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Editors’ Letter
Perhaps the most beloved and longstanding Ivy tradition is our annual black and white issue. Was it born from our deep-seated appreciation for intense black and white photography or rather, was The Ivy strapped for cash? Like everything in life, the answer to this question is multifaceted and not completely black and white. Similarly, our sentiments towards the quickly approaching summer aren’t entirely easy to place. Are we excited for warm summer nights, or dreading the 100 degree oven that is Princeton, NJ? Can seniors look forward to another three months of relaxation, or are we peering fearfully ahead into the dark and frightening abyss of the unknown? Should we go to Thomas Sweet’s or Halo Pub for ice cream? Is it really possible to start stressing over the summer reading already, or are we just way too done right now?
Staff
Editors-in-Chief: Haley Clark Victoria Gebert Managing Editors: Asher Wulfman Sarah Spergel Secretary: Caleigh Dwyer Review Board/Copy Editors: Phoebe Whiteside Talya Shatzky Since the issue you currently hold in your Business: hands is the last issue of The Ivy for this year, Stefan Pophristic (Manager) we, the Editors, also face a baffling mix of Winona Guo (Secretary) emotions. The past four years and our time with The Ivy has been a rollercoaster ride, Public Relations: but we’re excited to see what’s up next in Katie Vasquez (Manager) our lives. After college decisions, AP exams, Jasmine Charles (Secretary) and deciding on The Ivy’s staff for next year, Technology: we’re anxiously counting down the remaining Claire Schultz (Manager) days and awaiting our final moments in these Angie Keswani hallways as PHS students. Isabelle Joyce Maha Hadaya Our final thank-you goes out to our beautiful, hardworking, incredible staff, for being the Advisors: backbone of this publication. We will miss Mr. Gonzalez you most of all. Ms. Muça Lastly, we’d like to thank Spork, for a lovely time at Prom <3 Sincerely, Haley Clark & Vicky Gebert
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Table of Contents An Open Rant: AP English III Clown Gut Feeling The Ocean facebook chat at 12 am; January 27, 2015, 4:16 AM Endangered what you see Sad Under the Lights; Untitled Interview with Nathan; I Need A Rooftop to Sit On The Eyes Aim Make for Mind Games The Eyes (cont.), Butterfly Untitled Untitled; Interview with Cheyenne Peeling Bark; Untitled Youthful Literature; Overcast Happenstance of the Wildwood To Selma Untitled Untitled; 20/20 The Hunting Hat Untitled Face A Day in the Dreary City Commuter Hell Tale for the Children Untitled
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Katie Vasquez Andrew Bai Zoe Kim Mary Sutton Anonymous; Ruth Schultz
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Nancy Gray Spencer Smith Haley Clark Nathan Drezner; Severine Stier The Ivy; Hannah Bradley
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Lisa Knigge Lisa Knigge; Amy Lin Cheyenne Setneska Cheyenne Setneska; The Ivy Kayla McKechnie; Nicole Irizzary Katie Vasquez; Valeria Torres-Olivares Sierra Zareck Tatianna Sims Isabel Monseau Elle Klein; Maria Servis Kate Schofield Beth Blizzard Max Feldman Amy Wang Claire Schultz Eleanor Dykstra Rachel Glasser
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Cover: Succulent by Kayla McKechnie The Ivy began in the 1960s, but its serialization began in 2014. 3
An Open Rant: AP English III, Katie Vasquez I write not to evoke Beauty nor emoHas no obligation to tell the truth. tions “Their job is to express and to enterBut to convey characters, plots, and tain, not to educate,” themes. Because no chemistry class will ever I don’t like to start with a denoueAnalyze my Poetry in hopes of makment as does Poe ing scientific discoveries. But prefer to let my Poem speak to me. Sure, I could base all of my writing on statistics and observations Emerson told me to romantically But my imagination has taught me articulate what is true that But he never considered the falseness Inspiration is not something that can in enhancements be limited. Such as rhyme schemes and syllable Sometimes I am inspired by patterns and Lyrics from songs I love Vocabulary that describes Or the content of literature I hate Nature’s indescribable Beauty. Or the things I almost do but decide He told me originality is only against achieved Because I know something is dangerBy the Poets who write about someous thing they have experienced If it requires a consultation with my Or by being the closest to experience pen. that something But there is no originality in describI write because ing what has already been created. It is a therapeutic hobby; Originality requires our own creation. It brings me to an Enlightened State Some critique symbols because That I cannot achieve through speakThey think something so small could ing. not My written words are a self-given Bring justice to our “beautiful reality.” opportunity But perhaps nature is so small To turn the demons in my head It can be captured by a single leaf Into fictitious antagonists Or sin is so present And to experience fantasies It can be captured by This world will never permit The third most used letter in the EnAnd to make sense of things glish language. With no rhyme or reason The wisest man I ever met Until the liquid cement Told me that a Poet — or any creative Solidifies into concrete. writer — 4
Clown, Andrew Bai
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Gut Feeling, Zoe Kim
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The Ocean, Mary Sutton It ain’t sunny and seventy-five out here, It’s raining and it’s cold. The waves are crashing on the shore, And my hands ain’t yours to hold. I’m walking along the water, The sand wet between my toes. A fire sparks in the distance, Yet it seems so close.
We met along the ocean on a Bright summer morning, It was only nine a.m. But my skin Was already burning. I was pacing the shoreline Picking seashells from the sand. And my heart skipped a beat When you took my hand. You said everything gets hotter When the sun goes down And to follow you through The lights of town.
I’ve fallen for your mystery And the shadows from your secrets. I jumped into a love And I wished for no regrets. Now I’m as lonely as the winter As it waits for the summer tide. And I’m finally hurting And paying for the ride.
Now a tiny piece of heaven is Peeking out through the clouds, And I’m wondering what I’m supposed to do now. And your skin is soft like the sunset Of a warm summer evening. Your smile is like the current That pulls me out to sea. Your eyes are like the ocean And I feel like I am drowning. Your heart is darker than the night, But it isn’t clear to me.
People asked me why I didn’t See your darker side, But when you’re so darn pretty, Things are easy to hide. And your skin is soft like the sunset Of a warm summer evening. Your smile is like the current That pulls me out to sea. Your eyes are like the ocean And I feel like I am drowning. Your heart is darker than the night, But it isn’t clear to me.
We met along the ocean on a bright summer morning.
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facebook chat at 12 am, Anonymous itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really late and my fingers are turning green because the strings on my guitar are probably older than me and my computer it looks a mess my legs are jittery im running on four hours of sleep somebody please come help me im really tired and i think i want to cry but a giant spider found home in my bed i want it to die i will sit at this computer reading stories all night im really sad but its only cause its midnight and im really mad but its only cause im not alright and i know now that i am not ready for this life i have to go iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll see you tomorrow
January 27, 2015, 4:16 AM, Ruth Schultz
we all have dreams of getting enough sleep.
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Endangered, Nancy Gray
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Under the Lights, Nathan Drezner
Untitled, Severine Stier
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An Interview with Nathan Drezner
Where and when was this photo taken? I shot that photo last year at homecoming during one of Allie [Spann]’s vocal solos during a Studio Band piece. How long have you been interested in photography? My mom was a photographer, so I would say that some of my inspiration for photography comes from her. I’ve also been interested in film and video since I was little, and photography is a natural branch off of film. I really started getting more into photography when I started on Tower at the end of my sophomore year. Any advice for anyone who is starting to get into photography, or wants to learn more about it? For anyone starting out, especially if you have a DSLR, know your camera inside and out. Being in control of the camera means you’re in control of the photos, and they’ll turn out much better. I would also say to look at the work of other photographers ... and see what makes their photographs so powerful.
I Need A Rooftop to Sit On, Hannah Bradley I need a sky of stars to see, and a place to see them from. A place where I’m high above everything and everyone, and I can see and watch where the rain falls from. I want to see the clouds and the stars play with red light, to watch them never discover that there is such a place as down here. People always say that it’s dark down low and bright up high, but that’s not always the case. Up there, it’s so dark that you can see all the light in the world. Down here, the light washes everything out to darkness and blindness. Up there, it’s magical. There’s wizardry and starlight and flight and float and be. I want and need a rooftop so I can be a witch and be starlight and fly and float and be. But instead, all I have right now is a window. A big, lovely bay window where I can watch the rain fall and pool on the ground. And I guess, from there, I can at least see the reflection.
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what you see, Spencer Smith Wake up refreshed On the right side of the bed Nothing but happy thoughts Running through my head Get ready for the day Whistling a happy song I know this feeling will stay Because nothing’s wrong Ready for the day I walk out my door Perfect temperature After last night’s downpour I walk out to my friends And give them a wave They look happy to see me Wake up depressed And start their own days On the wrong side of the bed We start talking together My head filled with bad thoughts About nothing at all Replaying last night in my head We crack a few jokes Get ready for the day About stories we recall Humming a song about pain This day started out perfect I know this feeling will stay Just like all the other ones For there’s nothing to gain I know it’ll get better Not ready for the day I’ll have so much fun I stumble out the door Who cares if it’s Monday? Wishing there was some rain I have the whole week to look forward to Left from last night’s downpour This might be what my life looks like to you. I look out and see my friends I fake a smile And I knew That their smiles back Were artificial too We simply walk in silence Nothing to talk about We knew what each other was thinking Without a single doubt I know the day will get worse as it goes along I’ll have to pretend to be happy so I at least belong Although you may not believe it this is my day Maybe you should think next time if I’m really ok. 12
Sad, Haley Clark
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The Eyes Aim Make for Mind Games, Lisa Knigge It is sloppy and sticky and sweaty the floor — gross littered with candy and gummy bears my shoes are off, nobody cares Strappy, plunging, black as night my dress — revealing Showing a bit much? It feels right on a night like this night where the lights are low and all is not right
Then… A glance — a stare where? Me This girl over here But that didn’t make sense. He was dancing a dance with a girl that wasn’t me There seemed to be romance
Music pounding, my heart sounding and I, feeling like a could collapse into a chair, wouldn’t dare because we keep dancing and drinking and partying, not thinking Together, two friends on the floor moving our dresses, our feet, our hair we don’t really care about them
But those eyes had a mind of their own leaving my mind… in a trance Was I allowing my mind to deceive me? Was it dreaming up a dream When the so called disorder was not as it seemed? My mind was now a self destructive scheme.
Except him Out of the corner of my eye I spy… A guy It’s you Yes, you
My mind — deception Changing the way I looked at that scene, my perception I now had a different conception of the way things were There was now something new to infer
Not quite actually. It was just your eyes. Your eyes… they supplied…. A question? An answer Staring at me (or so I thought). Maybe staring into space, at a random, emotionless, not caring spot
That it meant nothing. Just a movement of muscle, a glance into space the eyes were still corresponding with his body nothing out of place
But those eyes were attached to a head with a body and arms And the arms were not in alignment with the eyes The arms moved about and pried Travelling lower and lower The song getting slower and slower
But… what if there was an exception? what if my mind’s deception wasn’t a hoax at all? If it was real, did you feel? did I want it to be so? 14
THE IVY
all of me didn’t match up either did my eyes only seek yours, the whole of you, or neither?
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It seems that now I was the starter and you the stared at funny how that happened the inverse of where we started at
Submit over the summer! tiny.cc/ivys
Look at what those eyes have done I’ve found an elephant under the sea It doesn’t exist, you can’t be staring at me
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but still I observed... Your hand traveling lower, your hand in her hair Moving in to kiss her — then to me, that stare
Butterfly, Amy Lin
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Untitled, Cheyenne Setneska
Where and when was this photo taken? This photo was taken in New York, near the Freedom Tower, on New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eve of 2014. How long have you been interested in photography? Photography has always played a significant role in my life; my sister, majoring in photgraphy, took pictures of me quite often [when I was an infant]. Every time I saw her photos, I was inspired by them. Are you more interested in photography than other art forms? If so, why? Even though I am definitely interested in other mediums, I would say photography is one of my favorite forms of art. I believe a picture can capture so much beauty and can embody the artist by the point of view the picture is taken in or the angle of the subject, and I find that to be an incredible aspect of art. Also, the fact that a picture can capture something that has the posibility of disappearing in the next second, never to exist in that way again, is absolutely amazing.
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Peeling Bark, Kayla McKechnie
Untitled, Nicole Irizzary
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Overcast, Valeria Torres-Olivares
Youthful Literature, Katie Vasquez
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Happenstance of the Wildwood, Sierra Zareck He lived off the forest for many years its vast expanse of gargantuan trees and babbling brooks esculent plant life and abundant game. he wandered through the airy wood and marveled at its power it is what lives and survives it is what withers and dies. when colossal trees fall or grand beasts perish it is not something to be mourned for â&#x20AC;&#x153;that is just the way of thingsâ&#x20AC;? as the man liked to say.
that wriggled and sped and spat hard glints. as it was angling a gust of obscurity tore off a weathered branch from its native home and hit the childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bony spine. this plucked the moppet off its feet and flew it into the water where it leisurely descended into the languid brook. when the man found out his young predecessor he was not angered nothing was to blame. he understood and accepted the wildness of the wind and the definity of the dirt he was only sorrowed that it would not see the hoary heads of winter once more.
Eventually, he took a wife and built a small cottage. they had an offspring who basked and bloomed in the largeness of the wood. the babe went down to the frigid flashing river one shining cloudless day to hunt the shadows of the creek
No one knows the color of the wind and the meaning of the brook the purpose in the leaves or the reason for the trees. Not one can explain the Happenstance of the Wildwood.
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To Selma, Tatianna Sims It’s amazing how far initiative will go. It will get you to go down the road unknown. Life as it is may be suitable for you, but not me My ancestors did not die to see me get by un-free Though critics may argue that slavery is over, The war was never won. History cannot simply be undone. It has been engraved into our children’s mind That one particular race is above others. How we must let their superiority take over. Growing up in a town like this we learn to get use to it, But I can’t help the guilt I feel because I failed to keep a promise. Equality for all is what they hoped for us. To escape the fear of a white man’s gun pointed in our face. Would they be disgraced? Look how we disrespect ourselves. Calling each other the equivalent of 3/5ths of a person, A brown skinned girl’s worth is uncertain, We fail to learn our own history because we rather keep the past unseen, But love to hear how before the boats came we were kings and queens. So this is for the brave in Selma, Who walked for miles while harsh words preached that they were insane. Please know that your work will not be in vain. I know sometimes we take for granted all the work you have done. Circumstances now have made us reflect on what is next. Laws may hold up the hatred but we can feel the KKK in their stares, The lynch mob barking from their throats, We can’t breath because they want us to choke. Sometimes we must go through darkness to see glory on the other side, But it feels like we are merely repeating everything you tried. I call upon you to give us an answer in these troubling times. Yet years apart, our prayers are intertwined. I give everything to the cause that is mine. Hopefully we can win this time.
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Untitled, Isabel Monseau
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Untitled, Elle Klein
20/20, Maria Servis
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The Hunting Hat, Kate Schofield If you were ever real, you’d probably be dead. Maybe you’d be buried by the little lagoon In Central Park South So when the ducks would fly away, You’d watch over their frozen pond In the falling snow. And come springtime, How would you feel About the Earth pushing heather into bloom Right above you, Almost as if it’d be out of spite? Do you think Phoebe would visit you, Even in her old age and fragile body? Would she pluck the flowers from your grounds For every birthday Because you always said you didn’t like them? But maybe she wouldn’t visit, Because the Earth knows the souls Of all bodies she shelters And she knows that you Were always the lonely purple flower Growing through the rocks. That you were so alone On that rough and rocky hillside. If you were ever real, The ducks would fly away And the heather would bloom And you, my friend, Would probably be dead.
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Untitled, Beth Blizzard The lonely actor of a dreamy play In hollow halls beneath the fells Is full of guilt and misery Darkness and the sound of bells You can light a fire with it A broken heart And now the music of their joy Tears the man apart Crisply the bright snow whispered Whirling fantastic in the misty air Crying out for death, for murder Revenge for their cruel affair The bright stars, on crowns they hung As they bid their sweet goodbye To lovers unaware That they are soon to die They walk along the parkway Happy, filled with bliss He presents her with a rose And under the moon they kiss Blowing loud and long The cool wind stirs the land Blows on the couple And their killer close at hand He had a knife, simple but effective Slighted loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dark stain Drove him to his course His heart was filled with pain Down he brought the knife Remembering still the sound of bells That had brought him so much pain. 26
Face, Max Feldman
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A Day in the Dreary City, Amy Wang
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Commuter Hell, Claire Schultz
The bus was full of imaginary people. They went through the motions of being real, but it was play-acting; they were no more real than the animatronics at Disney World. That’s just what it felt like today, except May was surrounded by commuters, not pirates. There was the lady with her knitting, the same two stitches over and over. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. The man reading the newspaper, scanning each section but never turning the page. The young couple entwined in a perpetual embrace. A teenage boy asleep, headphones still in his ears. All of them mere extras, supporting characters in her life. Sometimes May gave them stories. She felt they deserved an existence beyond the public bus, because being stuck on mass transit forever was a nightmare she never wanted to imagine. Knitting lady was Edith, the kindly old aunt type who had three cats and no children of her own, but was always a lovely neighbor. Newspaper man was Paul, a high-ranking executive at The New York Times, of course. He was married, but had a thing with the new girl in marketing. The couple were both named Alex, or maybe Sam, and they were considering dropping out of college to start an indie folk duo. May had seen them all before; they never moved, never changed, just went through the same motions on the same bus every single day. The boy was new. May studied him, noting his thick-framed glasses and too-long hair and the thin white cord of his headphones running into his sweatshirt pocket. He wasn’t particularly remarkable, but she had definitely never seen him before. He looked peaceful, though, and she tried to think of his story. A high school student, he lived in the suburbs with his mom. Smart, but didn’t really try. And he listened to really bad music on the bus. She was the only one of them all who was real. Everyone else disappeared the second she left and reappeared only to make her world seem a bit less lonely. It hadn’t always been like this, she was sure, and yet May couldn’t remember a time when things were different. But there had to have been someone else, before. Before…what? It was always like this, and May once again resigned herself to her fate, sitting down next to the sleeping boy. She watched the monotonous landscape out the window and began to drift off herself when she felt something grab her wrist. Instinctively, she pulled away, only to hear a sharp breath next to her. The boy was awake, sitting upright, staring at her with wide, startled eyes. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “You’re real too.” 29
Tale for the Children, Eleanor Dykstra Oh, listen well, my children, listen, listen to the tale, A tale of Darkness fading black, and so – Into Darkness We will go.
Once there was a shadow ‘cross the land, That grew in power every day That no one, (yes, my child, no one, no one throughout the land) No one could understand, for The Darkness had a name, And it was called Mak’toth, And once upon a time, not long ago, Mak’toth had been a friend. So then the noble prince went out to, Out to slay his faded friend, And then (no, no, my child, this is not what you expect) The Darkness killed him, and poisoned him inside, And Mak’toth only laughed, and the small Light within him died. And though the people mourned, oh, all throughout the land, The Darkness only spread, and the Light only faded, as The shadow of Mak’toth fell All across the world, And all the world, it died, And all the children cried, And Mak’toth, oh, Mak’toth, he was still unsatisfied. So listen well, my children, listen, listen to the tale – Although the Darkness wins And although the prince did die Although the children cried, As the world did fade, so did Mak’toth, still unsatisfied. So fear not the tale, my children, fear it not, but know you this: A piece of him still lingers, Within me and within you, So beware the Darkness, child, And beware of yourself, too. 30
Untitled, Rachel Glasser
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