2014 | Volume 30 by THHS Phoenix

Townsend Harris High School Presents...

THEPHOENIX

Volume 30 ~ 2014

息 Townsend Harris High School 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means without authorization from the publisher or owners of submitted materials. Inquiries should be addressed to: Rafal Olechowski Townsend Harris High School 149-11 Melbourne Avenue Flushing, NY 11367 Adobe 速 InDesign 速 and Photoshop 速 are either registered trademarks or trademarks of Adobe Systems Incorporated in the United States and/or other countries. All artists, authors, and photographers maintain complete ownership and copyright over their respective submitted materials.

OUR STAFF

Editors-in-Chief:

Yelena Dzhanova ‘15 Jillian Panagakos ‘14

Art Editor:

Anna Kim ‘15

Literary Editor:

Anthony Budwah ‘14

Photography Editor: Sofia Milonas ‘14

Layout Editor:

Megan Parker ‘14

Business Manager:

Kristine Guillaume ‘16

Staff:

Othria Ahmed ‘15 Sangida Akter ‘17 Priya Amin ‘16 Eunice Baik ‘16 Nicolas Barrios ‘17 Adrienne Cabral ‘16 Emily Chan ‘17 Jenner Chen ‘15 Sabrina Cheng ‘17 Anthony Chiarenza ‘14 Muazzam Chowdhury ‘17 Teresa Deely ‘16 Abdoulaye Diallo ‘16 Noel Du ‘17 Joanne Han ‘15 Sabrina Hossain ‘17 Janice Im ‘16 Sarah Iqbal ‘15 Parina Kaewkrajang ‘15 Marie Kessel ‘17 Ashley Kim ‘16 Jason Lalljee ‘16 Adrienne Lee ‘14 Andrea Li ‘16 Arzu Meharin ‘16 Mahnoor Mirza ‘14 Fahim Nousad ‘16 Anna Nowogorski ‘16 Linda OuYang ‘17 Michelle Pao ‘17 Devjani Paul ‘17 Shivani Prabhu ‘17 Sumona Rahman ‘17 Mahira Raihan ‘17 Casey Ramos ‘17 Abygail Rampersad ‘15 Allegra Santo ‘15 Joshua Singavarapu ‘17 Clarisse Tam ‘17 David Zarowin ‘16

This edition of The Phoenix is dedicated to old and new alike: to those who walked the halls of Townsend Harris in the past, to those who lug bookbags up six flights of stairs each day, to those who dreamed big and accomplished much, to those who shoot for the sky, aiming to land among the stars, to those who set the example for the future, to those who are the future, and finally to those who first gave a breath of life to The Phoenix in 1985, and to those who continued to keep it alive for the next thirty years.

THEPHOENIX is proud to announce the winners of our annual contests.

Photography Contest 1. Year of the Horse by Adrienne Lee ‘14 2. Blue Eyes by Hallee Pell-Brown ‘16 3. Peggy’s Cove by Rachel Wong ‘16

Writing Contest 1. Ceramic House by Jason Lalljee ‘15 2. “Okay” by Casey Ramos ‘17 3. “On Being a Girl” by Andrea Li ‘16

Art Contest 1. Bicycle by Sammi Kwok ‘14 2. Quicksand by Lianna Rada ‘16 3. Hogwarts by Jane Zheng ‘16

Editors’ Note The creation of art of any kind is rarely ever done at the hand of a single person. Sure, it is usually executed in solitude, carefully crafted to the point of near perfection as the artist exposes a piece of their soul to the outside world. However, this can only be possible after a lifetime of family members, best friends, acquaintances, and encounters with “that-one-guy-on-the-street.” It takes an abundance of breathtaking moments and memorable experiences to make someone really stop and pay attention to the world. The mission of The Phoenix this year was to expand opportunities for creative life throughout not only the Phoenix community, but throughout Townsend Harris as a whole. We created this year’s issue with the intention of highlighting the unique talents of the current student body as well as the dedication to creativity of Townsend Harris students over the entirety of the publication’s existence. We know and appreciate that art lives and breathes; it deserves a place in which to thrive amongst a community of students who are sometimes excessively focused on numbers. This issue reflects not only the potential for unique, creative talent among the current student body, but also that The Phoenix has been a haven for creativity over the past thirty years. - The Editors

TABLE OF 10

The Phoenix: Celebrating 30 Years WRITING FEATURE: SARAH IQBAL

Untitled, art

The Woods Would be Lovely, poetry

All the Little Lights, art

Strange Love, poetry

Clavicle, art

Untitled, photography

Untitled, poetry

Untitled, art

Ode to Spring, poetry

Untitled, photography

Repetition, poetry

Untitled, photography

Momento, photography

Janice Ho

Jason Lalljee

Nikita Khalid

Michelle Gan

Janice Ho

Nicole Tan

Sumaiya Miah

Katie Wu

Gleb Zavlanov

Adrienne Lee

Abygail Rampersad

Adrienne Lee

Asia Acevedo

ART FEATURE: MARIE KESSEL

Alcoholic, poetry

Untitled, art

Untitled, photography

Shipwreck Queen, prose

Untitled, art

Peggyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cove, photography

Getting Home, poetry

Road, photography

Untitled, photography

Deciduous Summer in ottava rima, poetry

Beata Warchol

Adrienne Lee

Janice Ho

Allegra Santo

Sumaiya Miah

Rachel Wong

Anthony Budwah

Kari Iocolano

Adrienne Lee

Jason Lalljee

CONTENTS 68

Okay, poetry

Blue Eyes, photography

On Having an Existential Crisis at the Age of Six, poetry

Casey Ramos

Hallee Pell-Brown

Sarah Iqbal

Bicycle, art

Sammi Kwok

ART FEATURE: ANGEL SONG

Lumen, art

My Window, prose

Untitled, photography

Candy Colored Clothes, poetry

Untitled, photography

Beholder, photography

Violent Delight, prose

Empty Pockets, poetry

Little Red Riding Hood, art

Will You Be My Company, photography

Coconut Curry Soup, poetry

Untitled, art

Untitled, photography

Untitled, art

It Is Inherently True That Money Talks, poetry

100

Untitled, art

102

Untitled, art Anna Kim

103

Untitled, poetry

104

Untitled, photography

105

Sumaiya Miah

Anthony Chiarenza

Michelle Gan

Theodhora Dhespollari

Asia Acevedo

Anonymous

Sofia Milonas

Asia Acevedo

Othria Ahmed

Nicholas Rahim Sarah Iqbal

Janice Ho

Kari Iocolano

Anna Kim

Noel Du

Najila Zaman

Delphine Zheng

Anonymous

Untitled, poetry Katie Wu

Changelingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lament, poetry Jason Lalljee

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE: SOFIA MILONAS

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Celebrating 30 Years

“

My fondest memory is working with the students on the first issue of The Phoenix. I was working only with freshmen, which was highly unusual for a high school, yet the end result was a demonstration of working from the heart with the spirit of fresh voices.

”

I am proud to have been the advisor that guided the literary publication of THHS back to life.

- Frank Polizzi (advisor ‘85)

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“I have lots of great memories. I “It wasn't until I took some of Bob remember lots of great editorial Babstock's classes that I knew I teams: Diane Buchalter and Keren wanted to get more serious about Sharon, Danabelle Ignes and Mariswriting (at the time, he was the sa Kinsey, Izzy Ocampo and Claire advisor for The Phoenix). He's Mao, Melanie Friedman and Beth an incredible artistic mentor to his Ponsot, Nadia Ahmed, Jess Spinosa students; I'm grateful that I was one and Adrienne Mateo. There were of them. amazing poetry readings with people As both a contributing writer and just stepping up to it and knocking an Editor-In-Chief of the magait over the wall. And lots of laughs. It zine, The Phoenix required a lot of felt like being in a ratpack where the creative juice. I got to write poems, laughs were always accompanied by see them praised (or torn apart! the happy surprises of art and poetry which happened just as often) by and fiction. Lots of contributors and other editors on the board, editors are making their mark on the world of letters “Long may The organize the flow of literary like Aleksandra Kus and Phoenix rise.” and artistic works in the magazine itself, and design Max Rivlin-Nadler and Ththe layout. When we couldn't find iahera Nurse. The kids always suran appropriate image to go with the passed my expectations for art and writing, I'd hesitantly volunteer my soul. own photographs…which, when approved by the other editors, ended The Phoenix, along with The Classic, up in the publication. It's rare and are the most important environments incredibly rewarding to be involved in in the humanities ecosystem of the a project on all creative levels: from school. My approach to being advithe writing of the poetry and taking sor was a little absentminded denof the photographs, to the selection motherish: I always loved that kids of works, to nudging the text and who had other interests, whether it photos, to the selection of the typewas sports, human rights or musical face, to using Dodge and Burn on theater, would submit astonishingly photographs that required touch-up accomplished work. Long may The before printing. Phoenix rise.”

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- Robert Babstock (advisor ‘02 - ‘09)

“It’s rare and incredibly rewarding to be involved in a project on all creative levels”

Thinking is good, but keep doing keep doing - keep doing. Do your very best; in doing so, you will make mistakes, learn, and get exponentially better. Most important: stop asking permission to aim higher.” - Adrianna Mateo (editor ‘08)

Face

Valerie Cheng (Volume 28)

“There is something more to life than just the mundane routine of everyday. As we age, it seems like the light that once used to burn fervently inside begins to flicker and slowly die down. The Phoenix aims to help their members maintain their creative spirits as they edge closer and closer to the threshold of adulthood. They are a community of writers, artists, photographers, musicians, and indeed anyone with creative vision and a taste for ingenuity. The publications that arise from this group are truly inspiring because they are representative of their imagination and tenacity. Sadly, these qualities are increasingly rare to find in an average high school teenager. Phoenixers are dreamers— a handful of bright lights floating amongst a dim swarm; a couple of extraordinary phoenixes in a world of dubious pigeons.” - Denise Robles (editor ‘13)

The Word

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Denise Robles (Volume 28)

The sticky feel of summer Hung heavily in the air of the car Like a pair of moth-ridden curtains That refused to be removed My cousin occupied the back seat Despite our small statures, We managed to take up the whole space. Our ebullient laughter was barely heard Over the incessant chatter of the grown-ups. As we arrived at the dwelling My cousin poked me. Her untamed hair Tickled my pondering as she whispered:

I bit my little pink lip And uttered it.

“If you say stitch, But with a ‘b’ Instead of ‘st’, It’s a bad word.”

And that was the first time I cursed

It was only a murmur, But it resonated through the car. Reticence ensued and I was suddenly Under surveillance. A wave of shame flooded me As I felt their unbelieving eyes And the guilt I felt Could have been comparable To that felt by an accidental murderer

Old Man

Jack Bouba (Volume 18)

- Dr. Largmann (principal ‘84- ‘01)

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“As a specialized school, many of our students expressed interests in most of the arts, from creative writing to painting, dance, et al. A school wide periodical seemed a most appropriate vehicle for students and staff, too, to share their creative efforts. The Phoenix is a significant instrument supporting and highlighting our Humanities program. The many awards garnered by the magazine and by individual students participating in this activity have been important to elective courses which motivate and produce entries and to the school's recognition in the larger community. We were fortunate from the start to have an enthusiastic advisor and a cooperative and responsive staff and student body eager to contribute.”

Love Note to Baudelaire

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Adrianna Mateo (Volume 24)

“I think any artist can attest to this – there is nothing quite like being about to feel a thing in your hands, like the gloss of a Phoenix cover, that once just lived in your head. Not in the least because it confirms that, for all their clunking, sometimes the gears up there shift smoothly into place. Strange how the head's so often a Rube Goldberg machine, but sometimes all the fuss is worth it when the marble drops squarely into the cup. I don't regret any of my high school choices, but I wonder occasionally what would have happened if I had deviated from the strict course I'd set for myself. I got to college and realized that while I'd been biding my time figuring out whether writing was something I wanted to pursue, other people had been significantly more enterprising. I suppose it doesn't really matter when you figure something out, because everyone tends to end up in the same place if they're truly interested in something and motivated to pursue it down any number of rabbit holes. But, if you're willing and brave, you don't need to be wait to be cued into creativity by some grand life gesture. You have all the time you're willing to make.” - Jennifer Gersten (editor ‘12)

“the community that surrounds The Phoenix is incredible.” “The Phoenix was probably one of the, if not the, best thing to have come out of my high school years. It taught me how a publication works, as well as responsibility and some Photoshop skills. Beyond that, though, the community that surrounds the Phoenix is incredible.

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The most rewarding part of the community is probably that it is a group of like-minded (in the sense that we all loved literature, art, and creative writing) people channeling the force of their creativity into a material manifestation of it.” - Clare Mao (editor ‘10)

The Phoenix was a critical part of my high school experience. A lot of people leave Townsend Harris with memories of struggling through impossible amounts of school work, running in gym class and their weird friends. These too were integral to my experience, but The Phoenix really shaped the way I remember my afterschool experience, my outside-of-the-classroom memories. Finishing class to go to a room full of enthusiastic literary nerds such as myself was a unique experience that is hard to cultivate anywhere else with the same nurturing and constructive environment. My love of books, poetry and all other literary forms would not be as deep if it were not for The Phoenix. - Kat Dominquez (editor ‘12)

Playing Much and Saying Nothing Nina Mozes (Volume 20)

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That first day Standing sheepishly Before an acclaimed petite flutist With lungs like a whale And sound that traveled miles I picked up my instrument and tripped on a Jumble of notes. She told me that my technique was Amazing But then asked, “Where’s your voice?”

Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Ballet

Katherine Dominguez (Volume 27) I cannot dance well, but Earth keeps pirouetting. I will keep trying.

Untitled

Erica Eisenstein (Volume 8)

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Wish I Was Your Vicodin

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Joann Lee (Volume 23)

“Creating art is like fishing for the thoughts that flutter away in the mind. It pulls them in slowly, so that they can take their time materializing into an abstraction as beautiful as its original form. It takes a particular form of patience, however, to wait for the pieces that are the closest to how it existed in the mind; a type of raw dedication that only grows stronger when pushed to its limits. But that patience reels in creations that are even more beautiful than the most precious diamonds. It leaves behind magnificent pieces of art, photography, and writing that speak directly to the reader, letting them experience them as the thoughts that they once were. Those gems of a restless mind are then spotted by the undying staff of The Phoenix, a collection of humans packed with knowledge that take part in the creation of art on a normal basis. They spend hours nitpicking until they put together a book that simulates the many varying thoughts, feelings, and experiences that floats in the mind of the creator. To not only be a creator of those abstractions, but also a collector of the thoughts of others has given me an insight into the depths of the minds of my peers. I now am able to see others not only as how they are, but also as a collection of the thoughts that they have caught and then released into the world. It's an experience that has grown from a simple knowledge to a persistent fire, rising from its own ashes, among the thoughts that swim in my mind.” - Anthony Budwah (editor ‘14)

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writing feature SARAH IQBAL

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I write because sometimes feelings need to come out in messy bursts that are just barely coherent enough for others to read. Always painting my mental pictures with someone else in mind, I'm trying to give back to anyone who has ever helped me grow. I strive to learn things about myself and human nature that are far too complex to account for in a few simple stanzas, though that will never stop me from attempting to get it all down. I write based on observations, playing with perspectives and often finding that masses of once-foreign faces can be like jars of loose change: if you root around enough through the dulled gray, you're likely to stumble across a few copper pennies.

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2324

SARAH IQBAL

Orange Juice

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Disembodied voices led heavily ringed fingers, nail polish chipped at the tips, waggled towards me in the most disapproving of fashions and if index fingers acted as the sole representations of emotion, than every fiber of my mother’s being may have been rooted in stern chiding because “Mara use a glass, don’t be so wild,” as I drink orange juice straight from the carton, the only solution for my insolence, a row of spotless glasses resting by the fridge, offered as selection to whomever was considerate enough to not slather saliva on the spout of the orange juice and my hands were perpetually coated in soapy water, since who else would clean the pulpy glasses after the fact and perhaps it would have been brought to attention that there was only one person using the orange juice glasses, therefore one person drinking said orange juice and my cracking hands wept for something to be in disarray so I perch on the edge of my paint splattered wooden table every morning (“sit on a chair Mara, you don’t want anything sticking to that dress,”) taking care to wear only the deepest of blues, whites stained permanently orange, and I gulp the sweet liquid straight from its little white box, licking the spare drops on the edges, gloating at no one in particular, the only downside to drinking from the carton being that concentration is key, any shift in attention causing cascades of orange nectar to splash on the ground and I still have traces of an orange puddle mingling with the table paint from when you walked into my kitchen that morning, grin coating your face in a way that told me there would be no finger wagging, there was enough room in the fridge for two cartons of orange juice.

Makeup Test They want your pound of flesh in number form, before the system knocks for retribution. Cower you do, before a spliced piece of dead tree, streams of knowledge having eroded a groove bypassing long term memory sites by a hand’s breadth, only to flow tranquilly out the other ear. Your awareness of mental dehydration falters until you’ve finished writing your name on the page, and you fight a lonely battle with half a sheet’s worth of crossings-out, stomach protesting the lack of any other “suitable” time to juice you of dates spooned into your mouth in 40 minute intervals. They enjoy sticking corrupt fingers down your throat in the hopes of bringing back half-chewed vocabulary. Then, having wrung you dry, they send you off for the next force-fed meal.

writing feature

SARAH IQBAL

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There’s a Lot Going On, I Guess

When people tell me that some things exist beyond human control, they’re usually towering over me, holy book in hand, while I nod solemnly and think of wet sand. I was five years old the first time the ocean consumed me, and I bent my skinned knees into salty water, looking up as the body ruling seventy percent of Earth’s surface enveloped me in a baptism that no man of God could perform in a holier manner, and I remember thinking that nothing else should be capable of such power. After that, I’d wade into depths every Sunday, unafraid of nature, but newly terrified of anything that could simulate it. In the moments before you start to panic, you feel the pressure mount like waves in a place where no amount of siphoning could help you clear it away, and no priest has ever told me that things inside my head can be classified as ‘outside my control,’ or that judgment is measured in the buildup of particles collecting on the tops of thoughts that haven’t spent enough time being screened with questioning. Every morning I get out of bed and walk into dust and it’s hard to focus on deep breathing when you’re losing things in your own sea of nonsense. Sometimes I hear my cellphone ringing when I know it’s on silent, and I imagine picking it up to hear someone’s soothing voice on the other line and they would say

It’s okay baby, I know it took you twenty minutes to get out of bed this morning, and that you tried getting dressed with the heaviness of mountains on your scrawny shoulders, and I know that you’re trying to create your own religion out of nearly drowning so that you can have an excuse to keep stepping back into the waves. There are times when it is easy to drown in the absence of another body beside you, and the only saltiness present there is the kind streaming down your face, and you find yourself running towards anyone who’ll stand in front of you for five seconds, so you can brandish your scabby knees and beg them to heal you, Because in the real world, there are no gold stars for getting out of bed and you might have to waste a lot of days at the beach, waiting for someone to ask why your knees never heal over and you’re left questioning your religion of shells and salt water, realizing that there’s a huge gaping hole in the middle of your lovely beach and all the sand is running out. People tell me that there are things out of my control and I don’t go to the beach anymore, since mass starts at ten, and I don’t ask any questions because maybe miracles just take time.

writing feature

SARAH IQBAL

Worms don’t handle stomach acid very well. When my dad talks about grilling steaks for dinner, I think about going outside with him and curling my fingers underneath the coals, so I can understand what my aunt means when she tells me that her boyfriend treats her like a piece of meat. I want to scoop up the charred remains of my flesh and feed it to the neighborhood cats, so they can understand why us humans are always walking around with bitter tastes in our mouths and white knuckles shoved deep into tattered pockets. I want to trample anthills and make the earth underneath my feet understand for once what it’s like to have everything feel less than solid, when the ground turns to quicksand but doesn’t have the decency to swallow you whole in one gulp.

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I want the earth to regret putting me in a sinkhole only five feet deep, so that I’m suffocating, but just barely, and I can see the soles of shoes carrying on with their days while my mouth is filled with worms and dirt, and I swallow my silence and hope something beautiful will thrive in the pit of my stomach instead.

Grief is just another name for the time it takes to feel normal again. I’ll give you ten bucks to save me. I’ll give it to you in dirty quarters if you’ll fall into my pupils, and work your way back out with your index finger hanging on to the belt loop of my jeans. I’ll give you five bucks, a bit of lint and some old chewing gum, if you put back all the little pieces you tucked away inside the waistband of your underwear every time I called you on the phone and we stayed silent for a little while. I’ll give you sixty-five cents to buy me a cup of black coffee and pour it all over my hands so I’ll flinch every time I hit a key and my minimalist poetry will never sound the same again. I will give you absolutely nothing if you do absolutely nothing, turn on your heel and buy yourself your own cup of coffee. You can add too much sugar and start walking in the opposite direction with all my pieces in your pocket, while I try and climb out of my eyes after making a rope with all that lint in my pocket.

writing feature

SARAH IQBAL

I Don’t Want You Wearing Someone Else’s Genes They say silence can make you lose your mind faster than your car keys and white noise echoed in the space between my ears as I held my breath until my lips matched the cheap purple upholstery of the waiting room chairs. Our hearts attempted escape via our rib cages while she shifted her body against crumpled exam table paper, my fingers crossed so tightly I feared I might go through life permanently signing the letter ‘R,’ and I didn’t know if that cold gel actually made the goose bumps that rose on her belly spell out ‘please,’ or I’d just discovered a new method of prayer.

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I hate ultrasounds. I hate them because every time we see an empty gritty screen I think about how my readiness obliterates any conceivable sphere of doubt while her body defies her month after month.

My nights are passed in imaginings of kisses planted on a swollen belly, joking about swallowed watermelon seeds, my only concern being what pastel colors I’ll paint your room with. I should be nervous about taking care of your tiny, shriveled up self, instead of whether I’ll be able to ever tuck you into the crook of my arm at all. I don’t want you wearing someone else’s genes, I want you to have my thick mess of hair, the shock of green eyes passed down as blessings from relatives you were too late to meet.

I don’t want to think of you breaking some other guy’s arm when I’m teaching you to play baseball even though we’d be the only two people in the park. You don’t make babies in plastic cups, under microscopes with pipettes in hand. You make them with love, regardless of what you’ll learn in health class, and all the love has gone out of your making, and you’ve become an impossible task, like trying to cup water that keeps trickling through your fingers, no matter how much we beg it to stay, and all that begging moved my heart into the wrong place. I can’t hear the crying at night in the bathroom, the bottles of pills that multiply in the cupboards, the promises: “this one will work sweetheart, the doctor said so.” I don’t trust anyone who’s been to medical school; I don’t trust myself to stay sane sleeping next to her when I know that the numbers don’t line up, the chemistry doesn’t mix, we can never have the only thing I need from this life and I’m sorry, you would have loved her, but I need you more than you need her, when you are older, you will understand that my heart right now is shattered into a million pieces, only fixable if you’re wearing my genes.

writing feature

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Untitled Janice Ho

The Woods Would Be Lovely Jason Lalljee

If I told you that I wanted to walk along the train tracks at sunset, Would you follow me through the sylvan path you swore you’d never cross? If the scattered autumn leaves hid the iron shafts would you pretend that they weren’t there, Just so that I’d have your hand to hold as the distant smoke unfurled to mate with clouds? I can see you now, peering through the slits between your fingers, as you dare not to look But I would’ve liked us both to see the earth open up and swallow the sun a last time. Even if the question never escaped my lips you’d know what I was about to ask By that asphyxiating moment when our entwined hearts would beat in sync, When our eyes would meet and the world would dissipate into white noise like fog. I wonder what we’d talk about as exhaust began to drift down like charcoal snowflakes The silence filled by not a what, a how, a why, or even a will but a will you Because I’m that selfish, especially as our last moments dwindle and the train tracks rumble, The leaves scattering with an alien will to live that was somehow never threaded into my genes.

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If you’d come that far, the wood you swore you’d never cross looming from behind,

Would you step onto the rails with me, to never again see night creep forth from the shadows? As the smoke enveloped us, would you be looking into my eyes or to the life you left behind?

All the Little Lights Nicole Tan

Strange Love Nikita Khalid

I slide on a forest green skirt, A grey tank, I cover myself in the light scent of lust, Eyeliner as a bow and mascara as an arrow, These are my weapons of choice. Pouted lips, and sex eyes, A toss of the hair and everything falls into place, Because being wanted makes everything better, I feel light and effervescent. A couple of shots in and the trap is set, They think it’s them who have conquered, But they just fall into the chokehold, Lips and all. Innocent words and glances That turn to bites and claws, It’s like the world was made for us, So indescribably beautiful. The walk to the train is dizzy, The lights intermingle with the voices, All I see is freedom, And the wind blowing into my hair, my lungs, my skirt.

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But when the music subsides and the room is empty, All there is left to feel is loneliness, Because those that were intimate become those that don’t remember your name in the morning, And those that you lust for become the ones that mean nothing.

The war is over for today, The only wounds are the ones in my mind, Or in my heart.

Clavicle

Sumaiya Miah

Untitled

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Michelle Gan

(Untitled) Katie Wu

A bed, no windows, too few cubic feet To hold a soul. There is no corner I Don’t occupy with faded memories Tacked on the wall and broken records piled Which play but half a melody to me. I’ve several cat-eyed marbles kept in jars And several more lost in the dust between My mattress and the floor. My table’s marred With graphite from the only time I tried To organize. The list of things to keep Spilled on the desk - the other one stayed white. A cruel and useless exercise, it seems, A fool’s preoccupation. Rather I’ve A cozy mess than less than half a mind.

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Ode to Spring Gleb Zavlanov

Fair Spring, a lady, palely loitering, Whose brow is decked with flowers, with sweet dew, Whose bosom births youth’s essence which does bring Unto the barren glades, a glory, new, Where have you been for every heart had pinéd without you? Where have you been when winter, with its shroud, Had wrapped the world with thorns of frost and snow, And when the strength of Cheimon’s hoary cloud Had swallowed worlds and bound from head to toe Each aging tree, and froze the rivers which once, swift, did flow? Fair spring, I’ve grieved and sulked in mortal grief, I wept for endless days. I craved your breath To make once lively every faded leaf, To save the sprightly buds from early death, To blossom effervescent flowers from the earth, beneath. To birth sweet fruits, ripe with rich, temperate blood, To kiss the earth’s wan cheek and ever store With ripeness every stalk and shoot and bud And with pure sweetness every apple’s core, To melt to foaming bubbles and bright verdure, winter’s hoar. The spirits of the worms all beam with pride, The swift-heeled elk run round the sun-lipped leas, Amid white blossoms, nightingales hide, And sing soft tune in all full-throated ease To carry through the chiming streams, the mirth, the laugh, the breeze. Oh, spring, at last, I bear bright, mighty beams For seeing your first budded rays, which bring Upon the glades, gold wealth and honeyed dreams. At last, the winter fled upon its wing In fright of all your powers, for you came, at last, fair spring!

Untitled Janice Ho

Untitled

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Adrienne Lee

Repetition Abygail Rampersad

When I was younger, I would repeat everything to myself. Once I said something out loud, It would crawl its way back up my throat, Chip away at my teeth, And burst through my lips once more, But only as a whisper. It forced me to feel the weight of the words Hanging in the back of my throat, Even when the sounds drifted away. As I got older, I leaned to keep my mouth shut. To let the words rattle around, But never slip past the iron gates of my lips. I cannot be wasteful with words, When all they do is pound away at my insides , And bruise their meanings into my skin. The first time I heard you speak, You were repeating something over and over again, And you stopped when it finally lost meaning. I was afraid every time you told me that you loved me. Afraid that you would whisper it so much, That it would just fade into meaningless noise.

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I never imagined that my downfall would be the way that words hung heavy on my lips, The way that I wanted you to feel the words pressed into your skin, Rather than focus on how often I would say them.

Untitled

Adrienne Lee

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Momento

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Asia Acevedo

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art feature MARIE KESSEL

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I’m not really sure why I like art. I’ve been going to art school since I was around six or seven years old, and I never saw it as school. It’s the one place where I can just draw, without worrying about my piles of homework or tests that I have to study for. My mind numbs when I draw. One of my fondest memories is writing a personal essay about art, about how by applying my pencil to the paper, I have the power to turn nothing into something, which is magical. I admit that this sounds kind of cliché but the reason I love art is because I can turn my brain off and stop thinking. My hands do the thinking for me.

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MARIE KESSEL

art feature

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MARIE KESSEL

art feature

Alcoholic Beata Warchol

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Coffee-induced insomnia and self-inflicted pain Forced down the shot of vodka I took at 4 am. The alcohol I spilled with ten broken fingers Burned straight through my chest and into my lungs And I exhale with the musky scent of desperation. Perhaps the buzzing in my head will scatter the thoughts of you That relapse like the tumors of some terminal cancer, And perhaps it will replace that insatiable need To claw at my face and forget your memory. But the sting of alcohol licking my wounds Will be the severed Achilles tendon of a reminder That I got drunk on love and forgot myself.

Untitled Janice Ho

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Adrienne Lee

Shipwreck Queen Allegra Santo

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I It wasn’t an obsession at first. The first time I walked by the pier and found her sitting at the very edge, her toes flirting with the shivering waves of the incoming tide, it was just a mild interest. Idle thoughts of what her name was, meandering questions of for whom she was waiting. Passing fantasies of her awaiting a handsome sailor on a handsome sailboat, vanishing answers of her name having eight letters with four vowels. Her dress was whiter than the clouds, fresh from the boutique; she held the paper tag to her palm with her thumb, rubbing at the penned-in numbers until they were an incomprehensible smudge. I didn’t approach her, but biting into my lobster roll and watching from the window of the diner across the way was satisfying enough.

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A new career as a secretary led my path past the small pier every morning at 8:30 AM, and past it again at 4:30 PM. She would be there both times. At 8:30 she would have a paper plate sitting next to her with an omelet between two slices of toast left untouched. At 4:30 the paper plate would have been replaced by a paper sack, also untouched. At the times I would leave the apartment to pick up a cup of coffee and a croissant at the café before the sun rose, she would be lying at the edge. She’d have an arm underneath her head and her wrist dangling over the water like some sort of bait the fish couldn’t dream of reaching. When yellow light would flood the sky, her eyelids would flutter open and she would rise, stretching her arms out and crossing her legs so she could spend the day in that position. The manager of the café would kick me out before I could see who gave her the omelet sandwich every morning.

She never turned around regardless of how many times I passed by her or how close I walked to her or how heavy I made my footsteps on the boardwalk. The gaze that I was never meant to catch was always fixed on the horizon: a single point through which hundreds of lobster boats and whale-watching cruisers passed per day. I began to fantasize that she had a husband who never returned from a journey, who’d been swallowed up by a wave far from the coast at a latitude and longitude to which no one ever paid any mind. A sailor who never reached the port south and west to sell fresh lobsters that, when cooked, had shells redder than the sky at the times I decided to leave work later than usual to have supper at the diner. She would always fall asleep by the time the moon cast its reflection on the surface of the bay.

III The crisp perfection of her dress faded to another shade of grey for every week that passed. I began to think she bathed herself with the salty water when I spotted a piece of grimy seaweed among the clumps of her stringy hair. She had to have eaten the omelet sandwiches every morning – she never got so thin that would have suggested she was starving herself – but the paper sacks that appeared in the afternoons soon disappeared. I supposed whoever might have been giving her the food had started to consider it a waste on the poor woman. It was a Wednesday when I decided I would carry a paper sack to her instead: a ham sandwich, a bag of garlic croutons, a bottle of water. I wasn’t fazed by her not flinching when my footsteps grew nearer to her than they usually did, but the corner of my mind that seemed to think that I was as special to her as she was to me was insulted when I sat beside her and she failed to look at me. I placed the paper sack in her lap, but again it aroused no change. Her dark eyebrows were overgrown, hairs clinging together and fraying out like a cat’s whiskers. The rims of her eyes were scrubbed red, scarce of eyelashes in the corners and bare of them along the lower lid. A wind blew in her face and she blinked. She never told me if she had a handsome husband or if her name had eight letters with four vowels, or if she had a husband or a name at all. The only question that came to my mind was if she liked lobster. She closed her eyes and nodded, a smile cracking the chapped skin of her lips. She loved lobster, she said, and nothing more than that. I returned her smile, and when I reached for her hand and squeezed her dry palm, she didn’t seem to mind. IV

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I talked to her only twice after that. The second time, clouds heavy and dark with water flooded the sky and hid the sun and moon from view. At 4:15 PM it started to rain, and at 4:30 PM the shower bloomed into a downpour. She was lying down then, arms splayed to the sides and gaunt face staring the rainstorm down as if it would split in two if she believed hard enough. I stood over her with my umbrella, not caring for the bullets sliding down the back of my coat but worrying over the ones turning her filthy dress into plastic wrap that clung to her skin. She did not smile this time, but she did thank me for thinking of her. My heart swelled with satisfaction and emotion: I could have kneeled down and kissed her dry,

immobile lips, and brushed the damp locks of hair from her brow. I could have taken her home with me and given her a warm blanket and a seat by the window so she would still have been able to watch the harbor. I gave her the umbrella and went home soaking with rain.

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I started buying coffee and croissants more often in the mornings, and supper in the evenings. The more I frequented the cafĂŠ and the diner, the more faces grew familiar and the more names I came to know. The barista wrote his phone number on the back of my paper receipt one day, and the waitress who had my order memorized left a pink kiss on my cheek on another. I knew their names, but neither they nor I knew hers. I knew the barista had gone through a bad breakup a few months before, and I knew the waitress had gotten divorced twice, but neither they nor I knew if she had a husband. I knew the baristaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s older brother ran a youth fishing group that met on Friday evenings, and I knew the waitressâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mother owned a gift

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Sumaiya Miah

shop at the end of the boulevard, but neither they nor I knew if a wave had swallowed up a lobster boat far from the coast and left her stranded at the edge of the ocean. The third time I talked to her was the day I skipped work and stopped by the diner for a lobster roll. The cashier wrapped it up in sandwich paper and aluminum foil and I paid him $8.75 for it, and left an extra dollar and 25 cents in the tip jar. He thanked me, and the bell above the door chimed as I walked out. Her legs were crossed and her hands were threaded through her sticky locks of straight hair. Her head did not move a centimeter until I sat down, dropped the paper bag into her lap, and told her that it was lobster. Her quivering fingers took the warm roll out of the bag and cast the wrapping aside, and with a broader smile than I’d ever seen from her before, she thanked me graciously. I replied that it was not a problem. Silence settled over our heads for a few moments before she said that a person once told her the sea was six miles deep. I nodded and remained silent, licking my lips and staring at the same point on the horizon with her. She let out a wistful sight through her nose and said she always thought it’d be a perfect place to fall asleep. I didn’t know what to say; I changed the subject with my heart drumming in my ears at such a volume that I couldn’t hear the waves breaking against the beams supporting the boardwalk. I asked her if she would like to come home with me. She hadn’t bitten into the sandwich yet, but she turned toward me and met my gaze with eyes bare of lashes and splotched with red to her cheekbones. In her sweet voice that would have sounded beautiful if put to song, she said she would consider it. I rose to my feet, and wished her a good day.

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As you can see, I had nothing to do with this. It was nothing more than an innocent intrigue, the kind that any person may have about a stranger they see always in the same place at the same time. I was surprised no one else had taken an interest in her first. No one seemed to see her, let alone care about her. Will you persecute a person who simply wished to give love to another? I didn’t know she was allergic to lobster, your Honor, and I swear that I saw her not once after that, she just disappeared without a trace, this is the first time I’ve seen her in weeks, I’d searched for her but she and her tattered sun dress and her omelet sandwich on the paper plate all vanished at once, and I never did find out if she was waiting for her husband or if her name had eight letters with four vowels, and I swear to you that I don’t live by that side of the bay, and God, do I swear that I would have never, ever even thought of throwing her into the water while her wrist dangled over its six-mile depths.f

Peggy’s Cove

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Rachel Wong

Getting Home Anthony Budwah

I walk home more often now, The bus rides satisfy me no more. My feet need to grip the ground, Grasping through the soles of my worn sneakers. My lungs need to suck in the air, Preferring the raw, crispy waste of the aging grass crumbling beneath me, Or of the withering leaves wrestling away from the weakened trees dangling above me.

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My mind craves the time more than all, Making me wander the empty streets, Keeping my footsteps secret, Trying not to break the deep stillness enveloping the picture framed by the sky, As the colors tango and blend into a shake tasting like my lonely man's drink as I find my way home

Road

Adrienne Lee

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Kari Iocolano

Deciduous Summer in ottava rima Jason Lalljee

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As summer sprung from the passive grip of spring, The hunched ironwood of arrogant splendor, The wild columbine in rapture did sing, Oblivious to young hearts torn asunder. The fading day wrestled fitfully with night And twilight bled forth from the seams of their scars. Lit by nectar scent, dusk housed youthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desire, Born under pulsing stars and dead by autumn fire.

Okay

Casey Ramos

We were eight years old and life was about coloring books and customized dolls and rusty old swing sets. We knew little about what the world thought was “okay” and that was okay. Beyond okay. So I thought it was okay to hold your hand Even if you were a girl And I was too because I thought you were absolutely beautiful and when you’re eight years old that’s okay. My mom found us, though hidden in the corner, giggling as we held hands in the most innocent way, and she yanked me away, looking me deep in the eye with her gingerbread brown ones and I remember her saying, “Honey, it’s not okay to hold hands with girls.” I remember asking her why and getting something unsatisfying like “Girls aren’t supposed to like girls.”

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Fast forward. 5 years later. After boyfriends and ripped love letters and hours spent in front of the mirror Never enough to be “okay” with yourself but it was enough.

Bonfire. I remember a bonfire. Little bits of fire spiraling towards the sky and you in your ripped jeans and hair that smelled like paint fumes, weave your fingers between mine and for a second I forget where I am and I only know what your fingertips feel like on mine. And the softness of your fingertips, and that silver ring on your pinky finger, and I think of how wrong this is that I’m falling in love with my best friend and that I’m falling deeper with every touch and that maybe love can be more than a connection between a boy and a girl. It doesn’t even matter. Years from now we’ll be happily married to our husbands because the world doesn’t have room for people who are anything but ordinary. Somewhere in between our fingers I see my mother I see gingerbread brown I smell alcohol and feel chipped fingernails clawing at my skin. I feel suffocated I can hear her “It’s not okay to hold hands with girls.” THEPHOENIX2014

I hold tighter.

Blue Eyes

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Hallee Pell-Brown

On Having an Existential Crisis at the Age of Six Sarah Iqbal

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My name was a finger painted smudge on the door of a walk-in closet. Welcome to my room, where my prints had been pressed against the chipping white walls until the whorls of my fingerprints showed white in a sea of blue, crayola non-toxic paint. I never blamed people for having mid-life crises, because one day I realized that I could be older than the number of letters in my name, and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know if there were rules for remembering who I was

Bicycle

Sammi Kwok

art feature ANGEL SONG

THEPHOENIX2014

I don’t know how to paint. In each painting, I struggle to mix some visually appealing colors and then apply them to the canvas and hope for the best. The entire process is very “Oh man I hope this comes out alright… okay never mind.” But painting gives me freedom. As a child, I would color perfectly within the lines and discard the drawing immediately if I strayed from them. But with painting, I was allowed to make mistakes; weird accidental strokes had a 43% chance of making the painting look better. There are no boundaries or limits on the canvas, and I’m given full control over my brush. All this newfound freedom and responsibility drove me insane; I never knew where to start. My style is different with each painting, and as my classmate commented, “Every week I see you paint it’s different. One week, you’re standing at the easel and painting; the next, you’re sitting at the easel, and now, you’re sitting on the floor.”

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ANGEL SONG

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ANGEL SONG

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Lumen

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Sumaiya Miah

My Window Anthony Chiarenza

The freezing gust of damp air flew through my open window. A deep shiver overtook me: the bone rattling, teeth chattering, muscle quivering shiver that kills a man on a starless night. For a moment I would have liked to die, just to end the shaking. I couldn't make myself close the window. Blow after blow the wind shook by body into violent twists and turns. My elbows bent back and knotted in sheer pain as my legs crossed with a violent force. My fingers cringed backward, as if I contained a strange ability to bend back the tips of my fingers into coils. My lips curled and my breathing became deep and nonrhythmic. A sensation of needles filled my whole body as these twists became more extreme. I could see the pink, glossy hue that filled my hands was starting to disappear. The rich red blood that ran through my arm turned toward a purple. My breathing became slower and calmer. My body stopped twisting. Whether or not I could move at that point didn't really matter to me. I didn't want to move. So I sat there for as long as I could. Just to avoid that pain. I didn't want to do that again.

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Untitled Michelle Gan

Candy Colored Clothes Theodhora Dhespollari

You always hated when I wore black, You said I looked like a cadaver Ready to be placed into the ground. But, I think it bothered you because it Was a constant reminder of the Bits of darkness in me, the ones you Couldn’t brighten, no matter how many Pastel and paisley frocks you bought and Watched me drape over my bones that Stuck out like delicately carved jewels. Now I always have black on just to Raise my finger to you from New York.

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You were right trying to keep black off My body - you were right because I Am cold and fickle and black just Attracts more darkness to my being. You were wrong to do it because you Wanted to turn me into a wife. One that would make Costco runs monthly, And spend weekdays adorning the house With lace pillows and burlap curtains, Waiting for you to come home and kiss Me in my periwinkle flare dress. You always hated when I wore black, But it’s the reason I don’t fit with you.

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Sofia Milonas

Beholder

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Asia Acevedo

Violent Delight Asia Acevedo

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;You know I'll always love you, darling, I finished scribbling her note on the back of her favorite lyrics. I knew her heart would be broken, but she always wanted me to be happy, so I was left no other choice. I folded the paper seven times and put it in my pocket. I quietly put on my shoes and left the house. The air was cool and inviting; I knew I'd miss it much too soon. I'd miss a lot of things: the way her hair smelled when she leaned in close, the way the moon never ceased to kiss the sky, the sound of the shutter capturing an image. But there the wind and the stars beckoned me, and I knew they were waiting for me like I'd soon be waiting for her. It was selfish to wish for her to join me and dance amongst the galaxies, but I was just a machine. As I stepped into my chilled car, I anticipated feeling encased in the dark and cold. My heart fluttered at the thought. I turned on the engine, noticing my gas was dangerously low. I wasn't fazed: this was a one way trip and I just had to make it to her house and then the service road. Her favorite song played on the stereo, and I suddenly felt the paper in my back pocket. The lyrics stung the back of my eyes and the note wadded into a lump at the back of my throat.

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The violet night was slipping away from me, and I knew I wouldn't be able to escape in the daylight. I pulled up to her dark house, punched in the key code like I'd done on a thousand different summer evenings, and gently entered the house. I left the note atop a pile of seven envelopes on the mail desk in her foyer. I took one last glance at the stairs leading up to her room, tempted to crawl into bed with her and melt into her one last time. She always giggled softly when I enveloped ourselves under her comforter; she used to tell me she was never spooked when I would come in those random nights. I would miss her smile and her laugh, but I had to stay strong, so I quietly left.

Getting back into the car, I turned the stereo back on letting the chords of an enchanting classical viola piece emanate softly from the speakers. My head felt heavy as the music passed through me, delicate like her crimson lips. Approaching the service road, I pressured the vehicle to go faster and faster, to zoom off into the approaching darkness. I took a slow breath and sighed just as the classical track ended.

~ I woke up from another restless slumber, hopelessly waiting for his familiar body to conform to mine. There was no one there, though, just the shadows of seven thousand lost memories. It had been years since the tragedy, but his words still whispered in my ear with haunting reminders. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be waiting among the stars until you decide to come home. I replayed that night over and over in my contorted mind. I had found his note as I fumbled through the dark house to answer an incessant phone. I knew immediately what he had done by the way he scribbled my name on the front of the tiny folded paper. Answering the phone, a calm voice inquired if I was name they found scrawled on the back of his hand. The tears began to blur the ebony room as I lay awake, a slave to my memory. If I focused hard enough, I often convinced myself I could feel his presence. I would wonder if, in the deepest corridors of the sky, he was really watching and waiting. I pictured him photographing the stardust and meteors and moonlight. If I listened closely, I could nearly hear the shutter of his camera clicking. They buried him near the lake last fall. The cool night had coaxed the water into perfectly imitating the indigo and diamond sky. I remember standing apart from the seven mourners, clasping the folded note with the lyrics and his letter written on each side. The wind seemed to sigh along with me, the water seemed so still and beckoning. I clenched my eyes, batted my fists against my skull, praying the memory would escape me. I whimpered into the still night, round tears falling from my eyes as I recounted his violent delight. f

THEPHOENIX2014

and I'll be waiting among the stars until you decide to come home.â&#x20AC;?

Empty Pockets Anonymous

By day I fall ceaselessly in love with everyone who spares me a fleeting glance. I fill my pockets with their hopes and dreams and ambitions until they’re overflowing with the tokens I’ve collected. Sometimes when I’m lonely, I sit on my kitchen floor and count them to a thousand, unraveling my fears as I go along, and try to pretend that I can still smell my mother’s favorite perfume as her heels clicked through the small apartment. My mom threw away that perfume, though. Dad didn’t like it anymore.

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And the fears I have now far surpass the thousand I had when my pockets were still full.

Little Red Riding Hood

Othria Ahmed

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Will You Be My Company Nicholas Rahim

Coconut Curry Soup Sarah Iqbal

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A homeless man once told me that my soul looked as if it tasted like coconut curry soup and I peered around the brim of his battered hat into his equally battered face and saw that his eyes were closed as though he were tasting the soup for himself and they stayed closed as I put twenty dollars into the empty Campbell’s soup can by his side because some people deserve rewards simply for not being dead when the world twists their arms behind their backs. I think sad thoughts in your arms, knowing that my sadness could be dissolved far more easily than when I sit on the oriental carpeting by myself, pillow clutched to chest, sobs racking my body late into the night when I’m daring myself to see how much sorrow I can feel before I feel like clawing my heart out of my chest. But hell’s better if there’s someone there to share the stay so I let my fingers play with yours while considering the properties of souls and whether they all took the form of Asian cuisine. I went carrying Tupperware filled with coconut curry soup to an empty street corner where I was told that the battered man with the battered face had gotten up and walked into the path of an oncoming taxi and I knew he was wondering about the taste of his own soul.

Untitled Janice Ho

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Kari Iocolano

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It Is Inherently True That Money Talks Noel Du

Not all people are born equal It is a thought and idea alone that we can be in any small, possible way Because some people were born in castles swaddled in silk and bathed in holy water already an heir to the throne and some people were dropped to the hastily swept floor from a prostituteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bottom to the boards below a slumdog evermore Because some people were delivered in humble hospitals by a tired, weak mother surrounded by a few white and underpaid nurses and some people were never born at all They disappeared from the womb and never saw the sight of this wretched world drifting towards nirvanaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s orphanage.

Anna Kim

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Najila Zaman

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Untitled Anna Kim

(Untitled) Anonymous

When the sun shines, the dark patches in life become trivial. Yet, when the sun recedes, we dwell on the darkness of the present rather than cherishing the light of the past as we become blind to the tiny patches of light lurking in the corners of darkness.

(Untitled) Katie Wu

Clay returns to river silt And turns beneath the farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hoe. The artist closes empty, filthy hands Around his weary soul.

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Delphine Zheng

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Jason Lalljee

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Changelingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lament

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You were born.

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Bright lights, lungs screaming to taste air, love streaming out of your mother And your father as he stood there watching, You were an infant. Falling a notch below pedestrian meant your mobility was determined By the whims of adults, Your methods of travel being Cocked elbows and hands ready to lift you into the air Adults coddling and cooing over the blood refusing to leave your cheeks Or the slippery, powdery skin not yet developing a callous To those willing to harm it Red lips in a permanent pucker, Which relatives stuck their noses into With the insistence of moles digging into earth And you were loved without an asterisk, Without a but or a however or a read the fine print Nothing was taken for granted, And nothing was greater and grander and more important than the vessel To which you played host, Bits of affection filched But treated like muffins in a basket held out to passerby on the street Relinquished under the condition that you remembered That there was someone in the sky who cared for youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; But children learn to walk. The wonder drained from your eyes, And the stars that hung there like Christmas ornaments Flickered in and out of their full blaze You burned youthful hope away like kerosene, Growing older made pyromaniacs of us all. The trees shrunk from their towers, And their branches no longer seemed to be in danger of puncturing the clouds, Although those that had snagged in the bark hung there Like abandoned shopping bags, determined to outlive their intended use Those that had buried their lips in your once powdery cheeks

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Didn’t consider that you may grow to toss their established creeds away Became more and more heinously tied Like lint scattered along fabric Or that when the baby fat disappeared And all that remained were unkissable hollows, They wouldn’t really want to hold you then And if they did they were just clinging to the phantom flesh That had somehow come away as the strings of time And it was a selfish love, Like being kissed in the rain by the girl you spent years pining for, Not caring that she shattered the planet upon which you stood With her drizzle-matted embrace Just that she’d never been kissed in the rain before And had to do it the one time— You wondered if she could see the remains of your heart Slip between the sewer grates with the raindrops It wasn’t like your first kiss, When you and the girl-next-door both sought To take all you could from one another Thinking that it would be as simple as slipping a key into a lock But it was all teeth and chins and sweaty skin And hands fumbling in your pockets for apologies, Lips only coming together as an afterthought The bridges of your noses aligning and breaking away from one another Like train tracks coming together and diverging into two But you signed no contract of irrefutable mutuality When your parents put a changeling in your place and sang him to sleep And you didn’t get the chance to prove your gravity When those who promised to hold on to you forever let go But were still surprised when you didn’t disappear, Like children who’d lost their grip on balloon strings Because your weren’t a fossil, A thing to be preserved under the unblinking eye of memory THEPHOENIX2014

You were loved.

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photography feature SOFIA MILONAS

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I love that behind my camera, I can see the different stories behind everyone’s face, and the different kinds of beauty in everyone. I can capture the unrefined personalities of the kids in my neighborhood as they play, arms and legs flying everywhere, making fantastic lines and angles. They get close to the camera as if it’s not even there, allowing me to capture intimate moments without the barriers that are often there with adults. While walking the streets of Philadelphia with my camera, I can capture the glimmer of beauty and history beneath the surface of a stranger’s face and share it with others. I can capture the shapes and lines formed by miscellaneous objects at a flea market. Being behind my camera gives me a sense of excitement and satisfaction. Being behind my camera is where I’m most comfortable because it allows me to do what I love, and I am comfortable doing what I love no matter where I am.

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HOW WE WORK

The team of editors -- the articulate artist, the debonair writer, the philosophical photographer, the graceful layout editor, the stern business manager, and the suave editors-in-chief -- open up the office every morning at an ungodly hour and close up every evening when the ghosts of the school come out to do their suspected ritual hauntings. When the editors step back and pull the curtains apart, they reveal the cast: a team of eccentric students with many hidden talents. Brighter than the most luminous quasar and deeper than the Mariana Trench, they can develop their own witty jargon and unprecedented gestures on the spot in conversation. During the weekly meetings, the team of editors and staff members sit along a half circle and democratically vote on which pieces should or should not be accepted into the magazine. The authors of each piece are removed during the judging process, so as to ensure full anonymity and fair critiquing amongst the staff members. On other days, the big group splits up into smaller branches with a specific editor at the helm. The art editor, perhaps, would roam the building and the campus with the younger artists and seek inspiration. The literary editor would pose a carefully crafted prompt that the writers reply to in a tasteful, yet entertaining way. The photography editor would congregate around a giant computer and pick out the best submissions or even go on a creative outing around the city to take photos of inspirational sights. Towards the end of the year, as accepted submissions begin to accumulate, the layout editor starts on the culminating edition of the magazine. Ideas for the magazines are tossed back and forth among the editors. Some notions may end up (either literally or figuratively) in the trashcan. Final decisions are made. Once an idea is liked, agreed upon, and tweaked heavily, the editors all get to work. The final process is then done and redone extensively. After 10 or 15 or 123 drafts and mock-ups, the final book is produced, saved as a PDF, and sent off to the printers. The publishers send us a copy of the final mock-up, which is then thoroughly examined carefully with the advisor and the editors. Our corrections are sent back to them, and the final product is delivered to us in bundles that are sold to the student body.

Editors-in-Chief

STAFF ROLES

When these two suave chicks strut in and swiftly swipe their black Ray Bans off, the team of editors turn and listen. They promote the publication over various social media websites, and commandeer the ship across rough waves. They run The Phoenix and smoothly coordinate the production of the magazine.

Literary Editor

This affable editor strives to inspire the writing staff to generate outstanding pieces of writing. His encouraging and nurturing nature helps the staff improve their pieces. One of his biggest jobs is to select and edit submitted writing pieces by using his keen eye for intricacy, grammar, originality, and style.

Layout Editor

This nimble editor can morph and remorph any element on programs such as Photoshop ® and InDesign ®. She expertly arranges and rearranges all the accepted artwork and photography to fit collectively with the poetry and prose. She transforms the intangible ideas of all the editors into the physical production of The Phoenix.

Art Editor

It’s easy for this editor to create the intricacies of contemporary art and style. She’s prepared for anything, whether it’s leading the art staff on an activity, designing an eye-catching poster for an upcoming Phoenix event, critiquing submitted art, or searching for pieces from the undiscovered artists of the school.

Photography Editor

The most divine riches and rarest jewels in the world do not attract this composed editor as much as her extravagant camera does. It’s draped around her neck as she observes and captures the world through the eye of the lens. She assesses submitted images along with the photography staff.

Business Manager

The exigent business manager knows exactly how much money our finances consist of down to the half-cent. She organizes and heads fundraisers for the magazine, seizing every opportunity to increase revenue for The Phoenix.

Writing Staff

This is a group of logophiliac students who have strands of poems scrawled in their math notebooks in lieu of pythagorean theorems. At regular meetings, they respond to an interesting prompt given to them by the literary editor and gen-

FNX in their math notebooks in lieu of pythagorean theorems. At regular meetings, they respond to an interesting prompt given to them by the literary editor and generate submissions for the magazine.

Photography Staff

The camera lens is the medium of expression for this group of kids. They critique photographs and look for elements of artistic merit in each one. They view the world through their camera lenses and make sure to expose another piece of it in each picture they take.

Art Staff

Wielding paintbrushes and sporting charcoal on their hands, this compilation of imaginative students create works of art that blossom with originality and vivid color. At regular meetings, they can often be found fiddling with folding paper as they review and critique art submissions for the magazine.

Critiquing Staff

Falling in love with a piece of writing is a familiar feeling to this assemblage of students. At regular meetings, they congregate in a circle and read countless writing submissions, providing genuine feedback to the author of a piece. They have an immense appreciation for the originality, beauty, and technical knick-knacks that tie a story or poem together and ensure that the best of the best submissions are published in the magazine.

THANK YOU

As usual, there is a plethora of people that are responsible for making sure that this year’s edition of The Phoenix could come into existence. While producing this year’s exceptionally special issue, we came to understand the extent to which the Phoenix community is based on thirty years of Harrisites’ collaboration. Frank Polizzi, Helen Rizzuto, Robert Babstock, Rafal Olechowski, and their teams of skilled editors have contributed countless hours to keeping the light of the publication alive. Without their continuous efforts, both during their time in the school and beyond, we would not have quite the vibrant or familial community that we do today. We would especially like to thank Mr. Babstock and Ms. Rizzuto, who always encourage their students to support the publication and community as a whole. This gratitude is extended to all the teachers of the Townsend Harris Humanities Department for instilling a love of the arts into their students. In addition, the alumni of Townsend Harris always play a pivotal role in the book’s production. Whether members of the Alumni Association are benefactors of the publication or are introducing new opportunities to current students, there is a clear support of the arts amongst all of the people who have walked the halls of Townsend Harris. We would also like to thank Mr. Barbetta for ceaselessly supporting Phoenix events and fundraisers as well as for always advocating for the Phoenix community amongst the student body. Without a shepherd, the sheeple that spend all of their free time in rooms 403 and 404 wouldn’t have all that much direction. Mr. Olechowski selflessly gives up his time, front office, and peace and quiet to make sure that the members of The Phoenix have a home within the school. We owe him countless cups of coffee and our eternal gratitude for being there for us throughout the entirety of the book’s production and for helping us to navigate our time at Townsend Harris. Last but definitely not least, a book can not be created without the efforts of a hardworking staff. The members of The Phoenix are some of the most passionate people that we have ever met. Their care for The Phoenix as both a publication and a community is the reason why it has lasted for as long as it has. It is our inspiration each and every day. Mr. Anthony Barbetta Principal Mr. Rafal Olechowski Assistant Principal of Humanities & Advisor

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