Mandala 2008 by Northfield Mount Hermon

Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine

May, 2008 Northfield Mount Hermon School Mount Hermon, MA 01354 i

Table of Contents Cover:........................................................ Weston Halkyard Dedication..................................................................................................................... v Drawing..................................................... Elizabeth Ruggut..........................................1 la historia of nostalgia................................. RLD.........................................................2-3 Photograph................................................ David Rome.................................................4 Collage....................................................... Stephanie Yici Zhao......................................5 Mari........................................................... Emily Jacke...................................................6 Photograph................................................ William Schurman.......................................7 Toast.......................................................... Rohan Ott....................................................8 Bridge........................................................ Galen Anderson............................................9 Drawing..................................................... Frank H. Redner.........................................10 Sale............................................................ Joshua Throckmorton..................................11 Creed for the New Millemium................... John Adams...........................................12-13 Painting...................................................... Tanner Halkyard........................................14 The Salmon................................................ Daisy Letendre............................................15 Dedication to a Lost One........................... RLD.....................................................16-17 Photograph................................................ Eli Spector..................................................18 Ode to a Golf Course................................. John Adams................................................ 19 Open.......................................................... Glenn Minshall..........................................20 Turning Away............................................. Julia Mix Barrington..................................21 Drawing..................................................... Hallie Bean................................................ 22 Oubliette.................................................... S.J. Clayton................................................23 Self-Portrait................................................ Stephanie Yici Zhao....................................24 Mill Pond................................................... Galen Anderson..........................................25 Over the Hills to Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Hoouse.......... Cody Valdes................................................26 Sobre los Cerros a la Casa de Mis Aguelos..... Cody Valdes................................................27 Drawing..................................................... Weston Halkyard........................................30 Crystal....................................................... R. Washburn...............................................31 Waterfall Through Window....................... Mark Yates.................................................32 Lier............................................................ Tanapol Lertnantapanya.............................33 Acknowledgements.......................................................................................................37 Editorial Staff...............................................................................................................39

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I dream of painting and then, I paint my dream. Vincent van Gogh

la historia of nostalgia as the sun eases past the horizon, remembrances of the stale and musky, the rich oceanside, wanders. we give ourselves grace. it is desperate with wonder, this grace. hopeful, that maybe, up above, hidden in those cavernous memories, we find a reality which we hoped had not existed. and there it is coming to us in a dream in a sleep we rise to live in each day. a simple glance, the scent of an old rustic rug or just the thought itself, triggers our doubtless melancholy. yet still, today, we continue about, reminiscing the days which once passed. hoping, that the sepia tone dreams, we once lived, will come againlike a horse to its caretaker, it strides to and fro looking for some recognizable face. we are left dull.

but the feeling remains. a wholeness of loneliness surrounds the heart. the nights go bye, while days, they hang around until long after the sun has gone. when we're all alone is when we find our grace, and we stand proud of what we once had. so let us stare off into the distance, a sunset once more, with the pain to bear of memories we once lived and lovers we once touched. RLD

Mari Mari rises early and shoves her cold feet into a pair of tight, skimpy jeans. Rummaging under her bed produces a box, not opened until this day. Inside, wrapped in neat tissue paper, is a shiny gold pair of flat shoes. Pausing a moment before slipping them on, she looks at her bare feet, pale and soft. A bizarre smile presses her lips together and she pushes off the floor to look in the mirror. Dirty-blond hair falls tangled about a pale, narrow face with high cheekbones. The mats of shiny fiber cover the scars on her back and stomach. Blue eyes narrowed indifferently, she picks at the end of a lock with manicured fingernails. It is nearly time. The clock ticking on the table will ring an alarm soon. It will wake up her mother. But Mari won’t be home. Mari isn’t coming home. Something like a stifled sob retches and dies in the girl’s throat. Turning away from the clock, she pulls a loose top over her head and settles the elastic hem over the waistband of her jeans. The look is one she’d never managed to achieve until this moment. Heavy lidded and a little gaunt, the image in her mirror strikes her more sharply then she would have thought. A college student. I look like a fucking college student. There is an air almost of longing about this. Heaving her heavy back-pack onto her shoulders, Mari emerges from her room and walks lightly down the stairs, skipping the step that creaks. Her mannerisms, her appearance, her constant chatter about the various men in her life, all appear frivolous and girlish. No one of her few friends would characterize her as angry, political. She appears happy, she does not drink. She is an atheist. The little station glows in the dawn light. A few half-awake commuters sit on benches waiting for the train. A homeless man dozes in a wheelchair beneath the eve of the building, his mangy dog at his side. The entire world seems colored in grey except for the station itself, wisps of mist blowing apart around it. Mari pulls her phone out of her bag and dials the number. A security guard, sincerely bored, ignores her as he passes. At this moment, one thousand and one others like herself stand in stations around the country, poised. They rely upon each other. The line rings twice and then dies. Injustice has been wrought upon the world, and it is her people who are the culprits. Mari slings her backpack onto one shoulder and wanders off to look at the rails. There she removes a small, black package and drops it noiselessly in the middle of the tracks. She can feel the train moving now. The shock of what she has just begun makes her eyes flicker for a moment. Suddenly, everyone around her is moving. The train arrives and she and the commuters step on. Mari moves toward the last car, calculating the moment at which she must dial the second number. The train lurches forward and the conductor begins his ticket rounds. As the third car passes the edge of the chain-link fence, she opens her cell phone and dials again. Beneath the last car, a phone rings. Its wiring is connected to a large quantity of potent, explosive material. Mari nearly drops her phone in excitement. She is crying now. A split second later, as she breaks into a run towards the back of the train, a shattering heat washes the last car clean of its sins and shards of metal obliterate the air. She has only a moment to decide, before the train, now tilting ominously sideways, departs from its last car, if she will leap or not. The world has woken up around her. Part of her wants to watch it happen, relish the screams, the fear, the attention. But, as the inferno roars towards her, she looks into the cleansing blaze and wants more to be purified by it, sin and shame and pain all turned to smoke. Billows of it make her cough now. She jumps. Emily Jacke

Toast

“I hate how long this thing takes to warm up” Luke sleepily stated as he gestured to the big metal box on the counter in front of him. His greasy hair feathered out of his backwards Red Sox cap, he had clearly just rolled out of bed, but it was somehow acceptable for him. Mihn looked around nervously to see if he was talking to her. After all, she was just a new junior. She recognized him instantly as the outspoken senior class president. There was no one around the dining hall, so she quickly formulated a response. She tried to sound confident as she stated: “I know. I always have to put it through twice.” She glanced at his face, nothing seemed to have registered. Had it been a rhetorical statement? Did he think she sounded ridiculous? The dining hall was suddenly very quiet; all Mihn could hear was a slow screech from the box. To occupy herself she took a sip of her coffee, but quickly regretted it as she loudly gulped the still too hot liquid. They both stood quietly waiting; without much to look at they stared at the empty tables straight ahead. After what seemed like hours the box in front of Luke made a different noise, one that meant Luke was going to leave. Mihn was out of time to reverse what she thought was a poor first impression of herself. He picked up a piece of bread, inspected it, and turned to Mihn: “You’re right. Not nearly toasty enough.” She noticed his small sideways smile as he put the bread back in for a second chance around the toaster.

Rohan Ott

Creed for the New Millenium Leaving the country seemed right. My own countrymen—Congressman, Cuff— carry like invisible neon yokes the burden of American stain: apathy, sloth, outrage, greed, war; and their saccharine obverses, friendliness, equality, tolerance. I have put up with being neighborly too long, with nauseating diversity, with disallowed anger. I had to leave before I cuffed the next person who droned “have a nice day.” So I hit the open road, cliché of slack-jawed truckers and deluded adolescents hankering to escape parents or wives; but now I am all of them two days out and almost weeping with release, not speeding, but moseying fast to prolong the exhilarating loneliness, listening to the car music: to torch singers love me, to rockers scold me for jilting them, to country cuties taking me back anyway, to Mozart to stay awake and keep time with my head and neck like the flannel-shirted conductor passing cars must think me.

My new country is fresh, ignorant, sparse, all the vices I grew up on and now freely re-embrace, full of its own problems, but I don’t have to care. Here, they don’t care that my habits are habits, they don’t know that I circle an unfamiliar store one time before parking, that I pick my nose on their couches, that I never ask directions and so am never lost. We the people who run into each other have tacitly agreed not to care about each other. Here, I loath no one, I love no one, and I love it. May 2003 John Adams

The Salmon Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t trust your impulses, The haloed glory that encircles them is bleached, false. Impulses know how to erupt hurling you face first down the lava coated mountain side. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a bumpy ride. If and when you succumb to the power behind each immediate desire, you will know the meaning of uncomfortable. The metal tusks extend towards you and you cannot move. You cannot cry. You are not in control. Take adventures Look beyond the obvious horizon. Sacrifice impulse for thought. All of life gleams before you. Be the salmon, not the river. Swim upstream.

Daisy Letendre

Dedication To A Lost One (And Hopelessly Romantic) Your hair it flies unguided, Above long and wanderous plains where wild horses roam. It soars over the ocean, so gentle -so tenderas it eases to shore. It pushes towards me, then sinks back, caressing the seaside in all its splendor Your eyes they are sparkles shimmering amongst stars. As the moonlight reflects off your beautiful galaxy of shining delight, your eyes they grace and serenade the proud and standing hills that roll on, one onto the next. But here, they stand in subservience to your gaze. Your lips they sit. When they are not moving they are stubborn, they perch upon your relaxed face like the red breasted robin with his dignified chest. Your lips, they stand with pride and assured confidence. As I sit so passively and watch, all other things go by in round about ways. I yearn to reach out and touch those puckered plains of succulent red. I wish to float and fall into them as if I were swept away by its tide. In the quiet which consumes my days, I burn with desire. With it comes a fiery passion. It inflames the heart and crushes the ego. I am held, a captive. But the soft and gentle embrace of your smooth and soothing scent would set me free. A simple touch would do, it would unlock the shackles which bound me, and I would be free. No longer a enslaved by your divine beauty.

One can only dream and hope. And we will dream once more about the antique villages, of stained red dirt and winding roads, exotic beaches and sun burnt skin, of shouting spirits and uneutered souls. Yes, we were once liberated from this sad lament, and we lived forever in eternal joy. Returning back upon those stilted memoriesfor that is what they arebrings the taste of salt back. It quivers each and every sense. We catch the salty drips, it musters its way into our nose, in the eyes it clouds, and we are blind. I am hopelessly romantic.

RLD

Ode to a Golf Course Sometimes there is poetry in golf, as playing Ingonish, the Highland Links, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Poetry is measured in the rhythm and flow of the fairway hillocks, which, like a Hopkins verse, neâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er a flat lie offer. The lush Wordsworthian plain is marred only by hoofprints of native moose, which, if one is lucky, not at the farthest point from the clubhouse, but the nearest, one meets. Greens undulate as the hills, but run true to their Yeatsian manicure; long putts might bend three different ways, an anthology of gifts to the golfer-poet reading them. Stray just a little on a drive, and you feel the rub of Scottish gorse, Robbie Burns playing rough with you. Stray a little more, and the wilds of Canada meet you head on, like an Acadian song, or maybe a semi-wild red-headed grouse to match your mood. So complain about your numbers, if you must, but never fault the keeper, who tends his poem like Keats, as if it is the finest in all the kingdom, which it claims to be, or not. May 2003 John Adams

Turning Away In an office on a college campus in an eastern town, a woman was working late. Her mind turned over ancient words and passed them to her fingers, which ushered them out, mixed them up, bit them back. She was translating Cicero. On the floor of the office sat a little girl, concentrating very hard on the pad of paper in front of her, forcing crayons in green and red and purple loops and lurches across her newsprint. She was five, or maybe five-and-a-half, and it was winter. The snow outside reached all the way up to her waist, but then again, she was very small. It was the latest she’d ever been out of her bed. It was genuine night-time. Every so often, when her drawings momentarily bored or defied her, she would look at the window—at, not through, because the darkness outside had made the pane into a massive mirror. This frustrated her. She wanted a view, but she got just her whole self projected into a deeper shade of the room. So she stood and inspected her reflection: a blunted person, tiny and round, in flowered leggings and little purple winter boots, with a face showing only the roots of adult features. She liked the softness of her mouth and also the way that her bangs lay in a contrary slanted line on her forehead, but even at five she was desperately sorry that both her eyes and hair were brown. As she silently regarded herself in the window-mirror, rolling a green crayon under her foot, she perceived that the outside was showing through her, and she drew closer to peer beyond her own image. She had to press first her nose, then her entire face, up against the cold glass to penetrate the darkness, but the view she saw when she did was not dark at all. The winter ground was fluorescent; it illuminated the buildings and the shining asphalt; the light glinted off of parked cars. Blazing blue-orange snow put the streetlamps to shame. She found it eerie, like looking into the eyes of animals. Was the snow glowing of its own accord? Unsure, she looked out for a source reflected, but found none. She looked up. The sky glared down, pierced by a million shards of cold, cruel, ancient light. Stars beyond counting, each as unnatural as burning ice, and as bright. It was their impossible collected glow which illuminated all she saw; her mind named it the evil twin of sunlight. The stars seemed to her to sit in judgment, and when the verdict was in, she felt they would plummet down to earth and obliterate everything she knew. It was inevitable. They were too old. At five, she had never seen night before, hadn’t felt it in her hair or looked up into it and seen her fate and utter triviality scattered across its emptiness. The first glimpse wrenched her feet from under her; she could not feel the linoleum floor upon which she stood. Instead, she floated in the black and silver dross of time. She took a breath which scoured the inside of her chest and made her think of all the people who had ever died. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt calmer. She knew, though, that she couldn’t avoid the night sky. It would wait for far longer than she would; it would be up there every night. It had been up there every night. All she could do was pull her face away from the glass, step back into the orange light of the office, and return to her drawings. It was the only option, so for now, that was exactly what she did. Julia Mix Barrington 2008

Oubliette Seen as a shroud moving across a field the grey barrier waits, as if to reveal our unspoken language. A bird, a branch, a tree our native sight, our forgotten face. S.J. Clayton

Over the Hills to Grandma’s House Here Remain The final martyres Of the days of old We had just started our trip to our grandmother’s house. No one knew exactly where we were going because every year she moves to a different part of the forest. This year was also different – we weren’t going to see her because it was Christmas like we did in the past. The world was at war with itself: nature verses humankind. My grandmother would say that we always have been fighting against Mother Nature and now she is finally punishing us for it. “Keep an eye on those horses Clara. Marisa, come here! My god, where is the baby?” My mother was seeing to all the details meticulously. She said that it was of the utmost importance that nothing – and no one – was forgotten. When I saw that my sister was having trouble, I went over to give her a hand. With care not to disturb the horses, I took the most precious white flower from the railings of the carriage and gave it to Clara. “I want you to take this. A beautiful flower for a beautiful little girl.” “How beautiful! But how will anyone see it in the snow?” “Don’t worry about that. When we arrive, it will have grown into a magnificant tiara with many more flowers. Nana will call you a princess.” Before I could put it in her hand, a strong wind stole it from my grip and blew it out of sight. The pearl-white beasts bécame agitated. “Everyone in the carriage now!” ordered my mother. We were hardly ready when the horses took off, but we didn’t have a choice. At least I hadn’t forgotten my picture of the great Jose Marti, riding on horseback into the heart of Argentina, that Nana had given me. They galloped loudly over the rolling hills through the oak-filled forest. We were lucky that it was winter and the leaves had turned because the trees could not hear us without their ears. The carriage, completely filled with all of our family’s possessions and covered in white azucenas, was invisible in the snow. I tried to look back at the house that contained all of my childhood memories once more. From what I could see, there remained very little – the purple vines had engulfed it already. We continued through the forest; my mother, my younger sisters, and I running from our old lives for our lives. Humankind didn’t have a hope against the power of nature, but we would never stop fighting.

Sobre los Cerros a la Casa de Mis Abuelos Aquí habitan los últimos mártires de la era pasada. Acabamos de empezar nuestro viaje a la casa de mi abuela. Nadie sabía dónde estábamos yendo porque cada año se mudaban a otra parte del bosque. Este año fue diferente - no la fuimos a ver para las Navidades como en el pasado. El mundo había entrado en una guerra con él mismo: la naturaleza en contra de los ser humanos. Mi abuela decía que siempre hemos estado luchando contra Madre Naturaleza y ahora ella nos está castigando a nosotros. “Echa el ojo a esos caballos Clara. Marisa, ven acá! Dios mío, donde está el bebe?”

Mi madre estaba pendiente de todos los detalles minuciosamente. Dijo que era imprescindible que nada – y nadie – fuera olvidado. Cuando vi que mi hermana estaba teniendo dificultad, fui a echarle una mano. Con cuidado para no fastidiar a los caballos, tomé la azucena más preciosa de las barandas del carruaje y se la di a Clara. “Querría que la lleves. Una flor bella para una niña bella.” “Que bonita! Pero, como alguien puede verla en la nieve?” “No te preocupes. Cuando lleguemos, habrá crecido en una diadema magnifica con muchas flores. Nana va a llamarte una princesa.” Antes de ponerla en su mano, un viento muy fuerte la robó de mi puño y la llevó lejos de la vista. Las bestias albas estaban agitadas. “Todos en el carruaje ahora!” mandó mi madre. No estábamos completamente listos cuando los dos caballos se fueron, pero no tuvimos ni alternativa. Al menos no he olvidado la pintura de José Martí a caballo que nana me ha dado. Ponían un galope ruidoso, sobre los cerros rodando por el bosque de robles perennes. Teníamos suerte que era el invierno porque los árboles no nos podían oír sin las hojas. El carruaje, lleno con todos nuestros bienes al máximo y sepultado en un mar de azucenas, era invisible en la nieve blanca. Traté de mirar atrás a la casa de mi infancia una vez más. De lo que pude ver, quedaba muy poco – las pámpanos morados la había destruido ya. Continuábamos por el bosque; mi madre, mis hermanas menores, y yo corriendo de nuestra vida, hacia nuestras vidas. El pueblo no tenia esperanza en contra del poder de la naturaleza, pero no dejaríamos de luchar nunca.

I had a tight gripo on my painting when, frightened by a wind at their backs, the horses suddenly came to a halting stop. The picture flew from my hands and landed within arm’s length of their hooves. The carriage sat in a dead stillness as the two horses examined the portrait with keen eyes. One looked away, motioning at the other one to follow; the wind would carry our scent to the trees if we didn’t move fast. “Why have we stopped mom? Are we there? What happened??” my sisters tensly asked. The horse appeared to be seduced by something in the painting. Was it the famous revolutionary? The magnificent beast upon which he rode? Of course! It was the horse! “Cover the painting! Don’t let him look at it” It was too late. The horse, looking directly into the eyes of that majestic beast, started to blush. The red of his cheeks shone through the snow like a fire in the night. We had been discovered... I don’t know what happened after that moment, but like the perennial oak trees, now I am alone, breathing the wind of the forest until the end of time. At my right there lies a bed of azucenas – the remains of my family. To my left, someone – or something – had carved a story into the my sprawling roots: Here Remain The final martyres Of the days of old We had just started our trip to our grandmother’s house... Cody Valdes

Cogía bien mi pintura cuando, temerosos del viento en sus lomos, los caballos bruscamente arremetieron. La pintura voló de mis manos y cayó al lado de sus corvas. El carruaje se paró y los dos la examinaron con ojos agudos. Uno miró aquí, haciendo señas al otro para continuar; el viento llevaría nuestro olor a los árboles pronto. “Por qué paramos mamá? Estamos allí? Qué pasó?” Mis hermanas se dieron cuenta del peligro. El caballo pareció embelesado con algo en la pintura. Era el prócer maravilloso? La bestia magnífica? Ay, por supuesto! “Cubre la pintura! No le permitas verla!” Fue demasiado tarde. El caballo, mirando directamente a los ojos de aquella bestia, enrojeció. La rojo de sus mandíbulas brilló en la nieve como un incendio en la noche. Fuimos descubiertos… No sé qué pasó después de aquel momento, pero como los robles perennes, ahora estoy solo, respirando el viento en un bosque para siempre. A mi derecha hay una charca de azucenas – los restos de mi familia. A mi izquierda, alguien - o algo - ha grabado un cuento en mis raíces: Aquí habitan los últimos mártires de la era pasada. Acabamos de empezar nuestro viaje a la casa de mi abuela…. Cody Valdes

Crystal Cold. Down to the bones cold. Crunching steps Sparkling sunlight catches Trees whispering, their burden releasing Are they really all different or is that a tale invented by the fairy-believing to lull us into dreams of beauty? Intense quiet and perfect Cold. R. Washburn

The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude. Friedrich Nietzsche

Acknowledgment The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.

Editorial Staff

Galen Anderson - II Christina M. McCausland - I Liana A. Satenstein - I Danny J. Shin - I JaHyun Song - I Angus Wan - III Stephanie Yici Zhao - II Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor Note: Roman numerals refer to the number of terms participated in.

Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Printed with soy ink. Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.