the key student literary magazine 2014
DESCRIPTION
Literary publication of Rudolf Steiner High School students in grades 9-12.TRANSCRIPT
The Key2014
The Key 2014
The Key 2014The Student Literary and Arts Magazine of the Rudolf Steiner School
the rudolf steiner schoolnew york, new york
michæl editors
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ContentsTo Us 8
Clara Dietz ’15 / Chloe Agar ’15
Acá estamos ahora 11 Andreina Himy ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Evening (Innocence) 12 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Eva Crawford ’15
Evening (Experience) 14 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Eva Crawford ’15
I’m Sitting on a Hill 16 Montana Thomas ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Three Haiku 18 Sasha Pinto ’16
Drained 19 Ella Prince ’15 / Isaac Scheinfeld ’16
The Ugly Maiden 20 Leah Chin ’14 / Sasha Pinto ’16
A Blue, Blue Wave 24 Oscar Panaretto ’15
I prefer 25 Vita Taurke ’14
Losing it 26 Carola Dixon ’15 / Annabel Berusch ’15
Digestive Systems of Monsters in Beowulf 28 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Indira Mohabeer ’16
High School 30 Ella Prince ’15 / Leah Chin ’14
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My Soul 31 Annabelle Vaës ’15
Slum of Hope 32 Sasha Pinto ’16
Lente 34 Andreina Himy ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Suspended in Air / Natural Selection / Absolution 35 Shelsey Jimenez ’16
She Comes to Me 36 Andreina Himy ’15
Sin título 37 Angela Figueroa ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Oh Comet—A Poem in the Style of Robert Burns 39 Carola Dixon ’15
Tired Reticence 40 Isaac Scheinfeld ’16
My Summer Revelation 41 Noah Kahan ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Pop! 42 Vita Taurke ’14 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Ich will chinesisches Essen 44 Annabelle Vaës ’15
Survival 46 Sasha Pinto ’16
Poem in the Style of William Wordsworth 48 Shavasp Quillen ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
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Fall / Spring / Winter 50 Anna Grimm ’16
Grime 51 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15
Wordsworth Poem 52 Carola Dixon ’15
Salaam back flap Manuel Smith ’15
8
Clara Dietz / Chloe Agar
To UsI squeeze myself between all this human flesh
In the last wagon of the train,
because thats where there is most space.
How can I be so alone in between so many people?
If I could, I would hold my breath until I’m outside again.
But I can’t, so I breath in recycled air.
The train moves.
And stops.
Moves.
And stops . . .
I feel like seaweed moving with the ocean’s flow.
The ocean, that smashes against exhausted rocks.
Like that we once were.
Bluer, than blue itself. That is what we were.
We were tangled,
Knotted in twisted obsession.
There was no thinking, just motion.
It was sweet, but dark emotion.
We shared the pureness of a first love.
We ate packaged pudding
And you played the guitar.
I was always jealous of your guitar,
It was a sick obsession.
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We would talk about New York,
It was unknown to us then, and it seemed so far away.
But naturally, time would rush by,
And I would realize too late, that our Berlin, had slipped through my
fingers.
Once, you said you loved me,
But I asked you why,
I was always a “why?” child.
I wish we had someone to blame for the end of our love,
Someone who isn’t us.
Love, that after a while became a chore,
Tired of being the ocean I was,
Smashing into you,
A firm rock.
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I just wanted you to care,
I just wanted you to be on time.
I never meant to be that ocean,
I never meant to make us cry.
The train moves.
And stops.
Moves.
And stops . . .
As it crashes into the demons that we once were.
You were the stone, and I the wave.
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Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez
Acá estamos ahoraAhora:
Aca estamos, y estamos viviendo.
Somos los que somos y somos nosotros dos
o tres
o cuatro.
Tu mano es mi mano y mi mano la puerta,
no hay tiempo en la arena.
Dunas de desolación.
Altas, elegantes, vivian, miran. Nos miran.
Somos ellas, somos todo.
Mientras construyen relojes en mi,
Todo se mueve.
Sea mejor quedarnos quietos?
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Carolyn Newmark / Eva Crawford
Evening (Innocence)The setting sun
liquid glue
Gracefully
seeping its
Lurex body in between the cracks
of the plastic table
draped in freezer dust—
A bleached expanse of hammered popsicles.
*
I took the folding chair
Of your hand and stretched my fingers
As you opened your mouth and filled it with lettuce
It was iceberg,
I think;
The wood deck was warm like stomachs,
And the popcorn insects
Roasted in the setting rays.
*
Remember when we used to
Eat cantaloupe and figure out the puns.
*
At night when he came home,
Car lights dousing the glow in the dark basketball
Who we thought, hatched from God.
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you running upstairs with cricket’s breath
all over your cheeks
into my room to turn up the air conditioner because it was an hour before sleep
and
Nighttime took us back to the womb.
*
Sometimes when the rain
Tapped its fingernails on the glass
Like the lady from the dry cleaners
I would scurry into your humid microwave
Bedroom,
And slip into the unoccupied
30 seconds left and when the alarm went
Your stuffed animal in my armpit
And my hair in your face
Mother’s voice calling for breakfast
As she sung
“waffles!”
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Carolyn Newmark / Eva Crawford
Evening (Experience)The table
where we sat
was molting
You were picking its skin of the brittle bones of leftover dinner
*
I don’t understand why I didn’t cry
when my skull seeped into the cracks
of the granite floor,
right by the sink,
with that squeaky faucet.
I still turn that knob as if we still lived in
IKEA.
*
Your lips smacking on those chicken wings,
as they turned over in their own mush, and flew away
never to come home.
*
Remember when we used to curl up together your breath,
my mind,
paralyzed in the hum of the air conditioner
My room was always colder.
An ice bunny without its overcoat
*
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The night when God went on a permanent business trip
we threw all those toy trucks at each other; a storm
of gleaming red bodies and rubber wheels.
You told me that lightening couldn’t strike them,
as they blended into our foreheads
*
Before the house took its nightly Tylenol,
it whispered in my ear, creaking softly and I could hear the carpet crackle
outside my open door
Can you hear it too?
There was a baby on the steps in the American Girl story I read just the
night before
all wrapped up in a cushy bag of blooming tears
*
Time had 30 seconds left to jolt,
And I could hear you across the floor,
Knocking your knees against the wooden drawers
As Mother’s voice called 10 seconds early
“Wake up!”
16
Montana Thomas / Sebastian Rodriguez
I’m Sitting on a HillI’m sitting on a hill.
The hill is far away from that little minded town,
that small minded town,
with star-shaped cookies
baked by moms with short curly hair
and eaten by teenagers
dads
other moms
teachers
and other humans
with an appetite for altered echoes.
In this little, small minded town
there are shirts with tropical flowers on them
but there are few flowers on the ground.
However,
there are rare occasions when
a lamb from a distant field
will meander accidentally
and tragically
into the town
with a daisy or a buttercup in its mouth
and for a second
the humans feel free.
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But, no,
no more of that tiny, small minded, little town
that once seemed so big.
I want to read icy words under the warm sun
on a moist hill
and when I see a lamb now
its gonna laugh
and probably even spit on me
and steal a flower from
our grassy smile factory.
but thats whatever because we will grow more flowers
(i hope)
on the hill.
18
Sasha Pinto
Three HaikuSoft sweet pattering
Warm rain in running rivers
Waters my garden
Tall thick growing grass
Levelled by the rolling blade
Smelling oh so green
The rustle of wing . . .
My eye catches sight of the
High flying bluebird
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Ella Prince / Isaac Scheinfeld
DrainedMy love is like the bubbling sap,
It rises and wells and flows.
And he, who hath the magic tap,
Doth drain my heart like so.
Doth drain my heart like so, like so,
Like nectar drawn by the bee
And I, the wilted flower of woe
Am cursed eternally.
Am cursed eternally, am I,
By his frosted, frigid heart.
That erupts no more, nor does it cry;
For our love that fell apart.
My love that fell apart, it cracked!
Like lightning striking the sky.
Heavenly dreams it doth lack,
Fantasies perished, utterly dry!
Perished and utterly dry, I’m left
Like the thirsting brooks and trees,
Who weep with sorrow, as if cleft
By the remorse that encumbers me.
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Leah Chin / Sasha Pinto
The Ugly MaidenOnce upon a time there lived a King and Queen who had three sons. Although all
three sons were very handsome, strong and learned, only one was a humble son.
One day the King, who was deathly ill, had gotten another fever; he immediately
called for all three sons to gather into his chambers so that he might speak with them
before he passed.
When all three had gathered around the King’s bedside, the King said, “My sons,
sadly I shall soon die, which means one of you shall become King. Instead of appointing
my eldest son as my heir, I have devised a contest that will give all three of you an equal
chance of becoming King. He who finds the most beautiful maiden in all the land, he
shall win my throne.”
The princes were excited about their new task since they each believed that they could
easily find the most beautiful maiden in all the land. On the morning after, they eagerly
set off on their journey.
The first son came upon a hut. Out of curiosity, he slowed down his horse to see if
anyone was inside. When he realized that no one was there, he kicked the sides of his
horse to continue on his way.
Suddenly, he heard a soft sweet voice say,
“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”
When the prince looked down to see where the voice was coming from, the sight
of an ugly maiden with dried hair, wrinkled skin, crooked teeth and tattered clothing
frightened him.
The noble prince spontaneously burst out into laughter. He said to her, “You? You?
You could never be my bride. I want someone who is gorgeous, not a horrid creature like
you. Be gone! For I have better things to do.” He again motioned for the horse to pick up
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speed and rode away.
The poor, ugly maiden walked back into her hut and cried herself to sleep.
The next morning the second eldest prince came upon the same small hut that had
been previously visited by his older brother. He, too slowed down his horse so that he
might see if anyone was inside. This time, the prince got off of his horse and walked
around the property.
Just as he was about to mount back onto his horse, he heard the same soft sweet voice say,
“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”
When the prince looked down to where the attractive voice was coming from, the
sight of the same ugly maiden frightened him. The second prince giggled a little but said
to the maiden, “Poor maiden, I am sorry, but you are not the one whom I seek.” And with
that, the second prince rode away.
As before, the ugly maiden’s feelings were crushed again.
On the third morning, as youngest prince set off in search of his future bride, he too
came across the same hut as his older brothers. Like them, he was curious and decided to
see if anyone was inside.
This time, the young prince got off his horse and knocked on the door three times, but
there was no answer. As he began to mount back onto his horse, he too heard the same
soft sweet voice coming from behind him that said,
“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”
When he turned around, the same ugly maiden greeted him. He, too, was frightened
by her appearance, but rather than laughing, the prince just stared at her. He wondered
how it was possible for an ugly person to be the most beautiful person as well. The maid-
en’s feelings were hurt for a third time, and she began to cry.
The confused prince was about to leave, but then he began to hear a beautiful voice
singing. When he looked back, he realized that it was the maiden who was singing about
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a spell that had been cast on a young maiden.
The young prince immediately went back to the ugly maiden. He had heard the beauty
in her voice, and he saw the kindness in her eyes. There was something about her that had
intrigued him. Although it was hard, the prince tried to see past her appearance and focus
on her beauty within.
The prince did not take the ugly maiden back to the castle, but he visited her the next
day and the next day and so on. After a week of visitations, the young prince and the
maiden became quite good friends.
On the seven day, the prince decided to fulfill her request and take her to the King.
Despite the fact that she was nothing close to what the King had asked for, the prince
decided to take a chance.
When the young prince arrived at the palace, his older brothers, who had also brought
back women they considered to be the most beautiful maidens, greeted him. The women
were covered and were not to be revealed until they were presented to the King. All three
princes, with the cloaked maidens, gathered in the court of their father, the King.
The eldest prince was the first to reveal his maiden. Although she was pretty, the King
did not consider her to be the most beautiful in the land. This conclusion upset the eldest
son, but at the same time, gave hope to his younger brothers.
The middle prince was the second to reveal his maiden, but, again, was not able to
fulfill what the King had requested.
The youngest son was the last to present his finding. He knew that he had not found
a physically pretty girl, but the one thing the young prince was certain about was the ugly
maiden’s beauty from within.
When he removed the cloth, he and the rest of the people in the court were in awe
of the beauty of the maiden; her beauty was that of Helen of Troy. At that moment, the
prince immediately fell in love with the maiden. Although she was indeed gorgeous, the
King, just like his youngest son, saw the kindness in her eyes. The King was then certain
that the woman before him was the most beautiful maiden in the world.
The older princes were puzzled about where their younger brother had managed to
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find such a treasure. Then, the maiden said, “I am the ugly maiden who appeared before
all three of you when you came upon my hut. A spell had been put on me by a Queen who
was jealous of my beauty, and the only way the spell could be broken was for a prince was
able to see past my outward appearance and see my beauty from within.”
The older princes were disgusted by their superficiality and lack of humility. The King
and the two older princes then knew that the young prince deserved to be the heir to the
throne.
Later that year, the King passed away, and the young prince with his new bride lived
happily ever after as King and Queen of the kingdom.
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Oscar Panaretto
A Blue, Blue WaveLife is like a big, blue wave,
Crashing on the shore;
Tearing down all in its path,
Knocking on your door.
With strength and power, really tall,
Right at you in a flash;
It will swiftly rise and fall,
Creating a big splash.
Take a chance and make a friend,
See where that ocean takes you;
Looking forward to the end,
Love all that you will do.
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Vita Taurke
I Prefer I prefer sunny porches.
I prefer cotton.
I prefer the grey of the sky before rain to the grey of the pavement.
I prefer brownstone.
I prefer clucking chickens.
I prefer the potential that an idea holds to the process of the execution.
I prefer waistcoats and pocket-watches.
I prefer learning for the sake of curiosity to learning for the sake of
knowledge.
I prefer spectacles.
I prefer hot food on a cold day to cold food on a hot day.
I prefer the loneliness of solitude to the loneliness of a crowd.
I prefer tangled woods to structured gardened paths.
I prefer the empty glances of strangers to the empty glances of friends.
I prefer the yellow sock poking through the hole in a worn-out white
canvas sneaker.
I prefer the suffocation of laughter.
I prefer running too fast.
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Carola Dixon / Annabel Berusch
Losing ItDon’t you just wish you were mad?
To step out of your canvas shoes and just be absolutely, colorfully,
hypnotically, mad?
Don’t you envy those with seeded minds?
Minds that flower in the spring, a kaleidoscope of moments with budding
dreams and blooming thoughts.
Pink and blue in the summer.
The wind moving their being, where the ocean meets the heavens to a
tune you can’t perceive.
Then the moment is over and the heavens are swept away by the cosmic
tides
And left behind are only the twinkling stars, like sea shells on a beach.
Don’t you wish you were mad;
awesome in the autumn, fire and gold and just too too much?
Too much to be, too much to understand,
Just infinitely insane but no one sees because the leaves are red and so are
you and you just disappear into something maybe even madder than
yourself.
Then the leaves reach the earth
And like the trees you stand barren and consumed,
because this life is exhausting and one soul can only give so much.
So there you are,
naked,
Waiting for the movement to end and the city to see
the crystal being in the park.
Only it’s not a statue, it’s you.
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Covered in a million flakes of frozen star dust,
waiting for everyone,
waiting for everything,
to decide they want to live again.
Because you never stop living.
Never stop living your crazy, insane, beautiful, pointless, stupid, life.
Don’t you just wish you were mad?
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Carolyn Newmark / Indira Mohabeer
Digestive Systems of Monsters in BeowulfGravely grunting, the monsters paddle
Through the bubbling phlegm, the blubbery film
Which stifles their songs, as they groan with hunger
Their furnace waits for those who tumble,
Down their dark and deathly gut
The powder of limbs coats their acid-maker
As an inflating heart pumps chewed ore,
Through tired tissue of bursting veins
And marrow-straws heavy with oil
Drip onto organs whose slabs contract
And the tone-outlet buzzes and moans
From Asgard on high, the powerful heavens.
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Ella Prince / Leah Chin
High SchoolHigh School.
The words cascade through my mind, dripping with fear.
It’s midnight, then, one, two, three, four in the morning and insomnia
has slowly nestled her way beside me in bed.
The feigned alarm clock tolls and it’s already seven a.m.?
So I inject lethal caffeine into my juvenile body, trembling with
satisfaction.
I crash.
And drool seeps out of my mouth only to
wash away the vandalism on the desk.
So I wriggle back into bed twelve hours
later, amazed that darkness has returned.
But I turn on the light switch in my head,
illuminating my thoughts—
The thoughts I have concocted during my
reveries.
So it’s midnight, then, one, two, three, four in
the morning and insomnia has yet again slowly
nestled her way beside me in bed.
The cycle repeats,
And high school is eternal.
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Annabelle Vaës
My SoulAh, my feet are like the roots my dear,
The roots of a wise old tree.
Ah, my body is like the trunk my dear,
As sturdy as one can be.
Ah, my arms are like the branches my dear,
That give to all they see.
But where oh, is my soul my dear?
For it is not with me.
For it is not with me my dear,
I know where it has gone.
For lad, you are my soul my dear,
Oh why have you withdrawn?
It was so dark and fell my dear,
The minute you hurried on.
And I was cold and wet my dear,
Until the break of dawn!
Oh for you are like the sun my dear,
That shares its warmth and glow.
And you come ever back my dear,
Which I should trust and know.
Which I should trust and know my dear,
As time does always show.
Ah yes, for I love you so my dear,
My beau, my heart, my soul.
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Sasha Pinto
Slum of HopeI never imagined I could be so spellbound and awestruck by heaps of garbage, piles
of corrugated shacks, hordes of people, and miles of filthy dirt roads. But that is exactly
what happened to me four years ago when I visited the remarkable Mukuru slum outside
Nairobi, Kenya.
At first I was horrified, but after my senses re-calibrated, I realized it was the most
amazing place I had ever seen. The streets were buzzing with energy, enterprise and
dogged determination. The shacks are home to butchers, tailors, barbers, people hawking
battery charging stations, pirated dvds, mattresses, plastic wash buckets . . . everything
and anything! Despite the deplorable conditions, an aura of hope and optimism filled the
air—along with the smell of cooking fires and roasted corn and nuts that were being sold
at many of the shops.
There was another smell that was not as pleasant. It was the stench of open sewers
lining the streets because these shacks did not have toilets and often housed several gen-
erations of families crammed into one room. The roads were deeply rutted and as we drove
at a snail’s pace, I was thrown from side to side in the vehicle. A cacophony of sounds
assaulted my ears: blaring Kenyan pop music, horns from other cars, peddlers bargaining
loudly, and most of all, the sound of children. And not just a few children but hundreds
of them streaming from everywhere, surrounding the car. It was very rare they received
visitors in the slum.
“Hello! Hello! Hello!”
“How are you? How are you? How are you?”
The little children shoved their hands, blackened by dirt, through the car window and
tried to shake my hand, which was now grimy and filthy too. They reached out to grab my
arms as well, because my arms seemed so odd and white to them. Children streamed out
of the houses and muscled their way through the crowd to the car. They pressed their faces
against the windows to get a better look at my family and me. Looking at their tattered
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apparel, I felt silly in my smart-casual New York City sports clothing. All these children
were beautiful and beaming with happiness. They seemed not to have a care in the world.
But their faces were filthy and flies stuck to the corners of their eyes and to the sores and
open cuts on their faces. My eyes teared looking at them, and I had to resist the tempta-
tion to brush the flies off of their faces.
All around us, life continued as normal. People were put together meticulously in
suits, dresses and high heels, greeting each other cordially as they picked their way around
the heaps of garbage and open sewers to catch the city bus out of the slum to work. It is
amazing that these people, whose houses are dilapidated without electricity or running
water, could look so tidy and keep their clothes so pristine. One would never detect that
these people came from a slum.
But this is not a slum, nor the sort of poverty that we understand. This one is filled
with hope.
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Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez
LenteSaber quien decir,
a quien mirar,
a quien sentir.
Entender:
que del ojo nace el mundo,
y del mundo uno vive,
y de la vida nace uno,
y uno es luz.
Creciendo nunca paro,
conosco y me asusta.
El hombre crece y se asusta,
el hombre conoce y nunca para.
Entender:
Que del ojo nace el mundo,
y del mundo uno vive,
y de la vida nace uno,
y uno es luz.
Saber:
que por esto uno muere.
35
Shelsey Jimenez
Suspended in AirAs the fog rolls down
Like a wave of air crashing...
Reality fades.
Natural SelectionThe plant cons the fly
It’s nature’s double agent
Snap close, then it goes.
AbsolutionThe leaf shimmers now
Having been washed
From heavenly sky.
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Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez
She Comes to MeTonight the sky is pale,
And the air moves slow and cold, like a spirit.
A squirrel scurries for warmth,
And she comes to me.
I can feel her stillness this evening,
As she reposes in this young Moon,
Her small feet dangling
As she giggles.
She comes to me in the hollow branches,
Which so vulnerably sway,
Like the tall Pampas Grass in our treasured South American lands,
Where once we together played.
She comes to me in the crack of moon light which bounces
From her,
To a window,
To my cold face.
She comes to me when I catch the sound of a creature’s step.
And when my eyelids close, she comes to me:
As our fingers caress the cotton of our grandmother’s nightgown.
She is with me tonight, in all the life that blooms.
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And when her tale is over,
And we both have shared a smile,
She says goodbye, she says she’s tired.
After all, she’s just a child.
And in a simple instant, she returns to her eternal rest.
From my sight she has faded once again.
Where does she go? Where has she been?
I’ll never know.
She has left me, but not alone,
For tonight, amongst the beaming stars,
She has adorned the moon,
which we’ll forever share.
And I will wake and rest under its flare,
Cradled by whispers which only my heart can hear.
The softest light I see,
She will forever be with me.
The night is now golden,
And the air moves slow and tender,
Like love.
For her laugh remains with me.
38
Angela Figueroa / Sebastian Rodriguez
Sin título La lluvia de Madrid,
dulce.
Tu mirada,
ausente.
Tu beso,
amargo.
El sol,
brillante.
Nuestro amor
muerte
Madrid,
vivo.
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Carola Dixon
Oh Comet: A Poem in the Style of Robert BurnsFalling star, your passion is the reddest of all heaven,
You outshine the holy stars and are a woman’s venom
Just like my boy, you dance your way into my mind
I have but to look up, to see you leaping ‘cross the sky
Just like him, you arrive unannounced. Radiating light
Splashing the sky with shades that cancel the night,
Oh comet, you are the wild lover of the moon
Promising love in the evening and gone by noon
Oh comet, what pulls your soul to the wild wild fall?
The need, for a moment, the whole world enthrall?
Your light glazes my eye; your love doth burn my soul
For I know you’ll burn out, leaving cosmic debris at my feet.
40
Isaac Scheinfeld
Tired ReticenceA hurricane of stagnant breath tears limb from limb my mortal soul as
winds repressed by fear of death lay waste to all that life should hold
I prepare to meet my doom by hurling forth the furious storm
I devise myself a heavenly tomb where but the winds me upward bore
In my despair at what should bear unwelcome through the gates of my
own dismal thoughts, I cry aloud
then weep for selfish solitude
What next will chance I cannot tell, yet somehow feel the game will end
For that one player whose move is set
Moves not and may not move again
I sit and stare before me cold
The lifeless figurines grow old
As I my life before me fold
What’s left shall end as I foretold
41
Noah Kahan / Sebastian Rodriguez
My Summer RevelationIn the rocky lands of the Golan Heights, looking out into Syria, I heard what no six-
teen year-old, nor kid should ever hear in their lifetime. I heard the explosions of rockets
and saw white smoke rising from the ground, as if I were actually on the battlefield. I
didn’t feel any angst, why? I was safe, yet someone 40 miles from me might have been hid-
ing in a bomb shelter maybe dodging death. Ironically two minutes after I saw the white
smoke, my friends and I were laughing, feeling safe and secure. Yet walking away I felt a
rock in my stomach, a heavy one that many countries weighed down. In Syria, we have
seen many people die, yet no one has made drastic changes to stop it. I felt world politics
in my stomach, churning, stuck, trying to get out, but not before setting me ablaze and
the world along with it.
42
Vita Taurke / Sebastian Rodriguez
Pop!Pop! Pop! Pow! Pow! Kazaam! Zap!
Explosions of light popping through the air
Like fireworks!
Fireworks that explode and scream and cry and explode and laugh and
dance until you don’t know what it is any longer other than light and
light and light and light and light and light and do you want to try a
piece of liver
Today I found a cockroach in my bed it scared me
Friendly pennies turn around
An empty box of caramels sits in my desk
And slowly fills up with coins
Stories are told and re-told with bigger beginnings and smaller endings
every time
The delicacy of mashed potatoes is astounding to me
Another living breathing being in my room
A living breathing blaring siren
Blaring what is it that opens and closes but doesn’t affect my toes but
drills my head with hopelessness
And light fills me
And love that is too big to express with a word
So I remain silent
Until the silence is ended and ended and ended and ended it doesn’t stop
ending you see
Crackling like the aftermath of an explosion
It is not beautiful
I don’t want it to be.
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Loud bursts of light and calm waves of sound
Looking through the fireworks of the night to find the brilliance of the
light and then go as fast as you can as fast as you can as fast as you can
as fast as you can as fast as you can
POP!
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Annabelle Vaës
Ich will chinesisches EssenIch habe eine solche Sehnsucht nach chinesischem Essen. Ich habe wirklich Hunger!
Ich fahre jetzt mit meinem Auto zu einem chinesischen Restaurant, um chinesisches
Essen zu kaufen. Ich biege links ab und fahre auf eine Straße durch einen Wald. Ganz
plötzlich beginnt mein Auto zu schrumpfen. Ich auch! AHHHH!!! Was passiert denn
hier?!? Mein Auto hört auf zu schrumpfen und ich stehe von meinem Auto auf. O Gott!
Der Rosenbusch beim Auto ist groß wie ein Baum und die Bäume sind groß wie Berge!
Ich bin klein! Was soll ich machen? Ich fange an zu weinen. Wer hat das gemacht? Wie
kann ich wieder groß werden? Während ich klein bin, kann ich spazieren gehen. Ich kann
nichts anderes machen. Vielleicht finde ich jemanden im Wald, der mir helfen kann. Als
ich laufe, erinnere ich mich, dass ich gestern hier in diesem Wald spaziert bin und eine
Apfelsine hier gelassen habe. Dort drüben sehe ich etwas Oranges und ich freue mich! Ich
renne zum Baum und da sehe ich ein Mädchen mit orangen Haaren, einen alten Mann
mit einem weißen Bart, einen Jungen mit einem Tannzapfen-Hut, ein Eichhörnchen,
zwei Kröten, einen Faulpelz und eine Eidechse bei meiner Apfelsine. Sie sagen plötzlich:
„Hallo!“ Ich kann nichts sagen, weil ich so schockiert bin. Endlich sage ich: „Ummm....
Hallo.“ „Woher kommen Sie?“ fragt das Mädchen. Ich erzähle dann meine Geschichte
und zum Schluss frage ich: „Wissen Sie, wie ich wieder groß werden kann?“ „Ja wir wis-
sen es! Sie müssen einen Keks von der Schwanen-Elfe bekommen. Sie wohnt beim Teich
auf der anderen Seite dieses Waldes,“ sagt das Mädchen. „Ich kann mit Ihnen gehen,“ sagt
der Junge mit dem Tannzapfen-Hut. Ich sage danke und dann fangen wir an zu laufen
und laufen, bis es Nacht ist. Plötzlich sehe ich Elfen und zwei Jungen spielen mit blau-
weißen Lichtern. Die Jungen haben graue Kleidung und Pilzhüte. Die Elfen singen wie
Engel und der Klang ist so schön. Zwei kleine Mädchen mit gleicher Kleidung und Pilz-
hüten wie ihre Brüder beobachten die Elfen. Sie sind erstaunt über die Elfen! Hinter den
Elfen sind Felsen, die lebendig sind. Sie lächeln und sind sehr ruhig. Der Junge mit dem
Tannzapfen-Hut bringt mich zum Felsen und da sehe ich einen Eingang zu einer Höhle.
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„Wir werden da drin schlafen,“ sagt der Junge und er geht hinein. „Wir müssen morgen
den ganzen Tag laufen. Sie müssen jetzt schlafen. Gute Nacht,“ sagt der Junge. „Gute
Nacht,“ sage ich. Diese Nacht träume ich von Katherine Hepburn und Audrey Hepburn.
Sie sprechen mit mir und sie beraten mich. Am Morgen stehen wir früh auf und fangen
an zu laufen. Wir laufen den ganzen Tag und jetzt ist es Nacht. Ganz plötzlich sagt der
Junge, dass wir hier beim Teich sind. Der Teich ist still und ruhig. Das Licht des Mondes
scheint auf den Teich. Es ist so schön! Dann sehe ich eine Schwanen-Elfe die auf einem
großen Schlüssel beim Teich tanzt. Während sie tanzt, sagt sie, dass ich mit ihr tanzen
muss, um einen Keks zu bekommen. Ich fange an zu tanzen und ich werde plötzlich ruhig
und glücklich! Nach fünf Minuten sagt sie, dass ich in Übereinstimmung mit der Nature
lebe, und dass ich einen Keks nehmen könne. Ich nehme einen und danken beiden für
ihre Hilfe. Ich esse den Keks und ich wachse. Ich wachse und wachse. Ich wachse bis ich
meine normale Größe wieder erreicht habe. Die Schwanen-Elfe gibt mir auch eine Mak-
rone für meine Reise zurück. Ich bedanke mich herzlich, nehme die Jungen auf meine
Schulter und sage: „Bitte, führt mich zurück.“
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Sasha Pinto
SurvivalMighty and tall, with my brothers,
I see the world below me.
This land, this forest and others,
We rule by natural decree.
I am the tallest of the oak,
And the king of the wood:
Ancient forest of all hope—
I stand for everything that is good.
Hundreds of years, I’ve been passing
My brothers have been felled;
Invaded by machines, surpassing
The forests gone; our songs quelled
Now in a garden I’m admired,
Pruned and trimmed to a perfect state;
Never wild, no less inspired;
Restrained inside by a metal gate—
I am welcome shade and autumn tones,
Amusements only for a privileged few;
Who rest below me and toss stones,
Carving initials, then saying adieu.
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Many changes have struck my land,
Where once I stood a timeless wonder;
Within a wood so green and grand,
But it’s gone, my forest asunder.
One day I spot new birds in flight
And watch the setting sun;
I marvel at the children’s delight
To stay with me when day is done.
Hope has sprung, and its face is this child,
Who loves my trunk, my leaves and boughs,
Scampering over my limbs so beguiled—
Yes, we’ll survive, brothers, and I smiled.
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Shavasp Quillen / Sebastian Rodriguez
Poem in the Style of William WordsworthThe trees covered with snow
Drift in the breeze swaying;
The distant howl of a wolf,
Eerie, resounding, it echoes;
A stream nearby gushing
Over frozen rocks and twigs,
through forests veiled in white;
A hare, camouflaged,
Hides from its predators:
A remembrance:
The bright full moon
Drifted over the land
The hare scampered.
Through brush it rushed,
Its pursuers followed close;
A pack full of hungry males
Now inches behind;
A wolf lunged forward,
Clamped its jaws deep:
Deep into the warm flesh.
Bones broke and snapped;
Life came to a sudden halt.
A survivor watched
From a distance unseen,
Dashed out of sight.
Night became day,
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Day became night.
The dead hare gone
would ne’er return.
The survivor recalls
that night’s memories;
harsh and sudden;
One error: life ends.
His friend’s death,
His continuation.
Its life is mourned:
This hare wanders on;
Now more silent;
More careful.
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Anna Grimm
FallA blanket of gold,
across endless hills of green
fades as summer ends.
SpringHushed, sunny evening
warm, humid breeze tickles me
with the smell of spring.
WinterA chill in the air,
bitter and violent winds send
shivers up my spine
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Carolyn Newmark / Sebastian Rodriguez
GrimeThe man on the gravelly subway platform was eating his jacket as the dog
waddled too close to the
edge
the weighty grey puffs of building’s cigars squeeze their way through the
holes in the grates
and turned to excrement flavored mouthwash at the bottom of the tracks
the girl was smacking on pink lemonade starbursts because all the other
ones don’t matter
they are like biting into fresh rubber covered monkey bars on a sunny day
when your mom is trying to feed you foam peanuts that are disguised
as bees
and when the train comes like your uncle who has eaten too much of his ego
on thanksgiving
it rocks back and forth
while the people look down
plugged in and unaware of the whole they are a part of
unaware that a thin layer of clothing separates their genitals
because if they were aware
aware of the shoes
the small feet
aware of the lady who mutters to god
aware of the comfort of the lack of air between their neck and someone’s
work boots
they might realize that the subway doors close centimeters from our faces
and the lady who mutters to god is really muttering to her slurped dreams
52
Carola Dixon
Wordsworth Poem Grey steps in a grey city on grey pavement
Where withered by the thirst for passion the city turns to chalk
And all I see are bones without a body
As I place step after step, after step, after step
Along the path, on the subway, around the gutter
Where ants crawl around and around and there is movement but no
connection
I am walking in a suffocated city, and everything is just gray.
On my finger tips I still feel the dry blood of a nation far away.
A nation where a rainbow serpent once etched the creeks and rivers
And his soul brought so much color to the land
That bleeding land
The land who cried so many tears that now their blueness surrounds her
And wild dangers live trapped between the green grass and the green
forest canopy
The land full of wild pain and sorrow, of punishing anger and death
But in the eve, the sun can’t help but give one last smile to she, the wild
country
So it sets the sky afire in pink and purple, one last kiss before it says
goodnight.
With every easy footstep on the pavement
Of the cold calculating city that will not budge from grey,
Reaction is the same.
And all feeling shifts between varying shades of black
And her tears are the murky waters of the hudson
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That roll along untempered by any new sadness
Surrounded by clanks and horns and buzzing and speaking
But all I hear is the kookaburra laugh.
For how daring the night of the grey city may be
The eye that has seen the color of my land,
That saw life through a saturated lens,
Is blind in the dark.
And in the land of dreaming
Two lovers may be separated by a vastness that is hard to understand
And still see the same setting sun and bleeding land
Yet where does the sun set in the grey city?
I walk through the grey city and I cry
Because my love is elsewhere
And in the darkness all I wish to see is the cross hang low over the ocean
As I wait for the sun to rise again; to shine its rays and shed light on the
bleeding, crying, dangerous land
My land.
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StaffElisha Andrade ’14
Carola Dixon ’15
Anna Grimm ’16
Carolyn Newmark ’15
Sasha Pinto ’16
Ella Prince ’15
Emily Rentrop ’14
Danielle Sang ’14
Meg Schaeffer ’14
Anna Sweeney ’14
Vita Taurke ’14
Annabelle Vaës ’15
Co-Editors in Chief Elisha Andrade ’14 / Carolyn Newmark ’15
Art Editors Andreina Himy ’15 / Ella Prince ’15
Layout & Design Carolyn Newmark ’15
Faculty Advisors Carol Bärtges, Alexander Yagupsky
The Rudolf Steiner SchoolNew York, New York
The Rudolf Steiner SchoolNew York, New York