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Word Flirt 2013 BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL
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Word Flirt 2013 Word Flirt is an Upper School activity that celebrates the literary, creative, and visual arts at Brooklyn Friends School. e magazine is published at the conclusion of each academic year. From the fall through the spring, the editors, staff and faculty advisors work to encourage students to create and submit their work for publication. e WordFlirt editors and staff review, edit, and choose work. We strive to include all grade levels in the Upper School and thank those students who have shared their voices and their talents in this 2013 edition. Editors Cindy Chen ’14 Anna Emy ’14 Sam Miller ’14 Fiona Sharp ’15 Ayanna Whitehead ’14 Staff Kira Barrett ’14 Chloe Burton ’14 Jillian Feinberg ’14 Liza Kruth ’16 Xiana Quadrozzi ’16 Faculty Advisors Sidney Bridges Jon De Graff Gillian Bagley
Sam Botwin ’16
CONTENTS 1 2 3 4 5 7 8 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24
Sonnet 219, Adam Ginsberg Growing Up, Aria Cato Untitled, Christeline Velazquez e Battle of Five Faces, Sage Meade Maiden of the Spring, Daisy Feddoes Singing Sacred Songs in Secular Spots, Julian Franco Hold Onto*, Olivia Parnell Wolf Girl, Olive Wexler I Called Upon a King in Mourn, Kira Barrett Inside, Clara Siegmund Untitled, Herron Hutchins Dear Chairman of the Parks Department, Sophie Adelman Shutter/Shudder, Elinor Hills Devotion, Ayanna Whitehead Comfort in the Shadows, Rosalind Major Dedication to My Mother, Bianca Rhea East and West, Jacob Swindell-Sakoor Street Art, Adam Ginsberg e Real New Yorker, Sam Miller Why e Sky Is Blue, Fiona Sharp If You Are Very Still, Olive Wexler School, Raphael Norman-Tenazas Not A Story To Pass On, Evan Novick
Cover by Asia Kaul ’13 Allison Falikman ’14
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Sonnet 219 Adam Ginsberg ’14
Copious thoughts: think! Start! Just go! Incessantly echo, causing Avalanche like collapses When you really need to let go. Cognition is worn, tired and torn, Stretching 14 into marathons And seconds to decades from being born. Subjectively gridlocked by the setting of involuntary indirection, From palm trees to Burt’s Bees to bees knees to plead and please to Resurrection? But then it hits, clicks, clockwork begins to tick, The majestic realization when you know you found… “It.” Living vicariously through your pencil, it’s pouring out, Cerebral rain can’t be stenciled, replicated by anything but your mental, Liberations. Broken through the wall, circumscribed around the freedom of innovation. Brainstorm’s over. Let the inundation of motivations occur. No hesitation, just words.
Elinor Hills ’14
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Growing Up Aria Cato ’14 As I gaze out into the blank, open space I see nothing Nothing but deserted smiles And abandoned eyes I see withered dreams And unanswered calls I smell the smell of old rustic childhoods Where everything was once golden As we embark on this journey of adolescence It’s no longer about bruised knees and scraped chins Or popsicles dropped on the ground It’s no longer sadness that lasts only for a second It’s not those genuine smiles and those happy screams of laughter It’s not those days when we come home and go straight to bed Because we have so much to look forward to tomorrow It’s different It’s more like grumpy and angered expressions And teacups filled with sadness and remorse No longer that genuine smile and those happy screams of laughter No longer am I that little girl that has so much to look forward to tomorrow It’s more like coming home and wondering why I’m here Or realizing that growing up comes with so much burden It’s more like responsibility versus rebellion And all childhood happiness is gone The things that used to comfort me don’t comfort me any longer The love I used to warm up to doesn’t warm me up anymore The things that used to make me laugh barely get a smile And everything is different Instead of counting from one to ten in my story book, I count from one to ten pages of my history paper Instead of drowning out the cartoons on T.V. I drown in all the responsibility Growing up is not as great as I thought it would be It’s just another hard-assed term people use for the trials and tribulations Of getting closer to going out into the world on your own And it’s different
2 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Nicholas Ullman ’14
Untitled Christeline Velazquez ’15 Gilded promises And tears Within broken dreams An endless road
Glittering
Against the cold floor
Forever
Trapped
Gone
Forever
Taking you
Nowhere
Never finding
Away
Laughter
Lost
To go What then?
WordFlirt / 3
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The Battle of Five Faces Sage Meade ’15 Monochrome light streaming into a stalemate room Thrashing about the cotton sheets If not one is terminated then nothing will be neat. Weep. For, Fiery seas will boil over. Soil the mood. Unable to eat food that was given. Driven to madness. Creating her sadness. Because, Seas will frost under. Send into a mourning slumber. Numbers. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 to eleven consecutive cries. Repugnant lies. Giving birth to a repetitive “why?” Then, Sighs. Winds will whisper halftruthed explanations of why! Undefined. Line, of stress. You were the best! Yet the tornado left. Except, ripping up the land may be the best. Start anew. Get some rest. YES! For the sun is illuminating. Staying in once place is excruciating. Complaining. Now waiting. The seas’ claps are now debating. Sunshine kissed a lady. Producing anew! Notice the moon! It’s lustful gloom....it swooned? No, it knew! Seas, crash! Smash! Despising the moon’s careless act. For that... Fiery seas will boil over. Soil the mood. Unable to eat food that was given. Driven to madness. Creating her sadness. Alas this, thrashing about the cotton sheets Admitted defeat.
Sage Meade ’15 4 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Maiden of the Spring Daisy Feddoes ’15 She fell through a chasm in the sky and I watched her still body lie on the icy ground. I reached out to touch her, and she turned her head away from me. Regardless, I brushed my hand against her own and felt the steady pulse of her heart. She was unconscious. The peach colored fabric crinkled in all directions, and with every intake of her breath, it barely concealed her chest and legs. I almost didn’t notice how strangely serene this scene was, until I glanced up to see orange blossoms falling from the chasm. They landed around her one by one forming an abstract outline around her body, a few falling into her hair. Such a scene almost seemed unfit for the underworld. I cradled her, and each slight movement caused the snow beneath my feet to crunch. Immediately, the warmth of her body shot through my veins, and I felt strangely energized in a way I haven’t before. She apparently did not feel the same warmth, and strange, razorlike, bumps shot onto her skin. It was cold. Always so cold. A short moment later her icy blue eyes shot open and she just stared wideeyed at me for what seemed like an eternity. She closed her eyes and looked up once more, slowly placing her hand on my crown. Her hand slid back down and she Elinor Hills ’14 hugged her arms to her body, tucking her head inside the crevice that she created. Pausing for a moment, I thought about saying something, but nothing I could think of could help ease the tension, so I settled for creating a small, floating, blue fire ahead of us. I felt her relax a bit and the bumps seem to have disappeared off of her arms. ‘Keep away the bumps’ I told myself. To pass the time, I started listening to the crunch of the snow. I saw a shadow, and right away I glared above. The hole closed slowly, and some of the pebbles hit my head and caused me to flinch. Logically, I blew the appendages up. My logic didn’t seem as apparent as I thought when I felt vibrations across my chest. This woman...she was laughing at me! Her eyes full of mirth and as soon as they met mine she hid her head again but I could still see the blasted smirk on her face. What a shameless woman. ‘Getting hit on the head...that one will have to pass.’ Now only the glow of the fire illuminated once more, this being the darkness I long grew accustomed to. I start to move more swiftly,masterfully, in the dark, and soon enough I saw the purple spirits that danced around my castle. I blew out the guiding fire and replaced it with glowing hieroglyphics, pushing them towards the metal door. continued . . .
WordFlirt / 5
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The smell of spices and ripe fruit assaulted my senses as I felt the woman stir once more in my arms. This time, however, I put her to the ground and motioned her to follow. I haven’t smelled or tasted food in such a long time; it was almost repulsive to my senses as I led her to the dining hall. To be honest, I don’t even know why I have one. ‘If I don’t eat, and the dead are never hungry, for whose benefit would it be to have a hall of food? Maybe for the sake of nostalgia...maybe even self-torture. Hmm...’ I shrugged it off and continued making my way forward, glancing back every few moments only to see her conveniently twisting her auburn hair in her fingers every time. This time I laugh and whisper “If I wanted to hurt you, I’m the god of death. I trust you know that I could have done it by now, Persephone.” The pair of footsteps became mine alone for the next few seconds until I once again heard a dragging on the floor. ‘In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t the best way to start communication. I have a feeling this relationship is going to take a long time, isn’t it...’ I glanced back and this time she shrank away before twirling her hair again. ‘Indeed.’
Chloe Burton ’14
6 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Singing Sacred Songs in Secular Spots Julian Franco ’16
Grand Central Station; Friday Afternoon The din of the great citadel, Made soft by rising prayers of gentle voices. Some stop to listen, Most do not. Because life moves too quickly to pause, and realize the angels in disguise. Most ramble on with an apathetic glance. Some jeer. The singers keep on singing. A few stop to watch as the conductor raises his hands in an eternal dance, His gnarled face assuming the beauty of the music. Some are fortunate to hear the resplendent voices, Rising, Ascending, Resurrecting, The polyphonic tones blending. Until out of many, there become one. They sing hymns, magnificats, psalms, motets; Spiritual music on secular ground. They sing for beauty, love, and hope Not for any religious sect or creed Because true harmony transcends, the harness of all identity. When the music fades, The trance is broken, The spell reversed. And those fortunate souls hurry on their usual way, Back to the din of the mundane, In to the bleak fortress called Grand Central. Are they made better for hearing the sacred music? No one knows. One can only hope that they indeed realized, “The angels in human guise Usually unrecognized.”
WordFlirt / 7
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Hold Onto* Olivia Parnell ’14 This old man walked up to me in the park today He told me poetry is hereditary He looked deep into my eyes, nodded his head and told me I’d be legendary. He told me to take away their fears and kill them with my stories Fill their heads with comic reliefs that make them forget all the b.s. * Make them weep for their lives, for they have been spared To create To forget reason and just run “Reason is crap!” he said. I laughed. He laughed. He laughed at me and tugged my shirt to hell and back. And he told me to wipe away that stain on my blouse “here take this and use it to paint a real picture” he said cryptically holding up a dead pencil Take it and run I thought And as I turned to walk out of the shade, he whispered “Don’t think too hard about it sweetheart.” The wise words of wisdom from an old man. Just something Just something to hold onto, I guess.
Wolf Girl Olive Wexler ’16 Sheathed in the night she crawls calls to her sisters of darkness Lonely as the howl she yelps, she curls beneath the stars and slumber steals her away. Misha Holzman ’13 8 / Brooklyn Friends School
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I Called Upon a King in Mourn Kira Barrett ’14 I called upon a king in mourn, Whose kingdom fell and left in scorn, And people fled in minds forlorn, All but the child who came unborn. And all around the village wide, Lay rows of flowers piléd high, In clustered hues of green and red, There brought to rest the baby’s head. The king I knew from worlds long past, With plump red cheeks and hands up cast, Lay withered, cold and dying fast, All for his love who had not last. And unto him there was then said, “Oh royal lord, you must not dread, The coming tide of winter’s grief, For love is short and time a thief.” The organ played and hymns were sung, And subject’s hands were vastly wrung, For in the little box she lay, The female heart of just one day. And in his chamber left alone, The mourning king sat on his throne, And with one quick and fatal groan, He went to join his love unknown.
Cecilia Emy ’16
And that is how a love is met, Through life or death the heart is set, It follows to the darkest shore, And never leaves with want for more.
WordFlirt / 9
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Inside Clara Siegmund ’14 “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you.” A harsh voice. A hard, angry voice. The kind to shy away from and hide away from and cower away from. A heavy weight to pin on the edges of a mind. The sort that drags, emanating a strong presence. “Don’t. Don’t.” A whisper of a shudder, a secret of a movement, snakes through the body of the boy at the sound. He hides it. Wants to hide it. Tries to hide it. He confines it to his mind, his weighted mind, in a way that strips it of being. He can’t let his father see. Don’t, he says. Don’t, don’t. But he needs to talk. About death about his mother about love about what is left. He needs to hear comfort and feel it wrap itself around him and wind itself about him and twirl itself through him. The needing is great. The needing grinds him and rips him apart. He can feel it as it tugs at his limbs and pulls his extremities. He can feel it when it trails icy through him. He can feel that he needs to speak and listen or he might burst might shrivel into nothing but tears might waste violently and silently away. The needing weights his mind. “I don’t want to hear it! Don’t!” The voice is desperation and pain and rage. “Don’t!” Don’t, don’t. Each utterance of the word cuts the boy. Don’t. And his need becomes desperation and pain and an absence of rage. Emptiness. More empty and so empty and more empty again. Don’t. Not now. Not ever. Don’t. The father’s anger overflows, oozes out of him. It drips audibly. Splashes and splatters and pools where it falls. The ground embraces it and sucks it in greedily and grows from it, enveloping the boy and his father, walling them in with rigid disgust until the father breaks and escapes and rushes from the room with a roaring wind. The boy feels himself falling, the weight of his mind pulling him, the wind of his father pushing him. His body droops and wilts and folds in shaky creases. And time passes. The boy lies there on the ground between the walls of rigid disgust and time passes. It screeches and slithers by and the boy can’t tell if it’s moving fast or slow, the two speeds feeling the same as he shivers fiercely and weakly and steadily. It is a long time and he can’t get up and he can’t escape as his father did and he is trapped, lying there and lying there. Finally, finally he sits and stands and is silent, standing there. With a heavy weight he steps forward. One step and then another, slow and silent. He approaches the doorway. He does not know where his father went. His hand brushes against beading on a tablecloth as he passes and they clack loudly and violently and angrily against each other. His ears are full of the sound and it is violence and anger and despair and loneliness that is breaking the silence, but he can only register “Don’t! Don’t!” and so he leaves quietly.
10 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Tim Wheelock ’13
Untitled Herron Hutchins ’13 Never ending thuds of crushed ribs echo, Creases in her loathing eyes bat their wings, Cynical laughter of denial stroke freckled knees, Porous skin just short of gentle please. A mounting fear bubbles and sings, Tight fists wrap loosely around dreams, Furrowed brows sleep with frustrations, Stewing knowledge begs for restoration. Ignoring the thud and crush of ribs, folding her creases as nicely as bibs, enjoying her laughter rooted with hate, accepting so sweetly this bitter fate.
WordFlirt / 11
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Dear Chairman of the Parks Department, I write to you on behalf of a newly formed organization: Dads Against Field Trashing, or DAFT as we call ourselves for short. Many of our members, while taking nature strolls meant for serene contemplation, have noticed something truly appalling in our parks. The wrecked and razed condition of our local park is nothing short of stomach churning. Where do these horrifying conditions come from? They come from recreational sports hooligans tearing up our beloved terrain with their cleats. It is for this reason that our coalition has taken the responsibility to file a complaint. Our grass-roots organization will not tolerate the disrespect that our park’s ground receives. Outdoor sports, such as lacrosse, football, badminton, and that vile activity of soccer should henceforward be banned! To these ten-year-old buffoons, nature is but a joke, a place to trot along and completely demolish. But, fields are not meant to be walked on, let alone touched. Why were paved walkways built? Obviously, they were crafted to observe the fields from. The pathways are there for the very purpose of not walking on or touching the grass. Nature is most certainly not a force to be reckoned with and the dangerous conditions of torn up grass that the athletes leave behind should not be tolerated. It is too important to maintain the pristine conditions of our local park.
Lotte Walworth ’14
Now, the question is, what can the community do as an alternative to destroying nature’s fields? After brainstorming this very question for months on end, we at DAFT have decided that the most fulfilling and realistic replacement for outdoor field sports is simply a video game console. Why ruin the real grass when one can simply play the sport of his or her choice virtually? Why, in this day and age, should we continue to destroy the environment? Everyone should take advantage of the technology that is readily available, and buy the sport of their choice for PlayStation. In this fantastical yet fictional world, the grass is just as green, the physical activity just as strenuous. The virtual sports experience is even better than real life, because not only does one get the satisfaction of playing the sport, but one now knows that he or she has no longer hampered Earth’s pure beauty. With the parks untouched and the people in their houses playing video games, we at DAFT would feel not only as though we saved an entire community, but also protected grass’s rights along the way, upholding our environmentally conscious motives. Sophie Adelman ’14
12 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Shutter / Shudder Elinor Hills ’14 With the light through the lens The agony glutted his veins Stalked by a vulture He was all but a pile of a boy The agony glutted his veins The atomic bomb waiting in his palms He was all but a pile of a boy Crumbled under a weeping tree The atomic bomb waiting in his palms As the brutality pulled threads from his sanity Crumbled under a weeping tree He was set to unravel As the brutality pulled threads from his sanity He felt the wrath like growling whips across his chapped back He was set to unravel He was the boy He felt the wrath like growling whips across his chapped back His work became him He was the boy Stifled by the exposure he couldn't rescind His work became him And he became his work Stifled by the exposure he couldn’t rescind A thrall to his pulsing mind And he became his work Stumbling in the blackness A thrall to his pulsing mind In a moment it would be over Stumbling in the blackness Stalked by a vulture In a moment it would be over With the light through the lens.
Anna Emy ’14
WordFlirt / 13
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Devotion Ayanna Whitehead ’14 The day had been dim and dreary as you cradled him in your arms, Tears staining those satin cheeks, eyes red and wild. In the threshold the figure stood, claiming you had been lost to his charms, Lifting your chin, proudly, you shouted “There is nothing wrong with my child!” For in all of God’s great Earth there wasn’t a more perfect being, And a Mother’s Love surely surpassed that of His own. Hatred and anguish stripped away to reveal the loneliness that you were seeing, You would stand beside him and remove the bitterness that had been sown. So would you be at his side while he dug trenches at night? Would you pick up the pieces that had long since fallen apart? Smiling, would you say “I’m proud of you, I love you, it’s alright,” And in your naïvety hope to mend his ailing heart? Red roses blooming in puddles that seeped into ground, Precious things that he could marvel at, a new love that he had found.
Tim Wheelock ’13 14 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Comfort in the Shadows Rosalind Major ’14 I’m staring out the window across the rainy Louisiana highway. We still have approximately two hours before I become, for lack of a better term, an only child. I have two older siblings and I’ve spent the last sixteen years living behind them. For most people it’s hard for them to come to a new place where nobody knows them. For me, it’s harder to come to a new place where people do know who I am. People prejudge me by automatically tying me to their perceptions of my siblings. There has been no single day where I haven’t been mistakenly called one of my siblings’ names; or asked one of my most anticipated, and most hated, questions – “Oh, you're Blank's Sister? How is he/she?” Or “How's Blank? Do tell them they must come visit, this school just isn't the same without them.” I’ve lived my whole life in these shadows, knowing what to expect and silently trudging along in the ruins of my siblings’ paths. That’s why this day, when I am finally the only one home, is so iconic in my lifetime. It might in fact be the most important day in my life to date. Today is usually a younger sibling’s happiest day; the day that they finally are allowed to rid themselves of these labels and shadows. That was my expectation at least. For longer than you could even imagine this day is the only thing I have looked forward to, especially on the days when I feel the worst. It was the only thing that cheered me up when my mind clouded over with the vicious attacks that my sibling had purposely planned out to make me feel the lowest I’ve ever felt. I sit here now staring out at this rainy highway with tears, suddenly and rudely aware of the huge change that is about to happen. I close my eyes, as I always do when I don’t want anyone in the car to notice me, when I want to be left alone with myself. My brother and dad are debating the hottest topic of the time, politics and the upcoming election. I sit here, thinking how ridiculous I must be to have quickly left in the past, to get away from these petty arguments they have at least once a day. I find myself now sitting and trying to calculate all of the time that I have lost with my brother in the last year because of my aversion to conflict. I’m the quiet one in my family; something that I am sure would shock my friends or really anyone outside of close family. I am always scared of saying the wrong thing. Both of my siblings are loud, able to stay whatever they want to at the appropriate time. I’ve never been like that, and so I say quiet, and the shadow grows. I’m used to having a certain older brother in the face of any conflict. Since I can remember, even if he did not agree with me, he was there, always on my side, having no consciousness of the consequences of conflict, as long as at the end I felt safe. That is just how it has always been, with naïve little me thinking that this was just how my life would always be. I feel scared now, while I sit here in the midst of the argument with my eyes closed. The conflict washes over me and I shiver, feeling the cool, spiteful words flow along the river of conflict. As if perfectly attuned to my feelings, my brother reaches over and pulls me sideways into a hug. I place my head on his shoulder, my eyes still shut. I feel safe once more.
WordFlirt / 15
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Dedication to My Mother Bianca Rhea ’15 Mother’s face Has lines that stretch from Hamburg to Berlin Mother’s face Has Deutsche humor, and deutsche song Mother’s face Has eyes like the lightning that strikes the surface of our earth Casting judgment Calling out to her Oma across the sea “Beate, please, come back to me” Mother’s face Was young some time ago Mother’s face Was crazed as she delved into art Mother’s face Watched as she drew the sound of bees Thousands of dots Blending color to muck Striving to live her dreams with the support of beginner’s luck Mother’s face Had a nose splattered in red, black, and blue Mother’s face Driven to twist in crazy snarls Mother’s face Had white ears that heard the buzzing Heard it screeching in her ear And so her mentor said, “You must get out of here.” Mother’s face Holds the ridges of our landscape Mother’s face Houses thin, opinionated lips, and an invisible brow Mother’s face Is that of an unwavering martyr She eats a meal for negative one And works all day and night Constantly reminding her child that all will be alright
16 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Mother’s face Is seen as Nazi Mother’s face Reads Gestapo, Mein Kampf, and the SS Mother’s face Is inquisitive Just like her daughter But is afraid that her curiosity Will draw undeserved animosity Mother’s face Smiles sweetly, inside she’s a little child And her face loves me dearly, eternally young and wild
East and West Jacob Swindell-Sakoor ’15 We leave our very emotions for love. We are parallel lovers for the time being. We will disguise our passion for others, We will leave the familiar, We will chase the unknown, We will dismiss "me" for "us". We can have everything We can leave with nothing. We will come to hate "us". We will desire "me". We will become public enemies, We will lose our simplicity. We are separated for time's duration. Samantha Liebeskind ’15
We have all the energy for hate.
WordFlirt / 17
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Street Art Adam Ginsberg ’15 Street Art O’ wondrous illusion! Can I fathom the falsity you flaunt? What foul deception, a cloudy mist of doubt! Remove the fold before my eyes and let me see the truth At first glance: a vast ocean littered with dancing waves. Out of once timid waters a storm erupts How to bare the pure beauty of this startling incident? O’ how to drift into Poseidon’s kingdom! The steamy white engines ripple, paying heed to life Flawlessly navigating the dark depths of the undoing sea Am I mistaken, to envy those forever journeyed? To covet climbing on deck, and beginning my astonishing adventure starboard The once deep waters are swallowed and shriveled The vessel, once scorching with momentum has abruptly stopped Misleading fables, images of lies, a kingdom demolished in falsity
Grace Ives ’13
18 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Nicholas Ullman ’14
The Real New Yorker Sam Miller ’14 Hey, are you there? I know you’re sitting on a chair. You are curling your hair and breathing in your my air. Why do you deserve to be trapped in a mind of despair? We are struggling in freedom to deal with weight we all bear. Well, on this train of course. We’re all going the same course. This is the A train, right? Just thought I’d ask. But are you there? Fully there? Aware? Why don’t you get up to check to see if we arrived at your station yet. Stare at me all you want, implying random non-sequiturs like “nonchalant”. Hold on, you mean that you are nonchalant by sitting and looking down?
And not caring if you frown? Not caring that the shirt you wear isn’t green, but brown? Suppose so. Well, here’s my stop. See you later, Sayonara, ciao, or whichever word you want to be used right now. “Nonchalant” is the new word for: ... Me standing up, and you sitting down. There’s more to the train than that. It’s about knowing when to pitter-pat your feet to train braking and leans. That stop up there is 59th. It’s where I get off and live off my life. Stay trapped in your bubbled-up strife, I mean, if you want, but I’ve had enough of you tonight. So what if you’re the mayor? If you plan to lead with That frown you have It just ain’t right. It just ain’t right.
WordFlirt / 19
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Why The Sky Is Blue Fiona Sharp ’15 The child asked why the sky was blue. The man with walnut eyes began to spew words like atmosphere, and gases, and molecules, But the child’s small brain had not yet ripened enough, and the words slipped like smoke through his fingers. The man with robin’s egg eyes whispered that the sky was blue because God made it so. But the child’s honeycomb eyes remained clouded. He asked why, and the man’s eyebrows knit together, because even in all his piety, he could not answer him. Lastly, the child turned to me, and I knelt down to look into his eyes. And, stirred by my gentle breathing, the fog began to flutter in wisps, before a single word had even escaped my lips. “The sky is blue because you believe it to be so. Perhaps there is a man in Australia, or in Egypt, or even in this very town, who believes the sky is green. And it is.” And the child with eyes as clear as the water in the brook looked up at the sky, and he smiled. Ten times, I watched as the leaves on my oak tree withered and browned, only to be resurrected by the sweet whispers of the first spring breeze. The child let his textbook hit the table with a thud, for he did not care for it the way he did his novels. His words like atmosphere, gases, and molecules thudded as well, laden with the weight of his apathy. He believed his brain had ripened, but I could see the tinge of green that still lingered at its edges. But the ring of golden fire that had encompassed the dark abysses of his pupils ten years earlier had dimmed with the burden of the age he was bringing upon himself. Five more deaths and resurrections had come and gone when I heard that the gnarled roots of an unknown illness had enveloped the child’s body. I heard his bones had become frail. his face sunken. His brain had begun to wither as soon as it had finally ripened.
20 / Brooklyn Friends School
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I heard that he had been seen kneeling beside his bed each night. his hands, glowing in the lamplight, the only youth left in him. I was watching the world from my kitchen window. It was coated in white, and so cold that I feared this time the leaves would not return. A great bough was bouncing in the wind, when suddenly there was a deafening crack and I cried out as the branch tumbled to the ground. The oak’s bones had grown too fragile and weak. the snow too burdensome. It was forced to give in to the earth’s vices, while its rings still numbered few. I sat at the foot of the bed, my eyes lowered. I could not bear to look into his eyes. to see how sunken they had become. how the color had drained from them. I knew his brain was aching. All his short life he had sought answers, and there was a dull, throbbing pain within him, for he believed he had never received them. “The sky,” he rasped, “is blue because it is brimming with the tears of the woeful and the heartbroken.” And I realized. “You lied to me that day.” His brow furrowed as he waited desperately for acknowledgement. “No.” I replied. “I may not have told the truth, but never have I lied to you.” There was no response. He was a leaf, withering right before my eyes. But for him, there would be no resurrection. A single tear meandered down my cheek to join the others in the vast, blue expanse of endless sorrow.
Glyne Harper ’14 WordFlirt / 21
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If You Are Very Still Olive Wexler ’16 If you are very still, you can see her. Lady of the Wild Things.
Lady of the Wild Things she wears shorts in the winter floaty skirts in the summer.
Shoes? Who needs them? she likes her toes unconfined by leather.
School? Who needs it? the trees teach her all she needs to know.
Lady of the Wild Things, her curly cue curls trail
“Lady! Lady of the Wild Things!” you call, down
but she never
her back bouncing and laughing.
Lady of the Wild Things, They say each one of her freckles are a heart she has carelessly broken.
comes. Instead, she does cartwheels, and climbs trees and paints her face with berries. She skips, and runs races, hides even though no one is looking, she picks beautiful flowers and weaves them into her hair. If you are very still, the Lady of the Wild Things will quietly slip a daisy behind your ear and then sprint away, giggling as she gossips with the Babbling Brook.
Tim Wheelock ’13
22 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Henry Killen ’16
School Raphael Norman-Tenazas ’14 People, they don’t care about school They want to drink alcohol They want to go out with their friends They don’t care about geography What's wrong with teens? Their parents give them presents For nothing, for being alive But in fact, they are just surviving No work, no work for someone lazy Employers are fed up With these kids who don’t like life With these kids who don't know how to live It's an error of a generation When will it stop? Live fast, die young They want to make money But how does one do that if one isn’t intelligent? They lie to their parents But it doesn't help them, it’s obvious
They sell drugs in school It’s bad, but it seems to me that it’s protocol. They want to go to a party school Where there isn’t an ‘imperfect’ Where you don’t work And where alcohol is your meal. But no school will accept them With at least one C, B or A. It’s an error of a generation When will it stop? Live fast, die young But whose fault is it? They don’t have dreams to be astronauts Their dreams are money, money, money And maybe gold chains. But when will they pay the rent? “Next month” It’s not in their DNA It’s in their environment It’s not something which suddenly kills their development. The cause is in the media The problem is immediate.
WordFlirt / 23
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Not a Story to Pass On Evan Novick ’14 I saved her from the life she would have had. I saved her from the life that I once knew. A home so sweet, it’s sour, rotten, bad. Away from here, I sent her. Here she flew. I hope one day to leave the thought behind. Of ends quite justified, but not the means. Yet solace in my life, I will not find With her lurking, resting stagnant in my dreams. It hurts to think that lovely girl of mine Will never come to meet me on this earth. But through the muck and mist and gloam and pine I feel her in my waters of rebirth. I pray one day I’ll re-embrace and covet, the venom of my one dearly Beloved.
Samantha Liebeskind ’15
24 / Brooklyn Friends School
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Anna Emy ’14
Elinor Hills ’14
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Glyne Harper ’14
BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL 375 Pearl Street and 55 Willoughby Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201 718.852.1029 / brooklynfriends.org