The Lively Arts 2013

Transcription

THE
LIVELY
ARTS
2013
The Lively Arts 2013
Copyright © 2013
Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts
100 Amsterdam Avenue, New York, NY 10023
Kim M. Bruno, Principal
Dennis Walcott, Chancellor, New York City Department of Education
Michael Bloomberg, Mayor, City of New York
Editor-in-Chief: Candace Lee Camacho
Faculty Advisor: Garret Sokoloff
Cover Art: Sydney St. Clare
Editorial Board
Niel Guaman, Art Editor
Maria Cono-Flavia, Technical Support
Special Thanks
Kim Bruno, Principal
John Sommers, A.P. Organization
Mark Stricklin, A.P. Pupil Personnel Services
Laura Van Kuelen, A.P. Data and Technology
Daniel Dorogusker, A.P. English
Nina Lasky, A.P. Art
April Lombardi
Sheryl Berke, Supply Secretary
The English Department
The Art Department
Parents Association of LaGuardia High School
LaGuardia High School Alumni & Friends
Music & Art 1955 Alumni Class
Extra Special Thanks
Alan Barnett
Contents
I Want An Artists’ Generation — Nicole D’Alessio. .
. . . . . . . . . .
2
My Peace — Nick Saia.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
4
Here You Are — Nick Saia.
5
Rain Trance — Mary Ofosu-Yeboah.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
7
Two Strokes — Candace Lee Comacho..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
8
About Spring — Evan Reiser.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9
You’re in the Mall — Rebecca Rivera. .
Stirring Risotto — Lucia Clohessy. .
Trains and Teacups — Kamala Silvey.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I Am from the Sirens — Rivka Baker-Keush. .
Four Leaf Clover — Max Ventura. .
Mother — Darya Eremina. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
31
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9
Get That Cigarette Out of My Face — Lillibeth Liriano..
My Father — Tamar Ashdot-Bari.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9
Sometimes, Like and After — Sarah Mateo..
9
“Jackals & Arabs” — Soren Hughes.
The Summer I Did Not Swim — Nicole D’Alessio.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
33
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
33
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
36
. . . . . . . .
13
Fleeting — Masha Stepanova.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
14
Hit Your Roof — Candace Lee Comacho.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
14
His Last Gift to Me — Shuwen Li.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
15
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
She Begins to Chop Away — Dina Pugliesi. .
36
37
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
38
Möbius Strip — Odelia Kaly..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
39
16
Mother Hen — Annie Wong.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
39
17
Flower Shop — Danielle Concepcion.
17
Elevator Man — Lindsey Wolfram..
18
Today with Basquiat — Candace Lee Comacho.
. . . . .
19
This Is for You — Phoebe Fregoli.
. . . . . .
19
Seasons — Lucia Clohessy.
. . . .
19
My Afro Was Just Not Coming Back — Cleo Crawford.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
21
Repose — Alice Hayes. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
22
Summer Storm — Annett Monheim.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
23
Enlightenment — Logan Tiberius Kramer.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
25
November — Darya Eremina. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
25
Aphrodite’s Love Song — Desmond Sam. .
26
When a Breath Becomes a Line — Allegra Herman.
Ships and Bells — Danielle Concepcion.
A Perfect Circle — Lara Hirschberg. .
Postcard from Eternity — Odelia Kaly. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Reflections from Finland — Philip Turner.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back — Lindsey Wolfram..
What is Habichuelas Con Dulce? — Amanda Cabrera. .
Where Have My Thoughts Gone? — Mary Ofosu-Yeboah..
Grapefruit Brotha — Tushar Nath.
Bicchierin’s Glass Walls — Hannah Conley.
Encounter with a Lion — Desmond Sam.
After School — Danielle Concepcion.
I Want to Know — Philip Turner.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You’re in Trouble — Philip Turner. .
My Bed — Casey Marie Ecker..
33
Latkes — Amanda Okun. .
Dancing Under the Moonlight — Kiyomi Fujimoto. .
32
. . . . . .
10
. . . . . . . . . .
29
30
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
29
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monsters — Mary Ofosu-Yeboah.
Five Things I Have Loved — Vivian Mok. .
29
We Never Take Dad — Sarah Mateo. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Baked Beans and Toast — Claudia Stein.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
28
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
39
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
40
. . . . . . . . . . . .
40
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
40
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
41
. . . . . .
43
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
44
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
45
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
46
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
47
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
47
48
I Want an Artists’
Generation
Nicole D’Alessio
I want an artists’ generation
Like W.H. Auden and Harold Norse and John Kerouac (of the 1950s)
Or Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Picasso (of the 1920s)
Or Michelangelo and Lorenzo (in the 1530s)
Shakespeare was baptized the year Michelangelo died.
But all I have is an empty house
and ants
and last summer’s dry paint tubes.
2 | The Lively Arts 2013
Art: Hannah Conley
The Lively Arts 2013 | 3 Stirring Risotto
Lucia Clohessy
Like many things in life
If you do not give this recipe attention
It will never grow.
If you do not water flowers and plants
They will never blossom
And if you do not tend to weeds they
Will never grow up to be bigger weeds
And if you go so far as to not love your child
How do you expect him to ever love his own
Grandma Ida used to yell at me
If I did not stir the contents of the pot.
Because then the meat would stick to
The bottom of the pot and burn and the
Rice would not absorb the wine
And we couldn’t have that
My mother once asked me why I’m so adamant about
keeping the rice stirred
She asked if it was because I miss Ida, and I’m keeping
her alive by cooking her dish
I lied with a nod, because this was not the reason
There is no sixth stage of grief reserved for stirring
salty foods
I stir my dish so thoroughly because
I want to feed it attention
Because I do not have children but
If I did, I would never abandon them, mom
I wouldn’t let them become burnt pork at the bottom
I would never leave them to be the one mushroom stuck
on the side of the pot and I certainly would never
ever neglect them
So much that they are unable to absorb
All the lively liquid around them
That would be just cruel
So I stir my rice vigorously, passionately, every holiday
for three hours straight
So everyone will love it, mom
So everyone will praise my dish
Art: Maria Cono-Flavia
Trains and Teacups
Kamala Silvey
we had arrived
and all there was,
was light
piercing disgusting light that refused
to quiet
light that burned our skin and sculpted our
bones into hollow funnels
funnels constructed to filter in rags
and pour out violet silk
the lights of the wind clawed against the dark
of our clothes
and peeled back our skin
and i have never hated
and i have never loved
you smelled of smoke
the fabric of your skin was loud and dark
a ragged quilt
your skin could hum a song
i cry tears of salt and sand
and wind upon water
and i painted my lips red
as i always have
Photo: Casey Marie Ecker
yet, i have never hated
the trains that took us home
were lovely
and the seats were forgiving
and even the teacups would wait
patiently
as we ate between dry grins and soft laughter
and dry biscuits would scratched my lips
and there were flowers that were pink
we left two teacups empty of time and stained
with red lipstick
and i have never hated
it will all lead to a moment
as most things do
my shoes will be scratched
my lips will be chapped
you will break upon my lips and you
will taste like the sea
after it has engulfed the clouds
and spit them back into the sky
The Lively Arts 2013 | 5 6 | The Lively Arts 2013
Photo: Darya Eremina
I Am from the Sirens
Rivka Baker-Keusch
I am from the oven, the days when we compared
ourselves to chocolate chip cookies baking.
When I said, “Look, Mom! There’s Arafat!” and my
mom told me to shush.
I am from the gasmasks, the not understanding the
seriousness of it all.
I am from the sirens.
I am from the lucky ones, the father who said,
“Why should we stay to hear ‘Shir L’Shalom’?”
The ones who went to the café, and only found out
about Rabin later.
I am from the father who left the radio on while he was in
the shower and the mother who was upset he let it play.
I am from going to Dad’s work in one of the glasswindowed buildings, and him not being there
one Chanukah.
I am from not understanding how Syria could be ‘above’
us, and imagining the two countries as coexisting on
the same plane, we just couldn’t see the other one.
Maybe that would make things easier.
I am from the tornadoes,
The wondering whether Mom is okay at the paper while
playing Candyland in the basement.
I am from the all clear, when we got a call saying
Mom was fine.
I am from the non-canned peaches, the ones that
actually had skin and a pit.
From the waiting around with Mom when my friend’s
mother never showed up.
I am from the phone conversation where I told Mom
there were two men with guns across the street from
Grandma Baker’s house,
From my mom telling me to get away from the
windows and to give the phone to Grandma.
I am from biting my tongue when Mom introduced me
as ‘Rebecca’ to her family,
From having to learn how to respond to that name
as well.
:
I am from being one of two in my kindergarten class to
‘vote’ for Al Gore.
I am from the “See you later alligators” and “In a while
crocodiles” that aren’t true anymore.
I am from the blizzard warnings,
Hoping for no school, the ice skating on all the
neighbors’ yards.
I am from the truck that told us to go inside, and the
hot chocolate we drank once we got home.
I am from the scary turkey farms, one which my
teacher owned.
The small town where you left your car doors unlocked,
until someone actually stole money from our car.
I am from the neighbors watching across the street in
the middle of the night, gossiping about my brother’s
birth, while I went to the wrong house, thinking,
“The house is on the left,” and yet going to the right.
I am from the great-grandmother who still remembered
it was my sister’s and my birthday, the day before
she passed.
I am from my cousin Yaron, who only lasted three days.
I am from family trees, visiting cemeteries, taking
pictures with tombstones.
I am from the cynics and the stubborn mules, those who
view the glass as half empty.
I am from the optimists and the busy bees, those who
view the glass as half full.
I am from those who should change their name to
Schadenfreude and those who don’t know the
meaning of the word, both figuratively and literally.
And I am from those moments that draw us together.
I am from the different faces, the emergencies that don’t
make me wonder anymore.
I am from the Boulevard.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 7 Four Leaf Clover
Max Ventura
What a pessimist Max was as a sophomore. What a
troubled, depressed, nervous wreck. His days were gray.
His nights were gray. The skies were gray. Roses were
gray. Violets were gray. Life was gray. Everything was
gray. He was emotionally colorblind. But thank God he
met Tushar.
Max looked at the folded up piece of loose leaf paper
Tushar just handed him. It read:
To; Max
4 Leaf Clover
He looked up at Tushar. There was no evidence of
kidding on his friend’s face. He just stared at Max, waiting for him to open it up.
There was something about that folded piece of paper
that won Max’s trust. It wasn’t an envelope. It was a
carefully, personally folded piece of loose leaf paper,
with hand written words rather than typed up robotic
words. As a matter of fact, how come he didn’t just
hand a blank piece of folded paper and tell Max what it
was? And what was up with the semicolon? It was quite
cute and whimsical, and seemed like something a child
would do. It was Tushar’s effort to make his gift nice
and organized. Something like this could not lie. It came
from the hands of an innocent, down-to-earth art major.
Max unfolded the paper, and sure enough, there it
was. The answer to one of his life-long questions. Right
in the palm of his hands.
So that means Tushar looked in a field full of clovers,
hoping to find the rare ones with four leaves, and he
gave one of them to Max.
Did Max experience good fortune since then? Well,
no. But he did experience something just as valuable.
Receiving that clover made him realize there is so much
more fortune than he had ever realized. It taught him
to focus on and enjoy the feelings of discovery, of true
friendship. And even though the clover eventually dried
up and fell apart, its green imprint on the paper remains
together to this very day. Tushar has colored Max’s coloring book. That in itself is good fortune.
Art: Tushar Nath
Mother
Monsters
Darya Eremina
Mary Ofosu-Yeboah
The storm has clipped the summer’s golden strands
And buried them within his cold embrace.
With little streams, the somber sky has left
Its northern breath against the shaking glass.
The traffic flows in golden beads
Along the dancing shadows of your eyes.
As when you cry, the whole world cries,
A solemn stir under the cover of the laden sky.
The years have turned you golden hair gray
And washed the youth out of your sunken cheeks.
You often look upon your dried out hands
(Which were as smooth as desert land)
And stroke the sapphire of your veins
Which run like rivers through the sand.
I have monsters in my head.
I discovered one today.
There it was, just in my head
and all the things it would say
Would make me cry
and put me down
Ridiculed me
Like I was a clown
My Father
Tamar Ashdot-Bari
The Grenade of Your Childhood:
it exploded
in your hands
Stunned and Bleeding:
you stitched your history into jagged squares
stained
with youth.
Crisscrossed:
like the wall
at which you watched
your people wail.
“I live with interruptions”
Whenever We Enter Jerusalem:
you show me your parents
and I wonder
if you too
wait all of your life to become
a stone wedged into the veins of
the heart of your country.
Art: Maria Khenruzhik
It kept talking and talking
And I just wanted to die.
Five Things
I Have Loved
Vivian Mok
Clover
The small gray gerbil
Brought from my science classroom
Died February
Pink
An old favorite
Skirts, pants, shirts, accessories
Until blue is found
Braids
Silky triple twists
Multiples of them dangling
Time to let them down
Ian
Known since three years old
April friends, school, karate
The girl and boy bond
Ballet
Ballerina flats
Tutus, tights, Wizard of Oz
Thank God there’s no more
The Lively Arts 2013 | 9 The Summer I Did Not Swim
Nicole D’Alessio
My father taught me how to swim when I was very
young. The water was always cool, and his hands were a
treat that I only earned when he thought I was drowning. Sometimes I tested myself to see how far I could go,
and I ran hundreds of laps around Brittany’s pool without stopping. Other times there were no edges to tell
me when to stop and I sank under the earth in murky
water, gliding like a shark. “Nicole?” my father would
call, and through salty eyes I see him searching, but I
was on the other side of the beach already, and I ducked
back into the silence and propelled myself farther away.
I gasped for air. “Nicole?” it was very far away now, so
far that I could not fathom returning because he was
just a distant dream and when I sink back into the water
all I feel is the enigmatic cool submerging my entire
body, from the narrow line of skin that meets my toenail and toe, to every inch of scalp that was not covered
by a follicle, to the inside walls of my nostrils. With
your eyes closed underwater, there is nothing to see
except the dark. There is no smell, no touch, no taste,
no sight. You are forced to retreat into your own mind.
You are nonexistent. You are free.
My father and I would visit Uncle Andre during the
summer. He lived in Staten Island, and had a private
swimming pool quivering in the middle of his wooden
deck. Brittany’s room was upstairs, and it smelled like
chlorine. She smelled like dollar store perfume. The
carpet smelled like a new car. Her closet smelled like
mold. We talked about why she wished she was Hannah
Montana and she said “because she’s pretty.” She had a
German Sheppard named Sam, and it was a huge dog
as tall as me when he stood upright. Sam liked to trot
around the pool edge for hours, but never jumped in.
“Sam can’t swim” Brittany said, as she wiped her glasses
off. She never took them off—not even in the pool. She
was too afraid to go underwater, too, even if it was only
just for a second. She said she didn’t know how to hold
her breath and I told her that yes she does because she
probably does it all the time without even being underwater. You just stop breathing, I said, and she said,
Photo: Sadie Heisler
“Don’t you die?” I would give her swimming lessons,
and then come back next weekend only to find out that
she had forgotten how to swim again. She couldn’t go
from one side of the pool to the other without panicking
and putting her legs down. “Uncle Tommy,” she whined,
“I don’t get it, will you show me?” Dad looked at me as if
to say: Honestly, Nicole, you’ve been with her for weeks
and she still hasn’t learned and now I have to teach her?
Thanks, a lot. Dad had enough to worry about like the
nosy bank people and the empty refrigerator. I didn’t
want Brittany’s greasy little paws all over my daddy.
One time Dad took a break and left to go upstairs,
and Brittany was sitting on the pool ladder, flipping her
feet. I practiced twirls and spins. Sam trotted along the
pool edge, his red tongue dangling and saliva in strings
over his jaws and mushy black gums. His eyes were
watery and glazed and his pupils dashed. He leaned over
the pool edge like a thirsting desert monster and lapped
crystal water. The wetness spread over his muzzle and
made his nose like a soft cushion. “Sam!” Brittany
yelled, “Get back, you’re gonna fall!” The dog inched
towards the edge, grunting with pleasure. There was a
plastic piece right under his paws. It dove for its reflection and sank its entire muzzle underwater, pawing
viciously at the plastic to keep from falling. The piece
snapped off, a paw slipped, and both went under. The
other paw slipped, and went under. Its head and arms
were under, and its feet were pushing off the wood.
“Brittany!” I said, loudly. She stared back at me, silent
and frozen. I said, “You go get help, I’ll save the dog.”
She ran up, and the water rippled behind her. My God,
did I hate that mutt. The thing was disgusting and brute
and uncivilized and smelly and spoiled. I was eleven. I
Art: Sydney St. Clare
was eleven but I grabbed the shoulders and felt the teeth
on my knee. I felt the claws dragging down my thighs,
the claws that never got cut because Uncle Andre was
too lazy. Its legs were springs that propelled it forward.
Please know how to swim, I remember thinking. Please
be one of those dogs that are natural swimmers. Then
it slid into the pool altogether. And it flapped desperately, sinking underwater. I guess not. So I took it by the
underarms and hauled it above me. Its neck was at my
neck and its ribcage was at my ribcage. I felt its chest
expand against my bare skin. Its feet were only nails
scraping my thighs for balance. It chewed on my hair. It
pawed my forehead and I was under for a good minute
before readjusting. I don’t remember thinking Hurry,
Brittany, or Show up soon. I only remember thinking I
will stay here as long as I have to before help comes. It
really wasn’t so bad except for the barking, which was
right in my ear, and the claws. I stepped towards the
edge and was going to dump Sam over the side. Uncle
Andre came running down, and helped. “Wow,” he
said, or something like that. “Thanks, Nick.” I told him
not to worry about it. I stepped out of the pool. Dad
said it was good how I stayed calm and made a plan.
Mom said I should’ve let Brittany stay in the pool with
Sam. To this very day I remember my body and the
way it looked that afternoon. Now that I think about it
I remember how pretty it was. I sat with little droplets
of crystal liquid over me, shining in the sun, with red
streaks over my chest and thighs and arms. Only a few
were actually lines of blood, the rest were just sore. I
was decorated, and it hurt in a good kind of way. A way
that let me know I was still alive. But, God did I hate
that dog. Though after I saved it, not so much.
Art: Niel Guaman
Dancing under the Moonlight
Kiyomi Fujimoto
月光舞
その昔、
月光の中で
数々の生贄が祭壇で屠られた。
月は満を持し、青白い鋭利な光が
インカの廃墟に降り注ぐ。
痛いほどの静寂があたりを包み込み、
遠くでラマが二頭たたずむのみ。
処女雪如し白い肢体が
空中の楼閣に
おぼろげな姿をあらわにする。
しなやかな腕と
ゆるやかな曲線。
胸のふくらみは
まるで蜃気楼のよう。
細くくびれた腰は
まろやかな線を描き
地上へと向かう。
指先に満身の力を籠め、
幽玄な調べとともに
ひとときの舞を捧げよう。
異郷の神殿で
無残に略奪された人々の
魂を鎮めるために。
A long time ago, under the moonlight,
Numerous victims were slaughtered
at the altar.
The moon is ripe, it radiates
The sharp light upon the ruins
Of Inca, where deafening silence fills
The air and llamas stand in the distance.
A virgin snow figure silhouettes
The Lost City of the Incas. The lithe
arms, gentle curves, And the swell
of her breasts are as delicate as the
mirages. An hourglass figure draws
A line upon the surface.
With all the might in the fingertips;
Dedicate a dance with a euphony
In a foreign shrine to soothe the spirit for
That tremendous time for
Those who were plundered.
Printing a sensation of surrounding
Nature and moonlight into the mind
Because this moment will not return:
Even the oath of eternal love is fragile.
自然と月光に包まれた感覚を
この身に焼きつけよう。
このひとときは、再び巡ってはこない。
永遠を誓った愛でさえ、脆く儚い。
The Lively Arts 2013 | 13 She Begins to Chop Away
Dina Pugliesi
Leah has gotten older. She has a kind, wrinkly face with twinkling blue eyes and
sandy skin. Her teased, bleached-blonde hair poofs up above her head and cascades
down the sides of her face, much of it falling to the right, hiding one of her ears. The
other ear droops just a bit under the weight of her single earring, three intertwined
silver ovals that dance slowly as she moves her head. Her accent makes me smile—a
combination of Staten Island and the spunky, tan mom you bump into at the grocery
store who tries to make small talk as you reach over to grab a milk carton. Wearing
black from head to toe like always, Leah beckons me to sit in the chair. Her stout,
round body stands beside me as she wraps the leopard print cover thing that hairdressers use around me.
“Your hair’s gotten so lawwwngh,” she says. I smile and say I know.
As she begins to chop away, I observe the changes her basement has undergone.
The rest of the room that would be to the left of me is littered with junk. An old bike,
a broken play kitchen, Mark’s drum set, dozens of wet, ruined books, and tons more.
Is that a truck tire? How would a truck tire wind up inside the house? The shelves
on my right house more soiled books, an old school project of Katherine’s, and some
crazy masks that look disheveled and ancient. Behind me the boiler keeps clinking
and the washing machine keeps clunking. Directly in front of me is a full length mirror. This is the same; it’s always been here. I scan the room for the collection of hair
color swabs I used to run my fingers through as a kid. I don’t see it.
“The hurricane,” Leah says. My eyes meet hers in the mirror and she continues.
“We were flooded in here. The water destroyed everything.”
My mom is with me and becomes immediately concerned, quickly engulfing Leah
in hushed and serious conversation. I just sit and look around some more. The basement never was clean to begin with. The tiled floor had many dirt specks and dust
mites, but I could stand it. The room always felt warm and happy, very lived-in but
happy. I suppose going to an actual barber shop would have been better but Leah
lived right across the street and it was cheap. I always feel comfortable sitting in her
worn, black chair. And Leah, she cuts my hair pretty damn well.
You’re in Trouble
Philip Turner
You’re in trouble and you want to buy something, say a love song for your
mother. You’re in trouble because you bought something, so you sing a love song to
your mother. You have a troubled mother that brought you into this world who loves
it when you sing. You sing a troubled love song that your mother bought long ago.
Something about your mother troubles you. You want to love her enough to sing.
You never loved your mother which troubles you and you want to say something
about this song. You brought so many troubles to your singing mother, why money
can’t buy you love, isn’t that a song? You want to buy your mother something, say
a love song, but you don’t want to go through the trouble. The trouble with your
mother is she always wants you to buy something. You’re in trouble and you want to
buy something, say a love song for your mother.
Ships
and Bells
Danielle Concepcion
Oh to be
Somewhere not near
Not here
In this room
Of the suffocating blue
And the voices
That ring through my ears
Like the bells of a departing ship
There’s a world out there
Outside these windows
There are moving dots on
the pavement
That could be mine to keep
If they could only fit in my pockets
Little specks of color
That could be mine to see
If my eyes weren’t stuck in
one place
And the blowing wind
That could be mine to breathe
If my lungs were big enough
Last night I dreamt
That I was sailing
On those baby blue walls
But my ship crashed
And I felt as if
The only thing that had
ever existed
Was that shrinking room
That I was drowning in
Because I can’t swim
In the morning
I returned
But there were no more
Moving dots
Specks of color
Or blowing wind
It was all gone
And all I could do
Was sit
And listen to those bells
Art: Soren Hughes
The Lively Arts 2013 | 15 A Perfect Circle
Lara Hirschberg
The smell of the sweet flavor encases my head
And melts my brain like the butter on the pan
A zesty lemon contrasts with the vanilla
To make the taste satisfying and, uniquely my father’s
The syrup is always in a pot of heated water
Maple syrup: not the artificial kind
I like seeing my father stir the batter with the cast iron ladle
Round and round in a thick and smooth mixture
He pours a stream of batter onto the pan
And it would sizzle at the touch because the pan was anxious
Waiting for something to be placed on its hot surface
Thus creating a perfect circle
To which would soon turn into a golden brown
To match the five golden stars
That were given to the father
From the daughter’s thankful heart
Photo: Brittany Newman
My Bed
Casey Marie Ecker
My bed is made of breadcrumbs that crumble at the sight of you.
They wiggle their way through my pillow while creating a crunching sound.
Savor the flavor, the sound, the feeling of eggs seeping through your hands.
Watch how they drip from my heart and into your yellow eyes.
My bed is made of eggshells that crackle in the middle of the night.
Listen to them squeal in delight when you try to find me.
Come and hide with me, so I don’t get lost under the sheets.
We can make a fort out of flour and pretend that it will last.
My bed is made of ghosts that create white shadows.
They are not blind, they can see everything.
Love is blind . . . our love is over cooked.
We fried our souls and watched them sizzle,
while they fizzled out like dying flames.
What a mess we’ve made!
My shadow is red now.
And yours is a
chicken.
Postcard from Eternity
Odelia Kaly
Table salt and cavalries
they line up at the door
the one over there that has “ZERO” written across
the wood in virgin lamb’s blood
I stand behind a box of exercise tapes
and a stack of ornately carved ceramic cups
We all line up at the door
one by one by one by One by one by One by one
to enter the world of Absolute Nothing
Years of painful draining exhausting crying dying work
to get here, I better get a seat on my way down
or is it up?
No one could tell me
not that I would ask them
the saints and the buddhas do not want to listen.
Why should the unused mugs?
Ringalingalingalingadingalingaringaling
No answer on the other line
They forgot where I was going and where I came from
and where I am
and it’s about goddamn time they did
I wish upon a star that someday I may walk in a
meadow in the middle of Paradise and no one will
ask where I was going and where I came from and
who I am
They cared only because they thought that they should
You don’t have to
Caring is for pastel-colored stuffed animals.
I’m after the flowers and the silence
Could you point me in the right direction?
I had the vision at my desk while the girl-loving-girl
with the pink hair preached intellectually about
karma, caste, and metempsychosis:
We are Everything there is and Nothing at all
So I started walking
and I didn’t stop
The Lively Arts 2013 | 17 Reflections from Finland
Philip Turner
These clouds sit on my head
Like an older brother
Sitting on my abdomen
With his knees on my elbows
Making it difficult to breathe
And impossible to move.
But maybe that’s the only way
he can show
Affection
All other ways of communication
Have failed
And the same goes for the clouds
So deprived they feel
That they rain down on us
As if to get our attention
Just to say, “We’re here.”
Because nobody really attempts
To understand or connect with
clouds
Until they block the sun
And I feel the same way
And maybe my brother
When he used to sit on my
Abdomen with his knees on
My elbows
Sometimes the only way to
Be loved
Is to put others at your mercy
And just being one boy
In seven cousins
In a rainy place
It’s not easy to get
What you need
Until you steal their liquor
And reciprocate a careless drunkard
Attitude.
The weather is so bad
That in the newspapers they keep
Yesterday’s weather
And I can explain why
It’s because they know how
Pathetic these people are
With their long winters and
Short summers and
Minimal vacations
Which are ruined by this rain.
So they mess with the numbers
And make yesterday’s weather
Always worse than their promise
For today’s weather and tomorrow’s
And Sunday’s
So the people think that things
Are getting better
That their big brother will leave
Them alone
Gradually
And the clouds in their heads
Will clear away and allow
Sunny thoughts about
Sunday.
Photo: Vida Lecary
One Step Forward,
Two Steps Back
Lindsey Wolfram
My home is a battlefield for new and old
It is the home of tension that exists in its cracks
My home is where rock ends
and sea starts
They fight over territory while I watch
ankle deep
Where black meets white and I am colored gray—
the shade of confusion I wear on my face
Where dark meets light
Where day meets night
Where never meets always, and I’m stuck in sometimes
Where antonym meets synonym, and all I hear is cinnamon
Where pull meets push and I’m just going
one step forward, two steps back—
I only accelerate at constant retrogression
My home is where virtue meets vice and they
race to find reason
The devil and angel play tag ’round my feet
Where war meets peace
yet here I sit on the lonely throne of neutrality—
the holy angel that guards hell’s labyrinth
What Is
Habichuelas
con Dulce?
Amanda Cabrera
Brown-red beans—losing the hard-rock essence
Into the boiling water
Furiously
Reaching a state to start sweet supremacy
Cooking off, to get destroyed
Liquefied to reach its English name
Enriching it with jack-like clove
Sensational sugar, striking salt,
Barrel butter, mended milks,
Rowdy raisins, sultry sweet potatoes,
Psychedelic ginger, illustrious cinnamon,
Mixing a holy dish, adding on to Lent
Takes you to the island
History of Hispaniola
Culture strong as deep roots
Sweet as sugar cane—dulce
Pride streaming in the dish
This is habichuelas con dulce
Where Have My Thoughts Gone
Mary Ofosu-Yeboah
Tell me, where do thoughts go when they are forgotten?
Because I’d like to chase them. I’d like to chase them and catch them, and explore them again. I’d like these
thoughts to know how much I’ve missed them. They have a right to know how much I love them; how I feel so
empty when they’re gone. If I were to catch these thoughts once more, I would tell them that things have not been
the same since they left. That I feel as unfulfilled as an interrupted sneeze. That my mind seems to be wandering
aimlessly without them, in search of someone like them.
But there will never be anything like my original thoughts. Because my original thoughts are always pure and tangy
and sharp and raw and me. My thoughts are me and mine alone; they embody me, they exude me, they have lived
within my mind and can only identify as mine. They carry my name, they possess my features, they sound like me,
they have the same pigeon-toed feet and they still suck their thumbs. They thrive on love and they run on passion.
There will never be anyone or anything as wonderful as my original thoughts. So if you know where they are, can
you please direct me to them? My forgotten thoughts, I mean. I’d really like to have them with me again.
Art: Lillibeth Liriano
Grapefruit Bortha
Tushar Nath
What you need
1. Grapefruit
2. Green chili pepper
3. Mustard oil
4. Salt
5. Kitchen cutting utensil
6. Two bowls
7. Fork / Spoon
What you do
1. First, wash the grapefruit.
2. Then, using the cutting utensil make several vertical
slits all around the grapefruit. Make sure that you do
not cut into the flesh of the fruit, but just the skin.
3. Next, using the slits peel off the skin as you would
with a banana. What you will be left with is the meat
that might resemble a peeled orange.
4. Separate the loaf and make thin slit at the edge of
each piece that was on the center.
5. Then turn each pieces inside-out and gently pull out
the flesh and put them in a bowl.
6. Next, cut the green chili pepper into small pieces
and scatter them over the grapefruit.
7. Pour in some mustard oil.
8. Sprinkle some salt.
9. Then cover the bowl with the other bowl and give
it a good shake.
10. Take off the bowl and start digging in.
In Bangladesh seasons are very important. There are
six seasons in total, each one lasting about two months.
Each season brings something special that the other sea-
sons don’t bring. Different seasons bring different fruits,
and wherever you go trees will be filled with them. So,
in different seasons my cousins and I used to eat different type of Borthas. Now, Bortha is a Bengali word,
and the closest meaning I can come up with is fruit
salad. The main ingredient of these Borthas would be
the fruit of the season. Kids all over Bangladesh gather
into their own groups, gather the fruits and make these
Borthas. And every group has their own way of making
it so there is no correct way of making it, as long as you
understand the essence.
One time my mother, sister and I were visiting my
grandparents’ home. Their home was in a village, so
there was more open space and more trees, especially
fruit trees. They had this huge garden filled with various fruit trees with each tree being about two stories
high. These trees were compacted so close to each
other that some trees didn’t receive any light, so they
didn’t produce any fruit. However there was this one
determined grapefruit tree that never stopped producing fruit. And of course when I walked by it caught my
attention. My mouth was watering and I couldn’t stop
thinking about it.
After going into the house, I greeted my grandmother
and grandfather and went back outside to see the tree
again. I was standing under it and was watching it. I
knew the fruits weren’t ripe yet, they still had a greenish tones in their skins. But that didn’t matter much to
me because I knew that within in a few more days they
would be. So my mind it was set: “This is the season of
grapefruit and can I not wait till they get ripe. I can’t
wait to eat some grapefruit Bortha.”
The Lively Arts 2013 | 21 Bicchierin’s Glass Walls
Hannah Conley
We were all addicted
To this place of freedom we built
There was pleasure unrestricted
And we destroyed the concept of guilt
We made emotions one-sided
We never felt anger or hate
There was only bliss and love
And these feelings would never abate.
We built glass walls to the sky
That reflected the beauty within
And blocked out those that defy
The peaceful ways of Bicchierin
The only thing we let through
From outside our beautiful wall
Is the river that always ran true
And moved at a reliable crawl
But one morning when I rose from the sheets
And left my lovers as they snored
I saw that it was no longer meek
But a roiling rapid that roared
It screamed to me “Escape while you can
For barbarians have discovered this land”
But I just stood and observed
As it carved itself undulating curves
Our glass walls have been shattered
And shards pierce my feet where I tread
And all that to me mattered
Is burnt and left for dead
The flames have been extinguished
By the blood and tears that flow
But it is hard to distinguish
Where the buildings once stood in neat rows
Cause the smoke blots out the sun.
And all that is heard is silence
And the river that continues to run
As if in a state of defiance
The river babbles and giggles, with the malice of fate in its voice
And reminds us it foretold this destruction, and that there was never a choice
Whether we would stay and be eaten, by the flames it could quickly erase
Because we were lost in Paradise, and could not escape its embrace.
Encounter with a Lion
Desmond Sam
I watched the shingles of my rooftop fall gently upon the wet gravel
Your growls echoed through the emptiness
Rummaging around my thoughts
Stopping suddenly when you laid your eye on vulnerability
Creature of the night
How did you know I was easy prey?
Is it the way my blood boils and runs over the silky plateau of my pillow
Or did you just smell victory over the timid vines covering a crooked heart
When we came face to mask
I notice the lack of mercy in your mane
As if possessed I played with your whiskers
Slowly placing them in the muddy parts of my chest
Coiled in disbelief
Your paws stroked
Clawing at the shattered glass from my aging body that after time became my bones
It reminded me of nostalgic pastimes when I sipped Kool-Aid from jelly jars I was
innocent then, an endangered species that was protected by the sun
To wake up with kisses on my knee caps
To see that darkness is still beyond my window
To realize I didn’t sleep at all
Your teeth held secrets in its bite
I felt myself transform from prey to parasite
Sin was the salt in my bath water
And you seemed shocked to taste it on my skin
I did more than just marinate in shadows
I sensed your terror
So I begged you to leave
Before things got anymore complicated
And as simple as you entered
You left before dawn.
Photo: Candace Lee Camacho
Art: Christian Eldridge
After School
Danielle Concepcion
The flame kept blowing out. It was windy outside that
Friday. The cute boy with the lighter stood close to
me and shielded me with his sweater. He tried again
and set me on fire. “Inhale, inhale, inhale,” he repeated
over and over again. The back of my throat burned,
so I pulled away. I exhaled. I was a dragon, and in a
matter of seconds I was covered in a blanket of smoke.
He asked me if I wanted more. I did. Another boy
asked, “Do you feel anything?” “No,” I replied honestly.
He laughed. “Your eyes say otherwise,” he said while
pointing at them. I got worried. Were my eyes made
of tinted glass? Had all my brain cells already died? It
didn’t matter. I started to walk away and kept going
until my feet landed me in a nearby park. It was hard
to think properly, so I just stopped thinking altogether
and sat down on a bench. I stared up at the sky, and the
sun looked like a potato chip. I was hungry.
I Want to Know
Phillip Turner
People try to avoid rather than confront
What a terrible way to live.
I want to know where you come from
It’s been a long time since I met someone
Teaching the greedy how to give.
How long can you fight evil before you become one
I want to connect us like a bridge.
You don’t know mistakes until you’ve done one
Loading up anxiety into my response cartridge.
Because once you do something it can’t be undone
Don’t rely on others to forgive.
Separation is a peculiar conundrum
I wanted to save the world and never did.
I want to know where you come from.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 25 We Never Take Dad
Sarah Mateo
My mom and I ate at Red Lobster last night; it was in
that small mall that charges 3 dollars for parking 5 or
more hours. It has like four stores in it and serves no
purpose besides being a place to eat and pay barely anything for parking. Especially since there’s a better mall
two blocks away, one with a Hot Topic and real stores
for shopaholics to buy things like clothes or beds. The
only good thing about this small mall is the parking and
Red Lobster. She, my mom, wanted to take me two days
ago because she hates cooking and knows I love Red
Lobster; but she couldn’t take me because my dad took
the car. We actually have two cars, one car and one van.
We never take the van though because it’s “new” and by
new I mean 5 or so years old and never used, my dad’s
just going to let it rot because he’s a prick. So we went
yesterday instead since my mom needed to go to target
and buy some menstrual pads, and we had a 10 dollar
coupon for DSW which is in the same place anyways.
I was the one who ended up using the coupon and bargaining for an extra 10 percent off a pair of shoes with a
stain on them, it washed off easily.
But anyways, my mom and I ate at Red Lobster.
The problem is I’m not a fan of lunch or dinner at Red
Lobster during the week. They tried to sit us down at a
small table meant for very thin people, it’s in a crowded
area and I can barely fit my Spanish ass on the chair,
we ask them to move us. As if in spite we end up across
from a couple who’s arguing with the manager. That’s
something my dad would do if he came with us, we can
never take him to any restaurant because all he does is
complain, about anything. He’ll sit there and stare at
something, fixating and then he’ll turn back to us and
be like “Look at how they handle the plates! Ugh this is
over cooked, under cooked, badly cooked, cheap, bad
for you.” I don’t even listen to him half the time, all he
does is complain, but my mom still pays for his food.
Anyways, my mom orders a new drink, a strawberry
lemonade instead of a piña colada with a hint of alcohol; which she always shares with me, illegally of course.
piña coladas are okay but this strawberry lemonade, I
hate it; you know those artificial drinks you can taste
the fake syrup in? That’s the kind of lemonade they gave
us. Lemonade freshly made they said, more like lemon
AIDS. But I smile and drink it because she works hard
to pay for my meals and the least I could do is drink
badly prepared lemonade. So I do, and I say it’s good,
she seems to enjoy it but she might be acting just like
me. I think I get that from her.
I point out a server who served us lass time, I recognize him by the tattoo on his elbow and arm, It’s really
cool. Our server finally hands us our salads so we eat
our salads, garden salads with blue cheese, along with
their cheesy biscuits which are wonderful and fluffy,
but I know the trick to making them now. They’re still
better at Red Lobster since I don’t have to make them
myself which makes everything better no matter what.
My mom and I: we talk the whole time too. We talk
about college, about school, about money, about work,
about the people around us, about my dad. We always
talk, about everything, about almost everything. I block
out the parts of my day she doesn’t need to know about,
and she probably does the same. And when our food
gets there my usually delicious and well-prepared plate
taste like a salty version of what it should. The shrimp
obviously came from a frozen bag and it’s burning hot
but hard with a texture that I can only desribe as a nipple in the cold. The lobster is far too salty for taste and
everything burns my mouth.
But I’m so hungry that I eat the whole thing and
agree that it is wonderful with my mom even though
it really isn’t. It’s kinda mediocre and I preferred it
more last time around, but I don’t complain because
I want to come back to Red Lobster and if I complain
she won’t want to take me anymore, which would suck.
Still we talk and wait for the guy to come back and she
tells me about some brother of some lady who works
with her who’s going to have a book opening, I half
phased out here. She likes to go to Manhattan and do
things, I take after my dad in that. I like to sit around
and stay online or mess around with a computer. He
say’s I’m lazy but I’m not, once I’m out I can move. But
if I had to choose between a Saturday watching some
guy talking about his book and a Saturday online, I’d
stick with the mouse.
In the end, our meal was around 50 dollars which was
way more than I’d like to spend on that particularly salty
“fresh” food. We left our tip and that couple sitting across
from us still wasn’t done complaining about their meal.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 27 Baked Beans and Toast
Claudia Stein
Ingredients:
Total Time: 40 mins
Prep Time: 20 mins
Cook Time: 20 mins
1 slice bread
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup vegetarian baked beans
1 onion, chopped
1 small carrot, chopped
1 small green bell pepper, chopped
1/2 cup green peas
1 teaspoon red chili powder
1/2 teaspoon green chili, finely chopped
1 tablespoon chopped parsley, to garnish
1 tablespoon grated cheese, to garnish
Directions:
Heat oil in a pan on medium heat until hot. Add green
chili and onions. Sautee until the onions turn light
brown. Add all the veggies, red chili powder and baked
beans. Mix well. Let simmer for 2–3 minutes. In your
toaster in the meantime, toast the bread until it turns
brown or as toasted as you would like it. Remove the
beans mixture from heat. Spread it on the bread slice.
Garnish with parsley and grated cheese. Serve hot.
I attended a tiny private elementary school in Hoboken,
New Jersey. It was important for reasons of social status
to bring the best lunch. If your mum left you a note in
your lunch-box, then you were extra special. I never
received a note, which was quite upsetting. I always
wished I would unearth a note with my lunch that
contained the “joke of the day” on it. But life went on.
I enjoyed the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and
pasta my mom would make and pack for me, despite
the perfect lunch being a ham and cheese sandwich with
Trix yogurt, or the ultimate item, Lunchables. One day
I opened my lunch box to see baked beans on toast in
a plastic sandwich container lying beside a Capri Sun
and string cheese. Thrilled to get a new lunch item that
I loved, I quickly pulled it out as the eyes of the eight
other girls in my class landed on my beans and toast.
My grade was made up of 16 kids all of whom I had
known since I was three years old. The girls and boys
each stuck with their kind. This was fortunate so the
piercing eyes of humiliation could be divided by two.
These “friends” stared at my food with disgust as they
moved their seats away from me. I wanted to cry more
than anything. I sat there alone with my sandwich as the
nasty comments continued.
My dignity spiraled down to zero and I angrily put
my sandwich away, upset with my mum of all people.
The kids agreed to let me sit with them once again as
I sipped my Capri Sun and peeled my string cheese, to
starve until dinnertime. I went home that day furious
at my mum for deciding to make me this delectable
English snack from her childhood. I told her never
to make it for me again, only to miss it for all school
lunches to come throughout elementary and middle
school. Not only did I let these horrid private school
girls defeat me in such a manner, but I knew deep down
I had turned away from my origins and culture from
which I have sprouted, the UK.
Photo: Kelly Chan
Here You Are
Nick Saia
Here you are
the very cusp
And here you are
An orange fortress
My Peace
Nick Saia
My peace is located at 85 Viewmont Road
And it is surrounded by green pastures
Tall grasses bend in the wind
There, cliffs and crags topple over
The paved road as a dusty vein
Pickups and other gas guzzlers move
At a brisk 35
A thousand small typhoons and tidal waves
As my hand eases through the lake
Suspended
On my raft and I float past the rock
Surrounded by fish nests and my scalp
Bumps into the shore by a stream
I walk up and
Water rushing over my boot
As I am reminded of what this place is imitating—
A wild mess of muskag
Bramble
Billow smoke out your spires
To endless gods dreamt of before
Here you are
As you have been for a while now
Past you, real buildings
A sad mockery of my kingdom
And here you are
My asphalt and my grit
Rain Trance
Mary Ofosu-Yeboah
Listening to the rain is a great way to lose time
Because the pitter patter of the droplets
fall in line with my heartbeat
And the sounds mesh for too long
Until I’m sitting there wondering
When was it that I started counting backwards
dazed
Top of the stream and I spin
Survey my childhood kingdom
Dark as it is now
But not for twilight and
There is no moon
Casting warm shadows across
Here, my fingertips peek from the rubble
As there are wholly within
Where I was and have always been
The Lively Arts 2013 | 29 Two Strokes
Candace Lee Camacho
(January)
not sure if I want death to /
swarm over my dad like a rain cloud or to /
pirouette on his mustache
not sure if I am really ready / for his wrinkled nose /
or his frizzy hair and bad combover / or for anything of his insides to turn /
grey at all
(May)
i.
I see my dad / he
musters all of the mattress /
to use his right arm
ii.
I am the lake / blue
vast / moved / sauntering / honest /
beautiful / but cold
iii.
‘muerte’ is not vel
cro / it is skin peeling off /
of a rotten fruit
Art:Maria Cono-Flavia
About Spring
Evan Reiser
My eyes are two robins
singing their objective of
flexing their wood-brown wings, just darker
than the twigs
and tree limb fragments of their familiar home,
while peering over its walls to see the fence, way below,
that is made out of
columns of tree-pieces—just darker than home,
with a bit of blood color—
that divides the green and soil of the end of the park
with the ambient mud chute
inviting ants to a sidewalk
while glistening grains engrained in it
Photo: Vida Lecary
touches the gutter, the street,
a “don’t walk” sign,
a fish engraved in a rain drain
—but they won’t touch any of that,
it helps them know in their bones
that with their bones
after they leap out
they will stay above—
to wander.
The tips of your fingers of your hand
are your coolest extremity.
You can curl your toes,
you didn’t wear socks today.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 31 You’re in the Mall
Rebecca Rivera
You’re in the mall in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico, and you
want to buy a gift for your mother. You want to get her
something that will make her smile, something that will
make her happy again. You would give anything to see
a smile back on her face. You’ve searched every store in
the mall and nothing! There hasn’t been anything that
catches your eye, nothing that is good enough for your
mom at least. You sit down and try to really think of
one thing she would love. Then you remember that one
moment when you saw her happiest; that day on the
beach when you were five years old. Your entire family was there and everyone was laughing and having a
good time. You can almost remember this moment so
vividly because it was also a time when you were happiest. “That’s what your mother needs” you tell yourself,
she needs something to remind her of that one moment
in time when she had a smile from ear to ear. That
moment when she felt strong and happy, when she was
your life and you were hers.
Your mom doesn’t smile at all these days; she barely
even speaks to anyone. You break down in tears and
wonder if your mother will ever be that bright spirited
women who you could always go to for comfort. Her
health has been declining; you almost lost her last year.
Your little brothers cry at night, you have had to step
in and take care of them. Your mom has been from
hospital to hospital, from surgery to surgery. You wish
that you were able to trade places with her because you
would do it without thinking twice. Someone captured
that moment on the beach that day. You remember seeing a picture at your grandma’s house. “You should take
it to her maybe she will remember” you think. If only
you could give her the gift of health, if that was possible, you would. Then reality began to sink in as you
got up from the bench at the mall. Your mom was dying
and everyone knew it and you seemed to be the only
one who couldn’t admit it. You ran home that moment
from your grandma’s house with the picture in hand to
show your mother. You got there and then you realized
that your mom was gone and she had been gone for a
long time now and somehow you forgot. That picture
was her way of reminding you that she was still around,
and she would always be. That picture was a gift from
your mother.
Photo: Laianna Wright
Get That Cigarette
Out of My Face
Sometimes,
Like, and After
Lillibeth Liriano
Sarah Mateo
Get that cigarette out of my face.
I mean, who do you think you are?
Intruding upon my personal space,
Entangled in that smokey lace,
So, breathe that cigarette, but from afar.
Sometimes caramel from the pan bounces and burns
your skin
Like the unknown insults people throw at you
After you always insult yourself
Sometimes the water boils and your dish isn’t so
fluffy anymore
Like not being able to pronounce a word in class
After so many years of tutoring
Sometimes you drop the eggs and feel stupid,
you knew it would happen
Like when a teacher thinks they’re being cute
After you just shrink in your chair and tear up a little
Sometimes your dish will be ignored at the table
Like being pushed in the hallway
After feeling insignificant in class
Sometimes when you flip it over your flan will collapse
Like you do every time you get home from school
After another stressful day.
Black ash in my lungs falling into a misty haze,
A throat clogged with heavy dark tar
Intruding upon my personal space,
Polluting a once wonderful place,
That has slowly begun to fall apart.
A dreadful odor that that never ceases to chase,
Clinging to my hair, clothes and arms,
Intruding upon my personal space
Disdain that arrogant disgrace
Capture it and put it all in a jar.
Get that cigarette out of my face,
Intruding upon my personal space.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 35 Latkes
Fleeting
Amanda Okun
Masha Stepanova
Your rounded body adorned with clothes
Peeled off your body layer by layer
Nude you enter the water awaiting the others
Others join you sliding against your skin making a splash
Together you exit and get dried off
Hands put you on the cool metal surface
transformation starts
feel the grating
One two three four
You mesh with the others
Back into hands you go
Rolled around and turned in circles
Your body seasoned with smells
Now hands put you on the hot metal surface
Your skin flushes
A golden tint appears on your face
Leaving the room you are ready to go
Hands move you from one place to the other
They reach out and touch
Lifted up you are now put to rest and your friends will follow
Today we came upstate
Misty windows
I killed the firefly that fell
under my hand
I can’t tell apart
the glowing rears from
the smoke of incense
Both fleeting
She pulled my hand
and had me catch her a gift
She laughed when I sighed
and told me he’s just worn out,
But he was dead,
The sky was pink until
I closed my eyes,
My iced tea wasn’t sweet enough
until the end.
Photo: Christina Fernandez
Hit Your Roof
Candace Lee Camacho
My name is Candace Lee,
and I am afraid of thunder.
I really don’t know why.
Is the thunder thought out? Does it provoke thinking?
Did the thunder abandon me
when I was a little girl?
Is the thunder an arrogant
repelling Aries, that broke
my heart?
Is the thunder the dog crap I got
on my Little Mermaid bike off of
Queens Blvd when I was 8 and
had to scrape off my back tire
with a warm purple toothbrush?
Is the thunder my producer’s intimidating girlfriend, Kim?
Is the thunder every
Photo: Masha Stepanova
morning I wake up with skyscrapers
weighing down my tired eyelids?
Is the thunder prettier than me?
Does the thunder speak Spanish?
Is the thunder my un-pedicured toes?
Is the thunder the voice of my mentor?
Is the thunder the voice of God?
Is the thunder the voice of the voiceless?
Is the thunder stronger than me?
Does the thunder cry more often than I do?
Is the thunder my fourth sister?
Are my bones metal?
Or am I thunder myself?
Obnoxious, loud and
in the sky.
stuck
The Lively Arts 2013 | 37 His Last Gift to Me
Shuwen Li
The last time I saw him was at the corner cafe where
we always met for coffee and a slice of cake. He looked
tired and worn out. His blue eyes had become gray, a
stormy gray. His warm skin had suddenly become pale.
That day at the cafe he told me we should break up.
“Let’s break up,” he said suddenly after a he took a
sip of his coffee.
I looked at him and I thought he was joking but his eyes
told me he wasn’t. In my head I am looking for reasons for
why he just said what he just said. I kept a calm facade on
my face because I don’t want to be the weak one, “What is
the reason for us breaking up?” I asked him.
“I don’t know, it’s just that I’m tired and I don’t feel
like this relationship is going any where.”
“What do you mean is not going anywhere?” I
touched his cold hand that rested on the table. “You
were so happy. If something happened you can tell me.”
He pulled his hand away from my grab. “We were
only together for three months. Lets just break it off.”
In my mind I still didn’t understand. I felt as if someone poured a bucket of cold water on me as I was sleep38 | The Lively Arts 2013
ing. Yes, that was exactly the feeling. I became very cold
and angry, like my body was electroshocked . He takes a
box out of his backpack and puts it on the table. “This is
my last gift to you.”
“What?”
“A gift of . . . apology. A gift to say goodbye. A gift to
say thank you.” He stands up and quickly walks out of
the cafe.
I sat there for a good minute before my hands could
move to grab the box he had left on the table. I opened
it and there was an umbrella.
Because of him I developed a bad habit. A habit that
still follows me around today. Because I met him I
developed a habit of not carrying an umbrella with me
when it is raining. When we were together, our schools
were only a few blocks apart so when it rained I would
call him and he’d be there to pick me up. When it
rained I knew he would be there. This became a habit of
mine and now he’s not there for me when it rains and
worse he’s not here when it’s not raining.
Photo: Daria Eremina
Möbius Strip
Odelia Kaly
Tiny tiny ants walking in a line
faster faster they crawl
where they’re going
I couldn’t say
I don’t say much anymore
what’s left to say
that hasn’t been said?
It’s all inside
and it plans to stay there
for as long as I tell it to
I haven’t been doing much telling
I’ve got a crowded thinky-space
my thoughts are a Möbius strip
around and around they go
each time flipping slightly the wrong way
but they always come back
and it starts over again
Möbius
mobile
mobocracy
my brain is ruled by the masses
the masses and masses of thoughts
weight equals mass
the weight of them drags me down
pulls the corners of lips in a straight line
keeps my eyelids half-closed
closed-er and closed-er and closer
till they shut tight
pinching out the positive
encaging the negative
within the walls of my mind
Around and around it goes
faster faster they crawl
circular motions
they’re almost therapeutic
accelerate, rinse, repeat
the circularity spins my consciousness
around and around it goes
washing machine movements
I succumb to the repetition
and fall fall fall
into a shaking heap on the floor
I plan to stay there
as long as I tell myself to
and I haven’t been doing a lot of telling lately
Mother Hen
Annie Wong
You made things so easy,
Down to earth.
You had no the need to dress things up,
With clusters of patterns,
That strain the eyes.
Ideals run clear and simple,
Like reflections in the water.
It hurts me to see you now,
In a world so complex.
Watching chicks leave your nest,
As you stay there,
Boiling in nature’s hormonal stew.
Please don’t try to call them back,
Save your breath.
They speak a different language now,
One of machines and businessmen.
One day they’ll remember,
And they’ll visit again.
By the time you’re already old and spent,
My dear mother hen.
Flower Shop
Danielle Concepcion
You’re in a flower shop
And you want to buy something
Say a fresh bouquet
For your mother
You’re not sure if you should buy
Carnations
For all the times you loved her
Or lilies
For all the times you wished
She was dead
The Lively Arts 2013 | 39 Elevator Man
Today with Basquiat
Lindsey Wolfram
Candace Lee Camacho
The elevator man retires from his long shift
of shuttling
familiar strangers back and forth
His blazer sits on the back of a chair
Now he wears his polo with a dented collar—
no address carefully sewn into his uniform.
yesterday my
mom and I were walking
on 2nd ave she
asked if I thought if the
couples dining knew
we were ants from queens
His mind far, far away
At home with a glass of milk in a dimly lit kitchen,
wife waiting in bed,
sleeping children.
today my olive oil
combat boots are grinding
against the water of
upper east stilettos and my
antennae are going crazy
you know?
He finishes in the basement,
easing the locker shut with a final goodnight
Closes the door to the room of tired walls and
weary locks
with worn out posters of showy women
taped to chipping, urine yellow paint.
He makes his way out the building’s back door,
blends into the wide sea of sleepy workers, and
leaves behind the title: Elevator Operator
He focuses on the lull of his footsteps that have
lost the brisk spirit of the morning
that seems so long ago
The wind carries a gentle breeze
that slowly diminishes into the soft trail
of the scarf
carelessly wrapped around his neck
And the automatic door of the “open 24 hour”
grocery store opens willingly,
ready to welcome
yet unknowing
of whether he will enter, or just pass by.
This Is for You
Phoebe Fregoli
I am so much more.
I am percussion.
I am sometimes at fault but no matter
I deserve blossoms, and laughter,
is it so much to ask, to not be a shadow?
If you knew my real value I’m not just a piece of your puzzle.
I’m a waterfall of a person
I am all streaming emotion in a body
I feel all the universe I demand respect.
Who told you, you could smudge the painting?
What made you incorrectly believe I was a replaceable?
I will never stoop so low as to ever want you back again.
I wish I could teach you a lesson but in order for me to
do that you’d have to be paying attention.
Seasons
Lucia Clohessy
I broke my leg once, in July
It was the summer ’99
I hate my legs, I hate the heat
I broke my bones up on that street
I lost my brother in the spring
They say mourning is a selfish thing
Say, “brace yourself, for colder weather
I don’t know if this gets better”
There’s something eery about fall
It smells like snow, but brings none at all
It’s not something I want to keep
I am scared of autumn leaves
There’s only one of these things left
It’s the bitter one, and it knows me best
Winter is my favorite season
But you my friend are not the reason
Art: Sarah Ilustrisimo
Art: Maris Berkowitz
My Afro Was Just Not Coming Back
Cleo Crawford
To match my Jessica Rabbit Halloween costume, I
decided to straighten my Afro and spray paint it red.
The end result was an utter disaster. What my head
looked like, was certainly not what I envisioned in my
mind. My old hairdresser is named Yasmin and she is
from Jamaica. She would always tell me that she preferred to do styles with extravagant colors of all textures
of weaves. Although she has not done my hair since
middle school when I had braids, I figured now would
not be any different. In her wash sink, I sat and she
scrubbed my head. The coconut shampoo pleasantly
invaded my nostrils. When she sat me done at her hair
station, my kinks and coils shriveled from the water.
Yasmin then began to blow out my hair. Soon my head
was enclosed in a lion’s mane. She heated up her hot
comb and started her straightening journey from the
back of my head.
As she made her way up to the front, Yasmin said
that I had split ends. I nodded my head and continued
reading. Now that I think back . . . how could an Afro
even have split ends? Its all one big poof of curls, and
kinks. She began to snip away at my newly straightened
fluff. She turned my chair around for me to see. The
puffy fluff that I called an Afro now limp and lifeless.
In addition, it smelled terrible.
A few days later, I washed and washed my hair to
get out the smell and to return it to its original form.
No luck! My Afro was just not coming back. That goddamned woman had burned my hair. My parents were
certainly livid. Sadly, I had no choice but to cut it all
over again. A good friend of mine named Margale
Eustache walked with me that cold night on Halloween
to cut my hair. Because of Hurricane Sandy, she had no
power and came to charge a few of her electronics. Also
to get some warmth. So we walked over to Family Affair
Barber Shop on Flatlands Avenue which is only two
doors down from my favorite Dunkin Donuts.
As soon as I entered the shop, I was grateful that
Margale came with me. It was a bit intimidating being
the only lady in a shop full of men. With Margale, I had
a little reassurance. Bobo, the owner of the shop was
closest to the front window, but I went to the man two
chairs down to cut my hair. I sat down on the plushy
spinning chair and looked at my self in mirror. I was
truly embarrassed about the way my hair looked. I stuck
some bobby pins in to make it look presentable but in
truth, that really did not help much. I took them out
one by one and told him to cut out all the damaged
parts but to salvage as much as he possibly could. Lastly,
I told him not to make me look ugly.
As he snipped away, a great weight rolled off my
shoulders. I looked somewhat like myself again.
Thankfully, my ears don’t stick out to much. I think I
like my haircut more and more each day.
The Lively Arts 2013 | 43 Repose
Alice Hayes
A drop of the lukewarm, over-sweet
potent remedy to sleeping on the floor
dribbled down my hand as our plastic cups
failed to clink in marking the start of our friendship
And your voice was the only sound
in the crowded, reanimating house
as we made up for our past failures
I drowsily mumbled my curses at you
when you found a couch and draped your blanket as I drifted
And oh how I wished its warmth to be your own when I woke
The early morning silence washed over the morning
as we drowned the night’s mistakes in coffee and greasy eggs
And I tried to ignore your teasings as the water dribbled down my chin,
your stare throwing off my coordination every time I sipped
Your promise of friendship shivered down my spine
as you whispered it in my ear, giving me something other
than your warmth and your arms to focus on
And you broke away with the same ease,
that drowsy blink echoing through me
as you mumbled “Train” and pointed at my downtown track home
My sturdy blue uniform pocket buzzed with every one of your messages,
gluing me to hospital break rooms,
distracting me from my patients,
pulling my mind across town to you
Sweet Christmas carols echoed in the quiet of your patio
as we danced in the late summer moonlight,
the metal grate pushing impressions into our bare feet.
You brushed my hair aside along with my worries
and promised it was the best mistake we could ever make
Summer Storm
Annett Monheim
I loved when it would
drizzle lightly and the rain would land
so beautifully like soft, wet dust upon your quiet eyelashes
I loved how your face
would remain so calm and serene, undisturbed by the soft attack of the raindrops Art: Sydney St. Clare
upon your porcelain skin and tempting lips
I loved how how the city
would shine, light reflecting from the
layers of dew on the concrete and the steel which remained still and
silent beneath it all
I loved it when we would stay inside
and watch as the trees and the street and the cars took the soft beating of the rain, waiting out the summer storm
patiently
I loved it when we would go outside again
and we would smell the new air, which was wet and tasted like
dirt
when it hit our lungs
The Lively Arts 2013 | 45 Enlightenment
Logan Tiberius Kramer
Raised in captivity yet,
we don’t know it.
We’re mentally attacked at birth.
We form as smaller
ripples of the ones before us,
carrying all the same
rhings of where we came from.
Each ripple, even though separated,
forms from disruption,
and some can
become large waves,
but sooner or later,
they’ll all fade.
I’ve broken chains labeled freedom,
surpassed the use,
of physical language and definition.
Isn’t the moving of our mouths physical?
For like the ripples,
we cause disturbances in the air
as our lips hit.
Art: Beatrice Hardy
November
Darya Eremina
What did you think of
When we kindled the fire?
When I tore The New York Times
Separated words,
Cut sentences
In threes, in quarters.
When the moon, the Bright,
The little sliver in the skies
Hung hazy
Behind cowardly clouds,
And told us that the days now
End too quickly.
What did you think of
When I said that it was only
Half-past six,
And the darkness outside
The intruder, the wicked spy,
Spilled through the windows
And found nothing,
Found only us:
Meager silhouettes,
Strokes of a fiery pen
Seated patiently
Waiting for the wood
To catch on fire
That would consume it without thinking twice
Do I destroy or do I leave be
The already weak, already helpless echoes
Of what once were
Magnificent,
Powerful,
Breathing oaks.
Did you once think
That you would eat me up
That you would
Ignite me
Scorch me
Singe me
Char me
Burn me?
Or were you fine
With me sitting on your rug
Listening to the strings of words
That spun about the room
Dissipating in the balmy air.
Aphrodite’s Love Song
Desmond Sam
Big eyes
The willow tree isn’t far from the river
It’s chilly and the sky,
The sky was our invitation
A cold atmosphere but a welcome mat like no other
Hope an apology is enough to quench the noticeable
disappointment
Was the sky not enough for you?
Big lips
The eucalyptus leaves
Are scattered down the valley
Death Valley’s beauty gave it a haunting spirit
One that asked you to dance behind my back
And you graciously accepted,
Inviting him pass the threshold of our bedroom
(While I was laying right there)
Was normalcy too abstract for you?
Big heart
Seashells and empty lockets
Dangle upon the front porch
It was late afternoon
And words were settling down in the east
Yet we were brewing like after thoughts and bubble tea
I caught the spring before it sprung
And threw it carefully in your lap
The taunting and teasing
I was precise on where I placed my hands
You were cautious when you muffled your screams
Was the price I paid worth enough for you?
The Lively Arts 2013 | 47 When
a Breath
Becomes
a Line
Allegra Herman
When a breath becomes a line,
The body will extend.
Two bodies seamlessly intertwine.
A dangling rope becomes the spine.
Every performance we pretend,
When a breath becomes a line.
We are water—pure and crystalline.
To every crevice we tend.
Two bodies seamlessly intertwine,
Like how the brick wall supports the vine.
Inhale and the room will expand,
When a breath becomes a line.
The body, the theater: a shrine.
Unaware of what’s happened,
I watch; it is mine.
The tangled limbs suspend.
When a breath becomes a line,
Art: Casey Marie Ecker
Music & Art Class of 1955
Alumni Humanities Writing Program
AWA R D S
Poetry
First Prize: “Reflections from Finland” by Philip Turner
Second Prize: “Ships and Bells” by Danielle Concepcion
Fiction
First Prize: “The Summer I Did Not Swim” by Nicole D’Alessio
Second Prize: “We Don’t Take Dad” by Sarah Mateo
Creative Non-Fiction
First Prize: “She Begins to Chop Away” by Dina Pugliesi
Second Prize: “Four Leaf Clover” by Max Ventura

The Lively Arts 2013

Transcription

Similar documents

Summer 2013 - livelyfamilies.org

Sofia Vergara On Her Fight Against Thyroid Cancer

Author, Welfare Brat: A Memoir

CNY Mom Prom - Oneida Healthcare

The Lively PartsBin—A Cloud-Based Repository for Collaborative

Print - Highlights in the Classroom

Something`s Up in the Attic and It Has Mom!

Wonderland - Theatre Guild Valdosta

GALA1550_Father`s Day Digital Coupon

BLAKE LIVELY Chosen as 30 UNDER 30 Version FORBES

i still believe