The mag 2016 publication by The MAG Vianney

The

MAG A Literary & Art Journal

â&#x20AC; St. John Vianney High School Spring 2016

“Creating [art] is an overflow of who you are personally…” -

Brother Mel Meyer, S.M.

The MAG is a yearly publication by the students, faculty, and alumni of

St. John Vianney High School in an effort to support the living arts through words and images. Our title is an intimation of the Marianist Art Gallery where Brother Mel Meyer created for over thirty-five years and where his creative spirit still lives and breathes.

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Special Thanks to The MAG Staff: Paul Morrison Tyler Puszkar and Colleen Judge

Table of Contents Faux Rapport

Jack Schlote, Class of 2019

Silent Song

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Phosphorescence & Thought

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

A Scheme Unfolds

Brad Ramsey, Class of 2017

The Appeal of Christ

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

Shrugged

Anonymous, Class of 2019

Eye Create

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Winnowing

Eric Sargent, Faculty

Crocodiles

Jack Villhard, Class of 2019

Griffin

Zachary Hitzemann, Class of 2019

The Annual Fire

Kyle Williams, Class of 2014

Self-Estimation

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Drink and Be Whole Again Beyond Confusion Eric Sargent, Faculty

Asphyxiation of Thought

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Sea

Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

Faux Rapport Jack Schlote, Class of 2019 Alone in passion Found in darkest night. Fairest maiden orchid Among barren field of ice. Doth protrudes divine glory. Cherubic eyes As bluest diamonds of deepest sea. Soft lips Like wisping clouds of the night sky. Sound voice More majestic than roaring mountain winds. Maiden crosses gentle hermit, protruding mirrored likeness. That wonder of creation, exeunt without forewarn. Fading away in gruesome storm, Silent as eminent death. No return to thine pale morn, Dissent given to thy fragile ear, From the dark creatures of abyss. Scourged to wrongdoing, Hermit sees thy Virgin, Bellowing from no return. Left alone as wise king among fools, Fated to hang From highest tree of old oak. Whispering in ear, new hope. Great fire ignited, Sheath removed. Ember flames hot like the stars, Colliding in requiem. Thy fair Virgin orchid meets harsh winter, Withering deep to loam.

Silent Song

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Phosphorescence & Thought Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016 Turn off the lights Turn down your mind You are confused You are lost in this tragedy of beauty And you know one thing of all you need Life is not traveled on our own And the thoughts we think are the actions we create The passion you have is thrown all over the place What is this feeling inside When can we let it shine Should we tell someone Should we give it to Someone Who do we have To thank For this way we feel This way we are This Love we thought we had This was a bridge to guide us over the empty waves This has been a life lost in tragedy Of beauty And now we fight the ones we see Scream at the ones we hear The help has all but come And we have never left it to our side Touching the evil sights of this day We never saw this in the briefing Of our lives What has this come to Where has this traversed from Why is no one able to understand the way you feel The light poured into the room The spinning began You began to float and the sea drifted towards me We may have never had that feeling before We may have felt off of a thought 3

Dreamed because we saw And [you] said what you live for Taking me away to the truth Hold on now, hold me down And don't let the fear Go away, let it help Let the knowledge of the never knowing Fill your soul In the moment Of good Of bad Of lost Of the dammed Of the found Of the confusion Live Live Live Don't give in Know What you can Feel What you are Accept Never knowing Past Pass The light Feel The joy Let yourself Go Internations Miss interpretations Leave the misheard Intern Of the world Laugh today and live today and burn today Crash today Love today Let thy live In the night 4

Leaves on the tree Rebirth through the ground Give life to the seas Tow death inbound You are destined to Left alone in me Sought out by all Never forgotten Always in mind Never alone Just know Life is in you So spread Don't kill What is within you What is you

A Scheme Unfolds Brad Ramsey, Class of 2017

A gust of crisp northern wind blew down upon them, chilling Farren to the bone. As the army trotted along, he could hear the clink clink clink of plate and mail and horse. The Scottish highlands were a beautiful sight, more green than he had seen in the better part of a year. The memories of Lord Arche’s dungeons hadn’t left him. They came to haunt him every time he closed his eyes. The sting of his master’s whip, the redhot touch of the iron tongs, the deep sting from the flaying knife. He shivered and readjusted the grip on the reigns to his horse, an old black garren, feverishly thin. His red-brown hair fell past his eyes, dirty and tangled. A thin, patchy excuse of a beard grew upon his chin and neck, which he scratched anxiously. His master hadn’t paid any mind to him for a good while now, which made him nervous. Sir Daemon of Greenway sat astride his own horse, a healthy stallion black as midnight, conversing with Sir Martin of the Cobblestone and Sir Dennis Farring over how many men they had killed in battle, and how many women they had had after the fact. Sir Martin seemed to be the best of them until a certain Sir Lyonel Haltworth came to best them all, claiming to have killed a good fifteen men, and to have known twice as many women. Sir Lyonel wore a white tabard over a thick chainmail hauberk, his arms displayed on his chest; argent, a bear’s paw erased within a double tressure tenné. The knights laughed, and Sir Daemon’s ice blue eyes seemed to glitter. His laughter is false, Farren thought. He only laughs at cruelty. All around he was surrounded by landed knights and hedge knights and men-atarms, all armed in one way or another. Without so much as a small dagger, Farren felt naked. Or it could just be the rags I’m wearing. After he’d delivered Hammerhal to King Edward and watched Sir Dennis of Pennytree and his men hanged, Sir Daemon had taken the thin armor and worn surcoat away, and returned to him his tattered servant’s garb. Then he became the rat again, Sir Daemon’s plaything and slave. How I miss Father, and Gallowsgrey, and red-haired Jeyne and her kisses under the oak tree. He thought of her wild red curls, her pale skin and freckles, the way her soft lips touched against his. Farren hated the fact that he could never marry her. His father had forbade it, on account that she was a farmer’s daughter. None of that mattered now, anyway. He would never see home again, nor his father, nor sweet Jeyne and her pretty, nervous smile. He snapped out of his daydream when he heard Sir Daemon call his name. “Farren, you old dog!” The smooth, mocking voice called. Farren turned to look at his master, but kept his eyes from his gaze. “Yes, m’lord,” he answered, voice quiet and subservient. “My honored comrades were setting a wager, and we thought you could help.” “Anything you command, m’lord.” “Good God, Sir Daemon, he’s but a whipped dog,” scoffed Sir Martin. His blue surcoat bore his own arms, six roundels fountain, 3-2-1, on grey. An open-faced helm of gilded steel adorned his head, and a round, iron-rimmed shield sat slung across his back. “How long shall it be before we smash Wallace’s van? The first charge from the cavalry? The second?” Daemon smiled his thin, cruel smile. 6

Answer well, you fool. Flatter him. “Mayhaps the first, m’lord sir. His Grace’s mounted knights are feared from Ireland to France, all know it to be true. And Wallace is but a rebel, an honorless savage. Your lordship has said it yourself.” Farren swallowed audibly. Sir Daemon leaned back in his saddle a bit, content. “Your right, Farren. Mayhaps the first charge, indeed. But, who will lead? A knight of the King’s Guard?” “Your lordship knows knights of His Grace the King’s army better than I,” Farren answered hesitantly. “My coin’s on Sir John Maxwell,” spoke Sir Dennis Farring, in his half purple, half white surcoat and matching cloak. The fabric knights of opposite color sat combatant upon his chest, swords locked. “The prince adores the man. And he’s got a knack for swordplay, if my fellow knights will remember his victory over Sir Joffrey of Whitehall in the tourney of Pembroke last spring.” “Sir John will remain close to his lover, I say,” Sir Martin said with scorn. “Sir Duram Cox deserves the honor, but it will go to the Knight of the Pussywillows.” Sir Olymer Brightwater, called the Knight of the Pussywillows, was a rather young man gaining prominence amongst the people of England as of late, for his skill with lance and sword and mace. Falkirk would be his first battle, and King Edward and his lords had their eyes on him. “That flamboyant bastard’ll lead the charge, aye, but die before striking down a man. He’s greener than fresh summer grass, and the sight o’ those screaming Scots will scare the piss out of him.” Of this matter, Sir Lyonel spoke little. “Sir David Rollingford may take the honor, the Lord be good. A smart military man, I say. Good with a sword.” “I’ll lead the charge, mind you,” spoke a gruff voice out of earshot of Farren. He and the conversing knights turned to look, and found Sir Morris Clay peering gruffly from his goat’s head helm. “Bugger Maxwell, and bugger that milksop of the Pussywillows. I’ll lead the damn van, and skewer Wallace’s heart on the end of my blade.” Daemon chuckled along with the others. This laugh is more sincere. He enjoys the belittlement. “You’ll lead the cavalry, Sir Morris, and I’m the king of England! I think not. I happen to disagree with all of you. I wager Sir Royce of Leicester takes the charge straight to Wallace, and cuts him down.” “Unless Wallace gets him first,” Farren heard himself say. No, no, NO! What are you saying, you witless fool! Master will be most displeased. He’ll be angry; he’ll be wroth. He’ll take a finger, or toe, or worse… There was silence, save for the sound of horses and distant conversation. Daemon glared a fiery glare, one that made Farren’s blood run cold. The other knights stared. Then, after what seemed like eons, Sir Lyonel began to chuckle, followed by Sir Martin and the rest. “Well put, squire,” Sir Lyonel said. “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?” They made camp two days hence, a city of tents, colored with reds, greens, blues, blacks, and all sorts of colors. Sir Daemon made his domain with his knightly friends as a light rain fell upon them all. The sky was a shelf of slate grey, the muddy, lowland valley of Falkirk looming a mile to the camp’s south. Knights, men-at-arms, squires, servants, and camp followers scurried about, each attending to his or her own duty. Farren was made to fetch water and firewood for the tent, so he made his way out of the opening flap and into the hectic fluster of people. 7

As he limped along, two of the king’s soldier in red tunic and chainmail hauberks shouldered past him, knocking him over into the mud of the ground. They laughed and kept on their way. As Farren struggled to get up, a hand reached out and touched his, ever so slightly. He yanked it away instinctively, and looked up to see a pretty young woman, dressed in plain serving garb, standing over him, her hand outstretched. She had a round face and fair black hair pulled back behind her head in a bun. Around sad brown eyes were faded dark circles, and light freckles dotted her pale skin. “Come on, now,” she said in a pretty voice. “Get up.” Farren, embarrassed and flustered, stood shakily, not raising his eyes to the woman who helped him up. Ever since the dungeons, he’d been afraid of people’s gaze, especially women. Especially the pretty woman. He stormed off without a word of thanks, leaving the pretty serving girl standing alone. When he reached the well of the village of Falkirk, it was already surrounded here and there with squires and servants of the lords and knights that made up the king’s host. He saw a hundred different colors and sigils dotted about, be it Lord Arche’s portcullis, Lord Mayne’s nine black bats on a yellow field, the Earl of Louth’s greathelm on white, and of course, the king’s own sigil, the rampant gold lion on a crimson field. Two spearmen stood guard over the well to keep the servants in order. “Easy now, easy now,” said the one on the left with a beard. “You’ll all get yer turn, damn you!” The one to the right only chuckled, and spit out a glob of red, which most obviously pointed to the fact that he was chewing sourleaf. “This lot is no better than those highland savages, I’ll say.” He chuckled, and spat, and chuckled again. A serving wench passed with a pail for water, and said something to the sourleaf chewing guard, something out of Farren’s earshot, which made him turn and hit her with the back of his hand. “Dumb serving bitch, mind your tongue.” Farren kept his head down and made his way to the long line of those waiting to draw water from the well. He heard passing conversations about the notable lords and knights that had joined His Grace’s host; the obvious choice, Sir Olymer of the Pussywillows, Sir Tommen Crane, Sir Eustace the Old, Sir Royce of Leicester, the mysterious Sir Danwell of Forsythe- upon-Greenwood, Sir Harlan of Bigglestone, knighted in France by the king himself, Sir Peter, the Piper of Coldmont, Sir Edward Goodbrother, Sir George the Brightstone, and a certain Sir Lucas, called by some “The Beast of Blackwood.” After a short time, Farren was finally able to draw his bucket up from the well. The water was a little dark and murky, but any uncleanliness could be boiled out of it, which reminded Farren of the firewood he needed to fetch for his master along with the water. God damn it, he swore to himself, and set off to the tent that housed hundreds of split logs. The water bucket was deathly heavy for him, on account of his frailty and missing fingers. He shuffled along, grasping the bucket with both hands. He was as careful as he could not to let too much water slosh over the brim. Master will be wroth if I do. In all fairness, he was happy, or, rather, content, that he wasn’t back in Castle Archeway’s dungeon, under the mercy of Sir Daemon’s red hot flaying knife. There were a dozen other servants and squires buzzing about the firewood tent as Farren got there. He kept his head down and simply did his business there; he gathered ten or so good sized split logs into an old burlap sack and cinched the cord tight and set off once again to his master’s tent. 8

When he returned, out of breath and panting, Sir Daemon was near in his cups, as were his companions. They were three flagons of wine in, Farren noted. The retinue of knights laughed heartily and deeply at even the slightest thing; a true sign of a drunkard. As Farren set down the bucket of water he had drawn from the well, Sir Daemon turned to look at him after downing a massive gulp of wine from a simple pewter chalice. “Farren, darling, you’ve returned to us!” “Yes, m’lord.” Keep your head down, fool. “Is there anything you desire, sir?” “Only your endearing presence, my old friend. Oh, and a wench or two for my friends here!” Sir Daemon gestured to his knights, only to lurch heavily to the right and almost fall off of the table he was sitting on, which only added to the laughter. Just as Farren was about to reply, he heard a commotion outside of the tents. He heard the sound of a horse’s knicker and hooves upon the ground, and the steady clink of a man in armor on his steed. He turned his head sharply as his mind moved to scary thoughts. Raiders from the Scot side? Could they have invaded camp? Had the battle begun? “No,” said the gruff voice of Sir Martin of the Cobblestone. He spat in disdain. “It’s the Knave of the Pussywillows…” It was true. As Farren turned he saw a knight in shining armor, the kind maidens sing of, upon a massive armored warhorse. Servants, men-at-arms, and anointed knights alike all stopped to watch him pass and slow his horse to a stop in a sort of clearing in between the city of tents. The knight was armored head to toe in enameled steel plate the color of cream, a robin blue cloak streaming from silver clasps the shapes of flowers in his shoulders. Intricate floral designs were etched deep into the armor, every piece chased with blue. A huge, fluffy blue feather stood tall from the top of the knight’s closed helm, its visor a fine point. As he stopped, his huge stallion reared up and whinnied a proud whinney. Several serving wenches gasped with delight, and other knights gazed on with approval. Sir Olymer’s sigil, displayed on the shield that hung from the side of his horse’s saddle, a border of many flowers of many colors and varieties, on a cream field. A rather pretty standard, Farren noted to himself. Sir Olymer Brightwater, the Knight of the Pussywillows, dismounted with grace and a longsword with flower-shaped pommel on his hip. He removed his helm and shook out a mane of wavy, dark brown hair marked with a streak of white, and called for a squire. “See that my horse is fed, brushed, and bridled, boy.” He tossed the young boy a copper penny, and the squire led off his horse. Sir Olymer held his helm under his arm. “You sir,” he called in a thundering, knightly voice, “where is His Grace’s tent? I must needs tell him of my arrival.” The knight he called to, a man whose surcoat showed the likes of two quills argent on a like brown field, leaned cocksure on the hilt of his sword. “It be that way but a minute’s walk that way, Sir Olymer.” He pointed the way with one hand, and shifted his iron halfhelm with the other. Sir Olymer nodded curtly. “My thanks, Sir…?” “Sir Courtenay, of Quill’s Point,” the man corrected. “Yes, Sir Courtenay,” he said with a bit of condescension. The knight looked around for a moment and then strutted off towards the king’s tent.

The knights in Sir Daemon’s company stared at the man with hatred as he walked away, but when Farren saw only the icy indifference in his master’s eyes, he feared that more than any angry man he could imagine. He winced a little when Sir Daemon spoke to him. “Come, Farren, I need to have a word with you.” “Y-Yes, master, anything.” He kept his head down and scurried after his torturer as the commotion died down outside and all those present returned to their duties. Inside the tent, Sir Daemon spoke in a low, eerily smooth tone that made Farren shiver. “Farren, my little servant, my little dog, I have something special for you to do. Do what I command, and I shall reward you for your loyal service to your master. Fail me, and I will show you what it means to feel pain. True pain. You’ll beg for death, but won’t find it until I’ve broken every bone in your body; drained you of every drop of blood I can squeeze out; take out your guts and strangle you with them. Do. You. Understand. Me?” Farren was visibly shaking. A thin smile spread across Sir Daemon of Greenway’s wet lips. An inferno blazed deep with his eyes; those eyes the color of chips of blue ice. When he looked up to meet his master’s gaze, he saw straight into the pits of hell. “WW-What is your bidding, m’lord?” The knight with the skull for a sigil smiled a big, toothy, evil grin, licking his lips. “Well, my sweet Farren, it just so happens that with the right shuffling of the cards, I got you in a very fortuitous position. Come evenfall, His Grace the King shall hold a war council with his lords and knights to discuss the battle preparations when we face Wallace in the field. He’ll speak of every tactic; the layout of the troops, the position of the infantry, cavalry, and vanguard, and name the commanders of such. You will listen to all of it, you will remember all of it, and you will relay all of it to me. Especially what is the fate of the Knight of the Pussywillows. Do you understand?” “Yes, master.” He understood perfectly. He understood that what he was doing was dangerous. He understood what he was doing was treason. And he understood that if found out, he would be executed. But, then again, he had practically died already.

The Appeal of Christ Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

“Do whatever he tells you.” – Mary, Mother of God Today, 2,000 years since our Savior last walked the earth, His world suffers from a sore lack of peace and justice. There are Churches that struggle financially. Enrollment counts are shrinking in Catholic schools, and the Sunday crowd of worshipers grows fewer and fewer. Too many people are losing the faith. On the street, you can find people who have not had breakfast and will not have lunch. You can find veterans without homes or pocket change. But there is hope. Even though Jesus is no longer with us in flesh, He has not left us. Our bodies have metabolized his Eucharist and our minds have absorbed his Word: we are now the hands and feet, the mind and heart, of Jesus Christ on Earth, and He has called us, as individuals and as one Body, to act as stewards in his place. He has called us to restore justice and peace to the world. By offering our time, talent, and treasure in service to God and to others, by taking part in service projects, acts of kindness, and community-wide efforts like the Annual Catholic Appeal, Catholics can answer the summons of Christ with a resounding “YES!” Through community service and kind acts, I strive to respond to Christ’s call. When I volunteer as a Reading Buddy at Kirkwood Public Library, reading books to small children, or when I bring patients in wheelchairs to the front door of Mercy Hospital as part of the Mercy Movers program, I answer His call by giving others my time. When I play Wii Bowling with a retired Sister of Mercy who has no one else to play with, I give my talent (If I may say so myself). “Stewardship” means more than “service hours,” though. Vianney may only require 20 hours of do-gooding per year, but God asks for something deeper. Our “yes’s” to Christ’s Gospel call should sound in every moment of our lives: when I hold doors for people or help other students to understand what we are learning in school, that, too, is stewardship. Those acts of individual service, small as they may be, are powerful. But as significant as individual acts are, one person cannot solve all Earth’s problems. If I hold a door for a homeless person, I am doing a good thing—but I am not giving him or her a home. Feeding children’s love for reading is important, but so is feeding their stomachs. And even if I do feed a child, or build a home, I make only a small dent in the community-wide problems of homelessness and hunger—not to mention the countless other problems we face in St. Louis. Even in this one community, there are too many causes for one person to keep track of. To make sure that everyone is served—not only the poor and vulnerable but also people in parishes, especially youth and clergy—is too much for individuals like me to handle on their own. To minister to these people, the members of the Church must act as one Body. More than any other organization, the Annual Catholic Appeal unites Catholics and enables them to serve these hard-to-reach groups. By giving to the ACA, I can make a dent in problems that affect the entire community. The money I donate goes (in part) to ministries like Catholic Charities, immigrant and refugee support programs, the Doorways HIV ministry, the Criminal Justice Ministry, and the Messengers of Peace 11

Mission Work program, where it is used to address and fulfill the needs of the poor and vulnerable. By donating, I join other Catholics in working to restore justice and peace to the lives of those in need. My donation to the ACA also makes this service sustainable by providing for Catholic parishes and their members, especially youth and clergy. The ACA supports emergency assistance funds, elementary school assistance, and parish food pantries, but it does not limit itself to providing only for parishes’ material welfare. ACA-supported charities like the Respect Life Apostolate, Laity and Family Life, and Natural Family Planning support families and encourage them to live holy lives; vocation programs, archdiocesan high schools, and our archdiocesan seminary educate not only in facts but also in faith; and the donations the ACA gives for priests’ everyday needs, continuing formation, and retirement enable them to be true leaders for their congregations. By ensuring the spiritual welfare of the Catholic community, the ACA bolsters parishioners in the faith and enables them to spread the justice and peace of Christ throughout the world. On a deeper level, the ACA also draws the Church together, bringing us closer to God and to one another. By calling on us to support our Catholic service ministries, it reminds us why Jesus taught what he taught and lived how he did. When every parishioner donates to the cause, His Church is united under one purpose and one faith. When more participate, our impact and unity is greater; for this reason, everyone must take part. When I donate to the ACA, I serve my community in a deeper way than I ever could alone. As individuals doing service projects or kind acts, we cry “yes” to Jesus, but as a community of believers working together, we flood the heavens with one song of praise. Two thousand years after our Lord was laid in the tomb, we ourselves join together as one living, breathing Body of Christ. Together, we step into the sandals of Jesus. Together, we work to restore His justice and peace to the world. Together, we “do whatever He tells [us].”

Stained Glass Windows made for the Sisters of Mercy and Sisters of the Visitation 12

Shrugged

Anonymous, Class of 2019 I’ve been mugged. I've been drugged. I’ve been hugged. I’ve been loved. Because of my indifference, I’ve always been shrugged.

Eye Create

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Winnowing Eric Sargent, Faculty

Obeisance for Henry David Thoreau "When a Brahmin springs to light, he is born above the world, the chief of all creatures, assigned to guard the treasury of duties religious and civil." (- from The Dial, Vol. III, No. 3, Jan., 1843, p. 331.) Spring to light as the Brahmin; born above the world! Elevate beyond labor’s quotidian burden. Our industries, so often mean and rapacious, go grossly afoot; an earthly illusion of time worthy spent. Strive then for a deracination of the old – cities and dynasties – musty idealism; the catechism of capital. Bathe then in the redemptive waters of the educated man and rise only with the intellect.

Crocodiles

Jack Villhard, Class of 2019 On the banks of the river We untied and boarded the boat We were on our way up stream All twenty of us afloat As the sun boiled the water My cousin and I anticipated Looking carefully, cautiously, and quiet Our patience was heavily weighted On the shore there were some boars In the water there was an otter In the woods there stirred a bird I saw an iguana that was a trotter I saw a gnat, I hit it SPLAT I heard the flapping of some bats There was a blue jay with a stomach grey But we could not find our intended prey We searched the horizon, and the bay Like a fishing rod we had baited We sat there still As we waited On the boat my cousin loudly shouted â&#x20AC;&#x153;I THINK I SEE ONE!â&#x20AC;? And that I doubted He had just seen a misshapen log It was hard to tell because of the fog Our tour guide was embarrassed He said we would see them He swore to us We floated through the swampy dew Where mosquitos and insects hovered and stewed Wandering Wobbling Wasting time (Thinking of more words that could rhyme) My Grandparents begged for forgiveness For our hopes and dreams that they deprived us 16

They promised this would be a fun trip But all of those reptiles had gave us the slip We decided the water must be safe Swimming fast was our failsafe I wanted to swim it was getting hot And plus, disappointment left us distraught So we approached the edge of the boat I took off my shoes, shirt and coat I positioned myself to jump About to leap KERPLUNK This was going to be great fun I'd get to swim with everyone I extended my foot Gave a quick look I was ready to plunge with great style! But that's when I saw the CROCODILE!

Griffin

Zachary Hitzemann, Class of 2019

The Annual Fire

Kyle Williams, Class of 2014 The rain falls pleasantly The trees burn brightly The leaves have changed Yellow, orange, and red The rain continues to fall The fire does not waver On and on it burns The trees are aglow Yet there is no smoke The blaze slowly declines Colder and colder the rain falls The fire is extinguished Flames descend to the ground Trampled and raked they are forgotten The fire has fallen asleep Trunks lack combustion Like piles of ashes they stand Left over from the fire Embers lie among the ashes There they remain until next year When the fire catches again The cycle repeats itself The fire blazes once more Life continues Annual fire

* As the first poem ever published in The MAG, it is our privilege and honor to reprint â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Annual Fireâ&#x20AC;? each year. Thank you to Kyle Williams, class of 2014.

Self-Estimation Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Drink and Be Whole Again Beyond Confusion Eric Sargent, Faculty A Reflection on Robert Frost The land was ours before we were the land’s. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England’s, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed… Robert Frost’s inaugural poem for John F. Kennedy’s 1961 presidency reeks of colonialism and that ever-present European desire of westward expansion. According to his brief poem, this country was “unstoried” and “artless” only to be enlightened by British/American warmongers and “cultural” developers that quickened a storyline for an otherwise empty vastness. Then, at 86, Frost was a four-time Pulitzer Prize winner, and would die just two years later, bequeathing his name to the annals of American poetry to the delight (or chagrin) of American schoolchildren forever. Much like T.S. Eliot however, Frost was more expatriate than American poster-boy in his earlier days; he himself a failure at New England farming only to exile himself to a cheaper living standard in England during the brief period of 1911 to 1915. It was during this time that he published (to great European acclaim) his first book of poems, A Boy’s Will. As evident in his first batch of poems and throughout his career, Frost owed more allegiance to the British tradition than his American contemporaries such as William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens, themselves dabblers in the “everyday”, imagism, and sometimes the Eastern. Similarly to his inaugural poem (“The Gift Outright”), Frost’s other poems possess an eerily contemplative look at “histories.” His own history, rife with sorrow, depression, familial suicide, perhaps subconsciously governs his more ominous ones. Even the always misconstrued “Road Not Taken” appears every Spring at high school and college graduations as some tome for living and choosing the “right” path. Unfortunately, our best and brightest valedictorians misinterpret the sadness and regret of that poem – the unalterable truths of our very own history – for something cheery and refreshing. For me, Frost’s greatest “history” – so desolate and yet allencompassing in its own confusion – is “Directive”. Written in his later years (70’s maybe), Frost ultimately (in my opinion) presents his most convincing, most articulate within the inarticulate voice of the speaker “who only has at heart your getting lost.” After years of climbing in-and-out of apple trees, plodding along ambiguously “grassy/worn” paths, mending walls, and harvesting the earth, Frost languidly meanders through more than just human history – before homes, before towns, before Christ – but toward the geological miracle that started us all: the Ice Age. Somewhere in the “southeast-northwest” ledges of Panther Mountain is the primal rumbling of civilization, still millions of years in the making, before humans stamped it out with their own inevitable demise, like so much broken “graveyard 21

marble.” From that frozen cataclysmic moment in time, we, ourselves in our eventual own invention, begin our own making, toward our own true histories, that now lie untouched in archeological pits - strewn with old rusted-out wagon wheels and childhood toys. The opening line written in a perfect monosyllabic iambic pentameter, asks the reader to take a step back and not just reflect upon the ruin (quite like his hero Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias”), but to walk with him on the desolate journey. We were once a conglomerate of cultures melding, the poem suggests; but now “both of them are lost.” Therefore, we are urged to create our own history for this place – a more tolerable and painless substitute for the truth: Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone’s road home from work this once was, Who may just be ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain. Once we find this palatable new-truth for ourselves, we are asked to close up shop, roll up our past, and make ourselves “at home”; in other words: content. Here, as in “The Road Not Taken” the speaker begs for an element of complacency. We are inclined only to please ourselves, to trick the mind that our journey has nevertheless been worthwhile – “to weep for what little things could make them glad.” It is in this “could make” that resonates most. Your past, our past is only what we imagine or re-imagine it to be – a potential Holy Grail mixed in with other odds-and-ends of living, scattered next to the archetypal brook, supplying us with water, once frozen a million years ago and now the source for our re-invention, our wholeness, if we choose to drink. Thus, as in “The Gift Outright”, we are this land, this water; and we are asked to drink, to make our own stories, to make our own histories, to interpret our own existence for ourselves, and that has made all the difference to me.

Asphyxiation of Thought Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Sea

Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015 What is the sea? But a mother; Loving and tender at first; Nourishing you desires; Nurturing your passions. The tide turns as you adolesce; The waters become rocky; You sense you are being tested; As you batten down the hatches; And retool the sails. Somewhere in this mass confusion; The color of the water changes; What was once blue and clear; Now appears dark and whirling; Why must nature induce a state; Of ever-constant hurling? When the storm settles; And you sigh in relief; You look up above; In attempt to discover the thief; The thief of your passion for the deep blue; And the revelation; He now bestows upon you. The sea is never calm; And the outlook is always bleak; Another storm is on the horizon; Waiting for you to sneak a peek.