Epic Spring 2014

Letter from the Editors

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Dear Reader,

Here is where we write about Epic. But instead of trying to explain “Epic” in just the few words we have, we’ll say this. We offer a quote to remember: “Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences” ~Sylvia Plath. Epic is not a thing, and even if it were, we could never explain it. It’s just us saying things, and saying them well. We write, paint, draw, photograph, and at the end of the day, we end up here, within these covers. All we did was say something. And that’s all it took. More important than having a story is telling it. And that is what every individual in every edition of this magazine has done. Why are we telling you this? Because we know deep down we are all compelled to tell our story. We are compelled to be “epic,” and so we are.

Sincerely, Catherine Eatherton and Claudia Udolf

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Table of Contents4. samantha dibacco5. hope kim6. poppy sheehan7. molly papermaster8. ryan albanesi9. catherine eatherton10. max bash11. vivian goldstein 12. cole adams [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner]13. max bash emily lowit14-15. rose esselstyn16. ben putterman17. cole adams18. ben roland 19. david lessard20. tom fischer 21. benjamin lerman coady 22. claire halloran 23-24. anya delventhal 25. samantha dibacco26-27. emma waldman28-30. claudia udolf31. luka mrvic [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner] 32. jeanna willis33. natalie goldstein 34. lexi delucia 35. claudenique cousins ben putterman 36. christopher adamsons37. hope kim38. tom fischer claire halloran 39. holden white 40. hope nemirow max bash

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41. benjamin lerman coady 42. kayla glemaud 43. aly brown44. tom fischer [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner]45. elinor kraus46-47. hope kim48. benjamin lerman coady 49. shreya karak rachel maselli50-51. kayla glemaud52. andrew lemkuil 53. ben roland54. hope kim55. hope kim56. megan geier 57. kayla glemaud 58. jenna mick [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner]59. claire halloran 60. noah stanton [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner]61. megan geier 62. sarah zaidi 63. benjamin lerman coady 64. claudenique cousins 65. megan geier ben roland66-67. max bash68. kayla glemaud natalie goldstein69. nicole demers70. megan geier71. aj greene 72. kayla glemaud 73. vivian goldstein & peyton moore74. benjamin lerman coady 75. ethan levinbook [2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner]76. miranda bascetta77. hope kim78-79. max bash80. shreya karak

Blooming Sun [samantha dibacco]

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The frailness of a teenage heart would be almost laughableif it were not so painfully true.

Her longing can only last for so long

before it too becomes glass.Invisible to the eye,

the hurt is all too real.

Being overlooked for eternity,a silent promise is settled for.

She hopes with every fiber of her being that

it will bring her meaning.Don’t look now, but Mr. Meaning has just arrived.

Eyes, don’t betray me now.

His glance only lasts for a second,but as the way things are,

time itself seems to have forgotten its place.

Humans,I’m surprised we’ve made it this far.

Feeble [hope kim]

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I am in a farmer’s marketWhen I come across

Some cherry tomatoesAs the vendor looks awayI pop one into my mouth

SuddenlyI am not in a farmer’s market but

In my daddy’s gardenAnd I am a child again

Amidst a tangle of vegetablesThat form a maze around meI can hear my daddy callingLast autumn’s leaves crunch

Under my feet as I run to himRunning to the saftey

Of his warm armsHe picks me up

The Peculiar Bittersweet-ness

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He smiles and says“Would you like a tomato?”

I take the tomato in my handIt is soft and warm from the sun

I roll it around in my handAppreciating its form

Then I place it on my tongueI can feel its skin burst

As I bite downIt tastes clean and sweet

Like I have swallowed the gardenLike I have captured the moment in a flavor

But thenI am not in my daddy’s garden

I am in a farmer’s marketOne tear trickles down my faceThen I tuck away my memories

And continue to search for something that could compare

of Cherry Tomatoes [poppy sheehan]

Personal Strangers [molly papermaster]

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He smiles and says“Would you like a tomato?”

I take the tomato in my handIt is soft and warm from the sun

I roll it around in my handAppreciating its form

Then I place it on my tongueI can feel its skin burst

As I bite downIt tastes clean and sweet

Like I have swallowed the gardenLike I have captured the moment in a flavor

But thenI am not in my daddy’s garden

I am in a farmer’s marketOne tear trickles down my faceThen I tuck away my memories

And continue to search for something that could compare

We laughed and we sat. The orange of the sun extended from sky to soul

Brothers, cousins,For another summer

All perched precariously over the seaOn the reliably slippery rocks.

Why did the breeze always taste of hope and not salt?Did you breathe as deeply as I used to?

Can you smell it, even today?Hot dogs sizzled, but that was miles away

Here, the fresh scent of the ocean ruled us all.

The seagull’s sunset song Drowned out the irregular ploppings of snails peeling off our rocks.

They were ours, weren’t they?The ocean used to speak in an emotional tone

That we felt, but could never understand. Do you think it still does?

With sand between our toes,And water on our shorts,With slime on our hands,

And summer on our minds,We laughed and we sat.

Can’t you remember?

Forgotten Summer [ryan albanesi]

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Charcoal Sky [catherine eatherton]

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Rose [max bash]

From the moment I saw her I was doomedI’ve always been weak against pretty thingsShe captured my heart. One-sided love bloomedShe’s a balance: Cold winters and sweet springs

Her green eyes warn me she is only sin‘Gainst her demonic charms, I stood no chanceI am hell’s loyal slave from now on in I join the devil’s quintessential dance

One strike of her smoky smirk destroys meShe is fire, too dangerous to touchOne pout of her red lips unravels meShe’s too tantalizing to never clutch

Without her I’ll burn ‘til I’m dust and dieWith her I’ll surely end, isn’t that wry?

Her [vivian goldstein]

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i woke up mumbling about Araby and the Manifestothe backs of my hands smell like hydrocortisoneit’s four in the morning and the past eight nightsi’ve seen your face on the ceiling in my mind, i thinki wasn’t meant to last as long as your tapeworms andwhite-tailed deer fetuses, i open my eyes and all i hearis why, why, why. there was a time when i looked at you like Jesus, i thought i could pray to you. i prayed to you. i’ve spent so much time trying to forget that i can hardlyremember anything, there’s a mote in my eye and it’s like abrick.

outside there’s a children’s choir singing the Internationale, theRed Book on my nightstand’s falling apart and it smells like graphiteand mold, i don’t know who i am and i don’t remember how long it’s been like this. i feel my organs melting into a pool of sludge between my thighs and i think about failed Revolutions and riot police, how dry my skin gets when i think of you, how the fog on the mirror made your face so surreal, how the ghosts of your words still light me on fire;

it’s five o’clock. my arms are throbbing, my skin’scracked open, and my fingernails are caked in blood

Eczema [cole adams]

2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

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Lift [emily lowit]

Enter at your Own Risk [max bash]

I blew out the candle. My big sister’s candle. My absent big

sister’s candle, that is. This time last year I felt as alone as the last

leaf on a tree before the winter begins. My big sister and my big

brother were moving away. Away to universities that didn’t include

bringing along the little sister; therefore, I was left alone in the

castle. A castle that felt even bigger being the last one left in it.

The last kid at least. So alone that my parents got two puppies and

another child to take the place of the two that had just left the nest.

This was the best idea. This was going to be the best year ever. I

just knew it.

Hey, hey! This night I had a dream in English, she says.

Hey, hey. Now where did she pick up the extra hey? Never just hey.

Always hey, hey! She had been with us for a month by now and a

routine was starting to fall into place. Things were going well. We

got along. We laughed. We gossiped. We were sisters! I was her host

sister and she was my brand new big Danish sister. But then… she

lit the candle.

Wow! This smells good.

Yea…

The aroma of Laguna Beach filled the whole upstairs for a

good week. A smell that made me cringe. Not the candle. Not that

candle. Not my big sister’s favorite candle that she left in her room

that you now occupy.

The Candle [rose esselstyn]

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You are being over dramatic. It’s just a candle.

It’s just a candle. It’s just a candle. I force myself to remember

this. But as the baby chick yellow-colored wax slowly gets lower

and lower down the container, the constant reminder to myself that

it’s just a candle…gets less and less constant. My new big Danish

sister. My new big Danish sister who keeps me company when my

parents are at work. My new big Danish sister who makes me laugh

with her silly grammatical errors. My new big Danish sister who is

the second best ice skater in Denmark. My new big Danish sister

who lives in my sister’s bedroom. My new big Danish sister who

lights my sister’s candle. My new big Danish sister who is at the

rink practicing. Her new little American host sister, who blows out

the candle.

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Cream Soda [ben putterman]

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Silver Oxide, Sulfur Dichloride [cole adams]

under the insectoid hum of an electric generator words move in schizoid vectors and so do you—and someone said i looked like you from behind. andall i can smell is this sulfur dichloride;

i ran eight miles and tasted blood—your blood—like the salt of skin biting down; and now when i think of youyou don’t have a face, and i look at the rocks around me thathaven’t moved in years—they’ve sunken into the ground and rooted themselves deep;

and i wonder if you ever think about my silver oxide, the way itstained your pale cold palms—because thinking of you is likescratching a mosquito bite raw; and when things get really bad i can’t help but believe that humanity’s just like a bacteria colony

growing in the wet flask we forgot todry

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Turtlenecks [ben roland]

Open [david lessard]

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Open, you are truthful as the tales of time.Loving, scarred, careful, hurt.

You’ve fought your own wars, leaving you flawed.Open, you are like a book, for only me to read.

Open, you are a friendly face, ready to greet.Your deep eyes pierce me as I find myself lost in them.

Open, you are warm and gentle,Like a summer’s breeze.

I cocoon myself in your warm embrace,For there we can stay protected,

And only then can we both be open.

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Metaphors [tom fischer]

If I told you that you are my SunThat you are my starsThat you are my MoonAnd EarthThat would be a metaphor

The Agony of a Chinese Warlord [tom fischer]

Mountain walks and ocean swims,Lost forever, I am caged within

My own castle

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String Prints [benjamin lerman coady ]

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Paraguay [claire halloran]

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To the Three [anya delventhal]

To The Strong One

A mountain who will not sway Yet never casts me in the shadows

A voice that could crumble castles Yet never trips me over

You are the strong one

You watch over the whole planet For fear that someone there hates me You stand still and tall before me For fear that someone wishes to harm me


A first born, an heir to inherit much Yet you will always offer me the world

An ox, who will rage and strut Yet to me you will always be gentle


To The Laughing One

A fox who nips at heels Yet never makes me bleed

A laugh like the strongest winds Yet never knocks me down

You are the laughing one

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You trip and fall and grown and grunt Just to see me smile

You howl at the moon at nightlong Just to hear me applaud


A child made of wind and air Yet who never lets me fall

A smile full of imp-like mischief Yet to me you will forever be kind


To The Loving One

A gentle smile and a kind voice Yet you never let me tremble

A pair of strong arms full of warmth Yet you never cage me inside

You are the loving one

You hold me back from the edge So that I know how to fly free

You whisper stories in my ear So that I know you will always be here


A protector who can stand tall Yet who is always beside me

A statue never moving and never quaking Yet who is always happy to take my hand and run


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The Florida Sunset [samantha dibacco]

Movement [emma waldman]

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I’ve always wondered why.

In high school I did everything I was supposed to do in order to get into the right college so I could then have the right profession. I was really good at obeying my parents and listening to my teachers. The plan they wanted for me turned into the plan I thought I wanted for myself. But I always knew there was something inside me that desired to rebel. I needed to. As per the plan, I made it to an Ivy League school and my parents proudly displayed the window sticker. I was offered a job immediately after graduation at a prestigious firm in Manhattan. They offered me a big salary and a corner office with a view. Everything we planned to happen, happened. I made my parents proud. I thrilled my grandparents. I gave the yentas something to yent about. At night, I would go home and wonder whether I was happy. It was autumn. I was walking home when I noticed a door I had never seen before. This was odd, since I thought I knew every retail store and every commercial building on Madison Avenue, and this was neither. Struck with curiosity, I approached the door and it started to grow exponentially. It grew and grew until it became the biggest door in the world. I was hypnotized. I could feel the static of my arm hair graze against the mahogany wooden frame. The din of automobile engines and horns, the siblings fighting over whose turn it was to play on their mother’s phone, the sigh of the girl as she held the hand of her first lover all faded into the Void.

Silence is the loudest sound.

I snapped back to reality just as the door swung open. Before me lay a scene of indescribable beauty: the most vibrant colors, the most mellifluous sounds, the most powerful aromas, all so pungent I could almost taste them. To my right was a beach with the whitest sand and the bluest sea. To my left, a rainforest garden filled with tamed tigers and pink frogs and unthreatening snakes. I looked up for the sun, but saw instead the brightest moon and felt the energy of a thousand electric stars. The mundane details of the world suddenly became spectacular. I reveled in the enchanted vision like a young woman window-shopping on Rodeo

Mr. Linden’s Inscriptions [claudia udolf]

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Drive. In the distance I saw a lighthouse and as the beacon rotated on its axis, I saw the silhouette of a sturdy man standing in the window. It was only then that I noticed I was completely alone. I was so used to the barrage of questions from my interns, the humming of cell phones and the ringing of landlines, and the incessant demands of litigation that I almost didn’t notice this special moment of solitude. The next thing I noticed was turning the lighthouse doorknob. Inside, millions of bookshelves swirled and spiraled in every direction around the expanding circular skeleton. I ran faster, stretched out my arms farther. My fingers skimmed the leather bindings of the books. I looked closer and each was inscribed with a name. The shelves receded, revealing a staircase for me to climb. At the top, I found the sturdy man. Moved from his standing position, he was now seated at a wooden desk. The kind of desk an artist would use, stained with paint and charcoal, cluttered with the tools of a thousand artists. His hair was a dark brown, lightly glazed with gel. His rugged button-down plaid shirt offset his soft jaw line. Glancing up, he noticed me skulking in the corner. I never felt shyer. “Hello,” he confidently said, sounding like Morgan Freeman. I questioned whether I was dead; God always sounds like Morgan Freeman. “Henry Linden.” “Eve.” “I know.” I stood there. He stood there. He was so beautiful. I was so awkward. How did he know my name? Why was he so good looking? Why were there so many books? Where was I? Why was I here? I needed to do something but I didn’t know what. I had so many racing thoughts, but I was paralyzed. He sensed my confusion. “This is my library. All the books downstairs are the stories of every person in the United States (each country has its own Human Library). When a child is born, his or her story is written and his or her destiny is drawn. The only pages written are the last. How the early, middle, and late chapters are filled is up to each individual, but the ending is always written in permanent ink.”I noticed ink stains on his huge hands.“Eve, your book is thick. Really thick. Really, very thick. You are taking the scenic

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route. You have always desired more from your life than those around you; you’ve always wanted to fill your pages with superlatives.” I wanted to run. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to be back on the busy sidewalk of Madison Avenue. I felt a sadness I had suppressed ever since I created—no, ever since my parents created—my plan. I wasted so much time. I don’t even know yet what I love. Or where my passions lay. I wanted to blame my parents; I wanted to blame my teachers; I wanted to blame my rabbis. I wanted to throw every perfectly bounded book from its perfectly dusted shelf. I saw my book. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel the leather in my hand. I wanted to rip out every published page.

I wanted to skip to the end.

Mr. Linden interrupted, “I advise against that. You need to discover your path yourself. You will not appreciate the journey if you already know how it ends.” I was impulsive and cared little for his advice. I snatched the book from the shelf like a greedy child snatching a cookie from the cookie jar. As I consumed each noun, each verb, each adjective, green ivy emerged from the book, surrounding me, supporting me, and then suffocating every follicle of my being.I never got to the end.

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I walk through these alphabetic avenues,With a backpack accompanying me

St. Marks and 1stThe NYU art students overflow the streets while in line

To get to the popular café they read about in The GothamistJohn Coltrane; my soundtrack in one ear

And the birds of Tompkins Square Park in the other.I walk past the expired punks who still think it’s 1992

Pink mohawks, cigarettes in their mouthsThe subways rumble beneath me

As I look up past the Astor Place CubeOnto the colored Empire State Building

My north starIt pierces the blue sky that drapes over me

And the other 8 million unknown faces who walk among methe music in stone

the poetry in granitethe prayer in steel

I look south down Lafayette to the glorious Freedom TowerOh how could you miss it?

Although it is empty on the insideIt is forever a constant reminder that what is dead

May never dieBut rise again

Harder and strongerSeeds walk amongst legends

On these Second Avenue streets

The Village [luka mrvic]


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Keep your head upWhen you are an island,That no one will take note of,When you are shiveringAs if on the dark side of the moonOr as insubstantial as a ghost.

Keep your head upWhen you’re drowning in a sea of your miseryStruggling for every breath,When it seems as if the world is against you,And you can’t get back up.

Keep your head upIn the times you’re in a lightless abyssContemplating life,And whether you have a purpose.

Keep your head upTo see the rainbows after a storm,To keep moving forwardTo see the flames of euphoria spreadTo watch the mesmerizing sunriseAfter night’s ink spills across the parchment sky.

Keep your head up,Because there’s always something ahead.

Keep Your Head Up [ jeanna willis]

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Styx [natalie goldstein]

Elysium [natalie goldstein]

Forest [lexi delucia]

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Untitled [ben putterman]

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We will find ourselves, Sooner or later I suppose, The truth is we are a part of a lost society.

“Refuse to believe that”But we still do (no matter what). The actuality, the kind that just hurts, is we are a part of failing society But you know what? The said reality, the one that is hard to believe, is we are a part of losing society

Don’t Give Up Just Yet? [claudenique cousins]

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I am homeWhen I step on the ice

It is quite niceI train my hardest day in and day out

I sacrifice sleep to workoutI want to play at the next level

No one can stop me even the devil We are a family

And group of brothersWe spend our days with each other

We win and lose together as oneI will play hockey until the day the earth is done

We take the hit and block the shot People say we are wimpy...not

We do everything to winThat included taking pucks to the shin

We score goals And skate fast

To play at the next level You can’t live in the past

The days go byWe fly on that iceWe win the game

And soon hope to be in the Hall of Fame

We live on the road And it is great

No curfewWe go to bed too late

This is the lifeThat I want to live

I would do it with nobody else With my brothers I live

The Hockey Life [christopher adamsons]

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The days go byWe fly on that iceWe win the game

And soon hope to be in the Hall of Fame

We live on the road And it is great

No curfewWe go to bed too late

This is the lifeThat I want to live

I would do it with nobody else With my brothers I live

Float [hope kim]

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Haiku [tom fischer]

The sea’s blue water, the sun and its blinding flames, your beautiful eye.

Sunset [claire halloran]

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You’re not big enough, they said, you’re too weak, they saidYou will fail, they said, and never make it Failure can fuel you or it can destroy you

You’re not smart enough, they saidYou’re not going to be sucessful, they said

You will fail, they said, and never go anywhereI said, I will go somewhere

I will be sucessfulI will be the best

And if all else fails I will cetrainly be the best Holden White I can be

Find That Failure [holden white]

The sea’s blue water, the sun and its blinding flames, your beautiful eye.

Blankets, pillows,Fade to black,

Darkness turns to dream,Mind turns to solitude,

The dreary, gloomy night,An endless abyss of darkness,

While the mind is bright.

I wish I could be a brain gone rogueWhile I’m awake.

Instead,Mind is dull,

Darkness doesn’t turn,Mind is complicated.

Brain Gone Rogue [hope nemirow]

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Infinity [max bash]

Inspiration from My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke

The coffee on your breath Could make a freshman perky;But I listened on eternally:Such focus was not easy.

We heeded until the bell Went off with a ding;Then we packed up our backpacksAnd left in a zing.

We stumbled over the legsThat blocked the hall;At every step I tookA senior slammed me into the wall.

Then I stopped at EES 2 And went through the door,My teacher’s lecture Subdued me once more.

My Teacher’s Lecture [benjamin lerman coady]

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shuffle with Shacklesbound tight, Deep sighsstaring at the Clock, pretend to force Time to go bythe Hum of their voices, Degrading my Mindpacks and packs, strewn about the groundspray to be Not the Prey they houndno Touch, hardly a grazeFire in their eyes and Silence on their tonguestabs, cuts, pains, a Pained heartRinging bells are church bells— Marking my Freedom since the start bound away, eyes to saviorblack, sleek, carried in mind, that Gladiator purr of the engine, no Look Back, hands with firm griptil Dawn shows her red finger tips— andawaken the Burdens of another interval—interval of Chains and Solitudefurious with the Pen, growing hot, piercing attitudeno Name for it— some refer it as “SCHOOL”I call it place, a place for the cool.

5 Days a Week [kayla glemaud]

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To the Core [aly brown]

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The other day I woke up to birdsong. Though I did not understand their wordsI felt as if they were speaking to meThough they could have easily been talking about meBehind my back. I could hear the birds laughing, colorful crowns and impossible tufts Adorning their tiny headsLooking down upon me from their high nests Pale thin eggs kept warm by their feathery bottomsI heard the blue jay cry, his sapphire crown Shimmering in the soft light The mockingbird hummed to the sideThinking of that strawberry of his Wrapped up by the sticky little fingersGiggling as the mockingbird mourned While all the other birds sang and spoke to each other that morning The hummingbird hovered blankly, intently staring at those Famous Georgia flower prints upon my wallLost in the ink

Birdspeak [tom fischer]2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Contest Winner

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you miss your childhood so much that you dress like you’re six again. sneakers and frilly socks. big t-shirts and overalls. you don’t mind getting your knees dirty or scabs on your shins. those pains don’t make you flinch. they don’t talk to you at night. those pains don’t really hurt. not the type of hurt that can’t be fixed with copious amounts of Neosporin.

you bite the skin off the tips of your fingers like you’re aiming for the bone. because it’s all hitting you bone deep. it’s almost romantic sounding. but isn’t being broken such a romantic thing now? sad music doesn’t even phase you. it’s all you know. lullabies filled with acoustic guitars, lilting piano solos, and wavering, fragile vocals. you lay back in the long, dewy grass and close your eyes. you try forgetting about the city surrounding you. the heat rises from the pavement and grips your lungs like you wish you could grip anything at all. the sun beats down on you like you owe it money. but you don’t even sweat. this is the small stuff.

you don’t worry about how you’ll feel in the morning, until the morning comes. smooth iced coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. start your day happy. fall apart at the end. repeat. things won’t get any simpler. they only get worse. three months of total bliss for three months of total shit. that’s the way life works right? it never gets easier you just get better. work on it.

The Park at Noon [elinor kraus]

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Repeat [hope kim]

with my tie knotted tight and my shirt tucked in tooi walked into school knowing i adhered to the d r e s s c o d e r u l e

with a sweep of the non-male studentsi could see dress code violations everywhere

from the pants to the shirt to the footwearno one seemed to care

with my tie knotted tight strangling my throati walked slowly to classas the girls pranced in tightyogapants

why do i have to be in d r e s s c o d e r u l e

teachers would not lookto embarrassed to say

no detentions handed outno girl had to change

but I am yelled atfor my tie not being tight enoughor my shirt not tucked in too

why should i got to school in the d r e s s c o d e r u l e

when the girls get to goin thightyogapants and slippers too

i say dress code equality for alland ALL must adhere to the d r e s s c o d e r u l e

Dress Code Rule [benjamin lerman coady]Inspired by The Dress Code of Kingswood Oxford Upper School and the

works of EE Cummings

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Reaching Out [shreya karak]

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Some people feel the rainOthers just get wetThe accumulative pain builds and breaks meNo medicationNo cureCan heal the wounds that have scarred my heartThe memories of the torture play back in head like a scary movieThe feelings fadeThe people fadeLife begins to fadeSlowly but painfully it gets drearyFrom dawn to duskI am walking through a battlefieldMy armor has been brokenThe bullets sink deeperI know I cannot recoverI got wet

The Painful Days [rachel maselli]

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Loomed over like dark skiesSmooth, slippery steps I could not travel byAnxious glances left and rightNothing nearby to grasp tightOne step up, only to peer at the thousands that lay aheadTurned around and quickly fled

Ages, ages til we met againNew legs new eyes and I—Was more ready than the lastOne step, two— Stumble back to one

Disappointment knocked and flooded my heartFelt it being torn apartI hadn’t taken the anticlimax easy“One day you’ll achieve & it’ll be breezy”

One day, next ageLeaning on the railingPrecautious feet & shaky knees— pressing on the glossy woodGradually believed it would become smooth sailing

One step, two, three stepContinuing strong— a smile gleamed as they watchedFour step, fiveCold wood, the new sensation greeted me

The cold now subdued by dampDidn’t wear my fuzzy socks

The Staircase [kayla glemaud]

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The ones with monkey printYet I slid a slide that would give an all-star baseball player a run for his money

Through sun and stars I staredImagining ways to conquer Signs on each step screamed bewareNo way would I claim defeat, too much hunger

Ages, ages, and agesWe held our final matchThe most determined would prevailOne step, two, three step, four step

Pulse quicken along with the paceNo stumbles— gliding as if in a raceAlmost there was the finish line1st place goes to me, gold all mine

The curve, the straightThe years it took, this is my fateFilled with stumbles, handful of slipsYet finally got a good grip—

On my support, I’ve done itReached the summitA gazelle on the stairs, making beatsTap a tap, tap tap. Music with my feetConquering stairs was made a gameAnd for school, well, I could do the same.

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He will conquer.

6ft 6 power hitter steps into the boxA pandemonium breaks out as the fans know he is due for a big hitAlthough he has endured tremendously in the month of MayHe is still composed; poised.Staying calm and confident for the fans and himself.He knows he will break through and overcome his slump,

He will conquer.

Adversity, hard work, and suffering restrained his success.But that was the past, this is the now.This at-bat, this game.The fundamental swings in the cageIn the cage will pay off.His swing will be natural; explosive.

He will conquer.

Bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th0-2 count, fouling balls off to stay alive, hanging by a thread.He has to fight, he has to endure.The sixth pitch of the at-bat,A hanging curveball up in the zoneA gift from God.

He will conquer.

The towering 6ft 6 frame of the power hitterTakes a barbaric, but fundamental hack at the meatball.He blasts the curveballAs he admires the baseball grow smaller and smallerUntil it disappears over the left field fenceRelieving him of stress, frustration, and pain.

He conquered.

He Will Conquer [andrew lemkuil]

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Flowers [ben roland]He will conquer.

6ft 6 power hitter steps into the boxA pandemonium breaks out as the fans know he is due for a big hitAlthough he has endured tremendously in the month of MayHe is still composed; poised.Staying calm and confident for the fans and himself.He knows he will break through and overcome his slump,

He will conquer.

Adversity, hard work, and suffering restrained his success.But that was the past, this is the now.This at-bat, this game.The fundamental swings in the cageIn the cage will pay off.His swing will be natural; explosive.

He will conquer.

Bases loaded in the bottom of the 9th0-2 count, fouling balls off to stay alive, hanging by a thread.He has to fight, he has to endure.The sixth pitch of the at-bat,A hanging curveball up in the zoneA gift from God.

He will conquer.

The towering 6ft 6 frame of the power hitterTakes a barbaric, but fundamental hack at the meatball.He blasts the curveballAs he admires the baseball grow smaller and smallerUntil it disappears over the left field fenceRelieving him of stress, frustration, and pain.

He conquered.

I decide that today is the day to bend the Rules:

Proceed to break off their fingers, one by one.

They will be of no use anyway.Where is the fun in pointing at each and every “f(law)?”

Pull at the thick braids that don their oh-so perfect heads. Every Single Strand.They will grow back in due time.Where is the fun in clinging to a stranger’s design?

Pluck out their blind eyes. while they remain wide open. viciously.

I doubt that anyone will miss them.Where is the fun in only seeing the white and the sometimes black? Once there is nothing leftLeave the skeletons out to dry for all to see.

In time, maybe history will repeat itself Because I, for one, don’t want the caution that comes with a skinny life.

Rebel Beat [hope kim]

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I want to hear a symphony of uprising. Give me the rightfully wrong and the tiny imperfections That hide behind the mirror only to peek around the corner when the rules are long

gone.55

Discordia [hope kim]

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The Lonely Chair [megan geier]

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America fought itWhy couldn’t I?Twas just as strongJust as congruent when it came to stubborn.

A couple months to baretil it all ceasedyet they, you, America, will always fightwon’t win, just an imprint in your past

America fought itwell aware that it was amissbeen told all my lifeeven the Big man and his guests spoke of such

This one, no, this one was differentMy heart told me so.

yet heart to heart, the rift enormous.wide-eyed, one could never be as wrong as nowworld— back turned to mered, hot, ashamed, and pained

America fought itlikewise, I did. But yonder you came—and grew my everything weak.Poured every ounce to fill that jar heartyou called it beautiful, yet you smashed it.

Berated me, astounded one could feel a wayso many ways identical,how could this be any different?cause such a reaction?

America is fighting itBUT I DIDN’T WANT TO.My secret no longerIs my love, your love?Oh darling, is it?

Silent Endured Pain [kayla glemaud]

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you can write for hours on hours, of all the things that you wish you could be,but the truth of the matter is simple,people are not poetry.And I know that you wish you weren’t awkward, that sweet words could roll right off your tongue, but your time here’s too short just to worry,how each single sentence is strung, it’s okay to be rough ‘round the edges,to be bruised up and broken and scarred,but it’s not okay to let people tell you, that it’s a reason to change who you are,your hair doesn’t always sit neatly,the way a poem sits so neatly in lines, and sometimes you might feel like a word, that nobody has learned to define,you might not be a star that lights darkness,or a bird that can teach us to soar,but it’s okay, because you are too complex,to be crammed into one metaphor,it’s okay not to know what you’re doing, since your feelings don’t have to all rhymethough a poem once complete is eternal, you have the freedom to change over time, you’re much more than can ever be written, there is no title to say, “this is me” you can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook,because people are not poetry.

People are Not Poetry[ jenna mick]


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La Llorona [claire halloran]

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The words I write are never quite so clear,A scribbled note of thoughts abound and wild;The world I see inside my mind I fear.

With heaviness approaching at my rear,Its source a blur, its soldiers armed and riled,The words I write are never quite so clear.

When pleasant dreams are spinning, and they veerOff into murky waters (warm and mild),The world I see inside my mind I fear.

Through others’ ink I see a world so dear,Its dashing mindset expertly compiled.The words I write, are never quite so clear.

I’ve spent too long just rifling through here, The time well-wasted, as I have not filedThe world I see inside my mind, I fear.

As sometimes sight can make the far seem near, My vision oft makes dreams become beguiled.The words I write are never quite so clear. The world I see; inside my mind, I fear.

Jumbled Compilation [noah stanton]


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The Shiz23 [megan geier]

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Alas!I have been made a fool of,Yet again,For my past friend,Lady FortuneHas been off!Merrymaking,Yet again

As my hands trembleHers shall shakeWith those of usThat can afford mistakes

For I succumb!To my woesAnd I shall dine!With my foesAnd bury my headIn SHAME

My head shall restIn slumber.Remaining hereIn my eternal divine.

Lady FortuneShall not see my faceFor althoughTill my last breathShe can takeIRefuseTo Diewith grace

Lady Fortune [sarah zaidi]

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Still Life [benjamin lerman coady]

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the stars were crying this eveningbecause they saw you storm outlast night andthat is exactly what is brewing in the skies and in my eyes.you weren’t afraid of showing why they name storms after peopleI guess I know why now

Hurricane [claudenique cousins]

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Patriot [megan geier]

‘Merica [ben roland]

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Perspective [max bash]

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Creepily risingSteaming, burning with each secondAlongside the ticks on the clockGoing to reach that pointHigher and hotter than everEverything can and is seenRealizationThoughts race each other, lap for lapQuicker, strongerNo turning back nowSeen and marveled Not forgotten, a noteI’ll cool down eventually But things will changeSince I boiled over.

Boiling Over [kayla glemaud]

Skate [natalie goldstein]

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As I walk down the glowing green fairwayInto a pallet of fading yellows, reds and oranges

I stop

I take a look around and appreciateI appreciate the beautiful peacefulness the course brings me Standing on freshly cut grass, surrounded by trees,And a few geese lying on the green up ahead gazing into the motionless lake My body held by the warm summer breeze Putting me in a time warp No cell phoneNo computerNo internetNo peopleNo noises…except for the pop of the ball being struck by my club

I have not a worry in the world

Even with a cluster of bunkers off to my right daring me to shank my ball into the seemingly black hole, just 100 yards awayThe pond sitting motionless waiting to swallow yet another white ball And the tree line looming in the distancewarning me not to mess up

It’s okay

The course is my safe havenA place I can go and not be reached Separated from all the craziness of societyWith just me, myself and I

It is filled with dangers and traps to fall intoJust waiting for me to fail

But it’s still okay

Because if I go for the green in 2,I can finish the hole one-under

Shooting for a Birdie [nicole demers]

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Statue [megan geier]

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It would make sense for poetryto be an apt substitute forprostitution. The process isthe same: tressing and dolling,painting thick the phonyaffection and metaphors,only to achieve some tritesatisfaction upon completion,fleeting shortly after, replacedwith regret and a fear ofpublic impression, not ofwhat it is exactly, butmore so its potential: to beeither elapsed or evoked eternally.

It’s become too difficult for meto think. I merely bounce fromnode to node, answering questionswith questions, descending thebranching, inverted roots of thetree; each child, a fraction ofits parent, a factor to its form.Soon one will be my answer toa question I had lost on myjourney. Rapidly, I return from thebase, to a land only slightly altered,still dependent on the if.And I plummet once more.

Working Words [aj greene]

Return Recursion [aj greene]

It Was Me [kayla glemaud]

it was methe scent it left on the moist groundto the dew on the sharpest blades of grassshimmering and balancing, a trapeze actwhispers to you as it taps on your windowa hum that hushes the world, or a boom that frightensthe overcast, the omniscientcreating steady patternsi’m just thereleave the ground shining like newbetter than any penny you’ve seeni’m like all the otherswe fall down togetherdon’t hide from us under those colors, we don’t hurtdodging us, how could dodge ball be such a challenge for you?in those tight gyms packed with heat and sweatwho knew you could run so quicklywe are harmlessbut the faster the pace from the grey we dropyes, i’m a rain drop.

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Teachers [vivian goldstein & peyton moore]They tell you, “Sit down and do what I say!”And they ask you for the best you can giveBut then they commit a sin you just can’t forgive:“Go write an essay or poem due in 12 days.

Make sure you write it about school, home, lifeMake sure you write it about XYZ.”It doesn’t matter what XYZ is, on this we disagreeWriting is art, and they massacred it with a knife

I don’t think they understand that poetry is expressionI don’t think they understand that writing is a cleansing processAnd I don’t think they understand that they’re being obnoxiousIt’s about confessing your soul or rising above oppression

But they box you in with these goddamn confinesAnd they don’t understand that to give them your bestIt needs to come from the soul. It needs to be confessed.It can’t just be what they tell you to do, themselves they’ve undermined

They don’t understand they’ve become dictatorsThey have snatched your freedom and right to speak what you feelThey’ve surrounded your imagination with structured prison steelAnd to what they’ve spent their whole lives educating, they’ve become traitors.

Shakespeare didn’t write what he was told toSylvia Plath wrote from her heart, her depressionThey wrote about something that would leave an impressionThey created something that would test all of time and make it through

And this is how you know if a teacher is a teacherDo they know what they’re instructing is really aboutOr do they just know the grammar, the rest they floutIf they were really teachers, they’d do more than follow boring, old procedure

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Oxygen [benjamin lerman coady]

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I count the syllables of your laughterAnd waitFor the breaks in your long, soft breaths.I may be a writer, but you are my poemAnd youSpill out, Like ink, Onto the fluttering paper of our days together.

2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Winner

Untitled, #8 [ethan levinbook]

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Laughing.Always laughing.Pushing aside the pain I know you felt.You warmed the room with just one giggle,At someone’s silly fault.

Laughing, at the girls fixing their hair in the mirror,Taking life so serious.At the slang heard here and there that we tried to teach you.Laughing was constant.From capturing pictures with the peace sign,To the legendary “kissy face”Your laughing was contagious.

When you weren’t laughing,The walls became fragile;A piece of my happiness became absent.A piece of everyone’s happiness for that matter.For a moment you became selfish,Sitting in your rocking chair all alone.Closing the world off.(As you should every once in a while.)You let the pain and fear get to you.But soon enough, you covered it up with laughing.

Even though I’m not with you,I still hear your soft blanket outbursts.When I drown in despair,Or the world goes silent.I envision you laughing.You make it hard to shed tears of sadnessWhen I learned from you to only shed tears of happiness.For now, I have said my piece.So both Gma and your laughing, rest with ease.

Sweet Sounds of Laughter [miranda bascetta]

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The left half of my heart resides in dangerous waterswhere the turbulent is but second nature. Unconfined, I wait for happening.I wait for the impossible to find its way through the surface,bravely sputtering to a life of its own.Diving into the unknown is to breatherinse repeat breathe rinse repeatuntil the storm subsides.This is a perilous game, but I choose to dance with disaster and her erratic partners.The rush that comes with the waving of a fist, stone against wind,almost makes me forget that even mountains crumbleunder the weight of insecurity.

The right half of my heart died a long time agoin a wilting cardboard box I left to my memories.

Once in a while, I wait for happening. I wait for the forgotten to find its way through the spidery cracks,

crawling back to a life of its own.Feeling nothing is my weapon of choice

even if I must run run run until the warmth quietly returns.

This is a game I do not wish to play, yet I choose to roam in the prison I built.

The refuge that comes with an oath carved in stone, ever faithful,almost makes me forget about the unguarded door

from which freedom stands with open arms.

…

A confession:I was born to mismatched gods

with loose limbs that I never bothered to fix.

I Am Nephilim [hope kim]

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The Unsung Underpass [max bash]

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Bye! [shreya karak]

Epic Spring 2014

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Transcript of Epic Spring 2014