AVON OLD FARMS SCHOOL
Hippocrene 2010 – 2011
The Arts and Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School Chief Editors Andreas Biekert ’11 • Joseph Cusano ’11 • Gerard Hampton ’11
Editors Jackson Brady ’11 • Timothy Liptrot ’12 • Keith Boratko ’12
Writers Andreas Biekert ’11 Keith Boratko ’12 Eddy Consuegra ’11 Ben Crocker ’11 Joseph Cusano ’11 Jingwei Fan ’11 Kenneth J. Gilbane ’13 Ben Hamer ’11 Gerard Hampton ’11 Jihad Harkeem ’12 Alija Hogans ’11
Euan Howard-Sorrell ’11 Elliot Howe ’12 John Jackson ’11 Aidan Lehrer ’14 Allando Matheson ’11 Phonkrit Saejia ’11 Brad Seeber ’14 Joon Song ’14 Giri Suarsana ’11 Justin Yoon ’14
Artists & Photographers Alex Banfield ’12 Rob Barker ’12 Sam Bowen ’11 Jeremy Campbell ’12 Sam Feibel ’12
Edwin Foster ’11 Jihad Harkeem ’12 Fernando del Rosal ’13 Wesley Stager ’13 Giri Suarsana ’11
Advisors Andy Arcand ’93 Seshu Badrinath Graham Callaghan ’95
Bradford Carpenter Michael Dembicer Gail Laferrière
Cover by: Sam Bowen ’11
A Brain Game Red, yellow, blue, Orange, green, Not all primary colors, but still a perfect harmony, combining in the presence of light to form wh(redyelllowblueorangegreen)ite, the sixth and final color. With each spin and contortion, The original canvases of color are broken into separate smaller pieces of bl ues, yel lows, gr eens, or an ges.
and
Each maneuver is meant to seemingly fix the last, in order to revert back to that original look of perfection. Moments of supposed Progression turn into moments of noissergeR. The object to move backwards and retrace, until the 54 faces seem to morph into only 6. Dive headfirst, scrambling furiously— all the while, knowing that the cubes have to be crambleduns— Or avoid all the mental strain and merely never mix the cubes up. In the end, it is your decision. Don’t stress too much though, for it is only a brain game. —Joseph Cusano ’11 —Alex Banfield ’12 3
Bilingual Problem Whenever they speak to him, he dreams about getting his knife, hide his eyes with dark glasses, tilt is fitted cap to the side, undo his braids, kidnap a busload of conservative tourists form New England, force them to give anti-American speeches to kids in Patois, and wait for the FBI that knows how to speak Jamaican Creole to helicopter overhead, Begging me to be reasonable —Allando Matheson ’11
—Edwin Foster ’11 5
—Giri Suarsana ’11
Walden Pond light gurgle of forest streams splash of the plunging loon morning haze that transforms the other side into an amorphous white smell of moist moss of wild mushrooms of sweet rotting leaves cold that runs motionless through my fingertips reflections of green blurs of blue ridges of red salamanders Inside this glass, the water of life is contained– preserved. A relic of the past where living was enough. —Giri Suarsana ’11
—Fernando del Rosal ’13 7
Flying Scared Boston-Frankfurt Lufthansa flight no 7546 1030 pm In the terminal; chewing; waiting. Departure ON TIME Sweat builds. Do I fear flying? No. But yes. An airplane doesn’t scare me; I scare me. 8 hours of pseudo-sleep to let my thoughts run wild— that scares me. Focus on the music and just go to sleep. I can’t. For one, my legs are cramped. Airplanes aren’t designed to comfortably seat— Jesus Christ, why are you so tall anyway? She seemed to like it; She told me. That Girl. There you go. Focus on the music. “This is what you get—” Next song. Get the ball, score—that’s what you’ll do. Work hard—no, more than hard. Work your ass off. Promise. Make the team. Still can’t fit in these seats. “This is the moment—” Next song. You worry too much. Just relax—whatever happens, happens. Not much to do about a sore neck. “And I find it hard to concentrate—” Next song. That Girl. No, think about— No, just sleep. “If there’s one thing I know—” Next song. —Andreas Biekert ’11
—Giri Suarsana ’11
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Button-Down The top button is the hardest, My fingers feel grossly oversized In my feeble attempt to maneuver them Between the stays of the collar, Reminding me of the strenuously overweight feeling Of my head, attempting to lift it as my alarm sounds. The next button doesn’t come With the same personal refrain as the first, Just as stepping into the shower, Saturating my body with the tingling Sensation of sudden awakening from That first introduction to the water, Doesn’t frighten my thoughts like the feeling Of originally waking and shuffling out of the covers. But with the next few buttons, My mind eases from the process Of revealing my body from the starched shirt, And focuses, resolutely, on the factors of the day That brought this pure exhaustion to my limbs. With the fourth button, mental enervation: A blurred image of the board At the end of the disastrous power hour, My comments and insight having fallen on deaf ears. The fifth image to physical soreness From the sprints at the end Of the practice, the coach’s emotions Portrayed as a literal assault on the energy in my body. Finally, I finish the last button, And slip my arms through the wrinkled sleeves, Separating myself from the past fourteen hours In one swift motion. —John Jackson ’11
—Giri Suarsana ’11 11
—Giri Suarsana ’11
Wrath We have shattered the domed cage of Wrath Its wings spread free in the intense air Of political mayhem and constant warfare Within shadow and darkness the black acrimony of Wrath Takes hold shredding us with its talons Its beak can only be delayed But swiftly returns to cleave us There is no escaping Wrath Wrath patrols the airs and scans the land The sea is no good either Wraths legs are long and its talons quick Snatching any submerged submarine Wrath overwhelmed us In the end they finished us with two strikes Strikes with lasting effects of illness and destruction Our nation is crippled and wounded We have shattered the domed cage of Wrath We have awoken the Sleeping Giant —Kenneth J. Gilbane ’13
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—Jeremy Campbell ’12
The Life Pattern In life there are no patterns However, in math we use patterns to find out the next upcomings Everything always changes randomly Yesterday was really cold but the day before was warm In life, people can’t use proofs or equations to make their decisions However, for math I use two column proofs to find out whether it is true or false Teachers tell you to always show your work But in life, we sometimes have to follow our instincts And life’s not written down in to a thick textbook Because, in life everyone uses different textbooks In biology class we have hw everyday However in life we have long assignments and projects In life we are assigned to care for people around you, work hard, love our family, and be happy And it is done by our hearts, not a pencil —Justin Yoon ’14
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Give&Take Don’t
shudder at the life going on around you. Celebrate
the beauties of the most natural gifts of them all. Get wet. Soak up the goodness that comes from the very same earth you came from. Let it flow all over and through you- become part of it. Embrace. Sniff. Lick. Drink. Feel. Be one with nature and don’t brush it off. It just wants to get to know you. The feeling should be mutual, of course. Swallow the beauty with not only your mouthbut eyes, ears, and nose as well. Digest it, and do it all... over... again... Get high- feel the rush. Watch it flow through your body. Don’t tighten but r e l a x - and let it take over. Give in to your senses and get ready for one hell of a ride, as you learn all about e v e r y thing. Breakfast with butterflies. Lunch with loons. Dinner with deer. Its all about a little thing called experience. do it a few times, you will get used to it. Watch and learn from the trees in heat as the moisture is sucked out of them in a steady flow. From the leaves in distress as they fall gently to the ground to rest with their friends. From the squirrels as they playfully chase each other -upoverunder&through live and fallen trees. Make use and be useful, because its all one big cycle. The new is used, renewed, then re-used. Suck it all in onceDigest it, and do it all... over... again... —Jihad Harkeem ’12
—Wesley Stager ’13 17
The Doldrums 10 million square mile oval, Twice the size of Texas North Pacific subtropical gyre. “The Doldrums” Top predators steered clear, Tuna sharks and other large fish, For livelier waters. The gyre a desert – Slow, deep, clockwise-swirling vortex Mountain of high pressure air Lingered above. Vast trove of secrets and terrors Stew of plastic crap. Pristine seascape, Dire implications. Into the food chain, Whales down to zooplankton, A manta trawl. Six times as much plastic as plankton, Invisible and ubiquitous the pollution. Sloppy transport of nurdles Sounds cuddly and harmless. Absorbing up to a million times, POP pollution in their surrounding waters. Tenacious chemicals, Headed for dinner tables. 10 percent oceans plastic debris, Biosphere mixed with plastic particles. One of five. Synthetic replacement Plastic, Bulletproof vests, credit cards, slinky spandex pants a revelation. Fabric safe enough to eat, New, nontoxic polystyrene, The building materials of the future. We’ve bitch-slapped the planet.
Around for centuries longer than we will, Mercurial surface, Most majestic body of water, Dives low boomerangs over the horizon. Gone. At least we think. —Aidan Lehrer ’14
—Sam Feibel ’12
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Shortening When I write a poem, The first draft is raw, But what does raw truly mean, When it’s a poem from deep inside me? It meansit’s all my emotion, It meansit’s all my pure thoughts: Unintruded, fresh from editing. But when I go back, Under the guise of shortening, “Focusing,” as they call it, And cut out words, It’s not just a combination Of letters that feel The pain of the backspace key, but It’s my heart, it’s my brain That feel like they’re being deleted, It’s my emotion that feels like it’s being edited. What? Do I not think right? Is my emotion not concise enough? —John Jackson ’11
—Sam Bowen ’11 21
—Rob Barker ’12
Funeral Pyre The forest is on fire. Not the dark fire of wet wood or the calculated blue-white fire chemically created the forest is on fire with bright flames that can only come from the deaddest trees. It started slowly but spread to ravage every tree touched leaving behind naked fingers clawing towards the sky the sun’s warmth. The fire falls covering the ground dying out into the ashes of rot it smolders. —Andreas Biekert ’11
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36 Feet Some tell me I am the dumbest person alive You jump for a living. They don’t see the time and effort I put forth to doing what I love. Some say your parents must have dropped you as a child, Losing all the needed brain cells to function as if I was a broken computer. It’s the thrill of the 36 feet below me, That tiny paddling pool, The freezing water awaiting my landing. It’s to silence the haters. It’s either living or dying. I don’t do it for the fame Or the love of the game. I don’t do it for the dive, I’m just tryin to stay alive. I don’t do it for you I do it for me. —Elliot Howe ’12
—Sam Bowen ’11 25
Plastic: Clear as Death Plastic stuff and packaging, Plastic bags for more plastic things, Plastic bottles for the water you drink, But plastic causes death— Stop and think. Millions of turtles and sea birds painfully die, After eating plastic that floats on by. Plastic thrown away and out of reach, Ends up as plastic sand on a plastic beach. Plastic sold for consumer cash, Fills our oceans with plastic trash. —Joon Song ’14
—Rob Barker ’12 27
—Rob Barker ’12
Gupsy Hand carved pipe in-between the teeth, Hands gripping the steering wheel with a solid confidence. Grandson in the lap. Bbbbbbbbbbb, The grandson is driving the tractor… Or so he thinks. Lying on the bed, Playing with a jar of pennies The grandson makes up the rules… and wins Sitting at the drawing table, Drafts of buildings lying side by side, Grandson and grandpa sitting side by side. In the fort, Made up of the living room furniture, Reading The Big Red Strawberry In Maine, Building model ships together. Or catching fire flies. Christmas time at the grandparents, The grandson is in the lap, The pipe is still in-between the teeth. But no longer. Gupsy is in His lap now. —Ben Crocker ’11
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—Sam Bowen ’11
The Fall of Babylons Welcoming the soldiers’ tread The flags of war are furled, From their houses the masses spread To see far-bourne plunder hurled. Beneath the throne of England, The foreign vices land; And in their thousands glistened: Rich bounties from eastern lands. See now, these treasures tarnished An Empire swept away, Cities once rich and garnished Lie in rubble and decay. Great minds lie broke and beaten, Contented masses drown beneath their rye A nation’s weapons: rust hath eaten And for lesser men than they, they die. Under the gaze of every age Does the same contender rise: There to write another page, Just under a different guise. —Ben Hamer ’11
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—Rob Barker ’12
Hold no Longer As a little boy, My grandpa was everything to me, I copied every one of his movements, He held his breath, I held mine. He moves left, I move left. I sat by his bed side as he closed his eyes, I closed mine. He was still and silent, I was silent and still. He held his breath, I held mine. Till, I could hold no longer, Yet, He kept going. —Brad Seeber ’14
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Report From Cairo Bang! Bang! Against the cry of young girl Fire, Smoke, and Swirl Reaching total Chao No Affection (5) Total Disorganization Where we go I do not know. Engines blow everywhere Rebel! Rebel! Someone yell! (10) We against corruption Government misconduction Reporters look at this Realize such confusion As polices strike (15) With no argumentation More fire, More smoke, More swirl But without hesitation We no longer wait We unite and march (20) Searching for the cessation Beep! Beep! I’ll tell you Leave while you can Because of the human temptation (25) The car will continue to blow And cease the nation Civilization. And sophistication in Cairo —Phonkrit Saejia ’11
—Sam Bowen ’11 35
I Like the Sunrise At first the there is only a cool darkness but then gradually, the sun appears over the trees and mountains. I like it here, standing on the break of a new day’s light, watching the color re-appear to the world. I like seeing the reds and purples of an early morning radiating their colors upon the sky. I like the never ending pattern of east to west, ocean to ocean, never failing to light the way. I like the morning dew and the way it makes a new day sparkle, untouched in the now colorful, rolling meadows. I like the feeling of warmth after standing for so long on a particularly cold morning. I like the birds songs when they can feel the warmth of the morning, how they fly from tree to tree. I like the silhouette of the shed materializing with the sun. I like the feeling of August in the air and the very slight pigmentation and defoliation the trees. I like the comfort of the dawn, it is soothing, until I can feel the heat of the day. —Gerard Hampton ’11
—Sam Bowen ’11 37
From the Second Battle of Fallujah In this valley of sand There is nothing but rubble A city A post Sodom or Gomorrah But modern The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: Rows of shanty houses Metal sheets and wooden planks made brittle by sand storms There were forty-two men in the platoon Now there are only twenty-three All of them dirtied and worn like the city itself He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: Our brave lieutenant lies in his rags Shrapnel in his chest Beaten bloodied bashed and lifeless The NCO was also lost in the valley Probably swallowed by the endlessness of the dry and arid environment He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’ sake. Sitting here with the other twenty-two men counting our losses Wondering whether the unmerciful desert will let us escape with our lives Spitting out bloody and rough saliva Reflecting on the brave men lost today And their families praying for their safe return Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Chaos Some ask who’s in charge here Others are crying
Perhaps it is because of all the fallen men Perhaps it is because of the improbability of our escape Perhaps it is because of the young children that fired at us today Perhaps it is because of the children we were forced to slaughter today Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over. As hard as I squeeze these plastic smooth yellow nylon beads there is no result I am just not trying hard enough Why are we still fighting anyway When pushed close to the edge of death will I fear no evil Only tomorrow’s fight can tell Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever. —Gerard Hampton ’11
—Jihad Harkeem ’12
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Sanctuary My Brothers, Who said it was safe to judge? If not judging, then disarming. Causing Insecurity Taking bricks that build a home And dismantle it Making a sanctuary A cell Confined to four walls All gray Tasteless of all flavors That the fruit of individuality could bear. It takes not just one man or woman It takes a community A network of graceful smiles and an overwhelming sense of acceptance and if not acceptance the overwhelming palpable sense of love for one another. —Alija Hogans ’11
Disappointment How could you do this to me? After all I’ve done for you? In the beginning, we respected each other. You didn’t build me up, break me down, stick me, break me, hurt me, use me. But now it’s all different. You stick your oil drills into me, Sucking my blood to fuel your industrial world Which makes me wheeze. The oxygen I supply for you with trees I grow for you, You shove down the lungs of workers who live in your factories for over 12 hours a day, working double-shifts and who get paid under minimum wage. You are my only children who destroy each other on purpose. I’ve tried to warn you. I’ve had my oceans of tears rush onto your offensive shores, I’ve had my volcanoes blow like zits on some Horrific teenage bullies face, But you just don’t get it. We’ve grown apart like friends who had a Falling out, And what’s worse is that you pretend to like me, pretend to care, But you do nothing. They call me Mother Earth. I’m hurt. I’m battered. I’m broken. And I don’t know where I went wrong raising you, but frankly, human race, I’m disappointed. —Keith Boratko ’12 41
Existence The fibrous root system of a newborn plant Extending into the soil Scouring for nutrients, Its root hairs cementing the plant into the ground; Foundation; The tendrils of the plant Clinging to a support beam Like a boa clutching Its feeble prey; Framework; The shoot Clawing toward the light, Wanting to see the glimmer; Aesthetics; The petals Casting various reds and blues Glowing with audacity Attracting bees Seeking nectar; Skyscraper; The leaves, Wilted and decayed, Ravaged by caterpillars and browns; The petals falling; The shoot slouching; The tendrils retracting;
Dilapidated; The root system A mere fodder now, Giving life to other roots Looking to cement themselves Into the ground; Ruins; —Joseph Cusano ’11
7. C sweaty foreHead, slanted
Eyes,
sniff ing nose, shutmouth, strAighTneck, swaying spinE, sh ive Ring leg s... —Jingwei Fan ’11
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Goodnight Sometimes, if you watch, right after the sun has put the earth to bed and while the moon watches over, glowing, you can see tiny holes poked through the earth’s dark blanket with the smallest of needles. And sometimes a knife will rip through the fabric, lighting up your face, leaving a tear, for just a second. Wish.
—Euan Howard-Sorrell ’11
Only Part of It Palms up, full belly, smile on, eyes open Good fortunes radiate One rub to belly—smooth, hard Robe open; easy access Every morning I wake to rub. Not superstition but tradition Two rubs to belly—feel better Yellow brown man blends in with wall Luck is not readily available I have to find Buddha in surroundings— I have to find luck in surroundings Three rubs to belly—feel great Luck is not completely there. Full belly only helps I make my own fortune— With help of Buddha
—Eddy Consuegra ’11