The Lantern

2012

The Lantern2012

Volume CIII

The Lantern 2012

Lanterns are a symbol of Westover. Every spring faculty and students participate in one of the oldest and most beautiful of the Westover traditions: the Lantern Ceremony. At dusk students used to join a procession that led through the countryside to Miss Hillard’s farm. If a student did indeed “belong” to Westover, her lantern was lit. If not, she was sent to the infirmary (so it was said by the old girls). Today it is through this mystical ceremony that the new students and faculty become true members of Westover. Theirlanterns are lit during the ceremony as a symbol of their integration into the community. Every spring after the Lantern Ceremony, the Lantern magically appears in everyone’s mailbox. This magazine is a collection of the best student poems and the best pieces of student artwork of the year.

Itisessentialthatschoolcustomsbehandeddownfromyeartoyearandbefullofsignificance.Whatis embodied in school tradition and incorporated in the ordered life of the school from season to season will communicatetothestudentbodyacontinuedexperiencefromwhichthatcustomsprang.Whenthatsentimentis sincere and true, the custom will be a channel through which the emotion will renew itself, deepening and enrichingboththeindividualandtheschool.

–Mary Robbins Hillard Head of School 1909-1932

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The Lantern

Editors in ChiefKeelin Sweeney ’12 Jillian Verzino ’12

Poetry EditorsKatherine Lawlor ’12

Bethany Simmonds ’12Riley Boeth ’13

Emily Johnson ’13Ailsa Slater ’13

Art EditorsAnna Eggert ’12Clara Keane ’12

Hannah Meduna ’12Sierra Blazer ’13Emily Morris ’13

Liv Burns ’14Andie Dahl ’14

Hannah Hudson ’14

AdvisorsRich Beebe

Bruce CoffinSara Poskas

Photography ConsultantMichael Gallagher

May 2012Westover School

Middlebury, Connecticut

Cover Image by Clara Keane ’12Title Page and End Page Images by Andie Dahl ’14

Page 2 Lantern Image by Ji Won Park ’11

Volume CIII

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PoetrySlash and Burn Tightrope WalkerMarilyn MonroeFatality Stops ByDaylight FadingWind HorsesThe ViewerSarahThe Seawife’s CurtainsGingko TreeThis SeptemberDaybreakKazakhstanSundayA Last ApologyRoad TripLast OrdersCaviMotherLove Is a DreamChristina’s WorldMy GrandmotherAre You Still Smoking?Rainy Afternoon in SaigonChumMemoirs of a ClichéViolinLetters to a PlebeTo The Great RiverSquallsA Blown MuseFuneralDeer

Riley Boeth ’13Alexandra Pape ’12Emily Johnson ’13Charlotte Forcht ’12Bethany Simmonds ’12Tenzin Lama ’12Anna Eggert ’12Bethany Simmonds ’12Ailsa Slater ’13Tam Nguyen ’12Jillian Verzino ’12Nadia Gribkova ’14Kira Hunter ’14Alexandra Pape ’12Riley Boeth ’13Emily Johnson ’13Anna Eggert ’12Alexandra Pape ’12Sunah Hong ’13Katherine Lawlor ’12Jillian Verzino ’12Myrna Cox ’14Anna Chahuneau ’14Tam Nguyen ’12Yike Wang ’14Marianna Mead ’13Chae Uhm ’13Cristina Pretto ’12Yi Xuan Chi ’13Jillian Verzino ’12Anna Eggert ’12Lizzy MacDougall ’14Alexandra Pape ’12

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ArtworkPhotographs

Alexandra Pape ’12Hannah Webster ’12Hannah Meduna ’12Anna Eggert ’12 Qing Wang ’13Addis Fouche-Channer ’13 Emily Morris ’12Alisa Tiong ’13Hannah Meduna ’12Yi Xuan Chi ’13Olivia Spadola ’13 Yi Xuan Chi ’13Ianna Wechter ’12Ginelle van Tartwijk ’12

Paintings

Clara Keane ’12Sunah Hong ’13

Needle ArtsKeelin Sweeney ’12

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Drawings

Jessica You ’15Jillian Verzino ’12Hannah Hudson ’14Jillian Verzino ’12Eunice Oh ’14Tam Nguyen ’12Jessica You ’15Laura-Delight van Tartwijk ’14Addie Pates ’15Hannah Hudson ’14Clara Keane ’12

Ceramics

Kira Hunter ’14Hannah Clark ’12Sierra Blazer ’13Yike Wang ’14Katie Solley ’13Hayley Choi ’13Melissa Hall ’12

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Clara Keane ’12Oil Painting

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SLASH AND BURN(For Justin Quinn)

Before you left, I could have swornYou snapped your calloused fingersAnd burst to flame and ember That rose through the thick air together To bring on darkness once the ash turned cold.

Instead of falling into rabbit holesWith no thought of consequence,I should have painted the apartmentsWhere I’d lived alone the same shade of yellowAnd spent years watching sunflowers gaze eastwardAnd apple trees grow heavy in October’s chillOutside my long French windows.

But had I wasted all that time in caution,I would have never seen you coming forthIn your state of disarrayTo hand me a half-smoked cigaretteAnd kiss my lips to stain them darkAnd murmur your breathy promisesInto the hollow of my collarbone.

—Riley Boeth ’13

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Jessica You ’15Pencil Drawing

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Alexandra Pape ’12Digital Composite Print

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TIGHTROPE WALKER

In the nameless towns along this valley,we pitch our red and gold tents,drinking the shouts and the applause.

The ringleader has grown fat,and the old lion naps in his cage.Brutus, the fire eater, and I sit by the open door of the train car,watching house lights streambelow us like tumbling meteors.

Hearing the snores of the clownspiled in the corner, having nursed their gins goodnight, I imagine that now the tiger is lounging,swinging her tail like a pendulum,remembering the hot jungle haze.

A sliver of a moon flashesbetween trees, and it’s as ifmy rope is right before me.It’s like walking the cliff’s edge in Colorado, desert winds runningup the mountains —I have had a taste of flying up there, I can do no wrong.

—Alexandra Pape ’12

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MARILYN MONROE

You’re the fragile shadow entering the roombehind the bubbly blonde signing autographsfor a mass of people declaring their loveto a woman they really don’t know.Again, a new man has sold you his liesin his Waldorf-Astoria suite,and you’re sucked in—like the tornado that hit your old townyou hadn’t even heard about.You blame the past few yearsand the day you said, “Let’s leave this place”and then drowned in a bottlebefore shattering it to toast the endof another night. Tell me, how does it feelto keep walking on broken glass?

—Emily Johnson ’13

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Hannah Webster ’12Digital Composite Print

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Hannah Meduna ’12Silver Gelatin Print

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FATALITY STOPS BY(For Dorianne Laux)

Fatality comes to me again, a girlIn a flowing, ocean-blue gown.It’s not so bleak, she whispers,Not like you were told, all gloomAnd solitude. There are bellsAnd the salty smell of the sea, and each eveningThe foaming waves tumble onto the shore,But they always draw back before morningWhen I climb into a small white hammockTo lie above a field of violets and listenTo the whispers of mortals and sense their spirit,She declares, breathing a fragile sigh,Especially when they weep and when they begin to singAbout heartache and lossTo the frost-coated apple blossoms.

—Charlotte Forcht ’12

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DAYLIGHT FADING

Your pupil dilates and shrinks like a rock Bullied by a swelling current.I swam there.The water smacks the gray stone,The spray floats like mosquitos above a puddleBefore it falls and sticks to my face.I lick the dried salt from my lips,Inhale the stench of seaweed and snails.

The night smells like cold marble, And I remember knocking on your front door:Harriet Conley used to sunbathe nudeIn back of your house on Baker Street,And I quit baseball to sit gawking out your window,Hidden under dinosaur covers, thinking of pickup lines:“Did it hurt... when you fell from heaven?”

I remember you dodging grandparentsOn your way up the escalator,Your father, “The Doctor,” chasing after you, cursing,Naming all of the toys that you would never see againAnd Harriet cheering you on.We googled “lunatic dad at the mall” that nightTo hear him yell cotton-headed ninny muggins,And to see the crooked-toothed smile Of glee that bewildered our imaginations.We were as innocent as burglars.

We walked over rapids,Argued with our pets,And bathed in hot chocolate.Biff always ate all the marshmallows.Yet night will bring the mouse’s squeal,The owls’ eerie hoot and the child’s sobs,Me duele tanto, me duele tanto.The walls wrap four arms around him,And the stuffed cow whispers bedtime storiesOf a mother in a remote tower waitingFor her son to sail across some dark river.Oh, the child already departingCloses his eyes as the sea after a tempestLulls, and waves fall yawning on the sand. —Bethany Simmonds ’12

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Jill Verzino ’12Ink Drawing

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Kira Hunter ’14Coil Pots

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WIND HORSES

The sheer flags dipped in runny dyeand prayers for the windwhip like Marwari flying steedsfrom their Banyan tree branchesas the wild green grasses miles belowlie hushed, the thick mountains riseinto the gradient blue, the silken clouds.In white shirt and Khakisyou stand near the bluffand gaze toward the valley with its humble farms and fresh corn huskssizzling outside every rounded hut.If you had known then that the viewwould not go on like this forever,that the straw-roofed houses, sparse on the plateausrippling with every gust, would one day disappear,would you, I wonder, have stared at the village wivesas their sickles, sweep after swing,carved into the reeds of their rice fields,and their red saris gathered and their bangles glimmered, for just a second longer?

—Tenzin Lama ’12

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THE VIEWER

Do I have to remove my clothingso that I can standcontoured like a sugar maple after a hurricane,cold and chafed from the lashing windsand now bare of my orange leafy coat?Must my naked self gleam as if under a single ray of sunlightamong other deciduous treesdisrobed in autumnas scheduled, rather than by demand?Keep staring at me, why don’t you,my slender girth, my calvesso carefully etched long for your approval.Give me the dignity to turn awayfrom your appraising glare.Beauty is to be presented, offered,not exposed to be seen by your cultured eyes, so eagerto distort me, shape meto some classic measureand make me seem too slender, too tallfor your harsh reflective glasshanging on my wall.

—Anna Eggert ’12

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Anna Eggert ’12Digital Composite Print

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Sunah Hong ’13Oil Painting

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SARAH

I found your card of different colored sticky notesSigned “Your BFF” in a drawer in my closet,And we were once again in your family’s blue station wagon,Spilling out our lunch bags on the seat, Peeling back the skin of my grapes to make eyeballs,And telling your mother about our dayOf playing bloody Mary in the girl’s bathroomAnd of the boys cheating during freeze tag.

We’d steal your brother’s sweatshirts,Fill the pockets with goldfish,Then skip outside to climb trees. I’d watch the bottom of your sneakers flit Through branches and light Until, glancing back at me,You slipped behind the sun’s sheer curtainTo wait out the years up there—Away from Spanish projects and first kisses,Where storms spark and explode,Sunsets ignite the horizon,Clouds parade the sky dropping silver confetti—And leave me still wonderingWho we’d be now if I had followed you.

—Bethany Simmonds ’12

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THE SEAWIFE’S CuRTAINS

Sweet, simple eyelet curtains,rolling in midnight’s bittersweet breezeand lit by the taunting moonlightuntil the coral dawn puts you to an uneasy rest,

your scattered embroidered eyesshifting to the cracks in the floorcaked with old sand and back out to the salted flowers, crimson and thirsty in the sun,

and trembling at night like a widow’s handwhen her old sea housebuckles and bends beneath the gale’s shattering windsscreaming between each shutter and tile,the shadows in the atticcowering among candle-waxed ironand wine-stained letters,

bring me your simple courageto move with easy graceamong the icy gustsand whitecapped wavesbeating the senseless shore,the sea-salt cold stealing all traces of spring.

—Ailsa Slater ’13

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Qing Wang ’13Platinum Print

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Hannah Clark ’12Coil Pot

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GINGkO TREE

That lone gingko treein the middle of the meadowfeels tired, lonely.It splashes its gold against a pewter sky,its branches hungby a puppet’s stringslike the effigyof a sinnerwith his arms outstretched, feet dug into the ground.But the leaves with the sunlighttremble their surfaceslike butterflies’ wingsfreed from all of that, numerous, heavenly,a tenuous link for a creature seeking salvation.

—Tam Nguyen ’12

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THIS SEPTEMBER

It’s not even October, and the temperatureis already dropping, so much soI turned on the heat tonight.No one’s home, again,just the crickets, the spitting of the radiator,and me wishing Baker were still around so I could sit with him on that itchy rugand pull clumps of shedding hairoff his coat to leave on the floorin a pile to tick Mom off.Come home because…I miss you,though I’ll deny it if you ever repeat that.I’m wishing I’d taken advantageof those times you asked meto play video games, and I’d give anythingfor the laughs of a win,the suspense of competition,the anger of a loss, in which I’d throwthe controller down to hit the flooras hard as it just hit methat this is it:no more autumn nights at home together,shutters banging in the quickening windand leaves fluttering off the front yard oak to drop with sharp turns in their pathsand touch the ground running,as though not realizing their time togetherwas only as long as the fall,and when the season changed it was timeto move on, to be its own, and decay.

—Jillian Verzino ’12

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Addis Fouche-Channer ’13Digital Composite Print

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Sierra Blazer ’13Coil Pot

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DAYBREAK

Why did the sun come up today?To burn all the shadows down, flicking the foggy blankets offthe sleepy, wild fieldsand, moving rashly, ruthlesslyas a legion of light, it spares the crowns of trees from its long beamso thoroughly edged in dark, then breaks into the housewhere it ransacks all the dreamsthat hide themselves in the gloomof neglected corners.It shows up all the cracks in the wallsand in the rough desk surface,as in our ideas about the future, evaporating all the midnightvisions, all our naïve plans,and here you are, alone in empty rooms,with no illusions,as if you were nakedat the moment of daybreak. —Nadia Gribkova ’14

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KAZAKHSTAN

The wrinkled faces of old womenShopping for vegetablesIn midwinter bob in and out of sightAs I dangle a bag of tomatoesAnd slimy noodlesFrom my right handAnd pay the vendor with my left.The snow falls for the fourth timeThis week to weakenThe dull Soviet colorsShrouding everything in gray and white.The naked trees shiver in the windsAnd divide the landscape,And I can almost taste the metallic tangOf the small hard applesThat grow in the short summerWhen the sun is ripe and the groundIs soggy. But today the coal smogSits heavier than the fursThat drape the Kazakhs’ necks,And we eat slow-cooked pasta,Chicken that drips off the boneAnd mushy vegetables,Dishes easily made and easily heldTo our chests when the weatherIs like a coma snuffing out our sensesAnd leaving us stranded in a sea of forget.It is here that we are fated to loseOur hope for a better lifeSomewhere under the sun.

—Kira Hunter ’14

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Emily Morris ’13Digital Panoramic Print

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Yike Wang ’14Coil Pot

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SUNDAY

That morning was so cold I scraped frost off the windshield with a spatulaand watched my moist breath rise in our silver Honda.

Too early to drive without lights,but you were reluctant to scare awaythe marsh wrens balancing on cattailsrocking like frenzied pendulumsand a night heron sweeping in from the eastlike a whisper, heralding the periwinkle lightAlexander Lombardi, two summers ago,painted — a spring rain, a first kiss,and a sunrise contained in a dew drop.

Here, wrapped in a blue afghanon the hood of the car,will we have to wait longfor the spider’s webon the low sycamore branchto fill with trembling flamesand threaten to drop to the earthstill rousing itself from sleep?

— Alexandra Pape ’12

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A LAST APOLOGY

The moss that grows in the wake of this unwelcome nightCould never blur the memories we have or the pictures we took.Blame cold, blame wonder, blame curious footsteps in frozen air—But in the still frost of dark, we all know the war’s at fault.

The war stood tall to block the sun, commanding in its thorns,And broke our bones to shards. We could not have stopped it.And in the years coming, we hope you will forgive us, or forget usIf forgetting helps the gloom recede from your stained mind.

We did not mean for this to happen here.All the lies we told took control, And the stark white of our clean night was inked with misery.We have as much to do to heal, to breathe again.

Our polluted air is filled to the brim with scraps of boneAnd the salt of tears, as is yours.But one day this night will pull its fingers from your matted hair.We are sorry we were ever there.

—Riley Boeth ’13

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Hannah Hudson ’14Mixed Media

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Jillian Verzino ’12Colored Pencil Drawing

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ROAD TRIP

I had always said my palms were carved from the pattern of the roadsI’d need to travel for the rest of my life — eighteen years old, down Route 128

with the maps and Bible I threw out four exits behind me, chasing unfamiliar highways and picking up Dave, the bearded hitchhikerwho wanted only to preach what war was really like. His hair — the color of dry hay, like Nugget, the dog we owned when I was six, before Dad sent him away to live with another family —shook when we bent our heads at every bridge, waving at the folks below headed the opposite way,but still, in the wake of our silence, just heavy breathing, we spoke almost maturely, sensibly, with my hands on the wheel, his hands in his pockets. And for once, maybe it will feelas though I actually know the way the roads curve past the gas station where I broke the cap, past the church where he threw out his cigarette, past the railroads and dead ends,past the years and childish dreams tossed out the back windows to route me someday back where I began: at home,where all directions like lifelines come together.

—Emily Johnson ’13

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LAST ORDERS

Maps leading to campsitesAnd classified ads of airstreams Covered my grandfather’s intricate architectural draftsAnd unpaid tax statements withering on his desk.

A tattered L.L. Bean bagEmbroidered “Stuff” in royal blue threadSat by the door with three red polo shirtsAnd a paper-clipped stack of hundred dollar bills.

Messages in response to his search for a womanWho could clean and cook a casseroleCollected in his inbox among spam emailsHeadlined “You’re never too old to roam.”

The wired rotary phone above the kitchen sinkRang from widowed grandmothersHe met at Westover’s School’s grandparents dayWhere he introduced himself as “Howie the Hot Commodity.”

And as I sorted his belongings into piles—The abandoned ambitionsLeft scattered through the houseLike ghosts of an incomplete life—

I wondered if this is what he wanted:His maps burned for fire starters,His taxes paid and shredded,His calls left unanswered.

—Anna Eggert ’12

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Alisa Tiong ’13Cyanotype Print

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Hannah Meduna ’12Digital Photograph

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CAVI

Through the narrow streets of scarred stucco wallsLittle men balancing trays of fish on bicyclesTip their hats and salute with boisterous bon journos.The sun like an eavesdropping child peeksBehind a veil of misted mountains; church bells Clang as fishermen rub their tired eyesAnd turn to greet the morning.Oh Cavi, both new and familiar,In your musty harbors old menLinger to gossip and smokeLate into the afternoon.I smell the perfume of warm bread Wafting around a corner I have never turned,Its street sign faded, dingy, foreign.I am a stranger here,Embarrassed to be so full of wonderFor the marble fountainsAnd small cafes, smoke pouringFrom the beaded doorways.I want to become lost,To drift inconspicuously like a doveWandering between the jerking cartOf the village market, scattering feathersLike a trail of breadcrumbs across the square.

—Alexandra Pape ’12

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MOTHER

Where are you, Mother?Your acacia scent is so peachythat I want to mist myself in your redolenceand lie with you again,listening to your heartbeats saying“daugh-ter, daugh-ter”as if you only think about me.I would take your hands and feelyour palms calloused with some foldsfrom all the years of gardening cherry trees, pruning them every Saturdayand picking the most reddened and shiny fruitsto bake the greatest pies for me to tastethe warm abundance of your love.

From the other side of the world,I look out the window every nightbefore sleep onto dark fieldsof grasses bent by wind, my heartbeats crying“Moth-er, Moth-er,” and one lonely cricket chirpingthat there is one place for usand it is very far away.

—Sunah Hong ’13

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Yi Xuan Chi ’13Platinum Print

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Olivia Spadola ’13Digital Panoramic Print

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LOVE IS A DREAM

- the one when I’m sitting naked on the trapeze,cowering in the dancing spotlight,my feet numbed by heavy stareswhen music shushes the cell phones and fighting children,and the smell of popcorn is trapped in my nose.Love tastes like the first day of school, patting you on the back one minute,shoving you against the lockers the next,and suddenly I’m back in Clarke County High School gymtwiddling my thumbs, waiting for Tim Summerfieldto walk over and ask for this dancebecause I just can’t resist his topaz eyes and boyish grin,except his eyes weren’t really topaz.Boys like him play pickup basketball in the parkuntil the hoop gets lost in the dark,and drunken girls hide liquor in their dresses before piling into cars that drive by dinerswith neon “open” signs flickering like indecisive streetlights.And then on Monday he’d walk with such swag down the hallwaybecause he’s six-two and owns a letterman jacket.Summer lovin’ had me a blast,I’d imagine him singing on the top of the bleachers,the lithe cat of curiositystomping on my heart, making me wonderwhy I’m standing in the middle of the hallwayhaving fantasies of his kissing me in the rain.I was about as foolish as a squirrel,thinking one day he’d pick me up in his Mustang,and we’d walk together along mud trailsover wooded hills that once felt like mountains.Boardwalks leave splinters in our bare feetand the one thing we’re certain of is that we are uncertain of everything.Tu sei quello che stavo aspettando, he’ll whisper to me under the spring constellationsas if we weren’t two separate shadowson opposites sides of the yard, waitingfor some light to carry us to the center of the gardenand let the voltage of our fingertips kindle a sparkseen all across East Berryville.

—Katherine Lawlor ’12

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CHRISTINA’S WORLD

Her skin stretches over bones like vagrant breezes over wilting wildflowers.Slight and unnoticed, a wagon’s tracks trail past her, where a gray house blends with gray skies,and disappear just over the hill—there and gone, having missed her,like everyone else in the world.

It seems Wyeth had it right:we are most desolate when we lose a chanceto be taken away from ourselves—when a rickety cart rambles past with no response but a gasp of wind to tuck a dress under a leg and stick a loose strand to a lip,or when an evening’s bright moon glows over winter skinuntil familiar clouds cover nighttime warmth.Her world is the same as ours,but no one’s told her that.

—Jillian Verzino ’12

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Eunice Oh ’14Pencil Drawing

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Katie Solley ’13Coil Pot

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MY GRANDMOTHER

From the wooden swingunder the fat pine tree,I watch you in your county fair-winning garden,cutting black-eyed Susans for the tableand for the skinny glass vase on my dresser.When you stand up tall to ease your back,you seem grounded to me,like the old, rippling mountains behind you.A gusty wind tickles our field of wildflowers,ruffling the lupin, milkweed, and evening primrose,and I wonder how you keep your white curls so neatly tucked away in your yellow bonnetwhen my own hair is blown into knots.You slowly put each flower and your rusty scissorsinto your straw basketand gaze at your black catraising its haunches and swishing its tail at some grasshopper,prompting you to laugh and murmursomething I cannot hear. I swing back and forth,thinking I will be happy for a long while.

—Myrna Cox ’14

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ARE YOu STILL SMOkING?

Maybe you’re the liar,the impossible one, the adolescenthiding the Malibu behind his backor the mothercovering the sweat of her nights.Maybe it’s the smokethat slides into your lungsthat you love,blackening them, coughing your death,putting on the funeral mask,rising up from your grave,kissing the earth and the worms,kissing my feet.Oh yes, you are. Surrender finally:maybe I’m the one who teachesand you’re the one to cheat.I call on youas I call on the past.Tomorrow I will stop, I promise.

—Anna Chahuneau ’14

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Tam Nguyen ’12Charcoal and Chalk Drawing

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Jessica You ’15Ink Drawing

Laura-Delight van Tartwijk ’14Ink Drawing

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RAINY AFTERNOON IN SAIGON

The first raindrops splatterAgainst the verandaIn a fat crackleHushing street chattersAs if a volume knob Had been cranked counterclockwise.By the alley’s cornerThe woman who sells toysScrunches her eyesAt a lilting cloud and graspsHer wandsticks and slap bracelets.The moped scooters bellow,And rain beats on a manPiggybacking his daughter,Who chortles at the mudOn her sandals. Somewhere between shutteredRows of windowsAnd soaking pavements,Moments are up for grabsTo place inside pocketsWhen the afternoon brings a showerThat turns a scrambled street Into a metronome thumping Eight-beat measures And drums on flustered livesAn echo near that cadenceOf so many hearts.

—Tam Nguyen ’12

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CHUM

By accident, I found you in the very bottom of that redwood drawer:the fifth from the left in the second row,hair in bangs rezoned above sharp eyebrows.Even at this distance in time,your dark hazel eyes draw mine,as do the sunbeams, melted in the curvatureof your lips that flows into dimpleslike goblets of golden honey wine,sweet as you, my chum, the onewho slyly snuck into every film I made.

Remember Algebra One, our sixth periodof fourth grade when the teacher’s lectureslengthened the autumn afternoonbut you and I sat alone,reserving two seats by the window, staring at the maple treesburned by reckless sunsets, or exchanging dreams in whispers?Those secrets, once covered beneath your soft voice,perfume the air around,the fragrance of childhood preserved and distilled.

There I was, one of only two girlsin the back row, my hair fringed,long enough to be clipped under the hairpin,forehead exposed to the sunshine,glaring bravely out at this early summer,season of departure, of starting point, of terminus,as if we were the mathematical definitionof rays which suddenly turned practical:the same initial point but finally released,extended infinitely toward opposite directionsand never, never to meet again.

—Yike Wang ’14

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Addie Pates ’15Pencil Drawing

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Hayley Choi ’13Coil Pot

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MEMOIRS OF A CLICHÉ

Are we nothing more than overused expressions, discarded, a list of what not to write,what not to say, what not to do, our sandy tears in thought-balloons of comments dripping red, condemning the use of sunsets?

The sun is hackneyed when,beautiful, gorgeous, and awesome,clouds fluffing to join its ranks,it sets against an expanse of crimson ink.And skies, melancholy and knowing, face a bloody demisewhile wisps of chimney smokeare swept along by gentle breezes,and through blossoming meadowsbrooks murmur in crisp, cool air.

Autumn leaves should rustle and crunch beneath heavy steps,stars twinkle, eyes sparkle, and fires crackle.Yes — tears may fall, waves crash, noses smell,and chirping birds seek shelter from driving rain,but our hearts break because…becausein poems blinking stars have ceased to be amazing.

We cannot babble, or flicker, or hug or crash or reach.But clouds will continue to gather, the sun will set, and someone, somewhere, will be crying on a beach, there, in a poem, but not us.We’ll just be outlawed on posters, sliced and crumpled,blooming like scarlet roses in trashcans.

—Marianna Mead ’13

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VIOLIN

I never loved you, I guess, ever since you insinuated your sleek curvesinto my grade school classroom, your wooden elegance and shimmering stringsso out of place, and you shriekedthat day under the stage lights,calling attention to yourself,resenting my numb touch,refusing to sing Bach for meno matter how much I begged you.And I tried to get beyond your smooth veneerto be your friend or lover.

Then I abandoned you at lastand left you in that musty closethalf a globe away from where I amand began to miss your lovely voice.I asked you one last time, “Will you miss me?”and heard the silencewhen you couldn’t even answer.

—Chae Uhm ’13

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Yi Xuan Chi ’13Platinum Print

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Hannah Hudson ’14Charcoal and Chalk Drawing

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LETTERS TO A PLEBE

She wrote as thoughshe had no recollectionof what warm skin felt like, only the cool, sweaty handsthat pressed too firmlyon her frail paper,her handwritinga sad attempt at elegance,like a child struttingin her mother’s Sunday dress.

She wrote as thougheach line kept them attached,as if the structure of the scriptcould mask true brokenness. She scratched awaywhile the ink whimpered onto her canvas,muting the desperationheard when her wordswere spoken aloud.

She wrote as thoughthe distraction ofher nervous shiverwould never find the silencenecessary to fix her “M,”such an important letter:

Midshipman,

Maryland,

Miss you,

My sailor. —Cristina Pretto ’12

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TO THE GREAT RIVER

Washing the jagged shore,Rinsing sons after fathers,Eroding trophies, smoothing scarsFrom the days when sunsets plated the earth with goldIn the years when mountains braced the firmamentWith their spine.

Knee-deep in the slow current,The white-haired fisherman greets the yearsOf his growing age,Sloshing a jar of wineFor the new passages coming,For the epic legends fading.

—Yi Xuan Chi ’13

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Melissa Hall ’12Coil Pot and Thrown Mug

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Keelin Sweeney ’12Hand-Knit Sweater

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SQUALLS

The basketball pounding asphaltsounds spring before the robins do,and the wind hums in a pitchit can only reach when the sun splitsdense clouds to warm its lips.I abandon the flannel barn coat and head to the back yard,leaving the screen door ajar,and wait for a wet, black noseto nudge through the openingand lead the wiggling, shining Labradorout into gusts. They both encircle me,his short hairs tossing about in the swells.

Sometimes winter wispsfrom many years ago can be found,one scraggly end curled around a loose strip of bark, another glinting sparks of sunat me to catch my eyeand wave back and forth in April’s squalls as it once didmounted on that coat I used to believewould always keep him warm.

—Jillian Verzino ’12

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A BLOWN MUSE

I call on my museonly to hear the busy signal.Behind the coffee shop counterErin operates the computer,and over her lisp I can hear herspeak of the last boy who dumped her.Still I’m disconnected from the transformerbox of images as if a fuse has blown.Perhaps some disaster has broughtthe power line down, like an earthquakeor the snap and thud of a falling oak tree.She’s done preparing my caramel latterich with whole milkand frothing through the sipping slot.Maybe a short in the wiresbetween an impulse and me has left medisengaged and all Erin can tell meis that they should turn the tablesto face the counter — no strong currentthere to hit a breaker in the circuitand no rhyme or meter in the phone’s ringingor metaphor in the morning deliveryof sugar packets and paper ware.Muse, my electrician, hook me back up,get me out of the busy signal of this scribbling.

—Anna Eggert ’12

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Clara Keane ’12Charcoal Drawing

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Ianna Wechter ’12Digital Photograph

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FUNERAL

They wrap themselves in thick black woolAs if to drive away some bitter coldThat plays along their spines.They stand in rows,Watching the corpse,Which sings a song of freedomThat only a few can hear:No more pills,No more bad days,Nomoreforgottenchildren.

Out beyond this smoky incensed airOnly the smell of day liliesThat drifts in like the memory of a past summer,Subtle and alarming,And maybe when the petals wilt,The scent of new beginningsMight spread over the gravestones.

—Lizzy MacDougall ’14

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DEER

I dreamt I was a doewaiting at the edge of a clearing,and dried leaves were waveringlike flames on white birches.

It was as if the light of the world pooled within my strange eyesand I tensed, upon seeingyou in the tall grass.

In that momenteastward shadows stretchedacross a field speckled with cloverand mayweed. The frosty windcarried a thrush’s warbling,and I thought I would drownin that rippling sea before me.

Oh how I wanted to run backto my dark pines, sunlight blinkingon the mumbling brookand morning mistscurling around ancient ferns.

But my slender legswere frozen in the withering earthand I was struck by you, my heart tremblinglike the bow in your hands.

—Alexandra Pape ’12

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Ginelle van Tartwijk ’12Panoramic Print

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Poetry Awards

Smith College Poetry Prize for High School Girls in New England

Finalist: Riley Boeth ’13, “A Last Apology”

Connecticut Poetry Society Lynn DeCaro Poetry Contest

1st Prize: Chae Uhm ’13, “Violin”

2nd Prize: Anna Eggert ’12, “Last Orders”

Honorable Mentions: Riley Boeth ’13, “Slash and Burn”

Lizzy MacDougall ’14, “Funeral”

Connecticut Scholastic Poetry Awards

Silver Key, Poetry: Alexandra Pape ’12, “Postcard from Madison, Connecticut” “Cavi” “Deer”

Bethany Simmonds ’12, “Canada Geese” “Falling” “Frog”

Honorable Mention, Poetry: Hannah Meduna ’12, “Early June Nights” “Chelsea” “Stare Miasto Postcard” “Ravens”

Connecticut Young Writers Trust Competition

State Poetry Finalists: Bethany Simmonds ’12, “Daylight Fading”

Ailsa Slater ’13, “Seawife’s Curtains”

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Connecticut Scholastic Art Awards

Gold Key

Anna Eggert ’12, Photography Portfolio

Addis Fouche-Channer ’13, Bunny, Digital Composite Photograph

Hannah Hudson ’14, Mr. Smee, Pencil Drawing

Clara Keane ’12, Drawing/Painting Portfolio

Alexandra Pape ’12, Photography Portfolio

Hannah Webster ’12, Photography Portfolio

Silver Key

Hannah Meduna ’12, Chanel Shoes with Toaster, Digital Photograph

Emily Morris ’13, Roxbury Airport, Panoramic Photograph

Dana Smooke ’14, Taz, Pencil Drawing

Honorable Mention

Sierra Blazer ’13, Multi-Colored Coil Pot, Ceramics

Sunnah Hong ’13, Taped Memories, Painting

Eunice Oh ’14, Boxes, Pencil Drawing

Olivia Spadola ’13, Marching Band, Panoramic Photograph

Yike Wang ’14, Double Dipped Coil Pot, Ceramics

Art Awards

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