Haggis Baggis - Miss Porter's School

Haggis Baggis
Issue Fourty-Seven
Spring 2010
Miss Porter’s School

HAGGIS/BAGGIS: A dish consisting
of the heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep or
calf, minced with oatmeal, seasoned with
salt, and boiled like a large sausage in the
maw of the animal. A mixture of vital parts;
hence, any collection, potpourri, salmagindi.
Front cover: “Untitled,” Lara DelPiano

Haggis Baggis
Spring 2010
Issue Forty-Seven
Miss Porter’s School
Farmington, Connecticut 06032
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Haggis Baggis Dedication: Susan Reeder-Moss
This issue of Haggis Baggis is dedicated to Susan Reeder-Moss. In her 30 years of
outstanding teaching, Susan has shaped more than two generations of Porter’s students.
Henry Brooks Adams once noted “a teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where
his influence stops.” In this way, Susan’s teaching has reverberated in the world beyond
Miss Porter’s School. Susan’s influence cannot be measured by the number of students
she has taught or the quantity of projects she has overseen. Her ability to inspire every
student makes her exceptional. She trusts in each student’s potential, enabling every
student to develop a confidence in her own artistic abilities. Sometimes a student throws
a pot she is not happy with. A girl will often look at such a piece and sigh that she cannot
seem to make a vase as beautiful or centered as she
imagines. Susan wisely explains that the piece is what
you make of it; it can be put back on the wheel,
paddled, painted, pinched or added onto another
piece. Susan patiently reveals some of the infinite
ways in which clay can be manipulated, and the girl,
formerly dejected, suddenly envisions an entirely different
future for her piece.
Outside of the classroom, Susan’s leadership in the
community extends from our Farmington campus to
service in the greater Hartford area. She organizes
the school-wide Bowl-a-thon and the Art Sale, two
of the most successful and widely anticipated fundraisers
on campus. She brought the annual service
trip to The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp into our
hearts and lives, and she serves as a class advisor.
Her creative, nurturing, and compassionate presence
builds our community. Thank you, Susan, for all that
you do.
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Haggis Baggis Editors
From left to right: Eva Goodman (Layout Editor), Alison Neuwirth (Co-Editor-In-Chief), Olivia
Goodman (Literary Editor), Ola Pietraszkiewicz (Co-Editor-In-Chief), Marisa Barnard (Literary
Editor), Lara DelPiano (Art Editor), Emily Harris (Layout Editor).
Not pictured: Grace Pullin (Literary Editor)
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Table of Contents
The End of My Childhood, Alyssa Rimsa
Untitled, Ariel Fernandez
Untitled, Lynette Chan
Sometimes, My-Eisha Wicks
Reading, Eva Goodman
Untitled, Femella Noctis
Untitled, Michelle Regius
Untitled, Lauren Roemke
Untitled, Chen Shi
Never Regret, Coco Schoeller
Working on the Haiku, Rachel Newman
Untitled, Melissa Pham
Comparison, Gillian Stoddard
Shaping a Changing World, Katie McElheny
Untitled, Sara Monahan
Fields of Innocence, Tessa Menatian
Untitled, Marissa Blackwell
Untitled, Sierra Sandler
Untitled, Stella de Stefanis
Candid, Alison Neuwirth
Untitled, Sierra Sandler
Untitled, Brandie Morris
Untitled, Goodness Olayiwola
Pirate’s Cove, Grace Pullin
Untitled, Lucy Williams
Flabbergasted, Caroline McCance
Sacrifice, Carter Neal
Untitled, Chen Shi
Summer Sweethearts, Katey Cyr
It Was Ours, Medina Rasul
Untitled, Alex Bayer
The Path of the Mind, Niki Kovacs
Untitled, Alex Bayer
Untitled, Judy Blakelock
Untitled, Minorvi Amin
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Untitled, Marissa Nowak
Untitled, Gillian Stoddard
Artificial Colors are the Happiest, Liv Blanchette
Untitled, Alison Neuwirth
Mary’s Getting Married, Ali Demopopoulos
Feeling, Carter Neal
Untitled, Lynette Chan
Untitled, Jess Grady-Benson
Response-Ability, Hibba Meraay
Untitled, Eva Goodman
White Out, Mo Yang
Promise, Anna Preston
Untitled, Carolyn Pascale
Green Grass, My-Eisha Wicks
Untitled, Goodness Olayiwola
Forward, Anna Preston
Untitled, Sara Monahan
Mallo and Gray, Amina Bility
Untitled, Caroline Clark
Emerson, Nicole Canning
Swing, Tessa Menatian
Humanity Against You, Katerina Lopez
Free Verse, Rachel Newman
Untitled, Gillian Stoddard
Untitled, Rachel Newman
Untitled, Judy Blakelock
Parking Lot, Morgan Grady-Benson
What’s in the Bag, Caroline McCance
Untitled, Brandie Morris
Innocent Ignorance, Sera Takata
Untitled, Caroline Clark
Obervation, Ola Pietraszkiewicz
Intertwining Snake Teapot, Melissa Pham
Revenge, Minorvi Amin
Untitled, Kristi Gieger
Scenic Beauty of Tears, Caroline Ouya
Before the Toast to the Bride, Sarah Goldman
Catching My Breath, Emily Waite
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The End of My Childhood
By: Alyssa Rimsa
I looked back, and saw
the time when I realized
that childhood would
come to an end
much quicker than I previously thought.
Age is merely a number between
me and my Grandma.
The only difference, is the texture of our skin
and the knowledge - she has much more of it.
She catches on with our jokes
and I do with hers.
We enjoy each other’s company
in her kitchen, in her car, the most random of places.
that a child is born with
but grows out of slowly,
to become a rebellious, outspoken teen
and then a stressed, overworked adult.
This scared me
and made me aware
of the harsh reality of my future.
I came to the realization
that time cannot stop for me
in the good times
and fast forward through the bad.
Grandma was making cookies
steadily, measuring the flour,
the butter, the eggs.
Taking the sweet time
that she’s known for,
slowly pacing herself through
her daily activities.
She was telling us stories
of our mom; “when she was your age…”
while kneading the cookie dough,
and I realized
we don’t have that much time
to enjoy our childhood.
In an epoch it will be gone
forever, and we’ll be left
with the responsibilities of being an adult.
No more carefree yet timid attitude
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Ariel Fernandez

Lynnette Chan
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Sometimes
By: My–Eisha Wicks
And sometimes I feel
Like I’m flying away
Even though my feet
Are planted on the ground
Stuck in the position they’re in
Sometimes I imagine
That I can stop time
Even though seconds
Fly like birds in air
Moving in constant motion
But sometimes I believe
I can carry the weight
Of the world on my back
And hold it forever until
I’m crushed under the pressure.
Femella Noctis
Reading
By: Eva Goodman
There is something very valuable about being alone;
The warmth of the sun on the tops of your thighs
The smell of the clouds
The list of the sky
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Michelle Regius
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Lauren Roemke
Chen Shi
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Never Regret
By: Coco Schoeller
Now, let me ask you a question.
Say you were to fail.
Fall of a cliff.
No one to catch you,
No sense of hope left –
Seeing the ground move closer.
What would you do?
Would you thank God for your life?
Would you regret decisions?
Would you be at peace?
Now is the time to live life to fullest.
Take every chance,
Even if you might fail.
Go places you never thought you would go.
Travel the world.
Meet new people.
Think new ideas.
And never regret.
Say things freely.
Try things you never should.
Test death.
And, if death were to come
Embrace it.
Remember.
Remember the fun you had,
Remember what you did do,
Not what you should have done.
And never regret.
Smile
For your life was good.
Shout
For your life was loud.
Laugh
For all the memories you made.
You made a difference.
You were you.
Remember.
Don’t ever forget.
Say you were to fail.
Fall of a cliff.
No one to catch you,
No sense of hope left –
Seeing the ground move closer.
What would you do?
What would you do if you fell from the sky?
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Working on the Haiku
By: Rachel Newman
A soft blowing wind
Traveling across my cheek
Whispers in my ear
Slightly dripping tears
Falling off rainforest leaves
Earth slowly warming
Mountain royal red
Shimmering lights at distance
Glorious tonight
Laughing child hears
Fighting parents screaming fears
An unsafe place there
Wisdom clashes words
Hunted happiness flutters
Sad chests find midday.
Melissa Pham
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Comparison:
By: Gillian Stoddard
Walking hand in hand,
Starry skies, summer evenings.
Father and daughter…
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Shaping a Changing World
By: Katie McElheny
Freshman
Needy, Intimidated
Stumbling, Falling, Getting Back Up
Curious, Branching Out, Confident, Individual
Contributing, Self-determining, Living
Bold, Lovely
Senior
Sara Monahan
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Fields of Innocence
By: Tessa Menatian
“Lemee alone Sonny,” I mumbled. I could hardly speak. It felt as if I was being choked, choked with a rusted
strand of barbed wire. My eyes were bloodshot, but I couldn’t cry anymore. It was as if I’d used up all my
tears.
“But Naomi! You pomized we could play t‘day!” the six-year-old said. He stuck his lip out and looked up at
me, pleading with his liquid brown eyes.
“Not now, I have other things to do,” was my instantaneous reply. Sulking, Sonny left the room. Maybe I
expected too much of him, thinking he could understand that his uncle, my daddy, was not about to walk
in the front door, back from work. In actuality, he was never going to walk through that door again. I hated
those damned white men with all of my soul. And yet, there was nothing I could do. The dream seemed
forever out of reach.
I pressed my forehead up against the headboard of my bed. It was made of cheap wood that felt rough
and gritty, but it helped ease the pain, which allowed me to think. We just moved up here to Chicago from
Mississippi five days ago. We weren’t making much of a profit from sharecropping, so daddy said we better
head up north, where it was all happening. Mama’s brother, Uncle Richard, had already set up in Chicago a
few years back with his wife, Aunt Gloria, and their boy, Sonny. They’d been living in a kitchenette, but had
been saving up all the while. They pooled the money (daddy had hardly nothing to give), and bought this
small house on the edge of a white neighborhood. We moved in yesterday, Sunday. I’d barely walked in
the door from church when the first rock smashed through the kitchen window, sending splinters of glass
everywhere. I crouched low to the ground and ran to the bathroom, one door over. I started counting
the rocks being thrown. Every time I heard the crash of another rock I flinched and tried to make myself
an even smaller part of this vast, terrible world. I was up to four rocks when I heard the first gunshot. I
climbed into the bathtub and pressed myself up against the coolness of the cotton-colored side. Where
was daddy? Who was shooting? Moments later, a second shot followed the first. It was echoed by my
mother’s muffled scream, and then the pounding footsteps of the fleeing killers, the devil at their heels.
I didn’t dare open the bathroom door till I heard mama’s voice. “They’re gone,” she said. But instead of
her usual vigor, her voice broke, filled with bitter remorse. I walked tentatively out of the bathroom and
into the kitchen. Daddy lay sprawled across the smooth floor boards, his right arm entangled in one of the
table legs. A small crimson wound adorned his chest like one of Sonny’s bright marbles, the kind you shot
at the little marbles with. “The gun backfired,” Mama whispered before I could question her. “He was just
tryin’ to scare them away. He wudn’t shootin’ to kill.” I didn’t know how Mama could stand it, I knew she
was strong, and we’d been through tough times before, but nothin’ like this. Never like this. And I knew
there wasn’t nothin’ I could say, that anyone could say, that would put it all right. “It’s almost over.” Mama’s
speech was hardly audible; she seemed afraid of her own voice. “He won’t be hurtin’ much longer.” As I
walked over to comfort Mama I saw Sonny sneaking out of the room. He had been there all along.
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As I fell back on my tattered quilt, the reality of yesterday’s horror came flooding back. I
hadn’t realized till now that my face was covered in tears. I tried to wipe them away when
I heard a feeble knock at the door. I couldn’t answer. I was afraid to hear my own strangled
rasp, so I just grunted in reply. I had assumed it would be my older sister Mae returning from
daddy’s freshly dug grave out back, so I was surprised when Sonny ambled back into the
room.
“What’r you doin’ Naomi? You still busy wif stuff?” he asked.
“Yeah Sonny, I’m kinda busy.”
“Omi, where’s Uncle?” the little boy asked.
“He’s gone Sonny. He’s with God,” I said.
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Sonny said. “I knowed that man was God.”
Marissa Blackwell
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Sierra Sandler
Stella de Stefanis
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Candid
By: Alison Neuwirth
“you don’t need makeup to be beautiful”
quote, from the glamour girl on the cover of your magazine
smoky, rich color enhances her eyelids
her lips, pouting just so
frosted with rich berry lipstick
blush blesses her cheeks with
a girlish glow
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Sierra Sandler

Goodness Olayiwola
Brandie Morris
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Pirate’s Cove
By: Grace Pullin
A world away in North Carolina,
I absorb the southern weather in July.
Sitting in the sun,
I honor you as the champion still
of my thoughts
and the drawer of all the things I’d written
that season.
I sit on the dock and work my way around you in my mind.
You: sifting through your black hair with greasy fingers
And letting me
pull out one of the grey strands.
You: drinking iced coffee
on the steps outside your house with your mother
I remember the string of sweetened saliva
that slid down your chewed straw.
I flex a muscle
and the bug on my arm pops.
Sometimes there is even blood
(but you already knew that).
And in you come to lick it up
from a thousand miles away.
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Flabbergasted
Caroline McCance
Lucy Williams
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Sacrifice
Summer Sweethearts
By: Katey Cyr
The way he looks is the emblem of my summer,
and his voice is the cry of crickets and tree limbs.
His tanned skin is hidden among us lovers,
while we sit under the moon light so dim.
His face is framed of water from loud thunder,
around the narrows of his eyes, cheek bones, and trim.
His hands as they may, lock around mine,
especially because it’s the season of summertime.
Chen Shi
Carter Neal
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It Was Ours
By Medina Rasul
lying on the soft sloping hill with my best friend
Towering trees that pointed to the sun
High Grass Straight as Boards
Birds Flying into bright orange heavens
Stillness and quiet of the thick bushes below
fantasy, fright, imagination
Walking down the path
Rushing to meet the sunset
dainty hilltops in the background that seem to last forever
The Pull of mystery
sharing melting popsicles
the thrill of magic in his smile
the last day of summer
the last day of us
Empty bench
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Alex Bayer

The Path of the Mind
By: Niki Kovacs
Sand,
On beach.
Between toes.
Walking near shore.
Leaving marks on earth.
Where I once stood in life.
The indents may fade with time
But impressions left on others
Will hopefully last longer than that.
If not, its ok. I tried my best here
Always doing as much as I could by--
Crying, trying, yet I still fell short
Ripping my heart out of my chest
And leaving it on the floor
Was never good enough
You’d walk through my life
Never saying
I’m thankful
for you,
Friend…
Was I?
Your best friend?
Or someone to
Use. Abuse. And Bruise.
Giving only heartache,
And silent screams in my head
As some form of compensation
I break my back, for your benefit
And you kill me more than you did before
Please don’t torment me when I ask you this…
What will happen when I need you most?
Will you tell me it will be ok?
Would you take care of me?
(Or let me suffer.
Like I am now,
Begging you
To see
Me.)
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Alex Bayer
Judy Blakelock
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Untitled
By: Minorvi Amin
That is all
Love thy
Fellow neighbor
As if you were the sun
Equally giving. ‘Cuz need they
Thy love.
Gillian Stoddard
Marissa Nowak
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Artificial Colors are the Happiest
By: Liv Blanchette
The world thought round turned out to be flat
Ideals spin like hands on a clock
Sharp angles embody femininity
Be hard to make hard the cock
Klimt is the new Botticelli
Show me Surreal, not Rococo
Since it tastes good it must be bad for you
Self won’t come; restraint won’t go
So scratch off your face with crimson nails
And stuff it in your D-cup
Puncture their hearts with bone and muscle
Eat then regurgitate them up
Bake your skin to a summery Clementine
Burn your hair, and the calories too
If you want to be hot, you’ve got to smolder
Beware– charring the surface penetrates you
Alison Neuwirth
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Mary’s Getting Married
By: Ali Demopoulos
Waiting in the church, there’s Mary
while her guests line the Union Baptist’s aisle
feeling the intoxicating strain of all things bridal.
And to charm that nervous guy, the one who’s currently straightening his tie, her beaux
she places a flower
in her hair to remind him of that day at the park, and all
the fun they’d had. Now he’s up in the altar:
And oh, the relationship has received quite an alter
too, hasn’t it? Now it seems they have to marry
or call it quits. The flower begins to sag, she know it will fall
soon. Why does nothing look good in her hair? I’ll
be there in a minute, Mom! she says as the flower girl ties a bow
in her hair. A chaste bow of course, not the bow of bridal.
Should she pull the reins? Or loosen the bridle?
She’s too afraid of messing up, she doesn’t want to falter.
All these party dresses and bow
ties start to make her nervous. Mary
will be married soon, the ring bearer is halfway down the aisle.
She realizes that she’s starting to stall,
Why is this so? It’s a very beautiful wedding, all
the guests agree. The single women whisper to each other in jealousy. The bridal
party is all set now, it’s Mary’s turn to glow. She and her dad file
down that long red carpet. Why am I thinking of my cat? Why am I thinking of all the clothes I need to
alter?
she wonders furiously to herself. Aunt Rosemary
lifts her veil, and staring back is Mary’s beaux
who notices the blossom in her hair. He looks so indebted as he bows
his head slightly. The wedding march stops, the hush of the tacky waterfall
included only at Grandma’s insistence stuns Mary.
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Feeling
Her bridal
Ornaments hang gently by her side
While she stares at Walter,
the groom. Yes that’s his name, he’s 78 years old. I’ll
Carter Neal
tell you he’s fifty-five years her senior, the guy standing in the alter. While
The bow
tie he wears now, he bought when she was seven. Walter
has been marries eight times before, all
ended in divorce. Except for his fifth wife, found strangled with the bridle
of his prized horse in 1975. So Mary
is getting married today, she just walked down the aisle.
She has the something borrowed, the bow, and the bridal
arrangements all planned. Forever and always. With Walter.
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Jess Grady-Benson
Lynnette Chan
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Response-Ability
Hibba Meraay
While responsibilities of a woman are plenty,
room to grow is minimal.
She is expected:
To cook, to clean, to care, to love, to hold, to heal, to laugh, to work, to work wonders
All of this is extraordinarily possible with the power to balance –
between all the worlds
The response-ability,
Ability to respond accordingly
To the pressures of life,
And the lessons of life
and to reciprocate them to a wider community
so that all may learn from you and your life and you will be remembered as a kind, helpful
Daughter, Sister, Wife, Mother, Teacher, Grandmother, and Friend
Each role big enough to fill a million lifetimes –
and you, expected, big enough to fill all the shoes,
the extraordinary role of a woman
needs an extraordinary woman to fill the role
but it is instead filled by normal women
who carry themselves, every day:
out of bed, to school, to work, to the market, to fetch water, to make bread, to weave baskets, to
prepare breakfast, to cook lunch, to make dinner, to teach children, to do many things
then finally – to sleep
this is response-ability in its essence
The shoes a woman fills are in the end her own and all she makes them out to be.
She can balance them even if they are held on top of her head
and in the end, We are always Extraordinary Women
and as long as We ourselves remember that,
We cannot be threatened.
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Untitled
By: Eva Goodman
Chilly pine
I want to die
Sprawled among the dandelions
the moist earth soft
beneath my weight
the cloudless bredth of heaven’s gate
Dandelion I want to die
I want to leap
I want to lie
where will we go
sweet and divine
as the world spins dorment,
dandelion?
White Out
Mo Yang
The chewed up edge
of glory rests
beneath the warmth
of my left breast
the humming lull of all the flowers
the weighty stall of final hours
Among dandelion I want to die
a fragrant shield
from prying eyes
I wish to sleep;
I wish to dream
where from your hold I’ll never be
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Promise
By: Anna Preston
Around her calloused finger, the woman twists her diamond ring.
Rising from the creaky wooden chair to her creaky wooden legs,
she trudges to the open window,
Gazing at the landscape from which the rich, rolling hills rose.
The engine chokes out smoke, stinging the eyes, and up well tears
That cascade down the woman’s bronzed, creased face like rain,
So much, she cannot see.
Her future, faith, all that she loves, soon lie in Memphis, Tennessee.
The ancient beast keeps sputtering,
But her eyes are lost, sowing her memories among the grain.
Her thoughts are far beyond the pane of that dusty window.
A footstep, a creak, the screen door slamming, tears
Her attention away. The ghosts evaporate and die like a wilting rose.
The two locked eyes, and she arose,
Making sure he couldn’t see.
It had always been her job to be strong; no room for tears,
Fears, or memories. Like when he’d given her that ring
said he’d be there forevermore. But now he walked back through
the screen door, and she watched him through the window,
Watched him swallowed by the rain.
She watched the old Ford take him to be whisked off by the train.
She reels herself back in, her eyes tinged just the faintest rose,
As she helps her little girl step down from the window.
She’d been waving “bye” to Daddy, telling him she hoped she’d see
Him home again real soon. The woman knows the phone will ring
For them every evening, but she knows, despite how much he calls,
that there will still be tears.
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Untitled
By: Carolyn Pascale
we fought under that flourescent sky
it was like a horse race
muscles strain under taut flesh, teeth pulled back, hooves slam the ground
except now its all silent and my great self realizes
she had nothing to race for except her pride.
its too late now
so now I gather up my thoughts, clean out the topmost shelves of my mind, throw away the papers
who are you now? I’ll never forget
that image of you walking down the hallway to me
like the only lantern in a dark tunnel
illuminate my path, I need you to see
that image of you
now its too dark to see you, to see me
this lonely image
who am I without you?
Green Grass
My-Eisha Wicks
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Goodness Olayiwola
Sara Monahan
Forward
By: Anna Preston
Come with?
Alright; I will.
Whisk me off, with the wind
In my hair. Take me anywhere
But back.
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Mallo and Grey
By: Amina Bility
I have you in mind,
When the day has left.
I can breathe. I can see
The tears and dramatic end
In sight and I’m relieved. Grey,
Your anatomy is my Mallo cup.
With the taste of chemicals you cup
Me in your arms and say, never mind.
Never mind to the day, grey
And dreary, it left
You in the cold with no end
Insight. But with me you can see.
Pictures dance across the screen. I see
But I don’t understand. That cup,
What does it mean in the end?
Will it show up next episode? But I pay no mind,
When it’s done it’s left,
Now a re-run old and grey.
The next night you are on again! Grey
Days turn to bright nights. To see
You again! I thought you left,
I’m a traitor! I switched to Reese’s cup,
Filled with peanut butter and sin, but you don’t mind.
True friends stick it out till the end.
For the next 60 minutes I sit at the end
Of my seat, till the night turns grey.
I ignore the world, I pay it no mind,
You are my only friend, a friend I see.
Who’s there every day. That hiccup,
What does it mean? It’s left,
For next episode. A mystery always left,
You have to see it to the end!
Do you get it? That hiccup
It’ll be there! The grey
Cloud over the next episode, you’ll see!
But you pay no mind.
All day I pay no mind, left
To see you at night, always to the end.
Grey you are great, because you changed the hiccup.
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Caroline Clark

Emerson
Swing
By: Tessa Menatian
Muddied hands grab on to two ropes, taut.
bare feet push off of dewy grass,
licked by Spring.
at last, upon the seat she sits,
crocus queen.
Push once, push twice, she soars
below squeaking bars
dizzy toes dance,
reaching for soft spring leaves,
she laughs
Nicole Canning
Humanity Against You
By: Katerina Lopez
Die or kill.
Cries hard: only lives sweetly.
Lies on saved lives.
Question the mark –
And listen carefully.
You
Against humanity
And civility and
-Humility-
And civility and
Humanity against
You.
Carefully listen and
Mark the question.
Lives saved on lies.
Sweetly lives: only hard cries.
Kill or die.
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Free Verse
By: Rachel Newman
He is Dying
My pen pal wrote to me today.
He sent me a letter
filled with knowledge and perspective.
Fruit for the brain; so sweet and delicious
was the letter he had written.
I read it real fast at first
I didn’t comprehend --
That it was possible one day
the paper might crumple to pieces or
burn in a fire at night or
the ink run off the pages or
whither away as each passing day
tallies the time
it
has
left
.
“Noo! Noo!” The paper would scream
if it could speak.
“The pen point, it hurts him!”
I cry
“Please stop!”
So I pet the exhausted paper now,
I want to resolve all his trouble,
make him feel a bit better.
But there is too much blood spilt across the page
and I don’t think anyone can save him.
So I comfort him to his death
to the best that I can,
try to give him my courage.
But I gave him all of my courage
and I have none for my self.
My pen pal wrote to me today.
But he will not tomorrow.
My pen pal has wrinkled hands.
that move his antique pen.
Press down onto the blank parchment page.
Gillian Stoddard
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Rachel Newman
Parking lot
By: Morgan Grady-Benson
Oil stains
on the asphalt
reflect my image back
as they shine in technicolor.
Poison.
Judy Blakelock
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What’s In The Bag?
By: Caroline McCance
There’s a bag in my room, leaning against my desk.
It’s the blue of a clear sky and if you pick it up you will see
It’s heavy.
What’s in the bag?
Something I wonder too.
Open it up and you’ll find books
for my classes: History, French, English, and others
I would rather not take.
Open the smaller pockets.
It’s a pencil case, with pens, and glasses
There are some gum wrappers, and a misplaced earring.
A notebook often keeps the books company,
And the laptop pops in for the occasional chat.
The calculator gets shunned; it’s for math.
Remove these, dump it all out, and there’s more.
A screw driver, in case a bike or boat breaks.
Airplane headphones, a foreign metro pass,
A flower petal, remains of a rose from a young French street vendor.
This bag’s been placesmaybe
it knows some things…
In it I keep a Tupperware of excitement,
Pulled out on plane rides, and the first day of school.
There’s a bottle full of joy and when it spills
The bag gets lighter and takes me with it.
There’s a folder full of knowledge
But it’s heavy, and I only bring it along when I’m not
Too tired.
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There’s a light shoe box restraining endless hours
Of summer fun, opened in June,
And closed earlier than anyone would like.
At the bottom is a vial of common sense,
But everything is on top of it
So it normally stays down there.
A mint tin filled with anger, used sparingly
On that unfair teacher, or overbearing parent.
Just a thimble full of sadness,
I try not to use it often.
A Ziploc full of temper, struggling to get free.
Good thing I bring some extra Duct Tape along.
And of course who knows when you may need
A bucket of optimism, a can of memories, a Nalgene of stories,
And a dumpster of love.
Good thing I’m strong, and so is the bag.
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Brandie Morris

Innocent Ignorance
By: Sera Takata
I’m hurt.
I’m about to break.
Confused and angry, I’m shaken.
But, from what I know,
They never cared.
No one ever cares, and I guess I have myself to blame.
But Mama says, “Never blame
Yourself – It’ll just make you hurt.”
Mama says, “It’s not your fault you’re scared,
You’re not the first to break.”
She thinks I wouldn’t know,
Just how badly she’d been shaken.
Not one of us more shaken
Than another. Not another’s more to blame.
For me, to know
Is to hurt,
And I know enough to break,
But the ignorant people out there are the ones that never cared.
Those that never cared-
Those that sit there unshaken-
They watch us break,
As we blame,
As we hurt.
But who would want to know?
Maybe if they could know,
Know truly how much we’re scared.
Feel like us, feel our hurt,
Feel how much we’ve been shaken
They’d see we’re not the ones to blame,
Still to late to help heal the break.
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Caroline Clark
Maybe they’d break
Like us, trying to help fight what they know.
What they were taught, and whom they taught to blame
Some are just too scared,
Most will be left unshaken,
Those are the ones who hurt.
Any more hurt and I’ll break,
We’re so shaken and they know,
But if they cared, there would be no one to blame.
Haggis Baggis
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Observation.
By: Ola Pietraszkiewicz
The vibrations and jolts of the bus are nothing more than a persistent buzz in
the back of my mind; I barely notice that I am moving at all. My eyes dart amongst the
inhabitants of the small space, shrewdly analyzing the indifferent faces of the people
around me. Some of the faces and backs of heads are familiar now, seen daily during my
commute on the Yale Shuttle. I know where they are coming from, and where they are
going. A young man sits down in front of me. He is wearing a plaid short-sleeve shirt
and khaki shorts. A messenger bag is carelessly thrown over his shoulder, and he wears
glasses. He is quite handsome. He exudes the self-conscious confidence of a medical
student; an imperceptible line separates him from some of his pretentious classmates.
He gets on at the stop in front of one of the cheaper looking apartment buildings,
where he most likely lives, I think to myself, in order to offset the cost of medical school.
As I ponder over his life, his family, and the circumstances that led to him being here, in
New Haven, on this very bus, I am struck by the realization that I do not know this man
at all. I quickly brush the thought aside, because as long as we share the loneliness of a
10-minute bus ride, we inhabit each other’s realities for an entire lifetime. Acknowledgment
of this fact comes not from deliberate salutation, but from being so alive in such
close proximity. There is an overused, almost cliché saying that expresses my mood: If
everyone learned one, heart-breaking secret about another person, the world would be
a much more compassionate place. Again and again, I find myself trying to guess what
secret my circumstantial friend is hiding. As if reading my mind, he turns around and
meets my eyes for a moment, then looks beyond me to seek out a friend or professor,
or perhaps to hide his true intent. I glance to the right, in order to hide my flushed face,
and find myself locked by the gaze of a young girl sitting across the aisle. She is perhaps
three or four, Asian, and has a ponytail at the top of her head, spurting out of its little
pink scrunchie like a fountain. She sits next to her father, a serious looking man, who
absent-mindedly looks out the window at various scenes being played out in the city. I
have seen this little girl before, and I wonder if she recognizes me, too. What does she
see? I think about how I must look: frazzled as always by the early morning commute, my
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hair is haphazardly pulled back into a messy bun, and I am struggling with my large bag in the
small seat, never sure of where exactly to place it. I am wearing my glasses instead of contacts, a
salmon colored, v-neck t-shirt, khaki capris, and Birkenstocks. Is she looking up to me, or down
at me? As with most children, I never know, or am perhaps scared of, the truth. Her unfaltering,
piercing stare forces me to look away, feeling awkward, as if she knows some unnamed secret
that I don’t wish to acknowledge. She has been observing me just as I had been observing the
young man in front of me. It makes me shudder. She has no right, I begin to think—but stop. Of
course she has a right to judge me! Just as I had spent my mornings on the shuttle determining
the course of other people’s lives, she had been busy determining mine. My appearance,
my belongings, my voice—all are used to make snap judgments about my character and values.
Suddenly, the bus jolts to a screeching stop, my stop, and I hurriedly rush up the aisle and down
the steps, exiting in front of Yale’s Sterling Medical School, late for my internship. I glance up at
the windows of the bus as it drives away, and catch the eye of the medical student, still on the
shuttle. We smile faintly to one another, and he disappears from sight, taking my misconceptions
with him.
Intertwining Snake Teapot
Melissa Pham
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Kristi Geiger
Revenge
By: Minorvi Amin
A dragon chained up with snakes of iron,
the metal links snuggly fastened as one.
His mouth brewing like a witch’s cauldron.
Nostrils flare like a fiery spray gun.
Feelings of anger shot at the baron
escaping while secretly making fun.
Planning revenge once out of this basement,
feeling rage and murder filled with torment.
Clawing and breaking free from the metal,
he ripped out of there and moaned and howled.
Crashing the door without any meddle,
he found the baron and started to scowl.
Now in his hands, the dragon won’t settle
to take a man’s life not thinking to growl.
He tore and ate him like a delicatessen,
hoping this baron would learn his lesson.
Shadows of the Night
Chase the freedom of the night,
homeless bound at reach of stars,
making shadows by the light.
Glowing beetles taking flight;
They cannot, captured in jars,
chase the freedom of the night.
Lying in the crosswalk I just might,
ignore the passing cars
making shadows by the light.
The driftwood afloat on its plight,
picked up and left with splintered scars,
chase the freedom of the night.
Lava lamp moving set just right,
adventure my dreams on a spaceship to Mars,
making shadows by the light.
Paddling a canoe while flying the kite,
following the stars with wooden oars,
chase the freedom of the night,
making shadows by the light.
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Scenic Beauty of Tears
By: Carolyne Ouya
She admires the scenic beauty of tears.
Tears that glisten with the poetic flow of a good story,
proclaiming from mountain tops, the reflection of a life well lived.
Lived in the form of rapid rivers with periodic ragged rocks,
rocks that often times pierce the side in an attempt to push it back upstream.
Rocks that sometimes pounds the heart,
reminding it to feel, to love, to live, life.
It being, her being.
She admires the scenic beauty of tears.
Tears that society views as weakness,
weakness that flows with the floetic movement of a beautiful song.
Demanding from mighty hills that she is a women, she has weakness,
and because of it
she is human.
So as she feels the dampness pour from the oracle of her eyes,
she smiles and dwells in it.
She taste the sweet saltiness of her soliloquy
She inhales the freshness of her wounds.
Wounds from the ragged rocks that pierce her sides and pounds her heart.
And she smiles for the pain and hurt
remind her that she is human,
reminds her to live life,
Entices her to paint a canvas of her heart
The heart that pours out, in the form of tears
And she smiles for she
admires the beauty of being human,
She admires the beauty of human being.
Haggis Baggis
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Before the toast to the bride
By: Sarah Goldman
The sun, it resurrects his bloody drink,
as he stands up and notes the absent rain.
And as the wind of lips begins to sink,
his mind an empty palate once again.
Until she comes once more in virgin breath,
with curls and dimples, still with growing bone;
for she had so much time until her death…
But, as his eyes gaze down on hers alone,
he sees her future and her passing hour,
and now he knows the time of her release
has come. For he no longer is of power,
of influence, of fights and times of peace.
And as he lifts his glass above the food,
he doesn’t see her as he always would.
Catching my breath.
By: Emily Waite
Puddles on the sidewalk, birds do drink.
Draw me pictures of the falling rain.
Leave the dirty dishes in the sink.
Days like this won’t come around again.
Just to watch you take your dying breath…
Winds that chill me straight to the bone
Doesn’t mean you cannot conquer death,
As I lay beside you, never alone
Hold my hand here for another hour.
Your firm grasp is my only release.
I’m aware that you have all the power,
But you know that I will hold your peace
I can’t bear to watch you swallow food
Came upon us suddenly, even though we
Alison Neuwirth
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Back cover: “Collage”, Alexandra Hagerty

Founded in 1967 by Kate Burrows, Hathaway Gamble, Candy Lee,
Linda Snyder, members of the class of 1968.