born we are put in clothes set up social background and given a name. We don’t got to choose what gender we want to be, what place we want to come from, or just simply, who we are. And we are forced through kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, undergraduate, A.A, A.S, A.S.S, B.A, B.F.A, B.S, J.D, M.A, M.D, M.S, M.B.A, M.Ed. Ph.D. Ed.D, and probably ADD or ADHD. We are asked to run faster than other people, recite poems better than other people, get better grades, get into a better college, marry a better wife than the one who abandoned your father, get a better job than those low class workers who have to work three different jobs just to keep food on the table for himself, and his family. We are told… to live a better life. A better life? Ha, what an interesting thing to say. What is a better life? Make more money? Live in a bigger house? Marry a hotter wife? Or being respected by other people? Devote your life helping poor people? Sacrifice yourself for someone else? All of these might seem to be the greatest life for you, but they are less than nothing for others. And for someone like British writer Douglas Admas, the answer to the great question of life, the universe and everything is just simply, forty-two. We wake up every morning a day older than yesterday. Body grows bigger, mind grows mature, hair grows grayer, heart beats slower and slower, until it finally stops beating. What we got left when we die? Money? Certainly not! You would wish to bring all you have into afterlife. Egyptians tried to, Chinese tried to, even Uncle Scrooge tried. But they all failed, we can’t bring anything, absolutely anything. We come from the earth and we will go back to dirt. If we cannot gain anything from this game, why we play, what does 6 billion 973 million 738 thousand 433 human being and countless other life form on earth play this

game for? There are more and more babies born while I am talking and they are forced to play this game. Why? What is this game for? What is life? What is it? I will probably not understand the meaning of life for a long time, just like Danish Philosopher Soren says, “life must be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” —Jackie Chen ’15

—Nick Bernie ’14

—Nick Bernie ’14 17

Sneaking Out After William Shakespeare The unusuality of the dusk that transforms to night, Gave guidance permitting me a few houses down, Left not but one star to shine so bright, A beauty who glowed, from an upside down frown. As the snores echoed throughout the hall, The doors creaking at the commence of my trip, Determined in Love, my heart stood tall, Mind was wandering, waiting just for a nip. The driveway, I am accelerating, without turning around, Jog, Sprint; I will not make her wait. Embracing each other, and addressing the ground, “This be? Mine, hers, our first date?” Approaching, she teased and showed her bliss, Pressing her face against mine, for our first kiss. —Wyatt Hamilton ’13

—Devin McKenna ’15

—Young Jun Song ’16

—Diego Davila ’13

—Nick Bernie ’14

—Patrick Fricke ’14

I Run and Don’t Stop I run and don’t stop They are everywhere White houses, white clouds, and a lot of white people I worked and worked Now I run and run To the North I go I run and don’t stop My legs are sore My hands are blistered My heart is crippled To the North I go I run and don’t stop Thousands work Thousands march Thousands die To the North I go I run and don’t stop Farmers watch Slaves work Whips crack To the North I go I run and don’t stop Many have traveled Many have fallen Few have succeeded To the North I go I run and don’t stop My brothers stay My sisters stay My family stays To the North I go I run and don’t stop They search during the day They ride at night To the North I go I run and don’t stop I run to freedom I run to the North I run and don’t stop —Tucker Symes ’16 23

Ode to the Symphony In the theatre filled with a crowd the conductor’s hand jumps and they all start to play the sound travels around into the ear like the coal being put into the furnace keeping the fire going inside. The souls in the hall listening to the ocean flow in and out, the low tide comes and the hall, very quiet, with just the sounds of the winds playing, the medieval drop drops from the heavens down to the terra firma. The symphony plays on into the cloudless, deep blue sky, the conductor, raining from his forehead finally throws the last beat into the silence. —Luke O’Connor ’16

—Darren Longbottom ’13 25

The Soldier Through the cold light of winter, the wind grazed his cheeks It chapped his nose and dried his tongue The dirt below him surrendered to his lustrous greaves The air was crisp but benevolent; it tormented him The wind spiraled along the wooded path He hastened his stride His blood dripped with valor Darkness soon collapsed on his path He lay, knowing they had nothing to fear His silhouette slowly disappeared —Sam Loizeaux ’14

—Donghee Kim ’16

—Diego Davila ’15 ’13 —Stephen Guglielmo 27

—Kurte Linke ’16

—Manuel Barnes ’12

—Vincent Caputo ’16

Life a Centimeter Long

Close your eyes until you find yourself walking with the ants. Stunned, you observe the ants roam as your bare feet sink under the pulpy soil. You are in middle of a march, a journey to reach home, an underground kingdom far away. Lined up perfectly, you and your fellow ants venture through the bushes. You notice how the battalion of ants seem like a chunk of black paint oozing. The ants are armed with polished external skeletons. You see the keen hook-like jaws scintillate as the ants stride under sunlight. You can feel the frigid soil becoming mushy as the sun awakens. The odor of fresh dirt and dew fills the atmosphere. The scraps of smarties, crumbs of someone’s breakfast toast and stained pennies are scattered all around. Frogs and grasshoppers jump around hectically reminiscent of a scene from the movie Jurassic Park. The sun rises higher, boiling the surface of the Earth. The ants, exhausted by the heat, rest until you and the ants detect a sense of jeopardy.

Down the Rabbit Hole

An aperture lies on the coarse and torrid earth, reminiscent of a scene of Alice in Wonderland. You approach closer, lured by the entrance. The thick darkness of the hole carries out a dangerous scent, compelling you to step back. Your fellow ants courageously dive into the suspicious hole. Suddenly you slip in and fall down, screaming and howling with fear. You drown into an infinite universe that doesn’t seem to have an end. Shivering from the frigid atmosphere, you wake up. Your eyes blinded by the darkness, try desperately to adjust to the sudden change. Relying on your senses, you reach forward. As you wander through the kingdom you encounter ants, each from its own distinct hierarchies. Ergates, dinergates, and the queen ant — all a significant subject of the underground society. Ants with unusual wings enjoy their time, sharing jests: for they will be gone forever, in the upcoming nuptial flight. You venture further in the intricate maze and arrive at a narrow room full of milky sacks. The infants slowly awaken from the eggs. The body not fully black yet, scintillates under the gleam of light. The beauty of birth fascinates you. You walk back up and meet brave soldiers returning with the carcass of a beatle. The ants celebrate their successful hunt with honeydew and meat in their home, sweet home.

Nuptial Flight

My flesh and wings were born for today and no other. To imitate the dancing of ballerinas in the sky, leaving nothing behind. Our birth itself was unique as we were born from the void, transparent and unfertilized eggs. Still we remain weak and fragile unable to hunt or even toil. Isolated in a room—inferior as a ghetto—we jest and exhaust time. Some envy our life that seems royal and fine, but we are princes without a harbor, a daily subject of mockery. And yet we only live a life of 180 days. The luminous star sparkles in noon, fluxing my blood with heat. I straighten my crippled wings to carry out a brief aviation. Buzzing noises start to fill the tera, and few already left the breasts of goddess Gaia. Marriage flight is a death game where jeopardy prospers. The mesh of spiders and flying predators have longed for this moment to feed their offsprings. Thousands of men chase a single princess darkening the sky. My roaming ended with the scent of Juliet’s perfume—an irresistible and overwhelming pheromone. The women hover even faster only allowing the fastest ones to clutch them. The fatigue of my body, pumping blood, veins, and trembling wings, tells me to stop, but I reach further. I have seized my Juliet and expressed an art drawn by a man and woman. The exploding moments pass and I drown like cherry blossom petals in May. Eaten or decayed, circumnavigating the cycle of life. —Donghee Kim ’16

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

To My Grandmother, Dorrie Dorrie, Today my dad told me that you are going to die. I cried a lot. I tried not to at first, but then my dad made me talk about it. I couldn’t move for an hour. I was so mad. I don’t understand why you’d want to die, except I totally do. When it was time to go back to study hall, it was pouring outside. How fitting. He offered me an umbrella, but I wanted to be connected to my sadness. Rain does that for me. I felt bad, like I should have visited you more or called you more, but for some reason, I thought you were going to live forever. He told me not to feel bad and that you have already forgiven me. It’s the end of study hall now, and I’m not as sad; I listened to music and talked to my friends. He told me I was strong; I guess he was right. I’m sure I’ll feel sad again eventually, but for now, I’m happy you’re getting what you want, and I’m happy I got to know you. Today my dad told me that you are going to die, and I’m doing okay. —Charles J. Carpenter ’15

Nature’s Concert After Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The trees speak to me Like the concertmaster discussing the score Or is it the wind, playing the blades of brass like sharp green violins Their orchestra whispers softly in my ear A sweet, sweet melody played by year Nuts drop, percussive and sharp Keeping the beat of time Branches crack like the slapstick snaps And the trees keep singing in time Then comes the choir, one hundred deep Chickadee altos And owl base All sing the song All join in, in nature’s concert —Jordan Blackington ’13

—John Rick ’15

The Boring Class After Walt Whitman As I sat in class, learning of a poem and its meaning, I grew tired of dissecting a poem into nothing. Its words lost their power in repetitions, over hours and its precious diction was examined in the vivisection. In due course I started dreaming and words came together, screaming, careening and colliding, forming poems of inexplicable complexity, shaming books that hindered the process of creating. When the dust had subsided, what I beheld was simplicity itself: there was no need for stringent rules or interpreters on my behalf, just unbridled, distilled emotion captured in words as true and transparent as a crystal and as easily accessible to me as to you.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Jaekyung Song â&#x20AC;&#x2122;13

—Krit Pranich ’12

—Yusuf Mansoor ’15

+ her all I take It once in the morning to help focus overall It improves grades but It makes me quietshylonelymisguided It brings a weird feeling with It a sense of confusion I am forced to question? everything? happiness is not a concern it’s Collateral Damage at the end. of the day a smile starts to sneak through that grey matter the mind is at ease but the brain is in a panic. Solution: take another. no need to have a good meal or good laugh it’s better to get what needs to be done without any DiStRaCtIoNs but do the ends justify the means? They say so... They say in Society achievements are measured by success and success starts with This thing I take It keeps me up and wired for eighteen hours and sleepy and restless for six sleep is overrated they say you need it but who has the time?

—Christopher Macca ’13

—Orion Marco ’16

The Film There was a time when I watched it happen Not really the first time But on screen and with headphones – of course About a thing not totally proper I have heard the wonders – or pleasures – or fantasies Or rather the vulgar, embarrassing noises That they become obsessed with About this particular thing that nobody wants to share I have seen the unseenthe skin- covering the screenThat they sensually – and mentally – enjoy About something very difficult to see outside Patheticto know that most people enjoy this And strangeto know that it’s part of humanity

—Samuel Kim ’14

—Daniel Heitmann ’16

Ode to The Air Bubble After John Keats Push, fold, push, fold and feel the crisp cool air exit from the porcelain clay as it bleeds from the actions of your hands. Slapped and centered onto the wheel, the beginning of a masterpiece begins to spin as water is rubbed onto the outer skin of the piece like a beautiful goddess being massaged. As your thumb digs into the center of the piece it creates a hole of endless opportunities and unimaginable creations. Your mind begins to swirl faster than your own potter’s wheel. Your new mate loves cherry blossoms, why not make a vase? Your experienced hands pull up the piece, creating a perfect cylinder. However, a bubbly surprise awaits. The vase begins to form as your hands slide through the clay; and as they slide, you feel a hollow lump. Uneasiness takes over your body and your nervousness rips through the air bubble and destroys the piece. Fuck, it’s time to start over. —Lukas O’Connor ’13

—Nate Rosemond ’15

This is Just too Sweet After William Carlos Williams I awoke, And I confronted Your love But no you. I smirked at The thought of you Pilfering my precious plums And dashing out the door. I now so crave Your return From busy affairs And my missing plums. —Lukas O’Connor ’16

—Nick Birnie ’14

Observing an Icicle An icicle is from the day it begins slightly changing each and every day Bizarre and exotic it’s immensely hypnotic distorting the world behind it Some glisten while others may shine some crooked some as straight as a line Building upon itself from hours before it does not stop until it reaches the floor It draws close to its limit or so it may seem but its limit grows further away And without hesitation or any frustration it carries on its display But at first glimpse of the sun it’s stopped in its tracks its descent is now done and it starts to head back Decreasing in size the icicle climbs back to its roots until its next time —Jamie Bell ’14

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

Untitled After “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle A man close to death rests, naked like a fish miles and miles underwater The heart scored and torn burnt and molten nearly halt feeling life flying away from the harrowed heart Savoring the ambitions, dreams he had as a child life he has bricked up are now all shattered lying cold, frigid ruptures sludge the heart rate the fear swirls and whirls inside The man cries ferociously and madly however he retreats and finally visits death —Donghee Kim ’16

—Frankie Driscoll ’14

—Jake DeSaint Phalle ’16

—Michael Perrone ’16 51

—Arden Coleman ’16

—Sinthorn Xie ’16

—Min Hyoung Kim ’13

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

—John Rick ’15

—Justin Cho ’14

—Austin Brawley ’14

—Henry Schopp ’14

—Zach Sibert ’14

Avon Old Farms School