Painted Words Art & Literary Magazine 2012

painted

words

north brunswick township high school | art & literary magazine | 2011 - 2012 | volume 26

e d i t o r ’ s

n o t e

In the creation of this year’s P������ W����, we began at the beginning of life. We used as a basis a ternary theme: roots, growth, and reflection, the first and second of which were illustrated on the cover.

Although our theme is not the most conceptually original, we made every effort to make it stand out among other roots-, growth-, and reflection-based magazines. This year, we took a layout risk that will perhaps mark a turning point in P������ W���� history: we freed ourselves from the confinement of template, yet, somewhat paradoxically, managed to maintain what we like to call “classy consistency.”

We stressed growth, the progression of life, by ordering our photographs and writing in chronological order according to images and impressions that are indicative of a particular period in everyone’s life. As rain refreshes old life and brings new life to earth, never failing to signify birth whether literally or figuratively, a photograph of grass and rain introduces this book. From there, the point of birth or rebirth, we move through the stages of life, pointing to the emotions that scatter the seeds to meaningful, artistic expression. Some are truly poignant, some are too predominant in existence to be worthy of attention beyond their moment in the spotlight, and some are so concealed that their very existence is doubted or denied.

You will witness chapters on childhood (remember crayons? remember eating them, some of you?), reckless and revolutionary teenage years, abandonment, the power of society, falling in love, thinking that you have fallen in love, painful disillusionment, plateaus, wrath, nostalgia, liberation, forgiveness, the acquisition of wisdom. Death. Remembrance.

The final page of artistic content is a photograph of eggs, which, like grass and rain, are a telltale symbol of birth. We are back at the beginning.

After all, doesn’t the progression of life lead invariably to the cycle of life?

In your hands at this moment, you have in essence the journey of living—all of its stages, ages, sorrows, regrets, joys, memories, and beauty— depicted the way most of us will remember it. Although individuality and freedom of deviation are exciting, maybe every so often we can acknowledge that our roots are joined, that we are all branches of the grand tree of art (that is, if you’ll accept that humans were bred by art), and maybe even find that liberating too.

Sincerely,

Lana Li Editor-in-Chief

ADVISORY BOARD Grace Molina Michael Buchman

EDITORIAL BOARD Editor-in-Chief Lana Li Managing Editors Maria Diaz Yasmin Ramadan Creative Director Abigail Bonett Literary Director Damini Pandejee Art Director Aqssa Mohammad Copy Editor Emily Scialabba Poetry Editor Meryem Uzumcu Art Editor Chris Roman Prose Editor Natacha Schroeder Photography Editor Randy Irarragorry Secretary Haley Gorda

LAYOUT BOARD Lana Li Maria Diaz Abigail Bonett Yasmin Ramadan

LITERARY BOARD Molly Kuchler Zil Naik Sarah Ahmed Nichole Maldonado

ART BOARD Brandan Calhoun Rachel Schroeder Taylor Young Alaina Rubin

GENERAL STAFF Amanda Glebus Emily Nora Jamal Miri Laura Curry Danielle Gary

PAINTED WORDS is the award-winning, non-classroom supported art and literary magazine of North Brunswick Township High School in North Brunswick, NJ. Published once a year, PAINTED WORDS features the best poetry, prose, visual art, and photography created by students and staff of the school.

98 Raider Rd. North Brunswick, NJ 08902

Interested in joining the PAINTED WORDS staff? Send us an email at NBTHSPaintedWords@gmail.com and request to be added to our contact list. No experience or application necessary— just an interest or passion in art, reading, and/or writing.

Submissions Guidelines 1. Only students and staff of NBTHS are allowed to submit work.

2. Any student from any grade is welcome to join the club and become a part of the selections process.

3. Any student from any grade is welcome to submit an unlimited number of works for consideration.

4. Each art and literary submission is evaluated and selected for publication by a staff comprised entirely of students.

5. Each submission is evaluated on a scale of 1 to 5 by four editors or staff members; the higher the score, the more likely a submission is to be published.

6. Submissions receiving scores of 16 or higher are almost always selected for publication, while taking into account layout, suitability, and pairing.

7. Submissions receiving scores between 13 and 15 are sometimes considered for publication, while taking into account layout, suitability, and pairing.

8. Selections for magazine publication are based on creativity, originality, talent, and overall quality.

9. All submissions are reviewed blindly by a committee of objective and dedicated staff members.

10. All submissions are, if necessary, subject to edits made to improve clarity (i.e. grammar and punctuation). Editors do not reserve the right to alter the meaning of any of the submissions.

“Storms make the oak grow deeper roots.”

—George Herbert Cover illustration by Abigail Bonett.

t a b l e

o f

c o n t e n t s

birth, childhood, early, middle, adolescence late adulthood Crosshatching Randy Irarragorry 4 The Struggles Within Me Christine Yip 6 Artistic Flavor Stef Romatowski 7 Innocence Andre Sousa 8 The House of Numbers Huafeng Fan 10 Boxes Emily Scialabba 10 Post-Apocalyptic Tetrus Tatianne Chizualum P. Ezeonu 11 Shoes Randy Irarragorry 12 The Call Savannah Robertson 14 The Beauty of Hope and Rebirth Brandan Calhoun 15 Let the Ignorance Shield Us Joanna Kuldinow 16 What It Means to be a Soccer Player Aryana Paley 18 The Problem with Acting Normal Molly Kuchler 18 Chase Like Wild Lana Li 19 Vantage Ground Javier De Peña 19 It Doesn’t Matter, No One is Perfect Randy Irarragorry 20 Envy Aryana Paley 22 Society’s Girls Haley Gorda 23 When I See a Secret Molly Kuchler 24 Dancer Steph Novak 25 Petal Aqssa Mohammad 26 A Tone So Lovely Anizette Rodriguez 28 Aquatic Eruption Randy Irarragorry 29 Four-Letter Words Joanna Kuldinow 30 The One Daisy Ruiz 30 City through a Lens Elvin Rios 32 The Huntress Instinct Steph Novak 34 Sleeping Giant Stef Romatowski 35 Fighting Flamingos Stef Romatowski 36 Overthinking Lana Li 38 The Shut Ups and Shushes Lana Li & Nikil Revuri 39 Sea Glass Aryana Paley 40 Male Gaze Meryem Uzumcu 41 Lacework Heart Nikil Revuri 42

43 Tree by the Sea Chris Roman 44 Self-Portrait Abigail Bonett 46 Harry the Puppeteer Abigail Bonett 47 With Grandma Abigail Bonett 48 Bruise His Heel Abigail Bonett 49 Inevitable Apprehension Abigail Bonett 50 The Bluest Eyes Victoria Link 51 The Destruction of Ideology Jacklyn Romero 52 Ruins of Literature Daisy Ruiz 52 An Untold Story Marcelino Garcia 54 Gray Top Hats Maria Diaz 55 Iconoclasm Roshni Shah 55 The Fathers Michael Santa Maria 56 Freedom Yasmin Ramadan 57 A Beautiful Mistake Brandan Calhoun 57 Empty Room Abigail Bonett 58 My Footprint Brandan Calhoun 58 Something Space-Time Cannot Comprehend Marissa Gravesande 59 Dictatorship Javier De Peña 60 Uprooted Lana Li 60 More Than Branches Lana Li 61 Hi-Res Self-Portrait in Weeds Michael Buchman 62 Nick Gracie Giglio 63 The Demolition Abbey Barker 64 Send in the Clowns Chandler Gorda 65 Hung Lana Li 66 Have a Rose, My Dear Steph Novak 67 Flames Gracie Giglio 68 A Taste of the Spectrum Brandan Calhoun 68 From the Perspective of a Beta Fish Peter Grace 69 Stone Soul Nikil Revuri 70 A Flowering Blessing Aadil Rizwan 70 Egg Katie Farina 71 Editors’ Biographies

four

Crosshatching

by Randy Irarragorry digital photograph

five

by Christine Yip

The Struggles Within Me Irritated by the smallest things, Annoyed by the words that have been said, Upset by the things that have been done.

All this anger is bottled up inside me Just waiting for the last straw.

Anxiously wishing to explode, Eager to release all this rage Trapped in my body.

Anger corrupts my mind, And taints my soul.

This foul demon, Contained inside of me Tries to claw its way out.

I feel it flowing to my face, My throat, my hands.

I can’t repress it anymore.

I feel like screaming and punching things.

My face is contorted with rage.

It’s burning with fury.

I can’t control it, I muffle my screams into my pillow.

I instantly feel better.

It feels so relieving to let this demon out.

But I know, This fiend will soon find its way inside of me again.

For anger is a disease that spreads like a wildfire.

This beast always manages to seize control of my body, But I can’t do anything about it, And I hate it so much.

six

Artistic Flavor

by Stef Romatowski digital photograph

seven

eight

Innocence

by Andre Sousa digital photograph

nine

The House of Numbers

by Huafeng Fan

They swirl around me.

Intricate patterns formed at every angle.

The x, the y, the z They fill my brain.

I can’t see anything They have hijacked and clogged my system.

I run to the library Faster…

I must solve it…

Blurry Can’t see anything except The equation The x The y The z.

The books are falling apart No more consciousness of what I am doing.

How did I get into the dumpster?

When did I buy mcdonalds?

I knew that dividing by zero was a bad idea.

Boxes

by Emily Scialabba

My life is a field of boxes.

And I am stuck Carrying them, Living inside them.

There are boxes made of splinters Which will hurt you Make you bleed An attempt to escape.

And then there are boxes made from water You try to hold it And it slips through your fingers Revealing its impossibility.

And there are boxes with glue on the base Pinning you down, trapping you Leaving you screaming; “Pull me out! Save me!”

Some boxes are sound proof Blocking people from hearing your words Or that only let them hear The wrong things you say.

Boxes that shatter Made of glass, they break at the touch The explosion massive God forbid a mistake is made.

I’m tired of living in boxes.

They constrain me Suffocate me Keep me from living.

I need to break them all Somehow, let them fall to ruin.

And I know I can.

Guess who just got a hammer?

ten

Post-Apocalyptic Tetris ceramics sculpture by Tatianne Chizualum P. Ezeonu digital photograph by Brandan Calhoun

eleven

Shoes

by Randy Irarragorry digitally enhanced photographs

twelve

thirteen

The Call

by Savannah Robertson

Last December, I dialed a number I hadn’t in years: my father’s. I stood in my kitchen, hands trembling, and listened to the dial tone. In my mind, this was a moment pregnant with meaning, an act of forgiveness on my part; a pardon. I remember the exact moment when my father’s voice broke on the line, the way it erased from my mind years of resentment and anguish, the old familiar leap in my heart. In a second, I felt years of missed recitals and forgotten birthdays disappear, replaced by a strange joy at simply being acknowledged. My father asked questions about my life to which he should have already known the answers, and I cheerfully filled him in. After a brief conversation, he told me that he had to go, asked me to take down his email address, and hung up the phone.

After I’d placed the phone in its cradle, and the spell of my father’s charm had worn off, a wave of realization washed over me. I had been dismissed, albeit tactfully, as one would dismiss someone who was selling something they had no real interest in purchasing. Sitting on my kitchen counter I began to recount every ploy for my father’s attention I’d ever made and to render them all useless. For seventeen years, I had vied constantly for my father’s approval in one way or another. In the years since we’d spoken last, my phone number and address had not changed. I had lived a manageable distance away for all seventeen years of my life, and he had rarely visited. In essence, I had been offering a place in my life all along, and my father had politely said “no thank you” time and time again.

To my surprise, I didn’t find myself feeling angry, sad, or slighted. In fact, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. In forfeiting his place in my life, my father had taught me an invaluable lesson about myself: There is no failure, no rejection, which I will allow to define me.

For me, this experience will forever be reminiscent of my coming of age. It marked the beginning of a period of autonomy in my life. Knowing there was essentially nothing I could do to gain my father’s approval allowed me to exist as an individual, rather than a composite of qualities I felt would impress him. I realize that I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by people in my life who are far better examples, and also far more worthy of my deference. I think often of my stepfather, who could have viewed my presence as a burden, but who instead embodies fatherly pride, loving me without question or condition, and I know the meaning of integrity. Integrity is doing the right thing wholeheartedly, not because someone else is watching, but because you know it is the right thing to do.

“In essence, I had been offering a place in my life all along and my father had politely said ‘no thank you’ time and time again.” fourteen

The Beauty of Hope and Rebirth

by Brandan Calhoun digital photographs

fifteen

Let the Ignorance Shield Us

by Joanna Kuldinow

The order came from up high, I heard from some of the guys that everybody was in on it.

I wasn’t prepared for how it went down The training didn’t help Not when they were real people.

Not when I could see their face, or hear their voice.

It all just seemed like something my kid brother would be in on.

They all looked like him after that.

They camped, They stayed withstood everything that we threw at them They should have just gone home.

But they didn’t.

sixteen

It started getting worse.

The spray felt heavy in my hands, They don’t have a shield, So their arms were raised to shield their eyes.

The cries didn’t settle.

Six months later The truth came.

It made my stomach churn and clench.

It made me cry out into the night.

To this day the tension hides just under the surface.

Ignorance has been lost.

seventeen

What It Means to be a Soccer Player

by Aryana Paley digital photograph

Someone needs to tell me why I can’t ever think straight, There has to be a reason I can never concentrate.

Help me understand that I am not the only one?

I promise and I swear that there is nothing wrong with me.

I don’t feel anything like the emotions I used to Did someone turn the dimmer down on my impressions too?

I can’t tell if this is normal, no one else says the same.

But I really do believe that there is nothing wrong with me.

Where has the motivation gone, that huge and blinding spark?

I have no idea where I’m going when I’m so lost in the dark “Well, everyone has those days when they just don’t care at all...”

I have them all convinced that there is nothing wrong with me.

I’m guessing I’m alone in this, I’m not sure of anything Maybe it’s cliched but I think truth has lost its ring There’s no way a girl so blinded by life could really hope to see, I can’t tell anymore, so maybe...something’s really wrong with me

eighteen

The Problem with Acting Normal

by Molly Kuchler

Chase Like Wild

by Lana Li

Rushed goodbyes to your bed And you’re off to chase the rising sun, A pursuit that becomes one of a train: It stops, watching only the clock.

A tiger it is, dressed in zinc, Silver, and styrene plastic and Powered by electricity.

Electricity. Immediacy.

No time to think, No time to slow down For a dancing heart Racing with savage hands.

You run, shove, dodge, hope.

Hope that the insentient beast will Think to look back, rest, and Wait for you to catch your breath, Breath you’ve wasted on an electric Sleigh. But a feline is independent; Slave, you are, to it.

Remember, though, that it is soulless, That you are not inferior.

You, too, can feel the wind.

Vantage Ground

by Javier De Peña digital photograph

nineteen

twenty

It Doesn’t Matter, No One is Perfect

by Randy Irarragorry film photograph

twenty-one

twenty-two

Society’s Girls

by Haley Gorda

They bend and break their bones, Trying to fit a Barbie-doll mold.

Hidden in bathroom stalls, Hanging from a measuring-tape noose.

In the name of beauty and the fight for love– Love for themselves, and love from another They will kill themselves.

Envy

by Aryana Paley digital photograph

twenty-three

When I See a Secret

by Molly Kuchler

A random name shows up in conversation, Through a spark in her now-interested eyes I see faster covered-up emotions, Than I’m ever meant to really recognize.

I watch closer for betrayal of the hidden, A nervous twitch or falter in her tone, I can’t assume or guess I see the reason, I won’t pretend to understand what I don’t know.

Sometimes they’ll open up and share the stories, Most times I’m left to wonder on my own, When it’s as subtle as a short ironic statement, Or as obvious as the side she’s never shown.

If you’re still surprised by all the small connections, You really should take time to let it go, Though I’ll admit that I’m scared of the reactions, I’m still amazed at all the things I don’t know.

twenty-four

Dancer

by Steph Novak digital photograph

twenty-five

Petal

by Aqssa Mohammad digital art

twenty-six

twenty-seven

Aquatic Eruption

by Randy Irarragorry digital photograph

A Tone So Lovely

by Anizette Rodriguez It’s lovely yet overbearing Seeing his cheeks sprinkle with a heavenly tone That is of fresh rose petals.

It reminds me of a new lit sky Whose body shines from its peeking sun Fiery, yet taming.

This tone Explodes across the surface of his head Along with the irises of my eyes Like the scattering seeds of a pomegranate And just like bleeding wolfberries That stain the tip of its thorn The opaque tone slowly bleeds Along his every line and angle Becoming a velvet mask for just an instant, For the spur of the moment It breaks my heart to see something so lovely So fiery yet heavenly, Disappear the next second So now I’ll just stay hanging by every moment That I see your face flutter with humility Giving off a romantic color, Leaving its vibrant stain On everything I do or see.

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

Four-Letter Words

by Joanna Kuldinow

My mother always told me To never say four-letter words That is, someone is Never to repeat them So no, I will not repeat them.

Ladies don’t use four-letter words.

You can use them all you want, But those words will never Pass my filter, If they try to escape my brain I will stop them.

Because people like me, Don’t use words like that.

Please don’t take it personally, Don’t be so touchy.

What’s the big deal.

Its just a word.

Another four-letter word, It doesn’t mean a thing, It’s the feeling that matters.

Not the words used to describe it.

The word means nothing.

Anyone can say it.

And the meaning of the word is lost on me.

Because ladies don’t say four-letter words. thirty

The One

by Daisy Ruiz digital photograph thirty-one

thirty-two

City through a Lens

by Elvin Rios digital photograph

thirty-three

The

Huntress Instinct

by Steph Novak

The moment is stifling.

I can do nothing but cross my fingers And hope for the best.

We are strong, Yet even the strongest have moments of weakness.

I do not move as time unravels.

It seems as if everything is suddenly fast forwarded.

Inside of me is a growing intensity, One that rivals that of a predator, A huntress, Though I am not physically attacking anything.

The voices and faces around me just form a spectacular blend of color, Light, Cacophony, Confusion.

Everything is soon blocked from my senses.

All but my target are vaguely acknowledged.

I make my approach: Nimbly, Powerfully, Proudly.

Contact has been reached.

Instead of receiving the onslaught, An opponent dodges it, fear lingering in her features.

Our gazes meet, She recoils from the net.

Inside my eyes is a ferocity I have never known, But am proud to embrace.

Watch me.

I will hunt my target, That ball that everyone is so worried about, And crush it down.

Teams will meet me with a humble nervousness.

They will learn to cower when my glare meets their stares.

Here’s a friendly warning: You’re next.

Don’t mess with me.

thirty-four

Sleeping Giant

by Stef Romatowski digital photograph

thirty-five

Fighting Flamingos

by Stef Romatowski digital photograph thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

Overthinking

by Lana Li digital photograph

The Shut Ups and Shushes Scatter to the wind, the little things.

Picked up by the amber beaks of finches Just freed from canvas: memory’s clasp.

Perfect prized seeds of moribund still life Lie in wait to sprout, then reminisce.

by Lana Li & Nikil Revuri

Swimming feebly in vernal flurries, Songbirds to silence, cast into shadow; Notes of remembrance, embrace, foresight.

The ripples swallow, now dying in the sea; Hear your ghost speak to you.

Only chips of tattered husks remain; Somersault into memory, a golden feat; And tempt us to a voiceless journey.

We look to the sky, seeking feathers, And find ourselves breathing identity.

Crumbling, we turn to dust: Ashes flitting around like child acrobats.

Yet the echoes sail to us, gyre with us, As we knit ourselves with the blue, Forgetting past, forgoing future.

Empty shells crack at the seams; young Whispers gape through the porthole.

Unbidden intuition guides; with caution, We step. Wings of ash remodel; to light, We spread. Our old voices reply.

As we let the rising sun lave our skin, We are alate: peppy grains in the wind, Hunting history, forming one retrieved voice.

The marvelous invention of a mute deity, Or just a fantasia. Phantoms in my mouth.

Leave wary minds behind. Fewer voices, Fewer sounds lifted to the wrinkling sky.

Just a quick brush upon cold, waiting lips; Unbounded, avulsed from freedom. It’s safe.

Sigh.

thirty-nine

forty

Sea Glass

by Aryana Paley digital photograph

Male Gaze

by Meryem Uzumcu Lacy daintiness adorns her wispy strands of hair Porcelain lips dance with her fleeting eyes Old men pinch her cheeks, fingering the fleshy nostalgia of feminine youth Patronizing nettles, rhythmically stinging with every intellectual thrust Their words, like a sweet milky dream, pacifying a feral foal.

Young men gaze, preserving her into the glass jar of their dark perversions They first undress her, slipping off her outspoken negligee Next her endearingly quirky brazier Until her once effervescent body lays limply in his unforgiving, calloused hands Her bones chipped like delicate seashells, Her skin thinned with turpentine, trembling Her weary eyes, darker He watches her, Taking her in, Swallowing her whole, like a serpent ingesting its prey: a once smooth, alabaster egg, Now fractured and disemboweled.

forty-one

Lacework Heart

by Nikil Revuri Abandoned avenues wander, Shouldered by swaying trees, Cast in shadow, leaving stiles In darkness. The grassy paths, The deep carved channels, the Recesses of my mind, the intricate Routes, dusty pathways, untrodden, Debris strewn, emotion left Unwanted, dirt lanes in my heart.

Cold and frost breathe their silence, Chilling landscape to bone, leeching Warmth from feeling, shriveling Fruitful waste, tamping the embers Out. Tattered cloth on the bodies, Arms upraised stakes, legs worn planks, The human forms beaten down By glacial suppression.

The lacework of courses meet, Converge at a point, a door, Massive, oaken, weathered, But secure, worn by the uses.

Sieges withheld, battles prevented.

Inside stands the city, a haven from Passion, the residents ignoring The creak of the wood, tension in Grain, bowing in resignation of duty.

The lacework of courses start, Diverge from a point, a dam, Bowing, tenuous, water-whipped, Built to withhold, bar, eradicate, The raging torrent behind, twisting, Snapping, tearing into wood; Frustrations, dreams unrequited, Forgotten, abandoned to the past, Assumed waste and misbegotten.

Cracks, like veins, spread, Sounding above the tempest.

Like so many surging beasts, Ripples like muscles, raging Against the space confined, burst Through, wood morphing to splinters, Like the serrated edges of untethered Passion, water’s paroxysm.

Frustration, boiled passion, Streaks down avenues, shattering Silence, turning desolation to chaos, Raising the undead emotion, refuse of Haven. Seething, the wave rushes Through the tree-bound pathways, and Greets the solidity of the doors to haven.

It explodes light lightning, then floods.

The elements of stability swept away, Houses like prisons, leaving beds of roses, Fences like barricades to open fields, Lanterns like sentries to the mother moon, Overthrowing peace for spiraling chaos. forty-two

Tree by the Sea

by Chris Roman digitally enhanced photographs

forty-three

forty-four

Self-Portrait

by Abigail Bonett graphite and colored pencil

Featured Artist

Abigail Bonett

Abigail Bonett was born on April 27, 1995. Abi is a spunky, aspiritional adolescent, who takes pride in her love of God and in her academic diligence. She is a junior at NBTHS and loves to draw and paint. “Art is my passion,” she says. “I could never see myself doing any thing else.” Bonett discovered her love for the arts at a very young age, and persisted in developing her skill because she simply “never stopped coloring and doing the arts and crafts that all little kids do.” Whatever her methodology, the meticulous beauty that resides in her work is evident.

forty-five

Harry the Puppeteer

by Abigail Bonett pen and ink

forty-six

With Grandma

by Abigail Bonett colored pencil

forty-seven

Bruise His Heel

by Abigail Bonett ballpoint pen

forty-eight

Inevitable Apprehension

by Abigail Bonett wire sculpture

forty-nine

fifty

The Bluest Eyes

by Victoria Link digitally enhanced photograph

by Jacklyn Romero

The Destruction of Ideology Keep your head down.

I see the ground through my chadri, Crunching and giving way to my sandals.

The sand disperses quicker, We must be late.

I peek No dress, No turban, Adorned with foreign robots.

They separate and come together, Whispers, Clandestine meetings.

Patterns beneath my knees, Who we are and where we’ve been, Prostrate in the direction of salvation.

I feel her hands before I feel the earthquake, The patterns disappear, She was a gazelle.

Lost in dust.

Putrid air fills my sponge.

The robots sing.

She does not look back, Steadfast in her escape, The gazelle pushes forward.

Wind whipping my back, Watching the wreckage Through stinging eyes, I see what my mother doesn’t, I see the end.

fifty-one

An Untold Story

by Marcelino Garcia

The untold story, the elephant in the room and the sound of his own breath were a constant in his mind. He was as human as anyone, with human habits and hobbies.

If his life were a blanket, he would have put it together using many different fabrics and textured swatches from all of his foot leavings. His memories and routines had become a colorfully woven collection of existence. As of late he had become quite skilled in the art of avoidance, weaving it into his blanket: a detailed herringbone of music and distraction being one of his more successful patterns. And as he loomed through the day, he’d often pause and reflect on his obvious task. I gotta check the mail... That which had become what he did not want to do. But, first I’ll take out the trash, sort the recyclables and do the laundry... buy more soap.

He’d put it off for a long time, now it was time. He looked up from his sheet music as if to catch the sight of a shadow passing over him. It was nothing, conceivably a figment of his mind. Anything to distract him. True to form, fifty-two

his eyes lay on a spot on the multi-coated but still-cracked wall, uninvited realization, I gotta check the mail.

Decisions are hard to make when emotions are involved. So we turn away, avoid, even paint over things we don’t like to see. Unfortunately, bumps remain and cracks find their way to the surface, no matter how many coats we apply. Sometimes decisions are made for us because we lose or do not use the opportunity to make them ourselves. Like moving furniture so much and becoming so tired that the last attempt becomes the final arrangement: All to avoid sweeping up our messes.

He’d played the task over and over again in his mind, he’d wait for things to get completely quiet, that would be his opportunity, the universe giving him a sign that it would be his time. Then he’d walk slowly to his mailbox, a journey easier imagined than done. He would pass through a very clean and manicured garden that served as a focus of avoidance for months. The garden was beautiful; the tiger lillies were in bloom. He avoided a lot. The mailbox, old and slightly rusty, intentionally antiquish, housed a messy overflow of envelopes, all of them fighting to stay inside, the mailman’s daily reverse game of Pick-Up-Sticks.

Upon arrival he’d be less anxious than anticipated, knowing he’d have to sort through all the parcels first,

Ruins of Literature

by Daisy Ruiz digital photograph

another assignment in avoidance. Finally, there it would be the envelope that pressured his sleep all this time. With confidence and preparedness, he would then open the letter and read words and phrases, carefully written with perfect attention to detail. He didn’t actually care what the words spelled; he just knew he wanted them to be decisive so he could stop rearranging the furniture in his mind. This reoccuring daydream was well rehearsed.

This is the day it would be played out. Unfortunately for him, it was September and tiger lillies bloom from June to midAugust. His plan already had flaws, and so was he, flawed. He knew preparing would be no more useful than fishing in a rain puddle.

On the outskirts of avoidance, he realized that putting off the inevitable would inevitably come to an end. And so, he put his guitar on its stand, stood and walked to the front door. He took in a deep breath of the garden’s aster through the screen door. He pushed on it feeling the resistance of

the creaky spring. He paused and for a moment wrestled with the thought of using this as a distraction tool. And, before allowing himself to commit, he pushed the door wide open and with equal force came in all the fragrances from the garden. In came the sweet and the sap of the Black-eyed Susans and lilac. The barely recognizable Bougainvillea and Laurel bushes bullied their way through the doorway.

He allowed them to billow and sway all around him. It was precisely then when he found his perfectly quiet moment.

If it could be explained better, he felt the iron rusty hoops that tightened frustration to his soul, ease and release. He experienced the function of his lungs, and it was then, when he felt the garden settle into the bottom of his lungs that he walked fifteen patient paces to the mailbox. He lifted his arm to reach for the loose handle and gave it that familiar pull, but this time, he didn’t only feel it in his fingertips but throughout his entire body.

“The mailbox, old and slightly rusty, intentionally antiquish, housed a messy overflow of envelopes, all of them fighting to stay inside, the mailman’s daily reverse game of Pick-Up-Sticks.”

fifty-three

Gray Top Hats

by Maria Diaz Gray top hats, held gently between fingers of men far too young to life them, while Russian bags of beauties rest upon elbows far too frail to bump.

Yet they do, and while that happens the top hat is lifted, not to the full head of hair carrying but the air, and apologies are exchanged.

A touch. Nothing more.

What is more is a touch from the one you (hope does not suffer) love.

The way the stamp loves an envelope, or a fetus loves a womb.

It is all they’ve ever known, so it seems.

So it seems, as they trace their fingers across a palm spelling I love you, or the way they protect Becoming the father, every child wants, has, or never knew, so it seems that they are all you’ve ever known.

The top hat, a frail elbow, an accident, touches.

Unless included a heart, Human, so not immature to touches by love, becoming a feeling.

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The Fathers

Iconoclasm

by Roshni Shah digital photograph

by Michael Santa Maria Right now let’s remember the ancestors— The untold millions whose DNA made it This far—far enough for me to grip this pen And create these scribblings. How many Fathers did that take? Who were they?

If the race continues at all We will be like them some thousand years hence.

Obviously, we existed, or you could not be, But just as forgotten. Occupiers of a shared oblivion.

So what? I am your father. And today I Acknowledge the lost fathers. An endless, linked, Double-helixed, self-hating, self-reflecting chain— I’ll hold my spot, pass it down, and aware I’ll remain— Me as much them as you will be me.

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Freedom

by Yasmin Ramadan

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens could change the world.

Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.”

Margaret Mead’s advice is inspiring, but it is ignorant of the fear that comes along with trying to change the world. Although I was not in Egypt during the winter revolution, I experienced every bit of the fear – I heard every gunshot – as a group of committed citizens tried to change their world. Few ever remember that when fighting for freedom, there will be someone else fighting to take it away. And as Egypt rebuilds itself, I plan to be of the company protecting its freedom.

Five minutes glued to one television and five minutes glued to another is how I divided my time during the week of January 5th. The Egyptian news blasted louder downstairs, the voices of Arab newscasters muting out CNN upstairs – and I watched, praying that the names of my family in Cairo did not appear on the rolling list of casualties on either. The massacres that replayed on each screen made me wonder whether the uprising against President Mubarak was worth it. My country was bleeding, and I felt useless. He was ruthless. He would kill them all, I thought. Then the phone rang; an incoming long-distance call from Cairo, Egypt. My mother beat me to the phone. She picked it up, desperate to hear good news, only to find her sister screaming on the other side. Through her shrieks I could make out “I love you, I love you all so much – I wanted to hear your voice before I died!”

The criminals that broke out of the country’s prisons as the Egyptian police force attacked revolutionists were trying to break into her home, and her husband was downstairs fighting alongside fathers, husbands, and brothers. That day, staring into my mother’s face while she gripped the phone impossibly closer to her head, I learned how frightening fighting for freedom can be.

My family survived the Egyptian Revolution physically unscathed, but the same cannot be said for their sense of well-being. It dawned on me, while I watched my country try to rebuild itself blindly and with no experience in proper democracy, that taking advantage of the freedom to live safely is the worst crime. An ambition planted itself in me, and I have thus veered my future towards a career in law. I hope to root myself in the justice system, so that I may give a voice to those who want to be heard. So that I may fight for the freedom of others in a bloodless manner.

I too, deserve the freedom that America stands for, just as Egypt deserves the freedom of a fair ruler. Although to this day I am singled out in restaurants, airports and the like, whether by a look or a “Could you please step aside, ma’am? We need to search you” for the scarf that I wear around my head, I will change the prejudice that taints the vision of those around me. I will fight for freedom.

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A Beautiful Mistake

by Brandan Calhoun digital photograph

Empty Room

by Abigail Bonett A piece, A slice, A delicious ray of sunlight.

Peeking through, Something ajar.

The door longs to be swung open.

But the room is empty, Noon has passed.

Shadows grow against the wall.

The tinted air, Some other day, To be breathed.

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My Footprint

by Brandan Calhoun digital photograph

If only you knew the strife I felt Encrypting the memories into the membrane Leaving with your crooked Achilles tendon “Isn’t it better this way?”

All of your misplaced euphorias Places I swore we’d return to Neglecting your ears and overusing your other senses “My courage was obviously false.”

This made living pleasant and bearable The thought of misguided precedents Flaunting around warmth in every shape or form “The days seem shorter darling.”

We believed nothing was a simulation Even the most simplistic subjects were catalysts Just try to fathom the sherbet atmosphere surrounding us “I’m sure you have no doubt to give me.”

Articulate the coveyance of words Train emotions to withstand the brunt of the galaxy What more can this epitome of the world expect?

“I’ll just wait for another introduction.”

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Something Space-Time Cannot Comprehend

by Marissa Gravesande

Dictatorship

by Javier De Peña Nature is subject to law.

Reason submits to fallacy in exchange for imaginary ease Endowing powers to the corrupt and ill-willed Bereft of morality and empathy, they abuse the position they hold Inciting mass murder to promote globalization of ideals Repressing the public into a state of complacency and narrow-mindedness Identifying undesirables and confining them to isolated quarters Propagating the polarization of the public opinion We brought this on ourselves We contributed to the rising of the evils that control us We allowed instability to cloud and misguide us We reacted to the problem on our hands, Failing to see the clear signs preceding it Some left while they had the chance Others aligned themselves with the wicked Can we blame them?

It’s the American Dream.

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Uprooted

by Lana Li The city behind you is dying; Flames drown ancient wood.

Houses sink in a sea of gray, As you wipe the sweat off your forehead And wash the sweat off your arms.

You stand, With a twisted spine and a twisted mind, Eternally exhausted from extracting A foundation of precise carvings Once built with arms of youth and dreams.

Pick a place to be buried; The generation has ed.

Time has come to let the soil sift through your ďŹ ngers, To look up and follow the smoke, A token of your delayed regret.

More Than Branches

by Lana Li digital photograph

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Hi-Res Self-Portrait in Weeds

by Michael Buchman After all these years, I found it.

There I am on the ground, My shadow holding a camera Zooms to an indistinct mesh of stalks and leaves.

Why did I take this, snap this up?

My frame of mind shifts To a seasons-old walk meant to please her, but refocused: What I saw, what I meant, Fingers and thumbs Describing newly squinted compositions Of plant and leaf tilting sunlight And out-shadowing those below.

In the corner, a compound ower like a bumblebee, Rustles, bristles, ies out of the frame.

Zoom out to the landscape, the hidden pictures before the pathway: Can you see the mammoth, the Indian chief, The logger, the watering can, and now The photographer alone, remembering What he had taken and lost, The picture he brought with him?

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sixty-two

Nick

by Gracie Giglio digital photograph

The Demolition

by Abbey Barker

Ravenous hatred boring Through ignorant approval Bearing burning styluses Scorching all signs of weakness at the root Singed earth No advancement, no progression Spite and revenge Anger contorting into madness A metamorphosis.

An unsurpassable barrier Trapped in a series of one’s irrational precedents Hopeless until actions can no longer be justiďŹ ed Perspective and rationality restored A deep breath Animosity paciďŹ ed A chance for forgiveness and reunion

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Send in the Clowns

by Chandler Gorda digital photograph

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Hung

by Lana Li

I am the picture of my mother on the wall: Rushed brush strokes hiding light sketches, Eyes not close enough to the hairline, Skin too ruddy, like tomato flesh.

But I was told to see beyond the artist’s haste.

The skin— It looks thick, But mostly over the shoulders.

The shoulders— They are dragged by the weight of thought.

Thoughts Of the ocean’s depth, and, Do I really love?

Days wasted on watching eggs crack softly: Your horizon is only imagined.

Under the protection of lunar light, I saw the sorry strands of your hair In a pool of pink.

I embraced, And I became pink.

I’d pay—I pray—for your thoughts now; I’d pay for them with love.

I am peeling off my skin to layer yours.

Mother, I am cold, cold in the lunar light.

Preserved under dust in the glen of my head, Your faint eyes watch over me.

The day they shut above the modest ruby waterfall, I heard you: “Save for me the possibility of memory.”

Please, Be my witness and tell me My hands are covering my eyes; Tell me I’m invoking color from the absence of light.

Eyelids protect.

The body is of the past And there is a better copy on the wall, But nothing burns like a barren heart (When it is the only working organ in the body); I am my mother.

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Have a Rose, My Dear

by Steph Novak

Roses represent love in the purest form.

They are beautiful, lovely, everything that The woman that is receiving them is.

But for love?

No, roses are not an appropriate symbol of love.

All that love is: Everlasting, eternal, indescribable, Roses are not.

Roses can be given to someone as an act of adoration, Slight affection.

Love is much more powerful.

Think hard: If you can think of a way to use the past tense of “love”, Then you never really had any love at all.

Your love was false, Just like the symbolism of roses is.

Roses represent love in the purest form.

They are beautiful, lovely, everything that the woman that is receiving them is.

But for love?

No, roses are not an appropriate symbol of love.

All that love is: Everlasting, eternal, indescribable, Roses are not.

Roses can be given to someone as an act of adoration, Slight affection.

Love is much more powerful.

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Love is eternal, You will never stop loving someone or something.

“Loved” is not a real term.

There is no past tense of love, only loving.

Love is forever.

Roses, which are meant to represent love, Are not.

Roses wilt in just a few days, Showing how easily life can be over, Not how strong your love is.

They die away, And is that meant to say your love will die off as well?

Love is eternal, You will never stop loving someone or something.

“Loved” is not a real term.

There is no past tense of love, only loving.

Love is forever.

Think hard: If you can think of a way to use the past tense of “love”, Then you never really had any love at all.

Your love was false, Just like the symbolism of roses is.

Roses, which are meant to represent love, Are not.

Roses wilt in just a few days, Showing how easily life can be over, Not how strong your love is.

They die away, And is that meant to say your love will die off as well?

Flames

by Gracie Giglio digital photograph sixty-seven

A Taste of the Spectrum

by Brandan Calhoun digital photograph

From the Perspective of a Beta Fish

by Peter Grace A glass case filled with my source of being able to breathe.

The dangerous thought of the animal that lurks outside my dome.

The funny faces that press against my home.

The occasional time when I am transported to another home.

The rage inside me that keeps me separated from others of my kind.

With an assortment of different colors, I am often surrounded by strange people.

I miss my true home, the home of the sea, where I can roam beyond The perimeter of a glass bowl someone decided to put me in.

But I am just a beta fish, savage because of my nature, And taken away from my home to “entertain” these people who rule Over the world that I am also a part of.

But, because I am small, I will always be in this bowl, unless...

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Stone Soul

by Nikil Revuri

Like arrows, high peals Shot the silence, and The pitter-patter Of footsteps, light on The cobblestone steps, Sounded as feet raced Down, eager to skip.

Amid the waving Reeds, barefoot they walked.

The ripples of sand, Blown by wind, they snaked Among the tans and greens.

Probing toes turn it Over. He grasps, holds.

He yearned downward in Search, fingers feeling.

Closing, the tips traced Smooth glass, its contour, Of youth, innocence.

Age and memory’s Child, the grooves watched.

He offered and she Closed. From embrace, it Dropped from loose fingers.

Hiding it within, Raising his arm, like Coiled spring, waited.

It whipped, the sage hurled.

Earth, air, a twirl, and A hollow kerplunk Landing at still feet.

And it loved as well.

In waves the peals swept, Chiding, mocking him Gently. Furrowed brows turned to mirth, as one More voice joined the surge.

And it laughed as well.

And it hurt as well.

Light gurgles, feathers, Brushed the warmth of life, Ensconced, the infant Watched her parents speak.

Kicking up sand, she Raced, saw gulleys, weight Of memory great.

Gritted, as she crunched, Taste odd, and too hard.

She removed, and left, Leaving the buttes, in Wait and watch, till time.

Like hushed sentinels, They stood, gazing at Streaks of red, yellow blooms.

Water chilled, ice fled, As daisies opened.

She walked, fell to knees, Striking the aged ridges.

And it thought as well.

A sear of stars, and a Gasp, as she clutched her Womb. He advanced, and Swiping it away, Helped her. It was time.

Then, it is picked, thrust In demonstration.

Fingers, small, slide, and Skip. It watched canyons, Age’s mark, and cried.

Forgotten, it lay.

The feet came and went.

Large, unnoticing Waves crashing, grinding, Quietly return.

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A Flowering Blessing

by Aadil Rizwan Stronger than anything man has witnessed Simply undefeatable When challenged to a duel.

Residing in a cozy cushion of affection— Tucked away from the evils of this world.

An effervescent collage of stirring emotions, Unable to be transcribed into any words.

Breathing goodness into one’s heart, It casts a plague on any venom That has penetrated deep into one’s soul— The damage is never done.

Human nature willingly carries it, Feeling its pressure bulging within, Once the hasty waves of hereditary love overflow— A stream of twirling roses, Naturally set themselves in place.

It comes as sweet as cherry cola taffy, Leaving a tinge of its flavor behind— A seed that will grow into much more.

As it reaches the end of its career, The heart throbbing feeling of its Presence always remains.

El amor es un regalo eterno.

Egg

by Katie Farina digital photograph seventy

e d i t o r s ’

b i o g r a p h i e s

Lana Li ’12 is in a longterm relationship with pistachio ice cream, loves the smell of books, and will always sleep late.

Yasmin Ramadan ’12 is a girl in a scarf, who has a naturally capricious tendency to write and overthink.

Maria Diaz ’12 is a writer who expresses her love for creativity through her dedication to the magazine. She will join the Rutgers magazine next year.

Abigail Bonett ’13 loves art and looks forward to being an illustrator one day. She enjoys taking hard classes even though she will never need them.

Damini Pandejee ’12 loves reading, eating chocolate chip cookies, and stuffed toys. She adores the Harry Potter series and aspires to be a phamacist.

Aqssa Mohammad ’12 is just your everyday 18year-old kid with a fondness for all things art, literature, and Painted Words. Note my club advertising (hehe).

Emily Scialabba ’14 can be a little strange, but would rather be seen as a bit odd than be someone that she is not.

Meryem Uzumcu ’12 enjoys discussions on feminism, policy debate and the Middle East. She plans on enrolling as a Women and Gender Studies major and Philosophy minor at Rutgers.

Chris Roman ’13 loves to be lazy and sleep, but still enjoys coming to Painted Words and having fun.

As Michelangelo said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” Natacha Schroeder ’12 is proud to see the “carvings” of the magazine come alive.

Randy Irarragorry ’12 believes our world consists of extraordinary visuals and is honored to help others present their takes on these visuals.

Haley Gorda ’13 enjoys poetry and is interested in sociology & psychology. she feels that music is the most beautiful from of art. seventy-one

Colophon This publication was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and was sent in PDF format to GraphiColor Corporation in Vineland, NJ. We used Adobe Photoshop CS3 to enhance image quality. The fonts used throughout the magazine are Constantia, Georgia, Times New Roman, Corbel, Trebuchet MS, Footlight MT Light, Arial, Garamond, ITC Franklin Gothic, Tw Cen Condensed Extra Bold, Adobe Jenson Pro, Vivaldi, Perpetua Titling, Centaur, Baskerville Old Face, Haettenschweiler, Colonna, Kunstler Script, Rockwell, and Century Gothic.

Honors & awards of our 2010-11 issue Gold awarded by the Columbia Scholastic Press Association 1st Place awarded by the American Scholastic Press Association

Special thanks to . . .

Princeton University’s NASSAU LITERARY REVIEW for giving us tips on the selection process, John Hamilton and the NBTHS tech department for helping with network crises, the NBTHS art department for allowing full access to student works, Daniel Paxton for providing us with quality submissions from his Creative Writing students, and the Board of Education for supporting PAINTED WORDS for 26 years and for allowing us to publish a magazine of quality year after year.

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“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.”

—Marcus Garvey