Elysium 2009 Vol. VIII
Elysium literary/art Magazine Editorial Policy: Elysium, Coral Reef High’s literary/art magazine, is an annual publication that showcases the creative work of students grades 9-12. The art and literary staffs, who meet after school each Thursday, select exemplary work from school-wide submissions. Each piece is judged anonymously and is chosen based on style, uniqueness of theme, and overall quality.
Our 25 member staff created 96 pages using Dell computers and Adobe software : InDesign CS2, Adobe Photoshop CS2 , and Adobe Illustrator CS2. We used two fonts on the cover, Edwardian Script ITC and Verdana. The body of the magazine incorporates an additional two fonts, Trajan Pro for titles and Minion Pro for text. Rodes Printing in Miami published 250 magazines on 100 lb linen paper for the cover, 80 lb glossy paper for the inside pages, and 4 vellum inserts to introduce each section. The magazines were distributed free of charge on a “first-come, first- served basis”. For past issues and performance art clips visit our website: http://crhs.dadeschools.net/elysium.
20200 90V9 o
Colophon:
Viii i e u iim l v . Vlo
We would especially like to thank Mr. Scott McKinley who, along with his art students, critiqued the magazine as a class activity. Your advice has been invaluable. Additionally, we appreciate the wonderful help offered by Ms. Collete Stemple and Mr. David Ernsberger.
Editorial Staff Editor-in-chief : Mitra Hosseini Literary Editor : Amanda Hudson Layout Editor :
Audrey Gonzalez
Art Editor :
Noel Kassewitz
Promotions :
Cecilia Cabrera
Webmaster :
Jorge Buitrago
Zeitgeist T ime escapes our grasp every day, and we can do anything we want with it – except claim it. Stop watches have perfected the ability to record passing moments to the nearest millisecond, yet they still do not possess a sliver of the power that belongs to time. Once it is gone, there is no way to retrieve it, and it is lost to the ages forever. As time progresses, society evolves along with our perceptions of it. In our primitive state, personal concerns overwhelm our
School & Contact Information Coral Reef Senior High 10101 S.W. 152nd St. Miami, Florida 33157 School ph: 305-232-2044 Elysium Sponsor: Amy Scott amyscott@dadeschools.net
consciousness so that we think ourselves to be the very marrow of society, its most vital component. But our perceptions change with the motions of time and we learn to mirror our surroundings, to reflect on our actions and relationships.
Soon we expand, envisioning instead of emulating and turning an empathetic eye to the world at large, the endless potential of tomorrow. While at first the spirit of the age guides us, we grow into the world and truly become a part of the community, shaping it with our vision and actions until it becomes our Zeitgeist.
Editor-in-chief
MARROW MIRROR
Artist Credits and Staff Page
6
Zorba and Apollo // John Digiacomo
10
Leftover // Catherine Zaw
12
Perfume of the Streets // Valerie Dorer
14
Dancing with Memories // Leah Singer
16
To Read before You Die // Amanda Hudson
18
He Was Told // Leah Singer
20
Lait // Daniella Carucci
22
Open Window // Kimberly Berkley
24
The Archeologist // Danielle Wierenga
26
Denial: This Poem Is Not about Sex // Victoria Melendez
28
You’ll Understand When You’re Older // Karla Cobreiro
30
Reflection // Amanda Nichols
32
Of Butterfly Blues // Anna Mebel
36
Dedication // Amanda Hudson
38
Perception // Barbara Uchdorf
40
Wither // Victoria Melendez
42
Blue Nails // Anna Mebel
44
Somewhere To Nowhere // Adriyan Rotati
46
Scholastics Art Awards
48
Patient(s) // Marilyn Horta
50
1-800 Damage Control // Nafeesa Bhanji
52
Unfinished Masterpiece // Catherine Zaw
54
Bargaining // Kimberly Berkeley
56
A Dip in the Mud // Nafeesa Bhanji
58
Scott McKinley
60
Legacy // Marilyn Horta
62
Architecture // Jorge Buitrago & Mitra Hosseini Transient Delight for String Quartet // Jiwen Lei
92
Table of
94
MORE
66 68 70 72 74 76 78 80 82 84 88
MORROW
January 20, 2009 // Mitra Hosseini A History // Barbara Uchdorf Tangerine Twilight // Amanda Nichols You Made Me Write Bad Poetry // Daniella Carucci Bystander Effect // Catherine Zaw Black History Month // Victoria Melendez Coincidental Fate // Sonul Rao Strange Ways // Michael Akinlabi Feed Me // Daniella Carucci Bagboy // Marilyn Horta Comic: Sourtongue / / Andrea Espinosa
Contents
artist credits Cover Table of Contents, Folios, and Inserts by Audrey Gonzalez pg. 11 pg. 13 pg. 15 pg. 17 pg. 19 pg. 20 pg. 22 pg. 25 pg. 27 pg. 29
Blinded Alice in Wonderland Wave Graphics//Dancing Pyre of Knowledge Bestial Ramifications Blargh History of Dresses Of Suburbia The Violinist
Audrey Gonzalez Tatiana Jackson Raye Ng Noel Kassewitz Raquel Kidd Noel Kassewitz Tatiana Jackson Adabel Maldanado Keilani Rodriquez Raquel Kidd
artist credits pg. 67 pg. 69 pg. 71 pg. 73 pg. 75 pg. 77 pg. 79 pg. 80 pg. 82 pg. 86 pg. 88 pg. 92 pg. 93 pg. 94 pg. 95
6
Inaugural Parade Film 2 Face Joe Father Time Bored and Sick Cold Morning I Am Me Leaving My Mark Break Gluttony Vegetables Sourtongue Artist Dwelling The Sky in Front Transient Delight pg. 1 Transient Delight pg. 2
pg. 31 pg. 32 pg. 37 pg. 39 pg. 41 pg. 42 pg. 44 pg. 47 pg. 51 pg. 52 pg. 55 pg. 56 pg. 58 pg. 60 pg. 61 pg. 62 pg. 66
&
Mitra Hosseini Danielle Garone Danielle Garone Cecelia Cabrera Keilani Rodriguez Ronel Constantine Isabel Conoepan Eduardo Moreno Tatiana Jackson Audrey Gonzalez Andrea Espinosa Jorge L. Buitrago Mitra Hosseini Jiwen Lee Jiwen Lee
The Escape Ronel Constantin Vanity Shot Jenny Cifuentes Aphasia Tatiana Jackson Little Lighthouse Jacquelyn Garcia On the Back of my Mind Audrey Gonzalez With the Passage of Time Noel Kassewitz Some Lucky Kid Raquel Kidd Ink Mountain Cecilia Cabrera Lock Abstractions Cecilia Cabrera Shattering Symbols Maria Arteaga Anorexia Nervosa Tatiana Jackson Charcoal Skeleton Cecilia Cabrera Survive Raye Ng P.D. Lee at Jasper Scott McKinley Burning at Diego Flats Scott McKinley Graphic/ Legacy Raquel Kidd Obama Button Schuyler Polk
elysium staff
Kim Berkley Jorge Buitrago Cecilia Cabrera Daniella Carucci Michael Cisneros Valerie Dorer Audrey Gonzalez Mitra Hosseini Amanda Hudson Tatiana Jackson Ayodele Jolibois Deanna Kalil
Noel Kassewitz Raquel Kidd Emma King Elliot Levy David Li Anna Mebel Amanda Nichols Adriyan Rotati Jolie Shapiro Emma Singer Steven Urueta Danielle Wierenga Matthew Westland
MARROW
ZORBA AND APOLLO MARROW
The creator and The thinker The creator: Whose hands have intimated crafted structured and molded Art in the likeness of Man The thinker: Whose hands have scanned searched perused and crafted words As he postulated the conditions of Man And yet they are joined by fate: In having taken such care such time and such prudence Towards such a passion They have forged manacles of the mind That bind them to icy chisel and frigid quill For neither painting nor book statue nor manuscript sketch nor essay Can wrap the cold hands of their creators And warm them like the ardor of fellow man
John DiGiacomo 10
Audrey Gonzalez, Blinded, Oil on Canvas.
11
Leftover
MARROW
Neglected piece of delight Still wrapped in the protective foil Plainly in view, tempting to the woman Who is contemplating—balancing the worth Of the lusciousness
But that other action Would let her elope With a sugary high echoing Through her mind, fake shot at Bravery to step outside the law
Chocolate half undressed Coaxing for more creamy skin to reveal Unobstructed view of satisfaction And wet growing anticipation In the captured prisoner’s mouth
Reluctance wins And the last bit of silver shield Is tossed away The poison of diet tucked Disappeared between lips curved wide—
Narcissistic bit of candy Stealing all the attention of The restrained woman who is About to break her self-set rules Her fingers twitching because they know
Temporarily—smile fading as the bliss Melts out, dragging the victim Back to the cold, hard earth and despair Where her stomach pushes Past the limit of her jeans tight embrace
One movement could hide the treat And tear her eyes—divert her life— Off the persuading voice calling And reminding her what tastes Could tickle the tongue’s pleasure
Still whining for more
Catherine Zaw
12
Tatiana Jackson, Alice in Wonderland Syndrome, Acrylic and Installation.
13
Perfume of the streets MARROW 14
In the southern hemisphere, in the country of Brazil, in the state of Amazonas, I collected my first memories. The city was Manaus, a colonial relic of unlikely and now faded prosperity. The neighborhood was “Jardin Europa.” The street I can’t remember. At six, my dead-end street seemed a private playground where I spent my early childhood. A Street, a lane, a way, a boulevard, a court, a road, an avenue, a circle, a place, a terrace, a drive. One whose name I don’t recall and need not know. I know its scents, its odors, its faces and sounds and emotions. It is the avenue beside which I sat with my brother on rainy afternoons, camouflaged by our untrimmed hibiscus bushes. Digging into flooded soil we attempted to form mud balls from what felt like pancake batter that had yet to be mixed. After careful inspection, a verdict was rendered on whether the soggy mixture was sufficiently spherical. If the creation was ruled adequate, we quickly hurled it in the other’s direction, hoping the sloppy lump would make it into the air without more than half of its contents sliding through our fingers and past our wrists. Elbow deep in mud we would giggle at the sound of our mother’s voice calling our names. As the seconds passed the giggling rose to hysteria and our swamp-like battleground was revealed.
It is the terrace down which I marched with my mom, dad, and brother in tow, following the aroma of grilled Picanha and fresh cut mangoes to Tio Claudio’s house for his weekly Churrasco. Dexter and I would burst through the gate, race to the pool and heave ourselves in, joining our laughing and screaming friends. The music played on those nights was soulful and always accompanied by the unending hum of adult conversation. The exchange on those nights was not, however, of the reserved, polite sort that might take place in an office break room. It was apparent, even to us at the tender age of six, by the high pitched shrieks and booming guffaws of sporadic laughter that the glasses scattered around us held something slightly more potent than the water we were encouraged to drink. It is the drive that leads to Amacom, the electronics store owned by my mother and father, where my brother and I would mount the wealth of cardboard boxes in the storage room, uninhibited by whatever speaker set or television we may have had to trample in our wobbly race towards the peak of this geometric Everest. This is the same angular wonderland I so greatly resented on weeknights at eight o’ clock, when my seemingly unending struggle against sleep would begin. I anxiously awaited the “click” of my rotating
Raye Ng, Wave, Digital Photography.
doorknob signaling the ultimate arrival of my evertardy parents. The drive to the giant yellow shopping center that held our packaged playground was less mystifying. Rarely were we allowed to roll down the window, for instantly the stifling heat penetrated our airconditioned haven. The heat was a perpetually present lover mixed with the poignant and highly chemical aroma of gasoline that the locals called “cheiro da rua” or “perfume of the streets.” Now both sweating and coughing, we were accosted by an overwhelming number of traffic vendors; locals whose originally mahogany toned skin looked now, after years of pacing the streets under the searing warmth of the sun, almost violet. Impervious to the blistering heat they would beam gap-toothed smiles in our direction and offer
anything between once cold bottles of water, shabby stuffed animals, and designer imitation watches which were of course, “Pure silver, the real thing!” This exceptional place seemed unremarkable to me then. Didn’t every child chase hummingbirds and fish for piranha? My priorities were games in the pool, coconuts on the beach, and picnics on the Amazon River. Suffering never crossed my mind, because we were comfortable. But, it was everywhere in this impoverished river town.
Valerie Dorer
15
MARROW
Dancing The old man cautiously hobbled across the deserted room. It was as dark as the ocean at midnight, but his memory lit the way. The creaking of the swollen floorboards told him that the rich, red carpeting had long ago been stripped away. He brushed aside a cloud-like wisp of silvery hair
16
with
from his eyes, remembering when his hair had been thick and black. What he could not push away was the feeling that he was slowly disintegrating, like a sand castle at high tide. He walked to the end of the room and stared out of the dusty window overlooking the city. The view was the same but his eyesight failed him. As he breathed in the still, lifeless air of
the first day of spring.
Memories the desolate ballroom, he asked the empty space in front of him for a dance. The air acquiesced. At first his feet hesitated, but then he remembered the long forgotten rhythm. His heart beat faster and the years melted away like snow on
Leah Singer
17
To Read Before You Die MARROW 18
Her rigid inability to discuss a matter so lighthearted had frightened her, and her face was now buried in his chest. It was hard and warm, a living anchor. What books do you know you have to read before you die? She kept it there longer than was comfortable for either of them. There was something unnatural and violating in what she was being asked to do, though the question had been no more than a casual invitation to conversation. She wriggled under the sheets and offered clipped phrases into the hollow of his chest as she tried to explain what she herself did not quite understand. She did not want to answer. Indignant with her sudden state of vulnerability and angry with him for being its cause, she lay exposed, feeling childish. There were books she wanted to read with a great deal of eagerness, but no books she had placed on a pedestal as he now suggested. She saw reading as the embodiment of intellect: the source of all knowledge and culture, the heights of human achievement. It was a reverence she had cultivated as a child and had not been able to shake off since. She knew her love of literature gave her nothing that was not given to anyone with a singular passion, but she felt as though it should. This was her habit, her joy, the string whose ropy bow tied her to reality; as a gambler has his dice and a painter has his brush, so she, a reader, had her books. She knew that to name books that she absolutely must read before she died would ruin her passion, turning it from a thing of passion to a thing of obligation; but she suspected that it could do worse even than that.
Her reason for life was rooted in her own sense of worth, which was informed, in turn, by her pride. This is the case for many humans, fallible and in need of flattery, but she was willing to admit it: she needed her pride, and it so happened that its greatest sources were in being loved and feeling intelligent. Without one, she figured, she would always have the other to catch her. But what if she lived and died without ever being ultimately and honestly loved? Even if she thought she was in this fortunate position, how could she truly know? There was a dense vagueness to love that she could not stand. No matter how in love she felt she was, there was never a moment when she could not imagine a love more enrapturing, more fantastic, more simple and enduring. Does the capacity to imagine a thing make it possible? Though she moved through the world a figure strong and proud, her heart was as soft a piece of meat as any, and it tore at its roots in throbbing curiosity to think of the problem of love. Perhaps a gypsy should find the answers for her in the lines of her hands, or maybe she could make it out in the tapping code of his muffled heart as it beat now in her ear. She pressed her head closer, and did not answer. But there was no gypsy, and no cordial rhythm to inform her. Should she live and die without the certainty of love, she would need intellect more than ever to sustain her confidence in life and soften its travails and, knowing with rather too much certainty that she possessed no real genius
Raquel Kidd, Pyre of Knowledge, Oil.
of her own, this could only be had by associating her own mild intelligence with the genius of others. She would wear pages like robes of redemption and play the part of the biting cynic: respected yet resented, admirable but troubling. If she would not be loved, she would have to be above love. She did not want to answer, because if she should set out for herself any number of books which she must read before she died, it would mark the end of what sustained her. Having accomplished the meager goal and having fulfilled the potential she herself determined she had, her limits would have been reached, so that reading anything after those books would be empty, void of meaning and nourishment. The creation of a new list would be out of the question. To read all but one of the books would not save her either: she knew loose ends could not stave off mortality, and that it would only leave her feeling unfulfilled and anxious for far too long a time. So inevitably, if she named the books she must read before she died, she would have no choice but to follow through, and by following through, reading would be ruined for her. The conciliatory lifestyle of a cynic would no longer be possible either, as someone with such limited aspirations could not fill the role’s spacious bitter shoes. Keeping her face pressed on his chest she shook her head, untangling their legs to move away. She did not want to answer. There would be nothing to look forward to except the love she did not think would come.
Amanda Hudson
19
MARROW Noel Kassewitz, Bestial Ramifications, Charcoal. 20
He Was Told He He He He He He He He He He He He
was was was was was was was was was was was was
told told told told told told told told told told told told
by by by by by by by by by by by by
his parents he was adopted his father she had loved him the agency the orphanage’s name and address the taxi driver thirty-two dollars the nuns her name and number the voice on the phone she’ll be home later the graffiti-covered street sign it was the correct place to wait the screeching of tires she was speeding and was late their similar features that she was the one the slur of her words the reasons for what she had done her broken eyes and heart that he was not her son his falling tears he should not have come
Leah Singer
21
MARROW
Tatiana Jackson, Blargh,Jackson Sharpie Marker with Tempra. Media. , Mixed , Blargh Tatiana
22
Lait Her screams sounded anything but human. It was like a band of wolves crying to the moon, each howl lost and sorrowfully afraid. Except, she wasn’t astray or terrified. She was angry. Her rage was misplaced with the gnashing of teeth, but shaking with the frustrations of her adolescence. How cliché. She cried so hard her jaw shook, rattled, and quaked. The resonance of her teeth chattering paled in comparison to the guttural reverberations being emitted so freely into the air. An entombed monster of a creature wouldn’t have thrashed so liberally against his ball and chain. How audacious. Her oral cavity escalated to the size of approximately one third of her face, with so collect a sound; the screams, the bitter ranting of broken dreams! It was America’s blares for a Democratic president, an infant for its mother’s lactation, and the world for stillness. Her tonsils ached severely, but she never thought so clearly. Why is she whispering? There was no rationale for her to be so disconnected. Nonetheless, her temple furrowed, eyes narrowed, and the balls in her cheeks were
never so apparent. The yells were so resounding, the tears dissipated on her face, shattered by noise. But this was not noise. Whispers are turning faint.This was the nightingale’s lost song. Temples did not splinter, but the echo reached the heavens. Just when you thought she stopped, there came another howl. Too refined for blubbering, she cried with form. The waters from the rivers fine, it was the sadness of the world being released. Daft girl, it was only spilt milk.
Daniella Carucci
23
The Open Window
MARROW 24
Finally, I thought to myself, finally I’m getting somewhere in this dreadful case! It won’t be long now till this thing is solved—for good. I clutched the letter in my gloved hand like an eager child clinging to a new toy, oblivious to the morbidity of it all. You might think it strange —disturbing, even—that someone could be so gleeful, so desperately overjoyed, over a letter that would, at best, hold all the gruesome details of an impending murder. But, if it followed the pattern of the previous messages I’d read, and was indeed written by the killer I’d been tracking so carefully, so dedicatedly, for the past month and a half (I shuddered to think otherwise!) I would have been happier still. But, before you deem me, Elizabeth Copperton, a madwoman, consider the following. The letter I then held in my hand, the letter which I hoped so fervently was written by a murderer, could have been the key to uncovering the true identity of said killer, and thus, could have ended the mystery once and for all. It was not through a morbid fascination with the creature that wrote the letter, but rather through a virtuous determination to put him behind bars that I had found that letter and therefore felt a small measure of triumph and hope rising in me—hope that this would at last be the one to lead me to the author of so much evil during the past few months. While tracking this abhorrent man, I had intercepted and discovered a small quantity of handwritten notes—about four in all—which had been people who were close to past victims, describing in detail how his prey would be killed the night before the murder would be uncovered. It was, then, my dearest wish that the letter I had just acquired would be another of the series, and would lead me to the victim—and her potential murderer—before the crime actually occurred. My hands trembled something awful as I lit the candle on my desk. Though the seal on the letter was plain, without any incriminating design to help identify its author, and the envelope was
blank save for the name of the person the letter was addressed to—my neighbor, Sara Finney, of all people!—I knew with a dreadful, yet thrilling certainty that it was from him. From hell. Gently, I broke the seal on the envelope and slid the letter out. Putting the envelope aside, I let my eyes rest for a moment on the still-folded note, imagining the message I would find waiting for me inside. I took a deep breath, gathered my wits (which I was sure I would need most of all on that night of nights), and opened the folded letter. I see they still think I am a doctor haha. I love to watch them when theyre looking for me in the streets, its so funny to kno how close and yet so far they are. I wonder, have you read about my latest jobs—I think I’m getting better don’t you? And the next ones going to be the best yet, I think. She’s a real pretty thing with curly blond hair and big blue eyes. I bet I can make her a nice red necklace to wear, haha Do you like red? I stopped and stared. Was he saying the victim was Sara herself? With a new sense of urgency, I continued reading. Now I know this may be hard for you but please don’t stop reading this when you get scared, I want you to read it all before the end. Again, I paused. Though it was a murderer’s letter, and therefore bound to be hair-raising and spine-tingling, this particular one was going somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to follow it to. The other letters, I thought, were not like this. You see I have your addres. Safely assume then that I will make good use of this infomation. I cleaned my knife last night and I can’t wait to get some fresh color on it. I might even send in a kidney or a ear to the police, another teaser to keep them on their toes. It’s time I got around to this. You know she’s been rather a nuisance lately. I think I’ve let her follow me long enough. Catch me if you can. I slammed the letter down on the desk at this point, frustrated and deflated. The sense of
Adabel Maldanado, History of the Dresses, Mixed Media.
triumph I had felt earlier was gone, no more than a ghost of a memory, and I was frightened and sad for the victim that was once again beyond my help despite the fact that I had received the letter before the killing. Sara had gone out some hours ago; even if she were the intended fatality, I had no idea where to look for her or when she would return. Chewing on my lip and blinking away tears, I raised my head to stare at my own reflection in my mirror. At this point, a very blunt, very startling, and very awful truth became clear to me as I gazed at myself in the glass. In my excitement over the letter, I had forgotten a few seemingly minor details about myself—details upon which my fate suddenly hinged. My hair was a deep golden color and fell in looping curls past my shoulders. My eyes were as blue as the sky. Next to the mirror sat a portrait of Sara and me out in the park a few summers ago. Sara had blond hair, too – but her eyes were a deep, dark brown. The killer’s description of his next victim echoed jarringly in my head. She’s a real pretty thing with curly blond hair and blue eyes. That letter wasn’t talking about Sara Finney. I lowered my gaze back to the letter, my frustrations replaced with a growing dread… and stared. The letter, which I had placed facedown on the desk, had something extra written on the back. My heart in my mouth, I shakily picked it up and moved it back into the firelight
of the flickering candle. The back of the note held only a single line, but that alone said more than I wanted to know. PS: Check your windows, Elizabeth. At first, I felt nothing, just a dull, numbing confusion, but when I read the words a second time, and understood their meaning at last, my blood ran cold, and my heart all but stopped. The letter fell from my hand, fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly, taking my hopes with it. This can’t be happening, my heart whispered. This can’t be happening. Propelled by a force far greater than my own free will, I turned slowly towards my bedroom window. Though I had closed and locked it before leaving home earlier that day to retrieve the letter—that godawful letter!— it was now hanging wide open, the broken lock indicating a forced entry. My throat went dry. I clutched desperately at the edge of my desk, hunting for a glimpse of reason in a night now devoid of sanity. Something moved in the far corner of my room. I swallowed, my hands shaking now from terror rather than anticipation. Taking one last, deep breath, I turned and bolted for the door, stumbling in my blind panic. Even before I reached the door, I knew I would not make it. All I could think was, So close. I was so close! The next morning, the police found me in the hallway leading to my front door, my throat cut and my right ear sliced clean off. They searched my room for clues, but the letters I had worked so carefully to collect were gone. The only evidence of the killer that remained was the open window, swaying with a gentle creaking noise in the autumn breeze. I bet I can make her a nice red necklace to wear, haha Do you like red?
Kimberly Berkley 25
The Archaeologist MARROW
The sound of brush on stone, And the feel of the hot sun On the back of his neck and On the blades of his shoulders Had left him angry. And the sweat falling from his brow, Onto his legs, Onto the stone, Onto the ground Left him dazed and searching. But in the heat of the day he saw fantastical things. On the horizon: The Sphinx, Stonehenge, Montezuma, The Burning Monk, The Great Wall, The Capitol, A car, a train, his wife. And common sense compels him, To look down at his work and try again, He frowns then breathes, Presses brush against rock, Feeling the urge to look again at that skyline. And when he does succumb, He instantly throws his head behind, And resumes that breath and frown, And says, “What a fool am I.�
Danielle Wierenga
26
Keilani Rodriguez, Of Suburbia, Photography.
27
DENIAL: THIS POEM IS NOT ABOUT SEX MARROW
Why can’t I fix you? I try and I try but you’re wrong again. The sound is off. The string low, The other flat. My fingers dance across your body, Holding you down to find the right notes, But you don’t respond as I hoped. And so I say you’re wrong again. Of course, it cannot be me. I’m going by the book. I’m doing this right. I chant the spell, The incantation Flawlessly, My wand moves Gracefully, With fluidity, But no rabbit comes from the hat.
It cannot be me. I who studied the arts, The sciences, The ways of the unknown. I who have learned all there is to know. It cannot be me! And yet, No matter how I strum the chords, And though I say the words just right, You do not respond Soundlessly, And my hat Remains Empty.
Victoria Melendez
28
Raquel Kidd,Violinist, Graphite.
29
You’ll Understand When You’re Older MARROW
The air on the coast just outside Havana was still and smelled of sea and diesel, but the ocean was far from calm and steady. It was the fourth time that my twin sister and I accompanied my mother to a desolate location in the middle of the night. The long wait, unfavorable maritime conditions, and pending sunrise were causing the crowd’s hope to crumble one more time, until someone noticed a small dim light rocking back and forth in the distance, gradually growing more and more visible as it got closer to shore. The twenty or so who had been waiting on the shoreline gathered their few belongings and began to walk out into the ocean to meet the undersized boat. In the
passengers’ eyes, the small vessel seemed more like a luxury liner. Many had already desperately taken the same venture in a much less promising craft, a scanty raft made only of wood, tires, and rope. We were among the last to reach the vessel: my mother, my sister and myself, and my grandparents. In a matter of seconds, the boat would begin to pull away from the shore, taking her from the island to Miami where she’d reunite with her husband. My mother left her career as a doctor along with the houses in which she had grown up. She left behind her language and everything she had known. Now she was in the hands of fate and the Atlantic Ocean.
Karla Cobreiro
30
Ronel Constantin, The Escape, Acrylic Painting.
31
Reflection
I stare at her. Crooked window frames, wry smiles favor my right – her left, smooth porcelain I might touch, but only feel cool sand, melted and dried. I stare at her. A veneer, gilded and fake, sparkling brightly and beautifully, a deception. Might I remove her? Allow ocean of day, the ocean of night rinse her away and no longer hide what sight cannot reveal?
Amanda Nichols
32
Jenny Cifuentes, Vanity Shot, Digital Photography.
MARROW
I stare at her. Shadows above her eyes, not under them; bright half heart and crescent moon painted magenta; night cascading past her shoulders, down her back; sight perfect, large windows with clean glass.
MIRROR
MIRROR
Todd was a boy who collected butterflies, filled his notebooks with careful sketches. He liked a girl. A slight, blond one that was a bit too quiet, but had gray eyes and smiled like a purring cat. They had clandestine meetings on the Sunday grass. Leaning on a tree trunk Claire would tell him of Renoir and Nabokov. He would listen, drawing butterflies on her wrists. The butterfly names were small enchantments she whispered in her sleep, “Junonia villinda, papillio homerus, paranssius phoebus…” When they argued, it was about God. Claire found her to be a silly, benign creature: one that watched over the world like a lazy Buddha. Todd shook his head, waved his hands, and cried, “Science!” She would shush him, gesturing to a butterfly on her wrist, “Only a god would come up with this shade of blue.”
Anna Mebel 36
Of Butterfly Blues
“When they argued, it was about God.”
Tatiana Jackson, Aphasia, Acrylic. 37
Dedication MIRROR 38
Across the room, calls tore in rasps over the thick smell of seeds and sticky-sweet fruits which, already hard and dried, now sat listless and uneaten as their last stores of moisture drifted out of the tough skins. The floor of the cage was covered in newsprint from which the smell spilled; it had been laid in the cage with care some time ago, fresh and grey-white with newness. Now it was an ornate lace of seed shells and fruit peels and countless flowers formed by punctures in the yellowed paper. “I love you, I love you,” it called, fledging its advances with a bright flutter of wings. The old man across the room made no response, choosing instead to continue dabbing paint with incredible care onto the canvas perched before him. His skin looked like paper in the sun, the marks on his arms like coffee spills and spots of ink, and while he painted he frowned so that his brow was held tight and low over his eyes and his lower jaw craned past his upper, as if his face were chasing his line of sight in the eagerness of concentration. “I love you, I love you,” the parrot insisted, beating the air, “I love you! Pretty boy!”
The old man’s frown shifted in frustration, and turning back to face the bird he shouted, “Shut up,” stood, and again, “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, you ugly bird!” The parrot turned on its rough perch, its tail scraping the copper of the cage’s bars. Satisfied with this, the old man returned to his seat. On the canvas there was a painting of the sea. The bird watched the old man hunch with intensity over the painting, and wondered why. The flat, ugly thing did not love him, it did not tell him so. It said nothing while the parrot sung, keeping him company as the old woman who always wore the shawl had said: “Now, you take care of him when I’m gone. Will you do that, pretty boy?” The parrot liked the old woman and her natty shawl, its shoulders pulled and discolored from years of the parrot perching there as she went about her work. The old woman had been gone for a long time now, and the parrot wanted her back. “I love you, I love you,” it called, but the woman did not come. “I love you,” it cried, day and night, but the old woman stayed out in the hallway and the old man did not let the parrot
onto his own shoulders to go about the woman’s work. He bent perpetually forward in his chair, squinting and frowning at the sea which he created and loved, but which could never love him back. The old man paused and held the long, thin brush away from him. He rose, took a few steps beyond the chair and turned to stare at the sea from afar. He cocked his head and let his arms hang limp at his sides. The parrot wondered why the old man had to look at it this way. He caught a pair of bars in his beak and curled his roughribbed talons around another, clinging sideways on the cage to see what the old man saw. There was only the sea, and he returned to his perch in a commotion of stiff plumage. He hoped the old man would look at the sea and be happy, set down the brush, walk to the door and call down the hall, “I’ve finished!” so that the old woman would come back. She would hurry into the room from the hall and tug at her shawl, smiling as she and he stared at the canvas, and they would kiss and tell each other, “I love you,” after they’d both looked at it long enough. But the old man was not
Jaquelyn Garcia, Little Lighthouse, Photography. happy with his sea, and he returned to bend before the easel. The frown set itself on his face once again, and his brow hung low as he painted and thought of his son, at whose house the picture of the sea he was now painting had been taken. It was a large house, and his son had paid for all of it himself: he was a successful businessman, as the old man had never been. He wanted the old man to move away to a home with other old men who had no wives and no children nearby, “so you can be where you’re taken care of.” The old man’s successful son had stayed away from the old man’s home for many years now, staying instead at his large home
with his young wife and his own son for holidays, an arrangement of which they both approved. The old man was concentrating on the white heads of foam that lay on the water where waves had broken, sea ghosts. The parrot scratched something against the bars, sending waves of bright pings to catch the old man’s attention, though it refused now to be caught. A piano stood next to the easel, pushed up against the wall and looking soft under a thick layer of dust; the rest of the house also rested softly under dust which had settled because the old woman was not there to wipe it away or send it back into the air with a quick, sure
motion of her wrist. “I love you, I love you.” The old man’s wrists had trembled when he tried to go about her work, and when the trembling had finally spread over him so that his body bent and shook with sobs, he decided that the piano and the lamps and the house’s many quiet rooms looked better soft and dusty anyway, and that he had his own work to do. He squinted past his long, narrow nose as today he laid down the whitecaps. Tomorrow he would feed the parrot, clean its cage and work on the gulls. The day after that, the rocks that stood above the water; the following day, those on shore; then after that and after again for many days, the sea would hold him in its silent gaze and it would in turn be held by his own until the painting was complete. Then he would set down his paintbrush, clap his hands and say to the cruel and taunting parrot, “I’m finished!” because the old woman would have had it so.
Amanda Hudson 39
Perception MIRROR
I had seen this one before. Him over me, Our bodies Entwined Like trees with brittle branches. Only the earth could hold us then. Her face looked sullen, apologetic Almost, But she still had the horns and Never again Could I stand To smile at them. They waited there, Looking down Like angels doing God’s work, Waiting for reaction. They waited and I stood. How similar we both looked. And yet how different When in the end I was alone And she With child to bear, And me With none but men to coax me Into their traps.
Barbara Uchdorf
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Audrey Gonzalez, On the Back of My Mind, graphite.
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MIRROR Noel Kassewitz, With the Passage of Time, Acrylic and alkyd oils.
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Wither It’s cold outside, And as I walk past the sugar cane and reeds I see how they have withered. Withered in the path that the wind blows, Dying in someone else’s direction. But then I see one fixed against the wind, One that died strong. And so I think of you, And how you withered. Slowly becoming someone I did not know, A being I could no longer understand, A being I felt so much for, But was probably incapable of feeling for me. And I remember how you fought, Refusing to follow any path other than your own. No matter where it led. And as the shadows pass and time flies by I think of all the things you’ll never see, And all the things you’ll never know, But then the light passes through the trees, And the sun kisses my cheek just as you did before, And I remember. I remember your life, Your love, And all that you taught me, While withering in your own direction. direction.
Victoria Melendez 43
MIRROR Raquel Kidd, Some Lucky Kid, Mixed Media. 44
Blue Nails In school, she painted her nails blue and doodled Salvador Dali in her math notebook, wishing that drifting eyeballs and melting clocks would replace derivatives. After school she wished to dress up her obsessions in neat verse and snappy meterher influences were set: Eliot, Yeats, never Austen, never pink-skirted waltzes. Instead, she decided to twist her syntax into jazz to make furniture come alive, to make her sonics spit and cackle like a witches cauldron;
but most earnestly, she swore to never taint her nails a proper peach.
Anna Mebel
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Somewhere
to nowhere
MIRROR
At A g e 1 8
Where once mountains rose To’ards valleys stretched To skies—(too plain!) . . . Now rests my pen-dripped land, Seeping, leaking thought: Ink bled in vain. Where once words played On dreams that starred All frets but death, Now lies us—sundered stars By hope’s sweet madness, A paradise once met.
Where all but at once, Your story stops, But life moves still, Here fades this writer’s gaze— Now time dyes twilight, And I fulfill.
Adriyan Rotati 46
Cecilia Cabrera, Ink Mountain, Ink.
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