Poetry

Art

Daniel Gutnick '27

Art is a forever morphing, a changing product of will, transforming the mind into a state of subconsciousness, an appendage to the void of mindless dreaming, adding to the depths of the ever-expanding concept of imagination.

Art is its own dimension, a timeless realm based solely upon power. The power to live, not only see from your eyes, but from your heart. The power to exhale our past and inhale the present. And the power to lasso our strongest will, to wake up every day and say, “I am”.

Put together, these enigmatic elements, creating the fuel needed to nurture our well-being. Without it, we descend within ourselves and become trapped in the pits of despair, with no ladder to climb.

Forever in this pit we may lay, haunted by the ghosts of redemption, and the souls of pity. The bridge to reality, not quite out of reach, but too far to see. It is at this point, that we must look beyond the locked chambers of ourselves, and towards a better future met without expectations, but limitless categories of creativity.

That is art. A limitless life of imagination, a realm beyond our strongest will, buried deep beneath the forever beating heart that keeps us going each and every day.

And thus, we are art. Bland yet bold, wonderful, and wise, and a never-ending masterpiece in the story of our lives.

Where I'm From

Yoni Artz '22

I am from blankets, from deodorant and cologne.

I am from the warm rooms, which made your body feel like a million hugs.

I am from basil, serenading the room from beginning to end.

The cherry blossom whose long gone flowers I remember as if they were my own.

I’m from latkes and shortness passed through Otto and Beth.

I’m from the computer geeks and worldwide travelers and from the sporty jocks.

I’m from go to your room! and do the chores! And Sammy Spider.

I’m from Spring Training baseball that would come every spring.

I’m from Jersey and Europe,

Hamantaschen and fried chicken.

From Grandma’s lost leg,

that would only cause fear in my eyes.

And dad’s gold coin,

Hidden beneath his dresser,

Only to be heard of.

But the thought of the coin fills my dreams,

So that one day it shall be passed down to me.

The Age of 90

Hannah Lancman '22

Every day,

The key turns in the lock and the door pushes open

A few seconds pass and

The door slams shut

Keys turn again

And sneakers shuffle inside

He gently folds his coat

that once had shape and color over a chair

The style of the coat is forgotten but the memories are not

“Your grandmother bought that coat for me” he says

And he’s worn it ever since.

The piano is yellowed with age but always clean

Sliding out the bench, he sits down

Lifting the cover and folding the red cloth to protect the keys

He carefully inspects each note of black and white

unfolds glasses from a clean leather case,

To find the page in a weathered music book

Fingers twitch and move into position

Over those keys only he can play

He pauses and waits

Upstairs, we pause and wait

The house waits.

A note

Then another

He sings along in his deep bass

Never elderly or frail

But strong with life behind him

Lost Through Life

Adina Newman '24

I stay inside

With the tears coming down my face

While trying not to collide

With the world that is so out of place

I am not absent

I am lost within the waves of life

Deep, wandering through the world in the pavement

Beyond the truths that thrive

There is nothing to show

Just some silent tears

As they slowly grow

Into unstudied unsaid fears

Polonius' Scheme

Hannah Stoch '22

I plot and plan with my great reservoir

Of knowledge gained through slick and clever schemes.

I’m but a lowly lord yet I’ll rise higher,

A crown atop my head in all my dreams.

Alas alas alas there’s but a block.

O Hamlet, thy strange passion stays my hand.

If I to show the king thy backward talk,

Perhaps I’d surpass thee to claim the land!

Ophelia, my blade, will slit thy heart.

Discretion lacked will be thy downward fall.

Mad Hamlet, quick but I am far too smart.

You’ll be tossed out at my own beck and call.

And with my power; O, it shall be known

I’ll sit atop the lovely Denmark throne.

Scrabble

Tali Goldman '23

On a Friday night, I carefully shake the black velvet bag of Scrabble tiles, shifting the squared letters, passing through thousands of words in ten seconds.

The rough corners, the flavors of possibilities rearrange like carrots and cranberries in a salad bowl.

My mother distributes red plastic bleachers for the powerful pieces of wood, and the field of the pixelated board seems 100 feet long.

I have my team of seven selected letters and I am the coach, the one with the approach.

I choreograph patterns that pitter-patter down on the board, I snap words into spaces like swords.

We compete in the heat of fast-moving turns, ideas that churn, strategies learned.

And the high score leads to high sores but moreover,

higher floors of togetherness.

The new draft of tiles in my hand form and deform and reform and become uniform as I stare.

What door will deliver?

The key is to branch from the plays already made, share the letters that planted the literary labyrinth.

The sugary win of a Scrabble game only scratches the surface in comparison to

the softly tiled smiles and dictionary full of jokes in between plays,

the exclamations of congratulations after a clever word,

words that write it out plain and clear:

there’s no I in Scrabble.

Tired-Mind Fighter

Sam Zaslow-Braverman '23

Art’s never concrete.

It’s never concrete in the heat of the moment you most need it.

Yet inspiration’s always there and has plenty to spare when your brain can’t bear to work.

Nearly every night I sit and write, fighting the good fight against my tired mind to create, to put the pencil to the paper, to produce pages and pages of prose, but my tired mind seldom loses.

Is my art failing me or am I failing my art? Part of each statement is evident in my irreverent approach to appropriate time use.

I burn through hour after hour powering through idea after idea, but the power doesn’t last, it’s fast, it comes and goes, which goes to show that maybe I’m not a real writer. Maybe I’m just a tired-mind fighter.

I click on Youtube video after Youtube video, partly for inspiration, but this causation leads to a deficit of meaning in my work. I'm shirking 'sponsibility, nullifying my ability to apply myself. Instead, I choose to instantly gratify, simultaneously satisfy, which seems to verify that maybe I'm not a real writer. Maybe I'm just a tired-mind fighter.

And the noise of electronic tunes in my ears as I sit on ideas for what feels like years is sheerly "tarrible," nearly unbearable, but that's the only way I know how to be, you see. I write a page, feel the rage, leave the stage, it's a mental plague, this horrid tiredness which lays claim to me, throws me in jail, and swallows the key, leaving me there in a cell of my own design, feeling like a blighter, wondering if maybe I'm not a real writer. Maybe I'm just a tired-mind fighter.

A Movie About Paris

Hannah Lancman '22

They like to talk about film

A cultured world of the proper way to open a champagne bottle

Without spraying

And still a dull pop of the cork, fizz and bubbles

Foam, yellow and pink into glasses from France

Ah! Paris, France

The architecture, history, language, culture

Pulls them in, they crave it

Where knowledge of art and music and history and theatre

Makes them feel like sitting in a cafe

With cobblestones under their feet

Thin, rusted chairs cluster around a small table,

Barely large enough to hold the white coffee cups

And saucers filled to the brim with authenticity

Sunglasses gaze at another

Perfect

Cloudless day, in a city they visit

Not as tourists but as connoisseurs of the

Only

Place to visit and the only place to be

But, the champagne is at its last drop

Only seafoam remains at the bottom ring of the green glass bottle

Waves of seafoam and salty water

An ocean and half a world away from the city of love

"Ah," they sigh, turning back to a styrofoam cup filled with Maxwell house

They stare out at a lawn of yellow grass, at the neighbor’s gray sided condo,

Searching for the wrought iron balconies and stone facades,

To the silhouette of electrical poles against a graying sky

With another sigh, they squint, so that maybe,

The wide steel tower might resemble

the sleek and graceful Iron Lady they saw through the screen.

The Waters

Talia Perlstein '24

The uncharted waters of the deep sea

Where the dark and the light are incapable of reach

What occurs in those infinite waters we are unable to foresee

The curiosity of the grand ocean clings like a leech

Do the species emerge after the light goes away?

As the sun reappears behind the clouds on a glorious summer’s day?

Or is the ocean a secret box, and is there a key

To use to unlock the secrets of the deep blue sea

What if there is a hammer we can use

To puncture the impenetrable wall

That forms between the people

And the wonders we are powerless to recall

Lets continuously poke at the waters

Until the unwavering wall pops

And the wall begins to falter

Let the secrets spill out

As graceful as a ballerina spinning on the tip of her slipper

Maybe we can drop a bomb on the sea

To obliterate what is unknown to the world

So humans can have the power to be

The master of all which we can’t see

What humans have not considered

Is the mere possibility

That if we should see

The wonders engulfed in this supposed tranquility

May ruin the beauty within the mystery

The Mask We Wear

Sonya Katz '25

We wear a mask that grins and lies

It hides our shade and covers our eyes

We hide our souls and our hearts becomes un-whole

We hide our bleeding hearts with a smile

And feel afraid to sit for a while

The world should see in between our eyes

They should believe us and hear our side

From the absence of these masks our souls will arise

We will no longer hide

One day we will take off our masks and feel safe

We will fear no more because we are fought for

The color of our skin should no longer be of fear

and you can choose what you do and don't say they’ll hear

People will smile at us when they see our hair

Not look at us in disgust, as we feel the stare

We should not have to act white or stay out of sight

That day will come

We as a community will be all one

Bass

Hannah Lancman '22

I can’t feel the car underneath me

But I can smell the heat of vinyl

And I can turn up the volume

So the bass shakes my rear view mirror

Left leg bouncing and ankle shaking

Right foot pressing harder down until

Green and white blur into the metallic grey blue

Of plastic doors shaking with the stink of gasoline

My Control

and nothing else

I feel my eyebrows narrowing

And I avoid my own eyes in the mirror

Scared of what I will see

Too much white in those eyes

Too ready for the roar of the wind

And the vinyl swishing and I have to leave and

I gotta keep going faster

Run faster, faster

Run without moving because I can’t feel my legs

But I can feel the wind harsh and the music

Louder than the weight

Of living

Maybe if I press my foot a little harder,

Widen my eyes and angel my eyebrows more,

I might slip

My hand might miss the wheel

And I’ll fly off the mountain

With the wind harsher and the music louder

Eyes closed, and legs and shoulders loose

Without the burden of the earth under my feet

No feeling except for the bass

Pumping blood through a listless heart

And for a moment of peace

I will be flying through the wind

Venus

Betty Spinrad '23

The scant yolk of sun drips down Her balmy mien, feverish over those tomato-red, velveteen cheeks

All coy and doting and She couldn’t be any more abashed, devastatingly ripe and ravished

Roseate arms coiled, embowed: thrown about Her dew-weaned, rosebud ears, set in a pearlescent brooch of strawberry mane

Grand expanses of smooth skin flaming like dripping glass, the sole wrought iron core of Terra’s timid earth

Venus rises, dazzling; sun rays enamored and alight, cool seafoam tile swirling about Her shapely, tulip feet

She hasn’t a beloved moon; yet ever do crushing seas of impassioned swains bow at Her gleaming ceramic pedestal,

the tantalizing spatter of divine light

So She stands untouched by the shower of deadly, twinkling nightshade sap; the pool of flittering admirers waxes, wanes,

ebbing unto the gilded lotus drain

A numb, frigid Venus whirls about, whipping back bright cardinal shocks, never before unloved nor dismayed

The moon’s talcum nape stretches unto the next damp, bleak dawn, shouldering again past the lonesome, trembling sun

Shivering, her palla hastily draped, Venus desperately beckons the seabound sun to her wide, salvia and ivy-threaded windowsill

Wing-tipped limbs grasping, overcome with epiphanic desire, she dives, flush against the linseed woodgrain

Stunned, a beaming Sol stoops down and accepts a loving, honey-toned palm bearing a circlet of gold,

the heliotrope promise of newfound devotion

A Tour of My Excellent Hotel

Sam Zaslow-Braverman '23

Welcome back to my excellent hotel! Oh, you’ve never been? Come on in, it’s not a sin to stay for awhile! Don’t hesitate to appreciate the style of this luxurious lobby!

As you admire the scenery, take a long look to your left and see our complimentary nest of buzzing bees! Why the nervous chatter, what’s the matter? Why are there buzzing bees bearing room keys in the breakfast buffet bistro, you ask?

Well, listen: I’m not saying they’re paying for their rooms, but let’s just say the buzzing bees burst into the breakfast buffet bistro and brought bee bucks to the bemused employees on duty that day!

This hotel’s pool is too cool for school, with minimal drool pooling at the bottom of the tank! What do you ask? Why is there drool in this too-cool-for-school-swimming pool?

Well, settle down, the answer’s simple as spittle; The buzzing bees bumped into a big and burly bodybuilder who was building his big and burly body in the pool. The strapping stranger felt the surprising sting of the buzzing bees, and he then dropped the drooled in the too-cool-for-school hotel swimming pool. Let’s go and check out the rooms!

Welcome to this perfect penthouse property! It’s lean, mean, and clean, with a sheen of ground beef covering this coveted complex. Why is this gross, gangrenous ground beef all around the room? Well, this ground beef bonanza is, believe it or not, easy to explain;

Our ground beef-loving groundskeeper groveled into this good looking room late last night when nobody was awake to take him away. In his grip was a grody ground-beef bundle. His grip was weak, so the rancid meat found it’s way all around the grounds, that he was responsible for!

We fired him. Enjoy your stay!

The Swamp

Betty Spinrad '23

if you would

look at me

those blue eyes

some cesspool

of confusion and maddening

grasps and plunges into

deep, lazing, mouldering waters

the bristles of dead bushes

the hissing pressure

of poison ivy

parched, aching, ravenous lips

the cool lick of breath

a brush of wind

against the volute of my left ear

slips of veiny earth

never quite crushed by my sole

but there was this burning,

tempered and calm

were you ever there, or was it nix?

i heard that thin wisp of breath

i would have recognized it anywhere

but i didn't see sharp blue

my spine ached with the stretch down, longing and plunging, elbows in the thick

the alien midnight of murky, clotted swamp

weightless: a soft and rounded boulder

heavy, heaving love: to know the half of it

i clamped shut my odious, greedy eyes

as waves of angry onyx stained the false blue quires

over, over, over

all at once again

the beautiful circles of a choking current

suffocating suede waters, the gleam of whooping sapphire

and once more i pretended

if i blurred earth to shore

you were there looking back at me

Immaturity

Hannah Lancman '22

When the water barely reaches the ankles

Surrender is key

Because not even a small boat

Can stay afloat

In anything besides a sea

Only minnows and hermit crabs

And seaweed and bottle caps

Live here without a doubt

Simplicity is needed

In a petty little pool

Young and immature

A pretty little fool

Splashing in threes

Treat it with a smile

Don’t give it too much thought

Easy for all the while

Until the waves are huge

And minnows seeking food

Desperately swallow the stings of bees

And I am here to rescue

When you are seeking refuge

If you would care not to clip your claws at me

Removing the bottle caps and feeding the fish

Giving the hermits the shells that they wish

Calm the shallow water under a palm tree

But where is the shade?

I look around in the water and wade

Then my eyes go wide and I feel afraid

Empty water has no shadow

The Transversal of a Personal Journal

Joshua Lancman '24

This full and full is false backwards

As all will soon find out.

The crying applauded actors

I receive many a helpful doubt.

Fire brushes against my back

Below, the yawning abyss

The floor melts beneath; I lack

The prophesied momentary bliss

The eternal internal fight

Of misery’s good to fan hot flames.

The lightness of pain makes a light

A walk, a step, a fall, acclaim.

I have no wish to discontinue

I have no wish to do so here

Here, I stare within you

Looking for a sweet endere

A wheel of mirrors looking inside

Until time concedes a story.

Knowledge does history provide,

Self sight is true purgatory.

The slip comes suddenly

My mind, it cracks

In its own eternity I feel-

Then black

That is the shortest, this is the longest

A stasis of nothing, continued by something

A non-feeling of pain, felt again and again

Closer to finishing every time

Past the end comes its own eternity

The chaos of a void; finally relaxing

The death of a yearning paternity

Here, no needs, nor even taxing

I am finally fine

Then a rush, a cooling feel

It all comes back; I comprehend.

On big it is always, never false, and real

In me, it will come, curtain call, the end.

But that is just a slip of my cold tongue

A bitter, cold thing, it wounds and is alone.

The lash comes out in the form of love and advice

Don’t take it, find your own.

I apologize for what will happen,

It's all that can.

I am from a simple thing, misshapen

I care only for my own lifespan.

This shows a strain; connection by pain

You laugh at my thoughts and think at my laughs

I will never do what I wish; I will never do this again

Don’t make me here, submit, to this lit

Exponential Growth

Abigail Rosenblat '22

children are always in a rush to grow up

dancing around in mommy’s high heels

dreaming of the day when they can take out the car and go for a drive

excited to walk around town alone

even wishing to go grocery shopping to make a home cooked meal

but adults laugh and say

“the grass is always greener on the other side”

the frown that sits on your face

says ‘’i don't get it’’

the progression of life is similar to watching paint dry

if only there was someway to skip to the good part

you don't even realize

as years become weeks

months become hours

days become minutes

you finally understand

but now it's too late

time renders into a giant blur

you cannot remember anything

and you don't know who you are

or what you want

you feel like a bullet train with no destination

frantically pulling every button and lever

in desperate attempt to make it stop

the amount you would sacrifice

to catch your breath

just for a moment

without the weight of the world resting on your shoulders

We Let Go

Sophie Indiana Fischer '23

The wind rustling through my hair.

You hold my hand as we let the summer breeze take us.

We let go.

We forget for a minute.

We forget the pain as parents divorce,

as our skin becomes another piece of canvas for our razor,

As our minds rot from the inside out.

We let go.

We continue to dance.

The sun is setting but we don’t care.

We look the other way.

We let go.

Let the animals in the woods eat us.

It won’t matter.

Let them come, I say. Let them come.

We let go.

We dance until our legs snap in half

And then we fall to the ground, but we aren’t in pain.

We don’t even know what pain feels like anymore.

There is only us, only this.

We let go.

It begins to rain.

We get up again, but we do not rush to the car.

We begin to dance again,

This time with rain pouring down on us.

We let go.

The rain is cool on my skin, but I don’t care.

You pull me close and we sway back and forth.

We shiver in the cold.

We let go.

On the drive home, we blast music.

We don’t focus on the road ahead but on each other.

We let go.

You smile at me while the rain patters on our windshield.

You don’t see the car swerve into our lane.

You don’t step on the brake.

You stare into my eyes.

Our hands intertwined.

And then,

We let go.

How to Love

Eliana Finkel '24

The world depicts young girls as

Their biggest dream being: to find their Romeo

And their fear: never becoming an epic love story

But what does it mean to love?

Some girls may ponder what true love looks like.

The perfect man.

Wedding.

Dress.

But what does it mean to love?

People expect the answer to be

The house

Prince charming.

A dog.

But what does it mean to love?

The love I envy doesn’t come from a man.

The love I envy you won’t read about.

The love I envy doesn’t appear in happy endings.

But what does it mean to be in love?

I want to fall in love with getting out of bed every morning.

I want to fall in love with sitting in class learning about the world.

But what does it mean to love?

Ah, the world.

The very thing that told me what I should love on earth.

Is the one very thing that makes me hate being here.

The murder, the crime, jealousy.

All things that I do not love.

How am I expected to love getting out of bed every morning and sitting in class when those very things exist in the world that I have come to resent.

I want to love myself despite the world telling me what’s in the mirror is flawed.

I want to love living in the moment, though the world creates an internal checklist for my focus to concentrate on.

As a girl grows up her biggest dream becomes being a successful and independent

While her fear is avoiding sexual harassment

Why can’t I want to love the perfect man?

Why can’t I want to love picturing myself in the perfect dress?

Why do I ask these questions when I don’t even know what it means to love?

As I review this deeper

I realize the reason we are taught to love a prince\8 and a dress

Is so we don’t realize the painful realities of life

That we will never learn to love

Time

Sabrina Smokler '23

Past cradles me under a tranquil night singing lullabies that hold me tight

He tells me everything is alright, that there is nothing to worry

since he is there to protect me with my memories

sizzling on the blazing fire burning into the night

with the fumes of comfort and sparks of remembrance

that carve a memory into me

It stays still in me unable to move

bolted down by the walls of attachment

That present tries to unscrew.

Present tastes bitter as he takes me under his wing to fly through the possibilities of

the now

He lifts me out of my comfort zone leaving those stationary memories hidden,

hoping they will fade behind my back since he is always reminding me that the past

cannot change

He tells me to “not look back” but I hate when he reminds me of that since

Present me is recycled memories of the past me that I’ve adapted to

So how can I leave such a special place of mine behind

I become scared he will one day wipe away my name from his lips and past will

become present’s enemy

I do what he doesn’t say out of fear of making a mistake

I guess that makes him mad and his fire starts to grow bigger

inside of my almost overflowing growing hatred for him

It just seems that living in the now

Is so impossible and that is what leads me to

yearning for the future

Future is an angel of hopes and dreams that help make fantasies come closer to

reality

I resonate with the future the most, not because of his uncertainty about what the

world will be but because of the hopeful possibilities that seem at least real to me

Warming [up to you]

Betty Spinrad '23

I press my cheek to your shoulder

feel the warm bone slotted against the dip of my jaw

trace the smooth expanse of lean muscle

and look up with my stupid fond grin

feeling

the mellow of my smile hugging my temple

my arm melting sweetly into your side

our awkward, excited hands tranquil together

and i’m so, so red

(but I like you so much)

and I love the anxious, rapping thrum

of your heartbeat against mine

and you make me so flustered

but you’re flush against me so what can I say

every brush and touch and oh, god

I could live inside your tender bones

Metawriting

Sam Zaslow-Braverman '23

It's really difficult to write these. Don't you think?

All the rhymes at different times, it's easier just to commit crimes

Bank robbery? No sweat. Embezzlement? I'm all set!

Write a slam poem? Are… are we done yet?

It's really difficult to write these. Don't you think?

Like, it's considered a crime to rhyme a word with itself

It would be funny if I did that now, so I think I am going to do that now

And we're doing it for an award, that's the funny thing

The winning bard gets no gift card, or even so much as a box of pop tarts

That would be better, I felt, than all of that work for just one belt.

A belt. My dad owns a lot of them. I can just take his belts anytime. Don't have to write a poem or anything.

It's really difficult to write these. Don't you think?

In what situation does one feel the inclination to put off studying for a science test and practice poetry to be the best?

I rest my case, poetry is stupid. I've never written any, and I'm never going to.

It's really difficult to write these. Don't you think?

For every line, you have to rethink: could I have written it better?

Should I have used this letter? Did I remember to turn the oven off? I didn't, and now I need a new house. Can someone let me stay in their house? I'm no mouse! I keep clean, I'm a great roommate, you could bring home a date, and I'd be out the door by eight.

It's really difficult to-- okay, I'm going to level with you guys, I burnt down the whole block. I understand that it doesn't really fit into the structure of the poem, but I just feel really guilty about it. It wasn't an oven. I was seeing if I could balance a lit lighter on my nose, and then I fell off the elliptical, and the lit lighter landed on the lovely floor, and the fire spread to the door, and it burned down my place and all of the other places in the same general space. I could've put it out, but I didn't feel like it, and that is on me. On that note, I'm gonna go!

Disappointment

Sabrina Smokler '23

Disappointment feels like a snake slithering up my back

Slowly tightening its grip around my neck

Leaving no room to breathe

Suffocating the last shred of hope anywhere to be found

Choking every ounce of desire

The dense thick air clouding my lungs starts to become light,

Weightless

And leaves my body

Feeling Free

But then is replaced by your venomous poison,

Seeping into my skin, drowning me to the bottom

Diluting all the trust I had with you

Disappointment feels like reaching for every last bit of hope and security I had been promised

Only to become consumed by your egotistical opinion

You told me that we listen twice as much as we speak

Because we have 2 ears and only 1 tongue

Yet I feel like you shove words down my throat

blocking my ears to hear my own voice

And instead, my voice is replaced by your belittling words that are

TWICE as hurtful

TWICE as damaging

Making me want to fly out of reality

Because my ears can only handle so much pressure

At the beginning of time

snakes were a symbolism of evil and poison

And their tongues were cut as a punishment for their cunning ways I only imagine for your tongue to be cut, to let open my ears

and escape

To finally taste the slither of freedom that I’ve been craving for a while now But it only seems like secluding myself in my own thoughts is better than trying to talk to you

The Meaning of Life

Peri Newman '24

Life, what is the meaning of it?

It really has no meaning to it at all,

It’s never the same;

It’s different and unique.

To some people, the meaning of life is like an apple from a tree,

Waiting to get picked for the right reason.

Is it to make some feel good or bad about themselves?

Is it to make people happy?

Is it to make people sad or depressed?

We won't know until we experience the right thing.

We were all put on this earth for a reason,

But some might not know why;

That is okay because one day we all will.

We are all meant to learn,

But we are all not meant to stay.

Everyone should live their day to the fullest

Because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone.

This is how life works;

You live until you don't,

You’re happy, until your sad,

And you try until you can’t.

Life can be a challenge,

So accept it;

Fight it;

Face it;

Overcome it;

Love it;

And outsmart it.

Life is like a road,

When you miss a street or make a mistake;

You don’t keep going;

You make a u-turn and fix it.

So I ask you again,

What is the meaning of life?

Straight Spines

Tali Goldman '23

I went to the library all the time,

dragging my finger along the spines to collect the germs, the dust of the forgotten and stopping for the

bolded, shiny, ripe new additions to the collection of stories.

New books I knew would be old soon because

everyone wants something new, more, more news and

the curves of the words never end.

We cannot dwell yet dwelling tells us of importance.

The musty smells must tell tales of undiscovered truths

the worn stickers on the spines label the books this or that but

the spine of the author aches.

Those new books have military spines, straight, fresh off the press of the machines.

They’re satisfying and satisfied, ooh, what’s that one, never seen that one before, and that one!

But everyone’s seen every spine of the army.

Wilted, but bursting with the energy of the metaphors, of the characters who immortalize in the hands of a mortal.

Too little has reached these books, no time spent with them for the hour hand to slow down time and time again to paint it with personality.

And so I scan my eyes, beep! beep! for the books that have been left to dwell alone in the midst of children’s happy laughs and quivering tears,

because my spine is not yet

broken in.

Where I'm From

Max Lefkowitz '27

I am from Honey Nut Cheerios,

from seltzer and orange juice on the kitchen table.

I am from the creaky, old dining room chairs my dad grew up sitting in.

I am from the white cherry blossoms and

the dead trees behind my house hanging over the yard

whose branches fall during storms.

I’m from holidays and game nights,

from Maxwell and Henretta, my mom’s grandparents.

I’m from family movies and walks to town,

and from terrible Thanksgiving food.

I’m from kindness and charity

and “You Are My Sunshine.”

I’m from lighting Shabbat candles,

New Jersey and Poland,

gefilte fish and turkey pickle.

I am from getting robbed on the side of the highway,

to owning a restaurant.

I am from the black and white photos in albums on my sunroom bookshelves

and box forts in my room which I create with friends.

The Party of the Parties

Austin Colm '25

At the acceptance, fractures did emerge

Some founded groups with new idea lists

No no no President Washington urged

Hamilton started the Federalists

Thomas Jefferson started chiming in,

“We are Democratic-Republicans!

We don’t admire your kind and your kin

Hold your tongue now or you will get the can!”

Wish that hypocrite was caught on camera

He said all men are created equal

Go see his slaves on the panorama

I guess he punched the slaves’ ears with the awl

He was the one who could not get impeached

If they caught him they would have overreached

The Incurable Disease

Lily Glass '22

“Fair is foul, and foul is fair”; a codependent concept

Like a victim to their abuser,

A toxic relationship, one can not survive without the other.

The blame constantly shifts,

Is it innate and trustworthy or atypical and implausible?

But what if it were simultaneously both?

“Foul is fair” and “fair is foul”.

“Ambition” is “illness” and “illness” is “ambition”,

The two words should appear next to each other in a thesaurus.

Ambition is an illness,

Inevitably leading to one’s downfall.

Creating a falsely sympathetic mood,

Like Macbeth deserves pity, but how can one pity the manipulative and wicked?

The two ailments are with physical and emotional consequences,

They strain the body.

With ambition comes corruption.

Macbeth excited by his future “success”,

Still writes “these weird sisters saluted me”

And “my dearest partner in greatness”

As if he needs his hand held;

With the hidden purpose to place blame on anyone besides himself.

He appears to be on the road to victory

When he subconsciously knows of his corrupt damnation.

He desires to appear innocent in the eyes of his wife.

The typical man who seeks female validation

While refusing to take responsibility for his actions.

Macbeth represents the physical consequences of his vile illness.

Lady Macbeth eventually catches the disease.

And, shockingly, represents the emotional ones.

Macbeth’s ego grows

While the woman goes clinically insane,

As per usual the male author portrays the woman as the blameful sensitive one.

She will be guiding him without knowing,

“That my keen knife see not the wound it makes”.

She will blindly follow him, feeding his ego and his ambition

Just as her predecessors did.

“Pour my spirits in thine ear”

Thinking of ways to infiltrate her husband’s already infested mind;

Imagine her conceptualized depravity slowly dripping into his psyche.

“Chastise with the valor of my tongue”

She seeks to whirl her influence around his brain

In hopes to excuse Macbeth’s appalling behavior

Sustaining his inability to act like a responsible adult.

Lady Macbeth, alone on the stage,

Alone with her thoughts and fears

Which are abundant yet unspoken.

“I do fear thy nature”, she says to herself rightfully so.

She believes she is an enabler,

Voluntarily spoon feeding his ambition.

“Nature’s mischief” is apparent although she still engages.

To him, her only value is her presence.

After all, she is only his excuse.

The ambitious are never satisfied,

Seeing others not as humans but as obstacles

In the way of their suspected future greatness.

They feel no guilt, “Stop the access and passage to remorse

That no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose”.

And have only one aspiration other than success:

To recruit more soldiers for their corrupt battle with humanity.

The Vaccine

Lily Glass '22

A day off from school, I can sleep in.

I crawl into my warm bed after a long day, excited to finally get a good night’s sleep.

I close my eyes and suddenly I’m awoken at 8:00am.

My mother bursts through the door screaming at the top of her lungs, “You have a vaccine appointment!”

I yawn and rub my eyes in an attempt to wake from this hopeful yet seemingly unrealistic dream.

But I realize I’m no longer asleep.

This is real, there is hope.

I feel myself beginning to thaw out of a quarantine-induced state of depression.

Three days later I drive to Walgreens.

I look around and see all kinds of people, elderly, young, healthcare workers, etc.

“Lily Glass?” the pharmacist calls.

My mom and I walk with her to a bright room filled with inspirational quotes and posters.

Typically these antidotes of false hope would make me nauseous.

They have a faint remanence of a Hallmark movie:

Always cheesy, always the same formula for the same stories with only slightly different words.

After I comprehend my surroundings I’m told to sit down and roll up my sleeve.

As soon as I see the shiny syringe I close my eyes and transport to New York City.

I get off the train at Penn Station and am reminded of the cigarette and sewage aroma that I’ve missed.

I go up the escalators and now I’m in Madison Square Garden.

The lights are dimmed.

I’m surrounded by my best friends along with hundreds of people.

I look around and am delighted to see that I am merely one of the tiny faces in the sea of fangirls.

A red spotlight shines on the stage, where I see my favorite artist, none other than the handsome, the talented, Mr. Harry Styles.

My friends and I dance to the song of the summer, “Watermelon Sugar”.

We cry to the six-minute ballad “Sign of the Times”.

We’re in complete disbelief that nights like these are possible again.

Lastly, he sings his infamous rock-inspired banger “Kiwi”.

Then blue and pink confetti bursts, the lights turn on.

I open my eyes and I’m back in Walgreens.

The vaccine does what the posters could not; it instills hope, true and sincere, for our society.

A Trip to Disneyland

Sam Zaslow-Braverman '23

Having the anxiety that treats my brain like it's house

Is like going to Disneyland and meeting that mouse

And instead of understanding that your life is full of joy

You focus on what's under his costume; a stoned college boy

And your parents want a picture with you and the rodent

But the actual guy's a degenerate, and now you know it

The expectations hit your head like bricks off a truck

So you run to take a picture with fake Daffy Duck

But Daffy Duck's even worse, and you want to know why?

Because under the costume, he's a middle-aged guy!

He's also stoned near death, and acting erratic

But your parents think you're a Daffy fanatic

So you muster up your courage and you try to take a pic

But then Mr. Daffy coughs, and guess what? He's sick!

Now you have coronavirus, it's certain, it's true!

You've infected yourself, and your family, too

So you run all the way to the amusement park's center

And ask for a vaccine, keeping your voice at a tenor

And the guy at the desk says, "Dude, what's the issue?

This isn't a hospital with vaccines and tissues."

"Take a deep breath, you're gonna be fine.

Now go pose with Daffy Duck. Go. Get in line!"

You feel the room start to spin, and your head implodes

You want to leave so bad, you want hit the road

You get a call from your parents, they're worried like mad

You ran away from them when you were feeling stressed and sad

They want you to stay just exactly where you are

"We're coming, sweetie. We're not very far."

You take a seat without any money to buy water

The seat's uncomfy, the air gets hotter

Day turns to evening and evening turns to night

Where did they go? Are they alright?

Night turns to morning and they still aren't here

Morning turns to days, weeks, months, years

You grow old, right there on that bench

Your beard reaches your fists, and boy, do they clench

At long last, you feel some kind of end coming

Your mouth is dry, your stomach is drumming

You look at your surroundings for the very last time

At the red-purple sky, the setting sun sublime

And before you know it, they're giving you hugs

Taking you to the gift shop and buying coffee mugs

It was a ten-minute wait but it was so many decades

And here they are, indulging in charades

You open verbal fire, accusing them of negligence

And then you pull it all back, because it wasn't their ignorance

You do your best to say sorry, but the damage is done

Now you've gone and ruined everyone else's fun

You always do this, you idiot jerk

You let things get to you, and you make them worse

Maybe they should have left you in that candy-colored lobby

‘Cause for you, ruining moments is a hobby

Scream

Hannah Weisz '24

I want to scream like I’m throwing up sound

Getting dizzy and shaking from vibrating ground

Not a mix or a belt or a bellowing note

But a gravelly, animal sound from the throat

Any vowel will do, as long as it releases

My tired old tension

But when the scream ceases,

What happens now?

Do I breathe cold new air?

Do I sigh in frustration?

Will I no longer bear

Silence that squirms, strapped, straight jacketed, trapped in its layer?

I want to scream like I’m throwing up sound

But for now I’m just focused on whispering too loud