Hallmarks 2023

Hallmarks 2023

Literature and Art from the Upper School of The Harpeth Hall School

3801 Hobbs Road Nashville, TN 37215

Artwork (left) by Annamaria Bacchetta

Cover artwork by Amelia Olafsson

Whale Poem

Ariadne Vidalakis

To tell the truth, I am really scared of three things: Death, Vulnerability, and Whales.

Whales are so big that their very existence is arrogance. They are the universe’s slimy refrigerator leftovers from the prehistoric era, the scuffed Tupperware of congealed soup it can’t quite bring itself to get rid of.

Their anatomy is so convoluted that the only reason they don’t die of cancer is that they get so much cancer that all their cancer gets cancer and dies.

Their form is basically an enormous blue mass. The only place they can exist is the bottomless blue abyss that is the ocean, so big that all they can do is take up space so that they might make a ripple someday.

Or whales could one day lose their sense of direction and start swimming towards the bottom, not realizing until it’s too late to come up for air.

Whales can use incredibly loud calls to search for others of their kind, but if you get too close the same call is so loud that it can kill you as soon as you hear its plea for company.

If you were swimming next to a whale it it could kill you with one lazy beat of its fins and not even know that it killed someone that only wanted to observe it.

I fear whales, so I know two things: Never take anything for granted, and if you see a whale, Get out of the ocean as fast as you possibly can.

Artwork by Haven Healy

The Girl in the Moon

Priyanka Chiguluri

Goodnight to the girl in the moon, a shadow in hope’s iridescent glow reaching for but never touching shimmering stars that aimlessly drift in endless journeys. She yawns in the darkness and waits for daylight to dissipate her gentle soul into midnight memories, murky clouds that dim her opal eyes.

Every night she imagines and observes from a distance as the soft wind wraps its arms around her, carrying her to dance, freely flowing in autumn’s bitter breeze.

When I look at the inky sky I feel her kind presence and wonder if it's lonely to be so far away from home, so every night I whisper

Goodnight to the girl in the moon.

Artwork by Anna Echols

Freedom Ride

Alexis Turner

On my bike, down the path I go to escape all my fears, worries, and woes. The birds join me as I take flight, racing towards the piercing light. The clouds surround me with their gentle embrace as I begin to float in the endless blue space.

I hear the chirps; I feel the sun's beam. Oh, how I've craved this moment to be at ease.

Up here, my enemies cannot be seen: it's just me, my bike, the birds, and the breeze. As night draws near and the sun begins to set, although it's not time for the moon yet, I pedal back down, returning to the ground.

On my bike, back down the path I go, unprepared to face my fears, worries, and woes. But something strange looms in the air. Suddenly, I’m not burdened by a single care. I’m now bright, beautiful and all too much it seems as my enemies run, and my fears cower away from me.

Confidence and pride root deep into my spine. The world as I knew it has pressed rewind. Everything’s like it was when I was growing up before life got way too tough. It’s as if I’m a little girl again riding her bike for the first time— slowly, faster, then I’m speeding by.

The neighbors would wave; the bees couldn’t catch me. Yes, my bike was the place I felt free. We’d dash around trees, up hills, then back down, startling the dust that had settled on the ground. Inseparable, that’s what we became, and only now was I able to reclaim that feeling that so many years ago made me seem untouchable, like I was on top of the world.

My eyes open—it was only but a dream. I look around to see everything as it should be. Out in the garage, my bike's still in its place, yet to see its next race. For a moment, I stop to contemplate ... if I took my bike and just pedaled away, turning off my anxious mind and letting my legs lead, could anyone intercede? Would I manage to escape and from my problems hide, or would they chase after me and follow close behind? After all, this is reality. Maybe true freedom lies only in the dream.

Artwork by Ella Fridrich

From: The World of Boys and Girls

"You can breathe in the scent of fresh roses, morning dew, and what it's like to be you."

- Bayona Fletcher

Artwork by Amelia Olafsson

Dream-like Reality

Cadman Yarbrough

The full moon illuminates the summer night— stars flickering, bats fluttering.

I feel the cool grass carpet beneath me; my fingers twist each blade— cousins laughing, locusts yelling. Even so summer turns into fall and fall into winter and winter into spring …

somehow in the blink of an eye.

Now I listen to the honeybees and their gentle buzz, the chirps of baby birds begging for worms, the celebratory cheers for the end of another school year.

But what happened to that summer night under the speckled stars?

I try to recall watching the football games under the strobing stadium lights, stuffing my face with pie and turkey, sipping hot chocolate after a long day sledding in the snow, dancing until my feet are numb, walking down Souby lawn in my white dress, roses in hand.

It feels like a dream, a distant reality I can’t quite grasp. Was it real?

For a sliver of a second, I linger on that thought … But then my mind jolts towards the future: College. My first job. My first house.

And once again I surrender to tomorrow— the never-ending abyss of the unknown.

Artwork by Suki Junge

Fleeting Youth

Priyanka Chiguluri

Childhood is fleeting innocence and hope

waiting impatiently to grow up rushing through blossoming memories racing to finish lines

swirls of swift motion careless and unbothered by gazing judgmental eyes but in sudden aging wholesome youth slows its pace and stumbles into lamentations—

Childhood is reflections slowly rippling far away

Artwork by Alex Hu (left) and Jadyn Turbeville (above)

From: No

"It’s not that I don’t have interest— it’s because you said no."

- Viola Muthuri

Artwork by Caroline Murphy

Departing

When dewdrops fell lightly on grass blades, we saw them peering into the live oak. The mother admired it like it was her house, while the father stood on the fence above, disinterested. A few inquiring looks later, the pair left.

When the first yellow rose began to bloom, we saw the mother returning, picking up old reeds and grasses, hobbling away.

Now the showers left the couple hiding in their new home, sleeping peacefully in their cottage.

When the gray sages began to bloom, the mother was tucked away, while the father continued his search for food. A small pearl, the mother’s treasure, is left on their soft grass bed.

Soon, a small face peered out of the hole, seeing the great beyond for the first time.

Soon, the small face became a large face.

Soon, it took flight.

The old leafless trees, nests filled with loud melodies, now sit solemnly.

Allyson Mao

Artwork by Riley Kate Higgins

When Stars Collide

Kelty Jones

a series collection of star-blanched nights easy-earned time on a first-come high we savor each stroke of intangible luck ostensibly in our favor.

we forget where we are the precipice of who we long to belong to as we blonde and blush the sea-spent days away searching for a way to calm our mind a million of a kind overreaching, underdressed, anticipating eternal restlessness and we find it here suppressed as spontaneity finds its way out we shed our self-doubt in the light and preside over a desirable front of who we dare to dream we are

is it not endless, the time we have? are we somehow defenseless, in this sea of glittered vengeance revving our engines, reaping our freshly-sewed dresses breathing the borrowed time of our life?

ten-proof tears on our sunroof smiles as we glide down dance halls, grasping for air as we tumble through fresh-cut glass and stare down the stars.

Artwork by Corinne Pope

A Cause for Celebration

“I promise you it will be the greatest birthday cake! Full of flavor, color, and of course, it is a family recipe. Rooted in tradition!” Chrysanthemum announces to the entirety of southern Georgia’s very own Collection of Dignified Literary Ladies. The more pedestrian name for the group is a book club, but these ladies sneer at the thought of anything pedestrian.

Miss Juliet, the leader, quips, “Of course, Chrysanthemum. After all, your son is turning six-years-old. That’s quite an accomplishment, truly remarkable.”

Miss Juliet has always been a rather rude lady. She is revered in southern Georgia for her immense wealth, unfaultable family name, and gorgeous peach trees. She prefers her comments sizzling hot (and impossible to reply to). No one dares to defy Miss Juliet, or else they face banishment from the book club. Exile is a fate worse than death, for in this circle, your social standing is your lifeline.

Chrysanthemum laughs uncomfortably and silently fumes in her chair. She straightens the fold of her tweed jacket, flips her blonde hair off her shoulder, and forces a smile.

“Well, I cannot wait for you all to attend the party. It’s going to be fabulous.”

Miss Juliet purses her lips, “Yes, I suppose it will be.” She returns to her reading, signaling that she is done with the conversation.

Frantic, Chrysanthemum races home and pours herself into her baking. She smooths her gingham apron and whips out a tattered notecard from her recipe box. “Grandma’s Birthday Cake,” though plainly named, is going to be Chrysanthemum’s ticket to the top.

Spatulas coated in cake batter, sprinkles scattered around the floor, flour spread across the countertops—the frenzy of a desperate socialite is not unlike a wild animal. There is a hunger and determination in her eyes that cannot be tamed, driven mad by the want for acceptance. Her son, Liam, wanders into the kitchen searching for a snack.

“Momma, I’m hungry!”

“Sweetie, Mommy’s busy. I have a cake to bake,” she responds through gritted teeth as she mixes batter by hand.

Josey Beavers

Artwork by Mary Meacham

“I don’t want cake anymore. I want ice cream!”

Chrysanthemum whips her head around with lightning speed: “Liam, do not be selfish. This is not about you. Now, go to your room and play with your toys!”

Liam sulks off to his bedroom, confused and hurt. What is the purpose of a birthday party if not to celebrate the birthday boy? He consoles himself by formulating his birthday wish.

The day of the party of arrives. The crisp Sunday air wafts through the clean house. Spotless windows, trimmed grass, glistening floors, uneasy hostess. Chrysanthemum anxiously waits by the mailbox, scouting for cars filled with judgmental book club members.

Read-ahead Rita arrives with a large gift cradled in her arms. Bookmark Bertha comes and pinches Liam’s cheeks until they are red. I-prefer-the-movie Monique compliments Chrysanthemum’s outfit, but Chrysanthemum is not worried about any of these women. Only Miss Juliet.

An hour into the party, a dark shadow blankets Chrysanthemum’s frail figure. She glances up to see a pudgy woman draped in a velvet party dress and wearing a flamboyant hat, glaring down at her.

it.”

“Truly, Chrysanthemum, your desperation is even more distasteful than that perfume you’re wearing.”

After polite exchanges and typical party games, Chrysanthemum rounds her guests up for a slice of cake. Finally, she thinks, it's my time to shine. She slides her creation onto the tablecloth and scolds Liam for trying to dip his finger into the frosting.

“Ok, let’s all sing Happy Birthday, and then we’ll have some cake!” she nervously exclaims.

Liam blows out all six of his birthday candles and uses his carefully crafted wish. Chrysanthemum cuts the cake and even Miss Juliet indulges in a piece.

She grabs a silver fork and prepares to take a bite, her eyes closed in pleasure. Read-ahead Rita screeches and smacks Miss Juliet’s plate to the ground. The entire party tenses, silence covering them like fog. Rita screams, “Miss Juliet, no! There’s a spider in your cake! A spider! I saw it with my own eyes!”

Everyone glances down at the piece on the floor and notices the insect cocooned in the layer. Appalled, Miss Juliet wheels toward Chrysanthemum and squints.

“Next time, try to keep the animals outside.”

She struts away from the party, taking Chrysanthemum’s pride, as well as the other ladies, with her. Chrysanthemum pouts the rest of the day and never attends book club again.

But at least Liam’s birthday wish came true.

“Juliet, I’m so glad you could make

Artwork by Ellery Cook

From: Can't Calm Your Mind

Artwork by Sarah Jean Caver

"I heard you cut your hair— Your friends can’t take you anywhere, And you’ve still got my tie; Some things are just not worth the drive."

- Sarah Jean Caver

Don't Make Me Be a Woman

Michelle Ikejiani

you didn’t notice when you began to shrink, like blackened paper curling into itself. when you spoke, every sentence became a question; every sentence began with sorry: always asking for permission, always asking to exist, to take up space, to be enough woman

Artwork by Sophia Williams (above) and Genevieve Englert (right)

Alice in Wonderland

Isabella Baldwin

I tread softly on shifting stone or solid sand

With dream-like quickness and haze, Unable to focus on the details swooping by like angry swallows And disappearing again into the night.

I climb down into a cave whose shadows pulse and wait—

The cavernous space empty, until one tumbling sound Makes it echo with fullness, cramped need to escape, to uncurl these thoughts and bring them beyond the confines of my head— Out! And wild with nipping teeth and fitful feet I don’t know where I am, and I don’t see civilization, and these thoughts expand the air around me until I feel alone and as small as the coin in the gambler’s pocket: gone before I’m even there.

The air is tight and more alive than I am. Did you know that we are all living in the sky, submerged in millions of air particles?

It’s a wonder we don’t suffocate.

The skipping breeze, it taunts me in my haze, for I have not traveled so far nor seen so much as it has, And it whispers against my skin, Would it be so bad

To go mad, to forget the hard edges of the world, To renounce the masochism of responsibility and decorum, and submit oneself to the clumsy fingers of life and experience?

Artwork by Luca Cyr

What if we just endured, just enjoyed, just felt, just lived? Would it be so bad

To be stuck prisoner of my mind, To wander aimlessly among my thoughts, To explore without ever knowing, to live without dying, to die after living, to cry after feeling to feel without labeling The well the tears fall from?

And it says, Sip from the air

That drips with dreams and eternal youth; If only I can keep my eyes closed, Then I will never see the wrinkles etch age into my skin—

If my eyes just stopped seeing

And my ears just stopped hearing

And my lips just stopped mumbling through a peppermint smile … then I could see flowers that glisten with the tears of the man in the moon, hear songs in the lethargic ocean of the night, And impregnate my mind with a new world

So much greater than myself and the one I exist in.

I close my eyes against the stinging breeze: Carry me with you, invisible waves; Drown me in experience and beauty and things they can’t see.

But the wind does not listen to a young girl’s pleas, And time does not slow to preserve a dream, For in the end, we always wake up.

Artwork by Allie Cunningham

Where the Sun Can't Reach

LA Thompson

I don’t like the trains in the city— underground, where it should be dark; it should be quiet. But the loud loud loud makes my throat close up. The screech screech screeching makes me want to scream in chorus. The lights are fake— poorly imitating the sun, and the air is dark and heavy and smells like smoke and sweat. I hear the chirp chirp chirping of birds, and I am sorry. They shouldn’t be here where the sun is fake, and it is too too loud, and the air smells of smoke and sweat. And people.

Artwork by Kim Anh Kirschbaum (above) and Connor Folk (right)

I've Tried Again and Again with Time

Michelle Ikejiani

time has become an ever-revolving door where past blurs into present.

i keep yearning for the things i’ve never had, perhaps, relics from a past life.

i think i could fit years into the palm of my hands if i tried, but i have tried, and they tumble out every time.

i seem to be losing track; maybe we got older, or time simply slipped away from us.

if it’s the same place, it’s different now; the weeds are all grown out and you don’t look so majestic anymore.

i want to preserve your memory, so for your sake i’ll tend to your dead plants, release the voices trapped in your broken radio, watch as the dust curling from your curtains fractures in the sunlight.

Artwork by Noelle Regens

Galatea

Hallie Gibson

She is elegance. Carved from marble, dipped in glaze, Her blunt edges were long ago softened beneath the sculptor’s hands. Now the beauty of her beholder, his finest achievement, she is praised for settling into solid strokes.

The sculptor, however, can only view what shines upon her surface. He is blind to the cracks in her foundation, indifferent to her splintered heart. No, he does not realize, that fragile statues inevitably break.

Artwork by Leelee Campbell (left) and Kim Anh Kirschbaum (above)

Rise and Fall

Natalie DiMaria

On the first night:

“We’ll never look back,” we said. We shared stories. We drank from the sea and gagged, giggling away the last drops of revolting water. We never spoke of the journey; we dreamt of luster and riches and mansions so big they could fit our inflated ambitions. We wept that night, for all the friends we’d lost and all the hopeless nights spent patching up skinned knees and digging trenches in the pasty sand. But we never wept for Mother or Father, only wondered. Yes, we looked back that night. We've looked back every night since.

On the second night:

The water was lovely that day, so we had a swim. I can still describe each of the fish: there was a red one with blue stripes, a whole school of black, a great spotted ray with eyes the size of quarters. You swore you saw a shark in the distance, yet you were so calm and delicate, pointing gently over there, because maybe we could take a look if we were careful enough. I swam the other way.

I know Mother would’ve dragged us out, shivering, sputtering, back to the boat and back to the shore. She would have sworn that every one of us on this goddamn island was doomed by our curiosity, and Father would’ve been driven raving mad by her worry. I saw the red outline of his hand across your cheek, but it was only the flush of wind chill. I draped the towel across your shoulders.

On the third night:

The winds are stronger. All our luggage had fallen in the ocean—we’re stuck in these old rags now, not that our others were any cleaner. We couldn’t start a fire on the raft, of course; all our fish were raw. But I always wish I learned to cook. Back before, I hardly had the patience to sit and learn a new skill. I fumbled through a painting just once. I jabbed myself with sewing needles until I gave up, and I bet our teachers called me a natural quitter in the break room. Sometimes, I catch you polishing that strange old tackle you said you’d bought at the market. “It’ll be a family heirloom,” you told me, pronouncing the H. But who buys fishhooks of real gold? More like a set of earrings, if you ask me, too lovely and delicate for Father to spare some generosity.

On the fourth night:

The raft is a prison, greater than our home. And yet, still I wonder: would I become a sailor in this new life? People rarely do what they want, only what suits their competence. That’s how accountants are hired. And if we’ve made it four days in a pathetic little raft, maybe this is my calling.

I wonder about yours. I think you’d rot and die if you were an accountant. Maybe you’d become a radio star. Maybe you simply will be too indecisive to make up your mind, just as always. And in that case, you could come with me. You could navigate, and journal, and sketch the clouds over the sea. Collectors would seek your illustrations as treasure.

On the fifth night:

I’m worried about you. The salt mats your hair; the wind turns your face to an icy pallor.

Artwork by Lulu Kohler

And you’ve watered down the sea with your tears. Yet you’ve never made a sound—not a whimper escapes your lips.

Never leave my side. I tell you the sun will rise; it melts the sand in pools of radiance, and you can bathe in them if you stand long enough. And you tell me you’ll never want to see sand again—you’ve seen enough—because more than we’ll ever see is beneath us and crushed by the tide.

The shore will be made from asphalt, then. And at midday it’s warm, and it never sways or crests. We can rebuild our chalk murals, the great cities with more new beginnings than we could ever dream of, then wait for the tide to wash them away.

Fine, that’s the shore.

On the sixth night:

“Do you think they miss us?”

“I’m sure they were looking for us.”

“Do they miss us?”

Sourly, I laugh. “They’ve stopped looking by now.”

On the seventh night:

The wind could’ve torn through our papery sails and sunk us that night, but it didn’t, by God’s grace or his cruelty. We were catching fish when the sky opened; it soaked the sea with torrents and lightning and so much water you’d drown if you tipped your head. We staggered across the deck, hunched over to keep our faces dry, to put away our bait for a final time.

That damn tackle. Some family heirloom or a family heist. You barely spared me a glance when it slid across the wood, catching on the edge of the boat. I wish it had fallen off. I wish it never gleamed in that sickening light again. I wish you’d just sulked in the funeral stillness of the storm’s wake.

When the wave hit the boat, I screamed. Now, wherever it may be, I wait for the sea to carry you home.

Artwork by Louise Ory

Plenty of Time to Go Insane

Isabella Baldwin

Almost dead, five feet down, I saw them bury me in the ground— Hair of mud and eyes still blue, The body rots and box mildews

But my soul is not yet due.

Fingers numb and void of thrill, Not enough life to quiet and still. Now stuck between the windowpanes: One promises life, one promises pain, And plenty of time to go insane, Walk through walls and solid hearts.

Artwork by Levi Dillon

Hum eldritch love songs to the Dark, So why do your eyes look and see?

I saw you once, but you can’t see me. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

You ask for games when you intrude On the places where I haunt and brood, So, close your eyes, let logic depart— You’ll see more, spook more in the dark Than light would ever dare impart.

A phantom touch— Heart feels the rush. A phantom fear— Shadows that leer. Only dreams can see me here.

Not haunting or cursing or dancing on bones, Just a little curious and little alone. How it is that you make it blush— This pale November skin you touch? But I promise it’s just a little crush.

Or I’m in love like Foehn winds, And it drowns me when the lights go dim. Light a match, Breaths that catch

Until the world is left in ash.

I burn it all and watch it fall Until your heart is festering, raw, Until only the stone stands And shifting sands, But nothing of these tinder feelings that haunt the land.

I won’t tell you, but my still heart beats And plays death’s cheat where shadows creep. Not worth much, is it, in day’s light? Used to pump blood that kept me alive. But now I live on moon-tide time.

Tide creeps up when the sun can’t see To wrap the night in mourning seas. You whisper secrets to hollow air, But trust that I still haunt you there. When night dawns, it won’t feel so bare.

Shadows and chills that crawl like fleas Tease and wonder why I cling to such things. “What is your heart? they sing and coo—

Really only sentimental value, But what else has a girl got to lose?

So, you’ll open your eyes and say goodbye: It’s not enough to see me cry. The light will bring your Clarity, And you’ll forget what eyes don’t see. You’re too old to make-believe.

But remember in your living sleep, Pascal’s Wager applies to me. Your doubt will seep through with moonset— Not a touch nor breath nor kiss to regret. But what is love if not a blind bet?

Artwork by Mia Corts

Doubt a found poem

We traveled afar to find Atlantis, but rivers changed course. The language turned heatedly about and started to move the other way, and You became the water— the only promise You ever made— and You led us upstream against the current against the storm.

We sit holding our helmets like rain-polished skulls. The world throbs and inflates behind the opening. Are we there yet?

We asked You a question, and You knew the answer, but your response was nothing because the person in question was yourself, and on that You were the greatest living authority, but You didn’t raise your hand.

What trophies drift downriver?

Why do You only ever travel towards your own safety? I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach 10,000 stars how not to dance. Why did You keep me waiting?

Sadness in such luxury uneaten.

Evie Moore

Artwork by Lulu Kohler

Dreaming

Mia Corts

I am golden hair that dances in the wind, unmanageable and tangled, but still glimmering softly in the sunlight— the moon glistening a delicate light in the middle of the day like a daydream.

Like riding a bike with no hands, balancing on branches high above the ground, dancing in the streetlight— the longer way home in a rush, just to finish my favorite song; the pink roses that float along the lake, forever dreaming of those I love.

I am a sunlit blue paint stroke covering the gray storm clouds, but just until I settle into my warm bed— a long nap in the afternoon, not because I’m tired, just so I can dream for a bit.

Artwork by Leelee Campbell

Fast

Virginia Callen

I was fast when I was younger. my little sisters, with littler legs, couldn’t keep up with me when I flew barefooted down the street.

I kept going further, faster, around and around my school’s winding gravel track. I needed to add another mile, another foot charm, to my necklace, to catalog my success.

I didn’t run much anymore, but I was still fast. I didn’t waste time when I came home from school; I rushed to my room to get my homework done now and fast.

I was busy, my mind was, too. thoughts raced through my head so fast

I was dizzy with anxiety. I chronicled a to-do list I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t keep going so fast.

I was tired, so tired, from running, trying to win the never ending rat race.

I stopped. didn’t study for my last exam, didn’t make plans with friends, didn’t get out of bed. I could only go slow.

I tried to go fast again but I wasn’t ready, too tired too anxious. I had to go slow before I could be fast, had to speed back up slowly.

Artwork by Lucy Mitchell

I worked hard to catch up after falling so far behind.

but I took time to read a book just for fun, to spend time with people I love, time for me to be slow.

I went slow and noticed what I’d missed; road signs on the highway of my life for attractions I left ignored unexplored.

Now I stopped to visit. I could finally see clearly, without scenery speeding by, the things that matter truly matter to me.

I can be fast again now, driving down a backroad with loud music and loud wind rushing past, racing for myself. but I can be slow too, braking gently and parking so I can stop, sit back, and take in the view for myself.

Artwork by Sarah Jean Caver

Headlines

Kelty Jones

second-hand salt air visceral smoke breathing your city-blonde rippling hope forty feet high, forever young

arms outstretched in my periphery my faulted frame heeds only to fate and the clutch of its lawless hands

sense and sensuality— flickering eyes and warm unreality as your gaze, your compelling intent strips me of my inhibitions

i know i will forever be inhabited by you / reframing what i thought i knew see me for my silent trust / and shallow bated breath

i am unbound, unforsaken as i hold and awaken your attention memorizing your immortal smile are you real?

Artwork by Adelaide Cook

Sometimes

Jesse Harwood

sometimes i wonder what it’d be like to run away from the world i’m in, to visit the places i’ve never known around Saturn’s rings and amongst the stars … and to chase the edge of the universe forever.

sometimes i wonder what it’d be like to love someone as the planets love the sun, constantly revolving around her ever guided by her celestial glow to be reassured that i do belong, to have a reason to stay.

sometimes i wonder what it’d be like to love myself as openly and confident as the sun, to shine and beam every day without an ill-guided thought in my universe.

sometimes i pity the sun to be constantly chasing her other half, shining only when the other’s light is dimmed— the dark to her light— sometimes i am the sun, always wondering if i’ll ever catch up to the one who’s running to catch me, our heavenly paths charted to never intersect.

sometimes i envy the moon: how i wish i could be as alluring, controlling the tides of the ocean without lifting a finger; even Mother Earth kneels at her feet. sometimes i am the moon coming and fading in cycles, rarely fully there yet constant and always haunted by my dark side.

Artwork by Allie Cunningham

Pluviophile

Fields Livingston

The dreary, the gloom, the rustle of leaves, the light the overcast sky produces: water trickles from the clouds above, washing the leaves, watering the earth.

It comes all the sudden: your clothes are soaked, thoughts cleansed, once the first drops pat your face, dropping bags to spin in love created by rain.

Laughing at yourself, now a mess.

Warmth

bubbling inside, sticking your tongue out, tasting tenderness.

Finally inside: windows painted with droplets, music humming in the background, under blankets watching.

Artwork by Louise Ory

Ode to a Ruler

Allyson Mao

Every single math problem, with its twisting maze of numbers, of letters, can always be solved with a ruler— a smooth, small stick, bending the trails of my pencil straight.

A ruler is always well-made: you can bend it, turn it into a catapult; you can hold it like a sword. You can throw it like a dagger.

Everyone has a different ruler—some are different colors: some are wood while others plastic; some with inches and some with centimeters—

each with their own unique set of scratch marks, from the user’s mistakes, from the user’s boredom. Matisses are often found on rulers.

A ruler traverses the world with you. It draws theories beyond knowledge. Its precision never fails.

But if it did,

What would happen?

Perhaps the world will go on. Perhaps the world will burn. Snap!

Marc broke my ruler again.

Artwork by Emma Silva

Turning Fifty

Abby Lara

When you turn fifty, you’re officially old. Suddenly, your sore back makes sense. There's a reason behind your increasingly transparent hands, slightly drooping face, that grunt when you leave a chair.

You tell your children about the near future, when all your teeth fall out; or point at frail, withered ladies crossing the street and comment:

“That’s gonna be me in a few years!”

But remember long ago, when you used to say you’d live to be a hundred?

So really, you’re only halfway there.

Artwork by Jesse Harwood

From: She Says Goodbye

Oh Age, My Friend

Pauline Bailey

Enough! Death to the anti-aging machine! Out with the rejuvenating creams and chemical peels, and fillers, and face lifts.

Forever young is a billion-dollar industry— I will let my hair grow as white as snow.

I will let my fingers and hands wrinkle like raisins. I will let my folds form mountains and hills in my skin.

I will let my face tell stories from when I pursed my lips, and furrowed my brow, and smiled and laughed and sat in the sun. It is not “Oh rage! Oh despair! Oh age, my enemy!”

It is “Welcome, I’ve been expecting you! Oh age, my friend!”

"She realized who she is— and not who she was."

Nina Puckett

Artwork by Pauline Bailey

A Lost Art

Clara Ambrose

Perhaps I should have been born in a different era—one of sooty ink, feather quills, and waxy seals. Sitting at my oversized, second-hand desk, I hear the paper rustle as I coax a notecard out of its envelope. I love the aesthetic of letter writing, the intentional pace, the link to the past, and the relationships it engenders.

It all began in elementary school with a letter to my great grandmother—a formidable centenarian, never without her pearls. This unique and genuine correspondence brought me joy and led me to expand my letter writing to several other senior women in my community. One steadfast correspondent since my middle school years is Alice, the busy church secretary. During the pandemic, I started writing to Mary, a native Nashvillian with a heart of gold. Soon after, I added Bets, a ninety-eight-year-old member of the Quilters Hall of Fame. These women, their letters, and their rich, mature perspectives have taught me so much.

Writing letters has taught me to look beyond superficial appearances. In contrast to the posts that bombard me daily, these letters facilitate authenticity. My bustling mornings allow for just a quick glance in the mirror. Do I look put-together or scattered? Peaceful or anxious? Shy or confident? On days when I don’t like what I see, I take comfort walking past my mailbox on the way to school. I know when I return home I will likely be greeted by a note or two. Bets writes most often, addressing her letters to “Miss Clara Ambrose” in scrawling, yet beautiful script. Reading my correspondents’ thoughtful inquiries about me and my life, I feel seen. In composing a response, full of my reactions to their detailed stories, unhurried and unconstrained by character limits, I see them.

Writing letters has taught me that my worth is not dependent on my academic, athletic, and social performance. When I read notes from Alice describing her days spent at the church, it is clear she cares more about serving others than about being recognized for the work she does as secretary. Her example of ceaseless selflessness has given me a new vision of success, one that is hard to measure. Following her lead, I organize letter writing service projects and make time for candid conversations with friends. This gives me a contentment I do not find from my high school accolades.

Writing letters has taught me that challenging circumstances in my life do not define me. My great grandmother wrote about World War II and the resilience she developed raising four children with a husband away. Mary shared her experience of walking through the stages of grief after losing a sister. As I sympathize with these women, I understand struggle as an inevitable, but not insurmountable, part of the human experience. When I felt lonely moving to a new school, church, and town during the pandemic, I not only had the relationships of my letter writing friends to lean on, but also the wisdom they had imparted. I realized I could weather challenges and perhaps emerge with a stronger character.

I suppose I was born in the right era, as letter writing is a timeless art. Sitting at my desk, reading and composing letters, I have stepped back from the teenage longing for more followers, higher grades, and smooth sailing. Letter writing has broadened my perspective, pushing me to genuinely know others. It has helped me to see myself out of the context of my school, extracurriculars, and social media. I am more than my appearance. I am more than my performance. I am more than my circumstances. I am compassionate thoughts and sincere words dancing across a page and finding my way to others who share my appreciation for the lost art of letter writing.

Artwork by Presley Schick

Super Sisters

Priyanka Chiguluri

I wasn’t allowed to like hot pink when I was a kid because hot pink was my sister’s favorite color: she had hot pink clothes shoes

journals and towels—

everything she owned was hot pink even her favorite pen that sang “Fabulous” from High School Musical 2, the movie we watched together on humid summer days when we were two kids braving the world together gliding through life careless, free without anxiety creeping through our skin

nothing could stop the super sisters not even our parents’ divorce, or moving into houses and apartments in faraway, strange neighborhoods, or our pets disappearing one by one, some because of old age, others because we couldn’t afford to keep them; or changing schools and eating microwave meals because money was tight—

together we were invincible

Now we’re older and moving on, separate states and hundreds of miles plant a gap between us; busy schedules yank us far apart, and our time together floats in fragile text bubbles— we’re particles dissipated by growing up.

But she still loves hot pink, we never lost our courage, and we’re forever connected by childhood memories—

an unbreakable super sister duo

Artwork by Loren Plosa

Traditional Beef Noodles

Allyson Mao

Old hands, Stained with time. Young hands, Stained with inexperience. These hands Stir The soup ever so slightly, Careful not to blemish their tradition.

Windowless but also doorless, The crowd surges like a tsunami In this quiet summer heat. Children loudly slurp noodles, Ignoring the admonitions of their parents.

“How do you sit here Every day Watching others rush towards Their futures and then continue to sit?”

“I sit to protect the Past So we will not forget Where we came from.”

Artwork by Pauline Bailey

The Park That Built Me

Claire Meredith

I don’t go there anymore, but when I did, I would spend hours upon hours playing. While at Percy Priest Elementary, I always looked forward to recess. Talking with friends, running and playing tag, skipping over the jump rope—this playground was my happy place. I can remember going outside for P.E and running around the dark, thin, concrete track cracked by roots of trees. I remember playing games on the dusty, dry grass that would scratch up your knees and hands if you fell, but it was all worth it.

During school, I could hear friends yelling happily, chains of swings squeaking, sounds of whistles calling to go inside, and a hundred conver-

sations being carried in the wind. Even with all this noise, it was still peaceful. I spent five years at that school, but I never got tired of the playground. There were always new activities to do and games to be played.

Small yellow daisies would creep out of the ground and flourish. Vines and branches made the fences their home. Small thin trees would grow into strong thick trees to climb. And even the dry, dusty grass would eventually turn green again. The park made everything feel a sense of belonging. The park would let you play no matter who you were. The park didn’t care what age you were or what class you were in. It gave everyone a home.

After school, the park would still not rest. There was still more time in the day to play. Aftercare kids, siblings of kids, and neighborhood kids, including myself, would play again, too.

The only time that the playground was alone was at night. Then, it would wake back up early in the morning to start another day. When school finished in the afternoon, I remember going back to the park to play with friends. Over and over, almost every day, I would ask my mom to play. It was easy to go back to the park because I lived down the street. All it took was a short walk or bike ride to get there.

Years of memories were created there, and the park gave me so much fun. I didn’t know it then, but one day it was my last day of playing at that park. All the activities and games came to an end, and my time there was done. That is okay, though, because now the park has room for other kids. My leaving has opened up a space for new kids to play, run, smile, and to create memories just like I had done before them. Even though I don’t belong there anymore, so many other kids do, and they will have just as much fun as I once did, too.

Now, when I get home from school, I step out of the car and hear the kids' happy voices echoing from the park. I remember that it was once me. Now, they are simply taking my place that they will one day give to someone else. Old kids leave. New kids arrive. And the park still carries on.

Artwork by Lailah Rucker (above) and Nora Fenelon (right)

Ode to a Pencil

Madi Whiteley

An ordinary Object One I lose Often One I find Lucky One in which I need More

It contains all my Thoughts

Contains all my Ideas

Contains all my Feelings

Contains all my Being

I’ve used you for Notes

I’ve used you for Letters

I’ve used you for Music

I’ve used you for Art

You’ve written all my Words

You keep all my Secrets

You know how I Love

You’ve seen how I Cry

The words we have Conveyed

The hearts we have Touched

The minds we have Changed

But times have changed Too

Because now I Sit

Typing a Poem

How funny to Think

The irony in This An ode To a Pencil One I use No more

Artwork by Suki Junge

Trapped Lightning

Bella Guillamondegui

her weather is the kind where she can feel the tension. she can feel the rain in her bones before it comes, see it in the soul of the sky first nestled on the horizon, then covering the day like a blanket drenched in tears, but still it doesn't rain.

and she can hear her footfalls, her shoes connecting with the pavement, she can hear them better when the air is heavy like that. that soft sound breaks the air over and over and the deep humidity kisses her on each cheek, without fail.

when it's getting darker by the minute, she can feel the storm in more than her bones now. she can feel it in her fingertips. she can’t go inside then: it’s a part of her— her footfalls getting louder, her breath coming faster, her heart rolling like thunder, and the thickness in the air biting into her cheeks. but someone takes her hand. their warm sunlight swaddles her, the opposite of a shiver passes through her and she watches the first raindrops roll down the other side of the windowpane, the sobbing sky, as lightning rips the world in half.

Artwork by Lucy Davis (above) and Ava Elliott (right)

If you had told Elias Henderson several weeks beforehand that his last meal was to be cold oatmeal and stale crackers, he would have shuddered at the thought of such a fate, and subsequently told you to perhaps lay off of the alcohol for a time, because you sounded positively incoherent. If you had, however, informed him of such a prediction after the fact of his demise, he would have been completely unfazed for two chief reasons.

Firstly, as his parents and Sunday school teachers would discover soon after his birth, Elias was not nearly as avid a student of the Bible and other superstitions he lumped into that category (including but not limited to ghosts, knocking on wood, and regular consumption of cabbage) as of facts and logic. Someone who knew him statistically had to make that prediction, and of course you were telling him of the one correct prediction instead of the many hundreds of incorrect ones, for no one ever cares about the incorrect ones.

Secondly, these odds were greatly skewed by the fact that cold oatmeal and stale crackers had wormed their way into his daily routine whenever he didn’t have time to cook, which was practically every day and night. Accounting for his age, height, and various genetic cardiac conditions, this put the odds of this unfortunate culinary occurrence at precisely 19.082%. Not a very impressive prediction at all, he would think. Of course, Elias Henderson wouldn’t currently think of any of this. He wouldn’t be able to think of anything at all. In his defense, he was dead.

Looking at his body now, though, you’d never know it. Although his face did have a certain unsettling pallor to it, that was more a product of his lifestyle than anything else. Nestled in a vast expanse of white sand in a flashy—albeit rumpled—suit, Elias’s inert form could have simply been asleep. And now, rude as Elias’s earthly self may have considered it, it was time to wake him up. At this, the mounds of sand surrounding me began to stir, and rose in a lazy arc to settle into a vaguely anthropomorphic haze. I focused my energy and searched

through the man’s subconscious. Images flashed by: black robes, skeletal forms, evilly glinting scythes. Not a very original take, but it would do well enough. With little effort, I finally drew the sand into a very passable recreation of the figure known as the Grim Reaper. I had never quite understood how such an imposing idol could truly be the most psychologically easy for most people to process, but then again, such mental quirks weren’t in my department, both literally and figuratively. That does, of course, raise the problem of why my tendency to ask these questions exists in the first place. After all, I am really not much more than a glorified marionette created to perfectly execute a function.

My reverie was untimely broken by a snaking bolt of lightning that seemed to come out of nowhere to hit the ground with an ear-shattering boom. When the smoke cleared from my eye sockets, I saw the white-hot sizzle had turned the surrounding sand into a jagged pillar of obsidian glass. Its surface seemed almost polished, and seemed to glow with the reflected light of the blinding white void that stretched above. The sand and the sky mirrored each other in perfect, endless harmony. It was indeed endless as far as I knew, because, though the difference was imperceptible to human eyes, the horizon was missing Earth’s signature slight curvature. With a lazy gesture from my current corporeal hand, a wave of undamaged grains enveloped the glass’s surface, submerging it in the blink of an eye. Distraction removed, I turned back to Elias. As much as I disliked these brusque reminders, the office was right: I was getting off schedule. Even here, a place beyond time, I was never allowed to waste it.

Ariadne Vidalakis

Artwork by Kelly Aquino

Side Character Chronicles

Caroline Luttrull

Everyone has their own story— their own characters, their own beginnings.

Who am I in your story? A chapter?

(Or a footnote?)

Am I the side character to provide a comforting shoulder or be comedic relief?

Do I make it to the ending?

Artwork by Blessen Jolobi (right) and Reagan Nisbet, Alexine Stewart, Mary Roper, Mary Alice Pierce, Maggie Petty, and Lillian Yarbrough

(clockwise from upper left, above)

We ought to give thanks for all fortune: if it is good, because it is good; if bad, because it works in us patience and humility.

- C.S. Lewis

From: At Thanksgiving

Sarah Jean Caver

My story may read differently than yours, but I believe being a Harpeth Hall girl is not just a title we share in common. We are taught by the same teachers, read the same books, and wear the same plaid while still holding individual hearts and minds. We have been battered by

different battles, but we all come out a little more patient and humble each time. This can be the one thought that you share around your Thanksgiving dinner table this year—and what I can remind myself of when I see the empty chair at mine. My brother’s loss brings me an unimaginable amount of sadness; it is "the bad" that C.S. Lewis speaks of that I must carry. But when I see your faces, I am reminded of the letters I’ve saved for three and a half years, the orchid that dwindled but whose sentiment remains, and the wave of understanding that still pours over me. I hope no one ever has to endure a grief such as mine to experience and notice that this is a community of understanding and care. I ultimately wish to leave this school a better place than I found it, but you beat me to it Harpeth Hall. You have already made me better than I was when I came. Of course, when I entered this place beloved, I had no idea what would happen to my family or that I would gain another because of it, for you are a family of mine now. Yours are the arms that wrap around me to remind me that I have never been alone in this journey, and that is what I am grateful for this Thanksgiving.

Artwork by Sarah Jean Caver

Twenty Years of Patton

2003-2023

Twenty years ago, a beautiful new building came to grace our campus. Donated by Robin Ingram Patton ‘84 and designed by architect Baird Dixon, the Patton Visual Arts Center immediately became the hub of creative activity for Harpeth Hall’s visual art students. To this day, it remains the school’s go-to place for artistic innovation and imagination. In addition to the stunning artwork produced within its inspirational walls, Patton is home to Harpeth Hall’s many award-winning publications—from Hallmarks itself to Logos, Logos Now, and Milestones. Our staff is keenly aware that publications like ours by no means would have achieved a history of success without the building that we call home.

Artwork by Kate Morad (above)

Scholastic Contest Awardees

Year after year, Harpeth Hall writers and artists earn awards in the annual Scholastic Art & Writing contest. In fact, in the Southern region, Harpeth Hall is always one of the top schools in terms of students recognized. As a staff, we are pleased to list the awardees from both our Middle and Upper School. Please know that while some of the authors cited in these pages do have work in Hallmarks, other forms of writing (like literary analyses, research essays, personal reflections, and more) may not be reflected here. So, this is our chance to recognize and celebrate all of our winners for their achievements. Kudos!

Artwork (left) by Carole Waltemath

Artwork (above) by Lilly Cashen

Scholastic Contest • Art Awardees Sophie Hong

Zarai Armstrong

Kelly Aquino

Pauline Bailey

Sophia Baldwin

Neelam Bittles

Virginia Callen

Lilly Cashen

Sarah Jean Caver

Adelaide Cook

Ellery Cook

Allie Cunningham

Luca Cyr

Mae Eads

Conner Folk

Ella Fridrich

Hallie Gibson

Madison Goodman

Jesse Harwood

Haven Healy

Riley Kate Higgins

Alex Hu

Suki Junge

Lilly Kapanka

Luna Kear

Kim Kirschbaum

Lulu Kohler

Abby Lara

Niamh Manning

Ivey Mayes

Amelia Olafsson

Louise Ory

Mary Alice Pierce

Sophia Rokas

Lailah Rucker

Presley Schick

Eliana Slobey

Corinne Smith

Britton Staley

Carole Waltemath

Artwork (above) by Hallie Gibson

Artwork (left) by Gracie Meriwether

Scholastic Contest • Writing Awardees

Amelia Alexopoulos

Linden Alldredge

Clara Ambrose

Isabella Baldwin

Josey Beavers

Lily Bowen

Sarah Braam

Kate Maree Brewer

Virginia Callen

Priyanka Chiguluri

Madison Chung

Courtney Couden

Shaffer Dale

Kiran Dhillon

Natalie DiMaria

Meronica Forrester-Kent

Macon Fowler

Hallie Graham

Greta Haroldson

Sarah Hinds

Kelty Jones

Jamisyn Larkin

Maggie Meacham

Claire Meredith

Adelle Pitts

Anushri Ray

Alston Riddick

Cailin Rork

Aza Scheele

Rebecca Settle

Alexine Stewart

Lily Anne Thompson

Jadyn Turbeville

Ava Willoughby

Artwork by Neelam Bittles

The Staff of Hallmarks

Editors-in-Chief: Conway Bettis, Virginia Callen

Chief Layout Editor: Loren Plosa

Additional Editors: Sarah Braam, Libby Coltea, Leah Fremont, Hallie Gibson, Nina Hartmann, Suki Junge, Allyson Mao, Lilly Meyer, Hannah Mosley, Amanda Pensinger, Eliana Slobey, Ariadne Vidalakis

Faculty Advisors: Joe Croker, Jackie Powers, Emy Sanderson

Copy Editor: Denise Croker

Artwork (left) by Lilly Kapanka

Artwork by Ryan Van Mol