Photo by Jennifer Huo ’18
The Digital Photography and Creative Writing classes collaborated on this project for the 2015 Community Art Show, which has the theme of “Zoom In.” The photographers took the “zoomed in” photos and the writers used the evocative shots as inspiration for their poetry. We hope you will enjoy this interplay of words and images.
“Crimson Leaf” by Rose Parker ’17
Red leaves, mottled with bruises
clung to the limbs.
Then they fell, paper-thin.
“Harmless,” You said.
You stood there at the sidewalk’s edge,
head thrown back in laughter,
jet black hair swirling around
in a chaotic halo.
A leaf broke free,
waltzed across the sky
and pasted itself to Your face.
You stumbled back.
Uncle Turner’s car shot around
the corner and into You.
Before Your halo got a chance to settle,
the light faded from Your eyes.
Towering over the sprawling grass
insubordinate branches swayed.
Crimson leaves blotted out the sun.
“Isn’t it lovely?” You said before.
I suppose it was, in a way.
it was certainly eye-catching
in the same way as a woman
crumpled in the middle of the street.
If that is lovely,
all loveliness deserves to be leeched from the Earth.
The tree stood tall, unrepentant-
it felt no shame and no remorse.
So I showed it no mercy.
Years later I finally satisfied my vengeance,
the tree that deceived You, I reduced to a stump
never again to assassinate.
“Inquisitive” by Michael Lee ’15
I find a red leaf on the ground.
Surrounded by trees chock full of green,
A second red leaf appears,
And a third.
Amongst the brown and green life,
And the white-blue light,
There is no trace of red,
Save these three leaves.
Crunching my way along the nature path,
I see the sign of a supposedly electrified fence,
(surrounded by urban development)
Yelling “Danger”,
Being red.
Red-tipped wooden posts
Indicate that everything must come to an end.
Stepping out of the woods,
I feel the sun’s heat on my back.
I don’t dare look at it for fear of eternal night,
But I know the sun is red enough
To crayon it in orange, yellow, red.
Photo by Jared Caputo ’17
“Wafflictus” by James Marcucci ’16,
After “Invictus” by William Earnest Henly
Under whatever syrup covers them,
Sticky as glue from front to back.
I thank whatever chefs may listen
For my delicious snack.
In the harsh hold of my small claws,
It squishes, spilling syrup on my fingers.
Under my ravenous tearing jaws
The sweet flow of sugar gives me shivers.
I grow, leaving that perfect palace of pastries
And there is no junk food in sight
When I think back to the meals of my memories,
I can’t taste them, try as I might.
Now, I sit alone in a nursing home,
No visitors to bring me sweets.
But, each night I sneak alone
and eat my syrup-coated treats.
“For Those Who Don’t Understand Waffles” by Kiran Damodaran ’17
Eggs and toast,
Toaster strudel,
Last night’s dinner,
Just about every food can be made
Into breakfast.
But nothing beats the traditional—
The unchanging—
The pancakes
The waffles
The French toasts
Of the world.
“Don’t you ever get tired of them?” people ask.
I shake my head at their ignorance
For they must have never truly experienced
The wonders of the waffle.
Coated in syrup,
Topped delicately with a dabble of whipped cream—
Music to my mouth.
“Indian Corn” by Emma Hoffman ‘16
Rows of amber ridges
Photo by Hunter Schone ’18
“Traffic” by Betsy Zaubler ’17
Searching for faces behind windshields
Photo by Nick Wecal ’17
“Toy Cars” by Steve Bonsall ’16
Rugged axles squeak,
grinding against plastic tires.
Gravel spits out the back
as the tires take time to get traction.
I feel it swing to my right.
Then swiftly to my left.
Quickly jerking me forward.
Every rotation
shapes small ridges
into the road’s perfectly flat surface.
The car squeezing tightly
against the thin platform.
Plunging gears and flooring acceleration
the speed demon smoothly pushes ahead of traffic
Slowly passing
nearby skyscrapers with tape hugging the edges.
only advancing
by a steady lip trail.
The engine roars with intensity,
echoing through the busy streets.
Once in a uniform line on the wires above,
the pigeons erupt from their tranquility.
A final effort chugs
the ‘speed demon’
off the edge.
Speed prevails,
and brings my car victory.
Through the taut ribbon,
my car soars.
Checkered flag waving.
“Zooom!” by Joshua Martin ’16
Keep going!
Don’t turn back to
see
the accident you made
Can you really blame
anyone but yourself?
Photo by Durga Srivatsan ’18
“In A Bug’s Life Theatre” by Haley Mudrick ’15
Plastic wooden benches
are only good in a fire
when Christmas trees burn—
enlightened,
brightened,
and leaving children
frightened
for the sake of the presents
they weren’t able to grab
on their way out of a Grand Californian Suite
five days past Christmas.
High ceilings hold oxygen to fuel
the flames for a while,
but the sky’s capacity
is infinite.
I sit on a plastic wooden bench
in a darkened theatre and
wait for natural light
to brighten up the room in blood orange
devil tongues.
Spreading from the bulbs,
blood orange chrysanthemums crackle.
The needles burn and crumble,
secular ornaments crack on the tile,
the tinseled trunk creaks,
the star hides behind blood orange curtains.
The fire’s many arms all reach for the sky
and I pray it doesn’t grab it
because the sky’s capacity is infinite
and plastic melts.
Photo by Ben Kany ’18
“Explosion” by Andrew Hutchinson ’17
Pop
Brown
Kernels
Pop
Like a
Butterfly
Breaking from
Its cocoon
Pop
To form
Something new
Pop
Cadmium yellow
Buttery
Salty
Sweet
Rising
Morphing
Changing
Photo by Francesca Badalamenti ’18
“Depression” by Gabrielle Poisson ’17
She spent her looking
glass life
slowly falling apart,
a snowflake
sifting through breeze.
Each morning she thought of baked bread
and the feeling of flour on dry skin:
the way it is too soft to touch
and too thick to taste.
She kissed each day like a challenge,
but shattered into shards of broken sand castle
the moment she entered her empty bed.
She lit candles that smelled like maple trees
in the hope she’d dream of a forest
with tall trees,
little cottages,
woodsmen to cut her out of wolves’ bellies.
She thought of sailing away
in a quilt on the floor;
her own riverboat,
she the captain.
She felt the wonders of the world.
Travelled oceans, continents, and clouds in the span of an empty moment.
But the past was beautiful only as long as she was willing to relive it,
so she went back to sleep
because she craved the feeling
of night wrapping her in a blanket.
until the stars became too sharp,
they made her bleed nightmares.
She was so afraid to die,
and yet, even more,
to live.
“Recovery” by Anonymous
Rapt euphoria,
I replaced reality
with strapping sensation:
but my heart could not handle my impulse,
my brain deteriorated,
destroyed by delirium.
I woke up the next morning
to the dull sensation of her teardrop
on my forearm,
“You came back,” she said,
with dark makeup dripping
down her hollow cheekbones.
I remember the days when her cheeks
plumped, jovial,
we would walk through the park
and her hazel eyes stared with sheer admiration
When the clouds grew gray,
and our passion grew dull
we tried to distract ourselves to pretend it was ok
but the more she filled her nostrils
the more the filler stole her beam.
Together we snickered
At our self-imposed peril.
I didn’t remember what it felt like
for my heart to stop,
until the day hers did:
Because after she left,
through trembling, tears and a feverish sweat,
I did not inhale the particles of the demon.
I relinquished them along with her ashes,
walking through the park,
with only the confused glare of children,
who had yet to feel the pain I did.
Photo by Maddie Christmann ’17
“The Sunday Classic” by Karina Mehta ’16
I skipper down the stairs,
in my fuzzy snowflake PJs,
stomach grumbling.
The newspaper crinkles,
the roasted coffee beans leak a potent flavor,
my eye falls to the scrumptious waffles.
I inhale the goodness of breakfast,
the sticky syrup,
artificial butter.
Spreading, pouring,
cutting the circle
into fours.
My mouth salivates,
my jaws unhinge
and I snap my teeth, ripping inward.
Butter and syrup mix,
a celebration in my mouth.
Sensational.
Eager for more,
I go for the next bite,
and another, and another, and another.
Until I look down at where it all went,
my reflection on the plate starring back at me,
satisfied and large.
One more week until my next Sunday classic.
Photo by Eva Verzani ’17
“Folded Secrets” by Mollie Wohlforth ’15
Craning necks
broke,
crumpling down
making sure to hit every rung.
We were only trying to see
what came next.
Bruises
like post-it note
reminders
oozed onto the scene,
stretching wider
as they came to the surface
of our innocent, inquisitive skin,
reveling in their new found
playground.
They were every color,
but we were not ones to give up
the search.
Just wait a little bit longer,
they told us,
gazing earthward at our curiosity .
When you’re older,
once you get bigger.
Meanwhile, we still hinged
higher,
our toes carving their own
foothold niches in the gray concrete of their walls,
our dinner plate eyes darting upward to glimpse
what they had hidden.
They kept secrets there,
folded up on little slips of paper
they threw over to the other side.
When you’re grown, they said.
Then it’ll all decode.
They didn’t tell us that
even the Amazons weren’t tall enough to see.
