Calliope Spring 2019
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers,
On behalf of the Calliope Editorial Staff, Ms. White, and myself, welcome to this year’s edition of Calliope! This year we had an overflow of submissions from all grade levels, and we have worked so hard to give you the best of the best. This year, we struggled to answer one question: “What is the image of Calliope?” I found myself looking at a piece and trying to fit it into a mold that I thought best represented a picture perfect magazine. However, as more and more unique submissions began to pile up, I let go of this expectation and decided to embrace the originality of our student art. The front and back cover of the magazine this year represent this step out of our comfort zone, as we normally display the drawn face of a GPS student, into extremely thought-provoking pieces of graphic design and photography. Each student’s voice is heard, through pieces like “Starlight Pollution,” a poem that bring us environmental awareness, “A Eulogy for Sixteen,” which lets us experience intimate pain through poetry, and “Adiyogi,” a descriptive short-story depicting Hindu culture. Every girl is different and every expression of herself is different; nothing has to fit a mold. I would like to thank everyone who played a role in creating, editing, and viewing the magazine. Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoy! Best, Isabelle Torrence Calliope Editor-in-Chief
Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief
Isabelle Torrence ’20
Literature Editors
Aria Cooper ’21 Sarah Foropoulos ’20 Morgan Massengale ’20 Erin Maxwell ’20 May Olson ’21 Maggie Parsley ’21 Zoe Stamey ’20
Layout Editors
Maya Bhutwala ’19 Anna Kate Stipanov ’21
Art Editors
Katherine Bell ’20 Larkin Brown ’19 Caroline Haynes ’22 Carolina Kelley ’21 Mary Kate Kirksey ’20 Talley Lyons ’21 Jackie Michaud ’19 Priyanka Sud ’21 Leonor Vines ’20
Faculty Advisors Corrie White Lee Wright
Front Cover Art
Anna Henderson ’21
Back Cover Art Alexandra Blye ’24
Table of Contents Literature
Orange Tea..................................................Anna Kate Stipanov ’21 Ocean Ridge Drive....................................................May Olson ’21 Just Between Us.........................................................Ellie Fivas ’22 Cara Mia.....................................................................Ellie Paty ’21 A Letter to a Ghost..................................................Molly Hathorne ’21 Little Sister.................................................................Carolina Kelley ’21 The Thoughts of a Passenger.............................Carolina Kelley ’21 But Last Night He Wanted to Hurt You...........Alison Williams ’21 The Other Half.................................................................Abbie Reel ’22 The Secret World in the Gloom............................. Isabella Carroll ’21 Mundanity..............................................................Chloe Newman ’22 Time to Wake Up.....................................Sarah Frances Crawford ’21 A Eulogy for Sixteen..........................................Maggie Parsley ’21 Starlight Pollution......................................................Katie Day ’21 Lush....................................................................Morgan Brown ’21 Hospital Waiting Room..........................................Astha Sinha ’21 Sons of Men........................................................Maggie Parsley ’21 Meaningless Love Letter......................................Harlan Porfiri ’23 Fern·weh n. ..........................................................Heather Ake ’20 Heart Contractions.........................................................anonymous Heart Relaxations...........................................................anonymous Tin Soldiers: Love and Hate...........................Emma Hamilton ’22 Adiyogi....................................................................Astha Sinha ’21 mamihlapinatapai n. ...............................................Heather Ake ’20
Art Contributers
AnnaKate Stipanov ’21, Annie Hanzelik ’24, Alexandra Blye ’24, Ella Ingalls ’22, Eva Goldbach ’20, Priyanka Sud ’21,Maggie Parsley ’21, Mary Kate Kirksey ’20, Maya Bhutwala ’19, Talley Lyons ’21, Anna Henderson ’21, Anna Von Kessler ’21, Kate Becksvoort ’22, Mia Hammonds ’21, Brynley Oliver ’22, Sana Nisar ’20, Carolina Kelley ’21
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Mia Hammonds ’21 Orange Tea Anna Kate Stipanov ’21
bitter orange tea came out of the dust to play. it shocked my senses, my face twisted, and it was seconds away from the drain. i said to my mother “hey taste this,” but she already knew the subtle lemongrass kiss. her hand of experience waved towards the old jar of honey, a golden trap of lethargic sun beams. it pooled in my spoon, then swirled into the heat, and now it wasn’t so bad, that wild sweet orange tea.
Ocean Ridge Drive May Olson ’21
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The old, wooden door creaks as it is opened from the living room. The gazing, radiant sun shines on my face as I walk outside. A brisk breeze travels along the front of the porch, filling it with the salty, ocean air of the Atlantic beach. The wind gusts my hair into my mouth, as I taste the saltiness of it. The porch is shady because of the large overhang, contrasting with the bright sundrenched beach. The only other souls there are the sandpipers running along the water’s edge and the seagulls calling, crying up in the sky. They swoop into the air, diving down to the sea to catch a silverfish. I can feel the hard, chipped wood floor under my feet as I walk. My nose is filled with its briny, salty aroma. Sitting on the creaky wood floor are four rocking chairs, lightly being swung by the breeze. The cushions on the chairs are a deep, royal blue, like my grandmother’s nail polish. The waves carry a soft murmuring rhythm of back and forth. To the right, a swinging chair attached by ropes is tied to the ceiling. It feels light as I sit on it. I can feel the floor move under me as it swings back and forth. At the edge of the sea, there’s a navy line that marks the horizon where the bright blue sky meets the silvery blue sea.
Just Between Us Ellie Fivas ’22 to be the true form of myself
that imperfect perfection of mine
the extraordinarily regular person who lives
beneath the gleaming mold around all of us she smiles at my faults
she cries at my regularities she keeps fighting
but I don’t like her
the battle between she and she the water that soaks fabric when she critiques
because she knows what hurts me better than anyone else
Carolina Kelley ’21
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Cara Mia Ellie Paty ’21
Her confidence is from a mirror where she spent countless hours studying her technique. Her inspiration is from the trip to Marietta, Georgia where she bought her first pair of pointe shoes. Her passion is evident but is hidden somewhere deep inside her. The studio is her home. The poised ballerina effortlessly does pirouettes. The bottom of her delicately scalloped dress fans out. Her muscular, olive-toned legs slice through the air, and the rhinestones on her costume shimmer. I’ve never seen the expression on her freckled face; it matches the furious violins in the Tchaikovsky concerto. She is the blue jay we used to see outside our bedroom window, flying.
A Letter to a Ghost Molly Hathorne ’21
I am sorry I ran from something I heard. I am sorry I ran from love. I am sorry I ran from you. But now, it is too late for me to run back home. I am sorry I never came to visit. I am sorry I never wrote. I am sorry I never thought about what I left behind. But now, “The guilt is in this land.” Now I know I couldn’t avoid hearing things. Now I know how much you loved. Now I know who you are. And now I yearn to turn back the clock. Now I know I was wrong not to visit. Now I know I should have written. Now I miss what I have left behind. And now you have gone, too.
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Little Sister Carolina Kelley ’21
Alexandra Blye ’24
Evie dances around the house. Arms filled with stuffed animals face bright with joy. Wide eyes sparkle like light reflecting off of a beautiful blue ocean. Small, marker stained hands grip a pair of smudged, pink glasses. Paint and dirt splatter her plaid uniform dress like a Jackson Pollock painting. Freckles line under her eyes like a constellation in the night sky. Messy, scraggly braids swing back and forth as she prances throughout each room. A smile, revealing a missing front tooth, spreads across her face as I walk through the doorway. Dropping the half eaten peanut butter sandwich on the floor, she runs over to me. Studying my face with curious eyes, she wraps her arms around my waist. The sharp but soft sound of whistling and the patter of her feet on the hardwood floor fades away as she runs back to her toys.
“People are a work of art. I found the colorful paint pallet background for this piece reflective of the expressive, spirited, and bright friend who is the subject of this portrait.”
-Maya Bhutwala ’19 On paint pallet portrait
Ella Ingalls ’22
Maggie Parsley ’21
The Thoughts of a Passenger Carolina Kelley ’21
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leaves float through the air sticking to the damp windshield of my speeding car midnight music vibrates through my body broken glass. bruised hearts. bloody noses. the painful yet provocative notes echo against the dented car doors lights of unfamiliar cities blur my vision cold black tires roll across the crumbling cement melodious thunder cracks the thin glass windows separating reality and illusion the intoxicatingly dark clouds stare into my flaming blue eyes I stare back. luminous constellations bounce off the navy skies my frantic thoughts are like exploding stars. my wandering spirit is a magnificent supernova.
But Last Night He Wanted to Hurt You Alison Williams ’21 But is just a word used at the end of an argument as a Last chance to change what happened the Night before. Trying to forget what He did, and everything that you Wanted vanished in an instant. To say life has changed is an understatement, and for you to feel Hurt is normal, but remember, You were the one who caused this.
The Other Half Abbie Reel ’22
Brynley Oliver ’22
She had wrapped it up under the tree I was very eager to see I opened the package but was surprised I didn’t really want this so I had lied As months went on the gift sat to the side Till the day that all Lookout Valley cried The pair of necklaces were placed upon two different necks But only one would be seen by the rest She lay peacefully at rest with the other half Man I sure do miss that laugh While she was here she had so much glee But now she lay with other half I can not see Aubrey Dylan Reel She was a thrill She is missed by tons And it has been a hard two months Rest in peace Now I’m going to try to get some sleep Miss you so much This situation has been very tough Love you with all my heart Can’t wait till I see you with the one who made you and he was very smart He made you perfect And that was no secret We all miss you
The Secret World in the Gloom Isabella Carroll ’21
Once the inky darkness seeps through the cracks of dusk, reality shifts. While drowning the light of day in its murkiness, it swallows the world as a whole. Small but strong balls of fire soar and engage in the constant battle against the lashing whirlwind. With these blazing orbs the message of hope, sent by morse code, flows through the the embedded veins of the fauna. Though the imminent tempest draws nigh, the faded air bound pillows make way for the streaks of brilliance
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from the heavens. These streaks bring an array of spotlights from the waning gibbous that cast through the thin blades of ember, radiating splotches of cinnamon on the shuddering ground below, puppeteering the blots in a Waltz such as Romeo and Juliet during a celebration. With the Waltz in play, the muffled screeches of green violinists perform to the beat of the dance. If time bids well and Mother Nature invites me, that’s where I’ll be if you wish to search for me.
Kate Becksvoort ’22
“This picture was taken in Dubai, in the Arabian desert. A group of people riding camels were passing by my family and me. I take pictures to capture moments in my life that are important to me, so I can look back at the memories later on in my life.” -Sana Nisar ‘20 On Camel Photo Mundanity Chloe Newman ’22 If I am to be honest, I wouldn’t trade my months in battle for a life without them. Being kidnapped is, after all, a restrictive mindset. It is almost peaceful, to have all one’s energy devoted, day in and day out, towards staying alive. I don’t maintain the luxury of having to worry about my place on this earth. Though I suppose that’s what is unique about mankind, we cannot be satiated by mere textbook necessities: fire, water, food, and shelter. Once a person obtains all four, they are presented with a new problem: chasing peace of mind. I escaped without having been noticed and felt that I had some time to wander. The edge of the forest rose around me; the ground was scattered with smooth slabs of granite and small
caveways leading into the underworld. I continued onto the three-steps-forwardtwo-steps-back sand dunes, where small, protruding rocks offered some solace when climbing. Unbeknownst to me, the maiden of the sand stood atop a dune in front of me, eyes, as ever, on the sun; a small silhouette on the setting horizon. It was perhaps time to hurry along; I had reached the summit of another dune and the sand had turned a shade green. I brought my shawl over my face and caught a glimpse of the maiden as I fell back, drawing my hands over my head so as not to hit a rock while rolling through the desert... I slept, or awoke. It depends on what side of reality you’re on, I suppose.
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Time to Wake Up Sarah Frances Crawford ’21 When 6 AM rolls around, my dad springs out of bed and sprints up the stairs for his favorite part of the day: waking me up. He swings open my door and turns on every light in the room. Then he yells my name and shakes me until I let out an exhausted groan. He runs back down the stairs to get ready for work; he has a genuine fear of being late so sleeping past 6:15 is the eternal sin in his book. After picking out the perfect tie to match the button-up shirt that he wears underneath his white coat, he decides to check on me once again. To his dismay, I’m still sound asleep. “You are the reason my hair is grey!” he yells, because even though his hair has been a shade of silver since his 20’s he always finds a way to blame me for it. He decides that the best way to wake me up is to connect to the Bluetooth speaker in my room and blast some Grateful Dead at an ungodly volume. I jump up to turn off my speaker before it wakes up the entire neighborhood. I’m finally awake so I start getting ready for school. My dad is downstairs cooking steel cut oatmeal on the stove.
My mom calls him a creature of habit because every day is the same for him; he wakes up, brushes his teeth, brushes his hair, makes the same breakfast, pours his coffee in the same cup, and wakes me up the same way. I finally come downstairs and my dad hits me on the back and asks, “Did you like my song choice today?” I say, “No, not at all,” and he laughs and continues to make his oatmeal. He’s playing “Banana Pancakes” by Jack Johnson on his phone; it’s his usual morning song. He says it makes every day a great day.
Annie Hanzelik ’24
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“People forget the whole story when they look at you. We forget that the person on our screen or even sitting next to us is human and is allowed to mess up. We have a tendency to overlook a cry for help and just see it as a mistake.” -Priyanka Sud’21 On Graphic Design
A Eulogy for Sixteen Maggie Parsley ’21
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The broken limbs of the red umbrella Twitched feebly Like a dying spider. It was worthless to try. Resigned, I left it behind To brave the rain on my own, And pray that my white shoes would survive (selfish, trivial). She needed me. Every horn, sounding in anger, Each quick spattering of drops across the pavement Rings the same four-note melody, Weaving itself in and out of my thoughts: She needed me And I left.
I could tell that she’d been drinking, Bleary-eyed and smelled like wine If you’re ever at a party and alone— She laughed and, with her breath, released a plume of smoke To blow it in my face. Each ‘no’ she tried to whisper, But couldn’t fit her tongue around— Mary Kate Kirksey ’20 They’re all stuck to the inside of her throat Like pushpins. She’d shown me the bruises, Bruises from the day before Bruises and a swollen lip. He did this to you? I never thought He’d go That far Dropping a pound a week, Mango-flavored smoke for dinner— Cursing her slender frame (small, powerless). Each time, she needed me Tried me out and discarded me I thought that I could keep her dry I was wrong So I left, Tired of being the broken red umbrella.
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Starlight Pollution Katie Day ’21 The stars Are falling away from our skies All the bright lights we made Are drowning them. It is no longer clouds that starlight dries, But ambitions Unravelling The hem. Lampposts and headlights put out bright fire’s glow. They’re falling faster than we can undo. We’re galactic poison And we don’t know. Killing the old With what is still so new. So far, have we fallen, stars seem dull now; Our constellations Are being undrawn. To fix this, we need only to know how To stop them from disappearing Until dawn. Yet, Before the morning sun brightens the sky, City lights look like the stars that can’t die.
Lush Morgan Brown ’21
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You are an early Sunday morning The embodiment of the lush feelings Of bare feet in dewy grass And watching the sun fight to shine through bustling tree branches
And at the end of the day When the grass has dried And the sun has won its feud You are what makes the sun kneel and retreat to the west
Knowing it cannot defeat the warmth a fullness Brought by your presence
Anna Kate Stipanov ’21
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Hospital Waiting Room Astha Sinha ‘21 If emotions were colors, a visible atmosphere splattered into place; crimson red screamed of frustration and cobalt blue weighed souls down to despair. As loved ones twiddled their thumbs, their emotions sloshed against the ghost white marble of the emergency room. It almost resembled a Fourth of July parade. Almost. Except, instead of crackling fireworks, individual lives were internally combusting in silence. Even the crying was silent. Dreading to hear news about a loved one, families slouched on dingy waiting room chairs, petrified like insects stuck in amber, unsure of how to navigate their sticky situation. The flickering tube lights overhead were blinding. All visitors, who hunched over in the crowded waiting room, felt alone, like strangers in a bar. A dire winter frost crept into the visitors’ capillaries, freezing them into a state of shock, yet they were panicked by the frenzy of chaos.
If only the buzzing phones, shuffling medical files, and slamming doors would provide insight. Instead, the speechlessness silence endured, as did the frustration, sorrow, and angst. Suddenly, faith transformed the coarse ER canvas into a silk backdrop from which all color released. Eyelids clamped down, hands clasped, and mouths began chanting, hoping, and praying. However, the abandoned colors mixed, causing confusion. Making sense of this deprived all residues of religion, which remained forgotten and emotions flooded the scenes once again. Why do bad things happen to good people? This time, the portrait partitioned. The individuals built membranes around their emotions, attempting to repel external sympathy like a cellular bilayer rejecting lipids.
Abruptly, the double doors swung open with a sliver of light– but the news was only bad, and the anticipation of a positive update dwindled because of the disheartening message. The thawing winter frost unexpectedly transformed into a blinding snowstorm. Finding footing in the downfall was impossible. Finally, when permitted, one by one, they trudged to the patient’s room as if the depleting atmosphere of the waiting room never existed. These moments were savored like the tip of an ice cream cone. The painter’s palette shattered, and the white canvas stripped from its board, replaced with jet black– an absence of emotions, and the presence of reality.
16 Anna Von Kessler ’21
Sons of Men Maggie Parsley ’21
Meaningless Love Letter Harlan Porfiri ’23
Sons of men, where is your honor? What happens to a love letter I ask this of you— that has lost its meaning? You, Once they’re carefully chosen, words are deprived Tenants, thieves, Parasites. of their identity Each breath you take When they have faded from the mind Is stolen. of the author. Where is your honor, sons of men? I have seen you kill a thousand times Does it even carry the purpose it once did? To watch my blood run, black and sweet. Perhaps the words may still remain I have felt you carve and scorch my body, In their state of dreamy oblivion, Heard you consecrate it, piece by piece, To your feckless gods— but without a recipient to take in their essence Where are they now? they may as well have been My back is fit to break, I cannot Forgotten. Will not Carry you forever.
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Fern·weh n. Heather Ake ’20
1. standing on a rooftop gazing into the distance wistfully staring at the horizon
2. remembering the lights the sounds the chaos
and desperately hanging on
3. imagining mountains forests cities
and wanting to reach out and touch them
4. listening to songs
from times long ago
staring out the window
watching the clouds down below
5. where is my heaven
it seems I can only fantasize while I’m stuck
with nowhere to run
and nowhere to hide
Maggie Parsley ’21
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“I don’t think idealism necessarily means being detached from reality. Sure, it’s dangerous to live with your head in the clouds— but envisioning a better future isn’t always equivalent to being naive. So I think the message of this piece is ‘stop condemning people for having big ideas,’ because usually you’ll find that there’s more substance there than you’d think.” -Maggie Parsley ’21 On Cloud Drawing
Kate Becksvoort ’22
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Eva Goldbach ’20 Alexandra Blye ’24
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Heart Contractions anonymous
not as simple as lock and key you barricaded the door with the things he left behind strings frayed from greasy fingers you don’t play your music for anyone anymore but you used to love performing back when you said 2 years would cover 900 miles then he threw things on your stage and spilled fake tears on your precious equipment bricks and mortar where muscle should be you said you didn’t want a love that made sense but you lied because he lied
Heart Relaxations anonymous they bore a hole in your door and handed you the bow it was time to perform again love took the form of many that day as you stood on the stage looking out at the faces of kind strangers they wiped the grease off of your strings and dissolved the mortar they pushed over the wall of bricks and kicked open the door giving way to beautiful harmony you played the song he never wanted to hear but they threw flowers instead of pain on your stage and brought love to life a love that finally made sense a love that was real
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Tin Soldiers: Love and Hate Emma Hamilton ’22 The skull inside my brain, Not the other way around. The pressure pushing on it Like an eastbound freight. The thoughts that try to escape it, You know, The ones of love and hate. My homesick mind was boggled, confused From things on the inside and out. All in an effort to find the key To everything that’s known and seen. To the most curious knowledge of all, The knowledge of war and peace. I, myself, confuse these accusations to be false To rid me of my guilt Created through my many, many faults. The war outside is raging, yet the war inside is here. I want to know what’s wrong with me. Am I honest or insane? I’ve seen what ‘psycho’ looks like. It’s very plain to see. The mirror pictures it very well, These “cliffs of insanity” Is that what in these battles lie? Are they purposeful or futile?
Now, I just laugh at myself, Saying “Oh what a joke.” This two-act play you’ve been staring in The theme once clear is now muddied, And no one truly knows Whether he’s the enemy or friend. Who’s the enemy after all? Will we remember every name of every soul To fight the Nazi war? How about those the war destroyed Without ever really touching The crippled, insane. Oh, the pain of those who cry out Not knowing that it’s all in vain, Not knowing they have no choice, Wanting so desperately to use their forgotten voice. The abandoned ones all alone, The ones who don’t know whether they’ll live to face it. Somewhere inside I picture the dying soldiers With all their mixed emotions. They need someone to love them But want someone to hate. They, like me, can no longer tell which is which You know, Who loves and who hates?
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Adiyogi Astha Sinha ’21
Walking under the overarch-
crescent moon, similar to the
like the Ganga water rush-
door patio is like viewing an
long hair. The bun perched on
audible resonance of ghantas
ing ceiling of the concrete outastonishing shooting star frozen in time. It subconsciously
transforms someone into a
muted state of mind, unaware of the condition around. Hastily, sandals slip off and the
crisp stairs bite my toes when ascended. The ghantas over1
head dangle, eager for a strike, so the sounds can resonate around the pavilion. Sliding
through the ajar glass doors, the ground suddenly changes
to a soft carpet that my chilly toes dive into, searching for
warmth. ‘Isha’ is written in
fluid black strokes. Now, I notice a steel black structure positioned just before the back
wall. It portrays the top half of a man with his chin tilted
up towards the stars and the
one placed in the folds of his top of his head, mythologically, saves earth from the turbulent
waters of the Ganges2. A thin cobra, mid-slither, coils around
his neck, yet the man continues
to display a calm expression. The peace he exerts radiates
all the way through those once chilly toes, that now intensify with heat. Mala beads scatter 3
around his neck, down to his
bare chest as if the presence of a thread does not exist. Inside
this temple, the surrounding walls rise and connect into one
round dome, made for contain-
ing the incense of agarbatti . 4
Sounds rebound: ashirwaad
5
given to the younger genera-
tion in hopes of a rewarding
ing over the Shivling7 and the that travel through the crack
in glass doors. These auspi-
cious sounds disperse trances of enlightenment, which are abandoned when thoughts of
pain and suffering resurface. Meditating requires the proper posture which causes discom-
fort to maintain, but not here. The vibes circulating inside the
dome strengthen the muscles needed for support. Sanskrit8
writing, located directly above, acts as a reminder to live by
religious values -- and these define my actions for the next
week or so, until they dwindle off, pushed into the back of
my mind, almost forgotten.
future, monotonous chants of
the pandit ji6,and softer noises
ritual bell used in Hindu religious practices river in India that is considered sacred, the terrestrial home of the goddess Ganga 3 a string of beads that are used in a meditation practice. 4 incense stick used in Hindu rituals 5 blessings given to someone younger 6 a practicing Hindu priest 7 representation of the God Shiv 8 an ancient Indic language of India, in which the Hindu scriptures and classical Indian epic poems are written 1 2
AnnaKate Stipanov ’21
Maya Bhutwala ’19
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Sana Nisar ’20
mamihlapinatapai n. Heather Ake ’2020 1. small smiles 2. small hands crafted with love fitting perfectly and lit by into another’s palm the light inside
3. looking deep into their soul and gazing into the eternal internal flame
4. each one wishing with their whole heart just to be seen by the other
“This picture was taken in Pakistan, at a rooftop restaurant in an historic part of a city called Lahore. The sign says ‘Haveli,’ the name of the restaurant, which means ‘mansion.’ The restaurant was previously a house/mansion and was converted into a restaurant later on. The word is in urdu, which the main language spoken in Pakistan. When you walk into the restaurant, the sign is the first thing you see.” -Sana Nisar ’20 on Neon Sign Talley Lyons ’21
Anna Von Kessler ‘21
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Priyanka Sud ‘21
About Calliope Calliope, invoking the muse of eloquence and epic poetry, is Girls Preparatory School’s art and literary magazine. The magazine began in the Spring of 2016 when a sophomore student asked her freshman English teacher if she’d help her revive the literary magazine in the upper school. Interested students gathered around the cause and began soliciting work. Every fall since then, Calliope editors have become the stewards of creativity at Girls Preparator y School, propelled by the belief that in the midst of academic and athletic hustle, there is restorative worth in making and sharing art. Through their work as editors, designers, and community-builders, the magazine is carefully curated and serves as a bridge from the solitary nature of creativity to the public celebration of free speech and self-expression.
Alexandra Blye ’24