The Ivy | #7 | May 2016 by The Ivy

THE IVY

ISSUE NO. 7 | PHS 1

CONTENTS 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Cover Art: BITTER SWEET | Halle Copeland

The Ivy began in the 1960s, but its serialization began in 2014.

A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS While reviewing nearly two-hundred submissions to The Ivy, we began to wonder how we could incorporate more art into the magazine. After taking a field trip to the Columbia Scholastic Publication Associationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s annual convention, we realized that increasing the size of our magazine would allow us to showcase more art and to turn The Ivy into art. In this issue, you will see how we experimented with thematic spreads, color schemes, and creative page design. It was humbling to receive such a large quantity of high quality art and literature: from oil paintings, to poetry, to short stories, to photos of squirrels. We are excited to let the entire school see what their peers are capable of. We would like to thank the artists behind these submissions, our advisers, Ms. Rotz, Mr. Snyder, our new volunteer staff, and Princeton Pi for delivering pizza to all of our meetings.

Enjoy Issue Seven! Sincerely, Angie Keswani and Katie Vasquez 33

WOMAN ON THE MOON, Caroline Tan

HOW TO DREAM, Ellie Whiteside First: Close your eyes and see the moon. Glowing, spherical, and blue-edged, behind your eyelids. Now you are rising. Now the wind is teething gently at the seams of your clothing. Now the moonlight is collecting, like beads of water on your arms. Now the atmosphere sucks at your hair. Now you are a star. Dreams are yellow and immaterial and they float down from heaven, misty and clouding, flimsy, dewdrops, softly winding. Glimpsing one, clasping it in your hands. only in the summer, or in a patch of warmth, you can touch one, dip your fingers into the sky. Vibrating, grainy, they radiate. sing very softly in the back of your throat and they will follow, luminescent, egg-white, and the sound of violins collects slowly around your ears, nests in your hair. Now breathe. Now feel the dream in your mouth like a sun. Now think about your childhood. A star. You are dreaming. maybe you’ll meet someone there. maybe they’ll ask you if this is Earth? Is this the same place? I touched you in? maybe you will sink your hand into theirs and dissipate and lucid, wake, gasping, and speckled with (you’re hoping) sun light, star light, and now gasping closed your eyes, clutching at the dream, desperate for a levitation, a finger of God, but Here it is. Orange, filmy, water music, dawn. Here is the morning. 5

RESILIENCE OF A MATCHSTICK, Kevin Yang

ROASTED, Tej Khanna Walking through the hall during the battlefield of break. Leaving a trail of bad insults and crude jokes in my wake. Boom. Roasted. I pity the kid who wears his lame shoes, because everybody knows, That he can maybe last an hour before he hears: “WHAT ARE THOSE!” Boom. Roasted. They spot their next victim, they haven’t had enough, “Look at that!” “Look at what?” “Look at DEEZ NUTS!” Boom. Roasted. You win some, you lose some because roasting is a fine art. Either way, though, it’s better to not let them hear you fart.

It may be years until you meet another roaster as good as me. Our kind is getting rarer thanks to the NJ state law, HIB. Boom. Roasted. Roasting my friend’s dad and someone overhears. It came off wrong and I sounded like a bully to foreign ears. Boom. Roasted. Now I’m sitting in detention doing math homework and staring blankly at a graph. It’s times like these where I think the administration got the last laugh. Boom. Roasted.

Boom. Roasted.

BZZZZ, Amelia Wright

sorry for being such a mess-there’s a high schooler’s testament to being stressed. control is intoxicating, but impossible, life is an abundance of unknown variables. the way insecurity snakes around the mind and squeezes out all rationality, don’t you mind, the way it is all in our minds, rewind, don’t you mind the way that there’s not enough time? plugging ourselves mercilessly into the same formulas and expecting different results never works because success is relative and asymptotic, so how does one escape being neurotic, psychotic, catastrophic? existing forces us to run the risk of falling apart but it feels like there is no escape from being a part of a system of equations that expects an x and a y but forgets about the millions of combinations of the alphabet. but it is okay. order does not stay, everything is destined to decay. and until nothing intelligible remains, we remain, unstable within an infinite domain.

ENTROPY, Darya Tanvildar-Zadeh 9

Anonymous

WHY IT MATTERS THAT HILLARY CLINTON WORE RALF LAUREN, 10

Using it to manipulate perception. The brand will make her look confident. Absolutely convincing on the global stage. Angela Merkel’s Frumpy Power Suits: A liability among certain voters aching for signs of change Shrill, Inaccessible, Ambitious, How do you manage to have it all? A Look Suited to the Speaker: Reading the symbolism in that Armani label -and it’s reasonable to do so because designer brands are supposed to communicate an image -it speaks of a specific approach to authority and clout. There are many ways for a woman to dress in a professional manner, from Ellen Tracy and St. John to Chanel and Akris. Putting on an Armani suit sends a message as pointed as if a man chooses shirts from Turnbull & Asser instead of Arrow. That man is not trying to be flashy, but he is intimately aware of the value of a winning appearance, both in the way in which others respond to it and also in the way in which it makes him feel. He isn’t simply trying to be appropriate: He is aiming for dapper. He aspires to give off a brighter sheen than his colleagues. There is a bit of quiet one-upmanship in the choice. As if a man chooses shirts from Turnbull & Asser instead of Arrow As if the New York Times would ever cover the latter. Italicized article names are from the New York Times or Washington Post.

THE TUB, Clara Bourquelot

BENDS, Amy Guan

UNTITLED, Daniel Laffan

LIKE A PHOTOGRAPHER, Evie Bentch

Behaving like a photographer. I watched as the words on the pages of my afternoon book Were suddenly overwhelmed by rays of sun. The dust in the placid room traveled In a shower of glowing particles. I will not shove the thick red curtainsWhich match the color that penetrates every pane of glass To shield me from the blinding afternoon beam That has not ceased to occupy the pages of my book. No, I do not hate the unexpected guest I will behave like a photographer. I will not hesitate to leave my seat in pursuit of a camera To praise the simplicity and beauty Which only a photographer sees in such annoyances. I will grasp the lustrous exterior My fingers determined to trigger the gleaming button Just in time to capture the sunsetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last word. The sky fades to a hollow blue Then darkens to black Frigid emptiness fills every corner in the room All is dark but the glowing screen, forever to be seen.

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INIQUITOUS BEINGS HAVE SOME TEA, Maya Pophristic

It was a conversation between two on one silky evening, when one said to the other: Listen, you and I? We’re the apex predators, we are dancers that wind between one another, and no one will ever stop our music. The other leaned back in their chair, as far as they could go (until they could feel the chair tipping back, itching to fall), a brief smile on their lips. The other was right, what were they other than the best of the best. The two began a conversation of all their wars, and all their victories (their losses were few, as their grips were tighter than vice). These two were winners, but their wins weren’t good. For these two were things that hid behind creaky doors, that no one wants to see in broad daylight. As they continued to laugh and soak in their victories, one could see their evilness painted in their body language, in them. The way they were draped over their chairs, faces poised in elegant manners that screamed trust me—even though you know I’ll hurt you. From even afar, one could see—they were disgusting, they were proud. They were both evil in their own way, they were the embodiment of their power. They are atrocities, they do not bear faces. They bear the emotions of your first loves, of those who have disappointed you. One seems to be the loveliest, yet harshest of light pinks—tinged with the purple of sleepless nights. This one brought to the table high strung thoughts, a high screeching voice that gave all others headaches. Their voice, loud and jarring—reminding one to keep on their toes at all times. They were the awake, they were the searing light of day on a desert. The other was whispers and shadows, they were the gray of harsh charcoal swept across white paper and also the lullaby of a dark night.

SELF-CORROSION, Keri Zhang

So black they fade to blue, ever changing from this grey to blackish blue. Their responses were voiced in a quiet manner, a reminder that one would never see them coming. They were the cheshire cat—disappearing and appearing in view. Both are nightmares, both are alive. Both are alive, and they have this conversation—and it always turns into a fight. Both are alive, and they’re fighting with one another and together and all in all their interactions occur far too often. The shadows grin at their companion—their fight has tumbled out its course, and they have returned from foes to friends. Iniquitous beings laugh into the evening sky, their chairs sit outside a small cafe located right in the center of my brain. Guests that have overstayed their welcome, depression and anxiety, your tea has long gone cold. Just drink up and leave.

NASSAU BY NIGHT, Eli Nathan

It’s slippery. Like Butter. Soap. Ice. It’s mysterious. Like Nighttime. Secrets. Ninjas. It’s bold. Like Bright colors. UNTITLED, Kelli Swedish The font on today’s headline. Mark Twain’s Huck Finn. It’s personal. Like My favorite song. The first word I ever spoke. The way he looks at me. It’s universal. Like Climate change. Global warming. Soccer. It’s insignificant. Like The joy of the wind in my face as I coast downhill on my bicycle. The way I always have to put in my locker combination twice. That piece of trash lying on the side of the road. It’s so insignificant, hardly anyone knows it exists. It has An obligation. A past and a future, unbeknownst even to itself. An incredible potential, if only I could look beyond those rough edges and mud stains from being left too long in the rain. It’s an idea. An idea. It’s an idea. But it’s just That piece of trash lying on the side of the road.

PRO TEM, Leslie Liu

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ALASKAN MOUNTAINS, Amy Lin

SHELL, Nicole Ng

A river of grackles Black bodies flitting and gliding Flying and falling The hiss of water from the tap BODIES The boom of moonlanding steps Gravel crunching Hill sloping Gravity tugging A torrent following the path of least resistance As it fights the greatest force in the world Cold trees wrapped in brown leaves Caught in golden sunlight Thanksgiving Day among the birds and the mud Waiting and praying Preying Like the blue heron Half sunk but never drowned.

OF WATER, Caroline Forrey

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A DAY IN THE LIFE, Kate Li

A POEM ABOUT POEMS USING POEMS, Katie Vasquez Slow down And take a look At this poem. Look at Syllables and rhymes to detect My form.

But the audience “gets” sonnets. They know the first quatrain introduces the problem, Cinquains are fun but The second develops the problem, Nobody knows them. They think The third hints at the solution, I chose to be strange. And the lucid, final couplet is that solution. The audience knows that Haikus are common but also so plain Iambs show emphasis What message fits a count of seventeen? And opposites show conflict The problem with structure is there’s And imperfect rhymes need our attention. no gain: There isn’t enough space to fit what I mean. But the audience doesn’t see double meaning and wit And labels of the poet’s invention. I count on my fingers to find the words There is a box into which A thesaurus finds the short synonyms. That audience’s interpretation must fit The tedious process makes my head hurt Mostly when there is no rhyme. Cinnamon. And that box has one meaning written all over it And when the meaning isn’t But this is the way poetry is taught We must scan for iambs, opposites, rhyme. Written in thick, black Sharpie, the audience just doesn’t Poetry: a science that takes no thought “get it.” It’s the scan for iambs, opposites, rhyme. When writing is free and ambiguous The audience responds, “I don’t get it.” 23

TO THE MAN WALKING BEHIND ME, Harley Campbell Every shadow makes me jump Every headlight follows me home Sends shivers down my spine I can still hear your whine Feel your breath against my cheek See your sickly smile in my dreams Shattering my fractured reality This nightmare won’t let go of me All the lies I had to tell Every time I couldn’t escape Felt your hand upon my knee And in your eyes I could see A fire deep within your soul A sickness that burned you through And all the girls who fell before I knew there would be more Even now when you’re out of my life I still jump at unexplained noise Too scared to let out a cry See things out of the corner of my eye And I’m convinced it’s you It’s a fear that will never leave And all the things you did to them All the things you did to me 24

AN ALARMING SITUATION, Eddie Cai 25 25

HER LOVE, AND HERS, AND HERS, Helen Liu TOWER, Elle Klein

she was first, eyes caught across the tacky, gray surface of a lunch table, six years ago, still wary of childhoodâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grasp. we held hands back then, feet beating out a rhythmic path, tamping down the woodchips, slivers slipping past our soles. i still hold her tight, now, tighter than ever before press the back of her hand to my lips and whisper, what did i ever do to deserve you? she comes for me, in that dull hospital room, my ribs like fingers curling into my guts, dead machines tracing the beats of my heart. she comes for me, every time, and i hope she will never let go.

she, she saw me and laughed, lit up like a nervous trill, and i stumbled and blushed and fumbled my way into loving her like she deserved.

she’s lemon shortbread cookies, hot to the touch, and the heavy smoke of incense, smothering me under the christmas night, and dizziness sweeping me at 2 am in a digital comfort, and. she’s miles away, unreachable, somewhere i imagine is blanketed by snow, muffling the sounds of my heart, but she texts me again, talks through a gentle kind of feeling. it’s warm. she leaves me, has left me, will do it again, and again. and again, she will come back for me again, because we live shallow facsimiles of lives together, understanding seeping into our hearts. i wanted to die in there, she tells me. i cried when they wouldn’t let me leave, i say to her. we want to die, we say to each other, but we could never leave this softness we nurture between us, links to dead memories and places and songs. the future is waiting for us, i say let’s start a life together, again and again build me up with love. 27

WANDERLUST, Hannah Davies

we stroll down streets in tartan skirts, in cream blouses, in polos and khakis; heels clicking on wet pavement. shielded under your umbrella you drag me through the drizzle you rush under rainfall tugging my shoulder as I try to keep pace on much smaller feet. in a tornado of thoughts with butterflies in our stomachs, hurricanes in our hearts, we race away from all that is immutable all that is somber all that is ordinary.

BIG DREAM, Ian Shang

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EDIT O Angi RS-INC e Kati Keswan HIEF e Va sque i z

ADV I Mr. SORS G Ms. onzalez Muรง a

30 LOOKING DOWN, Angie Keswani

MAN Stefa AGING EDIT n Po Clai p h risti ORS re Sc c hult z SECR Chey ETARY enne Setn eska BUS IN Hars ESS h Ra ytha tta ( Man PUB ager LIC R ) Han E L A nah TION B Cars on D radley (M S onne lly-F anager) COP ine ( Y ED Secr Rose ITOR etar y) G S e l lman Sier ra Z arec k TECH Dap NOLOG h Y Grac ne Kont o e Zh ang giorgosHein tz (M anag er)

COLOPHON Issue 7 followed a similar voting process to all other Ivy issues. We began with the managing editors compiling all works into either a Google Slides presentation (visual art) or a Google Document (literature). The managing editors only labeled the submissions with their titles and not with artist names. We then provided all staff members with two Google Forms where they could anonymously vote. The voter could choose yes, no or not to vote for each piece. After voting, we created a submissions key based on percentage of “yes” votes. All pieces earning a 70% or higher were placed into the magazine, except if it was a piece by an artist with more votes on another piece. We then proceeded to look at pieces that had between 50% and 70% “yes” votes and selected pieces based on their percentages and on our ability to use it in a spread. The issue itself has exactly thirty pieces. Including the cover, table of contents image, and staff list image, there are eighteen visual art pieces. The works in the spreads of the magazine’s interior have a 1:1 ratio. We are excited to present you with this more balanced issue of The Ivy.

FONTS COVER | New Yorker regular 60pt, 12pt TABLE OF CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt COLOPHON | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Open Sans light 60pt, Lora italic 14pt, Lora regular 14pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 14pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing. 2016

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BITTER SWEET, HALLE COPELAND