Reboot
Inspired by Dylan Spelman-Hall's
Acrylic on Canvas painting
by Natalie Goykhman '11

Ctrl+Alt+Deleting
you from the buzz inside my brain
Trying to Esc
the swirling words that Shift
their way through dreams and Alt
all normal function.
your words in bold
squeeze through the synapses,
pulsing through the borders, I wish I could just
Autocorrect
you into little
Columns, keep you confined so I can
Control this
virus multiplying I
wish I could just
Restart.

-

I Want
by Brett Beletz '11

I want ten million dollars.
I want a vault bigger then a library.
I want to lock myself in a book
where everything happens according to plan.
I want to rearrange the continents like puzzle pieces.
I want an important conversation about my latent superpowers.
I want the eloquence of Shakespeare
and the discretion of a four year old.
I want the opportunity of a lifetime,
and the arrogance to watch
as it passes by.

-

dear young woman
by Y. Aziz '11

single black dog,
walking the crooked pavement–

why does your secretive tongue burn?

my shoulders are not as straight as yours,
nor my body as slender.

but at least, my secrets aren't shadows
as dark as your silent dog.

-

Awakening
after Emily Dickinson
by Anya Hutter '12

The Holy Book Opened in my hand–
His Verses of quick succession–swift Judgment–
Awoke my slumbering soul
And Pointed His inky Fingers-Bold and Black upon Pure Sheets–
My soul she followed Him–step upon step–
But my Mind She Cried–What If-What If-

-

i joy
by E. Moreno '13

What
to be a joy?
To whistle out of willow bark,
stretch cool arms to triumphant sky
in search of light-energy?

Ah!
to skip across the mottled beak
of mourning dove, sweet robin, lark .
Slipping a sound to lover's ear
'Hear! Birdsong!'

Why,
to be a Joy
great joy it'd bring me.
To stretch fine mouth to
crescent form of sultry seducing
To child, hand a popsicle cold.
And Oh to tempt the sad from sorrow
to wonder!

Me
A Joy.
Happiness winging
Such joy
As a Joy
I am bringing.

-

Asians do not have a social life
by Esther Lee '11

    If The floor trembled as the "krumpers" aggressively stomped on the ground. Swinging their legs around in a circular motion, the "breakdancers" slashed the air with consecutive windmills. As music pounded against the walls, the "poppers" hit every beat with crisp isolations. A wave traveled through my arm and down my body to the flow of the music. Moving my hips, I swung my arms over my head at a fast pace. Suddenly, more dancers filled the hot musty room and glided across the hardwood floor. As the tempo increased, everyone synchronized their movements. Soon we were dancing in unison and hitting each beat. Homework. I threw a punch in the air and stomped the ground. Tests. I swung my arms back and did a chest pop. Projects. I moved my hips and pivoted forward. School. My mind emptied as I continued to dance on that Friday night.
    While other Asians started their homework, I danced.

-

Grieving with Mary Oliver
by Anya Hutter '12

The weak winter sun
     reflects on mud-ridden,
           half-frozen
               streams of water and thought.

Though you did not want
     your lilies to become
         a metaphor on a page,
               images to be explicated, sadness

seeped in nonetheless;
     waterfalls of words representing waterfalls
         of dewdrops
               and eyedrops (tears).

Still, I want
     to thank you
         for your lilies
               and your light.

The dark water cannot long withstand
     the push of primrose petals and
         the natural surge to forgive grief,
               to live.

-

Penny: 1977
by Taylor Harding '11

the same hot sticky summer
that this penny was made,
she was celebrating
her 17th birthday.

with her boyfriend of 2 years,
standing outside
in the school parking lot
leaning against his
beat up red mustang,
dark aviators hiding his eyes
so she never knew
if he was actually paying attention
to the things she spoke to him
in confidence.

with the antenna up
and the smooth beats of
stevie wonder playing as the soundtrack
to her teenage love story,
she lightly blew white smoke
into his face
while giggling and flashing
her pearly white teeth.

his dark mahogany fingers
touched her honey coated chocolate stomach
and she felt the cooling heat
move from her tiny waist
down to her painted red toes
and back up to her nappy, yet classy fro,

she stared into his eyes,
amber gems,
inhaled the smoke from her lit cig
dropped it on the ground,
and stepped on it with
the toe of her black platform heels
til it was just a pile of burnt paper and ash.
carefully she took a step towards him,
leaned in for his soft lips
with the hope to just taste
the cheap vodka, cigarettes, and cheese steak
still ingering in his cheeks and on his tongue,
but right when she got her lips to his,
she heard the bell for summer school
and quickly grabbed her bag from the car.

she was beautiful, in love,
independent, posh,
bodacious, and my mother.

-

The Poetic Interrogation
Imitation of "Introduction to Poetry"
by Ossie O-Douglas '14

I tell them to look at a poem
Pull it out of the darkness
Like a pet rat

Or stick your tongue into its cold bowl.

I say put yourself and car in there
And use you gps to find your way,

Or take walk around the poem's domain
And look around for the torch

I want them to ski
Down the poem's face
Screaming at the author's name at the bottom

Now they just want to
Hang it from a tree with a chain
And bluff its death till it confesses.

They begin slapping it
To find its true meaning

-

Babuska's Visit
by Nathalie Goykhman '11

It was the first time I saw her pupils wandering and blind
grasping my wrists she said, "how beautiful you've grown," but Babushka,
you cannot see. and to hide forming tears I blew into my steaming cup
of tea and let the vapors blast into my face to hide my eyes.
And the static sadness around the table was so profound, that even the fly
was still, guilty for feasting on a blind woman's crumb, it wished to be unnoticed.

I was sinking into the floral seat cushion hoping so hard to be unnoticed
but everyone knew that I was sobbing for the years I spent blind
and inconsiderate, never returning calls while years flew
from us, the only memory of time buried in the veins of Babushka's
hands. A veil of mottled skin barely shields them from my eyes
that see the bones of her trembling knuckles curled around her cup.

In order to occupy myself I held my sister close and cupped
her face. She smiled, oblivious to the heaviness of being unnoticed
and continued to play with her ponies on the table, her eyes
fixated on the tinsel tails as we all wept. The blinds
casting shadows in her copper hair like autumn, when Babushka
used to collect the leaves and throw them up again to watch them fly.

I looked out the window to watch the geese fly
between the cracks of the blinds and saw the clouds cupping
the sun as it descended into its cradle, fiery like babushka's
lipstick that sank into her withered lips. I was too busy to notice
how hard it must have been to send me birthday cards while going blind,
oblivious that her wavy handwriting was because of her weakening eyes.

I had to leave the table to dry my eyes
and I was trying so hard not to be a coward and fly
away from discomfort. I hoarded her love but never returned it, blind
to the hours her husband sold flowers in the rain to pay for presents and the cup
cakes she always brought when she came over, these efforts unnoticed
until I realized that she wasn't the grandma I remembered, no longer babushka.

she was timid and quiet and nibbled at her coffee cake, no longer the babushka
that jumped on a mini trampoline in her living room, her eyes
no longer shining. Just another old lady, reaching for an arm, did they notice?
Papa could not stay seated, he writhed in the tension and flew
out of his seat, gripping his cup
and wept elsewhere, over his blind

Mama, my blind babushka,
Looking at her porcilean cup with cloudy eyes
Waiting to fly away and be unnoticed.

-

Infinite Space
by Kelly McGlynn, '11

There's this infinite space
between my pen and the page -
like two pairs of lips just before a kiss -
when you don't know what's coming next
and whether the ink will draw on the page
the sketch of that first kiss
or the pen will back away -
that awkward
almost.

And maybe in that infinite space
are the most beautiful words ever written - almost -
and the most truthful lines ever imagined -
and always in that space there's a breath -
anticipation -

-

Sweat Stinks
by Yusra Aziz '11

You said you wanted a set-tracked, smooth-sail sorta life.
Simple and serene, like a ceaseless dream oh, and you mocked metaphors.
Complexity killed in creativity, and then you walked away with dry palms.
You keep forgetting that sweat stinks three, in the valleys of fingers, the
backs of necks. the glossy hairbrows.