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Townsend Harris High School presents...
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THEPHOENIX ..................................... 2013 .Volume 29
© Townsend Harris High School 2013 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 Ave. Flushing, New York 11367 “None of the Books Have Time” from THE COMPLETE POEMS OF PHILIP LARKIN by Philip Larkin, edited by Archie Burnett. Copyright © 2012 by The Estate of Philip Larkin. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Adobe® InDesign® and Photoshop® 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. Cover Artwork: Yusra Ahmed
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STAFF ...........................
editors-in-chief. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dennise Hernandez ‘13 Jillian Panagakos ‘14
literary editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Denise Robles ‘13
layout editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nabil Ahmed Khatri ‘13
art editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Parina Kaewkrajang ‘15 Mahnoor Mirza ‘14
photography editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sofia Milonas ‘14
communications manager . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Yelena Dzhanova ‘15
writing
photography
Priya Amin ‘16 Adrienne Cabral ‘16 Anna DiTommaso ‘13 Kristine Guillaume ‘16 Jason Lalljee ‘16 Abygail Rampersad ‘15 Allegra Santo ‘15 David Zarowin ‘16
Asia Acevedo ‘14 Eunice Baik ‘16 Sarah Han ‘14 David Heifitz ‘14 Hailey Lam ‘16 Adrienne Lee ‘14
art Joanne Han ‘16 Anna Kim ‘15 Rebecca Lee ‘15 Cindy Lin ‘16 Nicole Tan ‘14 Mendy Wu ‘15
critiquing Anthony Budwah ‘14 Anthony Chiarenza ‘14 Janice Im ‘16 Fatime Uruci ‘13
advisor Mr. Rafal Olechowski
this edition of THEPHOENIX is dedicated To all the letters of the alphabet, who have taught us how to draw with our words. To all the brushstrokes, splotches of watercolor, and camera flashes that have written out the beauty of silence. To all the worn out pages of books that have suffered abuse from many an avid reader’s hands. And, of course, to the sheeple, our ever loyal FNXters, who sold us their souls and made this book breathe.
THEPHOENIX is proud to announce the winners of our annual contests. photography contest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Journey, Nicole Tan ‘14 2. Untitled, Jamie Abbariao ‘13 3. Untitled, Adrienne Lee ‘14
prose contest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. “When the Sun Burns Out” by Jason Lalljee ‘16 2. “Gone with the Warden” by Yelena Dzhanova ‘15 3. “Of Ink and Feather” by Allegra Santo ‘15
poetry contest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. “Copper Pennies” by Sarah Iqbal ‘15 2. “The Subconscious Wonderland” by Sanela Begani ‘14 3. “Fire” by Anna DiTommaso ‘13
I
t’s quite easy to believe that one produces the best writing while cooped up in an attic that is bathed in candlelight with as little access to the outside
world as possible. This, however, is rarely the case. Writing needs to live, breathe, and be passed from hand to hand until it reaches any sort of desirable state. The same goes for even (and especially!) this book that you now hold in your very hands.
The past year of The Phoenix has been dedicated to allowing this concept of community to shape the book. In previous years, the production was created mostly at the hands of a small and closely-knit group of seniors. This year’s edition is the culminating product of an entire family of high school students, old and young, and their hard work and cooperation on a much broader scope than has been seen in the Townsend Harris community for some time. After all, it takes a village to raise a child, just as it takes a herd of sheeple to give The Phoenix a breath of life.
– The Editors
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TABLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .OF . . . . . . . . . . . . .CONTENTS ......................................... .......................................................................... qweA 10
Alumna Introduction
11
Lift 3/3
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Untitled, digital photography
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Sidewalks, poetry ALEXIS MARTINEZ
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Prickle, poetry
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Atrocity, pen
SARAH HAN
ANTHONY CHIARENZA
JOCELYN HASSEL
YUSRA AHMED
16-27 PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE: SOFIA MILONAS
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Veinache, poetry ABYGAIL RAMPERSAD
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Reciprocal, poetry
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Plant Life, prose
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Bloom, digital photography
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Untitled, film photography
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Untitled, digital photography
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A Guide to Loving Yourself, poetry
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MAHNOOR MIRZA DEVLIN RESETAR
JAIME ABBARIAO SARAH IQBAL
ANNA KIM
JAIME ABBARIAO
Carpe Diem, poetry
ANNA KIM
Billy Mays’ Protegé, poetry
RICHARD TANG
Sunlight, digital photography JAIME ABBARIAO
38-45 ARTIST FEATURE: MICHELLE SZETO
The Influential Powers of Philosophical Literature, prose 46-47 JANICE IM 48 50 52
Autumn, oil pastel
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Warm Hope, digital photography
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Morning, poetry
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Lethal, poetry
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The Golden Age, acrylic
MAYA ALAMAG
SARAH HAN
Outlet, charcoal
GRACE IM
Trying My Luck, poetry
HARRY QUINN
ANNA DITOMMASO BEATA WARCHOL
digital art 54-55 94:5, NABIL AHMED KHATRI
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Nature’s Spell, poetry DENISE ROBLES
MICHELLE HUANG
58-69 ARTIST FEATURE: YUSRA AHMED
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Orange Barbie, poetry DENISE ROBLES
Untitled, pencil
YUSRA AHMED
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Great Danes, poetry
SARAH IQBAL
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My Friend, Expressing Herself, poetry
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Maria’s Prelude, acrylic MARIA AVERKIOU
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The Face of Bollywood, acrylic
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Pour Ma Meilleure Amie, poetry
HARRY QUINN
PAWANPREET KAUR
SARAH IQBAL
and Wisdom: A Reflection of a 92Y Reading, prose 76-77 Age ANTHONY BUDWAH 78
Untitled, film photography
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Tidal, digital photography ASIA ACEVEDO
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Untitled, charcoal
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Reflection, digital photography
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DEVLIN RESETAR
ADOMAS HASAN SARAH HAN
Copper Pennies, poetry
SARAH IQBAL
Sweet Story, Like Sugar, poetry ELISA BARGUIL
The Polyester Annex, poetry
JASON LALLJEE
Crumble, poetry
DENISE ROBLES
Storm, poetry DENISE ROBLES
Journey, digital photography 86-87 NICOLE TAN 88-99 PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE: JAIME ABBARIAO
100 102 104
(Im)possible, poetry
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Point Her Home, digital photography
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Untitled, digital photography
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QUEENA CHONG
SARAH HAN
SARAH HAN
Untitled, pencil NICOLE TAN
Diamond Towers, poetry
ALEXIS MARTINEZ
Socks for the Hands and Gloves for the Feet, poetry
RAVENA RAMPERSAUD
Dome, digital photography 106-107 JAIME ABBARIAO When the Sun Burns Out, prose 108-112 JASON LALLJEE
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Untitled, colored pencil MARIA AVERKIOU
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ALUMNA INTRODUCTION ...............................................
THEPHOENIX2013
class of 2012
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Lift 3/3 .. .. .......................
jocelyn hassel .. .. .......................
I wanted to set
sleepy curtains
myself off to -
one night
launch off of
I liked the idea of you
rectangular platforms
without being ashamed of myself
with countdowns
I wanted a synaptic
that reek of
breath of life -
overwhelming vertigo
to set my atoms
one night
off like
I climbed on a roof
cheap bodega
and almost cried a little
firecrackers
I wanted to hover
it’s a shame that I
over bodies -
favor fires over flames
to waver off in
and like an arsonist
astral projections
I engulf myself
that caress
into 98.6 degrees
twilight like
of smithereens THEPHOENIX2013
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........................................................... sarah han, digital photography
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Sidewalks .. .. ....................... . .
alexis martinez. . .. .. .......................
Before Sidewalks, pilgrims with used up Soles and feet that bled Searched for new beginnings people stopped to look in many directions, Before Sidewalks the North Star was the brightest and possibly the only light in the sky for lost Soldiers begging their bodies to continue in agony, Before Sidewalks immigrants bawled to their God praying for a direction their children couldn’t understand left from right Before Sidewalks who could have known the way to go or which corner to turn that would start their journey off right Before Sidewalks our cold city slept in determination to create a path where people would walk that would lead them to Success Wonder had Sparked where a city had gold pavements, and now with Sidewalks you know which way, you know the way you have the key THEPHOENIX2013
Thank these rundown shoes that they can bear with me but it’s easier because We have Sidewalks
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Prickle .. .. .. ........................ . . . . .
anthony chiarenza .. .. .. ........................ .....
White rose, fade to dark dust Crippled in pools dyed sanguine red. A green stem burned and torn The shredded leaves, the dried root, Your thorn shan’t pierce And your dark existence is void. Banished is your malice And extinguished is your hate. Life in its brevity Cannot support atrocity. The crushed rose has fallen And the sharp thorn has been dulled. Yet the pain is real, My wounds bleed eternally. That rose lives in my soul THEPHOENIX2013
As I avoid its omnipresent prickle.
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Atrocity yusra ahmed, pen
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SOFIA MILONAS
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I take pictures because I want to create beauty; because life looks better in stills; because you can make people see things in a way they never thought of before; because you can make people feel things with one simple picture; because capturing the beautiful moments in people’s lives helps me find beauty in my own. I take pictures because it makes me who I am.
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Veinache .. .. .. ........................ . . . . . .
abygail rampersad .. .. .. ........................ ......
You once told me to forgive and forget, But I think something got lost in my veins, Because I can’t find myself forgiving you For the way your laugh has settled in my bones And the way your compliments Are buried in the folds of my old clothing. And I never want to forget How you feel against my skin and The weight that you give to my pulse. So I still wear that one dress That allows me to feel The curve of your mouth against my knees. You once told me that I was fragmented, Addicted to living in stanzas. And you were afraid Because you could never tell when I would just Break Off and start anew.
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But there was a time When I lived only for my heartbeat And for how the stare of your eyes started To stain me with specks of calcium-craving white. When I didn’t have a chance to figure out What I meant and to parse the words That only came out in moments of passing passion, The messy kind that would bore you. So I started to punctuate the silence And call it art.
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I once asked you if being sweet Would make Hell stop dancing on the Knots of our spines And if we could begin to believe in something real, Because I’m still as pale as I was during the first winter And no amount of summers can color me just right, Similarly to how no fistful of open sky is going to help me let you go.
Reciprocal .. .. ..............
anna kim .. .. ..............
She walks with a sultry grace Drawing the gentlemen’s gazes From the swing of her locks To the click of her heels That figure The way her dress is second skin Rippling And tickling the knobs of men’s shoes Those dusky eyes Those blood lips That marble skin Is cynosure
Gliding past Glancing suggestively Over those shoulders Makes the fire roar Who is she The men wonder Out the doors She dares to brush her fingers Lightly against the jacket of a man Waiting under the soft glow of lamplight Galatea embraces Pygmalion THEPHOENIX2013
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Plant Life .. .. .. .......................
mahnoor mirza .. .. .. .......................
W
hen a seedling is planted in fertile ground, it attaches itself to its dark companion for many weeks. It lives and grows solitarily, innocent and naive, not knowing anything about the world. Then comes a day when it sprouts out from its confined, loamy abode, young and fresh with abundant days ahead. The Sun shines each day and the air is crisp and fresh. However, darkness has a habit of coming when it’s not wanted. It comes and wipes all the naivety from the little stem, making it grow faster, albeit only in the mind. Then another day comes when the stem becomes a full grown plant—vibrant in life and bright in color—with wee little flowers blossoming and spreading their fragrance everywhere. Bees are attracted, wishing to invade the plant’s personal place with their ongoing droning and groaning. The poor plant wonders if there is ever such a day when the Bees think about something more than themselves. It covers itself in a shroud of light to stay out of sight of those it does not know. Yet the Bees see it as a shroud of Illiteracy, a shroud of Degradation, a shroud of Darkness. Can they be more ignorant and adamant in their stubbornness?!
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They who do nothing but drone and groan, they who don’t bother to find anything outside of their own sphere of knowledge and the assumptions of others! How can they—how dare they make such criticism?
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The Bitter Truth: the Bees are accustomed to their own neighborhood, not daring to venture out into obscurity where their beliefs may be questioned, and their values and ideas cause them to doubt themselves.
........................................................... Bloom jaime abbariao, digital photography
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Which is worse? v
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The Plant, with such Bees buzzing around its livelihood, droops its petals and leaves窶馬ot out of age, but because of unfairness. It thinks about its early times when it lived solitarily but safe from corruption. At least then, no questions were asked.
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Carpe Diem .. .. ..............
anna kim .. .. ..............
She treads so lightly
In such a beautiful world
Upon the sand
No one wants to claim the world
Ever so hesitant
As their own
To make her mark
And fill their cup of joy
She walks
With sounds of life
Hunched over
Echoing from above, below,
With a pace
And beyond
So slow and dreary
Oh, you miserable one
Looking back to make sure
So young and afraid
The sand didn’t recoil underneath
It’s time to jump up
She takes small steps
And run
Looking behind
Rip free from the bonds of fear
Into the path she’s already passed
And climb
Shake her
Climb for the nearest star
Someone
And fall into the universe
Scream at her
To fly with the comets
Light a match in her dull eyes
And see every galaxy
Kindle that shivering flame into a
Chase ‘em girl
bonfire
And here
Wake her up
Keep in mind one thing
I wonder why
Carpe Diem
devlin resetar, film photography
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........................................................... jaime abbariao, digital photography
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Billy Mays’ Protegé .. .. ....................
richard tang .. .. ....................
White noise and its effect on mankind Telling us how to define our being Auditory assault of asinine advertisements Telling you what you need, not why Our goblin fruits you need, come buy Come buy come buy Two for one, the deal is to die for you lose yourself if you try to find yourself in these manufactured lines Drown out drown out the noise with your words words that need to be written not necessarily be heard And I’ll cut you a deal Sell you a mind to write with, for $19.95, payments three
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A Guide to
Loving Yourself .. .. .. ...............
sarah iqbal .. .. .. ...............
I once ate a dozen cherries in two mouthfuls, six at a time Sucking off the fleshy fruit and spitting out the pits I accidentally swallowed one and was scared I’d die But you told me that I’d just become a cherry tree I asked you how I was supposed to love myself And you told me to sit outside in the pouring rain with a glass and wait for it to fill I cried when I drank it, and my tears mingled with the rainwater still falling from the sky You taught me to savor the tactility of the physical world And to allot time for tears both bitter and sweet You told me to remember to wash behind my ears And to trust that I can put myself together should someone decide to tap dance on my heart When I asked you why you broke the vase Aunt Lucy gave you for your wedding You told me that anger needed release And that it was an ugly thing anyway When your marriage cracked like that vase did when it hit the old linoleum You told me that you wished everything could be cured THEPHOENIX2013
By swallowing a glass of rainwater
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........................................................... jaime abbariao, digital photography
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MICHELLE SZETO
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To me, paper isn’t a flat surface to cover; it’s an existing body from which I can bring out meaning. But why would a person subject herself to painstakingly cutting holes out of a sheet of paper when she could simply draw on it? Well, there’s something satisfying about being able to show movement, value, variations in color, and texture with these holes. And there’s something fantastic, albeit ridiculous, about calling a piece of paper with, technically, nothing on it a piece of art. So why not do things a bit differently? (Playing with knives is fun, too.)
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MICHELLE SZETO
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“None of the Books Have Time”
by Philip Larkin
None of the books have time To say how being selfless feels, They make it sound a superior way Of getting what you want. It isn’t at all. Selflessness is like waiting in a hospital In a badly-fitting suit on a cold wet morning. Selfishness is like listening to good jazz With drinks for further orders and a huge fire. (1 January 1960) *Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
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The Influential Powers of Philosophical Literature .. .. .. ...........
janice im .. .. .. ...........
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he world is filled with opinions, knowledge, and passions, expressed through the power of literature and poems, if not, speeches. The tens of millions of thoughts dominate the world and new thoughts are presented every single day, minute, and second. For the mystics of poetry, many hold valuable contents of beliefs, passions, and desires beyond this earth. This is where philosophy makes its grand entrance. Philosophy is the study of general and fundamental problems, such as those connected with reality, existence, knowledge, values, reason, mind, and language. Philosophy is distinguished from other ways of addressing such problems by its critical, generally systematic approach and its reliance on rational argument. In more casual speech the “philosophy” of a particular person can refer to the beliefs held by that person. The word philosophy comes from the Greek word philosophia, which means “love of wisdom” and therefore poems that are philosophical are not afraid of expressing their thoughts and feelings. A poem
by Philip Larkin called “None of the books have time” opened my eyes into binoculars. It allowed me to see the scenery in a different view with more magnification and have a deeper sense of its details. This poem demonstrates how books and stories always portray sacrifice as magnificent and superior, and shows the alternating view. He
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“Philip Larkin’s philosophical argument exposes the deeper truth” ..................................................
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says that selflessness is “like waiting in a hospital/ In a badly-fitting suit on a cold wet morning.” Here, he describes the pain which selflessness actually causes and the sufferings it requires an individual to expect before making their choice. Selflessness isn’t just something to look over easily, for the person must be ready to face what’s coming when sacrificing. In books, sacrifice is so much simpler and is seen as just a good deed. However, Philip Larkin magnifies the idea of sacrifice, so that you can see it from afar, as well as up-close, showing how from afar, the sea shows great scenery which is both beautiful and lovely. However, up-close, you may see a sea filled with
terrible creatures, violent fights, deaths, and drownings. Yes, the sea is beautiful, yet it beholds powers that cause the most terrible deaths. It’s like sacrifice. From afar, people look at it as a greedy and respectful deed, yet upclose, knowing the respective person’s mind, heart, and soul, terrible pains beyond this world’s knowledge takes place. Selfishness is the opposite, according to Larkin. “Selfishness is like listening to good jazz / With drinks for further orders and a huge fire.” Books give selfishness an ugly presence, yet they don’t reveal the mind, heart, or soul of the selfish individual. So it’s either or: Sacrifice for others alongside being respected and looked up to while feeling great pain and suffering, or being selfish, yet feeling great, and enjoying what you have. Philip Larkin’s philosophical argument exposes the deeper truth which failed to be shown in the piles and piles of literature in the world, and his poem is inspiring to the thought, and alters the views of many. In a short two stanza poem, Philip Larkin succeeds in releasing the wires of knowledge plugging into the heart while thirsting for the world, and trembling at the tip of his fingertips as he artistically paints this wonderful work of literature. v
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Trying My Luck .. .. ..................
harry quinn .. .. ..................
Every once in a while, I try my luck with you. You seem the everlasting constant, celestial, even. I fall, and shake, and break down, and reinvent, But you stick around, the one cornerstone. My observable universe revolves around you, And if you were to change, to contain yourself, Learn of other planets with more interesting life, I would fly off-kilter forever forward. But that’s unfair to you, isn’t it? Certainly. There’s no reason why you remain, and I expect, Sometimes pray for you to leave. Maybe then, I could try (Not that I already don’t) to move on, and find my own place. Yet you are always the same, unchanging. A blessing and the most bitter of curses, You spite me with your love. I swing, Once to anger, and back to obsession, And I return to try my luck, to see if things have changed this time.
Autumn maya alamag, oil pastel
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Morning
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anna . . . . . . . . . . .ditommaso . . . . . . . . . . .. . ........
The sun slips up over the tops of the trees and stretches its rays like yawning arms across the sky. Somewhere, across the lake, a loon trills: a long harsh note of longing. The leaves on the trees whisper beautiful nothings to one another. Beneath their protective boughs our dock floats upon silvery water, while mink and fish slink silently to and fro. I soak up this quiet morning because I know it doesn’t last long.
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........................................................... Warm Hope sarah han, digital photography
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........................................................... Outlet grace im, charcoal
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Lethal .. .. ....................... .
beata warchol. .. .. .......................
A smile is a dangerous sight For it presumes happiness But the lie prevails And no soul knows the truth So go hidden the mysteries of thought and feeling And consume the wretched flesh ‘Till all but smile remain
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........................................................... 94:5 nabil ahmed khatri, digital art
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Nature’s Spell .. .. .. ....................
denise robles .. .. .. ....................
What more could I want beyond the small fluttering birds whose chirps tickle my ears each morning, and the sweet scent emerging from the orchids as they timidly climb out of their covers The mellifluous wind carries bells, chimes, sighs; it rustles the dainty leaves of the overhanging tree, showering my embellished head when I float under its grasp as if to pass onto me the wisdom it has gathered The breeze takes hold of my unspoken words, leaving me more speechless than I previously thought possible The archaic path of stones, nearly disguised by overgrown, trampled grass blades, guides me to the incessant stream of water A closer look reveals a misty presence above its liquid surface whispering words of encouragement and guidance to the dubious droplets
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And the hills go on forever, a continuous panorama of green, a roller coaster without end
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........................................................... The Golden Age michelle huang, acrylic
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Y U S R A
A H M E D
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THEPHOENIX2013
In the words of Chuck Palahniuk, “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I’ve ever known.” My seventeenth year has been my most lifechanging year yet. I experienced the best and the worst and have grown incredibly. The images on the next few pages are all biographical—they are a reflection of what I have seen, thought, and felt over the past year. I hope by sharing them with you, you may feel something and perhaps even be inspired to create art.
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Orange Barbie .. .. .. ....................
denise robles .. .. .. ....................
She scurries along the busy sidewalk, her heels clacking with every step Her manicured hands alternate between holding her pinned-back hair and the frilly bottom of her dress-neither stays in place I can see her darting glances as she scopes the passing shops, attempting to escape curious eyes She accelerates a bit
every time a nearby drifter steals a rapid breath She disappears around the corner, leaving only the faint smell of daisies in the wind The man beside me, formally a somber stranger, chuckles and says, “That sure is a tan gone wrong�
Great Danes .. .. .................
sarah iqbal .. .. .................
When all the world’s a Great Dane that sits on your chest during your mid-afternoon nap, and slobbers on you out of love, not realizing that your breathing is being restricted by the minute, consider this: large mutts cannot sit forever. When all efforts at heaving the beast off your body have failed, give ol’ Rex a pat on the head, toss him a bone in the other direction and watch him bound away, leaving you free to inhale as you please. Once upon a time I was called the British sterling pound of poetry by a man who understood that asking me to be his poet was the equivalent of asking for all the fragile thoughts in my head the most heavily-weighed of requests because being bound in chains only sounds good on paper and I’m too proud for any attachments. For give me, forgive me, battles that are yet to come and for the sake of all that is holy, don’t buy me a dog.
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My Friend,
Expressing Herself .. .. .. ................
harry quinn .. .. .. ................
She balances on her toes; Seven feet tall, and rising, Flying, as she moves parallel to the floor. A dancer, A dancer because she was born that way. Something Deep within her said yes I am here, forget the audience, I’ll leap and land and jump and fly and twirl my way Everyday across an empty floor, cleared just for me. And she shows off hours of dedication as she hovers Just inches from the ground, taut, lithe, svelte, feline. She has me figured out, and with every spin,
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I’m trapped worse than before. I couldn’t leave if I wanted.
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........................................................... Maria’s Prelude maria averkiou, acrylic
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Pour Ma
Meilleure Amie
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(For My Best Friend)
Forlorn poets cry rivers on rivers as your heart tore to pieces while you drifted down the Seine, Paris having turned its nose, the city of love claiming no responsibility for the teary-eyed souls mourning their losses because people shed each other like old skins, and we become moth-eaten coats in the backs of closets full of memories. Abrupt endings leave nerves torn and raw, all the more likely to cling to what you have with undisguised urgency. Sweetheart, my pencil scratchings at this ungodly hour are worthless should I not make the promise that experiences water your roots, salted tears being only a brief change in the nutrients that will lead you to bloom. As romantics in the purest sense, you and I become hungry for things that trips to the grocery store could never help. Mend your heart, little princess, I can only supply the thread but leave enough gaps in the stitching to not render yourself cold since life is full of square-minded people and we like to color outside the lines. THEPHOENIX2013
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Age and Wisdom: A Reflection of a 92Y Reading . .. .. .. ...................... . . .
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ne of the fundamental issues with being a teenager is that one does not have the experience necessary to create any creative piece truly from the heart. Due to this, we have to fill up these holes with our own perception of reality, rather than the experiences that one would garner through years of living life. At such a young age, it’s hard to realize how human a person is, and it’s hard to encapsulate humanity, life, or human lifestyles into words. And, especially at this specific stage of life, we’re on our way to learning what it means to be ourselves, what it means to be a part of our society, and how we will one day give back to this world. These were concepts that I had pondered at the 92Y in the late afternoon of April 29th, where we had a “meet and greet” with authors James Salter and Richard Ford, both who, at first glance, had a sense of age about them. Whether it was the gray hair,
the slight wrinkling, or the inability to hear fully, the tell-tale signs of age were pretty clear. With it, though, was a refreshing sense of wisdom, gained through years of failure and success, and an odd sense of security through that wisdom. They not only spoke to me, but also to the other students in the room who had come from across the New York City region. I felt that I could trust the words of these two men, as they talked on about what it meant to be and how they were authors. One of the tips that they gave, that all writers give, was to read. Read, read, and then read. That I must do this to inspire myself, so that I could manufacture a whole new world in my head, and then fill up the holes I’ve yet to experience because of my youth. I feel Ford put it best when he said that, “human beings write novels, not Gods,” because only the imperfections found in a person can really
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“At such a young age, it’s hard to realize how human a person is, and it’s hard to encapsulate humanity, life, or human lifestyles into words.” .............................................
that what they said might actually be true, but whether or not it is law is up to you. This reading at the 92Y was just as amazing as the others I’ve been to, managing to personify and capture the essence of humanity from the moment that the two writers walked in through the doors. It wasn’t magnificent, as it was a rather somber reading at the end of the day. It managed to calm everyone’s mood, and took some to the brink of sleep, but gave them a few thoughts to chew on when they left and drove away from the big city lights of Manhattan to wherever they resided. Realizing that, as a writer, I have to live a little bit more makes me anticipate the future and my adulthood more, but also makes me respect my childhood a bit more. As it all came to an end and I headed home, I realized the reading had given me not only the motivation to want to read more, but also the books from Ford and Salter to do so. v
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make a story a proper story, fully relatable to other readers. Perfect people can write, but their writing would make terrible novels. Everything would be coherent and set straight with no flaws and no conflict at all. This would be a perfect reality, but it wouldn’t be a realistic one, and with that would lose the connection that readers should feel while reading. As the afternoon turned to evening, and as we all filed into our seats in the hall to hear Ford and then Salter read a passage from their novels, Canada and Last Night, respectively, I took a moment to ponder how true their words were. I write to make a contribution to society and I write for someone else, not myself, even if it may be my feelings and experiences. In a way, I can’t argue with their words. A writer writes with the smallest impression that at least someone else might read it, even if that person is them looking back at the writing from the future, where they have fundamentally changed and are a different person. I came upon the understanding
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Copper Pennies .. .. .................
sarah iqbal .. .. ................. I dropped a penny into a plain glass jar every time I wanted to tell you I loved you taking one out every time I’d mustered the courage to look up and voice it myself. Three days saw twenty-seven pennies, by the end of the week the jar began to overflow so I spilled a sea of copper onto my living room floor and counted to six hundred fifty. I carted my jarful of unspoken promises to the corner store, the woman at the counter aghast at my gall for buying an item in change, as if I didn’t need to boil coffee dregs even after they were washed out, in the hopes of having coffee-flavored water with breakfast. If I could have bought you a kite with the warmth that flushed through my cheeks at the sound of your name I would have, but I settled on using the round pieces of metal, signs of my weakness as I scratched our initials on the back of the cheap wooden skeleton. I didn’t tell you I loved you, six hundred fifty times too many because a lump of feeling gets trapped in the space between my collar bones when I consider unveiling myself in your presence, the barrier between our souls dissolved along with any notions of safety that would worm their way into the crevices of my mind for protection, and as you intertwined your fingers with mine, gazing up with bright eyes, at the dancing red kite
........................................................... devlin resetar, film photography
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I made a mental note to toss another penny in the jar.
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Sweet Story,
Like Sugar .. .. ...................
elisa barguil .. .. ...................
Write of me, dark eyes and dirty face with drying pink tears, red with blood, from dehydration. Speak to me, and when your mouth touches mine, spit sugar down my throat. Walk through brambles, stupid prince who will get the beauty despite big feet and long hair. Do you know the feeling,
when you’re in too deep? Sweet story of your heart, bitter when it starts; I’m curious, sad maybe, write of me. Ellis is not a name. I am not Ellis. I do not conquer hearts of wolves. Write of me, prince, ignorant however, with sugar-fleshed cheeks. Sing. Sing.
Tidal asia acevedo, digital photography
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The Polyester Annex .. .. ..................
jason lalljee .. .. ..................
This thick coat of polyester is his last remaining home, Onyx scales with flecks of black, and cotton fluff splayed bear in the rips in the fabric. His beard grew unmanned, hair thick as a bush’s bristle And as thorny. Hiding his face, for warmth and of shame, At the look of repulsion on a mother’s face, Her child guarded and her face sneering. Hiding from the pity of standers by, The voice of a father saying, “that’s why you stay in school,” Or to heed the public service announcements plastered all over, Bottles broken or smoke trailing like a threat. He guards the truth in his pocket like a candle in a storm, Its embers barely lit against the glare of the cold. The ghost of a family’s smile stares into the black, Happy before ships called to sail to distant lands. Happy before the threat of dreams annexed to onyx polyester Came to shore.
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Crumble .. .. ......................
denise robles .. .. ......................
The intricate leaf Is fiercely torn apart by Unsuspecting feet
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denise . . . . . . . . . . . . . .robles . . . . . .......
The colossal sky Cackles, prodding credulous Clouds to tears and moans
Reflection sarah han, digital photography
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........................................................... Journey nicole tan, digital photography
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Hello. I’m Jaime and I shoot in black and white (most of the time). Shooting in black and white made me aware of composition rather than how colorful my photograph was. There is also a certain grit that black and white photography possesses. It allows the image to stand out and helps the audience understand the image clearly. That aesthetic definitely defines black and white photography’s appeal.
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(Im)possible .. .. .. .....................
queena chong .. .. .. .....................
I do not claim to be a poet. My words are valleys without mountains, sin without reprieve, countries without cities. Nor do they care; they’re riddled with complacency. How can one yearn for what she has? I have never dreamed of having a voice. Right, I can’t exceed the speed of light, introduce step dance to a legless man, or find the letter E in Gadsby*. I admit that I can yearn for these abilities, but who am I to resist logic? After all, logic is fleeting but my emotions are eternal. If you already think my words are stilted, wait until you hear this - 1% of them don’t fold their own laundry, ride the subway, or pay the bills. I sustain those defenseless dears with my tonal inflections. When they go to college, they won’t be able to stand alone on a page and impress. Let’s explain why they don’t perform those mundane things. They have servants, they ride limousines, they’re the offspring of Webster’s and Oxford’s thesauruses. They were members of society until the dictionary probed deeper than petty music. Aren’t relations with others futile? We don’t share common genes.
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If poems were populations, Emily Dickinson would be Iceland and I would be the Maldives. Iceland’s population is concise and effective; the Maldives’ population is concise and floundering. The difference is that my words will soon achieve the impossible and be in two places at once– on my paper and in your head. *Gadsby is a novel by Ernest Vincent Wright that was written entirely without the letter ‘e’.
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Diamond Towers .. .. ...................... . . .
alexis martinez .. .. ...................... ...
We used to whistle, blow bubbles outside the window, and have picnics in our kitchen. We used to dream big. Naive and true, we buried the tips of our toes into the sandy ground, let the sand slip between our fingers and breathed with the earth. And all around us, they built towers. They built glass castles, when they were supposed to be diamond. They built them with dreams too, and shards came falling down. Dreams were, soon enough, our toes in the sand. Why do I still remember our bubbles? Oh how they pop like glass shatters. If only we had built with diamonds.
........................................................... Point Her Home sarah han, digital photography
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........................................................... sarah han, digital photography
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Socks for the Hands
And Gloves for the Feet .. .. ...................... . . . . . . . . . . .
ravena rampersaud .. .. ...................... ...........
May the soul be damned in this monochrome world Where every mistake is written in permanent pen May the minds cease to think for themselves While media fuel “their� opinion. May originality lay right in its grave Since one can only mock and those who stray are abnormal. Remain the night a bright sky And let the days stay dark As this backwards thinking has left me dazed. A world of sinners on a pedestal Nearby a funeral of the innocent. And those who believe in that mystical thing above Shamelessly assisting the demise of those below. If there remains even a drop of humanity Do purify this world with the strongest bleach, I beg.
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When the Sun Burns Out . .. .. .. ...............
jason lalljee . .. .. .. ...............
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hen I was seven years old, I was in love with Anna Hayes. Anna was the embodiment of puerile loveliness, her hair chocolate brown and in long pigtails that swung at her sides. I was seven, and a likeness to chocolate was pretty much the epitome of attractiveness. Her eyes were a clear, watery blue which glittered almost opalescently on sunny days when we would lie in the meadow near my house and decipher the shapes of clouds in the sky. She had a single dimple on her right cheek, a small indentation of skin revealed to those whom she would grace her smiles on. We played together every afternoon. We cloud watched (she interpreting them each as magical creatures of her imagination, while I intelligently hypothesized them to be blobs with tails), flew kites (which, for me, always ended in a tangled and/or broken kite), and fixed my dad’s old shed. A pathetic old thing with peeling white paint and a door hanging on its last hinge, it was an old antiquity of the 21st century and the inside was almost as pitiful as the out. She came over almost every day to help us convert the shed. While my dad handled the building,
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we covered the walls with upholstered cork boards, which eventually worked as scrapbook pages, or rather, canvases. We pinned photographs to the edges of the cloth, and strung them taut across the boards with cushions pinning down embellished ribbons. Strange objects, identifiable only by memory, lined the walls and the edges of the canvases: my mother’s art, baseball cards, my baby teeth on a string. With the eventuality that befalls every era of sorts, the end came. My dad put up a set of lights along the walls, which lit the room with a dim orange glow. They flickered along the objects like candlelight, the projected shadows and stillness a vision almost overwhelming. Somewhere in my seven year-old mind I understood both the permanence and ethereality of it all, of life. After my dad had gone, Anna turned up the volume on the radio that we always left playing in the background. “I love this song! Ben, dance with me,” she had said, her excitement brighter than any light in the room. I was as awkward a dancer as males of any age tended to be in the presence of pretty girls, but I looked into her eyes the entire time. “I want the rest of my life to be like this,” she
........................................................... maria averkiou, colored pencil
........................................................... *inspired by Samuel Beckett’s radio play “All That Fall” performed at the Brooklyn Academy of Music
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said softly. “Me too,” I said, meaning it more than she could know. “I love you Ben,” she whispered, like it was a fact, devoid of passionate or confused emotions that plagued those older than me. The sky had darkened but the shed was still glowing bright, and she put her head on my shoulder as we danced to the music in the room full of memories. … The end came. Soon after the shed was completed, Anna’s mom died, and she grew distant. She would stop coming over to play with me, and I couldn’t find a reason to reach out to her, without the pretense of having a sub-property in physical disrepair that needed to be converted into a metaphorical edifice. Anna wasn’t exactly close to her father, and I’m not sure he knew too much about raising children—especially one that was as special as his daughter. As she grew away from me, her blue eyes became a misted sea, opaque with sadness I couldn’t understand and virtually innavigable by my inexperience. The daisies in our meadow began to look less bright and seemed, somehow, to wilt away from the sun. Anna began to hang out with the cool kids at school. Middle school came and although we saw each other in every class, we didn’t talk much. High school arrived soon after and the social hierarchy, with the rigidity of a Hindu caste system, placed her at the top and me at the bottom. She grew curves that made her sought after, and she dyed her hair jet black, the edges cut in artful serrations. I didn’t get off
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so well. I mean, maybe in some other place, lanky, skinny guys who sunburn in 60-degree weather are considered cool. Some may find dishwater-blonde hair to be enviable or a lamppost-like posture sexy. I wouldn’t know. She was going off to exciting places with exciting people, leaving me in the dust. If it weren’t for the end of the world, I probably would never have even spoken to her again. But it did come. There was a literal and figurative din, sirens blaring on the radio advocating the world’s end and headlines flashing the same story on every television channel. The sun hung heavy in the sky, but that was probably just more of a premonition than anything. It was supposed to blow up or crash into us or something. I hadn’t exactly been keeping up on the details, much in the way parents don’t pay attention to their teenage children and dieters ignore the nutritional labels on potato chips; they just don’t want to know. The morning of the end of the world was uneventful. My parents couldn’t come home; their flight was cancelled because conditions got too risky. They had visited my grandmother to tie up some loose ends before our inevitable demise and had promised to call, but they had left me alone, wondering what to do. I thought of all the things that I’d done in my relatively short life, all of the time I’d wasted on things that felt insignificant in comparison to the evanescent now. If I had one day left to do whatever I wanted, what would it be? And then, almost on cue, Anna showed up at my front door.
of the universe. I think that our fate is definite, and if there’s a force powerful enough to simultaneously allow and fend off the force of human nature, then there must be one strong enough to have a larger agenda… One bigger than us.” She looked at me, squinting from the potency of the sunlight. “Do you really believe that?” she said. “That we’re not in control of our fate?” “Don’t ask me,” I said. “Ask the giant mass of fire that’s hurtling towards us as we speak.” … After taking pretty much every can of paint the hardware store had (“They’re not going to miss it,” Anna reasoned), we got to work on the side of a wall at the edge of the city. We splattered the brick with neon yellows and pinks. After creating our backdrop, our own rainbow, we painted across the surface of the wall, in thick brush strokes, “ANNA AND BEN WERE HERE.” Anna had also wanted to find the bravery to sing karaoke, so of course I assumed we were going to a bar to do it. I just didn’t know what kind. “You… you brought me to a gay bar?” I asked her indignantly after a moment’s inspection. “Yup!” she said perkily. “I come here all the time. I want to drink and have good conversation without sleazy guys trying to pick me up. Hence, gay bar.” After searching through stacks of Liza Minnelli, Chicago soundtracks, and more Liza Minelli, while I tried avoiding making eye contact with the well-groomed gentlemen sitting two
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She arrived breathless, her black hair in tangles, her body lit up with nervous energy. She had said, in one breath, “Ben. It’s the last day of the world. I know we haven’t spoken in years, but we have one day to do whatever it is that we want to do and I want to do them with you.” Best pickup line ever. “What do you say?” Of course, I consented. As it turns out, she had a list of things planned. She gave me her list, and I chose the first one. I found myself at the beach, my pant sleeves rolled up to my knees and my limbs caked in sand as we constructed the “largest sandcastle ever.” I chose to do this because I had remembered her wanting to do it since we were kids, and I remembered her smile as she dreamed of it. Using buckets that were better suited for sewage removal than petty construction, we created the castle of castles. It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be. We both knew that we wanted to see each other, and the mutual stupidity that resulted from our unraveling in the past ten years seemed irrelevant. A few moments after we finished our work and surveyed it, a giant wave came bounding down the shore and swallowed our castle. We stared at the ocean wistfully for a moment. “Why do things have to end, Ben?” she asked me, staring into the citrus-colored sky in the distance. “Why work so hard to build things when they just disappear as soon as they’re made?” “What will be, will be,” I said. “I’m not very philosophical, but I’m definitely a believer in the permanence
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seats away from me, she finally found something she liked. She stood on the stage, and in a husky, entrancing voice, she sang, “Hand me your hand, let me look in your eyes / As my last chance to feel human begins to vaporize / Maybe it’s the heat in here, maybe it’s the pressure / You ought to head for the exits, the sooner the better.” I drank a beer as she sang, and for the first time I found that I liked its taste. It burned in my throat and added to this new sensation. The sensation of feeling alive. … We laid down in our meadow, the one where we had cloud spotted as children, squirting artificial cheese into our mouths and eating anything that usually came with the implication of unwanted calories and sugar. “Why don’t we live like this every day?” I asked. “Because there’s usually a tomorrow,” she said, smiling at me. The sun was growing closer, and the sky was beginning to pulse a deep orange, with vessels of red and pink. We had an hour or two left. “Come with me,” she said, standing and pulling me up by the hand. “There’s one last thing we need to do.” We made up the shed. It had long become shabby, picture frames cluttered all over the floor and the lamps long broken. The room seemed to have been wrecked by a hurricane, my memories now decayed. We made it up as best as we could, picking flowers from the meadow and scattering them along the walls and floor. We found an old box of Christmas lights and strung them along the ceiling. When lit, their incandescent glow seemed to emanate a small cove of warmth that held the space of Anna and I just right, and with the radio turned on and the song we had danced to so many years ago playing, it seemed natural what should come next. I took Anna in my arms and we swayed slowly to the music. She put her head on my shoulders and in the dim gleam of the Christmas lights I saw that a few strands of the chocolate brown hair I loved so much were poking out amongst the black. We just danced for a bit and listened to the music. “If you have a minute why don’t we go / Talk about it somewhere only we know / This could be the end of everything / So why don’t we go / Somewhere only we know….” She broke the silence. “Do you think that this would’ve happened if the world wasn’t ending, Ben?” I stared at her, my eyes beckoning for her to continue. “Time has changed us, and we’re both really different… What would happen to us tomorrow? Or the day after?” “But there isn’t a tomorrow,” I said softly. “I don’t know why we’re here on this earth, or why for so short a time, but I’m just going to enjoy it for as long as I can.” As she tilted her head up to mine, her blue eyes watering, the sun began to grow brighter in the sky. The radio fizzled out and buzzed static, but the music was still playing in our heads. And at that moment we kissed, swaying as one as the sun went out. v
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STAFF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ROLES ..................... editors-in-chief
These shepherds tame the beloved sheeple. Maintaining order and encouraging the creative process, they assign roles and work cooperatively with the advisor and the club members. They oversee all decisions regarding the production of The Phoenix, meeting endlessly to discuss ideas. It comes as no surprise that they have wrinkles before adulthood because of their work ethic, high levels of stress, and productivity.
literary editor
A herder that regularly assigns tasks to the sheeple in the form of writing prompts. As the one who usually assists the editors-in-chief in editing writing pieces, the literary editor must have a keen eye for intricacy, grammar, and style. She is often harassed into submitting written work because of her sparkling eye for detail.
layout editor
Deciphering complicated programs such as InDesignÂŽ and PhotoshopÂŽ, he morphs and re-morphs accepted photography and artwork to ideally fit with the writing. Considered technologically competent and eager to put The Phoenix together, he plays around with the main layout in close accordance with the shepherds. Fittingly, his spastic mouse-clicking becomes incessant as we sit him down at the Mac, where he starts to drag, click, zoom, and crop.
art editors
Supervisors and confidants to the art staff, the art editors recognize outstanding artwork and suggest which works should be included in the magazine. Trusted heavily by the editors-in-chief, they connect literature and art. Their hands may be covered with charcoal or
stained with acrylic at any given time.
photography editor
The leader of the photography staff who spends her time perfecting and rearranging submitted and personal photos. Her usually focused attention can easily be distracted by a picturesque scene that begs to be shot. She would dangle upside down off of a helicopter just to catch a shot of the shrubs and bushes below at a perfect angle.
communications manager
A trusted member of the squad that has immaculate organizational skills, she is useful for conjuring up tidbits of material for the magazine at random moments. She works closely with the two head editors to help them meet important deadlines, heads many tasks and activities for all club members, and coordinates literary events and announcements. Her head may not be screwed on correctly, as her plethora of tasks can get confusing at times.
critiquing staff
A designated group of members that provide genuine feedback, bicker in the case of sudden disagreement, and are expected to particularly remain as unbiased as possible throughout the selections. It’s become a ritual for them to sift through mounds of sheets every Thursday and go home with gushing papercuts as evidence of thorough work.
writing staff
The assemblage of kids that are assigned prompts by the literary editor and are open to sharing written work during readings and discussions. Working on their submissions every Thursday, each member may contribute feedback and support during open forums.
........................................................... Editorial Staff jaime abbariao
........................................................... Their calluses are evident along fingers and knuckles because of ardent pencil holding.
art staff
A group of sheeple who look through many art submissions, accepting and rejecting pieces they deem appropriate and inappropriate, respectively. They create ancillary art to supplement the prose and poetry pieces, all the while using professional art jargon to comment and articulate feelings about each work. They are guided by the art editor, and each staff member openly embraces their paint-clogged pores and coffee-stained smocks.
photography staff
A compact congregation that rummages through countless photographs and uses fancy, incomprehensible photographic
language to describe the composition of each photo. They are only recognizable by the way they wear their Nikons as accessories. They meet on Thursdays with the photography editor, prepared to adjust the flash every millisecond with their bruised fingertips.
advisor
He is the head shepherd, the one who oversees conflicts, miracles, and spontaneous surges of inspiration. He reasons with us, comes up with flexible solutions for all parties, and puts up with our clamor, commotions, and pandemonium. As a result, he often suffers from invisible flying shots of coffee flung against his office, which of course, is kept unorganized as part of the creative process. A key characteristic is the way his hair stands on end because of ingenuity and sparks of brilliance.
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HOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .WE . . . . . . . . . . . . .WORK ..................... The Phoenix is Townsend Harris High School’s annual literary and art publication. The club is meant to provide an open forum for the showcasing of creative passion. Submission boxes are conveniently placed in all English classrooms and students of all grades are urged to submit work to us through the advisor, the editors, the school’s website, or email at thhsphoenix@gmail.com. A group of students convene every Thursday after school to review submitted poetry, prose, photography, and art on their own time. All submissions are assigned a number to ensure that the critiquing process is completely anonymous; only
the editors are aware of the author, artist, or photographer of any given piece so that each is judged objectively and solely on quality. The editors create the sheets that are to be reviewed by the entire group prior to the weekly meeting. A discussion follows each piece, after which we vote democratically on whether or not to publish it. If any piece receives a majority vote in its favor, it is accepted into the book upon the first round of review. The editors inform the author of the decision through email and provide feedback with constructive criticism, if so requested. All pieces, including any that were originally rejected, are later reviewed
by the main editorial team. In this way, all pieces receive two rounds of critique. The team makes final cuts. Necessary grammatical, spelling, or aesthetic corrections are made at this point, while still maintaining the essence of the work. The author or artist is informed if a change has been made and must approve of the revised version. In addition to regular literary critiquing meetings, we meet at least once a month in our respective groups of writing, critiquing, art, or photography. The literary editor provides a prompt for the writing group to work on. The writing staff then spends the club meeting writing and sharing their pieces with the group in order to generate more submissions. The co-editors-in-chief lead the critiquing group in reviewing writing submissions. The art editor and the
art staff critique submitted artwork. The photography staff, led by the photography editor, critiques photos and accepts those that they believe have merit. Finally, in addition to publishing the magazine, The Phoenix staff is also responsible for fostering a literary and creative community within Townsend Harris High School. This is done in a number of ways, but primarily through our literary events. Students are encouraged to publicly present their own or another’s work, including writing, art, and photography. They, however, are not limited to these mediums as they are urged to showcase any creative talents or passions. Even further, The Phoenix sponsors prose, poetry, and photography contests throughout the year.
Thank You
As always, there is an endless list of people who support The Phoenix each year from the beginning of production right until the very end. First and foremost, the members of the Phoenix community are eternally indebted to Mr. Rafal Olechowski. His ability to do all that he does while still pouring his heart and soul into this production continues to astound and inspire us. Thank you for never giving up hope on our creative abilities and your students’ general passion for the arts – even when the going got tough. Also, for generously funding a trip to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association award ceremony and magazine production seminars. That day allowed us to both appreciate the hard work put into past editions as we accepted the gold crown award and also reinvent ourselves enough for this copy to be possible. Thank you especially for the never ending flow of coffee and tea in your office, and for letting us use your office, even when we disorganized it a bit, since an office in disarray is essential to the creative process! A special thank you goes out to Ms. Helen Rizzuto and to Ms. Margherita Wischerth for helping us acquire quality writing, art, and photography submissions, to Mr. Peter Wamsteker for his enduring encouragement of students to actively participate in our staff and events we host throughout the year, and to Mr. Robert Babstock for his ceaseless support of the humanities and all that we do in The Phoenix. Of course, this gratefulness is extended throughout the entire Humanities department, without which, none of this would be possible. In addition, thank you to Ms. Ellen Fee, to Mr. Jeffrey Zahn, and to the custodial staff for helping us to ensure that we have the necessary space and time to conduct our literary events. This year we would like to especially thank Mr. Anthony Barbetta. Although he has been at the helm of the school for only a year, he put his faith into the potential of his students to create this book and has already entrusted us with his beloved conference room for use during post-reading parties. A gigantic thank you goes out to the Alumni Association, who made last year’s book possible by funding the over-sized edition and allowed for us to dream big enough to create this slightly chubbier print. Finally, thank you to the sheeple. Since you all signed your name in blood to make this vision a reality, The Phoenix gets to rise from the ashes once again. Mr. Anthony Barbetta PRINCIPAL
Mr. Rafal Olechowski
ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL OF HUMANITIES & ADVISOR
– The Phoenix
This publication was produced using Adobe速 InDesign速 page layout software and Photoshop速 image-editing software. The typefaces used are: Garamond, a classic serif font;
ABCDEFGHIJKLM NOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890 ?!@#$% Garamond Regular Garamond Italic Gotham, a modern sans serif font;
ABCDEFGHIJKLM NOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890 ?!@#$% Gotham Light Gotham Book Gotham Bold Gotham Black & Helvetica Neue, a classic sans serif font.
ABCDEFGHIJKLM NOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890 ?!@#$% Helvetica Neue Roman
Production Notes: Publishing Xpress 29777 Stephenson Highway Madison Heights, MI 48071
Cover: #100 Matte Cover Digital Color Process
Text: #80 Matte Text Digital Color Process
Sheeple (n.) /SHēp l/ e
A group of high school students that eat, breathe, sleep, and live all that is The Phoenix
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136
cups of COFFEE were consumed by THE EDITORIAL TEAM
83
STEPS MUST BE TAKEN between the two offices
31,219 our staff read through
WORDS within all the writing submissions
4
175 there were
hours average amount of SLEEP each editor got in the nights leading up to this book’s completion
36
WRITING SUBMISSIONS in all with
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EMAILS were sent back and forth while trying to perfect the Dedication Page
46 there were
29 94 we held
FULL STAFF MEETINGS (the editors attended many more!)
+
ART SUBMISSIONS
28 accepted for print
PHOTOGRAPHS were submitted for review by different photographers
16
TOWNSEND HARRIS HIGH SCHOOL at QUEENS COLLEGE 149-11 Melbourne Ave Flushing, New York 11367