“Seasons” cover art by Lydia Wang

Spectrum is Detroit Country Day School’s literary magazine organized by Spectrum club members. As such, our goal is to represent the student body through creative writing.

This annual issue is the culmination of both club members’ and non-club members’ work. As a club, Spectrum offers student writers the opportunity to write, edit, or ponder poetry once a

week every Tuesday. We also have an insert in the school newspaper. An important aspect of the club is the encouraging

environment for students to produce their writing. Students explore the artistic process of writing with the aid of

staffers, the review of their writing, and the pride of published work.

Editors-in-Chief: Lydia Wang and Rachel Clephane

Associate Editors: Claire Wang, Jiwon Yun, Maggie Chen

Design Editor: Lydia Wang

Editorial Board:Lydia Wang

Rachel ClephaneClaire WangJiwon Yun

Maggie ChenMina Lee

Faculty Advisor: Mrs. Beverly Hannett-Price

Submissions are accepted year-round and can be sent to staff-ers and the faculty advisor Mrs. Hannett-Price by dropping off hard copies in room 130 or by emailing work to BPrice@dcds.edu. We accept all types of creative and non-fictional writing.

CoverFont: Papyrus

Paper: Card stockArtwork: Watercolor by Lydia WangEdited on Adobe Photoshop CS5.1

TypographyTitle page: Papyrus

Table of Contents: Tempus Sans ITCHeadlines: Imprint MT Shadow

Body: Imprint MT ShadowBy-lines: Tempus Sans ITCCredits: Tempus Sans ITC

DesignProgram: Adobe InDesign CS5.5

Paper StockCopy paper

PhotographyMs. Susan Lucas

Spectrum Literary Magazine

Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.

- Maya Angelou

Detroit Country Day School22305 West Thirteen Mile Road

Beverly Hills, MI 48025-4435

Headmaster: Mr. Glen ShillingUpper School Director: Mr. Tim Bearden

Phone: 248-646-7717Website: www.dcds.edu

Volume No. 44

“Sunflower Girl” page art by Lydia Wang

INTRODUCTION

Seasons [theme] 1“To Be True“ Lydia Wang & Rachel Clephane 2

SPRING

Spring Section Introduction 3

“A Common Odyssey” Mina Lee 4“An Open Letter...” Justin Graffa 5“Milk Dream” Claire Wang 6“The Moment” Tara Tang 8“Garden” Rachel Clephane 9“Mothers and Daughters” Yara Al-Nouri 10“My Dog” Justin Graffa 11“Rolling Down the Hill” Lydia Wang 12“Someone Else’s” Jema Fregene 13“Dissolving into the Atmosphere”Mina Lee 14“Broken” Tara Tang 16“Cusp of Spring” Jon Scott 17“Man” Nina Nakkash 18“Simply” [Excerpt] Tara Tang 20“To Love Oneself” Nina Nakkash 21“Love” Lydia Wang 22

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SUMMER

Summer Section Introduction 23

“That One Time a Jellyfish...” Yara Al-nouri 24“At Sea” Jon Scott 25“The Purge” Mina Lee 26“Sunset” Samina Saifee 27“The Wooden Chair” Karen Jiang 28“Eyes” Rachel Clephane 29“3 A.M. Subtweet” Justin Graffa 30“The Avenue” Jon Scott 32“Surrender” Tara Tang 33“A Valuable Life Lesson Learned” Katherine Kim 34“The Sirens” Karen Jiang 36“Fire Dance” Lydia Wang and Mina Lee 37“Transfixed” [Excerpt] Mina Lee 38“Just Some Hot Air” Justin Graffa 39“Far from Insignificant” Nina Nakkash 40“And the Chandelier Falls” Samina Saifee 41“Misunderstanding” Lydia Wang 42“Boy, I Love the South!” Jon Scott 44“A Poet’s Task” Dominique Nikolaidis 45

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

AUTUMN

Autumn Section Introduction 46

“Anticipation” Maggie Chen 47“Just to Exist” Nina Nakkash 48“Forever” Samina Saifee 49“Lindy” Claire Wang 50“The Play” Justin Graffa 52“In Ocean of My Subconscious” Nina Nakkash 54“Fall” Rachel Clephane 55“Slam Poetry” Justin Graffa 56“Cursed” Tara Tang 57“A Color of Coal” Claire Wang 58“Reality” Maggie Chen 60“The Storm” Samina Saifee 61“Dark” Rachel Clephane 62“Storm” Tara Tang 63“Alabaster” Claire Wang 64“To Eradic-” Sara Dassanayake 66“Stepping into Greatness” Chris Jackson 68“Wasted” Jema Fregene 70“Mother and Son” Tara Tang 71 “Digestion” Claire Wang 72“Alone” Kone Bowman 74“The Fire” Lydia Wang 75

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WINTER

Winter Section Introduction 76

“Reality” Jon Scott 77“Black Leaf Spots” Sara Dassanayake 78“Foreign Familiarity” Tara Tang 80“A Closed Rose” Rachel Clephane 81“Let Us Meet Again” Nina Nakkash 82“Anatomy of Love” Lydia Wang 83“Crimson” Maggie Chen 84“Schism of Life” Mina Lee 86“Untitled” Justin Graffa 87“Indefinite Space” Lydia Wang 88“Lotus Flakes” Karen Jiang 90“Asleep in Wax Dreams” Claire Wang 91“Sweet Thunderstorm” Maggie Chen 92“Silence” Lydia Wang 93“Ice Princess” Jiwon Yun 94

Letters from the Staff 96Credits 99

PICTURE CREDITS

Lydia Wang cover Taema Brinjikji 4 Tyler Jackson 5 Bobby DePollo 7 Rachel Clephane 9 Halie Conyers 11 Marah Brinjikji 13 Emily Herard 15 Abby Fisher 16 Halie Conyers 17 Sreesha Sivakumar 19 Angela Lee 20 Harout Wartesian 24 Josie Teachout 25 Neha Nayak 26 Darrel Davison 27 Leanna Schulte 29 Marilyn Smith 31 Darrel Davison 32 Shayna Mehta 35 Hannah Hansen 37 Henry Fu 39 Jessica Thomas 43 Emily Herard 44 Neha Nayak 45 Bobby DePollo 48 Hannah Hansen 49 Sonali Prasad 53 Hannah Hansen 55 Bhavna Guduguntla 56 Sydney Shanbrom 57 Hannah Hansen 59 Phil Kovalev 60 Keegan Haines 62 Marilyn Smith 65 Neha Nayak 67 Angela Lee 70 Hannah Hansen 73 Becky McGeorge 74 Hannah Hansen 75 Katie Mansour 77 Kayla Lee 79 Emily Herard 80 Marilyn Smith 81 Austin Santangelo 82 Helena Chen 83 Darrel Davison 85 Darrel Davison 86 Austin Santangelo 87 Austin Santangelo 89 Helena Chen 90 Maddie Friedman 94 Halie Conyers 95

SEASONS

Seasons, the theme of this 2014 Spectrum issue,

are a natural cycle in this world. Most may experi-

ence the seasons cycle from refreshing spring, through

sizzling summer, across windy autumn, into silent

yet majestic winter. However, depending on where

one lives, places exist where there are no seasons, and

depending on one’s perspective, a limited number of

seasons exist.

Seasons are relative. Spring is alive and beauti-

ful after a silent barren winter, and autumn explodes

in a farewell finale after an intense and steady summer.

Seasons can be a fitting representation of life; some-

times they transition smoothly from one to the next,

but there can also be abrupt shifts.

Here, we seek to explore the spectrum that exists

in the cycle of the four seasons. The spectrum of this

issue runs from spring through summer and autumn

to winter.

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Lydia Wang and Rachel Clephane

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TO BE TRUE

The darkness of your dreamsSurrounds your beam of hopeWhich attempts to shine feebly through the day

Comforts will occasionally sprinkle your soulThreading from humble soil up high,A balloon, worming towards the skySpraying rivulets of rainbow ribbons.

But the size of that dark cloud overtakesthis hope metamorphosizinginto an oval moon,

You push your cheek on your fist and tilt your headyour eyes half closed and tired of seeingseeing the crooked life you’ve placed yourself in

Replaying the videoWith characters acting in the shadowsCurses in disguiseSpoon-fed with ulterior pride.

Stairs lead to a painted muralOf heaven’s ajar and beautiful door…Though once you longed for black and white.

And no, you don’t want to be caught anymore.You don’t need beauty,the sweetthe silkthe lies.

SPRING

“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

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GROWTH

BEGINNINGS

RAIN

BLOOM

REFRESHING

REBIRTH

BLOSSOM

Mina Lee

A COMMON ODYSSEY

Embark on a journey dear friendHold your head up highNever stoop in your worriesFor that, will only bring you many ends.

Maintain faceStand steadfastIn the face of all that annoying surplusAnd plod headSoul pure.

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“Sea” by Taema Brinjikji

Justin Graffa

AN OPEN LETTER TO THIRTY-YEAR-OLD ME

Dear Thirty Year Old MeYou are double my ageYou probably look back on these days and laughLook at past me, you’ll sayHow silly and shortsighted I wasI’m much wiser now that I am an adultYou will say the same thingPerennially until you dieWell, you’re closer to death than meSo I win a hollow victoryYou’ve lived more than meBut I make the decisions for your lifeYour life depends on me and what I doA chain of events centering on meHow much can you live nowIs how much I lived thenWhen everything turns out okayRemember it was me who did itSo don’t assume that I am less.

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“African American” by Tyler Jackson

Claire Wang

MILK DREAM

I swear,on cold summer nights on Lake Manitobayou can spit arrows from between the gap in your two front teethand watch the clouds explode like frightened balloonsas you catch white lightning between your fingertips cackling and shrieking like young boys that play with tempests,drunk on dragon’s breath and molten hysteria.You can feel sprites and goblins breathing over your shoulder,crunch lemongrass between your teeth andexhale the nebulas of old stars,uttering new life into forgotten souls.

I swear this place is our home.Our home,where we tuck ourselves in at night with fiery green curtainsstirring beneath our chinsand stay up dreaming under dusty streamerswith hand-dipped bayberry wax candleswhose sleepy flames ripple with the tides.

I sit.A peppermint whisper escapes my lipsas I dip my palms into pearly depths of shadows that fill my plate.

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Claire Wang

I count…One, Two, Three.

Consider the aurora for a moment.

Silence.

Then I exhale your namein chilled raindropsand at last I emergefrom my milk dream.

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“Sensory Overload” by Puja Nair

“Tears” by Bobby DePollo

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THE MOMENT

I take a small sip of my Coke, listening to the popping of the bubbles and the low squeak of my gulp. Breathing out with content, a light smile alights my lips as a thin cloud of white escapes from between them and fades into the brisk air.

I pull my empty hand out of my jean pocket where it’s been digging, and slowly touch my fingertips together, feeling the coolness as contact is broken. I lift my arm up to the moon, squinting a little. My fingers stretch out and I tilt my head, observing the silhouette of the oddly-shaped structure I call my hand.

My eyes focus on the tip of my longest finger, ob-serving every detail as they trail down to the middle of the short length. I bend my fingers a little, watching the small joint. Then my eyes continue down, down to the knuckle and down to the back of my hand. Finally, to the wrist.

I hear an imaginary ticking of the clock as the digital numbers of my watch become clear in my vision. I whis-per to myself, ignoring the visible small puffs of breath, 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.

0.

All the numbers on the display change at once into a 00:00:00. The wind seems to blow a little harder. The air seems to feel a little colder. The moon seems to shine a little brighter.

And the world seems to feel a little more beautiful.

Tara Tang

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GARDEN

Piles of snow melting awayBare trees ready to start again

A green petal sprouts from the groundFollowed by another, then another

Sun rising to the top surrounded by blue skyShining over the growing petals

As the sun moves across the horizonA flower now sits in the place of what was nothing

Bursts of color all aroundA garden grows

Rachel Clephane

“Water Wading” by Marilyn Smith

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Yara Al-Nouri

MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS

when the sun streams in through the stained glass

and the light fractals shimmy in a measured pulse

I see my mother’s face on the belly of a teaspoon.

we stand in the kitchen watching as

stories spill out on the table

trading time like cards

the memories so vibrant,

their energy whistles louder

than the tea kettle’s staccato

there is a grace in what we struggle to bridge

she told me once

what parents try to give their children:

the embodied consciousness of youth

memories recollected in flowerpots

Sunday morning conversations don’t do much, I know

the moment transfixed in this stability

and a warm sweetness radiates out.

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MY DOG

My dog doesn’t know why he’s hereHe says hello who are you

He’s my best friendBut doesn’t even know my name

He doesn’t know his nameJust the sound of my voice

It means food and he loves me for my foodThe safety of the house I give him

For no reason at all in his eyesThe dog doesn’t know he will die

I doI think he will die before me

Even if he doesn’tHe wouldn’t know the difference

My absence means almost nothing to himBut his everything is me.

Justin Graffa

“Faded” by Halie Conyers

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ROLLING DOWN THE HILL

I remember,Our first slide down the steaming slope.Homey soil dabbled at our sweat-cleansed faces andHill stubble tickled my tender pudgyFingers clinging onto your cotton T-shirt SuspendedIn the syrupy air.

Hollow ethereal smoke began to whistle andSaltine cracker leaves gilded in your favorite colorsCavorted in the wafts of flaming candles that we boughtTo share between our earthy souls. Yet I hated those colorsUntil you told me you loved them.

And then the fuzzy white coat of the solitary caterpillarBegan to shed,Curling up within its own icy lace as did weUnder the bare arms of the hugging tree,Who sieved with dappled shadows the moon dust that glimmered, For a momentBut waned in the next.

Now the stars are shedding powdery tearsAsteroid dust that condenses inMy thirsty nostrilsAnd it all begins to run with the first drops down my cheek

As I roll down the hill with my grimy faceSinewy fingers slipping from The floating ghostYOU.

Lydia Wang

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SOMEONE ELSE’S

I feel green taking over my soul,Circulating throughout, plentiful the air.My heart crumbles at the sight of youAnd - her in the hallway - together.Tears want to come to my eyes,But I don’t let them show.I simply crack a joke and sighIn the green-blue air around me.Her - I don’t want to be her.Being anyone but myself is …Just simply short of impossible.I wish that I was yoursAnd you were mine.

Jema Fregene

“Blowfish” by Marah Brinjikji

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DISSOLVING INTO THE ATMOSPHERE

This was a city in which light had never shed its bril-liance for centuries, where people thus never felt sympa-thy. Somehow, the past, full of violent evil phenomena full of murders, stealing, cheating, betrayals, had completely sapped the world of its former brilliance.

The child criedpleading for helpYet the people simply looked pastThrough the childAs if he did not exist.

No one dared stoop to the baby “mongrel”For fear of contracting its disease and horrible state.Thus, the child clutched its tattered rags, and drew them about himShivering, Shuddering,

With each shudderSlivers of energyDissipated into the foul atmosphere about him.

Every day,The child grew cold-heartedAn ever increasing arch in his browA flicker of menace growing stronger in his dark-pool eyes.

Occasionally, in the silent night,When the bague dark figures of the homelessWould roam about the deserted, musty streets,The child would emit a high-pitched whine.

Mina Lee

The tragic fall of man from his innocence. Fraught with agonyPiercing the night.Suddenly, blurs of sunlight began to leak from the skySlowly, golden patches of light suffused through the dark

Children in homes peeked up from the windowsCuriously at this strange phenomenonHaving never seen light in their lives

A mournful mother of pale complexionRaised her head slowlyTowards her window,Her mouth slightly agape,And a tearRolled down her cheek.

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Mina Lee

“Field” by Emily Herard

BROKEN

I feel broken. The fragile shards of life that are gathered at my feet. More and more trail behind as I step with cautious

feet along the path decorated with harsh, beautiful glass.

I look behind and feel lost at the sight of shattered dreams and withered hopes. But I feel overwhelming longing and trek back to the beginning, the beginning of everything. I find resolve as I bend down and extend a shaky hand to

the seemingly untouchable colors.

Slowly, I wrap thin fingers around dimming and darken-ing memories. I pick up the pieces of myself.

And I feel strong again.

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Tara Tang

“Blue View” by Abby Fisher

THE CUSP OF SPRING

Winter takes it last fighting swings,Spring descends on long rested wings.Heavy coats are swapped for sleek shirtsPlants resume their growth in swift spurts.

The colors transfer, cool to warm,The cycle of cold is now torn.The Earth initiates its tiltAnd the cold air begins to wilt.

Languid beings find new vigor.Ice on water begins to wither.The bees are as busy as ever.Their time of rest is now severed.

The time indoors is now halved.The inhabitants shout, jump, and laugh.Sweet smells and beautiful sunsets.Spring is arriving, soon to be met.

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Jon Scott

“Glare” by Halie Conyers

MAN

He lifts his right hand,Forms a fist,

knocks it into another’s cheek,And walks away with a boastful expression.

He isTroubled at mind,

Weak at heart,Running from troubles,

A coward.

He is troubled at mind,For he disregards his responsibilities and the rules im-

planted within this world.

He is weak at heart,For he refuses to face his challenges,

unable to make himself oneCapable of protecting the people most dear to him.

He is full of hypocrisy, attempting to hide behind his mus-cular exterior.

One day,When that little boy ceases running,

Turns around to face his future,Fights his psychological and spiritual battle,

is able to hold his world’s worries on his shoulders,He is a young gentleman.

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Nina Nakkash

When he can apply his battlesTo the civilized wilderness,

And can cherish and shield his loved ones,Then he is a man,

Strong inbody, mind, and heart.

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Nina Nakkash

“Bob Marley” by Sreesha Sivakumar

SIMPLY [EXCERPT]

We leap into each other’s arms,Tears streaming down our cheeks.

No words are spoken;What happened to us

Doesn’t need to be told to be known

The world might be against us,But we have each other.

Simply thatIs enough.

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Tara Tang

“Puppies” by Angela Lee

TO LOVE ONESELF [EXCERPT]

Inhaling the lightly fragmented air,

my senses are lifted,

tranquil, content, blissful.

I step back to absorb the full sight.

Petal skirts move to wind’s beat,

shining under Mother Nature’s sun-kissed rays,

flowers bellow and dance in the breeze,

filling the air with their light scented sweetness,

enjoying what little time they have left before winter.

thriving purely, exquisitely, exclusively…

I take Nature’s lesson and lock it in my heart.

Everyone has something of beauty,

a certain splendor, no doubt.

I may even have something magnificent about me, too.

Perhaps the time has come for me to see the splendor in

myself.

For it is important

To love oneself.

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Nina Nakkash

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LOVE

It’s the endless hours staring atSpring buds pursing their lipsWaiting for the moment they unfurl to kiss the thick fertile air…No.It’s the adrenaline of a fish wagging her tailFast Faster Faster!Until she tears through the surface tension out the tiny fish- bowlGurgling with mirth into the deep embrace of the vast gen-erous ocean,No…It’s the transparent tints of hand-crafted glassware creepingStealthily across the white cotton curtainsBillowing the rhythm of our breathing,Yours deepMine hurried and shallow…But it’s more, there’s more!It’s the thick trunk of the old oak tree in my backyardStill growingIts young leaves tickling my cheek as I press it tightlyAgainst the bark and I hug and squeeze and never want toLet it go,It will be forever mine, I tell myself,You forever mineAnd all this I feel, all this I wantAll this I dream of, I dream ofOpening my arms wideWith every secret glance I flickerAt you.

Lydia Wang

SUMMER

“Summer has fi lled her veins with light and her heart is washed with noon.”― C. Day Lewis

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MYSTERY

ENERGY

WARMTHTURMOIL

CONFIDENCE

HAPPINESS

FREEDOM

THAT ONE TIME A JELLYFISH STUNG ME

A stingthe electrician floats away

the victim paralyzed with pain

The shot, a shock, vibrates through a left legAngry welts grip around a red thigh

Braised skin reads like Braille

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Yara Al-Nouri

“Seahorse” by Harout Wartesian

AT SEA

The eternal swayThe constant compositionBaby blue, navy, and whiteAlways.Forever.Day after day,

I remember the docksSailors and Shipbuilders The moist mahogany woodThe commonplace British sailors Intermingled with the French, Dutch, and the occasional Moor.The conversation, the art of the dealVariation.

Redundancy is the theme of the ocean.A continual refrain played by an immortal chorus.The rocking rhythm of the abyss,Blue and white the only colors.The same men morning, noon, and night.

“Mermaid” by Josie Teachout

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Jon Scott

THE PURGE

Pureness burst through the seamSeeps through translucent flap

Streams, sputters,Into a gushing stream

And engulfs the frontier Whisking away the animals which graze

Which treadWhich soarWho fight.

Finally.There could be peace.

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Mina Lee

“Indian Dance” by Neha Nayak

SUNSET

She walked into the sunset, andShut the door on the rough ends.She turned away from those Calling her name, and those,Whispering it under their breaths.

She walked into the sunset, and, Away from all the sorrowful deaths.She turned away from the cheering stands and The rioters calling her out at every simple use of words.

She walked into the sunset, andWatched the moon slowly rise,To shine. The water lapsed aroundHer feet, pulling her in with the tide,As the moonlight went out of her sight.

Samina Saifee

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“Inverted Chaos” by Darrel Davison

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THE WOODEN CHAIR

Over skyscrapers, the smoke travels,With haste, they go, They climb onto another mountain side, Colliding with fresh pines of Another species.Unlike Manhattan,Spoleto is a small wooden chair,Where I sit and writeOf many fallacies.

Every morning, I walkIts narrow, neat streets.Admiring the floral Villas, the steep greenYellow dirty slopes,And the sunflower fields,Veiling beauty In absence.Voices overflow the boutiques lining the alleyway,A viola plays, though faint,Echoing joyful jubiloso notes of Con te Partiro!

A little girl dressed in blue, the tinted glass window, the old shop keeper,Stare at an ever more bizarre creature,Shedding its nativity against a corridor. Unlike Roma,Unlike Firenze, The quiet night breeze,Suits me without flaw, Like the many roses encompassing years of bents and dents.

Karen Jiang

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EYES

Squinty eyes moving left and right

Taking in the glow from the sun

Radiating a weaker hue

Still stronger than the rest

Observing

White piles as far as the eye can see

Weighing down the arms of pine

Suffocating the ground

Brisk air swooshing down the path

Now unrecognizable

Lost in its own direction

Eyes twitching

Remembering the path.

Rachel Clephane

“Eye” by Leanna Schulte

3 A.M. SUBTWEET

Missed calls from MomRecents to my exEven though I deleted her numberBut it’s hard to forgetWhen you burn a hole in your mindWith a cigarette She cried when I answeredTo my surpriseI’m the last one standingI’m the Lord of the Flies Love today is less than 3 It’s down to a scienceMath equations for what I’m thinkingI love you in my phoneBut never out loud“I love you” saved to draftsBecause I don’t like the soundIt’s all too much and it’s all too fastLast time I spoke to you was at the party and you were drunkFeelings bottled inside but lately it’s run amok I don’t know how to end thisExactly like our relationshipParting with one last kissA captain going down with the ship Never could I leave youGonna love you as much as I can Give you all I gotYou never leave me eitherUp to the sky like fireworksNever can I say no Gonna give you everything

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Justin Graffa

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LET ME TAKE YOU OUT

YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL

DOWN SOUTH WE STARTED GOING BUT

NEVER COULD I DUMP YOU

GONNA GO ALL THE WAY

TURN LEFT WHEN I TWIST

AROUND TO YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE

AND I WOULD EVEN LOVE YOU IF YOU WERE IN A DESERT DROUGHT UNQUENCHABLE THIRST

YOU ARE MY RAIN

Justin Graffa

“Splash” by Marilyn Smith

THE AVENUE

A unifier,A divider,An ancestor of American Motoring.An All-American Road,An Automotive Heritage Trail,A namesake to the chief,Augustus Woodward, the great judge.

A carrier of carriages and cars for centuries,The platform for classic cruising in the summer,And the passageway for commuters year-round.

The ground zero of motoring,The birth-place of the assembly line. Decade after decade,A definer of Detroit.

“Blind Eyed Angel” by Darrel Davison

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Jon Scott

SURRENDER

They’re beautiful. The words flow together and they

paint pictures and they prick at my emotions and they

whirl in my mind. My head hurts and my eyes cry and my

heart breaks but I am still here, reading.

I’m reading her words and I’m experiencing them

because they are worth experiencing. They are worth feel-

ing. Her anguish is tangible and her fear is relatable, and I

am captured.

But she says she is giving up. And I am hoping,

praying, wishing she doesn’t.

She needs help and I just wish I could give it to her.

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Tara Tang

A VALUABLE LIFE LESSON LEARNED

In the summer, roses bloom in the backyard of my grandparents’ Georgia home. They turn from frail, timid buds into burning red blossoms in the course of months; the harsh changes of nature change them so. My grand-mother reminds me of them. Over the years she has de-veloped such patience and inner strength that no one I know can match her independent spirit. Her husband, my late grandfather, had always been the original caretaker; he fixed her house, managed their finances, and drove his wife to church and the grocery store. However, when his health began to decline, my grandmother could no longer be dependent on him for support. For a few months she seemed to live in an alien world and faced many new and difficult challenges that come with immediate and forced independence, but through those ordeals she has taught me a great deal. It witnessed first-hand how loving a per-son can be while caring for the people they love and how fortified and emboldened someone’s character can become in the process. Independence sometimes comes at a mental and physical cost. Finding herself now alone in the world without a sole caretaker, my grandmother had to change her lifestyle in a drastic way. I got to see her change over the course of the last summer before my grandfather’s death. She became my grandfather’s eyes when he could no longer see, learned to manage her own finances, and tended to my grandfather’s health needs every hour of the day. The work became non-stop for her as the months progressed, yet with every new hurdle she faced, she grew a little bit stronger and more patient than before.

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4

Katherine Kim

Love and patience can bloom in the midst of such suffering, sorrow, and difficulty. My grandmother inspired the perseverance in me by her actions during those dark, chaotic days so that, like her, I will be prepared to face whatever changes or hurdles nature throws in my path.

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Katherine Kim

“Emotion Has No Age” by Shayna Mehta

THE SIRENS

I press a button.

Water springs out of the faucet,

Through a child’s uncouth mouth.

It climbs down the drain,

Meeting dreams,

A cup of black milk,

Spills into

Pipe.

Water springs out of the faucet,

Racing down the

Vortex,

Figures emerge,

Dancing around a fire,

The last of which melts into

Absence.

Water springs out of the faucet,

This time.

It comes closer and closer until -- I

Find myself dripping

Constellations.

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Karen Jiang

FIRE DANCE

Tissue paper flame

Spark of passion flows through veins

Close your eyes and caress the sky

Singe away your doubts.

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Lydia Wang and Mina Lee

“Swirl” by Hannah Hansen

TRANSFIXED [EXCERPT]

The curtainHeavingSighingHeavingSighing

At first you recoilAdmonishing yourselfTo seize your busy train of thoughtAnd attend to responsibilities

Yet…The warm golden pool of sunlight Splashes on the window sillAnd swells into a poolOn the floor

Gentle breezeSkirts aboutThe chafed wooden floorboards

The brightness and splendor of it allBecomes bored into your eyes

SlowlyYou will yield yourselfTo your surroundings And let it engulf youWhole.

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Mina Lee

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Justin Graffa

JUST SOME HOT AIR

You can’t take a shower and wash off the shame

Exfoliate your name, game, flame, and fame

Leave when everything goes down the drain

And you’re just a naked body

in front of steamed up mirrors

You can’t see who you are, what you were,

and who you will be

Because the steam that blocks your eyes is just

hot air people blow.

“Flying High” by Henry Fu

40___

SPECTRUM

2014

Nina Nakkash

FAR FROM INSIGNIFICANT

Declare me unworthy and unable,‘til your fractured, bitter heart becomes satisfied.

I know who I am.I dare say --I know who you are better than you know yourself.

I can see right through your plastic exterior, through your heart’s barriersdesperately attempting to coverthe only two feelings within your indifferent, emotionless heart:fear and greed.

I have a heart rich with emotions, Eyes that clearly define myself, and identify what you are.

So call me what you wish,Just know I am far from here,Thinking of the future,Where I do great things any worthy, significant person would be doingbecause I am small,but I am far from insignificant.

AND THE CHANDELIER FALLS

Enclosed by four walls.No where to go, hiding in this room.

She can’t return to the world beneath her feet.She can’t face what she’s always known.

She has to find an escape,So she begins to write.

Her emotions pour out of her on paper,Her floating thoughts have suddenly become concrete.

She hides them away, and returns to them,Every now and then,

But she can’t return to the world beneath her feet.She can’t face what she’s always known.

The yelling, the screaming, the noises, Continue to bash the fragile walls.

It becomes too much, She must leave the room that entraps her.

She goes to the world that was beneath her feet,Where her voice is never heard.

The chandelier is crumbling, everything, Is coming down.

But she remains where she is.She is crushed, by the shards of broken glass,

She bleeds out, but no one has anything,Anything at all to heal her wounds.

41___

SPECTRUM

2014

Samina Saifee

MISUNDERSTANDING

A crack formed between usA nick as we stared at each other, not noticing.I talked to you, you drew awayTurning to other things on your side,none of which you shared with meYet mine straddled the crevice between usI called to you, you repliedBut your back started waxing with the high tides,Eroding the boggy soil we stood onI watched the sand trickle down, but I pretended theCrevice was still barely noticeableI smiled at you, my smile barely covering my dissolving ruinsas your silence prevailed, and I was sinking into the soil.Every day the cycle kept turning until graduallythe leap between us wore into a canyon I screamed to you, but your silence and indifference overpowered my echoReverberating with the beds of fossil ancestors trappedThe sand was at my chin, and I let everything of mineStay on your side But I was sinking, still sinking

As the sediment enveloped my nose, I flailed butSomething in my headSnappedSuddenly I’m not embedded anymore, I’m standing free,Staring at your miniscule form and I will my soul to fly back to me

42___

SPECTRUM

2014

Lydia Wang

I’ve turned my back as well now, walking away strongAs the canyon prevails, bigger than everFilled with your screaming silence.

But is this all a misunderstanding?

43___

SPECTRUM

2014

Lydia Wang

“Division” by Jessica Thomas

BOY, I LOVE THE SOUTH!

Tangled towers of wheat and grass.As relaxing as a sip from an ole pocket flask.The chickens strut and cluck with the usual sass. The men wake up, always prepared for the day’s tasks.

A certain gentilityPrevailing proclivities Hidden hostilities Yet a place quite capable of tranquility.

The home of less traveled routesInterminable hoots and shoutsA place of the occasional drought.But boy, I love the South!

44___

SPECTRUM

2014

Jon Scott

“Escape” by Emily Herard

A POET’S TASK

A poet sits alone at nightTo think what can’t be though and onceShe can -- or so she thought she could --Reduce such sharp and pointed edge To rolling wave and rhyming word.

‘Tween dusk and dawn she does her work To grasp for moment’s worth, To sigh and breathe and hold it close, To give what ne’er has had a host A quiet place to draw its breath.

It chokes! It chokes on empty air:The air itself a harsh refrainOf whirling winds. An empty spaceExists cannot she fill at all?And blow, escape, and think we ought:The word, at once itself, is naught.

45___

SPECTRUM

2014

Dominique Nikolaidis

“Giggle” by Neha Nayak

46___

SPECTRUM

2014

AUTUMN

“The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fi xed

to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward.”

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

INTENSITY

RIPE

EAGERNESS

ACCEPTANCE

DETERMINATION

DIVERSITY

47___

SPECTRUM

2014

Maggie Chen

ANTICIPATION

Just the trickles of red licorice vinesMelting to trail like rivulets on skin.Head turn, pupils dilated in fearCareful.A swinging silver pendulum of fate,Back and forth, back and forth.Cracked slivers of greenfell in time with the hourglass.A lull for every flinch, every minuteMove, don’t dare such a feat.Don’t sleep.But Gravity, the oblivious wicked child,Gently begs for your body as the angelsDrag you upwards by your toes.The prickles of steel needles in your skin,The burning fire roasting you inside.The puffs of white breaths fog your eyes and youSlowly, slowly, drown in ice water.Wait! No!Somewhere in front of your eyelids, a lone wolfHowls and mourns you,Like a B-grade tragedy. As you fallDown, Down,Down.

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SPECTRUM

2014

Nina Nakkash

JUST TO EXIST

I shield myself from your obliteration.You, who conducts the wind to slash in my face.Whose eyes blaze with degrading animositywith unsatisfied, egotistical wishes.

But my face stands strong,I refuse to bow.I will keep my high upon my small shoulders.I continue down this pathin spite of you.You may tear my soul,but I have my passion and pride.

One day, our paths will be split for eternity.So I can simply be an existence of my own choosing.Yes, just to be,Nothing more,Nothing less.

“Mask” by Bobby DePollo

49___

SPECTRUM

2014

Samina Saifee

FOREVER

Continuing on a blissful path,The deep memories overtaking every sporadic thought.Nothing lingers in this place,It is far too small and everchanging.Nothing here lasts forever.

It seems like an eternity, butWhen will we truly savvy the passage,Of all things and everything.When will we grasp the distressing truth that,Nothing here lasts forever.

What should the present ever mean to us?For the past is out of tune,And what is to come seems so far away.We forget so easily and so readily that,Nothing here lasts forever.

“Neptune’s Muse” by Hannah Hansen

LINDY

I remember the soft creases around her eyes, shifting gently as her voice danced over the opaline craters of Change’e’s moon. She read with Ma’s frankincense and Daddy’s foul cigarettes choking the air until I would press my nose into her sweater and breathe mellow freedom and sweet laven-der.

I used to point to the liver sports on her hands and ask where they came from. Lindy just cackled. “They’re beau-ty spots,” she would say. I looked at my own hands, small and male and nail-bitten. “One day you’ll bloom and taste the stars,” she continued, clasping my hands in her own. “Every night the moon will bend to kiss you goodnight and the planets will turn to curtsy. You’ll be a woman. Then you’ll have beauty spots, too.”

One night old Lindy paused mid-speech and closed her eyes. Her hands stopped moving. Her voice stopped waltz-ing in its high-pitched ballroom. I sat staring, waiting for more, but the song had ended. The air soured and sharp-ened to a still.

I screamed.

Old Lindy, beautiful Lindy, forgive me. Forgive my un-moving hands. Forgive my voice, reduced to a choked sputtering. Forgive my callow eyes which stared at death like an inexorable friend rather than striking it up and out of your trembling vessels.

Blue, Lindy, blue as cobalt. White, Lindy, white as chalk. Over time, are people reduced to the lame colors of death?

50___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

51___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

Blue veins and white skin and purple lips—that’s it? That’s what I remember the most.

November sixteenth—I say you lying there in a dress I had never seen before, eyes closed in pensive sleep. I wanted to touch but Ma said no. I wanted to TOUCH, lindy, I wanted to know what you were thinking about, what you could have been thinking about with so many teary-eyed strangers gesturing and sniffling and staring. I wanted to know what you were going to say next, how the song would end, how you would close the blank.

After that I didn’t stay.

I threw my hands to the sky and lightning broke them. I gave my lungs to the scabrous asphalt and they sublimated in a feathery mist of perfumed glass. I drove my body into the earth with the force of a hundred horses and it exploded in a smattering of red wine. I felt the moon bend to kiss me goodnight. The planets curtsied, then resumed their ellip-tical orbits. Thunder rumbled in a moment of regard and rain stepped gingerly around the mess I made.

I believe this is how people leave us, Lindy. No cry, no wind, no roof. Just convulsing in a pool of their own tem-pests, waiting, hoping it isn’t true.

THE PLAY

Scene one you met her on a freezing gray morning

Scene two you stared at her hand when you laughed together alone, but you never touched it

Scene three you stuck your hands in your pockets as she danced, twirling around, inviting you out

But in scene four, you felt you had the right to be bitter when she left the party with another man

You said it was someone else’s fault

Hers, perhaps, for not giving you a runway

Or his, for having the confidence you don’t possess

But that’s not verbally how you blame him

Scene five you gave her tissues on that old leather couch you helped carry up the stairs

But you inched away when she moved in only to realize your mistake later

Scene five she packed up and wanted a new start

You wanted to say something or make a big gesture

But instead you helped her pack

Scene six you called her but she didn’t answer.

Scene seven you texted her but she didn’t respond

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SPECTRUM

2014

Justin Graffa

Scene eight you texted her. And texted her.And texted her.

You bothered and pestered too much, but you were ready to sweep her off her feet.

But the only thing you got back was a text

Saying “who is this?”

Scene nine you deleted her number out your phone but you’ve never forgotten it.

Scene ten you deleted all of the pictures of her you two took together.

The curtain drew to a close in the anticlimactic finale

But the show starts up again soon.

53___

SPECTRUM

2014

Justin Graffa

“Indian Puppets” by Sonali Prasad

IN OCEAN OF SUBCONSCIOUS

Your tone thrashing against my ears,scratching,accusing,agonizing.

Your voice no longer comprehendible,muffled by the waves in my subconscious.

Your image,with wrathful creases of insanity,once filled my eyes.

No longer do my eyes identify you,your image opaque by the water above me.

Memory of your existence remains,etched in my very spirit.The evanescence of my whole being continues,in hope that one day,your voice will perish;your picture nonexistent,your existence unrecognized…unknown but to me.

Your existencewill become nonexistent,drowned by the water,in the ocean of my subconscious.

54___

SPECTRUM

2014

Nina Nakkash

FALL

Wind floating around the branches

Twisting and turning through the maze

Looking for the way out

Pushing anything in its path

Zooming through tiny openings in a leaf

Lifting and breaking it by the stem

Held up by the wind for all to see

To fall.

55___

SPECTRUM

2014

Rachel Clephane

“Star Crossed Lovers” by Hannah Hansen

56___

SPECTRUM

2014

SLAM POETRY

Slam poetry is basically a subtweetAnd real poetry is only in a textbookThe verse and free rhyme is only conceitAnd your rap is only the next hookBecause everyone wants to think they’re deepEven me behind the computer screenPeople move on because they can’t keepTheir angst filled fuel they had as a teenAnd the real metaphors they used die in the alleyA syringe in their arm of compliments they gave othersLaced with heroine and they’re part of another talyA death count of dreams they say were killed by their fa-thersThe leather suitcase with their adult things is a coffinAnd the tie around their neck a nooseTheir mausoleum is their corner officeAnother life of dreams made into a collection of suits.

Justin Graffa

“Dots” by Bhavna Guduguntla

CURSED

Small tugs on the string, light pokes on the shoulder. I think of her and how she called my name and held my hand. Her eyes used to sparkle and her smile used to shine. I never really realized it but I think she loved me.

Now she’s different. She’s full of darkness and hatred, anger and pain. That last sliver of optimism has left her, probably taken away by me. I can’t help but think this is all my fault but I think she loved me.

Flutters of the heart, skips in the step. Her bright spirit was contagious and I, I was enraptured. I broke her but I think she loved me. And a pang of guilt shoots through me because I think.

I think I loved her too.

57___

SPECTRUM

2014

Tara Tang

“Drum” by Sydney Shanbrom

A COLOR OF COAL

Right now I am sitting under something disgustingChoking on cigarettes and whatever still counts as love.Waiting. And I am terribly lonely.I am the biggest cliché of what counts asLonely. Lonely and tired.Sublimating. But I have broken too many backsTo complain. This wind has made my insides cough and sputter,Like the rested coils of some twisted machine madeTo shred fingertips in one clean sweep, snap tailbones andshatter retinas. Where the striations alongmy forearms bleed like tired men and the ever-present sound ofWHO EVEN GIVES A D*MN runs stale becauseWe are nothing but dutiful ghosts throbbing in the shadowsOf real people. When I was small my mother sat me downOn the kitchen table and spoke quietly, “Son, people like usDon’t make it out there. Look at your hands, the color ofCoal. Your eyes, like shots fired from your daddy’s pistol. What do you see? What is hanging on the end of a silver string, waiting for you to clasp it between your small hands?” She stroked my hair that was not quite hair yet and smiled a drop of sadness.At first when she spoke I could do nothing but nod. Her loveFor me was convoluted. My love for her was boundless. When I was fifteen I left her. Took the keys and kickeda foot through the screen door in the middle of the nightbecause I was too ashamed and too much of a cowardto leave while she was watching. Closed my eyes and made myself

58___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

forget who I was, where I came from. I forgot how she laughed. I forgot the scent of orange soap on her neck. Forgot the yellowing mattress andthe quivering light. Tonight I dream I am swimming in a nebulous poolOf ghosts. They run slippery fingers through my insidesAs if to claim me for one of their own. I close my eyes and a tongue passes over my left ear and sings of a God chanting my name,Holding my soul on the frayed end of a silver string. Dangling by my eyelashes.I look up and she’s laughing. She smells of citrus andWatered down coffee and painted light. Her lips are mov-ing but I can’t hear the words. I am screaming.Strain and strain for something tangible. Then,With the flick of a finger, I am lost again.My love for her was convoluted.Her love for me was boundless.

59___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

“Blue” by Hannah Hansen

REALITY

The Labyrinth of Dreams spanning my braindug deep into the crevices like a

criminal of knowledge,hidden from Nature’s raging desire

to bombard it with infectious doubts.Dream killers fly like birds, golden daggers

tearing at soft gray walls,That confuse them evermore.

A supercilious world where I cannotsee truth in my dreams,

but my nightmares.

60___

SPECTRUM

2014

Maggie Chen

“Balloon” by Phil Kovalev

61___

SPECTRUM

2014

THE STORM

A storm prevails, so devastatingly strong.The people are frightened and smothered by the fog.No one knows where to go or who to ask,But there was the man who knew how to stand.

A man of no warmth lies,In the ground, and he stares with glazed eyes.The grievances begin as he is lowered in,Into a place of darkness and demise.

He is remembered by all, for he wasn’t vain,In fact his prestige stemmed from other people’s disdain.The fact that he didn’t back down, and stood up,Through the lightning strikes and the pouring rain.

When no hope was left, he fought through the flood,Through the raging currents, and the impeding mud.When everything came to an end,The people realized who enlightened them.

When the clouds turned back,To the shade they came from,To that vivid sky,The people looked down at their feet.

They see the man of no warmth, resting in peace,Leaving his people behind,In a world of obscenity, with nothing but his words,And he is lowered into the darkness, forever.

Samina Saifee

62___

SPECTRUM

2014

DARK

Dark clouds filling gaping holes in the skyPeaks of mountaintops casting a shadowCurving down the mountainsideLight at the bottom shiftedCrushing weight of the dark putsLight off-trackRise up to the sky desperately tryingYet to be coveredOut of the dark comes a grey matterThe cycle is completeAnd the light is banished

“Cape Cod” by Keegan Haines

Rachel Clephane

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2014

STORM

When a tree falls in a lonely forest,it falls on crushed dreamsand dead hopes.It fallson lost love andforgotten sacrifice.

The trunk destroys inspiration andthe leaves smother determination,only despair leftin their wake.

It falls and cracks at the roots, andthe sunlight is shed throughthe falling branches,not welcoming butagonizing and blinding.

It falls with a crushing thunder,a storm piercing through the hearts of thosewho need a hand to hold and a shoulderto cry on.

It falls and leaves nothingbut pain.

When a tree falls in a lonely forest,does it make a sound?

Tara Tang

ALABASTER

1:25 AM. The sky exhales ropy clouds.The mountains rage softly in their pearly cloaks.

I tip my head back and all of a sudden his lips are on mine. His smile is the color of

electric blue nail polish and Aerosmith CDs.He thinks I am beautiful and

I think I am ordinary. We drinkto blue dahlias and Eskimo kisses.

It’s Friday nightI’m in love.

Now we are running. We are in a dirty gray pickup truck that wheezes and whoops clouds of

cauliflower. He smells like rain andmidnight meteor showers and peppermint soap.

He thinks I am tired and offers his shoulder. While I sleep he pitches me to the stars and they dye my fingertips

purple.It’s Friday night

I’m in love.

We are underwater. Everything is alive.The moon, the color of milk, washes over us like

flames dripping into a thick pool of wax. His eyes areeverywhere like broken glass spinning in a kaleidoscope.

He thinks I am asleep andtrieds to talk with God. I listen quietly.

He cries alabaster tears and chuckles to himself.A broken keyboard sings a song of sadness.

It’s Friday nightI’m in love.

64___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

65___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

Tonight I lie here alone. Red lips and tiny shoes and soft dirt. The fog seems thicker here. The trees

seem whiter. The sky churns with the eyes of a hundred flaming coils.

He thinks I have forgotten and drowns Memory in a vis-cous oil of affliction.

I close my eyes and imagine lips flickering under the moonlight, lips which do not speak but

tell me a story of dreams and sprightly loveand slippery fingertips,

nothing but cool palms weeping in the wind.

1:29 AM. The sky sputters quietly in its charcoal tomb.I tip my head back and the stars bend

to kiss me good night. It’s not the same.I think he is beautiful and close my eyes.

He is with me for a second.It’s Friday night.

“In Orbit” by Marilyn Smith

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SPECTRUM

2014

TO ERADIC-

I see it allupon the desk I am confined.Pens scribble boldly,highlighters mark pages of ink.

But Pencils?

Shouldn’t even bother.Leaving stains of feath’ry spider webs,smudges of missives past:infuriatingly impermanent.

Nevertheless, it is my nature to eradicate.

Note howI mechanically destroy while they disappear willingly.The slanted lettersnever wish to stay:

Not for the wife, the mother, or the daughter.

Lithe fingers grasp the wood;trained hands move quickly,relishing in attempted honesty.

Her business trip:“Gone for a few days--honey, the truth is I’m having an aff”my head meets the page and she rubs until the delicate hand-writing vanishes.

I feel a little shorter as she brushes my shavings to the floor.

Golden Number 2’s quiver,

Sara Dassanayake

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SPECTRUM

2014

Sara Dassanayake

shaking in their hysteria.The uneven scrawlsnever wish to stay:

Not for the friend, the daughter, or the employee.

Laughter jingles from lips pink as whor-tleberry flowers and polished digits rifle through fat, white, envelopes.They leave her sweaty palms to grip a graphite-filled tube.

The end of her new career:

“I can’t do this anymore,I qui”she grabs my head and rubs until defined strokes fade to slivers of gray.

I feel a little thinner as she brushes my shavings to the floor.

“Alone” by Neha Nayak

68___

SPECTRUM

2014

Chris Jackson

STEPPING INTO GREATNESS

Those stern hands reached out to me; grooves and ridges telling the tale of his life’s work. His hair was so white it could have been likened to that of a cotton field. He was old but not in terms of time. Age had not been good to him; the beatings life dealt him had taken a toll on his soul. He looked about 80 but if I recall he was a mere 60 years old when he left. My last memory of him is vague. As I try to recall my last visit with him, the only image that comes to mind is a man descending the steps of his front porch. With each step, he tells a chapter of his story. No words; just his presence. The presence of a broken man who spent his entire life working. I watched as he descended those steps, which were caked in rust and baked by the golden rays of the afternoon sun. That was the first time I truly saw him. I saw his struggle, his pain, and his pride. As I stared into his dark eyes, those eyes work by age, which sought refuge behind the blue film that shielded them from my gaze. His eyes acted as a mirror, which reflected back into my soul. In that mirror I saw something. His gaze imparted a lesson that would change the course of my life. Education is power. My grandfather was an intelligent man, but now I understand that an education would have changed the course of his life. I saw a man crippled and beaten by the toll that manual labor took on his body and his soul. On that day, as I observed his shadow of a man, I vowed to never take education for grant-ed. Each day brings a new challenged and a new obstacle. When I feel like givin up and succumbing to the pressures of school, I now stop and reflect. I remember that broken man stepping down those stairs which were caked in rust and worn by time. My memory has made me a better man be-cause it was instilled in me a drive to do better than he did; to not take education for granted because without an education

69___

SPECTRUM

2014

Chris Jackson

one is powerless. Knowledge is power and that is why I dare not take pity on this man. Although he had little money and few comforts, he was a man rich in knowledge. The knowl-edge that he acquired during his lifetime acts as a map in my own life. As I navigate my way through my life, I at times think that I am lost. The cloud of temptation at times blocks my path to victory but the memory of my grandfather shows me another way. He provides me with another route, and the route always involves education. The mirror is a beautiful thing. Through our reflec-tion we are able to see ourselves as the world sees us. As I look in the mirror, I see that man who descended those steps for the last time all those years ago. I see those dark eyes and then I see myself. I realize that as I looked into those eyes for the last time, I formed a lasting connection and that even through death he teaches me. Even without a college degree he is my teacher. He may not have graduated from a university, but he was a student of life. He showed me that I have two choices: I can just sit in the passenger seat and coast or I can be an active participant in my own life. I now have taken ahold of the steering wheel of destiny and my grand-father is my GPS. His spirit guides and motivates me. Now as I embark on the road trip I call life, I can trust in him to provide me with directions. I now see the world for what it is-- a novel. With every page we can choose to give up if we stumble on a word we don’t understand or we can keep read-ing and see what the next page has in store.

70___

SPECTRUM

2014

Jema Fregene

WASTED

I could have cried crocodile tears for you.I could have ripped out my heart for you.I could have give you everything I had,But I would have been wasting time-Throwing away my time, not yours.Maybe I had restless nights because of youMaybe my heart did hurt a little for youMaybe I gave up some things for you,But you never would have noticed.How could you see those sly looks I gave you?Or the way I shook my head and smiledWhenever I saw you around?You didn’t.

“Puppy Eyes” by Angela Lee

71___

SPECTRUM

2014

Tara Tang

MOTHER AND SON

She was 23 and that made him 17. But she had become the mother and he had become the son. And although she knew it didn’t normally work that way, she still embraced it and she told herself she would become the best mother this boy will ever know.

She told herself she would, she worked until she was, and when she finally did it, she stayed that way.

Sometimes she can’t help but show the world who he is to her and sometimes he gets a big embarrassed, with a little boy’s blush and a small series of nods and everything else. But deep down, they both know he’s grateful because she stayed that way. She really stayed the best mother he’ll ever know, and he’s thankful.

Their love is a mutual thing, it’s just that some people express love more than others. She knows that and he knows she knows that.

He grew up with a hole in his heart but she filled it, and in the process she filled the bigger, deeper hole in her own heart.

They’re both grateful. And their love is a mutual thing.

72___

SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

DIGESTION

When you were a childDid your mother ever pick you up and point to a curling riverAnd tell you THIS IS BEAUTYDid your father ever hoist you over his shouldersAnd say THIS IS FREEDOMDid your older brother teach you all the constellationsAnd scream at the stars, with all their white capsTHIS IS GOD

Good god, this is God.This is God and He had made all the differencein our Lives. He created the dauntless Sunand the briny oceans, the lithe serpents and the demure fauns.This is Nature. She held your Hand before youEven knew you had Fingers. She filled your StomachWith Moths and you dreamed a bloodless Belly of wax figurines:

You called the first on your Mother,For she had bleached fingernails andA leaden heart of gossamer tendrilsThat reached benearth your sternum andMade a pact of LOVE

You called the second one your Father,For he came with a long pipe but no smoke,A sable shotgun but no bullets,A white collared shirt but no cuff links.His eyes fluttered half-open in a moment of regard,Then settled back into their viscous sockets.

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SPECTRUM

2014

Claire Wang

You named the third one after Me.It was an odd-shaped thing, always twistingAnd convulsing into new forms. Sometimes I wasAs small and useless as a marble, other timesI was mottled and scabrous,A sadistic nightmare.

I have tried so hard to understand your Beauty.I clawed at my face which was sharp and angularLike parquet. Curdled wax melted off my cheeks andI felt my shredded complexion collect in a puddle of hot acid at my feet.I called this caustic broth my salvation.

I called to my Mother and my Father,My ill-conceived familyWhich I begged to free me.

I stood bent over and retched foran eternity before I finallyDigested the Truth.

“Comic Beauty” by Hannah Hansen

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SPECTRUM

2014

Kone Bowman

ALONE

No one understands me, no one feels what I feelAll this pain inside me, there’s no space heelSo stressed out, this life kills meSo i go to my own world where I can truly be me.I’m all alone, I have to stay isolated by myselfI’m all alone, and they talk about me instead of helpEveryone on my case, life gets harder and harderPeople hate, but it makes me stronger.Everyone doubts, they have no faith in meBut I don’t care, I will rise. Just watch and see.

“Bionic” by Becky McGeorge

75___

SPECTRUM

2014

Lydia Wang

THE FIRE

It blazesLeaves; freshly striked matchesIncense colorsEverything swept awayDevoured by the paint bucketCarelessly poured, splatteredDownSmoldering leaves crunching; flickeringStomp.Then wisp of reliefHollow wind whistles; log teethcall reverberating the coreStirring the rising dustCrumbling coalsSmothering flamboyance andFinale burst of campfire sparksTo dabble in vainAt creeping coldTucking summer ashesSleep.

“Old Rusty Blue” by Hannah Hansen

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2014

WINTER

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.You leave the same impression

Of something beautiful, but annihilating.” ― Sylvia Plath, Ariel

REFLECTION

DEATH

DECAY

SILENCE

SOLEMN

SNOW

ENDINGS

77___

SPECTRUM

2014

Jon Scott

REALITY

One must simply doSpeculation yields no fruitsIt is the weapon of the instigator,The enemy of the achiever.

Results. The truth is undeniable,Real.Whether the offspring of accident,Or the outcome of constant calculationsThe truth is.No more, no less.

“Spheres” by Katie Mansour

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SPECTRUM

2014

Sara Dassanayake

BLACK LEAF SPOTS

Leaves sway, rustling to the warm echoes of fresh abscission.

Twisting in roaring zephyrs,tossing in icy winds,silver droplets fall from an ever-melting sky.

They pounceupon fresh olive parchment,Poking, prodding,revealing of a new palimpsest the scant inky remnants.

Water tearslike quick, meticulous needles,ripping opentender green flesh. While cross little pools scab to muddy splotches.

The wrapping tainted, gem-like wounds redress the presentThey wind around the russet cheeks of golden appleswith the vigor of new stamps. The fruit blushes black,reveling in an envy-soaked garden of Hesperides.Nymphs still rival muses nine if pure infection stain the trackof not only the truth but chaos swathed in scalesthat taint what was once forbidden.

Only choice of venturiabetters unequal opportunities,exposing seedlings to no more than marssonina.

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Sara Dessanayake

To consider susceptible shrubbery,to extend the wait for those most disposed to disease.Referring, of course, back to the original problem of venturia,thinking only of Second Comings, for all that came first served as merehallucination.

Inspiringly infectious? Indubitably so.Notoriously new? Otherwise useless.Gold for fools? Fools for gold.

Sores will blemish canopies, but scars will stain the forest floor.

“Bottle” by Kayla Lee

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Tara Tang

FOREIGN FAMILIARITY

I’ve been waiting for you

and I still am.

You, with your warm eyes and gentle smile,

you give me faith.

My heart settles

with the words on the tip of your tongue.

I see you in myself,

but still you feel foreign.

You can help me, I’m sure,

help me live and help me feel,

and yet I wonder.

Who are you?

“Don’t Turn Your Back On Us” by Emily Herard

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Rachel Clephane

A CLOSED ROSE

Petals stuck togetherTightly shut until its bloom.With time passing by asChange takes place.

Prepare for opening. One petal unfoldsStretching like the arms of a child. Followed by anotherReady to be seen by the lightReady for the shine.

The vibrant colors were washed out,The red edges started curling down,Folded away from itself.On by one droppedDownUntil all were spread flat on the ground..

“Reach” by Marilyn Smith

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Rachel Clephane

LET US MEET AGAIN

Your peachy face,illuminated by the hazy glow of the lamp post,

Betrays your soft smile,showing a sea of tears in your eyes,

branching off into streamsUpon your pearly-smooth cheeks.

In my arms I hold you as you slowly fade.I smile for you, love.

I wish to leave you with a smiling memory of myself.

I gaze into your sorrowful eyes,we both smile at one another.

Your weight lightens,You disintegrate into nothingness.

All I hold is air.I live on,

In hope thatwe will meet again, love…

In another time,In another place.

“Cadillac Dash” by Austin Santangelo

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Lydia Wang

ANATOMY OF LOVE

My love for you was merely firings of neuronsIons jumping over sheaths wrapped around aggregates of phospholipidsRumbling with the stampede of particles and currents swirlingUp and down my body to finally vibrate down at the bottomEpinephrine unlocking doors to the secret cells of my longingBut now I’m at homeostasisOr am I?Why does my heart ache so?Perhaps the myocytes contract in fear of lonelinessPerhaps the lack of oxygen,The lack of you, has accumulated the acid,Eating away tissue with every beatAnd blood is straining to burst free from the bond we didn’t share equallyIs love merely this cycle of substance,This electric circulation of protein, carbohydrate, lipid and cell fragments?

Powerful is he who can stir up this mad brew in my placid veinsAnd powerful is he who can silently lyse every passionate cellLeaving nothing but an organic pool of why?

“Imbalance” by Helena Chen

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Maggie Chen

CRIMSON

We roam along beaches, you and I.Let the gentle ties bathe our feet,Cleanse our soles of the glass shardsThat we march through everyday.A tranquility that lasts but a secondAs the sun dips into the sea,Dyes it crimson, pink, and purple.This is the moment we live for.

Walk with me, you say,Right palm up, heart lines exposed.Do you realize what you’re doing?No, I don’t suppose you do.Your distant eyes look far,dimmed in the shineOf a bright white crescent.I envy the person dancing on your insides.

Shatter me and ignore my tears.Understand I’m not the one you want,I’m not the one you need,I’m not the one…Willow branches shimmeringWith droplets from tears shed.Before I curl into myself,And disappear before your eyes.

Five years pulled from a magician’s hat,Like a white rabbit’s blank stare,A blank slate.A new life.I forgot what you wantAnd became what I need.

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Maggie Chen

But you, you sly darling,Still remember everything.

Back to the beginning with the sand Between our toes, nostalgic isn’t it?Your gaze shines, like the sweet, newDawn flushed rosy red, like our cheeks.Another beginning.Meet me halfway, lean forwardJust a tad, more than enough.I will complete your broken cycle.

A first kiss swathed in drama,Lacy bows and silk ribbonsAnd glitter bombs.Time doesn’t stop like it should,But thins out like threatFor the wings of gold dragonfliesTo weave through our hair.This is the moment we live for.

“Unfnished Business” by Darrel Davison

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Mina Lee

SCHISM OF LIFE

Fragments of memoryFlit aboutBoasting the great childhood pastOf serene landscapeFlooded with happiness

How overwhelmingly frustratingExasperating Is the present. Whirling in a frenzy. Cluttered and strewn about in utter disarraySapped of energy.Yet continuing to pummel into my soulSeeking even the carcass.

“Life Balance” by Darrel Davison

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Justin Graffa

UNTITLED

Poetry doesn’t really exist anymoreIt’s an angst-filled teenager with WiFi

Or a dying grandfather with a typewriterThey only mean half the things they say

And people fill in the rest with what they want to hear Literality doesn’t exist in poetry

Free-verse or rhyme - it’s always something else The only thing given to you straight are the lines on paper

“No no,” your English teachers says“The blue sky isn’t blue, blue means his inner depression”

Because I don’t mean anything I say and it never happenedBut people will read it and try to sound smart

And we could turn authors and poets into energyIf we hooked up wires to them rolling in their graves.

“1932 Front End” by Austin Santangelo

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Lydia Wang

INDEFINITE SPACE

Walking across the acres of fields between our homesEarthworms whining under hard, determined feetTissue paper clouds melting away from thecandlelight of the setting sunI see you in the distanceOnly a small black dot.But clearly I seeYou have a walking stickRipped from an innocent treeBare from autumn shedding.I see every fold and crinkle in your face in your concentrationSwinging at imaginary monsters and demonsSaving your damsel in distress.

The distance between us closes, and now you’re a silhouetteI see the windblown T-shirt glowing redI’m imagining your twinkling eyes laughing at the sight of meAnd I hear your wild laughter even though I know you’re too far awayFor me to hear you.

The sky turns from red to purple and now you’re blurryBut we’re coming in closerStill coming, and I’m waiting for youAnticipating the moment we come face to face.

Now you’re meters away, and I feel your presence, flying to join mineI smile, you’re finally hereBut where are your lean arms?Your freckles, the red glowing shirt I saw so clearlyIt’s too dark, but it doesn’t matter, I know it’s there,Somewhere, swimming around, slithering behind.

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Lydia Wang

I don’t imagine you anymore, because you’re hereNow you’re here, coming to stand beside meThe stars out and the planets teasing meChallenging me to trace the short distances between each starAnd I do, but the stars are shifting, running away with peals of laughterI laugh too, but then I start to cryThey’re all running away from meI turn to you, and I grasp your hollow shellI reach for your hand, but all I feel is airA slow breeze purrs over my face and rustles…

As I open my eyes to curtains billowing by the window.

“Sounds of Summer” by Austin Santangelo

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Karen Jiang

LOTUS FLAKES

Since time did not wait for me,I made haste to catch up.

The zoo held animals of all kinds, butI am still unwelcome.

Under unfamiliar glares,I locked away

my picture frames and my names too,Behind opaque windows of a dusty zoo.

As I walked around the pond,People stopped at the glass.

Peering, yetPassing into flames of eternity.

Or maybe, I passed them. An indiscernible veil.

They glance only, where a crowd stood,To the signs that bulletpoint me.

“Veil” by Helena Chen

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Claire Wang

ASLEEP IN WAX DREAMS

Sing me to sleep,with a voice that curvesover my sleeping silhouettelike boats riding the pithy flicker of the moon --touch and go, touch and go. Never in one place for too long.We hold close and watch quietly for the wind to fall,a star to drop,a name to be whisperedinto the dead of night. Look through lucid pupils,darling. See anythingLook for the silver lining,a golden ticket, what do you see?You cry and cry and I thinkyour tears might somehow transmute to a songin our doting slumber.but every hoursilence greets us like an old friendand tell us to go,the door is on the left. And so I ask you nothing more,than to sing me to sleepwith a voice that curves over my sleeping silhouettelike grace bending to ebbover an old riverfor I am only one cellin the sea of wax dreams.

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Maggie Chen

SWEET THUNDERSTORM

I tasted the dull gray of cloudsAs they grow.

My flesh scorched at the trickle of droplets.My heart ached at low growls and

Heavy gray claps.My scarred fingers itched to kissYour sweet sparks that sprinted

Through the atmosphere

I cannot shed my skin of hunger,So tightly wrapped

That nerve and bone were baredIn its abandonment

Where were the memoriesOf ignorant bliss to feverish desire?

Of cherished dreams from then?Tethered by a toddler’s

Wisdom teeth.

So dangerous.Five steps from chasing

The blazing tree.Five grains of sand cradled

Near my ears,Clasped

In my open palms.Held close

LIke a lightning rod.I smiled and breathed:

Good day, my sweet thunderstorm.

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Lydia Wang

SILENCE

It’s a ring in your ears, a buzz that creeps to you as its opposite retreats,knawing away at eardrums.The pressure builds until suddenly it crushes,tsunami wave roaring over beautifully deadlyconch shells in the shifting sands forever and onlyechoing the faint lub-dub of the sea. It’s alive. It’s a monster that kidnaps the children first,gobbling in and spitting them out, coldstealthily armed with weapons untilthe elders are engulfed in their own contraption.All are affected, all misunderstood,staring at each other with ammunition in mouths.What’s next? It blossoms into a screaming web with the rising of the sun each invisible strand a shot fired, a petal unfurling.And with every rising the web weavesthicker and thicker, knitting a snuggly blanket,smothering intersecting lasers of knowing eyesover the din of fibers confining Naughty to the dark cornerWhere the eight-eyed beast glares at the others,daring for them to make a first flinch… It’s patient,It’s comfortable,It’s silence.

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Jiwon Yun

THE ICE PRINCESS

It’s funny to think about it like that - with words like mental disorder. They

taste funny in my mouth, foreign and strange.To me she was always just a girl, an Ice Princess girl,who floated on icicle legs and had a face small enough

to crush in my fist.She breathed frost onto the bathroom mirror, incriminating

Fog that told us of her tears.And she armed herself with a plastic spoon when she slipped

into a stall,While I waited my turn and listened to her emptying

the sinful waste in her stomach.So mental disorder isn’t the right word - not really.

The Ice Princess, surrounded by so much summer, merely melted away.

“Winter” by Maddie Friedman

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“There is nothing so stable as change.”~Bob Dylan

“Sirens” by Halie Conyers

LETTERS FROM THE STAFF96___

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First of all, I’d like to thank Mrs. Hannett-Price for her dedication and support of the Spectrum Club. I’m also thankful to Rachel, the members of the Spectrum staff, and members of the club for their help and love of writing. Partici-pating in Spectrum has been a great way to channel ideas into different methods of expression, and has helped me mature by giving me insight about my life. One can say that Spectrum is a quilt of squares sewn together, each square represent-ing the ideas and philosophies of each individual in the club. Together, we knit together a bigger story - a distinctive eye opener to the soul and the world it resides in. I hope you enjoy this issue! ~Lydia Wang, editor-in-chief & design editor

First of all, I would like to thank Mrs. Hannett for her guidance and end-less support for the creation of the Spec-trum magazine, and to Lydia and the rest of the staff for all their help. The theme of this issue was seasons and the emotions felt during each one of them. The char-acteristics of spring, like trees growing and flowers blooming, inspired the poetry in this section to have themes of rebirth and growth, while the hot weather and thunderstorms of summer led to themes of happiness and unrest, decaying leaves during fall created themes of closure, and snowfall prompted darker themes such as death and sadness. ~Rachel Clephane, editor-in-chief

LETTERS FROM THE STAFF

First and foremost, thank you to Mrs. Hannett and Mr. Sadler for all the mentoring they have provided me in writing this year and last. I am truly grateful for their inspira-tion and guidance over the years. Working with the Spectrum staff has brought me a greater appreciation for the editorial process and for both writing and art. Throughout this issue, one can experience the cyclic qualities of both nature and human existence itself as topics of passion, fearlessness, de-cay, and renewal are explored through our overarching theme of seasons. Being part of Spectrum has been an enlightening and rewarding experience and I hope to continue to be a part of future issues! Enjoy! ~Claire Wang, associate editor For me, this year at Spectrum was a time of beginnings. I’m so thankful for the opportunity to work on such a compelling and inspirational magazine. I would especial-ly like to thank the editors-in-chief Lydia and Rachel for teaching me so much about not only the mechanics of the magazine, but also the work and insight that goes into creating such a masterpiece. Mrs. Hannett-Price has always been much more than just the faculty advisor of Spectrum. She has been a guiding force and a constant source of inspiration. Her perpetual dedication and love for the magazine has kept all of us motivated to al-ways do our best, and for that I cannot thank her enough. Even though this was only my first year, I have already been swept up into the tide of Spectrum’s vast ocean. I cannot wait to continue my journey in the years to come. It is the product of hours of work and passion and I’m so thankful to be a part of it. ~Jiwon Yun, associate editor

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These past years at Spectrum have been a great learning experience. I both created and edited poems and stories to be placed in this year’s magazine of Spectrum 2014. I want to thank the Spectrum advi-sor, Mrs. Hannett, and the two Spectrum editors-in-chief, Rachel Clephane and Lydia Wang, for aiding me in the process of becoming an intern and of editing pieces of poetry. I’ve learned so much about writ-ing and creating a magazine. I love every minute of time spent in Spectrum! ~Maggie Chen, associate editor

“Spectrum”, I believe, is the me-dium through which students can unleash their emotions and express their opinions. “Spectrum” allows every one of us to savor even the most negligible components of life. It is my hope that the reader can be whisked away to distant, blissful memo-ries as they read each work in this issue of “Spectrum”. I would like to thank Mrs. Hannett for having founded such a wonderful literary magazine which never ceases to impress the faculty and students here at DCDS. ~Mina Lee, editorial board member

LETTERS FROM THE STAFF98___

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Editors-In-Chief:Lydia Wang and Rachel Clephane

Associate Editors:Claire Wang, Jiwon Yun, Maggie Chen

Design Editor:Lydia Wang

Editorial Board:Lydia Wang

Rachel ClephaneClaire WangJiwon Yun

Maggie ChenMina Lee

Faculty Advisor:Mrs. Beverly Hannett-Price

Special Thanks:The Spectrum Staff

Ms. Mary Ann DeVogelThe Art Department

The English DepartmentSean Davis

Student Visual-Artists and Writers

CREDITS 99___

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