MANDALA
2017-2018
NORTHFIELD MOUNT HERMON'S ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE 2017 - 2018
TABLE OF CONTENTS Cover 1 2 3 4 5 6 9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 26 27 28 30 32 33
Victoria Lozano Escarra, Blossoming Mind Kendall Downend, untitled Aura Mattison Key, No Title Sebastian Shin, Mickey Mao Lily van Baaren, Human Nature Julia Robertson, Fruit Loops Dashiell Luessenhop, The Frowning Clown Maia Castro-Santos, The Only Way Out is Up Valeria Vilanova Gallucci, The Golden Rule Kimi Donohoe, Niagara Falls Natalie lmen Mak, Lice Victoria Lozano Escarra, Flowering Veins Emily Chou, untitled Maggie Cheng, Scarecrows Blue Smith, brave bird's dance Stephen Yi ling Peng, Riddles of the Tweets Jamie Trang Phan, untitled Stephanie Finger Ling, untitled Mark Yates, Lanterns Aloft Mary Wells, Rhapsody Kimi Donohoe, Afternoon in Northampton Ann Xu, Respiring Wounds Amelia Strickland, The Administration Peter Weis. Milking 1932 Chianna Cohen, Snow Day on the Farm Joel Lowsky, Oil, Water, Color, Flash
34 35 37 38 40 42 43 44 46 47 48 49 50 52 53 54 55 56
Annika Lotze, The Dance of the Wind Valeria Vilanova Galucci, untitled & untitled (detail) Olivia Geddes, untitled Katya Stone, Skull Scratchboard Alex Brooke, Tentic/es Zari Newman, What Your Eyes Didn't Hear Ann Zitong Xu, Rosabud Ann Zitong Xu, Blossom of Agony Mark Yates, Serious Barbecue Ngone Fall, In a Nutshell Ngone Fall, That's Not How You Spell My Name! Katya Stone, Plant Kid Kaitlyn Lu, Artist Trading Cards Jamie Trang Phan, Dalat's Textile Fort Mark Koyama, The Green Frog Lars Andrews, Iguana Scratchboard Mark Koyama, A shambles Bill Roberts, Thirty-Nine Deluxe
No Title With the hands of an angel Swinging so gracefully from its dial The arms are never in a tangle, But are like an effortless movement that has no end The count is on for every movement of the angle If only we cared Instead of carelessly neglecting the eternal gift How much of this Is like a mystery For some today and others tomorrow For its existence is its own master Which no one can control Not in our day Or how much of it we have left until this poem is over But in our existence Until we are done Will we one day wonder where it has gone?
2
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Das hi el lLues s enhop
Untitled
All my life I have been loving in multitudes, thinking that this is how love is supposed to be, It strangles, it suffocates, and I let it because I was terrified of being alone, but Loneliness is not an enemy of love, he is an aspect. How strange it is that I never see you in the mornings but you still visit me in my sleep. I see small things when I walk in the woods and they remind me of you: A broken beetle, carrying half of its shell, Small plants living among shattered glass, White sneakers in the black dirt, I write to my disappointed mother: She smells like African spice and I love her because she teaches me about the Universe; About Chekhov and Plato and Irish plants. Her tongue is stained with Kefir, and I see her in technicolor.
Emily Chou
15
brave bird's dance i am in love with the back of your head and the curve of your neck with the slope of your shoulders and the angle of-your hips your wings i am in love with the wrinkles by your eyes and your far too rare smile ... Oh, your smile! like the wind that kisses your bare ankles in the spring never forgotten like the wind that ruffles your cotton white feathers in the-autumn like the first star to appear on a cloudy night brave persistent yet afraid i am in love with the softness of your voice and the way you hold me like i am the only sanity you have left i am in love with the nest of warm nights you and i created when i look at you i see someone falling you are stuck In a turbulent wind of annoyance and disapproval you do not know how to fly away when i look at you i can almost hear you pleading screaming to get out of this glass cage you've built around yourself You Dance Fast hoping the voices won't catch up hoping you'll escape in time and I am in love with the way you Dance the way you let me hold you like a child or a delicate baby bird i worry i might crush you with just one touch lam in love with the back of your head and i am here just waiting for you to turn around
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25
29
Milking 1932
A sestina in memory of David Stevens•
Four-thirty alarm wakes an empty bed. Brightening June blesses a dressed herdsman. From froth of river fog and dawn draped barn floats a lowing of black and white Holsteins. Steve sneaks a pipe, watches sunrise, Chapel clock chimes five times, calls milk crew to work hour. Sleepy eyed they straggle in, the work hour boys, moments ago fast asleep in bed, now in milking whites, acolytes at chapel. They stand in file and rank, let the herdsman number them, same as he'd count up Holsteins stamping stanchioned in freshly whitewashed barn. His pale phalanx breaks ranks, fans through the barn. Steel milk pail clatter shatters calm. Work hour gang empties one hundred eighty Holsteins' udders. An old tom springs from his hay bed at the zip of milk on metal. Herdsman utters words you wouldn't hear in chapel, "Damned cat! We need mousers! No chapelÂhearted milquetoasts in David Steven's barn!'' Boys snigger, they know the love the herdsman bears, for cows, for cats, for tired work hour lads, also know his life has been no bed of roses, so laugh, and love his Holsteins. Milking over, Steve turns drover. Holsteins trotting out for pasture, their own chapel spring and summer, rocky ground or shaded bed. Not done, the clean-up starts inside the barn. Ammonia and lime reek sicken work hour heads, but please the daft returning herdsman.
Not one among them knows. today the herdsman has but months to live, unless his Holsteins somehow know. Instead, blessing his work hour crew, draws for each a glass from his chapel font, fresh milk from the cooler in the barn, then pours a bowl for the tom in his bed. At evening herdsman prays for lank Holsteins in sweet scent sunset bed of dairy barn; work hour whites head slow uphill for chapel.
*David Stevens worked for Mount Hermon and The Northfield Schools from 1909 until his sudden death in March of 1933. The faculty house immediately to the north of North Farmhouse was built for him and his family in 1925, hence its name, Stevens House. He was known familiarly as ''Steve."
Peter Weis
31
The Dance of the Wind
Once I had danced with my father in the roaring flames. We danced to the sound the wind makes as it twists through the trees. Our feet were bare as we scampered across the moss covered Earth. We danced until our eyes gazed upon the still iridescent water. My father leaped into the water so high that he was a star. I hesitated to jump. I stood at the edge of the dock looking at the reflection the stars casted on the lake. And for a quick moment I saw my own reflection. 1 lifted my head and jumped straight into the night sky. In the water all of the Earth's stars danced.
Annika Lotze
34
39
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AnnZi t ongXu
MANDALA
2017-2018