R I E N D C
cover art by Vivian Lu ‘18
CC
O O
N N
TT
EE
N
z e p h y r u s
n ot o s
2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
14 15 16 17 20 21 22 23 24 25
Chloe Frelinghuysen, artwork Emma Cooney, artwork Liv Krieble, artwork John Magee, “The Cobble” Natalie Waldram, photograph Portia Wang, artwork Portia Wang, artwork Chloe Frelinghuysen, “When Wonder Frolics” Eve Inglis, photograph Quincy Morgan, artwork Cami Long, artwork
Portia Wang, artwork George Shepherd, “Smokedown” Vivian Lu, artwork Sumi Kim, “Windows” Michelle Cheung, artwork Eve Inglis, photograph Eve Inglis, photograph Eliza Price, “I Hold Life’s Pressures” Marley Thompson, artwork Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio, photograph
e u r u s
b o r e a s
28 39 30 31 33 34 35 36 37 38
40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49
Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio, photograph Lauren Fadiman, “Anemoi” Natalie Waldram, photograph Chloe Frelinghuysen, photograph Claudia Serino, “Sharpies” Vivian Lu, artwork Anonymous, “Next Month” Camilla McGarry, photograph Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio, “Matte” Mac Nolan, photograph
T
Alex Colon, photograph Anonymous, “Gerbil” Chloe Frelinghuysen, photograph Marley Thompson, artwork Vivian Lu, artwork Anonymous, “I’m Falling” Ivy Salisova, artwork Dylan Govers, photograph Jacques Pellet, photograph In Short
S
zephyrus zephyrus zephyrus the west wind
-1-
Chloe Frelinghuysen ‘17 -2-
Emma Cooney ‘19
-3-
Liv Krieble ‘19 -4-
T H E
C O B B L E
The winter had been too long, longer than most we had snow to the waist water backed up under the roof and came down the walls in the parlor until we sent three boys up with shovels to clear it when they were done, they jumped, like paratroops and disappeared unhurt into the great drifts. This late April morning the sun came up with a new, or at least renewed, feel in the valley the cold water of the river met its rays and hauled back with a baffling fog, a last tug of war with the soul of winter, even as that sun pulled it skyward pulled it toward the heavens to spill it to the breeze I rode through the cobble, the Sunday papers on the seat beside me, and stopped still to watch the giant gobbler fanning his tail at the four hens that stooped along in the meadow grass the pride in his display froze me, if not the hens, he quickly sensed my presence and folded down his matrimonial brag and moved his hens toward the woods I moved on and, as I turned onto the hard road, the last of the fog lifted as a gossamer curtain is blown in the window by the breeze John Magee, English -5-
Natalie Waldram ‘18 -6-
Portia Wang ‘18
Portia Wang ‘18
-7-
Portia Wang ‘18
Portia Wang ‘18
-8-
W H E N
W O N D E R
F R O L I C S
When wonder frolics And curiosity has a soul Life tastes like honey Golden and diaphonous, Reminiscent of grassy meadows and orange trees Wafting like a whisper about the breeze Sweet and syrupy, Trickling down goose-bumped fingers Sticking like a thought that lingers.
Chloe Frelinghuysen ‘17 -9-
Eve Inglis ‘17 - 10 -
Quincy Morgan ‘19
- 11 -
Cami Long ‘19 - 12 -
nn o t os s o to the south wind
- 13 -
Will Wang ‘19
- 14 -
S
M
O
K
E
D
O
W
N
Hair behind, hands in front, Sharp, grind, cut, blunt, The sun is hot on the neck of mine, Burning red onto olive skin.
Pack a bag, and I’m off to Maine, Toothbrush, car keys, volvo, rain, I walk with my best friends in life As the orb of the sun sets over glass.
Blue sky with speckled white, Smile, trip, down, trite, Barrel trained on a small squirrel, With a golden gun my father put in my hands.
Housatonic, rainbow trout, Sparkle, rod, bass, doubt, Clean and wash the day away Healing waters of glowing blue.
Cruise the volvo to Kent at dusk, Sun, valley, cloudy, rust, I sip good coffee at my favorite store To see my cold reflection in plastic.
Grass, stars, midnight snow, Ben, Emma, John and co. Dad went to work today Let’s listen to the dead by the pond.
I can hear father’s bellow from the broken saw, Red, angel, tears, law, Yellow and black cascade down the gravel, The sunset made it look like a kaleidoscope.
August comes, work no more. Cloudy, rain, clear, pours, Pack my volvo with all my things, Only to watch my father drive away.
George Shepherd ‘17 - 15 -
Vivian Lu ‘18 - 16 -
W
I
N
D
O
W
S
She was beginning to realize how far down she’d buried her teenage years in her memory. They had sat dusty and deep in the back of her mind, beneath her working days, her wedding, her childhood, as quiet and inoffensive as the day she had packaged and shoved them there. What had prompted this sudden interest in them, she didn’t know, but she felt an inclination to explore them, and so she did. Strangely enough, the first memory to flood her mind was one of a math class - her math class, sophomore year. A blackboard; three rows of drowsy students. She had sat in the middle of the room, on the left. Close to the door; close to the board. She had friends - lots of friends - enough to make her feel secure in the face of the numbers that, despite some luke-warm attempts, she would never truly understand. Big windows. The room had this set of glass windows that sprawled across one wall, overlooking the soccer fields and a small portion of the hill she used to run for cross country. In the winter, the landscape was completely white, only littered with the occasional bare tree that, from a distance, simply looked like a crack in the snow; flat; white. She would sit for hours, flicking her eyes back and forth between the chalkboard writing on the board and the whiteness behind the windows. At times, she remembered, the snow was blinding. There had to be a reason this memory appeared to her first. She leaned back in her chair, it creaking softly from weight. Her friends were unfortunate blurs in her mind. She tried to grasp some sort of anchor to them, details of hair or eyes or lips, but the longer she thought the more scattered the images became and so she stopped. It wasn’t the subject, either. Math had ever-eluded her. She’d practice and practice and finally when she’d master a skill the lessons would progress and whatever sliver of knowledge she’d thought she held would turn dull and cease to be useful. So, no. It wasn’t what she was learning. Her math teacher was short and condescending. If anything, she’d prefer to forget him. The windows; her mind wandered back to those. They were captivating, but more than that, they were incomplete. Even though they stood clear and white and strong in her mind, she felt the nagging feeling that there was something more she was overlooking. Again, the scenery materialized - an empty canvas she so desperately wanted to fill. She had never been an artist, but those panes made her want to grab anything she could and turn the snow into something more than blank on white. And then her teacher, equipped with a masked threat, would draw her back to the textbook. She didn’t know how she passed that class with a B+. The woman withdrew from her memories for a moment, taking a deep breath as she did. The house
- 17 -
around her was quiet, only letting out occasional soft creaks to remind her of its existence. She wondered what her daughter was dreaming of at the moment - if she was dreaming at all, if she was asleep at all. She knew that she should probably sleep too; she was acutely aware of the clock ticking closer to morning, perched behind her, but the weight of those windows grounded her in the chair. She thought harder. She supposed she had written about them often; littered in the margins of her notes were little scribblings of the setting, what was happening, what she wished to happen, tidbits of dreams and conversations she could over hear in the hallway, doodles of cracked white. She wrote a lot in that class; she wondered what she did with the tens of pages - maybe more - that she had filled over the years, the drawings and thoughts that had occupied her mind so vividly when she was young that now she couldn’t begin to fathom. Did anything tangible remain of her teenage years? She supposed not. She wondered if her daughter kept tangible memories. A journal, or a box, or a photo album. Suddenly she remembered there were no eggs in the fridge. “Mom?” Her daughter’s voice floated around the corner. Slightly startled, the woman jerked her head up to find her daughter, peering at her mother with large eyes. She smiled gently, gesturing for her to enter. “Hey, love.” She said, her voice slipping out in an almost whispery tone. “It’s late.” “I could say the same to you,” answered her daughter. She was wearing a concert t-shirt she had acquired long ago - too long ago to still be wearing it, probably - but regardless, the woman was somewhat comforted by it. “I guess I lost track of time,” the mother said simply. “I don’t have much to do tomorrow anyways. I do have to run to the grocery store, though.” The teenager studied the woman in the armchair. “Fair. You should still sleep soon though.” “Fair. What are you doing up?” With that, the girl came closer. “I’m a little hungry, actually.” “Want me to make you something?” “Sure.” “PB and J sound good?” “Sounds great.” And with that, they both moved to the kitchen wordlessly. The woman pulled out the peanut butter and jam, the girl fetched the bread, and the mother set to work spreading two thin layers of each condiment onto the slices. She served it to her daughter and watched her eat her food in the way one does in the early hours of a new day - slowly, gently, a little guiltily.
- 18 -
She was beginning to realize how far down she’d buried her teenage years in her memory. They had sat dusty and deep in the back of her mind, beneath her working days, her wedding, her childhood, as quiet and inoffensive as the day she had packaged and shoved them there. What had prompted this sudden interest in them, she didn’t know, but she felt an inclination to explore them, and so she did. Strangely enough, the first memory to flood her mind was one of a math class - her math class, sophomore year. A blackboard; three rows of drowsy students. She had sat in the middle of the room, on the left. Close to the door; close to the board. She had friends - lots of friends - enough to make her feel secure in the face of the numbers that, despite some luke-warm attempts, she would never truly understand. Big windows. The room had this set of glass windows that sprawled across one wall, overlooking the soccer fields and a small portion of the hill she used to run for cross country. In the winter, the landscape was completely white, only littered with the occasional bare tree that, from a distance, simply looked like a crack in the snow; flat; white. She would sit for hours, flicking her eyes back and forth between the chalkboard writing on the board and the whiteness behind the windows. At times, she remembered, the snow was blinding. There had to be a reason this memory appeared to her first. She leaned back in her chair, it creaking softly from weight. Her friends were unfortunate blurs in her mind. She tried to grasp some sort of anchor to them, details of hair or eyes or lips, but the longer she thought the more scattered the images became and so she stopped. It wasn’t the subject, either. Math had ever-eluded her. She’d practice and practice and finally when she’d master a skill the lessons would progress and whatever sliver of knowledge she’d thought she held would turn dull and cease to be useful. So, no. It wasn’t what she was learning. Her math teacher was short and condescending. If anything, she’d prefer to forget him. The windows; her mind wandered back to those. They were captivating, but more than that, they were incomplete. Even though they stood clear and white and strong in her mind, she felt the nagging feeling that there was something more she was overlooking. Again, the scenery materialized - an empty canvas she so desperately wanted to fill. She had never been an artist, but those panes made her want to grab anything she could and turn the snow into something more than blank on white. And then her teacher, equipped with a masked threat, would draw her back to the textbook. She didn’t know how she passed that class with a B+. The woman withdrew from her memories for a moment, taking a deep breath as she did. The house around her was quiet, only letting out occasional soft creaks to remind her of its existence. She wondered what her daughter was dreaming of at the moment - if she was dreaming at all, if she was asleep at all. Sumi Kim ‘17
- 19 -
Michelle Cheung ‘17
- 20 -
Eve Inglis ‘17
- 21 -
Eve Inglis ‘17
- 22 -
I
H O L D
L I F E ‘
I hold life’s pressure like lead in my shoulders. in my back my chest my throat my temples I feel stress pulsing throughout my body like blood.
S
P R E S S U R E S
PressureTimesVolumeEqualsTheNumberOfMoleculesTimesTheTemperatureAndAConstant. the constant is everything lost. my temperature rises as blood rushes to my face as I choke back sobs the molecules? punished promises protesting my prolonging pride the volume of the wounds
people, parents, priorities, pain pace, panic, push, and more pressure builds
I’ll be crushed or implode. either way, the results won’t be good.
swallowing back rushes of emotion holding in what desperately wants to come out a demon packed tightly behind a locked door I continue to bottle up how I feel up eventually the pressure will be too great, and the bottle will break
Eliza Price ‘17 - 23 -
Marley Thompson ‘18 - 24 -
- 25 -
Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio ‘17 - 26 -
e u r u s
s u r u e the east wind
- 27 -
Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio ‘17 - 28 -
A
N
E
M
O
I
Walking alone from the library one dim night, saw God in the stars. Saw God on the street; man is made in Her image— or so I’ve been told.
____ A sad story in few words: cold came from nowhere and the plants all died.
____ Time is like water: we are floating or drowning, but would know neither.
____ Melted a crayon on the heater: it looked like blood, but it was art.
Lauren Fadiman ‘17 - 29 -
Natalie Waldram ‘18 - 30 -
- 31 -
Chloe Frelinghuysen ‘17 - 32 -
S
H
A
R
P
I
E
S
She stopped to listen to broken sounds They mumbled jumbled falling round As golden locks turned dark she feared The Permanence of it all As leaves turned red so did she Bounding to new seasons, yet leaving no key Forgotten but the pictures shoved to the depths Her voice a crumpled piece of paper, attempting to escape The Permanence of it all As times turn and turn older She grows less and less bolder Lost and ingrained in The Permanence of it all And now she’s old and grey and sweet sixteen Years lost and tugged at, frayed at the edges Spent humming and drumming and agonizing over The Permanence of it all
Claudia Serino ‘17 - 33 -
Vivian Lu ‘18 - 34 -
N
E
X
T
M
O
N
T
H
Next month, will Dad still have a Job to make enough Money for me to pay for College, or enough so that my Sister can work hard on her Talent, which I don’t have, but it’s okay because my Grades are Good, but what Good are my Grades if I don’t have any Talent in helping out my Sister, who needs Money in order to go to College later so that she can get a good Job, but it all hinges on my Dad because what if something happens to him Next month. The cycle never stops, even when this poem does.
Anonymous - 35 -
Camilla McGarry ‘19 - 36 -
M
A
T
T
E
Child, there’s hair falling— Making clumps on the carpet. Your back is bent— Falling into the light. You keep trying to get through to someone. They can’t hear your pen scraping paper. Your lashes are thick. No time to wipe off the black. You’ve got to rest. Your air is trapped in your curls; It can’t make its way to your lungs. These letters look like a solid— Like a plain white tee. All you wanted was to flaunt your patterns— Your yellow velvet and sparkle. Does your brightness look matte to them? Are you really staring at the same page?
Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio ‘17 - 37 -
Mac Nolan ‘19 - 38 -
fboreas
the north wind
- 39 -
Alex Colon ‘18 - 40 -
G
E
R
B
I
The door was opened for me I entered blindly, foolishly If you aren’t looking for it It is imperceivable It was imperceivable I was milked by black trust, My untempered faith abused, And I couldn’t even see when The door was shut behind me Before I understood, I chose and embraced The safety of Lethe I watched my braking life through gauze Soon I realized that words Could whip through my shelter Flaying my humanity Blood discoloring morale Though mine or theirs, I don’t know And whether turned dark or light I don’t know But they seemed to care a lot I could hear people, and listened, But the permeance was ex parte My message ricocheting Through clear, disavowing stares I knew not who was safe now: Me or Them, Nor from what, safe
L I would take one step towards them, and the structure moved with me I stepped again, and once again the structure would move in sync I would reach out, but hands grasped only skirmish and hatred And never another hand I reached and stepped And reached and stepped And reached and stepped Until I was Staggering Towards repudiating prey Desperation soon faded Back into reluctant anguish: The agony of waiting. I will never reach the door I cannot release myself I rely solely on them On the repelled and spurning Those who can’t see my prison As anything but a game For me, it is not a game But you scorn my pleas for release
Anonymous - 41 -
Chloe Frelinghuysen ‘17 - 42 -
Marley Thompson ‘18 - 43 -
Vivian Lu ‘18
- 44 -
I
‘
M
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
I’m falling, falling deep One year gone, the ache remains God, please just let me sleep Darkness stains my soul as I weep, And my broken heart beats in numbing pain. I’m falling, falling deep Why did you have to take the leap? My thoughts consume like thundering rain God, please just let me sleep I look ahead, my road, it’s getting too steep, Someone, anyone, please get me out I’m going insane. I’m falling, falling deep These unwanted memories creep And I become vulnerable, for my frail body is hit by chains God, please just let me sleep I can’t stop thinking, why you took the leap My uncontrollable mind now slowly runs down the drain I’m falling, falling deep God, please just let me sleep Anonymous - 45 -
Ivy Salisova ‘18 - 46 -
Dylan Govers ‘17 - 47 -
Jacques Pellet ‘17 - 48 -
I N S H O R T Born of spontaneous creativity (and perhaps some hestiation and resentment at the task) - a collection of six word stories, written by and for the Taft community. For sale: baby shoes, never worn. Ernest Heminway College applications... always done 11:59pm. Tise Ben-Eka Coffee wasn’t strong enough; I died. Sumi Kim I woke up - or did I? Elliott Brown College football - all work, no time. Marcus Alleyne I almost crashed my car today. Sydney Trevenan Emily liked gossiping, but never shared. Logann Guiney Her accent drove me too crazy. Ali Sinaan Kaya He was really, really, really tall. Aiyanna Archer It’s cold ouside; forgot my coat. Louise Gagnon - 49 -
I N S H O R T True love: west coast, best coast. Natalie Waldram, Pheobe Autio I have homework to do - leave. Yasmeen Bae I woke up, then slept again. Sonny An The dog survived. His owner didn’t. Eleanor Streit Fell down the stairs. Almost died. Annie Gilland “Jesus Christ!” “No, it’s me, Simon.” Cauviya Selva What could go wrong with this? Annie Gilland We lost our door. We’re sad. The Day Student Population I have never been to Chipotle. Sarnai Reiner In the end, all was lost. Michael Hoffman, Financial Aid
FALL/WINTER, 2016 - 50 -
Editors
Lauren Fadiman Sumi Kim Chloe Frelinghuysen Avery Smith Gabriela Gonzalez Carpio
Faculty Advisor
‘17 ‘17 ‘17 ‘17 ‘17
Stuart Guthrie