Stray Shot 2010

Sam Aguirre-Kelly Scott Aranha Rob Badger Kirsten Bouthiller Lauren Castaldi Alejandro Castro John Charles Justin Charles Min Hye Chung Chris Clapis Sagine Corrielus Christian Deneault Zaid El-Fanek Zach Elston Alex Geerken Dan Goldberg Thom Hart Stephanie Hoffmann Jack Horgan Marena Izzi Yuya Kawahara Katrina Kiritharan Karen Layman Hayley Leman Isabel Levy-Nance Chaoyang Liu Natalie Merin Graham Pough Lauren Reich Nellie Simmons Haley Slone Soo Jin So Nick Strelov Yuze Sun Corey Tesch Hiroko Tsuburai Livia Wang Carson Wanty Morgaine Wasserman

Stray Shot 2010

STRAY SHOT 2010 Editors: Scott Aranha, Rob Badger, Chris Clapis, Zaid El-Fanek, Marena Izzi, Isabel Levy-Nance, Andrew Simpson, Nick Strelov Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut

CONTENTS Cover photo by Zach Elston Writing Prompts by Alejandro Castro……………………………………………………………………………………1 Poems by Haizi translated from the Chinese by Yuze Sun ………………………………………………………2 Photo by Lauren Reich………………………………………………………………………………………………………..8 Sustained Living by Thom Hart…………………………………………………………………………………………..11 Photo by Lauren Reich………………………………………………………………………………………………………13 This Poem Shall Remain Nameless by Karen Layman…………………………………………………………..15 The Process of Mapping, abridged by Karen Layman……………………………………………………………16 The women on the streets by Sagine Corrielus……………………………………………………………………..17 Three poems by Chaoyang Liu……………………………………………………………………………………………18 Untitled Poem by Yuya Kawahara……………………………………………………………………………………….20 Poem by Haley Slone…………………………………………………………………………………………………………21 Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi………………………………………………………………………………………..22 With a splash against the ground by Christian Deneault…………………………………………………………25 India by Nellie Simmons…………………………………………………………………………………………………….26 Photo by Natalie Merin………………………………………………………………………………………………………27 A Colorless Graveyard by Dan Goldberg……………………………………………………………………………..28 Voice by Scott Aranha………………………………………………………………………………………………………..29 Photo by Zach Elston…………………………………………………………………………………………………………31 Chaos by Morgaine Wasserman………………………………………………………………………………………….32 Painting by Min Hye Chung………………………………………………………………………………………………..33 Me & Piano by Hiroko Tsuburai…………………………………………………………………………………………34 True Story by Hayley Leman………………………………………………………………………………………………35 Drop of Rain by Carson Wanty…………………………………………………………………………………………..36 Hungry by Corey Tesch……………………………………………………………………………………………………..37 DENTIST by Corey Tesch………………………………………………………………………………………………..38 Photo by Alex Geerken……………………………………………………………………………………………………..39 Crash by Alejandro Castro………………………………………………………………………………………………….40 . I culminate by Alejandro Castro………………………………………………………………………………………..41 Of Churches and Grandmothers by John Charles…………………………………………………………………42 The Disaster by Justin Charles…………………………………………………………………………………………….43 Eighteen Saunter Observations by Stephanie Hoffmann………………………………………………………..44 A Christmas to Remember by Sam Aguirre-Kelly………………………………………………………………….45 Freedom by Chris Clapis…………………………………………………………………………………………………….47 Worried by Kirsten Bouthiller…………………………………………………………………………………………….48 Spring Rain and Me by Soo Jin So………………………………………………………………………………………49 haiku by Nick Strelov…………………………………………………………………………………………………………50 Two muttering haiku by Chris Clapis…………………………………………………………………………………..51 Photo by Zach Elston…………………………………………………………………………………………………………52 Poem by Livia Wang………………………………………………………………………………………………………….53 Poem with notes by Zaid El-Fanek………………………………………………………………………………………54 Don’t Tread on Me by Rob Badger……………………………………………………………………………………..55 A single blade of grass by Jack Horgan…………………………………………………………………………………57 After Giorgio Bassani by Alex Geerken……………………………………………………………………………….58 Life without humor by Graham Pough…………………………………………………………………………………59

the war ten haiku by Thom Hart………………………………………………………………………………………..60

Poem by Kirsten Bouthiller

Two poems by Zaid El-Fanek……………………………………………………………………………………………..61 Photo by Katrina Kiritharan………………………………………………………………………………………………..63 Two Poems by Isabel Levy-Nance……………………………………………………………………………………….64 Clarity by Marena Izzi………………………………………………………………………………………………………..66 Poem by Kirsten Bouthiller………………………………………………………………………………………………..67

Behind the old colonial The sun rises.

Pure, fresh light pours through the windows And over the ancient roof Ever so gracefully.

The air is still, Though the sweet melodious tunes Of the sleepless morning birds Gently awakens the resting world.

Thanks to Mr. Perrella, Ms. Kjellson, Mr. Daniels, Mrs. Bucklin, Mrs. Aguirre, and Mr. Alter.

For back issues of Stray Shot and English Journal (the midyear literary journal) go to http://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=260

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Writing Prompts by Alejandro Castro

Clarity by Marena Izzi

The Readings of Counsel A kid and an old scholar reading and sharing perspectives to each other in a world of imagination, dignity, and philanthropy.

The Vicious Uncertainty The unrequited love life of Jacob, a Jewish writer and Navy refugee living in western Syria, and Kareema, a young, beautiful, and enchanting, 19 year old Syrian girl.

With rain comes clarity. For when the sun comes out the next day, it shines on everything that the rain has washed clean. There are no more façades or messy lies, they all rinse away with the water.

And during the rain, when I would lie out there, soaked through, that was when I would think the most clearly, feel the most passionately. And right now, I needed that clarity more than anything.

Nothing in life is clear, or simple, or maybe it is and someone just forgot to tell me, but what I’ve known is that things get complicated, they get messy and foreign and sometimes there’s no easy answer. But there’s always a right one. So I sat there in my dorm room, praying for rain while Jess slept in the darkness. I sat and I waited, as I always had, on some feeble hope, some naiveté that things would work out just the way I wanted. And then, I heard it: the slight patter of drops on the window, just a slight drizzle, but for one second, everything clicked. It was possible, after all, to get what you wanted, no, what you needed, even if it was at the very last second before everything was about to fall. I felt a calm wash over me, no panic, no despair, just a simple calm. And with that I got up, padded out the door silently, and snuck out of the dorm in the dead of night.

The Neglected Bubble An experienced and thoughtful lad whose conventions and mind are progressively corrupted in such a way that he believes silence is nothing, but judgment and patience are all. It is quite a catching and volatile story. It may seem like the source for the development of new theories and philosophies, for the creation of responsible and cautiously inspired mayhem. Complications and unexplainable effects change and rewrite personal and communal destinies.

Fortamine: A forlorn experience An underground world inveigled in drug, sex and unparalleled vision. A world full of moral depravity, sadistic intention and acutely liberalized minds. It is intriguing and lecturing, and completely detached from the real and somewhat contented world.

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Poems by Haizi, translated from the Chinese by Yuze Sun

I’m not catholic But it would be nice to believe

I can feel the pressure It piles in my head And escapes through my ears I sigh in relief When they pop

A dedication

When the night falls, the fire goes back to ten thousand years ago A fire from a secret messenger, and it is burning in vain again

My head is planted by the window I like to know what’s going on If I could I would sit in the cockpit But unfortunately Osama ruined that for me

The fire becomes the fire, the night becomes the night, eternity becomes eternity The night is raising from the horizon, blocking the sky

I usually medicate myself to sleep But this time I consciously chose to stay awake No real reason why

I noticed that the plane is flying low We’re under the clouds Occasionally going through them

₂ 㤤ᄛ㒠

Everything looks like a city from up here I can’t see much land Just real estate

᧪⥄⒁ኒ

㧘Ἣ࿁೔৻ਁᐕ೨⊛Ἣ ⊛Ἣ ઁ෶ᤚ࿷⊕⊕࿾Ά

Ἣ࿁೔Ἣ 㤤ᄛ࿁೔㤤ᄛ ᳗ᕡ࿁೔᳗ᕡ

The economy is bad Slowly rising Can only get better Some say

㤤ᄛ੼ᄢ࿾਄ඥ⿠ ㆤ૑ੌᄤⓨ

But what do I know I should do some research Seeing as though in four years I will be voting The world will be in my hands And my vote will determine the whole Election Because I am That Important

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2

Dawn: A little Poetry

Dawn I wriggled myself free at a clay pot Or the edge of mother earth

My hands were flying towards the river I escaped from within a pot decorated with wheat-- the sun

Two Poems by Isabel Levy-Nance

March 8, 2010 Walton Beach, Florida Not really arrested But close enough Feeling not of fear But of disappointment Not exactly within myself I point and I laugh At the people like me

I saw my own face --- a ball of flame Wandering in the dawn wind

Having everyone stare Talking under their breaths They don’t know me

I saw my own face A ball of fire, like an ocean rising to the sky

Yet I judge everyone Except for myself

Like a quiet winged horse Flying towards the river

㤡᣿㧦৻㚂ዊ

㤡᣿ ᚒ

⣕

৻ด㒻➷ ᚗᄢ࿾⊛

ᚒ⊛෺ᚻะ⌕ᴡᵹ ᚒ

⣕৻ดೞೄ㤈ⓓ⊛㒻➷ᄥ㒑 ᚒ⋴

⥄Ꮖ⊛㕙ኈἫὺ

࿷㤡᣿⊛

⠍

ਛ 3

ᔮਇቯ

Thousands of lights below Blurred highways that travel for miles Too high to see the moon Too low to see heaven

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ᚒ⋴

⥄Ꮖ⊛㕙ኈ

Ἣὺ௝৻ ඥ਄ᄤⓨ⊛ᄢᶏ ௝㕒㕒⊛ᄤ ะ⌕ᴡᵹ

⠍

We’re crouching in a log

I'm crouching in a log, like a blind man who hasn't walked for years

I forgot the sound of walking

My ears are flowers and insects basking in spring

ᚒ

ထ࿷৻᫯ᧁ

ਛ

ᚒထ࿷৻᫯ᧁ ਛ㧘ᅤหᄙᐕᴚ᦭⿛〝⊛⍀ሶ ᔓළੌ⿛〝⊛ჿ㖸 ᚒ⊛⡊ ᤚⵍᤐᄤᤴ ⊛⧎ ๺⯻⽜

photo by Katrina Kiritharan

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4

Snow

Schizophrenia

I went through hell and high water to return to my hometown My bones are white, but highland barley cannot grow over me Snow capped mountain, my grassland becomes bright because of your breast Ice cold and gorgeous I have recovered In the days of snow, I only want to die in the snow Bright light shining overhead Sometimes I lean against the grassland The horse’s head is my qin* The horse’s tail is my string Put on Himalaya, a blazing crown Sometimes I go back to the valley, lean against the capital People all idle about, and I idle about There is only love, my sword, and my horse's four hooves

My voices are lost, But my screams will find their way.

My personality shifts and breaks Every night and day.

With all this passing time My dreams, they will decay.

So I’ll dig and search for some hope Through all this dismay.

And when I fail I’ll rest with you.

In the ground we’ll lay.

Cut my lips off and put them on the fire It is snowing with great flakes Snow covers the dirty hills They are all embraced by the breast of snow At midnight the prince of fire is eating the stones alone, drinking the wine alone *qin: an ancient Chinese musical instrument

㔐

ජᔃਁ⧰࿁೔᡿ ᚒ⊛㛽㜋㔐⊕ ਽

ਇ಴㕍⒬

㔐ጊ㧘ᚒ⊛⨲ේ࿃ૢ⊛੃ᚱ⠰᣿੫ ౽಄⠰

ᚒ⊛∛Ꮗᅢ

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㔐⊛ᣣሶ ᚒดᗐ೔㔐ਛ෰ᱫ

Two poems by Zaid El-Fanek

ᚒ⊛

Voices The voice inside me: I can’t hear it.

I lay awake in bed— See the moon but I can’t feel it

᦭

᡼಴శ⦵

ᚒ⢛㕗⨲ේ ஖ℙ

as its bright lights transmit and filter into my head— this voice inside me, I can’t hear it.

የ

ᚬ਄༑ ᜆ㓷

᦭

While the voice screams, I admit that I have already fled to see the moon, but I can’t feel it.

ੱ

ὓἫ⊛₺౰

ᚒㅌ࿁⋆࿾㧘⢛㕗ᚑㇺ ᣠᚲ੐੐㧘ᚒ਽ᣠᚲ੐੐

ด᦭

I guess it’s time that I should quit, since I can only hear a shred of this voice inside me, I can’t feel it.

ᒏ

ᖱ

⊛྾か

ഀਅཚໃ᡼࿷Ἣ਄

I’m losing myself, bit by bit— I’ll stare into the sun instead: The moon betrays me, I can’t feel it.

ᄢ㔐 ਇ

So I lay awake and commit my last crime—now it’s dead; The voice inside me, I couldn’t hear it.

Saw the moon, but I’ll never feel it.

ᤄᣣ

⊛ጊ

ㇺⵍ㔐⊕⊛੃ᚱ ᛴ

ᷓᄛਛ Ἣ₺ሶ ⁛⥄ล⌕⍹

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6

⁛⥄ ㈬

The shades

In the shades I have three agonies: Drift. Love. Survival

I have three happinesses: Poems. Throne. The Sun

࿷ᄛ⦡ਛ

ᚒ᦭ਃᰴฃ ᵹᶉ ᖱ ↢ሽ

ᚒ᦭ਃ ᐘ⑔ ᱌ ₺૏ᄥ㒑

the war ten haiku by Thom Hart Resonance in turn Brings about the world to me Hiding behind dark Reverb adds space here Dissonant notes echo there A place in between Polychord madness Unaligned music abounds A sound to be heard Lyrics flow from mouth Onto paper they imprint A meaning then lost Watch the face light up Pure wattage tears through the air The bass sucker punch The lead man takes mic In hand ready to do battle With corporation The rock rebellion Knows no boundaries on this day Let the walls come down The revolution A culture clash of ages Youth and violence The pen is your sword The paper your bandolier Music your cannon There is no peace here Society has no place Engage the senses.

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Life without humor by Graham Pough What do you call a greedy crab? Shellfish. (Pause for extreme laughter.)

Alright, now that you have stopped laughing hysterically and gotten back into your chair, imagine a word without humor. You wake up to your alarm radio where AM radio dominates the airwaves.

As you slowly become conscious you hear more and more of the morning talk show. “Hi Jim.” “Hello.” “How has your day been going so far?” “Dry and monotonous” “yes, mine too.” Your face goes from a sleepy drooling one to an emotionless mindless stare. As you get up you make your gray bed sheets and fluff your gray pillows before jumping into the shower. As you turn it on a rush of high pressure, high temperature water whips you across the face. Obviously you see no humor in this and rip the shower head off your shower. However, this does not help the problem in fact it makes it much worse because now instead of being able to shower you must now return to your room without a shower. But it isn’t really that big of a deal, because you did not go out last night or anything like that because it’s not like you can sit around and joke with your friends. Not that you never go out, sometimes you go to the local bar. You walk into the bar and try and pick up ladies with your “go to” pick up line. “Hello, would you perhaps like to mate with me this evening?” no success. You then proceed to problem drink by yourself and perhaps cry your way home.

Ironically, the idea of a life without humor sounds pretty funny, but it would be funny in the way that watching skateboarders fall is entertaining. Although we can very easily laugh at them, we would not want to be in their situation. I don’t think the world could actually exist without a good sense of humor. I’m sure many more employees of monotonous jobs would go postal if they didn’t have silly clips of a cat playing the cat on the piano on you tube. In many ways, people use humor to distract themselves of how much their own life lacks entertainment and humor. And why not?

Humor is a great thing, a group of friends sitting around, cracking jokes, everyone is smiling, everyone is laughing, everyone is happy. Many people base their entire personality on being funny and entertaining themselves and those around them. I consider myself to be one of those people, and I think I’m pretty good at it. I know that if I couldn’t crack a knee slapper at the right moment I wouldn’t have half my friends. But again, that isn’t really too bad of a thing, I have friends which I of course enjoy and people seem to enjoy being around me. The way I see it, there is nothing beneficial in my life that regards an extreme level of seriousness other than school and crew (which together make up 12/15 hours of my conscious day. So for the other 3 hours why not just be silly?

It’s more fun, more healthy, and a much better way to pass the time.

Another use of humor is like I said before, to distract someone from the poor quality of their actual life. Most people go to see funny movies so that they don’t have to think about their boss, their homework, their family. All that they have to think about is the screen in front of them and carrying that soda, popcorn, AND candy in a flimsy excuse for a box. But I don’t understand why people would allow their lives to reach such a point that they have to search externally for entertainment. The way I see it is that, every second that you don’t enjoy in your life, is a second wasted. And that second doesn’t come back, each second is a once in a lifetime opportunity. That second can only happen once, then it’s over. And do you really want to spend it being upset?

Angry? Sad?

“Playing the game safely is but a phrase, for those to say who are afraid of living for today” – Mads Jacobsen

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photo by Lauren Reich

8

Your hands

North Holding your hands Your hands When you take off your gloves They are two little lights My shoulders Are two old houses They have held too much Even the nights Your hands Are on them Lighting them up So here comes the morning after we said our farewells In the morning light I hold up a bowl of congee

After Giorgio Bassani, The Garden of the Finzi-Continis by Alex Geerken Every summer I drove past the club…I always saw families and friends in their fancy clothes, with their fancy cars…the white buildings, the beautifully landscaped lawns and gardens, and think why couldn’t I do that with my family?

I couldn’t provide for my children; my wife and I each have full-time jobs, with the kids in daycare. It’s a stressful concept to grasp and live with. I rarely see my children.

I would look over the walls of the country club, and hear the constant volley of tennis, the loud crack of a golfer driving down a meticulously manicured fairway, the splashing of children jumping and playing in the pool. It had always been a mystery, this country club. What really went on there? Why would these people seclude themselves to being strictly with fellow wealth-junkies?

My wife always it wasn’t worth getting in to. Why be curious about something you can’t have? Hell, that’s not the way my mind works. As they say curiosity killed the cat, but I ain’t gonna die looking over a wall. She would ask: why would you want to join a bunch of snobs who brag about their wealth and talk about how many cars they each have? I would then agree and let the subject pass…her life is stressful as it is.

Yet I was still intrigued; that place seemed so interesting to me. What was behind those walls? I was constantly nagged to go and get involved. But reality hit me, and I literally was not allowed to enter the premises.

That’s why, years later, the Smith family came into my life. One day when on the way home from work I had pulled over to watch some men play golf at the country club. I was admiring the scenery and daydreaming about how amazing it would be to be rich, when a young girl walked up to me from the other side of the wall. She asked what I was doing and I said I was watching the men play golf. She proceeded to then tell me to come and join her daddy while he played. He could use an extra player, she said. I declined because I was not allowed to be on the course. I wasn’t a member.

That day, I became included. I joined the club. Jim Smith, the little girl’s dad, came up to me when he saw that I was speaking with his daughter. Come and play, he said. Why are you sitting around!

I have been playing golf and other various club activities with my wife and kids all because of my persistence. Not that I ever dreamed of being invited. That’s just the way life works, I guess.

Thinking of the distant north There are two little lights That can only be touched from far away

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58

ૢ⊛ᚻ

A single blade of grass by Jack Horgan

A single blade of grass sprouting from the earth among millions of others can simply be described as just another little green plant identical to the rest all around campus. And this is what it means to so many people, who pass it by every day with little acknowledgment of its subtle characteristics, if any. I have been a part of this mass of passive individuals for as long as I can remember. Us non-analytic people; we make up the vast majority of the world, not paying special attention to the little things that we pass by obliviously every day, such as this single blade of grass. Maybe because we have other things on our minds; we are always looking for more objects in life, objects that are new to us and that we can then look into with great detail as I have with this blade of grass. But in my experiences, as I am sure apply to most other people’s, I never end up analyzing these new objects with significant acknowledged detail just like we never did when we were first introduced to fields made up of countless individual blades of grass. Everything new that I see I do acknowledge to a certain degree, but in an insignificantly terse period of time it all becomes just another blade of grass. There is a very faint, subtle line that I have just become aware of that connects this aspect of non-acknowledgment, which touches the lives of all mankind, to the feeling of constant discontent in life. This specific feeling that I am referring to may only apply to myself, however I believe it comes in countless differing forms for each individual, but in each individual it does exist and affects them every day. It seems so simple because it is felt so often; this feeling of discontent, boredom, unknowingness, so that it has become a general part of everyone’s life and is barely even acknowledged anymore. This may just be human nature, always subconsciously feeling like there should be more to seek out in life and naturally disregarding what has been present the whole time like a simple blade of grass, or maybe it is just me. Maybe they are completely unrelated and I have tied the idea of this tiny object to a much larger aspect of common human feeling through tiny, insignificant threads that really mean nothing at all. I still find it interesting that examining a blade of grass and trying to analyze my thoughts has led me to the question of why it seems like so many people generally can’t remain content for long, with everything they have around them that, at the end of the day, is ultimately bulked into a single category of just matter, nothing new.

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ർᣇ ᜆ⌕ૢ⊛ᚻ ᚻ ៰ਅᚻᅃ ᅟ ዞᤚਖ ዊἮ

ᚒ⊛⢋⣾ ᤚਖᐳᣥᚱሶ ኈ ੌ㇊ ᄙ ↟⥋ኈ ᄛ ૢ⊛ᚻ ࿷ઁ਄㕙 ᛠઁ ᾖ੫

੓ᤚ᦭ੌ อ⊛ᣧ਄ ࿷᥄శਛ ᚒ┵⿠৻⏀♄ ᗐ⿠㓒ጊ㓒᳓⊛ ർᣇ ᦭ਖ Ἦ

ด⢻

࿾ 㜇

10

Sustained Living by Thom Hart The trail was by no means kind Many found bears and sore legs a burden Although, along the way…hikers would open their eyes and find the nature within

His pen glides across The paper, aided by the Ball point. It stains With machine-like accuracy Imaginary sentences spill out A flood breaking over the Levee, tearing down all walls The writer is now pensive.

In full swing he must not stray Far from his theme.

Words unwritten, fictions still Yet to be conceived. All This for sure, waiting.

3

Men volunteered their time To upkeep the monster trail Each a piece of their passion A gust of wind in this natural sail

In his mind imagining a Lone elk or deer, on the Outside of the herd The clever wolves, only Clever to survive, planning The creatures demise, and for Themselves, a feast.

The writer sees the four-legged Prey, rigid with fear, its Ears perked up, nose twitching.

The writer can see his prey But cannot move. The imaginary Pen, the imaginary sentences, all imagined

Through old trapping sites And along mighty torrents Little to no proof Of human presence past or present The trail spread on Connecting the erased markings Of the past To curious footprints of the future

The paralysis is unnerving For the writer knows he will Not survive, if the pen neglects The paper, and a harmony of Flowing words is not achieved Yet he waits for days for Words to come within reach. For Ideas to stretch their necks Out of holes in the ground, where He may snatch them up in his Salivating jaws, and lives on.

2

Cut Out from Article. A WOMAN'S "HIKE" IN VERMONT; How She Tramped Over the New Mountain Highway Constructed by the Green Mountain Club. August 22, 1915

3

Cut Out from Article. A WOMAN'S "HIKE" IN VERMONT; How She Tramped Over the New Mountain Highway Constructed by the Green Mountain Club. August 22, 1915

Such is the hide and seek nature Of inspiration, a furtive thing A shy component at the most

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Don’t Tread on Me by Rob Badger

Yet he claws at his mind with Fingers bleeding and nails braking, Desperate, trying to find sustenance.

And they do not come. The Thoughts so cleverly thought of, The ideas clinging for dear life To whatever they can hold on to Paragraphs and verses run by But the writer is too busy Digging with bloodied fingers And broken fingernails.

Vermont is home to A family of mountains Two hundred and fifty miles long Stretching beneath the horizon Stratton Mountain Stood and stands tall and strong in Windham County Covered by a white blanket of warmth And goose bumps of green trees

The hawk may seek the rabbit As the lion may seek a gazelle The poet a poem, and the Musician a sound. Something, To sustain life.

It was a natural wonder Untouched by man Overlooking all its brothers Of The Green Mountain Chain 1 It was here at the Stratton Summit that James P. Taylor, in 1909, envisioned the idea of a hiking trail ranging the length of Vermont, known as the Long Trail.

It started with a man Who wanted to tame a mountain To create a trail for those That would go with and after him He was the patriarch Of the oldest long distance trail Its snakelike form stretched from the tips of Massachusetts’s fingers To the feet of The Canadian Border

Hours, days, months spent writing Eyes staring off in space, the Predators always alert, the student’s half closed. Fishing for a hook, to arm an essay, a barb to sink into the soft roof of a readers mouth, then reeled in. in rabid frenzy, dogs tear at the bodies, those who could not find the things, so necessary to life.

Dante shivers at the thought, A hell far worse than his own For he has not imagined this Inferno. An empty space filled With nothing. The wall reached And never mounted by philosophers Waving their flags, of rationality And irrationality.

He relaxes, his prey caught Trapped, on paper, for all to see.

Stuffed and mounted, the severed heads Stare lifelessly, they know when it is over.

2

1

http://www.stratton.com/todo/summer-activities/hiking/off_trail.htm Off The Beaten Track. The Long Trail.

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But does the writer?

When all thoughts exhausted The traveler comes to the

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Poem with notes by Zaid El-Fanek

I’m evil and I’m bored.

I walk to my ranarium and pick a harmless creature.

I conquassate the poor squidgereen Until it is no longer gressible It’s not moving.

I call to it.

But my lethonomia gets in the way.

Instead I call “Creature! Creature!”

But no response.

ranarium (n.) - a frog farm conquassate (v.) - to shake violently squidgereen (n.) - a short, insignificant person gressible (adj.) - able to walk lethonomia (n.) - a tendency to forget names

photo by Lauren Reich

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Poem by Livia Wang

Destination, weary souls stare Upon his heavenly gates, only To be torn away Looking back down their traveled Path, the eyes watching and So, the hunter became the hunted

Enter a spacious prairie.

Meet the chilly weather.

Arrive at a cloudy world.

A child is trying to make the world warm, by dancing the soft step.

Her talent for dance is not appreciated.

Only the static trees appreciate the child’s performance.

The weedwhacker sound transmits from the remote distance, Let the child’s dance become more touching.

The sound of the birds, the car, the rain drop, Also play the role of music.

Busy people walking pass the little boy.

They have neglected the joyful child.

The wet ground has created a wall, Separating him and the word.

A lonely person is enjoying his dance.

No matter what is going on, he pays no attention to other people’s judgment or to the heartless world.

He will still stay there, Dance the step that he wants.

The oh-so-clever wolves, Encircling, backing him into a corner Chest rising and falling rapidly, His heart intent on stealing as Many last heartbeats as it can, For it knows it will be torn Forth, ripped out of his chest Cavity, and crushed in the jaws of the hungry.

The powerful, stripped bare The feared, overcome The unknown, known The bodies of the fallen burned And so the words were written The writer allowed To continue.

Congratulations to Thom, whose poem was just chosen to be published in Connecticut Student Writers, a publication of the Connecticut Writing Project at the University of Connecticut, Storrs.

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This Poem Shall Remain Nameless…by Karen Layman And so shall I, and so will you, But really, you know my name, and I know yours And that’s a pretty good place to start, But it would be better if we could get beyond a few words Since hello, good morning, and other pleasantries rarely get us anywhere And simply making a statement, or asking a question, usually ends in a one- or two-word answer, And even compliments rarely have the desired effect; That said, I don’t know if you realize how happy I was when we carried on a complete conversation, Albeit it was the only conversation we ever really had And it was about something small Because I asked you a favor And you agreed to help me, after at least a month or two, and probably to get me to stop asking and leave you alone I don’t think I nagged, I only asked twice, a long time apart, and the second time you said yes, But I still felt like I was bothering you And you never said that I wasn’t, so I might have been And I might have had reason to feel like I was being bothersome, Because the fact that we can’t ever get beyond a few words No matter what I say Leads me to think that I was…

That, or you remember when I accidentally flung my glasses at you And lost my traveldrive in my own pocket and spent two hours running around campus looking for it And you therefore think I’m crazy, and that you should stay as far away from me as possible; I wish you would talk to me, You have such a pretty voice (Although that’s probably exactly that type of thing that keeps you away…)

Maybe you’ll see this someday and dispel any doubt that I have, and maybe we can even be friends— And yes, If this makes sense to you, it’s you that I’m so eager to get to know Never you mind why, That’s another story One that I’m not sure that even I can tell…

In fact, I’m not sure I know it myself.

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photo by Zach Elston

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Two muttering haiku by Chris Clapis

The Process of Mapping, abridged by Karen Layman Happiness is not As hard to find as people Make it out to be.

Something I’ve learned Is that one cannot hope to build their own world Until they have at least a semi-decent grasp on the concept of this one.

Example:

What are you doing?

Stop counting on your fingers.

You suck at haikus.

Rivers don’t run in straight lines.

Trees don’t grow in formation.

Plants don’t look like they were told to stand up and march.

There’s only so much you can do with a tileset and some sprites But with practice, you can push the limits, Try things that no one has ever done before, Or discover for yourself what another has accomplished on their own, across the country or the world Eventually, you’ll be able to build a believable forest.

Town.

City.

Continent.

World.

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The women on the streets by Sagine Corrielus

haiku by Nick Strelov

Laugh at me, laugh at me so.

Is it the coarseness of my hair, Or the blackness of my eyes?

Or maybe it’s the rosiness of my hue, The paleness of my complexion, Or the tiny green flecks that dot my irises full.

It could be because I’m tan, curly headed and have a slick nose.

The women on the streets still laugh at me, they still laugh at me so.

My sought after bravery, The courage that rages inside me, The fact that I am the very ne plus ultra in everything I do Could be what drives them on and why their laughter seeps into my brain.

Or how I am beautiful and smart, Tiny and delightful, Cool and gregarious No, silly me! It must be the color of my skin.

I enter the room Shake his hand and crack a joke He stares back blankly I enter the room Pursuing entertainment But nobody laughs I enter the room by accident, squeeze one out people stare, sniffing When nobody laughs I find comfort in knowing I make myself laugh

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Spring Rain and Me by Soo Jin So

Three poems by Chaoyang Liu

The spring rain is coming Pouring and hammering.

Looks like it wants to say hello for a new start.

Knocking on the Earth To wake everybody up,

Still far to go

Wakes us too In my eyes, some students don’t look happy To start a new term In the pouring rain That helps the world look dirtier

Sans terre

Through the woods Homecoming birds flew But they shall never understand The aspiration of travelling clouds Sky is their road Without home Home is everywhere O brave saunterers You hold the wind How smooth is the hand of air And how firm is the grasp you share No high mountain can stop you Because you always know That there is still more to see And far to go

But, for some, The spring rain Looks like it’s cleaning the dirtiness of the world Helping to make a new start Looks like it’s giving the growing little Green sprout energy, Giving hopes and dreams to our growing little sweet minds

The trekkers climb a long way Through the shaded forest and the dark caves The muddy land and the leafy track Until they finally reach the top of the Steep Rock They stretch their vision To reach the peak of another mountain Where the pine trees touch the clouds

But everyone shares the feeling That after the spring rain, after it The rainbow that is seen over the school And beyond that, the little sunlight Helps us go towards hope

The trekkers sing their echo of victory And walk back down to celebrate But they never hear how the clouds chuckle At how naive they are What victory is it when half the walk is but a retrace And why celebrate when the defeat is but their laziness

Everything is Clear and green, The softest and the most fragile leaf Are so pretty Because of their purity that doesn’t have filth Looks like Everyone has a smile on their face Whether They know it or not

Above the trees and birds The chivalric spirits move forward They are never wayworn for their quadrivial heart And their decision to be on the road Without ever looking back or down When there is still far to go and future to make

The spring rain Looks like it is helping us make a new start.

Helping us to run toward, toward our dream, A fresh new start.

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18

Dear Old Friend

Worried by Kirsten Bouthiller

Dear old friend, For years, We seem to have nothing to say.

Is it because that we don’t see each other, Don’t encounter the same people, Or that you always had yours And I always had my Different day?

A deep silence lingers and cuts Into the shallow flesh that sits and waits Still in the mourning thoughts Thoughts, Like freight trains, Rush and collide Traffic begins to ensue And soon enough the Advil overdose Does little but send the trains over the cliff To disappear with an unknowing death The last moments flash by quickly Before the peaceful sleep takes over The body’s last twitches are sudden and random As if to fight to stay awake Soon Total relaxation finds its way Throughout the veins The muscles calm themselves The brain shuts down The eyes last flickers Flick

An Afternoon I have some green tea and poems from the Song Dynasty in the cottage next to the river, in which the ice will melt soon.

Would you, my dear friend, join me for an afternoon?

The lights dim Then fade A dark black creeps in from the farthest reaches of the mind Paranoia Obsession Dilated eyes Body twitches Exhaustion Depression Twenty-seven hours pass by as the overdose wears off Sick feeling Exhausted And the feeling of wanting to die Passes through the mind and body at once The freight train of the mind Doesn’t feel so metaphorical anymore

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Freedom by Chris Clapis

Untitled Poem by Yuya Kawahara

Only two months remain, Ten weeks until it’s all done, And I will reach freedom.

Just waiting for the time When I have no reason to worry Just peace, and love, and music.

We are not human We are less than a human but more than a human being our voice will not reach

And after we play that music, Not too much will remain.

Without it, comes more worry, Which is why we can never be done.

We’ll keep playing until the end of time Because that’s how we’ll have freedom.

it is always interrupted our voice vanishes in the room We are completely ignored We are part of a background

And it must be limitless, that freedom.

Nothing is constant except for the music, Nothing is predictable, not even time, Nothing is required to remain, And when all is said and done, Our world will be free of worry.

Part of no one’s memories The sky is too blue so we look down We are a shadow

And if we do have some reason to worry, It won’t be for a lack of that freedom, And it won’t be because of anything we’ve done, For all we’ll be doing is music.

Any problems that do remain Won’t be our fault this time.

We look at others and follow others We are nothing We are not human

And they won’t be, until the end of time.

But I’m sure we won’t have that worry; I’m sure no problems will remain.

Because once we find freedom Through our music, Nothing else will need to be done.

In fact, we will be done; Done with everything this time; Everything except for music.

Done with pain, regret, and worry, Until freedom Is all that remains.

And our music will never be done.

It will remain until the end of time.

And never again will we have to worry about achieving our freedom.

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20

Poem by Haley Slone

The Sound of Tragedy: The voice of a newborn bird Wings as they hit the tree branches among flight Swoosh and crash A rock takes the form of the new nest Speed of time, summer turns to winter and back to summer, A mark has been left forever on its bed.

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“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m going to send you to the closest intercontinental destination, and you can do whatever you want from there,” said the lady behind the desk with a look of apathy and disgust.

“Well, I suppose that will do for now.” So then Santa walked through the airport with his magical present bag over his shoulder. He was approaching the customs check in. Threatening men in police uniforms stood at the front.

“Hello sir, please put your bag on the table.”

“Why, certainly young man, just don’t take any presents, or else I will put you on the naughty list.” “.... Alright, whatever. Just put it right up here.” The customs man started pulling present after present out of the magical bag.

“Hey, Frank come take a look at this. I keep pulling them out but I can’t get to the bottom.

They just keep on coming.”

Santa then stepped forward with a grin on his face and said “Well young man, you will never get to the bottom, there isn’t a chance.”

The customs men quickly reacted.

“Sir, please stay behind the dotted line. Under no circumstances should you cross this line unless we tell you to do so.” Then one of the customs men signaled something to the other. Soon another man wearing white gloves approached the scene.

Looking at the man with the white gloves, Santa said “My, my, it seems we have matching gloves! Did Mrs. Clause make those for you behind my back? Ho ho ho!” exclaimed Santa.

“Sir please remain quiet, we’re about to conduct a cavity search, so I suggest from this point on you choose your words wisely” said the customs man with a face that showed no signs of Christmas spirit.

“A cavity search? Well I do eat a cookie or two from time to time, ho ho ho!”

Then the men took Santa by his big fluffy coat into a special room. Santa’s charms had no power over these men. These men in their blue uniforms and heavy belts were sure to be on the naughty list. Twas a night when Christmas spirit wasn’t enough. Twas the night of the weirdest Christmas.

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A Christmas to Remember by Sam Aguirre-Kelly This is the story of one very strange Christmas. This is a Christmas that would go against every rule of Christmas. This....was a Christmas to remember.

“HO HO HO MY GOD” shouted Santa with the most horrid of looks on his face, his white beard sweating at this point, his face redder than usual. So red that had it been the face of anyone but Santa, one would need to seek medical attention. The elves rushed outside on their stubby legs to see what was going on.

“What is it Santa? What’s all the commotion?” inquired one little elf. What a horrible scene it was. Upon the sight of such an exhibition, many of the elves wet their little elf pants.

“Which one of you left the door to the reindeer cage open?” Santa asked with a tone of controlled rage in his voice. Utter silence fell upon the elves.

“No one’s going to confess? Nobody? It wasn’t you Charlie, was it? You were in charge of feeding the reindeer. How about you Pokey? Don’t think I haven’t heard rumors about you trying to ride Prancer during your breaks. Well as you can see, all the reindeer have been mauled to death by a pack of wolves. That’s just fantastic! Exactly what I need on Christmas Eve! Honestly, guys? It’s called closing a door, ever heard of it?” The elves had never seen such a sight - both the reindeers’ insides and Santa’s temper. It seemed surely that Christmas was ruined. Tears came to the eyes of the little elves. What was there to do? Santa would surely fire all of them. They had families to feed, children to raise. They couldn’t afford to start working in the icicle factory again, it just didn’t pay enough, the icicle market was at an all time low. Just as their spirits started to drown into the snow, Santa sang for all to hear:

O dead reindeer, o dead reindeer Thy bodies lie here mangled O dead reindeer, o dead reindeer Chewed out from every angle “Alright elves, I know this is hard for all of you. However, Christmas must go on!” There was a slight sparkle of hope in Santa’s eye. The elves raised their little chins to the sky thinking about all the boys and girls around the world. Santa was right, Christmas must go on.

“We’re with you boss! Anything you need, we got it! We’re not going to let this ruin Christmas!” shouted the little elves.

“Good, I knew I could count on you guys. Now let’s see.... Donnie, didn’t you say your cousin is the freaky garden gnome from the travelocity commercials?”

“Yeah boss, why do you ask?”

“Call him and see if you can get a discount for me. Boys, start loading up the toys, I’m going on a little adventure, round-trip, across the freakin world.”

So old Saint Nick packed his bags full of toys, and set out for the nearest airport, which happened to be a pretty established place, much to Santa’s surprise.

“Can I get one ticket around the world?” he asked the middle-aged Latina lady behind the desk.

“Around the world? You will have to be more specific sir.”

“Well I want to go everywhere, at least everywhere that there are children in need of Christmas joy, oh and is it possible to avoid flying anywhere near the Middle East? Last time I was flying over that part of the world, I ran to some bad crowds.”

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Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi My Boat I’m trapped in a wooden boat I’m out in the heart of the sea The waves swing me back and forth This is not where I thought I would be My boat is tiny and weak I’ve not too long to the end I’m acquainted with the water now The water is not my friend My boat is upset she is losing The battle between her and the sea She feels like she has failed I assure her the problem is me.

It’s really quite sad when this happens When your boat is no longer safe When the only thing between you and the water Has suddenly broken your faith My boat lasted much less than most I supposed I have no one to blame I chose to go out in the water I went in with too weak of a frame The water is forceful, determined He will not take my pleads saying no The water will take me I know it And into the water I go.

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I am

Eighteen Saunter Observations by Stephanie Hoffmann

I am a trapeze artist, And I walk a thin white string.

My path is not straight, but crooked.

I’m unsure what my path will bring.

The sun enormous and dazzling with long golden beams.

The pavement charcoal gray with a drizzle of glittery pebbles.

Flawless spots of bright white snow like a frothy vanilla milkshake.

I am a warrior woman, And I yell out my battle cry.

I face battle bloody and brutal, And I win them, at least I try.

The bitter cold air and the tingly twinge upon my nose.

Every fluffy cloud in the sky, bigger than the one before, each a different shape.

Uneven and smooth green but frosted grass across the quad.

I am a princess in a castle, Guarded by dragons and knights.

I wait for my prince to come save me, But first he must win all his fights.

The old roof and shingles of the school house like little tranquil yet stiff blankets.

The pond with ivory powdery and snowy particles and a thin layer of ice like a broken mirror.

I am the silent watcher, Of those who creep in the night.

They cast shadows through my window, I watch then turn on the light.

Small flakes of days old snow swirly and fluttery in the sky.

The dry brown bark from the trees like chocolate shavings.

Leafless branches of different sizes, bare from the winter weather.

I am a single traveler.

And I walk along thinking aloud.

I sing and I whistle and travel alone, I pretend I perform for a crowd.

The muddy ground, damp and cold against my sock-less foot.

The shaky steps on the path like a slow rocky roller coaster.

And I walk a thin white string, And I yell out my battle cry, Guarded by dragons and knights, Of those who creep in the night, And I walk along thinking aloud, And this is my only sound.

The trail to the stable man on a ball on a boulder, utterly serene.

Moist leftover slippery smooth slush against the bottom of my shoe.

Winter harmonious birds on the tall buildings and treetops, fearless of the cold brisk.

Gaping deep holes in the side of tree trunks along the road.

A snapshot of the still, calming melody of the cows in country and winter noise.

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44

The Disaster by Justin Charles

Temptation

The disaster in Haiti took my heart away, So many lives people will miss.

Thousands dead in one day.

Why has my god done this?

The golden grains sink in and hug tanned feet, There is calm throughout the air.

Wind kisses and dances around bare skin, There are secrets in the sea.

Dark water murmurs menacingly, This is a familiar place.

Rocks in the distance battle waves, They show no mercy for mediators of their paths.

Tiny fingers clutch her billowing skirt, She buries her toes beneath the sand.

The sun blankets the beach in warmth and wonder.

A whisper, “Hold me while the waves pull me away.”

Cement buildings rumble to the floor, Dust in the hot tropic air.

Lives will be knocking on heaven's door.

Every life lost I shed a tear.

Panic has spread, People wait for news.

God knows where these people are headed.

I’m feeling so confused.

It was said that Christopher Columbus called Haiti paradise, The smell of death makes people mourn.

To prosper again Haiti must make a sacrifice, As the Neg Maron blows his horn.

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24

With a splash against the ground by Christian Deneault

Of Churches and Grandmothers by John Charles

The quiet rain slides slowly down my cheek It feels cool against my warm skin Like an antidote to fever This rain is calming but saddening It reminds me of all that is lost And all that has been made clean and new Of what was washed white and pure

“It would be so very nice of you to do this for me,” she said with the inexorable, fragile smile, which only the frail grandmother can achieve. I felt my toes curl within my little Nikes as I said, “No,” with a tone of quiet annoyance, “I don’t want to go to any stupid church.” The disappointment in her face was clear, and while I felt a stab of pity for the pious old trout, I quickly brushed it aside. Usually I was more polite, however, my mother had gone to Montana to visit my sister while my father was busy preparing a Sunday dinner for my grandmother, and I felt like I had some leeway. In the silence between us, I took in the surroundings and my conditions—in my younger years, I had a strong desire not to let my memories regress, thus I often sunk into these periods of quiet observance. The light outside fading early in the winter months, the trees barren and swaying slowly with each other, and the crack of firewood all provided an atmosphere that gave me a calm, pensive demeanor. I heard my father’s call to the dinner table and my grandmother and I rose from our seats.

It seemed that dinner would be accompanied by entertainment as my grandmother started on her favorite conversation topics: radical left political positions that she had developed by reading internet conspiracy theories, so absurd and so on the fringe that they shouldn’t even warrant a mention in the history of dribble, and her inexhaustible condemnations of the Jews. I smiled and giggled at my father’s facetious replies. Then, to my dismay, my grandmother said this to my father: “Chris, don’t you think it would be wonderful to have John be an acolyte for the Episcopal Church?” “I don’t see why not,” my father said, directing his eyes towards me. “It might even be an interesting experience, John.” I put my palm on my face. I thought that to wake up early on a Sunday morning and to have to listen to a speech about some old guy was a hell worse than the one of which my grandmother spoke so fanatically. Seeing the reaction I had given, and in clear desperation, my grandmother uttered the words, “I can pay you.” I looked up with incredulity as she started writing a check. She handed it to me face down, said a quick goodbye to my father and me, and left the house. I turned the check over, looking at the scrawl which read “fifty dollars,” and proclaimed “Churches are good for something.”

The droplets become smaller and even gentler They now remind me of your hand Cool and soft They caress my face Now I can picture you here with me Sitting there in front of me Telling me that you love me The rain becomes cold I shiver and a multitude of droplets cascade off my hair I watch them fall slowly to the ground A moment that seems like eternity During that moment I watch my reflection dwindle From each individual droplet They get smaller and smaller And just before they collide with the inevitable My image disappears And is gone forever With a splash against the ground

John Charles, a Junior at The Gunnery, is at The Woodstock School in India during the 2009-2010 school year.

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42

. I culminate by Alejandro Castro

India by Nellie Simmons

. I culminate the intensified feelings of our mutual misconception The liberal meaning of justified,

Sometimes I feel very

Make the compensation life itself, gold, Mother Nature!

Homesick, see my home is really

The wrongness of the intercalated tissues sees your avaricious thoughts.

Mussoorie, India.

Even I see them as a person Deep, penetrate! Live out, but don’t sway me, Feel the energies velocities rushing quickly;

Monkeys abound everywhere

Like when waves in the ocean crush, splash, wet the sand‌

Watch yourself; they steal your food

Void I feel, and who does not, Throw stones, they go away.

Bringing such liberty] [onto suffocation, How does] [relates to inculpate, And trust such a simple little beautiful word,

Fog drifts slowly over valley,

Just releases relaxation.

Summer rains obscure dehra dun.

Free me!

Photo makes me miss home.

Let me be!

Incubate me in that little place, but just let me say, you have invented me.

Congratulations to Alejandro, whose poem above was chosen to be read at the ASAP Celebration of Young Writers at the Washington Town Hall on May 15th, 2010.

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26

Crash by Alejandro Castro Lines crush and splatter surface for irregularities.

Let us; me be.

On the rudderless sight of my mind The sharpness intrigues, and devices.

It alters the unoriginal line That goes straight through my mindful.

Sometimes I like the alteration, why dislike it?

If fulfilling it creates.

Difference makes the differential line That not only my wishes; wish it was straight, But reality does too.

I feel guile, The guile that rips the stern of my line, Destiny’s guile is what should intervene and leave it to yawn and cultivate Like a burnished fresh fruit.

Let those vertical and oblique lines Intercalate into society’s surface; then shatter in liberating sense and intellectual reality Let the stereotypes classify and the cliché imagine.

What a wonderful opportunity has been polluted.

Pollution is now presumed to be when the oak fully grows After years and years of love, Love becomes waste and so much hate determinates the destiny of something precious, So precious that even love can be hazed.

I have now become a contemporary character, That has preciously corrupted its own unveils.

To learn that growth is not just time but correction and deliberation.

Realization in my soon to be not cliché mind, Has sharpened a literary process.

Figurative meanings In someone’s or somewhat personal achieved and owned thoughts returned, drastically.

We question and desire, But none are correct for the unspoken affair; Of the non conclusive autonomy of our subject’s lack of growth.

Like life in a bottle, get out, now!

Express and act, act upon, with a reason and no plan.

Let it be, sublime me.

Fool myself or perfection in a mock scene.

Inside Lines of mindful poems that fascinate my, in the moment, aeneous mentality.

photo by Natalie Merin

With a version of this poem, Alejandro was nominated finalist in poetry, 2010 IMPAC/CSUS Award for Young Writers, Litchfield County

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40

A Colorless Graveyard by Dan Goldberg I enter the dreamless land once again, stepping over buried corpses whose minds lay in absolute peace.

The once blossoming tree now stands bare with arms reaching out in all directions. Perhaps, it is reaching out to the world as if crying for help:

Don’t let me die too!

All the flowers have disappeared.

All the flags have lost their color.

All to be seen are the remnants of a harsh winter-What a gloomy graveyard.

I flutter; Gunn’s family still surrounds him.

But poor, poor Rossiter. Eternally imprisoned in a colorless graveyard with no family near by. His stone stands tall, but gray; a lonely gravestone glaring out over the rest. The embossed word screams out: “ROSSITER.” “What is the difference? The dead are alike in the face of death. They do not talk and perhaps do not dream.” * Maybe I dream too much. photo by Alex Geerken

* Excerpt from Mahmoud Darwish’s, “Funeral.”

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28

Voice by Scott Aranha

DENTIST by Corey Tesch

(This piece was written after having author Ian Frazier speak to my Advanced Creative Writing Class, and one of his points of emphasis was that writing was a way of sharing one’s voice. The class discussion got me thinking, and the following is my take on what he said. I made use of traditional painting styles to describe the various ways in which one can write.)

Making a mockery of their specimen A great T-Rex lays motionless, emotionless Powerless, Dead its teeth examined instead of ripping apart Air Heads Fajitas and drinking Pepsi Its Hands curled, close to its chest hold a straw to suck up spit

Every person in this world has a voice, The hard part is trying to find it Each voice is as unique as a fingerprint A voice can be heard aloud But it can also be found in silence When one writes, they speak Their voice is permanently stored on a medium Some write in still life, these are the realists They start with a picture, and copy every detail Verbalizing an image, transcribing a sight They speak the truth, Events described in detail Every blade of grass is drawn into these pieces This type of person, incapable of creating a new world, Unlike the realist, The impressionist writes stories based on events, Starting with the same photo as the realists, They copy only the outline, and create the details Details are changed to serve the author’s cause Events can be made more glamorous, or depressing The writer can make an event more relative to their readers, Smudges, blurs, shadows, filters, contrast, brightness, Vibrancy, shadow, saturation, outlines, definition and tints, These are the impressionist’s tools, He can take a still life, add some effects, and produce something different Doing this allows the artist to better connect with their audience The romantic is similar to the impressionist He uses tools to make the piece euphoric Details are changed to add poetic flow Lighting is changed, hitting the subject, making it glow These pieces chase idealistic perfection Scenery glows in a heavenly manner Giving the pieces an aesthetically pleasing tone The colors blend into one and other, offering a rhythmic finish

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38

Hungry by Corey Tesch

Then you have the abstractionist

The thought that creeps into my mind when I am hungry is that there are hundreds of thousands of millions of types of snacks, and yet only pretzels and popcorn are in my cupboard; and so I get up off the couch, knowing there is nothing to eat, but hoping that miraculously some delicious food that I did not notice is in the back somewhere, like hostess cupcakes or something with some substance; but I look at the popcorn and the pretzels for the hundredth time that week and have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, just thinking of the extent that I would go to not to have to eat dry pretzels or toxic-to-the-point-of-possible concern-for-cancer-lard-filled popcorn; thinking about all the billions of snacks compared to the two bland boring over-appreciated snacks in my cupboard, staring at me, hoping that I will eat them; and in reply I shut the cupboard, hungrier than when I got up, forcing the possibility of actually making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of my mind, because that requires way too much effort; and I refuse to buy into the idea that I may be hungry enough to actually make myself a meal such as macaroni and cheese or something equally as boring as popcorn and pretzels, just in meal form, because I got up for a snack, a simple snack, maybe some Funyuns, those delicious circles of onion powder and salt and fat, or even something like a doughnut, going back to the idea of something with some substance such as a hostess cupcake, which I really don’t think is too much to ask for; after all I’m only just hungry enough to force myself off the couch to the cupboard twenty feet away, and yet I know the hunger will build up, because I am on strike against the pretzels and the popcorn, and will probably just end up waiting until 6:00 or 7:00 or however many hours that seem like they will never pass, my stomach getting increasingly belligerent, my brain starting to want to apologize to the popcorn and just stick it in the microwave and eat it, not for my taste buds’ enjoyment, but to end my hunger; and I decide that it’s not worth it; the popcorn isn’t good enough, as selfish as that may sound, with actual starving people and all in Africa or wherever starving people live; and I end up waiting until dinner to get that simple enjoyment of solving my hunger that could have been done hours ago if there was something better than popcorn or pretzels in the cupboard.

He draws from whole new world inside his head Creating pieces based on whatever pops into the mind The abstractionist has no limits Every detail is chosen, every character created Starting with a blank canvas, They paint their dreams as they please Possibilities are endless,

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He creates reality, makes the laws It is up to the author to set the boundaries Colors are invented, blended and mixed Faces are drawn onto trees And animals given voices Like children, they let their imaginations run wild Stories can be as outrageous, or tame as the author pleases To write one must know their voice, Are you realist, idealist, romantic, or abstractionist?

One must find their voice before they start to write Do you like to draw what you see, or do you like to see what you draw?

Do you describe or create You are your voice

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Drop of Rain by Carson Wanty

The rain drop darting around its competitors Falling slowly upon its destination As though if they were chasing that drop Clear, wild as it moves in directions of life Resting only when it feels safe Slowly, slowly releasing itself to yet another And starting over in that clear, wild manner it brings

photo by Zach Elston

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36

True Story by Hayley Leman

Chaos by Morgaine Wasserman Down to my skin covered in a blanket of frozen water, I didn’t seem to notice.

Iguanas.

I felt I was slowly dying as the breath was ripped out of my chest; gasping trying to grasp the little bit of air I had left.

Vicious, vile, vain reptiles from hell.

They dragged their spiked bodies along the beach.

Laziest creatures in the Caribbean, sun bathing and eating all day long.

As shallow breaths flooded my throat, my head entered a world of grog.

The sanity slipped out of me with every breath I forced myself to take.

Salty teardrops poured down rosy cheeks.

Innocently I slept, soaking up the sun.

Dragging their scaly coats closer to my waiting body.

Slowly, the quartette of iguanas began to devour my legs.

Knowing their dinner was lying idly in front of them.

They were nibbling my legs as if they were their last meal.

Waking up to my legs being slowly engulfed in a pool of blood.

Fright overcame me.

My life flashed before my eyes.

Cabana boys sprinted to my rescue.

The crowds gathered as my legs were slowly repaired.

Small purple welts are all that remain of my once brutal attack.

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Me & Piano by Hiroko Tsuburai I play the piano for myself I hear beautiful sounds in my ear Music heals me from monotonous life Pastel tone color is like a light Sounds fall from the piano like water I play the piano for myself I see how outside is bright I hear birds sing in the air Music heals me from monotonous life My monochrome heart gathers might From the tone color I play the piano for myself I listen to healing music every night Music note is a storyteller Music heals me from monotonous life My soul of music delight A grand piano is always there I play the piano for myself Music heals me from monotonous life

painting by Min Hye Chung

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Me & Piano by Hiroko Tsuburai I play the piano for myself I hear beautiful sounds in my ear Music heals me from monotonous life Pastel tone color is like a light Sounds fall from the piano like water I play the piano for myself I see how outside is bright I hear birds sing in the air Music heals me from monotonous life My monochrome heart gathers might From the tone color I play the piano for myself I listen to healing music every night Music note is a storyteller Music heals me from monotonous life My soul of music delight A grand piano is always there I play the piano for myself Music heals me from monotonous life

painting by Min Hye Chung

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True Story by Hayley Leman

Chaos by Morgaine Wasserman Down to my skin covered in a blanket of frozen water, I didn’t seem to notice.

Iguanas.

I felt I was slowly dying as the breath was ripped out of my chest; gasping trying to grasp the little bit of air I had left.

Vicious, vile, vain reptiles from hell.

They dragged their spiked bodies along the beach.

Laziest creatures in the Caribbean, sun bathing and eating all day long.

As shallow breaths flooded my throat, my head entered a world of grog.

The sanity slipped out of me with every breath I forced myself to take.

Salty teardrops poured down rosy cheeks.

Innocently I slept, soaking up the sun.

Dragging their scaly coats closer to my waiting body.

Slowly, the quartette of iguanas began to devour my legs.

Knowing their dinner was lying idly in front of them.

They were nibbling my legs as if they were their last meal.

Waking up to my legs being slowly engulfed in a pool of blood.

Fright overcame me.

My life flashed before my eyes.

Cabana boys sprinted to my rescue.

The crowds gathered as my legs were slowly repaired.

Small purple welts are all that remain of my once brutal attack.

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Drop of Rain by Carson Wanty

The rain drop darting around its competitors Falling slowly upon its destination As though if they were chasing that drop Clear, wild as it moves in directions of life Resting only when it feels safe Slowly, slowly releasing itself to yet another And starting over in that clear, wild manner it brings

photo by Zach Elston

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Hungry by Corey Tesch

Then you have the abstractionist

The thought that creeps into my mind when I am hungry is that there are hundreds of thousands of millions of types of snacks, and yet only pretzels and popcorn are in my cupboard; and so I get up off the couch, knowing there is nothing to eat, but hoping that miraculously some delicious food that I did not notice is in the back somewhere, like hostess cupcakes or something with some substance; but I look at the popcorn and the pretzels for the hundredth time that week and have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, just thinking of the extent that I would go to not to have to eat dry pretzels or toxic-to-the-point-of-possible concern-for-cancer-lard-filled popcorn; thinking about all the billions of snacks compared to the two bland boring over-appreciated snacks in my cupboard, staring at me, hoping that I will eat them; and in reply I shut the cupboard, hungrier than when I got up, forcing the possibility of actually making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of my mind, because that requires way too much effort; and I refuse to buy into the idea that I may be hungry enough to actually make myself a meal such as macaroni and cheese or something equally as boring as popcorn and pretzels, just in meal form, because I got up for a snack, a simple snack, maybe some Funyuns, those delicious circles of onion powder and salt and fat, or even something like a doughnut, going back to the idea of something with some substance such as a hostess cupcake, which I really don’t think is too much to ask for; after all I’m only just hungry enough to force myself off the couch to the cupboard twenty feet away, and yet I know the hunger will build up, because I am on strike against the pretzels and the popcorn, and will probably just end up waiting until 6:00 or 7:00 or however many hours that seem like they will never pass, my stomach getting increasingly belligerent, my brain starting to want to apologize to the popcorn and just stick it in the microwave and eat it, not for my taste buds’ enjoyment, but to end my hunger; and I decide that it’s not worth it; the popcorn isn’t good enough, as selfish as that may sound, with actual starving people and all in Africa or wherever starving people live; and I end up waiting until dinner to get that simple enjoyment of solving my hunger that could have been done hours ago if there was something better than popcorn or pretzels in the cupboard.

He draws from whole new world inside his head Creating pieces based on whatever pops into the mind The abstractionist has no limits Every detail is chosen, every character created Starting with a blank canvas, They paint their dreams as they please Possibilities are endless,

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He creates reality, makes the laws It is up to the author to set the boundaries Colors are invented, blended and mixed Faces are drawn onto trees And animals given voices Like children, they let their imaginations run wild Stories can be as outrageous, or tame as the author pleases To write one must know their voice, Are you realist, idealist, romantic, or abstractionist?

One must find their voice before they start to write Do you like to draw what you see, or do you like to see what you draw?

Do you describe or create You are your voice

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Voice by Scott Aranha

DENTIST by Corey Tesch

(This piece was written after having author Ian Frazier speak to my Advanced Creative Writing Class, and one of his points of emphasis was that writing was a way of sharing one’s voice. The class discussion got me thinking, and the following is my take on what he said. I made use of traditional painting styles to describe the various ways in which one can write.)

Making a mockery of their specimen A great T-Rex lays motionless, emotionless Powerless, Dead its teeth examined instead of ripping apart Air Heads Fajitas and drinking Pepsi Its Hands curled, close to its chest hold a straw to suck up spit

Every person in this world has a voice, The hard part is trying to find it Each voice is as unique as a fingerprint A voice can be heard aloud But it can also be found in silence When one writes, they speak Their voice is permanently stored on a medium Some write in still life, these are the realists They start with a picture, and copy every detail Verbalizing an image, transcribing a sight They speak the truth, Events described in detail Every blade of grass is drawn into these pieces This type of person, incapable of creating a new world, Unlike the realist, The impressionist writes stories based on events, Starting with the same photo as the realists, They copy only the outline, and create the details Details are changed to serve the author’s cause Events can be made more glamorous, or depressing The writer can make an event more relative to their readers, Smudges, blurs, shadows, filters, contrast, brightness, Vibrancy, shadow, saturation, outlines, definition and tints, These are the impressionist’s tools, He can take a still life, add some effects, and produce something different Doing this allows the artist to better connect with their audience The romantic is similar to the impressionist He uses tools to make the piece euphoric Details are changed to add poetic flow Lighting is changed, hitting the subject, making it glow These pieces chase idealistic perfection Scenery glows in a heavenly manner Giving the pieces an aesthetically pleasing tone The colors blend into one and other, offering a rhythmic finish

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A Colorless Graveyard by Dan Goldberg I enter the dreamless land once again, stepping over buried corpses whose minds lay in absolute peace.

The once blossoming tree now stands bare with arms reaching out in all directions. Perhaps, it is reaching out to the world as if crying for help:

Don’t let me die too!

All the flowers have disappeared.

All the flags have lost their color.

All to be seen are the remnants of a harsh winter-What a gloomy graveyard.

I flutter; Gunn’s family still surrounds him.

But poor, poor Rossiter. Eternally imprisoned in a colorless graveyard with no family near by. His stone stands tall, but gray; a lonely gravestone glaring out over the rest. The embossed word screams out: “ROSSITER.” “What is the difference? The dead are alike in the face of death. They do not talk and perhaps do not dream.” * Maybe I dream too much. photo by Alex Geerken

* Excerpt from Mahmoud Darwish’s, “Funeral.”

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28

Crash by Alejandro Castro Lines crush and splatter surface for irregularities.

Let us; me be.

On the rudderless sight of my mind The sharpness intrigues, and devices.

It alters the unoriginal line That goes straight through my mindful.

Sometimes I like the alteration, why dislike it?

If fulfilling it creates.

Difference makes the differential line That not only my wishes; wish it was straight, But reality does too.

I feel guile, The guile that rips the stern of my line, Destiny’s guile is what should intervene and leave it to yawn and cultivate Like a burnished fresh fruit.

Let those vertical and oblique lines Intercalate into society’s surface; then shatter in liberating sense and intellectual reality Let the stereotypes classify and the cliché imagine.

What a wonderful opportunity has been polluted.

Pollution is now presumed to be when the oak fully grows After years and years of love, Love becomes waste and so much hate determinates the destiny of something precious, So precious that even love can be hazed.

I have now become a contemporary character, That has preciously corrupted its own unveils.

To learn that growth is not just time but correction and deliberation.

Realization in my soon to be not cliché mind, Has sharpened a literary process.

Figurative meanings In someone’s or somewhat personal achieved and owned thoughts returned, drastically.

We question and desire, But none are correct for the unspoken affair; Of the non conclusive autonomy of our subject’s lack of growth.

Like life in a bottle, get out, now!

Express and act, act upon, with a reason and no plan.

Let it be, sublime me.

Fool myself or perfection in a mock scene.

Inside Lines of mindful poems that fascinate my, in the moment, aeneous mentality.

photo by Natalie Merin

With a version of this poem, Alejandro was nominated finalist in poetry, 2010 IMPAC/CSUS Award for Young Writers, Litchfield County

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. I culminate by Alejandro Castro

India by Nellie Simmons

. I culminate the intensified feelings of our mutual misconception The liberal meaning of justified,

Sometimes I feel very

Make the compensation life itself, gold, Mother Nature!

Homesick, see my home is really

The wrongness of the intercalated tissues sees your avaricious thoughts.

Mussoorie, India.

Even I see them as a person Deep, penetrate! Live out, but don’t sway me, Feel the energies velocities rushing quickly;

Monkeys abound everywhere

Like when waves in the ocean crush, splash, wet the sand‌

Watch yourself; they steal your food

Void I feel, and who does not, Throw stones, they go away.

Bringing such liberty] [onto suffocation, How does] [relates to inculpate, And trust such a simple little beautiful word,

Fog drifts slowly over valley,

Just releases relaxation.

Summer rains obscure dehra dun.

Free me!

Photo makes me miss home.

Let me be!

Incubate me in that little place, but just let me say, you have invented me.

Congratulations to Alejandro, whose poem above was chosen to be read at the ASAP Celebration of Young Writers at the Washington Town Hall on May 15th, 2010.

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26

With a splash against the ground by Christian Deneault

Of Churches and Grandmothers by John Charles

The quiet rain slides slowly down my cheek It feels cool against my warm skin Like an antidote to fever This rain is calming but saddening It reminds me of all that is lost And all that has been made clean and new Of what was washed white and pure

“It would be so very nice of you to do this for me,” she said with the inexorable, fragile smile, which only the frail grandmother can achieve. I felt my toes curl within my little Nikes as I said, “No,” with a tone of quiet annoyance, “I don’t want to go to any stupid church.” The disappointment in her face was clear, and while I felt a stab of pity for the pious old trout, I quickly brushed it aside. Usually I was more polite, however, my mother had gone to Montana to visit my sister while my father was busy preparing a Sunday dinner for my grandmother, and I felt like I had some leeway. In the silence between us, I took in the surroundings and my conditions—in my younger years, I had a strong desire not to let my memories regress, thus I often sunk into these periods of quiet observance. The light outside fading early in the winter months, the trees barren and swaying slowly with each other, and the crack of firewood all provided an atmosphere that gave me a calm, pensive demeanor. I heard my father’s call to the dinner table and my grandmother and I rose from our seats.

It seemed that dinner would be accompanied by entertainment as my grandmother started on her favorite conversation topics: radical left political positions that she had developed by reading internet conspiracy theories, so absurd and so on the fringe that they shouldn’t even warrant a mention in the history of dribble, and her inexhaustible condemnations of the Jews. I smiled and giggled at my father’s facetious replies. Then, to my dismay, my grandmother said this to my father: “Chris, don’t you think it would be wonderful to have John be an acolyte for the Episcopal Church?” “I don’t see why not,” my father said, directing his eyes towards me. “It might even be an interesting experience, John.” I put my palm on my face. I thought that to wake up early on a Sunday morning and to have to listen to a speech about some old guy was a hell worse than the one of which my grandmother spoke so fanatically. Seeing the reaction I had given, and in clear desperation, my grandmother uttered the words, “I can pay you.” I looked up with incredulity as she started writing a check. She handed it to me face down, said a quick goodbye to my father and me, and left the house. I turned the check over, looking at the scrawl which read “fifty dollars,” and proclaimed “Churches are good for something.”

The droplets become smaller and even gentler They now remind me of your hand Cool and soft They caress my face Now I can picture you here with me Sitting there in front of me Telling me that you love me The rain becomes cold I shiver and a multitude of droplets cascade off my hair I watch them fall slowly to the ground A moment that seems like eternity During that moment I watch my reflection dwindle From each individual droplet They get smaller and smaller And just before they collide with the inevitable My image disappears And is gone forever With a splash against the ground

John Charles, a Junior at The Gunnery, is at The Woodstock School in India during the 2009-2010 school year.

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The Disaster by Justin Charles

Temptation

The disaster in Haiti took my heart away, So many lives people will miss.

Thousands dead in one day.

Why has my god done this?

The golden grains sink in and hug tanned feet, There is calm throughout the air.

Wind kisses and dances around bare skin, There are secrets in the sea.

Dark water murmurs menacingly, This is a familiar place.

Rocks in the distance battle waves, They show no mercy for mediators of their paths.

Tiny fingers clutch her billowing skirt, She buries her toes beneath the sand.

The sun blankets the beach in warmth and wonder.

A whisper, “Hold me while the waves pull me away.”

Cement buildings rumble to the floor, Dust in the hot tropic air.

Lives will be knocking on heaven's door.

Every life lost I shed a tear.

Panic has spread, People wait for news.

God knows where these people are headed.

I’m feeling so confused.

It was said that Christopher Columbus called Haiti paradise, The smell of death makes people mourn.

To prosper again Haiti must make a sacrifice, As the Neg Maron blows his horn.

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24

I am

Eighteen Saunter Observations by Stephanie Hoffmann

I am a trapeze artist, And I walk a thin white string.

My path is not straight, but crooked.

I’m unsure what my path will bring.

The sun enormous and dazzling with long golden beams.

The pavement charcoal gray with a drizzle of glittery pebbles.

Flawless spots of bright white snow like a frothy vanilla milkshake.

I am a warrior woman, And I yell out my battle cry.

I face battle bloody and brutal, And I win them, at least I try.

The bitter cold air and the tingly twinge upon my nose.

Every fluffy cloud in the sky, bigger than the one before, each a different shape.

Uneven and smooth green but frosted grass across the quad.

I am a princess in a castle, Guarded by dragons and knights.

I wait for my prince to come save me, But first he must win all his fights.

The old roof and shingles of the school house like little tranquil yet stiff blankets.

The pond with ivory powdery and snowy particles and a thin layer of ice like a broken mirror.

I am the silent watcher, Of those who creep in the night.

They cast shadows through my window, I watch then turn on the light.

Small flakes of days old snow swirly and fluttery in the sky.

The dry brown bark from the trees like chocolate shavings.

Leafless branches of different sizes, bare from the winter weather.

I am a single traveler.

And I walk along thinking aloud.

I sing and I whistle and travel alone, I pretend I perform for a crowd.

The muddy ground, damp and cold against my sock-less foot.

The shaky steps on the path like a slow rocky roller coaster.

And I walk a thin white string, And I yell out my battle cry, Guarded by dragons and knights, Of those who creep in the night, And I walk along thinking aloud, And this is my only sound.

The trail to the stable man on a ball on a boulder, utterly serene.

Moist leftover slippery smooth slush against the bottom of my shoe.

Winter harmonious birds on the tall buildings and treetops, fearless of the cold brisk.

Gaping deep holes in the side of tree trunks along the road.

A snapshot of the still, calming melody of the cows in country and winter noise.

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A Christmas to Remember by Sam Aguirre-Kelly This is the story of one very strange Christmas. This is a Christmas that would go against every rule of Christmas. This....was a Christmas to remember.

“HO HO HO MY GOD” shouted Santa with the most horrid of looks on his face, his white beard sweating at this point, his face redder than usual. So red that had it been the face of anyone but Santa, one would need to seek medical attention. The elves rushed outside on their stubby legs to see what was going on.

“What is it Santa? What’s all the commotion?” inquired one little elf. What a horrible scene it was. Upon the sight of such an exhibition, many of the elves wet their little elf pants.

“Which one of you left the door to the reindeer cage open?” Santa asked with a tone of controlled rage in his voice. Utter silence fell upon the elves.

“No one’s going to confess? Nobody? It wasn’t you Charlie, was it? You were in charge of feeding the reindeer. How about you Pokey? Don’t think I haven’t heard rumors about you trying to ride Prancer during your breaks. Well as you can see, all the reindeer have been mauled to death by a pack of wolves. That’s just fantastic! Exactly what I need on Christmas Eve! Honestly, guys? It’s called closing a door, ever heard of it?” The elves had never seen such a sight - both the reindeers’ insides and Santa’s temper. It seemed surely that Christmas was ruined. Tears came to the eyes of the little elves. What was there to do? Santa would surely fire all of them. They had families to feed, children to raise. They couldn’t afford to start working in the icicle factory again, it just didn’t pay enough, the icicle market was at an all time low. Just as their spirits started to drown into the snow, Santa sang for all to hear:

O dead reindeer, o dead reindeer Thy bodies lie here mangled O dead reindeer, o dead reindeer Chewed out from every angle “Alright elves, I know this is hard for all of you. However, Christmas must go on!” There was a slight sparkle of hope in Santa’s eye. The elves raised their little chins to the sky thinking about all the boys and girls around the world. Santa was right, Christmas must go on.

“We’re with you boss! Anything you need, we got it! We’re not going to let this ruin Christmas!” shouted the little elves.

“Good, I knew I could count on you guys. Now let’s see.... Donnie, didn’t you say your cousin is the freaky garden gnome from the travelocity commercials?”

“Yeah boss, why do you ask?”

“Call him and see if you can get a discount for me. Boys, start loading up the toys, I’m going on a little adventure, round-trip, across the freakin world.”

So old Saint Nick packed his bags full of toys, and set out for the nearest airport, which happened to be a pretty established place, much to Santa’s surprise.

“Can I get one ticket around the world?” he asked the middle-aged Latina lady behind the desk.

“Around the world? You will have to be more specific sir.”

“Well I want to go everywhere, at least everywhere that there are children in need of Christmas joy, oh and is it possible to avoid flying anywhere near the Middle East? Last time I was flying over that part of the world, I ran to some bad crowds.”

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Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi My Boat I’m trapped in a wooden boat I’m out in the heart of the sea The waves swing me back and forth This is not where I thought I would be My boat is tiny and weak I’ve not too long to the end I’m acquainted with the water now The water is not my friend My boat is upset she is losing The battle between her and the sea She feels like she has failed I assure her the problem is me.

It’s really quite sad when this happens When your boat is no longer safe When the only thing between you and the water Has suddenly broken your faith My boat lasted much less than most I supposed I have no one to blame I chose to go out in the water I went in with too weak of a frame The water is forceful, determined He will not take my pleads saying no The water will take me I know it And into the water I go.

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Poem by Haley Slone

The Sound of Tragedy: The voice of a newborn bird Wings as they hit the tree branches among flight Swoosh and crash A rock takes the form of the new nest Speed of time, summer turns to winter and back to summer, A mark has been left forever on its bed.

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“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m going to send you to the closest intercontinental destination, and you can do whatever you want from there,” said the lady behind the desk with a look of apathy and disgust.

“Well, I suppose that will do for now.” So then Santa walked through the airport with his magical present bag over his shoulder. He was approaching the customs check in. Threatening men in police uniforms stood at the front.

“Hello sir, please put your bag on the table.”

“Why, certainly young man, just don’t take any presents, or else I will put you on the naughty list.” “.... Alright, whatever. Just put it right up here.” The customs man started pulling present after present out of the magical bag.

“Hey, Frank come take a look at this. I keep pulling them out but I can’t get to the bottom.

They just keep on coming.”

Santa then stepped forward with a grin on his face and said “Well young man, you will never get to the bottom, there isn’t a chance.”

The customs men quickly reacted.

“Sir, please stay behind the dotted line. Under no circumstances should you cross this line unless we tell you to do so.” Then one of the customs men signaled something to the other. Soon another man wearing white gloves approached the scene.

Looking at the man with the white gloves, Santa said “My, my, it seems we have matching gloves! Did Mrs. Clause make those for you behind my back? Ho ho ho!” exclaimed Santa.

“Sir please remain quiet, we’re about to conduct a cavity search, so I suggest from this point on you choose your words wisely” said the customs man with a face that showed no signs of Christmas spirit.

“A cavity search? Well I do eat a cookie or two from time to time, ho ho ho!”

Then the men took Santa by his big fluffy coat into a special room. Santa’s charms had no power over these men. These men in their blue uniforms and heavy belts were sure to be on the naughty list. Twas a night when Christmas spirit wasn’t enough. Twas the night of the weirdest Christmas.

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Freedom by Chris Clapis

Untitled Poem by Yuya Kawahara

Only two months remain, Ten weeks until it’s all done, And I will reach freedom.

Just waiting for the time When I have no reason to worry Just peace, and love, and music.

We are not human We are less than a human but more than a human being our voice will not reach

And after we play that music, Not too much will remain.

Without it, comes more worry, Which is why we can never be done.

We’ll keep playing until the end of time Because that’s how we’ll have freedom.

it is always interrupted our voice vanishes in the room We are completely ignored We are part of a background

And it must be limitless, that freedom.

Nothing is constant except for the music, Nothing is predictable, not even time, Nothing is required to remain, And when all is said and done, Our world will be free of worry.

Part of no one’s memories The sky is too blue so we look down We are a shadow

And if we do have some reason to worry, It won’t be for a lack of that freedom, And it won’t be because of anything we’ve done, For all we’ll be doing is music.

Any problems that do remain Won’t be our fault this time.

We look at others and follow others We are nothing We are not human

And they won’t be, until the end of time.

But I’m sure we won’t have that worry; I’m sure no problems will remain.

Because once we find freedom Through our music, Nothing else will need to be done.

In fact, we will be done; Done with everything this time; Everything except for music.

Done with pain, regret, and worry, Until freedom Is all that remains.

And our music will never be done.

It will remain until the end of time.

And never again will we have to worry about achieving our freedom.

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20

Dear Old Friend

Worried by Kirsten Bouthiller

Dear old friend, For years, We seem to have nothing to say.

Is it because that we don’t see each other, Don’t encounter the same people, Or that you always had yours And I always had my Different day?

A deep silence lingers and cuts Into the shallow flesh that sits and waits Still in the mourning thoughts Thoughts, Like freight trains, Rush and collide Traffic begins to ensue And soon enough the Advil overdose Does little but send the trains over the cliff To disappear with an unknowing death The last moments flash by quickly Before the peaceful sleep takes over The body’s last twitches are sudden and random As if to fight to stay awake Soon Total relaxation finds its way Throughout the veins The muscles calm themselves The brain shuts down The eyes last flickers Flick

An Afternoon I have some green tea and poems from the Song Dynasty in the cottage next to the river, in which the ice will melt soon.

Would you, my dear friend, join me for an afternoon?

The lights dim Then fade A dark black creeps in from the farthest reaches of the mind Paranoia Obsession Dilated eyes Body twitches Exhaustion Depression Twenty-seven hours pass by as the overdose wears off Sick feeling Exhausted And the feeling of wanting to die Passes through the mind and body at once The freight train of the mind Doesn’t feel so metaphorical anymore

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Spring Rain and Me by Soo Jin So

Three poems by Chaoyang Liu

The spring rain is coming Pouring and hammering.

Looks like it wants to say hello for a new start.

Knocking on the Earth To wake everybody up,

Still far to go

Wakes us too In my eyes, some students don’t look happy To start a new term In the pouring rain That helps the world look dirtier

Sans terre

Through the woods Homecoming birds flew But they shall never understand The aspiration of travelling clouds Sky is their road Without home Home is everywhere O brave saunterers You hold the wind How smooth is the hand of air And how firm is the grasp you share No high mountain can stop you Because you always know That there is still more to see And far to go

But, for some, The spring rain Looks like it’s cleaning the dirtiness of the world Helping to make a new start Looks like it’s giving the growing little Green sprout energy, Giving hopes and dreams to our growing little sweet minds

The trekkers climb a long way Through the shaded forest and the dark caves The muddy land and the leafy track Until they finally reach the top of the Steep Rock They stretch their vision To reach the peak of another mountain Where the pine trees touch the clouds

But everyone shares the feeling That after the spring rain, after it The rainbow that is seen over the school And beyond that, the little sunlight Helps us go towards hope

The trekkers sing their echo of victory And walk back down to celebrate But they never hear how the clouds chuckle At how naive they are What victory is it when half the walk is but a retrace And why celebrate when the defeat is but their laziness

Everything is Clear and green, The softest and the most fragile leaf Are so pretty Because of their purity that doesn’t have filth Looks like Everyone has a smile on their face Whether They know it or not

Above the trees and birds The chivalric spirits move forward They are never wayworn for their quadrivial heart And their decision to be on the road Without ever looking back or down When there is still far to go and future to make

The spring rain Looks like it is helping us make a new start.

Helping us to run toward, toward our dream, A fresh new start.

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18

The women on the streets by Sagine Corrielus

haiku by Nick Strelov

Laugh at me, laugh at me so.

Is it the coarseness of my hair, Or the blackness of my eyes?

Or maybe it’s the rosiness of my hue, The paleness of my complexion, Or the tiny green flecks that dot my irises full.

It could be because I’m tan, curly headed and have a slick nose.

The women on the streets still laugh at me, they still laugh at me so.

My sought after bravery, The courage that rages inside me, The fact that I am the very ne plus ultra in everything I do Could be what drives them on and why their laughter seeps into my brain.

Or how I am beautiful and smart, Tiny and delightful, Cool and gregarious No, silly me! It must be the color of my skin.

I enter the room Shake his hand and crack a joke He stares back blankly I enter the room Pursuing entertainment But nobody laughs I enter the room by accident, squeeze one out people stare, sniffing When nobody laughs I find comfort in knowing I make myself laugh

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Two muttering haiku by Chris Clapis

The Process of Mapping, abridged by Karen Layman Happiness is not As hard to find as people Make it out to be.

Something I’ve learned Is that one cannot hope to build their own world Until they have at least a semi-decent grasp on the concept of this one.

Example:

What are you doing?

Stop counting on your fingers.

You suck at haikus.

Rivers don’t run in straight lines.

Trees don’t grow in formation.

Plants don’t look like they were told to stand up and march.

There’s only so much you can do with a tileset and some sprites But with practice, you can push the limits, Try things that no one has ever done before, Or discover for yourself what another has accomplished on their own, across the country or the world Eventually, you’ll be able to build a believable forest.

Town.

City.

Continent.

World.

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16

This Poem Shall Remain Nameless…by Karen Layman And so shall I, and so will you, But really, you know my name, and I know yours And that’s a pretty good place to start, But it would be better if we could get beyond a few words Since hello, good morning, and other pleasantries rarely get us anywhere And simply making a statement, or asking a question, usually ends in a one- or two-word answer, And even compliments rarely have the desired effect; That said, I don’t know if you realize how happy I was when we carried on a complete conversation, Albeit it was the only conversation we ever really had And it was about something small Because I asked you a favor And you agreed to help me, after at least a month or two, and probably to get me to stop asking and leave you alone I don’t think I nagged, I only asked twice, a long time apart, and the second time you said yes, But I still felt like I was bothering you And you never said that I wasn’t, so I might have been And I might have had reason to feel like I was being bothersome, Because the fact that we can’t ever get beyond a few words No matter what I say Leads me to think that I was…

That, or you remember when I accidentally flung my glasses at you And lost my traveldrive in my own pocket and spent two hours running around campus looking for it And you therefore think I’m crazy, and that you should stay as far away from me as possible; I wish you would talk to me, You have such a pretty voice (Although that’s probably exactly that type of thing that keeps you away…)

Maybe you’ll see this someday and dispel any doubt that I have, and maybe we can even be friends— And yes, If this makes sense to you, it’s you that I’m so eager to get to know Never you mind why, That’s another story One that I’m not sure that even I can tell…

In fact, I’m not sure I know it myself.

15

photo by Zach Elston

52

Poem by Livia Wang

Destination, weary souls stare Upon his heavenly gates, only To be torn away Looking back down their traveled Path, the eyes watching and So, the hunter became the hunted

Enter a spacious prairie.

Meet the chilly weather.

Arrive at a cloudy world.

A child is trying to make the world warm, by dancing the soft step.

Her talent for dance is not appreciated.

Only the static trees appreciate the child’s performance.

The weedwhacker sound transmits from the remote distance, Let the child’s dance become more touching.

The sound of the birds, the car, the rain drop, Also play the role of music.

Busy people walking pass the little boy.

They have neglected the joyful child.

The wet ground has created a wall, Separating him and the word.

A lonely person is enjoying his dance.

No matter what is going on, he pays no attention to other people’s judgment or to the heartless world.

He will still stay there, Dance the step that he wants.

The oh-so-clever wolves, Encircling, backing him into a corner Chest rising and falling rapidly, His heart intent on stealing as Many last heartbeats as it can, For it knows it will be torn Forth, ripped out of his chest Cavity, and crushed in the jaws of the hungry.

The powerful, stripped bare The feared, overcome The unknown, known The bodies of the fallen burned And so the words were written The writer allowed To continue.

Congratulations to Thom, whose poem was just chosen to be published in Connecticut Student Writers, a publication of the Connecticut Writing Project at the University of Connecticut, Storrs.

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14

Poem with notes by Zaid El-Fanek

I’m evil and I’m bored.

I walk to my ranarium and pick a harmless creature.

I conquassate the poor squidgereen Until it is no longer gressible It’s not moving.

I call to it.

But my lethonomia gets in the way.

Instead I call “Creature! Creature!”

But no response.

ranarium (n.) - a frog farm conquassate (v.) - to shake violently squidgereen (n.) - a short, insignificant person gressible (adj.) - able to walk lethonomia (n.) - a tendency to forget names

photo by Lauren Reich

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54

Don’t Tread on Me by Rob Badger

Yet he claws at his mind with Fingers bleeding and nails braking, Desperate, trying to find sustenance.

And they do not come. The Thoughts so cleverly thought of, The ideas clinging for dear life To whatever they can hold on to Paragraphs and verses run by But the writer is too busy Digging with bloodied fingers And broken fingernails.

Vermont is home to A family of mountains Two hundred and fifty miles long Stretching beneath the horizon Stratton Mountain Stood and stands tall and strong in Windham County Covered by a white blanket of warmth And goose bumps of green trees

The hawk may seek the rabbit As the lion may seek a gazelle The poet a poem, and the Musician a sound. Something, To sustain life.

It was a natural wonder Untouched by man Overlooking all its brothers Of The Green Mountain Chain 1 It was here at the Stratton Summit that James P. Taylor, in 1909, envisioned the idea of a hiking trail ranging the length of Vermont, known as the Long Trail.

It started with a man Who wanted to tame a mountain To create a trail for those That would go with and after him He was the patriarch Of the oldest long distance trail Its snakelike form stretched from the tips of Massachusetts’s fingers To the feet of The Canadian Border

Hours, days, months spent writing Eyes staring off in space, the Predators always alert, the student’s half closed. Fishing for a hook, to arm an essay, a barb to sink into the soft roof of a readers mouth, then reeled in. in rabid frenzy, dogs tear at the bodies, those who could not find the things, so necessary to life.

Dante shivers at the thought, A hell far worse than his own For he has not imagined this Inferno. An empty space filled With nothing. The wall reached And never mounted by philosophers Waving their flags, of rationality And irrationality.

He relaxes, his prey caught Trapped, on paper, for all to see.

Stuffed and mounted, the severed heads Stare lifelessly, they know when it is over.

2

1

http://www.stratton.com/todo/summer-activities/hiking/off_trail.htm Off The Beaten Track. The Long Trail.

55

But does the writer?

When all thoughts exhausted The traveler comes to the

12

Sustained Living by Thom Hart The trail was by no means kind Many found bears and sore legs a burden Although, along the way…hikers would open their eyes and find the nature within

His pen glides across The paper, aided by the Ball point. It stains With machine-like accuracy Imaginary sentences spill out A flood breaking over the Levee, tearing down all walls The writer is now pensive.

In full swing he must not stray Far from his theme.

Words unwritten, fictions still Yet to be conceived. All This for sure, waiting.

3

Men volunteered their time To upkeep the monster trail Each a piece of their passion A gust of wind in this natural sail

In his mind imagining a Lone elk or deer, on the Outside of the herd The clever wolves, only Clever to survive, planning The creatures demise, and for Themselves, a feast.

The writer sees the four-legged Prey, rigid with fear, its Ears perked up, nose twitching.

The writer can see his prey But cannot move. The imaginary Pen, the imaginary sentences, all imagined

Through old trapping sites And along mighty torrents Little to no proof Of human presence past or present The trail spread on Connecting the erased markings Of the past To curious footprints of the future

The paralysis is unnerving For the writer knows he will Not survive, if the pen neglects The paper, and a harmony of Flowing words is not achieved Yet he waits for days for Words to come within reach. For Ideas to stretch their necks Out of holes in the ground, where He may snatch them up in his Salivating jaws, and lives on.

2

Cut Out from Article. A WOMAN'S "HIKE" IN VERMONT; How She Tramped Over the New Mountain Highway Constructed by the Green Mountain Club. August 22, 1915

3

Cut Out from Article. A WOMAN'S "HIKE" IN VERMONT; How She Tramped Over the New Mountain Highway Constructed by the Green Mountain Club. August 22, 1915

Such is the hide and seek nature Of inspiration, a furtive thing A shy component at the most

11

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ૢ⊛ᚻ

A single blade of grass by Jack Horgan

A single blade of grass sprouting from the earth among millions of others can simply be described as just another little green plant identical to the rest all around campus. And this is what it means to so many people, who pass it by every day with little acknowledgment of its subtle characteristics, if any. I have been a part of this mass of passive individuals for as long as I can remember. Us non-analytic people; we make up the vast majority of the world, not paying special attention to the little things that we pass by obliviously every day, such as this single blade of grass. Maybe because we have other things on our minds; we are always looking for more objects in life, objects that are new to us and that we can then look into with great detail as I have with this blade of grass. But in my experiences, as I am sure apply to most other people’s, I never end up analyzing these new objects with significant acknowledged detail just like we never did when we were first introduced to fields made up of countless individual blades of grass. Everything new that I see I do acknowledge to a certain degree, but in an insignificantly terse period of time it all becomes just another blade of grass. There is a very faint, subtle line that I have just become aware of that connects this aspect of non-acknowledgment, which touches the lives of all mankind, to the feeling of constant discontent in life. This specific feeling that I am referring to may only apply to myself, however I believe it comes in countless differing forms for each individual, but in each individual it does exist and affects them every day. It seems so simple because it is felt so often; this feeling of discontent, boredom, unknowingness, so that it has become a general part of everyone’s life and is barely even acknowledged anymore. This may just be human nature, always subconsciously feeling like there should be more to seek out in life and naturally disregarding what has been present the whole time like a simple blade of grass, or maybe it is just me. Maybe they are completely unrelated and I have tied the idea of this tiny object to a much larger aspect of common human feeling through tiny, insignificant threads that really mean nothing at all. I still find it interesting that examining a blade of grass and trying to analyze my thoughts has led me to the question of why it seems like so many people generally can’t remain content for long, with everything they have around them that, at the end of the day, is ultimately bulked into a single category of just matter, nothing new.

57

ർᣇ ᜆ⌕ૢ⊛ᚻ ᚻ ៰ਅᚻᅃ ᅟ ዞᤚਖ ዊἮ

ᚒ⊛⢋⣾ ᤚਖᐳᣥᚱሶ ኈ ੌ㇊ ᄙ ↟⥋ኈ ᄛ ૢ⊛ᚻ ࿷ઁ਄㕙 ᛠઁ ᾖ੫

੓ᤚ᦭ੌ อ⊛ᣧ਄ ࿷᥄శਛ ᚒ┵⿠৻⏀♄ ᗐ⿠㓒ጊ㓒᳓⊛ ർᣇ ᦭ਖ Ἦ

ด⢻

࿾ 㜇

10

Your hands

North Holding your hands Your hands When you take off your gloves They are two little lights My shoulders Are two old houses They have held too much Even the nights Your hands Are on them Lighting them up So here comes the morning after we said our farewells In the morning light I hold up a bowl of congee

After Giorgio Bassani, The Garden of the Finzi-Continis by Alex Geerken Every summer I drove past the club…I always saw families and friends in their fancy clothes, with their fancy cars…the white buildings, the beautifully landscaped lawns and gardens, and think why couldn’t I do that with my family?

I couldn’t provide for my children; my wife and I each have full-time jobs, with the kids in daycare. It’s a stressful concept to grasp and live with. I rarely see my children.

I would look over the walls of the country club, and hear the constant volley of tennis, the loud crack of a golfer driving down a meticulously manicured fairway, the splashing of children jumping and playing in the pool. It had always been a mystery, this country club. What really went on there? Why would these people seclude themselves to being strictly with fellow wealth-junkies?

My wife always it wasn’t worth getting in to. Why be curious about something you can’t have? Hell, that’s not the way my mind works. As they say curiosity killed the cat, but I ain’t gonna die looking over a wall. She would ask: why would you want to join a bunch of snobs who brag about their wealth and talk about how many cars they each have? I would then agree and let the subject pass…her life is stressful as it is.

Yet I was still intrigued; that place seemed so interesting to me. What was behind those walls? I was constantly nagged to go and get involved. But reality hit me, and I literally was not allowed to enter the premises.

That’s why, years later, the Smith family came into my life. One day when on the way home from work I had pulled over to watch some men play golf at the country club. I was admiring the scenery and daydreaming about how amazing it would be to be rich, when a young girl walked up to me from the other side of the wall. She asked what I was doing and I said I was watching the men play golf. She proceeded to then tell me to come and join her daddy while he played. He could use an extra player, she said. I declined because I was not allowed to be on the course. I wasn’t a member.

That day, I became included. I joined the club. Jim Smith, the little girl’s dad, came up to me when he saw that I was speaking with his daughter. Come and play, he said. Why are you sitting around!

I have been playing golf and other various club activities with my wife and kids all because of my persistence. Not that I ever dreamed of being invited. That’s just the way life works, I guess.

Thinking of the distant north There are two little lights That can only be touched from far away

9

58

Life without humor by Graham Pough What do you call a greedy crab? Shellfish. (Pause for extreme laughter.)

Alright, now that you have stopped laughing hysterically and gotten back into your chair, imagine a word without humor. You wake up to your alarm radio where AM radio dominates the airwaves.

As you slowly become conscious you hear more and more of the morning talk show. “Hi Jim.” “Hello.” “How has your day been going so far?” “Dry and monotonous” “yes, mine too.” Your face goes from a sleepy drooling one to an emotionless mindless stare. As you get up you make your gray bed sheets and fluff your gray pillows before jumping into the shower. As you turn it on a rush of high pressure, high temperature water whips you across the face. Obviously you see no humor in this and rip the shower head off your shower. However, this does not help the problem in fact it makes it much worse because now instead of being able to shower you must now return to your room without a shower. But it isn’t really that big of a deal, because you did not go out last night or anything like that because it’s not like you can sit around and joke with your friends. Not that you never go out, sometimes you go to the local bar. You walk into the bar and try and pick up ladies with your “go to” pick up line. “Hello, would you perhaps like to mate with me this evening?” no success. You then proceed to problem drink by yourself and perhaps cry your way home.

Ironically, the idea of a life without humor sounds pretty funny, but it would be funny in the way that watching skateboarders fall is entertaining. Although we can very easily laugh at them, we would not want to be in their situation. I don’t think the world could actually exist without a good sense of humor. I’m sure many more employees of monotonous jobs would go postal if they didn’t have silly clips of a cat playing the cat on the piano on you tube. In many ways, people use humor to distract themselves of how much their own life lacks entertainment and humor. And why not?

Humor is a great thing, a group of friends sitting around, cracking jokes, everyone is smiling, everyone is laughing, everyone is happy. Many people base their entire personality on being funny and entertaining themselves and those around them. I consider myself to be one of those people, and I think I’m pretty good at it. I know that if I couldn’t crack a knee slapper at the right moment I wouldn’t have half my friends. But again, that isn’t really too bad of a thing, I have friends which I of course enjoy and people seem to enjoy being around me. The way I see it, there is nothing beneficial in my life that regards an extreme level of seriousness other than school and crew (which together make up 12/15 hours of my conscious day. So for the other 3 hours why not just be silly?

It’s more fun, more healthy, and a much better way to pass the time.

Another use of humor is like I said before, to distract someone from the poor quality of their actual life. Most people go to see funny movies so that they don’t have to think about their boss, their homework, their family. All that they have to think about is the screen in front of them and carrying that soda, popcorn, AND candy in a flimsy excuse for a box. But I don’t understand why people would allow their lives to reach such a point that they have to search externally for entertainment. The way I see it is that, every second that you don’t enjoy in your life, is a second wasted. And that second doesn’t come back, each second is a once in a lifetime opportunity. That second can only happen once, then it’s over. And do you really want to spend it being upset?

Angry? Sad?

“Playing the game safely is but a phrase, for those to say who are afraid of living for today” – Mads Jacobsen

59

photo by Lauren Reich

8

The shades

In the shades I have three agonies: Drift. Love. Survival

I have three happinesses: Poems. Throne. The Sun

࿷ᄛ⦡ਛ

ᚒ᦭ਃᰴฃ ᵹᶉ ᖱ ↢ሽ

ᚒ᦭ਃ ᐘ⑔ ᱌ ₺૏ᄥ㒑

the war ten haiku by Thom Hart Resonance in turn Brings about the world to me Hiding behind dark Reverb adds space here Dissonant notes echo there A place in between Polychord madness Unaligned music abounds A sound to be heard Lyrics flow from mouth Onto paper they imprint A meaning then lost Watch the face light up Pure wattage tears through the air The bass sucker punch The lead man takes mic In hand ready to do battle With corporation The rock rebellion Knows no boundaries on this day Let the walls come down The revolution A culture clash of ages Youth and violence The pen is your sword The paper your bandolier Music your cannon There is no peace here Society has no place Engage the senses.

7

60

㔐⊛ᣣሶ ᚒดᗐ೔㔐ਛ෰ᱫ

Two poems by Zaid El-Fanek

ᚒ⊛

Voices The voice inside me: I can’t hear it.

I lay awake in bed— See the moon but I can’t feel it

᦭

᡼಴శ⦵

ᚒ⢛㕗⨲ේ ஖ℙ

as its bright lights transmit and filter into my head— this voice inside me, I can’t hear it.

የ

ᚬ਄༑ ᜆ㓷

᦭

While the voice screams, I admit that I have already fled to see the moon, but I can’t feel it.

ੱ

ὓἫ⊛₺౰

ᚒㅌ࿁⋆࿾㧘⢛㕗ᚑㇺ ᣠᚲ੐੐㧘ᚒ਽ᣠᚲ੐੐

ด᦭

I guess it’s time that I should quit, since I can only hear a shred of this voice inside me, I can’t feel it.

ᒏ

ᖱ

⊛྾か

ഀਅཚໃ᡼࿷Ἣ਄

I’m losing myself, bit by bit— I’ll stare into the sun instead: The moon betrays me, I can’t feel it.

ᄢ㔐 ਇ

So I lay awake and commit my last crime—now it’s dead; The voice inside me, I couldn’t hear it.

Saw the moon, but I’ll never feel it.

ᤄᣣ

⊛ጊ

ㇺⵍ㔐⊕⊛੃ᚱ ᛴ

ᷓᄛਛ Ἣ₺ሶ ⁛⥄ล⌕⍹

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6

⁛⥄ ㈬

Snow

Schizophrenia

I went through hell and high water to return to my hometown My bones are white, but highland barley cannot grow over me Snow capped mountain, my grassland becomes bright because of your breast Ice cold and gorgeous I have recovered In the days of snow, I only want to die in the snow Bright light shining overhead Sometimes I lean against the grassland The horse’s head is my qin* The horse’s tail is my string Put on Himalaya, a blazing crown Sometimes I go back to the valley, lean against the capital People all idle about, and I idle about There is only love, my sword, and my horse's four hooves

My voices are lost, But my screams will find their way.

My personality shifts and breaks Every night and day.

With all this passing time My dreams, they will decay.

So I’ll dig and search for some hope Through all this dismay.

And when I fail I’ll rest with you.

In the ground we’ll lay.

Cut my lips off and put them on the fire It is snowing with great flakes Snow covers the dirty hills They are all embraced by the breast of snow At midnight the prince of fire is eating the stones alone, drinking the wine alone *qin: an ancient Chinese musical instrument

㔐

ජᔃਁ⧰࿁೔᡿ ᚒ⊛㛽㜋㔐⊕ ਽

ਇ಴㕍⒬

㔐ጊ㧘ᚒ⊛⨲ේ࿃ૢ⊛੃ᚱ⠰᣿੫ ౽಄⠰

ᚒ⊛∛Ꮗᅢ

5

62

ᚒ⋴

⥄Ꮖ⊛㕙ኈ

Ἣὺ௝৻ ඥ਄ᄤⓨ⊛ᄢᶏ ௝㕒㕒⊛ᄤ ะ⌕ᴡᵹ

⠍

We’re crouching in a log

I'm crouching in a log, like a blind man who hasn't walked for years

I forgot the sound of walking

My ears are flowers and insects basking in spring

ᚒ

ထ࿷৻᫯ᧁ

ਛ

ᚒထ࿷৻᫯ᧁ ਛ㧘ᅤหᄙᐕᴚ᦭⿛〝⊛⍀ሶ ᔓළੌ⿛〝⊛ჿ㖸 ᚒ⊛⡊ ᤚⵍᤐᄤᤴ ⊛⧎ ๺⯻⽜

photo by Katrina Kiritharan

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4

Dawn: A little Poetry

Dawn I wriggled myself free at a clay pot Or the edge of mother earth

My hands were flying towards the river I escaped from within a pot decorated with wheat-- the sun

Two Poems by Isabel Levy-Nance

March 8, 2010 Walton Beach, Florida Not really arrested But close enough Feeling not of fear But of disappointment Not exactly within myself I point and I laugh At the people like me

I saw my own face --- a ball of flame Wandering in the dawn wind

Having everyone stare Talking under their breaths They don’t know me

I saw my own face A ball of fire, like an ocean rising to the sky

Yet I judge everyone Except for myself

Like a quiet winged horse Flying towards the river

㤡᣿㧦৻㚂ዊ

㤡᣿ ᚒ

⣕

৻ด㒻➷ ᚗᄢ࿾⊛

ᚒ⊛෺ᚻะ⌕ᴡᵹ ᚒ

⣕৻ดೞೄ㤈ⓓ⊛㒻➷ᄥ㒑 ᚒ⋴

⥄Ꮖ⊛㕙ኈἫὺ

࿷㤡᣿⊛

⠍

ਛ 3

ᔮਇቯ

Thousands of lights below Blurred highways that travel for miles Too high to see the moon Too low to see heaven

64

Poems by Haizi, translated from the Chinese by Yuze Sun

I’m not catholic But it would be nice to believe

I can feel the pressure It piles in my head And escapes through my ears I sigh in relief When they pop

A dedication

When the night falls, the fire goes back to ten thousand years ago A fire from a secret messenger, and it is burning in vain again

My head is planted by the window I like to know what’s going on If I could I would sit in the cockpit But unfortunately Osama ruined that for me

The fire becomes the fire, the night becomes the night, eternity becomes eternity The night is raising from the horizon, blocking the sky

I usually medicate myself to sleep But this time I consciously chose to stay awake No real reason why

I noticed that the plane is flying low We’re under the clouds Occasionally going through them

₂ 㤤ᄛ㒠

Everything looks like a city from up here I can’t see much land Just real estate

᧪⥄⒁ኒ

㧘Ἣ࿁೔৻ਁᐕ೨⊛Ἣ ⊛Ἣ ઁ෶ᤚ࿷⊕⊕࿾Ά

Ἣ࿁೔Ἣ 㤤ᄛ࿁೔㤤ᄛ ᳗ᕡ࿁೔᳗ᕡ

The economy is bad Slowly rising Can only get better Some say

㤤ᄛ੼ᄢ࿾਄ඥ⿠ ㆤ૑ੌᄤⓨ

But what do I know I should do some research Seeing as though in four years I will be voting The world will be in my hands And my vote will determine the whole Election Because I am That Important

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2

Writing Prompts by Alejandro Castro

Clarity by Marena Izzi

The Readings of Counsel A kid and an old scholar reading and sharing perspectives to each other in a world of imagination, dignity, and philanthropy.

The Vicious Uncertainty The unrequited love life of Jacob, a Jewish writer and Navy refugee living in western Syria, and Kareema, a young, beautiful, and enchanting, 19 year old Syrian girl.

With rain comes clarity. For when the sun comes out the next day, it shines on everything that the rain has washed clean. There are no more façades or messy lies, they all rinse away with the water.

And during the rain, when I would lie out there, soaked through, that was when I would think the most clearly, feel the most passionately. And right now, I needed that clarity more than anything.

Nothing in life is clear, or simple, or maybe it is and someone just forgot to tell me, but what I’ve known is that things get complicated, they get messy and foreign and sometimes there’s no easy answer. But there’s always a right one. So I sat there in my dorm room, praying for rain while Jess slept in the darkness. I sat and I waited, as I always had, on some feeble hope, some naiveté that things would work out just the way I wanted. And then, I heard it: the slight patter of drops on the window, just a slight drizzle, but for one second, everything clicked. It was possible, after all, to get what you wanted, no, what you needed, even if it was at the very last second before everything was about to fall. I felt a calm wash over me, no panic, no despair, just a simple calm. And with that I got up, padded out the door silently, and snuck out of the dorm in the dead of night.

The Neglected Bubble An experienced and thoughtful lad whose conventions and mind are progressively corrupted in such a way that he believes silence is nothing, but judgment and patience are all. It is quite a catching and volatile story. It may seem like the source for the development of new theories and philosophies, for the creation of responsible and cautiously inspired mayhem. Complications and unexplainable effects change and rewrite personal and communal destinies.

Fortamine: A forlorn experience An underground world inveigled in drug, sex and unparalleled vision. A world full of moral depravity, sadistic intention and acutely liberalized minds. It is intriguing and lecturing, and completely detached from the real and somewhat contented world.

1

66

the war ten haiku by Thom Hart………………………………………………………………………………………..60

Poem by Kirsten Bouthiller

Two poems by Zaid El-Fanek……………………………………………………………………………………………..61 Photo by Katrina Kiritharan………………………………………………………………………………………………..63 Two Poems by Isabel Levy-Nance……………………………………………………………………………………….64 Clarity by Marena Izzi………………………………………………………………………………………………………..66 Poem by Kirsten Bouthiller………………………………………………………………………………………………..67

Behind the old colonial The sun rises.

Pure, fresh light pours through the windows And over the ancient roof Ever so gracefully.

The air is still, Though the sweet melodious tunes Of the sleepless morning birds Gently awakens the resting world.

Thanks to Mr. Perrella, Ms. Kjellson, Mr. Daniels, Mrs. Bucklin, Mrs. Aguirre, and Mr. Alter.

For back issues of Stray Shot and English Journal (the midyear literary journal) go to http://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=260

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Sam Aguirre-Kelly Scott Aranha Rob Badger Kirsten Bouthiller Lauren Castaldi Alejandro Castro John Charles Justin Charles Min Hye Chung Chris Clapis Sagine Corrielus Christian Deneault Zaid El-Fanek Zach Elston Alex Geerken Dan Goldberg Thom Hart Stephanie Hoffmann Jack Horgan Marena Izzi Yuya Kawahara Katrina Kiritharan Karen Layman Hayley Leman Isabel Levy-Nance Chaoyang Liu Natalie Merin Graham Pough Lauren Reich Nellie Simmons Haley Slone Soo Jin So Nick Strelov Yuze Sun Corey Tesch Hiroko Tsuburai Livia Wang Carson Wanty Morgaine Wasserman

Stray Shot 2010