The Key2014

The Key 2014

The Key 2014The Student Literary and Arts Magazine of the Rudolf Steiner School

the rudolf steiner schoolnew york, new york

michæl editors

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ContentsTo Us 8

Clara Dietz ’15 / Chloe Agar ’15

Acá estamos ahora 11 Andreina Himy ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Evening (Innocence) 12 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Eva Crawford ’15

Evening (Experience) 14 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Eva Crawford ’15

I’m Sitting on a Hill 16 Montana Thomas ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Three Haiku 18 Sasha Pinto ’16

Drained 19 Ella Prince ’15 / Isaac Scheinfeld ’16

The Ugly Maiden 20 Leah Chin ’14 / Sasha Pinto ’16

A Blue, Blue Wave 24 Oscar Panaretto ’15

I prefer 25 Vita Taurke ’14

Losing it 26 Carola Dixon ’15 / Annabel Berusch ’15

Digestive Systems of Monsters in Beowulf 28 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Indira Mohabeer ’16

High School 30 Ella Prince ’15 / Leah Chin ’14

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My Soul 31 Annabelle Vaës ’15

Slum of Hope 32 Sasha Pinto ’16

Lente 34 Andreina Himy ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Suspended in Air / Natural Selection / Absolution 35 Shelsey Jimenez ’16

She Comes to Me 36 Andreina Himy ’15

Sin título 37 Angela Figueroa ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Oh Comet—A Poem in the Style of Robert Burns 39 Carola Dixon ’15

Tired Reticence 40 Isaac Scheinfeld ’16

My Summer Revelation 41 Noah Kahan ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Pop! 42 Vita Taurke ’14 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Ich will chinesisches Essen 44 Annabelle Vaës ’15

Survival 46 Sasha Pinto ’16

Poem in the Style of William Wordsworth 48 Shavasp Quillen ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

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Fall / Spring / Winter 50 Anna Grimm ’16

Grime 51 Carolyn Newmark ’15 / Sebastian Rodriguez ’15

Wordsworth Poem 52 Carola Dixon ’15

Salaam back flap Manuel Smith ’15

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Clara Dietz / Chloe Agar

To UsI squeeze myself between all this human flesh

In the last wagon of the train,

because thats where there is most space.

How can I be so alone in between so many people?

If I could, I would hold my breath until I’m outside again.

But I can’t, so I breath in recycled air.

The train moves.

And stops.

Moves.

And stops . . .

I feel like seaweed moving with the ocean’s flow.

The ocean, that smashes against exhausted rocks.

Like that we once were.

Bluer, than blue itself. That is what we were.

We were tangled,

Knotted in twisted obsession.

There was no thinking, just motion.

It was sweet, but dark emotion.

We shared the pureness of a first love.

We ate packaged pudding

And you played the guitar.

I was always jealous of your guitar,

It was a sick obsession.

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We would talk about New York,

It was unknown to us then, and it seemed so far away.

But naturally, time would rush by,

And I would realize too late, that our Berlin, had slipped through my

fingers.

Once, you said you loved me,

But I asked you why,

I was always a “why?” child.

I wish we had someone to blame for the end of our love,

Someone who isn’t us.

Love, that after a while became a chore,

Tired of being the ocean I was,

Smashing into you,

A firm rock.

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I just wanted you to care,

I just wanted you to be on time.

I never meant to be that ocean,

I never meant to make us cry.

The train moves.

And stops.

Moves.

And stops . . .

As it crashes into the demons that we once were.

You were the stone, and I the wave.

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Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez

Acá estamos ahoraAhora:

Aca estamos, y estamos viviendo.

Somos los que somos y somos nosotros dos

o tres

o cuatro.

Tu mano es mi mano y mi mano la puerta,

no hay tiempo en la arena.

Dunas de desolación.

Altas, elegantes, vivian, miran. Nos miran.

Somos ellas, somos todo.

Mientras construyen relojes en mi,

Todo se mueve.

Sea mejor quedarnos quietos?

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Carolyn Newmark / Eva Crawford

Evening (Innocence)The setting sun

liquid glue

Gracefully

seeping its

Lurex body in between the cracks

of the plastic table

draped in freezer dust—

A bleached expanse of hammered popsicles.

*

I took the folding chair

Of your hand and stretched my fingers

As you opened your mouth and filled it with lettuce

It was iceberg,

I think;

The wood deck was warm like stomachs,

And the popcorn insects

Roasted in the setting rays.

*

Remember when we used to

Eat cantaloupe and figure out the puns.

*

At night when he came home,

Car lights dousing the glow in the dark basketball

Who we thought, hatched from God.

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you running upstairs with cricket’s breath

all over your cheeks

into my room to turn up the air conditioner because it was an hour before sleep

and

Nighttime took us back to the womb.

*

Sometimes when the rain

Tapped its fingernails on the glass

Like the lady from the dry cleaners

I would scurry into your humid microwave

Bedroom,

And slip into the unoccupied

30 seconds left and when the alarm went

Your stuffed animal in my armpit

And my hair in your face

Mother’s voice calling for breakfast

As she sung

“waffles!”

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Carolyn Newmark / Eva Crawford

Evening (Experience)The table

where we sat

was molting

You were picking its skin of the brittle bones of leftover dinner

*

I don’t understand why I didn’t cry

when my skull seeped into the cracks

of the granite floor,

right by the sink,

with that squeaky faucet.

I still turn that knob as if we still lived in

IKEA.

*

Your lips smacking on those chicken wings,

as they turned over in their own mush, and flew away

never to come home.

*

Remember when we used to curl up together your breath,

my mind,

paralyzed in the hum of the air conditioner

My room was always colder.

An ice bunny without its overcoat

*

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The night when God went on a permanent business trip

we threw all those toy trucks at each other; a storm

of gleaming red bodies and rubber wheels.

You told me that lightening couldn’t strike them,

as they blended into our foreheads

*

Before the house took its nightly Tylenol,

it whispered in my ear, creaking softly and I could hear the carpet crackle

outside my open door

Can you hear it too?

There was a baby on the steps in the American Girl story I read just the

night before

all wrapped up in a cushy bag of blooming tears

*

Time had 30 seconds left to jolt,

And I could hear you across the floor,

Knocking your knees against the wooden drawers

As Mother’s voice called 10 seconds early

“Wake up!”

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Montana Thomas / Sebastian Rodriguez

I’m Sitting on a HillI’m sitting on a hill.

The hill is far away from that little minded town,

that small minded town,

with star-shaped cookies

baked by moms with short curly hair

and eaten by teenagers

dads

other moms

teachers

and other humans

with an appetite for altered echoes.

In this little, small minded town

there are shirts with tropical flowers on them

but there are few flowers on the ground.

However,

there are rare occasions when

a lamb from a distant field

will meander accidentally

and tragically

into the town

with a daisy or a buttercup in its mouth

and for a second

the humans feel free.

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But, no,

no more of that tiny, small minded, little town

that once seemed so big.

I want to read icy words under the warm sun

on a moist hill

and when I see a lamb now

its gonna laugh

and probably even spit on me

and steal a flower from

our grassy smile factory.

but thats whatever because we will grow more flowers

(i hope)

on the hill.

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Sasha Pinto

Three HaikuSoft sweet pattering

Warm rain in running rivers

Waters my garden

Tall thick growing grass

Levelled by the rolling blade

Smelling oh so green

The rustle of wing . . .

My eye catches sight of the

High flying bluebird

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Ella Prince / Isaac Scheinfeld

DrainedMy love is like the bubbling sap,

It rises and wells and flows.

And he, who hath the magic tap,

Doth drain my heart like so.

Doth drain my heart like so, like so,

Like nectar drawn by the bee

And I, the wilted flower of woe

Am cursed eternally.

Am cursed eternally, am I,

By his frosted, frigid heart.

That erupts no more, nor does it cry;

For our love that fell apart.

My love that fell apart, it cracked!

Like lightning striking the sky.

Heavenly dreams it doth lack,

Fantasies perished, utterly dry!

Perished and utterly dry, I’m left

Like the thirsting brooks and trees,

Who weep with sorrow, as if cleft

By the remorse that encumbers me.

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Leah Chin / Sasha Pinto

The Ugly MaidenOnce upon a time there lived a King and Queen who had three sons. Although all

three sons were very handsome, strong and learned, only one was a humble son.

One day the King, who was deathly ill, had gotten another fever; he immediately

called for all three sons to gather into his chambers so that he might speak with them

before he passed.

When all three had gathered around the King’s bedside, the King said, “My sons,

sadly I shall soon die, which means one of you shall become King. Instead of appointing

my eldest son as my heir, I have devised a contest that will give all three of you an equal

chance of becoming King. He who finds the most beautiful maiden in all the land, he

shall win my throne.”

The princes were excited about their new task since they each believed that they could

easily find the most beautiful maiden in all the land. On the morning after, they eagerly

set off on their journey.

The first son came upon a hut. Out of curiosity, he slowed down his horse to see if

anyone was inside. When he realized that no one was there, he kicked the sides of his

horse to continue on his way.

Suddenly, he heard a soft sweet voice say,

“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”

When the prince looked down to see where the voice was coming from, the sight

of an ugly maiden with dried hair, wrinkled skin, crooked teeth and tattered clothing

frightened him.

The noble prince spontaneously burst out into laughter. He said to her, “You? You?

You could never be my bride. I want someone who is gorgeous, not a horrid creature like

you. Be gone! For I have better things to do.” He again motioned for the horse to pick up

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speed and rode away.

The poor, ugly maiden walked back into her hut and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning the second eldest prince came upon the same small hut that had

been previously visited by his older brother. He, too slowed down his horse so that he

might see if anyone was inside. This time, the prince got off of his horse and walked

around the property.

Just as he was about to mount back onto his horse, he heard the same soft sweet voice say,

“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”

When the prince looked down to where the attractive voice was coming from, the

sight of the same ugly maiden frightened him. The second prince giggled a little but said

to the maiden, “Poor maiden, I am sorry, but you are not the one whom I seek.” And with

that, the second prince rode away.

As before, the ugly maiden’s feelings were crushed again.

On the third morning, as youngest prince set off in search of his future bride, he too

came across the same hut as his older brothers. Like them, he was curious and decided to

see if anyone was inside.

This time, the young prince got off his horse and knocked on the door three times, but

there was no answer. As he began to mount back onto his horse, he too heard the same

soft sweet voice coming from behind him that said,

“ My prince, my prince come to me. Take me to your King For I am your bride to be.”

When he turned around, the same ugly maiden greeted him. He, too, was frightened

by her appearance, but rather than laughing, the prince just stared at her. He wondered

how it was possible for an ugly person to be the most beautiful person as well. The maid-

en’s feelings were hurt for a third time, and she began to cry.

The confused prince was about to leave, but then he began to hear a beautiful voice

singing. When he looked back, he realized that it was the maiden who was singing about

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a spell that had been cast on a young maiden.

The young prince immediately went back to the ugly maiden. He had heard the beauty

in her voice, and he saw the kindness in her eyes. There was something about her that had

intrigued him. Although it was hard, the prince tried to see past her appearance and focus

on her beauty within.

The prince did not take the ugly maiden back to the castle, but he visited her the next

day and the next day and so on. After a week of visitations, the young prince and the

maiden became quite good friends.

On the seven day, the prince decided to fulfill her request and take her to the King.

Despite the fact that she was nothing close to what the King had asked for, the prince

decided to take a chance.

When the young prince arrived at the palace, his older brothers, who had also brought

back women they considered to be the most beautiful maidens, greeted him. The women

were covered and were not to be revealed until they were presented to the King. All three

princes, with the cloaked maidens, gathered in the court of their father, the King.

The eldest prince was the first to reveal his maiden. Although she was pretty, the King

did not consider her to be the most beautiful in the land. This conclusion upset the eldest

son, but at the same time, gave hope to his younger brothers.

The middle prince was the second to reveal his maiden, but, again, was not able to

fulfill what the King had requested.

The youngest son was the last to present his finding. He knew that he had not found

a physically pretty girl, but the one thing the young prince was certain about was the ugly

maiden’s beauty from within.

When he removed the cloth, he and the rest of the people in the court were in awe

of the beauty of the maiden; her beauty was that of Helen of Troy. At that moment, the

prince immediately fell in love with the maiden. Although she was indeed gorgeous, the

King, just like his youngest son, saw the kindness in her eyes. The King was then certain

that the woman before him was the most beautiful maiden in the world.

The older princes were puzzled about where their younger brother had managed to

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find such a treasure. Then, the maiden said, “I am the ugly maiden who appeared before

all three of you when you came upon my hut. A spell had been put on me by a Queen who

was jealous of my beauty, and the only way the spell could be broken was for a prince was

able to see past my outward appearance and see my beauty from within.”

The older princes were disgusted by their superficiality and lack of humility. The King

and the two older princes then knew that the young prince deserved to be the heir to the

throne.

Later that year, the King passed away, and the young prince with his new bride lived

happily ever after as King and Queen of the kingdom.

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Oscar Panaretto

A Blue, Blue WaveLife is like a big, blue wave,

Crashing on the shore;

Tearing down all in its path,

Knocking on your door.

With strength and power, really tall,

Right at you in a flash;

It will swiftly rise and fall,

Creating a big splash.

Take a chance and make a friend,

See where that ocean takes you;

Looking forward to the end,

Love all that you will do.

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Vita Taurke

I Prefer I prefer sunny porches.

I prefer cotton.

I prefer the grey of the sky before rain to the grey of the pavement.

I prefer brownstone.

I prefer clucking chickens.

I prefer the potential that an idea holds to the process of the execution.

I prefer waistcoats and pocket-watches.

I prefer learning for the sake of curiosity to learning for the sake of

knowledge.

I prefer spectacles.

I prefer hot food on a cold day to cold food on a hot day.

I prefer the loneliness of solitude to the loneliness of a crowd.

I prefer tangled woods to structured gardened paths.

I prefer the empty glances of strangers to the empty glances of friends.

I prefer the yellow sock poking through the hole in a worn-out white

canvas sneaker.

I prefer the suffocation of laughter.

I prefer running too fast.

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Carola Dixon / Annabel Berusch

Losing ItDon’t you just wish you were mad?

To step out of your canvas shoes and just be absolutely, colorfully,

hypnotically, mad?

Don’t you envy those with seeded minds?

Minds that flower in the spring, a kaleidoscope of moments with budding

dreams and blooming thoughts.

Pink and blue in the summer.

The wind moving their being, where the ocean meets the heavens to a

tune you can’t perceive.

Then the moment is over and the heavens are swept away by the cosmic

tides

And left behind are only the twinkling stars, like sea shells on a beach.

Don’t you wish you were mad;

awesome in the autumn, fire and gold and just too too much?

Too much to be, too much to understand,

Just infinitely insane but no one sees because the leaves are red and so are

you and you just disappear into something maybe even madder than

yourself.

Then the leaves reach the earth

And like the trees you stand barren and consumed,

because this life is exhausting and one soul can only give so much.

So there you are,

naked,

Waiting for the movement to end and the city to see

the crystal being in the park.

Only it’s not a statue, it’s you.

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Covered in a million flakes of frozen star dust,

waiting for everyone,

waiting for everything,

to decide they want to live again.

Because you never stop living.

Never stop living your crazy, insane, beautiful, pointless, stupid, life.

Don’t you just wish you were mad?

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Carolyn Newmark / Indira Mohabeer

Digestive Systems of Monsters in BeowulfGravely grunting, the monsters paddle

Through the bubbling phlegm, the blubbery film

Which stifles their songs, as they groan with hunger

Their furnace waits for those who tumble,

Down their dark and deathly gut

The powder of limbs coats their acid-maker

As an inflating heart pumps chewed ore,

Through tired tissue of bursting veins

And marrow-straws heavy with oil

Drip onto organs whose slabs contract

And the tone-outlet buzzes and moans

From Asgard on high, the powerful heavens.

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Ella Prince / Leah Chin

High SchoolHigh School.

The words cascade through my mind, dripping with fear.

It’s midnight, then, one, two, three, four in the morning and insomnia

has slowly nestled her way beside me in bed.

The feigned alarm clock tolls and it’s already seven a.m.?

So I inject lethal caffeine into my juvenile body, trembling with

satisfaction.

I crash.

And drool seeps out of my mouth only to

wash away the vandalism on the desk.

So I wriggle back into bed twelve hours

later, amazed that darkness has returned.

But I turn on the light switch in my head,

illuminating my thoughts—

The thoughts I have concocted during my

reveries.

So it’s midnight, then, one, two, three, four in

the morning and insomnia has yet again slowly

nestled her way beside me in bed.

The cycle repeats,

And high school is eternal.

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Annabelle Vaës

My SoulAh, my feet are like the roots my dear,

The roots of a wise old tree.

Ah, my body is like the trunk my dear,

As sturdy as one can be.

Ah, my arms are like the branches my dear,

That give to all they see.

But where oh, is my soul my dear?

For it is not with me.

For it is not with me my dear,

I know where it has gone.

For lad, you are my soul my dear,

Oh why have you withdrawn?

It was so dark and fell my dear,

The minute you hurried on.

And I was cold and wet my dear,

Until the break of dawn!

Oh for you are like the sun my dear,

That shares its warmth and glow.

And you come ever back my dear,

Which I should trust and know.

Which I should trust and know my dear,

As time does always show.

Ah yes, for I love you so my dear,

My beau, my heart, my soul.

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Sasha Pinto

Slum of HopeI never imagined I could be so spellbound and awestruck by heaps of garbage, piles

of corrugated shacks, hordes of people, and miles of filthy dirt roads. But that is exactly

what happened to me four years ago when I visited the remarkable Mukuru slum outside

Nairobi, Kenya.

At first I was horrified, but after my senses re-calibrated, I realized it was the most

amazing place I had ever seen. The streets were buzzing with energy, enterprise and

dogged determination. The shacks are home to butchers, tailors, barbers, people hawking

battery charging stations, pirated dvds, mattresses, plastic wash buckets . . . everything

and anything! Despite the deplorable conditions, an aura of hope and optimism filled the

air—along with the smell of cooking fires and roasted corn and nuts that were being sold

at many of the shops.

There was another smell that was not as pleasant. It was the stench of open sewers

lining the streets because these shacks did not have toilets and often housed several gen-

erations of families crammed into one room. The roads were deeply rutted and as we drove

at a snail’s pace, I was thrown from side to side in the vehicle. A cacophony of sounds

assaulted my ears: blaring Kenyan pop music, horns from other cars, peddlers bargaining

loudly, and most of all, the sound of children. And not just a few children but hundreds

of them streaming from everywhere, surrounding the car. It was very rare they received

visitors in the slum.

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

“How are you? How are you? How are you?”

The little children shoved their hands, blackened by dirt, through the car window and

tried to shake my hand, which was now grimy and filthy too. They reached out to grab my

arms as well, because my arms seemed so odd and white to them. Children streamed out

of the houses and muscled their way through the crowd to the car. They pressed their faces

against the windows to get a better look at my family and me. Looking at their tattered

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apparel, I felt silly in my smart-casual New York City sports clothing. All these children

were beautiful and beaming with happiness. They seemed not to have a care in the world.

But their faces were filthy and flies stuck to the corners of their eyes and to the sores and

open cuts on their faces. My eyes teared looking at them, and I had to resist the tempta-

tion to brush the flies off of their faces.

All around us, life continued as normal. People were put together meticulously in

suits, dresses and high heels, greeting each other cordially as they picked their way around

the heaps of garbage and open sewers to catch the city bus out of the slum to work. It is

amazing that these people, whose houses are dilapidated without electricity or running

water, could look so tidy and keep their clothes so pristine. One would never detect that

these people came from a slum.

But this is not a slum, nor the sort of poverty that we understand. This one is filled

with hope.

34

Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez

LenteSaber quien decir,

a quien mirar,

a quien sentir.

Entender:

que del ojo nace el mundo,

y del mundo uno vive,

y de la vida nace uno,

y uno es luz.

Creciendo nunca paro,

conosco y me asusta.

El hombre crece y se asusta,

el hombre conoce y nunca para.

Entender:

Que del ojo nace el mundo,

y del mundo uno vive,

y de la vida nace uno,

y uno es luz.

Saber:

que por esto uno muere.

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Shelsey Jimenez

Suspended in AirAs the fog rolls down

Like a wave of air crashing...

Reality fades.

Natural SelectionThe plant cons the fly

It’s nature’s double agent

Snap close, then it goes.

AbsolutionThe leaf shimmers now

Having been washed

From heavenly sky.

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Andreina Himy / Sebastian Rodriguez

She Comes to MeTonight the sky is pale,

And the air moves slow and cold, like a spirit.

A squirrel scurries for warmth,

And she comes to me.

I can feel her stillness this evening,

As she reposes in this young Moon,

Her small feet dangling

As she giggles.

She comes to me in the hollow branches,

Which so vulnerably sway,

Like the tall Pampas Grass in our treasured South American lands,

Where once we together played.

She comes to me in the crack of moon light which bounces

From her,

To a window,

To my cold face.

She comes to me when I catch the sound of a creature’s step.

And when my eyelids close, she comes to me:

As our fingers caress the cotton of our grandmother’s nightgown.

She is with me tonight, in all the life that blooms.

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And when her tale is over,

And we both have shared a smile,

She says goodbye, she says she’s tired.

After all, she’s just a child.

And in a simple instant, she returns to her eternal rest.

From my sight she has faded once again.

Where does she go? Where has she been?

I’ll never know.

She has left me, but not alone,

For tonight, amongst the beaming stars,

She has adorned the moon,

which we’ll forever share.

And I will wake and rest under its flare,

Cradled by whispers which only my heart can hear.

The softest light I see,

She will forever be with me.

The night is now golden,

And the air moves slow and tender,

Like love.

For her laugh remains with me.

38

Angela Figueroa / Sebastian Rodriguez

Sin título La lluvia de Madrid,

dulce.

Tu mirada,

ausente.

Tu beso,

amargo.

El sol,

brillante.

Nuestro amor

muerte

Madrid,

vivo.

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Carola Dixon

Oh Comet: A Poem in the Style of Robert BurnsFalling star, your passion is the reddest of all heaven,

You outshine the holy stars and are a woman’s venom

Just like my boy, you dance your way into my mind

I have but to look up, to see you leaping ‘cross the sky

Just like him, you arrive unannounced. Radiating light

Splashing the sky with shades that cancel the night,

Oh comet, you are the wild lover of the moon

Promising love in the evening and gone by noon

Oh comet, what pulls your soul to the wild wild fall?

The need, for a moment, the whole world enthrall?

Your light glazes my eye; your love doth burn my soul

For I know you’ll burn out, leaving cosmic debris at my feet.

40

Isaac Scheinfeld

Tired ReticenceA hurricane of stagnant breath tears limb from limb my mortal soul as

winds repressed by fear of death lay waste to all that life should hold

I prepare to meet my doom by hurling forth the furious storm

I devise myself a heavenly tomb where but the winds me upward bore

In my despair at what should bear unwelcome through the gates of my

own dismal thoughts, I cry aloud

then weep for selfish solitude

What next will chance I cannot tell, yet somehow feel the game will end

For that one player whose move is set

Moves not and may not move again

I sit and stare before me cold

The lifeless figurines grow old

As I my life before me fold

What’s left shall end as I foretold

41

Noah Kahan / Sebastian Rodriguez

My Summer RevelationIn the rocky lands of the Golan Heights, looking out into Syria, I heard what no six-

teen year-old, nor kid should ever hear in their lifetime. I heard the explosions of rockets

and saw white smoke rising from the ground, as if I were actually on the battlefield. I

didn’t feel any angst, why? I was safe, yet someone 40 miles from me might have been hid-

ing in a bomb shelter maybe dodging death. Ironically two minutes after I saw the white

smoke, my friends and I were laughing, feeling safe and secure. Yet walking away I felt a

rock in my stomach, a heavy one that many countries weighed down. In Syria, we have

seen many people die, yet no one has made drastic changes to stop it. I felt world politics

in my stomach, churning, stuck, trying to get out, but not before setting me ablaze and

the world along with it.

42

Vita Taurke / Sebastian Rodriguez

Pop!Pop! Pop! Pow! Pow! Kazaam! Zap!

Explosions of light popping through the air

Like fireworks!

Fireworks that explode and scream and cry and explode and laugh and

dance until you don’t know what it is any longer other than light and

light and light and light and light and light and do you want to try a

piece of liver

Today I found a cockroach in my bed it scared me

Friendly pennies turn around

An empty box of caramels sits in my desk

And slowly fills up with coins

Stories are told and re-told with bigger beginnings and smaller endings

every time

The delicacy of mashed potatoes is astounding to me

Another living breathing being in my room

A living breathing blaring siren

Blaring what is it that opens and closes but doesn’t affect my toes but

drills my head with hopelessness

And light fills me

And love that is too big to express with a word

So I remain silent

Until the silence is ended and ended and ended and ended it doesn’t stop

ending you see

Crackling like the aftermath of an explosion

It is not beautiful

I don’t want it to be.

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Loud bursts of light and calm waves of sound

Looking through the fireworks of the night to find the brilliance of the

light and then go as fast as you can as fast as you can as fast as you can

as fast as you can as fast as you can

POP!

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Annabelle Vaës

Ich will chinesisches EssenIch habe eine solche Sehnsucht nach chinesischem Essen. Ich habe wirklich Hunger!

Ich fahre jetzt mit meinem Auto zu einem chinesischen Restaurant, um chinesisches

Essen zu kaufen. Ich biege links ab und fahre auf eine Straße durch einen Wald. Ganz

plötzlich beginnt mein Auto zu schrumpfen. Ich auch! AHHHH!!! Was passiert denn

hier?!? Mein Auto hört auf zu schrumpfen und ich stehe von meinem Auto auf. O Gott!

Der Rosenbusch beim Auto ist groß wie ein Baum und die Bäume sind groß wie Berge!

Ich bin klein! Was soll ich machen? Ich fange an zu weinen. Wer hat das gemacht? Wie

kann ich wieder groß werden? Während ich klein bin, kann ich spazieren gehen. Ich kann

nichts anderes machen. Vielleicht finde ich jemanden im Wald, der mir helfen kann. Als

ich laufe, erinnere ich mich, dass ich gestern hier in diesem Wald spaziert bin und eine

Apfelsine hier gelassen habe. Dort drüben sehe ich etwas Oranges und ich freue mich! Ich

renne zum Baum und da sehe ich ein Mädchen mit orangen Haaren, einen alten Mann

mit einem weißen Bart, einen Jungen mit einem Tannzapfen-Hut, ein Eichhörnchen,

zwei Kröten, einen Faulpelz und eine Eidechse bei meiner Apfelsine. Sie sagen plötzlich:

„Hallo!“ Ich kann nichts sagen, weil ich so schockiert bin. Endlich sage ich: „Ummm....

Hallo.“ „Woher kommen Sie?“ fragt das Mädchen. Ich erzähle dann meine Geschichte

und zum Schluss frage ich: „Wissen Sie, wie ich wieder groß werden kann?“ „Ja wir wis-

sen es! Sie müssen einen Keks von der Schwanen-Elfe bekommen. Sie wohnt beim Teich

auf der anderen Seite dieses Waldes,“ sagt das Mädchen. „Ich kann mit Ihnen gehen,“ sagt

der Junge mit dem Tannzapfen-Hut. Ich sage danke und dann fangen wir an zu laufen

und laufen, bis es Nacht ist. Plötzlich sehe ich Elfen und zwei Jungen spielen mit blau-

weißen Lichtern. Die Jungen haben graue Kleidung und Pilzhüte. Die Elfen singen wie

Engel und der Klang ist so schön. Zwei kleine Mädchen mit gleicher Kleidung und Pilz-

hüten wie ihre Brüder beobachten die Elfen. Sie sind erstaunt über die Elfen! Hinter den

Elfen sind Felsen, die lebendig sind. Sie lächeln und sind sehr ruhig. Der Junge mit dem

Tannzapfen-Hut bringt mich zum Felsen und da sehe ich einen Eingang zu einer Höhle.

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„Wir werden da drin schlafen,“ sagt der Junge und er geht hinein. „Wir müssen morgen

den ganzen Tag laufen. Sie müssen jetzt schlafen. Gute Nacht,“ sagt der Junge. „Gute

Nacht,“ sage ich. Diese Nacht träume ich von Katherine Hepburn und Audrey Hepburn.

Sie sprechen mit mir und sie beraten mich. Am Morgen stehen wir früh auf und fangen

an zu laufen. Wir laufen den ganzen Tag und jetzt ist es Nacht. Ganz plötzlich sagt der

Junge, dass wir hier beim Teich sind. Der Teich ist still und ruhig. Das Licht des Mondes

scheint auf den Teich. Es ist so schön! Dann sehe ich eine Schwanen-Elfe die auf einem

großen Schlüssel beim Teich tanzt. Während sie tanzt, sagt sie, dass ich mit ihr tanzen

muss, um einen Keks zu bekommen. Ich fange an zu tanzen und ich werde plötzlich ruhig

und glücklich! Nach fünf Minuten sagt sie, dass ich in Übereinstimmung mit der Nature

lebe, und dass ich einen Keks nehmen könne. Ich nehme einen und danken beiden für

ihre Hilfe. Ich esse den Keks und ich wachse. Ich wachse und wachse. Ich wachse bis ich

meine normale Größe wieder erreicht habe. Die Schwanen-Elfe gibt mir auch eine Mak-

rone für meine Reise zurück. Ich bedanke mich herzlich, nehme die Jungen auf meine

Schulter und sage: „Bitte, führt mich zurück.“

46

Sasha Pinto

SurvivalMighty and tall, with my brothers,

I see the world below me.

This land, this forest and others,

We rule by natural decree.

I am the tallest of the oak,

And the king of the wood:

Ancient forest of all hope—

I stand for everything that is good.

Hundreds of years, I’ve been passing

My brothers have been felled;

Invaded by machines, surpassing

The forests gone; our songs quelled

Now in a garden I’m admired,

Pruned and trimmed to a perfect state;

Never wild, no less inspired;

Restrained inside by a metal gate—

I am welcome shade and autumn tones,

Amusements only for a privileged few;

Who rest below me and toss stones,

Carving initials, then saying adieu.

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Many changes have struck my land,

Where once I stood a timeless wonder;

Within a wood so green and grand,

But it’s gone, my forest asunder.

One day I spot new birds in flight

And watch the setting sun;

I marvel at the children’s delight

To stay with me when day is done.

Hope has sprung, and its face is this child,

Who loves my trunk, my leaves and boughs,

Scampering over my limbs so beguiled—

Yes, we’ll survive, brothers, and I smiled.

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Shavasp Quillen / Sebastian Rodriguez

Poem in the Style of William WordsworthThe trees covered with snow

Drift in the breeze swaying;

The distant howl of a wolf,

Eerie, resounding, it echoes;

A stream nearby gushing

Over frozen rocks and twigs,

through forests veiled in white;

A hare, camouflaged,

Hides from its predators:

A remembrance:

The bright full moon

Drifted over the land

The hare scampered.

Through brush it rushed,

Its pursuers followed close;

A pack full of hungry males

Now inches behind;

A wolf lunged forward,

Clamped its jaws deep:

Deep into the warm flesh.

Bones broke and snapped;

Life came to a sudden halt.

A survivor watched

From a distance unseen,

Dashed out of sight.

Night became day,

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Day became night.

The dead hare gone

would ne’er return.

The survivor recalls

that night’s memories;

harsh and sudden;

One error: life ends.

His friend’s death,

His continuation.

Its life is mourned:

This hare wanders on;

Now more silent;

More careful.

50

Anna Grimm

FallA blanket of gold,

across endless hills of green

fades as summer ends.

SpringHushed, sunny evening

warm, humid breeze tickles me

with the smell of spring.

WinterA chill in the air,

bitter and violent winds send

shivers up my spine

51

Carolyn Newmark / Sebastian Rodriguez

GrimeThe man on the gravelly subway platform was eating his jacket as the dog

waddled too close to the

edge

the weighty grey puffs of building’s cigars squeeze their way through the

holes in the grates

and turned to excrement flavored mouthwash at the bottom of the tracks

the girl was smacking on pink lemonade starbursts because all the other

ones don’t matter

they are like biting into fresh rubber covered monkey bars on a sunny day

when your mom is trying to feed you foam peanuts that are disguised

as bees

and when the train comes like your uncle who has eaten too much of his ego

on thanksgiving

it rocks back and forth

while the people look down

plugged in and unaware of the whole they are a part of

unaware that a thin layer of clothing separates their genitals

because if they were aware

aware of the shoes

the small feet

aware of the lady who mutters to god

aware of the comfort of the lack of air between their neck and someone’s

work boots

they might realize that the subway doors close centimeters from our faces

and the lady who mutters to god is really muttering to her slurped dreams

52

Carola Dixon

Wordsworth Poem Grey steps in a grey city on grey pavement

Where withered by the thirst for passion the city turns to chalk

And all I see are bones without a body

As I place step after step, after step, after step

Along the path, on the subway, around the gutter

Where ants crawl around and around and there is movement but no

connection

I am walking in a suffocated city, and everything is just gray.

On my finger tips I still feel the dry blood of a nation far away.

A nation where a rainbow serpent once etched the creeks and rivers

And his soul brought so much color to the land

That bleeding land

The land who cried so many tears that now their blueness surrounds her

And wild dangers live trapped between the green grass and the green

forest canopy

The land full of wild pain and sorrow, of punishing anger and death

But in the eve, the sun can’t help but give one last smile to she, the wild

country

So it sets the sky afire in pink and purple, one last kiss before it says

goodnight.

With every easy footstep on the pavement

Of the cold calculating city that will not budge from grey,

Reaction is the same.

And all feeling shifts between varying shades of black

And her tears are the murky waters of the hudson

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That roll along untempered by any new sadness

Surrounded by clanks and horns and buzzing and speaking

But all I hear is the kookaburra laugh.

For how daring the night of the grey city may be

The eye that has seen the color of my land,

That saw life through a saturated lens,

Is blind in the dark.

And in the land of dreaming

Two lovers may be separated by a vastness that is hard to understand

And still see the same setting sun and bleeding land

Yet where does the sun set in the grey city?

I walk through the grey city and I cry

Because my love is elsewhere

And in the darkness all I wish to see is the cross hang low over the ocean

As I wait for the sun to rise again; to shine its rays and shed light on the

bleeding, crying, dangerous land

My land.

54

StaffElisha Andrade ’14

Carola Dixon ’15

Anna Grimm ’16

Carolyn Newmark ’15

Sasha Pinto ’16

Ella Prince ’15

Emily Rentrop ’14

Danielle Sang ’14

Meg Schaeffer ’14

Anna Sweeney ’14

Vita Taurke ’14

Annabelle Vaës ’15

Co-Editors in Chief Elisha Andrade ’14 / Carolyn Newmark ’15

Art Editors Andreina Himy ’15 / Ella Prince ’15

Layout & Design Carolyn Newmark ’15

Faculty Advisors Carol Bärtges, Alexander Yagupsky

The Rudolf Steiner SchoolNew York, New York

The Rudolf Steiner SchoolNew York, New York