Daystar Chapbook 2013

Daystar

Daystar

Chapbook 2013

Daystar 2013 The Literary and Art Magazine of Hopkins School

A brief selection of mid-year work from our most dedicated writers and artists

Daystar accepts poems, short stories, and visual art from the Hopkins student body and hosts collaborative meetings to discuss and improve these works. At the end of each year, Daystar’s editors publish a magazine full of student submissions, many of which we have developed as a group.

This year, as part of a movement to restore the magazine to its biannual status, we are publishing a chapbook. This compact collection of works has been our effort during the last few months, and is only a limited representation of the creative talent that Daystar sees throughout the year.

Poems, stories, and visual art may be submitted to the editors: Editor-in-Chief: Gleeson Ryan Poetry Editors: Ameya Calvocoressi and Alec Gewirtz Prose Editor: Aliyah Bixby-Driesen Art Editor: Laura Srivichitranond Faculty Adviser: Chris Jacox

Contents Iris, Saiyara Fahmi............................................…...cover Dancing Peacock, Saiyara Fahmi………....…inside cover Institution, Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein….……………2 Ponte Vecchio, Natasha Sinha……………..….…..…….2 ACL, Precious Musa………….………….......................2 Spit Steps, Andrés González……………….….………..3 Late Stage, Kayla Paraiso………………….….………..4 Flat Iron Building, Sarah Rosenberg……….…..……….5 Jerusalem Skyline, Sarah Rosenberg…..…..……...…….6 The Limit, Garrett Ballard…………….….......................7 MIKA, Samira Bandaru…………………..…….............7 When David Head, Aliyah Bixby-Driesen.......................8 Water for Elephants, Saiyara Fahmi...............................8 Binoculars, Alec Gewirtz..................................................9 Olathe, Alec Gewirtz........................................................9 Fish, Kayla Paraiso………………………..…..back cover

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Institution Griffin Shoglow-Rubenstein

Five prisons down, the prophet wails, Pressed to a padded wall.

A wishful life, too long to fail, Predicts an age old fall.

“Thy father lies,” he shouts past tears, “Of bones are mirrors made.”

Two clouded eyes obscure his years, Child of an older age.

ACL Precious Musa

(A)rks (C)laim (L)ife My eyes are glazed with a dream.

I awaken at times, Only to be shaken by reality.

So I fall back to sleep.

Locked in a dreaming state with the key in my hands, I make a decision.

When reality proves worthy, I will unlock the door.

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Spit Steps Andrés González

The step out of the car was heavy.

The air was no longer fresh Despite the forest Surrounding the massive construction of stone.

This was the dictator’s tomb.

There was no god in that hole in the rock, Nor angels to soothe nature’s positional vertigo.

Only deathly silent, Solemn warfare.

A struggle of bitter souls trying to rise above Crushing pain.

Silently, tensely as if the whole mausoleum might explode At a moment’s notice.

Inside the tomb, the souls fared no better.

Stone guardians—or were they captives? —Gazed down not in Might or glory but in catatonic shame.

“Woe,” they seemed to sigh.

“Woe to we who will never tear our eyes from this valley of guilt and pain”.

We reached the tomb itself.

It was only now a name.

And yet, There was a man.

Tears gasped to escape his eyes.

He looked around, And when he was convinced that his only witnesses were the stones, He spit on the grave And left.

4

Late Stage Kayla Paraiso

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey…”

Her voice never quivered. Her hands never shook as she scooped up a baby-bite of boiled rice and chicken. Her gaze never strayed from the vacant expression opposing it.

But everything buried underneath Lily’s exterior was crumbling: her heartbeat skipped unevenly, her stomach tumbled in distress, and the heavy sputum of heartache built up in her throat.

She slipped the spoonful of arroz caldo into her grandmother’s slackened jaw. A broken person cannot pick up the pieces of another broken person, so Lily pretended to be strong enough for the both of them as she acted out the motions of chewing for her grandmother to imitate.

“…you’ll never know, dear, how much I—“

Chewed rice and spit sprayed her face as her grandmother reversed the process of swallowing. Lily’s next breath came out ragged, but she maintained her composure. She wiped a bit of chicken from the corner of her grandmother’s languid mouth with her sleeve.

Lily pushed her chair back and stood. In the kitchen, she threw out sticky rice grains plucked from her hair.

Napkins in hand, she approached the wheelchair from behind. She reached out to stroke her grandmother’s hair in the same way her grandmother used to stroke hers – so gently, so adoringly, as though her hairs were the most precious fibers in the world.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, so please don’t take my sunshine aw—“

“GAHH! Hunung! Hunung!”

“Mama, Mama, what’s wrong? Mama, please, Mama – English – I can’t understand you. Wala…wala ko kasa– kasabot.”

“Hunung! Tabang! Tabang! Hindi, hindi!”

“Mama, please, English! Do you remember English? Wala ko kasabot!”

Flustered by the language barrier and terrified by the abrupt panic, Lily desperately tried to embrace and comfort her grandmother.

“Biya-i ra gud ko! Hindi, biya-i ra gud ko, putang ina! Bilat, PUTANG INA MO!” the grandmother wailed, flinging her arms against the girl as forcefully as she could, unable to fully control her muscles. Her tremorous hands made contact with Lily’s hair, and she latched on tightly.

“Mama, please, let go, it’s me, it’s just me!” Lily sobbed. Her voice stuck inside her mouth, slurring her words together. Eyes swamped with freeflowing tears, her poise was smashed. She clutched her grandmother’s hands in

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her own – not to pry her hair from the grip, but to pacify her frenzy.

Her grandmother’s feeble body thrashed in the wheelchair. Her elbow caught the half-eaten bowl of arroz caldo and it crashed against the floor. Lily, to impulsively shield her face from the shattering glass, released her grandmother’s hands.

Freed, she hardened her arthritic fingers and smacked her granddaughter.

The slap resonated off Lily’s cheek – the cheek her grandmother used to kiss when it was plump with baby fat.

And with that, the screaming stopped. The slew of Visayan swearwords stopped. The helpless pleading stopped.

And it was silent.

Silent, except for the reserved dripping of spilled soup off the edge of the table; silent, except for the faint weeping of the crumpled girl.

Thick droplets of scarlet bubbled on her palms from the shower of bowl fragments, and a hand-shaped blush distorted her cheek. Her face was streaked with tears and confusion, and all she could think was why.

Why? She lifted her face from her bleeding hands. Eyelashes coated with salty drops, she engaged her grandmother’s steely glare. Her grandmother’s chin jutted out in defiance and her eyebrows were drawn together in animosity. But her eyes reflected a contradictory uncertainty Her eyes were dim. Foggy.

Unfocused.

That was why.

“Mama…Mama, it’s me. It’s Lily. You remember me? I’m your granddaughter, your apo.”

Her grandmother’s eyes remained empty.

“Mama, please, don’t you

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remember me? Your palanggâ? You gave me baths in the kitchen sink when I was a baby, right next to the dirty dishes.”

Lily’s lips trembled as she found no recognition cross her grandmother’s drooping face.

“You would brush my hair and sing in Visayan. You would take me shopping and buy us matching dresses. And every night you would hug me, tell me how beautiful I was, tell me how much you loved me… don’t you remember?”

Nothing.

It was as though her Mama’s heart was as hollow as her mind.

Nothing.

And Lily knew that was all that was left: nothing. There was nothing more that could be said, nothing more that could be done.

Lily stood, smearing crusting blood onto her jeans viscid with rice. She gingerly hugged her now subdued grandmother, and kissed her soft cheek etched with wrinkles.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you…”

Lily bent to pick up the broken pieces. “…so please don’t take my sunshine away.”

7

The Limit Garrett Ballard

High school is where you find out that the world is never going to

change, and that you’re never going to stop wishing it will.

It’s a cycle of monotonous reflection: Depression and excitement, depression and excitement; Opportunities and limits, opportunities and limits; Damning and praising, damning and praising; Back and forth it goes, like a game of ping-pong with God: What can I love?

What can I hate?

What am I? What are you?

If I am this, are you that?

The writhing rolls on: Body and spirit, body and spirit; Philosophy and psychology, philosophy and psychology.

Mind over matter, mind is matter!

Special or not, special or not; The world never changes, The world doesn’t need to. …and the alarm clock rings.

When David Head Aliyah Bixby-Driesen When David heard that Absalom was slain, He sat upon the couch and flipped channels.

His wife returned at six and fixed supper, Pretended not to see his with’ring visage, Slept in the guest room.

He went up to his chamber where he wept And played his iPod on repeat, hoping That music might become for him a shield To cover yet his grief with fife and drums.

Soldiering failed him.

“Would God that I had died for thee,” he said.

He pressed his face against the cold window, He felt the glass against his cheek humming.

He stared into the streetlights’ sulfur eyes.

“Absalom, my son.”

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Olathe Alec Gewirtz

Watch one’s step—how brittle eggshell petals strewn before blooming— recognize a moment they have never seen—hoarse blossoms converging closely rooted and re-opening— nothing in plain sight is wasted.