the marble collection: massachusetts high school magazine of the arts (spring 2009)

S p r i n g 2 0 0 9

MassachusettsHigh School

Literary Magazine

www.themarblecollection.org

2 themarblecollection.org

Massachusettshigh school

literarymagazine

Spring 2009

Whats next? TMCWhat is The Marble Collection?

Our Next Issue: Winter 2009-2010We invite & encourage all Massachusetts secondary students to contribute to our next issue. From now on TMC will also be accepting art, video, and music submissions!

Winter-issue Reading PeriodSeptember 1, 2009 November 30, 2009

To submit please visit:www.themarblecollection.org/submit

The Marble Collection is the first literary magazine to cater solely to Massachusetts high school students. The magazine boasts the finest student literary works in fiction, non-fiction (creative & academic), & poetry. TMC implements a literary venue that encourages students to perform as both authors & audience; one that enables students to review the works of their peers at the state level.

Released biannually in the winter & the spring, the magazine is accessible online & in print. Our online magazine has the capacity to feature presentation videos, 3D product, & animated graphics. TMC satisfies the rising need for an online exchange within the humanities sector as our society increasingly depends on web-based media.

TMC is a start-up nonprofit organization. We rely solely on grants, donations, & advertising sales to support the production of the magazine. We anticipate that future issues will yield greater participation & support.

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Staff TMC

Editor-in-ChiefDeanna Elliot

Associate Editors Elizabeth Hamel

Sophia Lai

Photographer & Art Editor Jay DErrico

Layout & Design Chris DErrico

Jay DErricoDeanna Elliot

Advertising ExecutivesKerry Gallagher Erin OConnor

Webmaster Andrew Maury

VolunteerAlex Dembrowsky

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Spring 2009 2

Thanks TMC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P a t r o n s

Thank you.MaryBeth DErrico

Kenneth ElliotKyle Ridgeway

Patsy Rose

D o n a t i o n s As a start-up publication, TMC needs the support of the Mas-sachusetts High School Community at large. Our shared mis-sion to improve the humanities sector for secondary students will be fulfilled through your generosity.To donate please visit:www.themarblecollection.org/donate

Or by mailing a check payable to The Marble Collection, Inc. to the following address:

The Marble CollectionDonations 202 Main StreetLakeville, MA 02347

S u b s c r i p t i o n Single Copy: $6.50One Year Subscription: $13.00To purchase additional copies please visit:www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe


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Advanced Math & Science AcademyAgawam High SchoolAttleboro High SchoolBishop Feehan High School Bishop Stang High SchoolBurlington High SchoolChicopee Comprehensive High School Chicopee High School Cohasset High SchoolDracut Senior High SchoolEverett High School Fitchburg High School Harwich High School Lowell High SchoolMelrose High School Milton AcademyNorth Attleboro High SchoolNorthbridge High SchoolOakmont Regional High School Old Rochester Regional Randolph High School Sharon High School Taconic High School Tantasqua High School

Literature Department Colleen Moren

Adeline Bee & Kevin GormanJeffrey Day

Joanne FortierPatrick LarkinJudith Chelte

Rebecca PietrzykowskiJohn Wands

Robert MoultonLinda OBrien Ellen Gammel

Anne LeeteSuzanne KeefeAngela Singer

James ConnollyJack Johnson

Paula MathieuMark Nevard

Teresa DallChristine Beagan & Cheryl Wrin

Janet PichenyPatrice Lattrell

Aaron Berthiaume

S p e c i a l T h a n k s to this issues contributing high schools and teacher liasons:

Spring 2009 4

TMCContents How to Mimic the Universe // Poetry 7 By: Kristen Sparagna Milton Academy Grade 12

Utopia // Poetry 8 By: Tenzin Yangdon Everett High School Grade 11

Revenant // Fiction 9 By: Kristen Sparagna Milton Academy Grade 12 A Robots Obituary // Poetry 17 By: Emily Roseman Old Rochester Regional Grade 10

STOP // Poetry 18 By: Alex Beard Old Rochester Regional Grade 9

Numb // Fiction 19 By: Sarah Walsh Old Rochester Regional Grade 11

Pediatric Oncology Ward, Portland, Maine November 7, 2007 //Poetry 22 By: Angela Baglione Milton Academy Grade 12

cry a resounding sound // Poetry 23 By: Xiaoyu Wang Old Rochester Regional Grade 10

A Photographic Memory // Poetry 25 By: Angela Baglione Milton Academy Grade 12

How ants carry on war // Poetry 26 By: Helen Merzdov AMSA Charter School Grade 10

January 2oth // Poetry 27 By: Molly Barrus Old Rochester Regional Grade 10

Waiting. // Poetry 28 By: Martha Barry Bishop Stang High School Grade 11

A Previous Engagement // Fiction 29 By: Catalina Llanas-Colon Old Rochester Regional Grade 11

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TMCSpring 09 Sukkot Pantoum // Poetry 31 By: Esther Michel AMSA Charter School Grade 10

Dances with Your Father // Poetry 33 By: Catalina Llanas-Colon Old Rochester Regional Grade 11

The Perfect Christmas Gift // Fiction 35 By: Sarah Kassabian Old Rochester Regional Grade 11

Ode to Winter // Poetry 39 By: Emily Mudd AMSA Charter School Grade 10

GObama // Nonfiction 41 By: Peter Eramo Dracut Senior High School Grade 12

The Wait // Fiction 43 By: Rosana Hamadeh Melrose High School Grade 11

What Is Free Verse? // Poetry 45 By: Ana Belyakova AMSA Charter School Grade 10

A Portrait of the Dubliner as a Paralyzed Man 47 By: Leah Goddard Dracut Senior High School Grade 12

Homeric Similies // Poetry 49 By: Sukhmani Singh, Kristina Phelan, Vinicius Aguiar, Tina Bui, Kylan Nowell Everett High School Grade 9

Rise from the Ashes // Nonfiction 51 By: Kaylie Crawford Dracut Senior High School Grade 11

Graduation // Poetry 57 By: Justine Marsella Dracut Senior High School Grade 11

California Sunset // Poetry 58 By: Mike Kesslak Dracut Senior High School Grade 11

TMC ON THE WEB themarblecollection.org

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Spring 2009 6

How to Mimic the UniverseBy: Kristen Sparagna Milton Academy Grade 12

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sad eyes sting with effort.The pillow prickles, sticky beneath my neck.Their bedroom lightno longer breaks under my door.Surrender to sleepwould be quicksand.I would be draggedtowards the earlier, latest fight.The desperate tear in her voiceclenches my throat.His tempo on the countertops;every hand-beat syllable,an imprint,cracks my concentration.Their screaming accusations.The threats of never coming back.Tomorrow:Shell wear polka dots.Hell kiss her cheek before work.Ill natter about a spelling bee.For now, Im too young too weak too little practiced

Sinking deepinto a tattered mattress,I try not to blink;restrain exhaustionwith bruised lids.

to resist realityclutch my chest, grip sharp fragments together. I curl up in the darkness,overpowered by itching, limp blankets release to entropy.

Entropy: the degradation of the matter and energy in the universe to an ultimate state of inert uniformity; chaos; disorder; randomness.

-Merriam-Webster


Se la vita fosse unUtopia, Il sole brillerebbe sempre, E loscurit non verrebbe mai. Gli uccelli canterebbero sempre delle canzoni calmanti E i pesci ballerebbero nellacqua.

Se la vita fosse unUtopia, Bambini dipingerebbero sempre la loro immaginazione E il mondo sarebbe riempito con il colore. La terra odorerebbe sempre di aria di mattina E lerba crescerebbe sempre per il cielo.

Se la vita fosse unUtopia,le Persone vivrebbero nellarmoniaE la violenza non verrebbe mai.Il gusto di dolcezza spruzzerebbe la boccaE la vita sarebbe vista come eterna.

Ma la vita non unUtopia.cio e viviamo.

If life were a Utopia, The sun would always shine,

And darkness would never come.The birds would always chirp

soothing songsAnd the fish would dance in the

water.

If life were a Utopia,Children would always paint their

imaginationAnd the world would be filled with

color.The earth would always smell of

morning airAnd the grass would always reach

for the sky.

If life were a Utopia,People would live in harmony

And violence would never spread.The taste of sweetness would

sprinkle the mouthAnd life would be seen as everlasting

But life is not a Utopia.It is what we see.

By: Tenzin Yangdon Everett High School Grade 11Utopia

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sad eyes sting with effort.The pillow prickles, sticky beneath my neck.Their bedroom lightno longer breaks under my door.Surrender to sleepwould be quicksand.I would be draggedtowards the earlier, latest fight.The desperate tear in her voiceclenches my throat.His tempo on the countertops;every hand-beat syllable,an imprint,cracks my concentration.Their screaming accusations.The threats of never coming back.Tomorrow:Shell wear polka dots.Hell kiss her cheek before work.Ill natter about a spelling bee.For now, Im too young too weak too little practiced

Spring 2009 8

By: Kristen Sparagna Milton Academy Grade 12

The back beach of Dowses Park is always emptyexcept, of course, for the plovers. Piping plovers are weak, little shoreline birds who, as a result of either evolutionary preference or existential angst, are quite disinclined to fly. Their speckled feathers match the sand so perfectly that sometimes their bodies simply rise up from the beach, like ghosts. Sometimes, I imagine that the plovers are formed by the shifting silt deep beneath the surface, far below and beyond Centerville. My mother grew up in this town, too. We have a picture of her in our stairwell, but it doesnt match the stories. Her lips are stretched thin; their acute angles point outwards, towards the gilded frame, rather than up. A dark, thick braidas densely and precisely woven as the dock

lines down by the piertrails down her left shoulder and out of the picture, tightly tethering her image to our home. I have her hair, Nana tells me, same beautiful chestnut color. But, for some reason, mine is always a nest of snarls. It never wants to behave properly. I cry when Nana brushes it before school. Nana just hums or tells me that Im too old now, for crocodile tears. In her portrait, my mothers hair is pulled so tight; I imagine that if she squinted back at me, her skin would split along the seam of her hair and pool at her feet like a silk gown. And she could just float away. I wonder where shed go. I wonder if she cried when Nana brushed her hair, too. The plovers are terrified of hawks and anything that reminds them of hawks. Once,

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Revenant


Nana bought me an old purple kite that we found in the dusty dime store on Maycomb Way. I never had a kite before. The smooth, synthetic material reflected in the sun, but as my fingers slipped over its wings and traced its edges, the light would scatter from my touch, like minnows in the water. I brought the kite with me to Dowses and Nana helped me launch it. I kicked sand up, giggling and running with my purple wings, and watched as the wind swept down to toss my kite into the blue sky. Nana showed me how to hold the wooden spindle, how to weave the string back and forth through the air. I controlled this purple cut-out of the sky. When the kites shadow passed over a plover nest, we heard a shocked, high-pitched piirrrp. Nana grabbed my hand and we left after that. I only understood later, when I heard Nana talking to Daddy in the kitchen that night. Poor things, Nana said, Hearts burst in their chests, they were so frightened. Did Phoebe see? Daddy asked. Daddy always worries about my knowing when other people were scared. Daddy never tells me how close other people are to the shadows. The next day, I took that stupid kite out to the garage and cut it to pieces. My little brother, Ronnie, would have been born in January. I had heard some other mothers on Main Street;

they would watch me with big eyes and behind their hands, talk about the drowning of Meredith Beldam, and the miscarrying of my baby brother. I asked Nana if he was the reason why my mother left us. That was the first time I ever saw Nana really mad. She didnt miscarry. The child was stillborn, Nana said. Then, she took my face between her withered hands and leaned so close that I could smell the jasmine perfume that she likes to spray on her neck on Sundays. I could almost trace the cataracts in her milky-blue eyes. She held me where we were practically breathing the same air. Theres a difference. Do you understand? Nana asked. Nana was searching my face for something. I nodded because I didnt want to disappoint her. But, I didnt understand. Didnt both mean the same thing? That my mother had lost my brother and so in return, we had to lose her. In the autumn, the plovers work up the motivation to fly. They rise in flocks and move together, as one entity, in serpentine formation. They escape to Brazil and spend the winter lounging on top of glossy banana leaves. However, in addition to being the unluckiest of all birds, piping plovers are also a South American delicacy. Hungry, brown fingers pluck the plovers from their summer nests. Then, the U.S.

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 10

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

pays these Braziliansstill smacking their greasy lipsto send back the plovers tracking tagsstill wrapped around thin, orange legs, cellophane on a toothpick. Fewer plovers return every spring. Thats why the park decided to set up a reservation for them on Dowses back beach. The plovers wont be disturbed here. The locals know this place is haunted and the tourists think its a dump. I think this place is beautiful. Back Beach has an abandoned charm. The mangled wrack line of marsh grass, dying seaweed and gnarled driftwood curves to the break of the tide. The sand, always damp and coarse, grates between my toes and scratches at my throat before settling heavy in my lungs. I choke on the salty whistle of the wind, stumbling with near-recognition. This was where my mother walked out into the ocean and never came back. I had been thinking a lot about what life as a plover would mean: to be so afraid and fragile and vulnerable, and to still survive. I thought they were very heroic so, I told Emily Griffin, a seventh-grader who lives down the street, about the plovers. She thinks Im weird, too, but shes too cool to run away like the younger kids. Her mother works during the day and wants to be an actress, so Emily has always been a grown-up. Well, if that isnt proof

that Mother Natures a sadistic witch, Emily said. I didnt get it, but I laughed anyways. Emily can get kind of persnickety if people dont laugh at her jokes. She always needs a good audience. I wonder if Emily picked that up from her mother. Sometimes, I wonder if any mother realizes what she truly imparts to her children. When the police first told Daddy, he stood on the beach for the three whole days and wouldnt say anything to anybody. He still doesnt say much, I guessespecially not about my mother. Sometimes, he comes to back beach with me and just sits, looking at the ocean. It scares me because Im not sure if hes still hoping, still waiting for her to come back, or if hes thinking about going in after her. I come to the beach often, sometimes with Nana, and we watch the plovers. Sometimes, I come by myself to visit my mother. I ask her about thingsmostly about kites, or Ronnie, or Brazil, or where Nana keeps her hairbrushes. Sometimes, I hate her; those

This was where my mother walked out into the ocean and

never came back.


F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

days, I ask her mean, pointless questions: why she couldnt stay, why she couldnt love me, why I wasnt enough, and, most importantly, why she wont come back in the spring. It was Thursday, Nanas Bridge night, so we were having tuna fish sandwiches. Daddys and my plastic placemats feel very far apart without Nana between us. Thursdays are soundless. I was clearing the table when Daddy broke our silence. Were leaving, he said, still staring at the space his plate had been. I made sure that the dishes didnt shake and that each of steps was exactly two kitchen tiles long. I didnt turn around even when I reached the sink. Inside, there were three forks, head

up, sitting in a half-filled coffee mug. Nanas lipstick lined the rim. That had been there just this morning, right? Been in this house? In my life? I ignored Daddy. If I didnt look back at him, I could still pretend that he hadnt frightened me. I could pretend he wasnt there. Like peek-a-boo. We were good at that. But Daddy didnt wait for me to answer. Phoenix will be good for all of us, he said. His voice cracked at the end. I spun back around. It sounded like he was pleading. Daddy was looking at me, really looking. I could see the tiniest flecks of gold in his brown eyes and wondered if he was memorizing my irises, too.

Spring 2009 12

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Where is it? I asked. The world had always been here. Centerville was it. The newspaper mentioned other places, sure, but those towns werent really real. People didnt actually live there. They were just like the monkeys shot into space. But I would be brave, if it meant that Daddy would keep seeing me. Arizona, he said. Landlocked, I thought. Daddy broke our gaze, and looked down at the floor. He looked grayer. The gold flecks must have just been from the ceiling lamp. Daddy stood, and moved out to the living room. I stayed in the kitchen for a long time. I thought heard sirens further down the road, but it may have been my imagination. That night, I dreamt of a tidal wave. I was alone on Dowses beach and watching the wall of water surge towards me. I was not afraid. I felt heavy and calm, like in the moment between wake and sleep. The air was sweet and humid, and clung to my skin. I felt nearly transparent in the moonlight. A plover landed on the jetty, and called out. I followed it. There was no reasoning, no hesitation between thought and action. Things just happened. The wave in the distance grew larger as I climbed onto the rocks. I didnt feel the rough granite or need to focus on my uneven steps. I flowed

towards the water, the plover leading. Time skipped ahead, as it often does in dreams. The wave hit and the world had been drained of noise. I was wrapped inside the ocean, warm as bath water. And I was happy. Happy. Arms came around me, drew me close and down. I felt seaweed brush against my cheek. She was humming a lullaby I might have learned once. I pulled back slightly, still cupping her elbows; I needed to see her.

Her pupils were swollen, extending to the ridges of the sockets save for a faint circle of silver. I had seen these before at the fish marketeyeholes with more shadow than color. Scales crawled over her cheekbones, shimmering with each turn of the light. I was mesmerized, the slender slits on neck flitting up and down. In a detached part of my mind, I noted that I couldnt breathe. I reached forward to hold a strand of her hair, but snapped my hand back at the first touch. It was slimy, green, unbraided. Mother looked at me then, and I think she wanted to cry. I couldnt say for sure, though. Its hard to tell when youre drowning.

That night, I dreamt of a tidal wave. I was alone on Dowses beach and watching

the wall of water surge towards me. I

was not afraid.


F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The wave hit and the world had been drained

of noise. I was wrapped inside

the ocean, warm as bath water. And I

was happy. Happy.

Arms came around me, drew me close

and down.

700 Beacon StreetBoston, Massachusetts 02215-2598

Summer Pre-College ProgramsSummer: July 6July 31, 2009Exhibition: July 31, 2009 Courses in drawing, fashion, graphic design,

new media, animation, video, sculpture, photography, painting, illustration, and many more.

Earn college credit and improve your portfolio at The Art Institute of Boston.

Summer Young Artist Residency Programoffers a full schedule of courses and activities for college credit. Experience Boston andcollege life. Go to www.aiboston.edu/info/teenor call 617.585.6724 for more information.Applications must be received by May 15, 2009.

Over 50 courses in the visual arts in the areas of artistry, technology, and professions for college credit. Programs are designed for high school students at the college level in an art college and university setting. Particular attention is paid to portfolio development.

Summer Young Artist Residency Program offers a comprehensive program of courses and activities. 6 college credits. Application deadline is May 15, 2009.

Experience summer in Boston and college life. Visit www.aiboston.edu/precollege or call 617.585.6724 for more information.

15

Spring 2009 16

Sat at the assembly line.Worked since the beginning of time. Never stopped till the chime.Only worked for a dime.

Never spoke a word, never decided to stand.Only believed in what he heard,always met our constant demand.

A regular motion, no need for promotion, all the while, showing no emotion.

What a marvelous robot!Such a tremendous, dutiful worker.So dexterous in movement, always mimicking for improvement.

Which is why we were struck with painwhen our robot made us no gain.

The wires were broken, his work a token.Just one defect, and he was wrecked.

We say this with our deepest sorrow, for now he lays in pieces, dead.We killed this man last night, watching in mourning as he bled.

A Robots Obituary By: Emily Roseman ORR Grade 10

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Stop! we cryas we split the skythe life we yearn

for the one we burnis a fate we seal

with the bloodstained steelwith which we priedour own throats wide

perhaps you seeno sense in me

Im sure you sensethrough smoke so dense

that while we sitlife is forfeit

for on what we dependwe do nothing to mend

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

STOP By: Alex Beard ORR Grade 9

Spring 2009 18

NumbBy: Sarah Walsh ORR Grade 11

The wind picked up, and he felt the

air nipping at his skin. He looked

down to see a naked toe peering out of a hole in his

left work boot.

The wind picked up, and he felt the air nipping at his skin. He looked down to see a naked toe peering out of a hole in his left work boot. It was nothing new to him, but the stinging was bothering him more than usual today. Maybe it was the fact that winter was approaching. Maybe it was just that he had been standing in line for three hours. Move it, buddy! An angry woman was shoving him from behind. The man took a deep breath of cool air and stepped inside the shelter. A short-tempered woman and a muttering older man wearing a neon-orange wool hat followed him in. A volunteer shut the heavy door and locked it with a key. Here you are, sir, said a pink-cheeked young girl as she handed him a blanket and a bar of soap. You can find a room down this hallway. She jerked a fist and thumb over her right shoulder. Dinner will be ready at five. A sparkling smile emerged from her small cherry red lips. The man could nearly make out a faintly glowing halo around the girls head. Hmmph, he grunted as he grabbed the bundle. The smile stayed glued to the girls face. Walking to his room, the man thought about the girl. Why was he always so rude? He didnt mean to be; he had just given up on manners along with so many other things. He tried to remember the same glowing smile that once lit up the face of his daughter. Where was she now? Where was her mother? Yet the man did not care to seek the answers to these questions. He had grown numb to the pain of heartbreak. Grown numb to disappointment. Numb to depression. Numb to the piercing stares of the fortunate girls on Fifth Avenue. Numb to the judgment of men unknown. To guilt, to regret, to joy, and to love. Grown numb to life. He found a room, tossed the blanket and soap on a stained cot and looked around. Cracked, white walls. A cold, aluminum chair. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip A hole in the ceiling. His stomach

It was cold. November was here. Only ten more left! The man counted the people ahead of him in line. Seven. Good. He had a place to sleep tonight.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . F i c t i o n


By: Sarah Walsh ORR Grade 11

grumbled, but he couldnt hear it. He had grown numb to hunger as well. The sound of shuffling feet in the hall broke his daze. It must be five oclock. The man trudged to the kitchen where the curious smell of dozens of soups filled the air. He stepped into yet another line to retrieve his food. The man with the neon hat was in front of him, talking to himself. The man ignored the muttering and looked around the room. It was medium-sized with the same cracked white walls as his room. Fairly empty, but with long bench-style tables in every square foot. The line was moving quickly. Are you kidding me?! The man looked to his left where he saw a teenaged girl behind the food counter shouting into a cell phone. She had beautiful, long blond hair and a freshly painted French manicure. Her blouse was spotless, and her pants didnt hold a single crease. She wore the same apron as the other volunteers but wasnt working.

bits of alphabet pasta, and some chunks of tomato all swimming in a luke-warm, diluted mixture. A woman carrying a basket approached him, set a slice of homemade banana bread on his tray, and said, God bless you. The man sat alone, slurping his soup and staring at the rain-streaked windows. Every now and then, he would hear a horn honking or an impatient driver swearing in the city streets. He watched a drug deal go down, and even witnessed the mugging of an elderly woman strolling down the sidewalk. Is this honestly the life men want? What is the point in living if this is the life we see everyday? After every droplet and crumb was consumed, he sighed again, got up, stretched, and slowly began his walk back to his room. He heard the patter of raindrops on the thin metal roof. He heard the soft tap and squeak of his boots hitting the linoleum floors of the

WHAT?! No! I specifically told them yellow roses! Absolutely not! Do you honestly think I would ever agree to have carnations at my party? I never said that! Well Im sorry but that just wont do. Tell her to figure it out herself or dont bother coming. She slammed the phone shut and snapped off a fake nail in the process. Dammit! she hissed to herself. The man shook his head. In every shelter he sees the same thing: high school kids trying to stack up their community service hours as a desperate attempt to get into college. Humans only do good when rewarded. He sighed and moved a step closer to the server. A watery concoction of soups was plopped into a bowl and handed to him. He looked into the bowl to see chicken, noodles, some rice, some veggies, little

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . F i c t i o n

In every shelter he sees it: the high school kids who try to stack up their

community service hours as a desperate attempt to get into college. Humans

only do good when

rewarded.

Spring 2009 20

hallways. A fluorescent ceiling light flickered off and then on again as it buzzed overhead. The man peered into each room as he walked by. He saw a mother washing her little boy in a dirty sink. He saw an old African-American woman kneeling beside a cot, praying. He saw a teenage Hispanic girl reading a storybook to her little sister. He overheard two men in a doorway sharing tales of beautiful women and brutal wars. What are the stories of these people? How long have they been living on the streets? Were they evicted? Released from prison? Orphans? Widows? What keeps them going day after day? The man asked himself the same. What keeps me going each day? Hope? Possibility? For one who has nothing, why live? He entered his room and washed the days dirt off his face. He looked at his reflection, dripping with cold tap water, dripping with defeat and despair. The timed fluorescents were all simultaneously extinguished. The man sat in the dark thinking, eyes wide open, what the next morning would bring. A job? A love? A home? No, he knew tomorrow would bring the same thing. Another line. Another shelter. Another numbness. He wrapped the blanket tightly around himself and lay down. It was cold. November was here.

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P o e t r y


F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . P o e t r y

All right, everyone, listen up.

Weve got a new one in today.

Maddie Johnson, three years old.

Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

Diagnosed two days ago.

Lives on a farm over in Wiscasset.

Dads the farmer.

Moms a runner.

Great family.

I suggest a three-year plan.

Thatll bring us to January 2010,

If all goes accordingly.

Induction Phase: 28 days.

Consolidation Phase: 28 days.

Interim Maintenance Phase: 50 days.

Here well switch to

Vincristine,

Dexamethasone,

Mercaptopurine,

And methotrexate.

PEG-Asparaginase for chemo.

Delayed Intensification Phase: 42 days.

Maintenance Phase: 549 days.

Shes cute and we have to do our best.

Look at her there,

Smiling like nothings wrong.

She has no idea what shes in for.

Pediatric Oncology Ward,Portland, Maine November 7, 2007By: Angela Baglione Milton Academy Grade 12

Spring 2009 22

A baby cries a sound resounding in a ghost white roomSoft rustling in the air: the sound of a broom

A dead woman lies, pale gray under sheetsThe birth of a child that is not an easy feat

Quiet screaming into the silence of airAll live knowing life is not fair

To pass through pearl white gates of heavenThe cry sounds as the bell tolls seven

The silent cold of night in eternal calmHold life and death within your palm

A single cut strays the lineTo define what is fine

The flash of pain from dark eternityLike a shattered quiet serenity

In the ghostly white room a tomb is madeThe bell tolls before it begins to fade

A cry sounds resounding in a devil dark roomA last scrap of life swept up by a broom

cry a resounding soundXiaoyu Wang ORR Grade 10

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

23 themarblecollection.org 23 themarblecollection.org

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I, watching the photographs cake

the walls, stand in line

with baseball teams and twin sisterswaiting to see him.

We used to stand in line togetherbuying milk,

he, in a swarm of girls who dreamt of knowing more

than his name.

Now,those girls watch their dreams

slide away, following the bridge of his nose

into the grave.

By: Angela Baglione Milton Academy Grade 12

A Photographic Memory


P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I see everyoneIndividually,

And everyone has a problem withCodependency.

I will take responsibility, If someone else has accountability.Happiness doesnt grow on trees.Forgiveness is not my expertise.

I cannot change.I cant shake the world in a gentle way.

So stay, Stay away.

Mirror neurons make me contagious.

By: Helen Merzdov AMSA Charter School Grade 10

How ants carry on war

Spring 2009 26

January 20th

By: Molly Barrus ORR Grade 10

Lost your race, what a disgrace Racist cries have no alibis Made your case, what a waste Earth is dying, children crying Ticking time, lost your rhyme No help from you, there are better things to do Find some oil, beauty to soil Tears falling as rain On the streets dying in pain Help the wealthy Others struggling to stay healthy To live, to give Yet you dont care, nothing to share Leave us here filled with fear Good thing you lost, not at the nations cost The book is closing, stop imposing A new chapter has begun, your time is done A glimmer of hope shines through The storm has ended, clouds are broken.

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


WWaiting.He was still talking, over-indignant shouting.I had to laugh;I have a penchant for laughing. His past failures and problems I began to know, too well.Through the icy atmosphere,I sat up straighter.IWasStillThereWaiting, So was he. In spite of everything, I found possibilities and joys in this bitterly aging stranger.Each morning reasserts my problems, he sang.I didnt believe him. The flickering light above us, The cold bench underneath, I had never felt so optimistichopeful. Each new day is a new life.Even in a winter like this, hibernation, might suspend some problems,but it doesnt change them.I kicked up snow with my boot and watched its purities float away.I decided to walk home instead.

By: Martha Barry Bishop Stang Grade 11

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 28

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

here I was, just standing there. What I wanted to do was forbidden. I would have given anything to take his hand, to bury my face between his neck and shoulder, to let my hands run down his back. Instead, I could feel the blood freezing in my veins, my muscles cramping, my joints locking stubbornly. He looked down at his feet then stared up at me through his eyelashes, his fists buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. His mouth formed a small o, an insignificant explanation. If I were an hourglass, he would have been the sand, slipping, sliding, skidding with no one to turn me on my side and trap him, no one to stop the time. He took another sip of champagne and turned to face the beach. Despite the alcohol in my blood, I felt cold. Goose-bumps had risen along his arms where he had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. The noise behind us hummed happily and the lights were shades of honey and gold and cast our shadows onto the sand. I drained the rest of my glass and stepped from the patio onto the beach, leaving the glass, the lights and the noise on the patio railing. He hesitated, and then his shadow bent over and took off his shoes and followed me into the sand. We walked in silence until we reached a stretch of sand where

A Previous EngagementBy: Catalina Llanas-Colon ORR Grade 11

T


F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

all the beach houses were dark and the party was far behind us. We should go back, I said. He looked at his feet, looked up at me through his eyelashes, We should go swimming. Right now? Right now. We lost our shirts. We shed our jeans. In the dark, I could barely make out the shape of his shoulders and familiar chest, arms, stomach. I crossed my arms over my chest and hugged my shoulders. My stomach shrank towards my ribcage in the cold and my toes wiggled themselves into the sand, trying to anchor myself. My knees trembled. We stepped towards the surf. We were waist deep in the water when he apologized, catching my shoulder and placing the tip of his tongue on his right canine, like he does when he is thinking hard. His eyebrows hitch together and I wondered if she knew this face, his wondering face, his waiting-for-your-answer face, his trying-to-make-out-your-thoughts face. I wondered if she knew that he could write with both his left and right hand, that he wears his socks even after they have holes, that he still invites his mother to dinner, or that thing he does with his newspapers. I knelt in the sand, the water rising so that everything above my shoulders was exposed to the chilly air. He joined me, somehow his hands found mine, knitted our fingers together, squeezed hard like a prayer. I pleaded, What do you want me to say? What do I do? Should I ask about the ring? Should I suggest a caterer? I heard him inhale; I heard his voice waiver and catch, I want you to stop me.

Spring 2009 30

Sukkot PantoumBy: Esther Michel AMSA Grade 10

Sukkot is the Jewish harvest holiday.As it gets colder and the leaves change colorsmy family and I build a sukkah on our deck our small harvest hut.

As it gets colder and the leaves change colorswe invite guests to our home and sit in

our small harvest hutand sip warm cinnamon apple cider.

We invite guests to our home and sit inour own sukkah

and sip warm cinnamon apple cideras we sing songs from the Jewish past.

Our own sukkahthere is a roof of leaves above our headsas we sing songs from the Jewish pastand we huddle together to stay warm.

There is a roof of leaves above our headssecured with twine

and we huddle together to say warm.We admire the seasonal decorations.

Secured with twine:eucalyptus, potpourri, and a cornucopia.

We admire the seasonal decorations;the autumn scents wash over us.

Eucalyptus, potpourri, and a cornucopia,with our traditional Sukkot items.The autumn scents wash over us;

we feel the success from our hard work.

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


With our traditional Sukkot items,the lulav and the etrog,

we feel the success from our hard workas we hold them together in our hands.

The lulav and the etrog,symbolizing the unity of all Jews,

as we hold them together in our handswe feel the connection too.

Symbolizing the unity of all Jewswe invite all our friends, and

we feel the connection tooas we all celebrate Sukkot together.

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 32

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the morning, hands small enough to curl inside his palm

Reaching upwards, calloused hands around plushy waistSwung high, swung round and round

Overhead looking downTiny-toothed smile, giggles bubbling up

Crushed to his broad chest, he swaysHead in his palm, his lips on velveteen skin

This place is safer than a cradleDespite the distance between the swinging feet and

spinning linoleum tileHe will never falter, never lose his grip, never forget the

steps, and never let you fallNever, never, never let you fall

In the middle of the day, he stumbles through the kitchen door

Reaching upwards, calloused hands stroke childish hairStretch around and dirty fingernails barely meet against

his backThe smell is sharp, woodchips and something that burns

down throatsHe is dusty; he is aching; he sways

A face, small enough to fit between his palms presses into his once-taut stomach

Barefoot on the top of his bootsHe edges away, pushing undeveloped arms back where

they belongHe cant remember the steps

He had faltered, had forgotten, was beginning to lose his grip

Then you fell

Dances with Your FatherBy: Catalina Llanas-Colon ORR Grade 11

33

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the afternoon, their voices shatter against the linoleum tile He is shouting: eyes flashing, jaw stretching, voice

ripping through sounds youve never heard beforeThe smell, of burning down throats, has replaced the

woodchips completelyHe is dusty; he is aching; he sways

His hand on the kitchen tableHe is moving forward, she is falling back

You take a step, reach out your arms and you are dancingA new dance

No one, no one knows the steps Hands, unsteady, around his wrists

His belt buckle against a developing abdomenA push and a wall and it is still not over

A spin, three steps, socks snagging on carpetYour arms around his waist again, unsteady hands

grabbing opposite wristsHead falls against his panting chest

The shouting stops, his voice and hersHis arms, outstretched, crumple;

They press against shoulders with the potential to be his own

He swaysThis is an old dance

In the evening, arms reaching diagonallyChins on each others shoulders

His calloused hand thuds against your back, presses between your shoulder blades

He smells of cologne, you of woodchipsYour shoulders are his own

He swaysFinding that you both still remember the steps

\ 34

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Perfect Christmas Gift

The first time I saw him, it was 18 degrees outside. At the time I was seven years old, and was in the car heading to my grandmothers house for a sleep over. On the way there, I saw the

man. He stood near the street light on the corner in front of my doctors office in Wareham. He stood outside the radius of light cast down from the street lamp above him, perhaps so that he could blend in with the darkness. But my eyes were sharp at the time. I could see puffs of warm breath being exhaled from the mans mouth rhythmically. The warm breath flew out of his

mouth as white smoke and then fused with the crisp cold air. As my grandmother drove on by, I kept looking back through the rear window, mesmerized by the mans breathing, his only sign of life. The next morning, my grandmother and I piled back into the car, and embarked on our annual Christmas shopping extravaganza. We went to every

store a young girl could possibly imagine. In my right hand I clutched my Barbie pocket notebook and a purple crayon to scribble down my Christmas wish list for Santa Claus. As soon as we entered the toy store, I caught sight of the best present ever. Right before my eyes was the most amazing hot-pink Barbie convertible. I immediately ran

By: Sarah Kassabian ORR Grade 11


He wore a dirty, forest green trench coat, stuffed with newspaper pages. At the time I

wondered why any one would cram newspaper into their coat. I now realize that the man used

recycled newspaper for insulation.

over to it, clutched it in my arms to make sure I wasnt dreaming; it was absolutely perfect. It was equipped with shiny new rims, cheetah seats, furry dice on the rearview mirror, and a set of keys for Barbie. It glistened under the florescent lights of the store. I opened my notebook and jotted down in huge letters, BARBIE CONVERTIBLE. Throughout the day, I added a few more items to my wish list, but nothing measured up to the hot-pink car.

It had been an exhausting morning of shopping, and I was quite relieved when my grand-mother said that we could go back home. As we approached the doctors office on the way back, I kept an eye out for the man. And, just as I suspected, he stood in the exact same position as the night before. In the sunlight, he was much easier to see, but much more terrifying. His beard was tangled and overgrown. His back was slightly hunched, perhaps from standing for such a long time. I wondered if he had slept through the night standing up. He wore a dirty, forest green trench coat, stuffed with newspaper pages. At the time I wondered why anyone would cram newspaper into their coat. I now realize that the man used recycled newspaper for insulation. He wore the hood on his coat and an old wool scarf, gnawed at by moths throughout the years. However, both the hood

and the scarf failed to hide the scowl on this face. The look of exhaustion, pain, and suffering were plastered to his face, unable to be hidden. The deep wrinkles and worry lines on his forehead were impossible to overlook. I looked down at his feet to find them crammed into a beat up pair of brown, leather loafers. They had holes in them, which his toes squeezed out of. Three of his toes were exposed to the harsh winter air.

The most terrifying thing of all, however, had nothing to do with his appearance. Next to himlay a pile of apple cores: brown, rotten, and decayed. The man had devoured every last bit of flesh on the apples, down to the cores. How long had they been there? How long had the man been there? Years later I realized where the apples where from. The man had collected apple cores that by passers discarded from their car windows, and ate whatever was left of them. Much to my surprise, my grandmother knew the man. She pulled over to the side of the road and unrolled the window. Burr. Its freezing out there. The man took a step closer. Well hello, Louise, he said to my grandmother, How are you doing today? Not too bad. she responded. I just got back from Christmas shopping with my granddaughter.

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 36

He pressed his red nose against the back window so that he could see me. A smile flashed across his face. His eyes gleamed and I was amazed to see that the man was happy. How was the store? Did you find the perfect gift? he asked. I nodded excitedly, thinking about the Barbie convertible. The man then continued to converse with my grandmother. She gave him a dollar and some change. Here, she said, go get yourself a nice, hot coffee. Theres a pay phone inside the Dunkin Donuts. Use the quarters and give me a call if you need a ride anywhere. AaahLouise, he said, youre too good to me.And at that we drove away. When we got back home, I asked my grandma a gazillion questions. Where does he live? Why does he sleep outside? Doesnt he have a family anywhere? My grandma patiently answered all my

questions and explained that he was homeless and couldnt find a job. Then I asked, Whos going to get him a Christmas gift? Well, your grandfather and I always get him a gift, but were the only ones, she sighed. It was truly sad to think that someone wouldnt be able to pick out their own perfect Christmas gift. That night I lay awake in my bed. I tossed and turned, but all I could think about was the man. After much contemplation, I sat up, turned on the lights, and opened my notebook. I hesitantly touched my crayon to the paper, bit my lip, and crossed out my Christmas wish BARBIE CONVERTIBLE. In its place I wrote down a new pair of shoes for the man. I was certain it would be the perfect Christmas gift for him. I set the notebook down, turned out the light, and fell fast asleep.

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AA

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Spring 2009 38

By: Emily Mudd AMSA Grade 10

Ode to Winter

Your frigidness hits my face My eyes sting, my nose is red Your bitter damp cold seeps into my body Fingers numb, toes frozen I squeeze myself tight to protect myself from you

You bring long months of gloom and dread Darkness comes too soon You keep me locked inside, bundling for warmth I wish and pray, Please just go away

But then you bring snow Your flakes drift downward, twirling and dancing You quickly blanket everything in sight Creating a tranquil wonderland

Your crisp clean fluffy snow makes everything newTheres nothing as magical as everything in white I have no choice but to forgive you

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 40

GObama!By: Peter Eramo Dracut Senior High School Grade 12

bama has the privilege of being our nations first black president, and has already influenced many individuals worldwide. On his victory day, the next President of the United States of America made an acceptance speech in front of a worldwide audience from Chicago. His acceptance speech was so effective because of his use of rhetorical strategies, including anaphora, ethos, and pathos. Barack Obamas goal is to ensure all Americans and everyone else worldwide that a change is coming. Obama wants the citizens of the United States of America to know that as one nation,

we can achieve anything. Obama does an incredible job getting his message across to his audience by using the repetition of three simple words: Yes we can. These three words may be small, but once combined, they form an unbelievably moving statement that rings across the nation. Obamas use of anaphora can be compared to another famous speech that rang across the nation in the 1963: the I Have a Dream speech by Martin Luther King Jr. He used the words I have a dream to emphasize strongly to his audience that his dream is shared by many others. Barack Obama follows in Kings footsteps and provides an effective rhetorical strategy that draws his audience

In a rivalry as heated as the Red Sox versus the Yankees, Barack Obama stood victorious over John McCain in a hard fought presidential election.

O

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closer to fully comprehend his speechs purpose. There are many reasons to listen to Barack Obamas speeches. Obama gives the public a layout of his intentions as president. He pledges to the audience that he will work together with government officials to improve our current conditions and will provide a change for our entire nation. Obama also shows ethos in his acknowledgements towards his opponents Senator John McCain of Arizona and Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska. Obama not only makes note of their hard fought battle, but he also mentions how he look[s] forward to working with them to renew this nations promise in the months ahead. This statement appeals to the Republican supporters who may have felt defeated and gives them a sense of comfort knowing Obama will work with them. Obamas use of ethos is very effective in drawing the reader in because he gives everyone in the nation, white or black, Democrat or Republican, a reason to tune in. Barack Obama uses a prime example of pathos in his victory speech. Obama speaks of a 106-year-old woman, Ann Nixon Cooper, who stood in line with millions of others in hopes of making a change. Obama tells her story, pointing out two accomplishments she lived through: the right to vote for women and the right

to vote for African Americans. Her story is very powerful because she is living proof that change is possible in time. Cooper had lived through a period of time where cars and planes did not exist, and she now has lived to see the day where a fellow black American has become President of the United States of America. This story Obama shares appeals to African Americans, as well as other minorities who may have once doubted the possibility of change. Obamas reference to a very emotional story emulates another brilliant rhetorical strategy that he used in order to prove his purpose to his audience. Technically, Barack Obama will not become president for another few months; however, his presence has already been made well-known worldwide. He is truly an inspiration to us all and has provided the American people with hope and faith that we will be able to improve our current state while he is in office. Obama promises we as a people will get there, in which there is a United States of America that uses more efficient energy resources, newly built schools, and repaired alliances. Barack Obamas use of rhetorical strategies has provided the public, including myself, faith that a change will come. Obama reminds us we as one united nation can achieve anything as long as we remember the American creed:

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Yes we can.

Spring 2009 42

W ith her knees pulled up to her chest the girl sits in North Station, the cold Boston air streaming onto the commuter rail platform every time the door opens. Clad in blue skinny jeans and a Motion City Soundtrack shirt, she is armed with her cell phone and iPod, seemingly useless weapons in the fight against waiting. Looking up and biting her lip in nervous anticipation, she watches the digital clock in the corner of the train time board. Aside from the orange glow of the letters, it seems as if it were broken; nothing changes in the assumed hours she had been waiting. She pulls out her phone, folding her legs under her in the deemed pretzel position, as she looks at the time. Double-checking it with her iPod, she sighs. No wonder the board looks the same, it has only been 30 seconds since the last time I looked. She fidgets and shifts her legs pulling them up on the wooden bench. She then pushes down on the next button to change the song. Shiksa, a song by Say Anything, comes on and she quickly changes it again. Shaking her head, she tries not to think about the person she is waiting for, yet it is inevitable. Her mind has been stuck on one person for the last few weeks, and it surely was not about to stop now. Raking her hand through her hair, she anxiously tries to find something she can talk about when the time comes. I should have worn a different shirt; she hates this band. Shifting, she hates that she didnt think this over before she left the house. With her mind racing and heart pounding in her ears she makes a list of things in her head:She is going to hate meHer friends are going to hate meShe is way too good for me She is nice and funny...Why does she waste her time with me?This is all one big horrible jokeI really like herI think I love her. Her mind is reeling with a thousand different things, a thousand ways things could go horribly wrong. She has

The Wait

F i c t i o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

By: Rosana Hamadeh Melrose High School Grade 11


never been this nervous before and it was starting to freak her out. Drumming her fingers on her knee and shaking her leg, she can feel her body tense up, every muscle seems to freeze. Her mind packs with images of her girlfriend, no other thought can emerge. Her girlfriends existence has always been something of a distraction. A massive amount of people start to fill the waiting area of North Station. A voice crackles over the loud speakers, scratchy and practically incoherent. Next train from Lowell is now arriving. Standing, and searching the faces of the passengers, a shattering thought appears in her mind: Maybe she didnt show. Then the girl turns and sees the face she was looking for. Heart pounding, she wants to run, crush her in a hug and then kiss her, but she refrains choosing instead to look her up and down. The girl doesnt want to embarrass herself in front of her girlfriends friends. She watches as hair gets pushed from the face of perfection, dark hair that falls across her eyes; not having been cut since the last time they saw each other a month ago. Time slows and she stops. Everything she thought up to say is gone. Staring at the ground not wanting to look back at the perfection, all the words in her head melt away. The only word she can manage Hey.

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Spring 2009 44

If free verse poems Sound like prose, Then whats the point of poetry? We have to have a middle ground Between our speech and beauty. What is free verse? If theres no rhyme, If theres no basic beat, The words all string together, In ways they dont usually meet.What is free verse? Its not a poem. Its not a simple phrase. Its the product Of a poet going Through a rebellious phase.

What Is Free Verse?By: Ana Belyakova AMSA Grade 10

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


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P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When first read, James Joyces Dubliners seems nothing more than a series of enigmas and dead ends that are impossible to weave through, filled with many minute details that culminate into frustrating insignificance. It is not until reflection that the details culminate in a moment of complete comprehension moments that Joyce termed epiphanies. Contrary to the elite minds of the literary world, I do not believe that Joyce wrote Dubliners to comment on Irish society such a statement simplifies a literary work that is much more complex. If a political statement degrading Ireland had been his purpose, then it would not be read today throughout the world. Rather, Ireland was simply his inspiration; it provided examples that he could use to expose the shortcomings of all humankind. As especially evident by the characterization, plots, and theme of Dubliners, Joyce sought to enlighten society by unearthing the universal flaws, which weaken it. Joyce presents the Dubliners as a suspicious and self-serving lot, unsure in their convictions and inadequate in their actions. All of his characters isolate themselves in some way; they attempt to remove themselves from a situation to make it more bearable, and instead displace their anxiety on trivial matters. They evolve into an empty shell, paralyzed in a living death because they cannot lead the life they want to. As a result, they either wallow in their unhappiness, fake contentedness, or live rambunctiously so that they cannot see their own state of stagnation. Joyce is a master of ambiguity; he prevents the reader from ever being entirely sure about any character. Joyce creates characters that possess less than noble qualities, but who nonetheless display traits shared by all mankind. Though the plots of the stories in Dubliners vary, they all affirm the same ideas. There is a recurrent quality of characters attempting to break with the mundane, but the result returns to the same routine tragedy of physical or psychological abuse. Joyce continuously weaves in irony and hypocrisy to the plot lines, mocking the ignorance and arrogance of his characters. Of the few stories that are told in first-person, none of the narrators have a name, which suggests that it could be any person in Dublin and the reactions would be the same. The constant allusions to the uniformity of Dublins citizens develop each and every plot and support the universality of Joyces epiphanies. Though written as a collection of stories, Dubliners has one theme that penetrates each story, character, and circumstance. Many consider this theme to be paralysis, but paralysis is merely its result. Joyce achieved the theme subtly, leaving a piece of the element

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By: Leah Goddard

Dracut Senior High School Grade 12

A Portrait of the Dubliner as a Paralyzed Man


throughout the book until it constituted each and every being. Indeed, the way he established the theme reflects the theme itself it begins as a subconscious, troublesome feeling that continually feeds off itself and grows perpetually; it is fear. Fear is present in every single one of Joyces stories: fear of change, of abandonment, of responsibility, of action. Fear fatally spread like poison inside the characters causing paralysis and ultimately death. In The Dead, the final story in the collection, the main character Gabriel struggles to break through his fear to allow himself to feel passion, but in the end, he succumbs to his fear, quietly and calmly. He accepts it and finally attains peace. Peace: after years of living with fear, that is what the characters are seeking. They have given up their dreams of escape and hopes for happiness; now, all they humbly ask for is an end to fear. In Dubliners, Joyce wanted (in contrast to the fate of his characters) to achieve immortality. He wanted the truths he unfolded about human nature to transcend the ages. In order to achieve such perpetuity, he had to leave his work open to interpretation so that succeeding generations could always extract meaning. As a result, the aspects of human behavior that Joyce revealed reaches beyond the city of Dublin and all of Ireland he exposed the deepest corners of the human mind that are shared by all humanity, and so Dubliners transcends ethnic barriers and limitations of time.

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Spring 2009 48

Just like Curious GeorgeWho has to find out everything And sets off to an adventure,Gets into trouble,I also run into trouble,But I always manage to get out.

HOMERIC SIMILIES

Just like a featherThat has been swept up by Astraeus windsAnd gently falls to Earths surface,Does not make a sound,I leap in the air, coming down without a sound.

Sukhmani Singh

Kristina Phelan

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Everett High School Grade 9


HOMERIC SIMILIESJust like the sunThat shines with majesty every dayAnd lights the way of many,Rises in the horizon every morning,I also wake up feeling exuberant.

Just like a new-born babyWho is the joy of her familyAnd gets whatever her young heart desires,laying in her crib, surrounded by family,I feel spoiled on Christmas.

Just like a birdThat flies high in the skyAnd feels the wind in his wings,Spreads his wings and leaves his nest,I also feel free.

Vinicius Aguiar

Tina Bui

Kylan Nowell

P o e t r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring 2009 50

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Rise from the Ashes K A Y L I ECRAWFORD I stood before my demise, appearing hot, foreign, and looming. The night before, it was a ghost, haunting my sleep. I could sense that my time was limited; each hour that passed brought me closer to my ultimate end. I had stood on the rooftop balcony of the hotel, staring at the silhouette of my executioner, Mount Vesuvius. Naples, Italy was a gorgeous piece of earth with houses sprouting like flowers from fertile land. I had skimmed across the crystalline Aegean Sea, leaving the land of the Gods to come here. Here, I mouthed, disbelieving what I was to do in mere moments. I stood at the base of the volcano, recalling the decimation of Pompeii. Vesuvius wouldnt have to sneeze to kill me. My feet were sobbing in my Sketchers; my heart was laughing insanely at the thought of hiking up this behemoth of earth. Every thought of its previous beauty against the glamor of sunset, streaked with tomato reds and eggplant purples, evaporated with the notion that I was to hike three miles up to the crater. What have I gotten myself into? I thought,

looking over at the forty-four melting teenagers I was with. The air was searing hot, rivaling the temperature of the center of the earth. A small overhang provided a slab of shade making the day two degrees more bearable, but with forty-four teenagers cramped for the tiny shade, those two degrees of comfort sizzled away. We were American Student Ambassadors a fancy title for teenagers meddling around in Europe and our itinerary dictated how the day would go. According to our schedule, we were due to leave for Rome this afternoon. My life wouldnt board that bus. I felt my life would be ascending a staircase in the afternoon. At least, I hoped it would be a staircase. With frantically waving hands, tongues lolling out in a canine-like fashion, and tributaries of sweat on our faces, the Ambassadors watched as an employee unlocked the gate to the pathway up the volcano- three miles up, three miles down. I groaned at my swollen physique. How could I possibly make it up the volcano? I could barely do anything else requiring physical activity. At that moment, I was comparable to taffy thick, slow, and sticky. I was chock full of sugars and carbohydrates, with little to no useful aspects. I looked to some of the girls in the group: lean, athletic, attractive. I would scoff at



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myself, this engorged, undesirable thing, silently cursing my thighs and waist, wanting nothing more than to have the Playboy legs of those other girls. My thoughts were interrupted by the boisterous clamor of jogging feet and excited conversation. The gate had opened. Dust wafted towards me, the slab of shade breaking into sandstone sunlight. I sighed. I adjusted my checkered bandanna, shifted my rucksack higher onto my shoulder, and began trudging up the pathway in a cocoon of sunscreen. It doesnt look too bad. Least the path zigzags up versus a suicidal straight-up, I thought aloud, pausing to check if my hiking team was with me. Jocelyn and Andrea came up the rear, all of us dreading the hike. Yeah, right. Less talkin, more walkin sister, Jocelyn chuckled. The jovial sound of her laughter

lifted my spirits, as it had many times before on our trip. Andrea mumbled disbelief, continuing her streak of pessimism. We had banded together for the hike, at the moment far from leading, but not at the back either. A dry breeze came and snatched the water from our breath, swirling dirt and ash residue into our pores. Obsidian rocks and gravel crushed beneath our sneakers, embedding in the lining of our shoes. Dirt and ash found its way into the crevices of skin, withering and drying in the sun. We talked little, focusing on the ascent. Ahead of us, a handful of boys were racing to the crater. Students began to pass us, but I paid little attention. The path deceived me; it wasnt nearly as merciful as it appeared to be. The slope increased, sharp turns around the viewpoints of the path filled with more volcanic rock than soft,


Spring 2009 52

clay dirt. We approached a group of giggling girls, leaning on the gnarled, wooden fence along one of the first elongated pathways. They stood there, ignorant of the enormous strain this hike caused. Not once did I look to the girls directly- I was afraid they would turn and deride me as some bloated stain on womankind. I looked back to Jocelyn, who was fairing just as well as I, and Andrea, a bit behind her, red hair dulled by the hellish sunlight. Shade cast on the pathway by the prominent Vesuvius, an intimidating executioner. It was poised proudly, Naples as helpless and worthless to Vesuvius as Mussolini on a meat hook. I grabbed my bottle of water, swigging back a good portion of it. I smacked my cracked lips. Tastes like hot, I muttered, capping it before looking out to the city once more. Jocelyn looked out, holding to the straps of her rucksack. Its beautiful, I remarked. Jocelyn nodded, while Andrea passed us, saying she was going to continue with the girls up ahead. So much for support. The team was as supportive as the Minneapolis Bridge. After a couple of minutes, we agreed to continue our ascent. By now, my blood was as hot as magma. It roiled angrily in my thighs and calves, burning and searing my bones to the marrow. The shade now encompassed the majority of the path, pressing closer to the mammoth crag. Jocelyn had passed me. I followed her trail. Tourists - and perhaps a local or two, I couldnt be sure - arrived to hike. Rocks were numerous now, rolling beneath my sneakers. I felt as though I

were trying to walk across the McDonalds ball pit, albeit, of course, these balls could gash open your knee. I had to pause, getting short of breath. Jocelyn paused as well, supporting me. We were much higher now, but I still could not see the crater. Brush lined the side of the mountain as we clambered closer to its summit, while tall grasses and thick pines decorated its side, masking its villainous intentions with pleasant greenery. Yellow flowers grew plentiful among the tall grasses, swaying in the ever-present zephyr of the high mountain. The panorama before me dimmed the pain and gave cause to it. Naples was no longer a bustling city, boroughs and blocks separating people and ideas. It was a single entity, extending out to the coast, mountains and coastline definite as romantic brush strokes. It was an urban dwelling, nestled in harmony with nature. I could no longer hear nor see the vice of Man, his strife and folly. I could only see Mans life and legacy. Ready? Jocelyn asked. I nodded, withdrawing from my reward to continue my trial. As we walked, the pain in my calves peaked with the sensation of jamming my leg into a furnace. I paused, panting, feeling the rucksack weigh my shoulders, and aware of every piece of flesh, fat, and fabric that hung on my form. I began thinking of ways to help the ordeal. I had recalled my boyfriends advice for correct breathing, but was wondering what he had taught me of leg muscles; after all, he was a member of the Cross-country and Track teams. Turning around to view Jocelyn, I began to walk carefully backwards.

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The pain in my calves immediately alleviated. Jocelyn, if you walk this way, you lessen the weight and pressure on the calf. It feels better, I shared and Jocelyn did so. She laughed, This feels so weird!

Well, it feels good, so I dont frickin care if I look like a dyslexic hermit crab. A what? Jocelyn laughed heartily at my incoherent jest. At one point, the incline grew steeper. Most of the Ambassadors had disappeared from view, likely at the summit already. My socks rubbed against my sweat-sodden feet, and I felt blisters forming. My shins had grown tired, forcing me to walk forward. Twice, rocks threw off my vulnerable balance, leaving me to stumble and straggle to get back up. Once, I had caught myself on the volcanic earth, not all of my hands making it to the upright

position. My palms were scratched and worn; I could barely recognize my hands as my own. There. I looked up. I smiled weakly. My heart pounded against my chest, lungs shriveled with ash and earth, and my feet swallowed the urge to cry. I bit my lip, trudging at a swift walk, Jocelyn having already found the souvenir sho

the marble collection: massachusetts high school magazine of the arts (spring 2009)

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