Hallmarks 2017

2017·90.3 MB·English

by  Harpeth Hall School (1951-)

Hallmarks
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Hallmarks 2017
A Literary Magazine
The Harpeth Hall School
3801 Hobbs Road
Nashville, TN 37215
Cover image (pastel drawing) by Sadie Paczosa
Back cover watercolor by Grace Claybrook
Photograph (at left) by Paige Derwenskus
Literary Contents Artwork
"Phoenixaria" by Lizzy Asad 6 "Empty" by Sadie Paczosa cover
"A Brief Biography of Loneliness" by Kelsey Kay Herring 8-9 "Shoes" by Paige Derwenskus 2
"Who" by Ella McKenzie 10 "A Tribute to My Coaches" by Jordyn Lesh 7
"Sleep Siren" by Lizzy Asad 12-14 "LA Life" by Emari Frazier 8
"Reflection" by Augusta Bryan 15 "Us" by Sarah Johnson 11
"Gap" by Kaili Wang 16 "Sinking" by Susanna Andrews 13
"Social Contract" by Anna Clarke Harrison 17 "Self Portrait" by Claire Trabue 18
"Adjectives" by Haviland Whiting 18-19 "Untitled" by Alison Rust 20
"Cracked Porcelain" by Corinne Brien 20-21 "Cancer Sticks" by Sydni Hill 23
"Urn in a Fireplace" by Grace Miller 22 "Venus" by Katie Wilkins 24
"Città del Vaticano" by Sam Lance 25 "Little Bird" by Grace Scowden 29
"Rugs" by Sophie Fuchs 26-27 "Mother's Zinnias" by Grace Scowden 32
"Winterbird" by Valerie Sheehan 28-29 "Brown Lake" by Rachel Brown 36-37
"The Woodpeckers" by Olivia Krueger 29 "Colors of Charleston" by Ana Gonzalez 39
"The Details" by Murray Hannon 30 "Beached Boats" by Josephine Fentriss 41
"Periwinkle" by Caroline Powers 31 "Four-head" by Grace Claybrook 42
"Spring" by Bianca Sass 33-35 "Dragon" by Andie LaGrone 44
"Last Ripple" by Murray Hannon 36 "Milky Way" by Paige Derwenskus 46-47
"The Blossom, the Bench, and the Grate" by Logan Moore 38 "Heart, Mind, Body" by Valerie Sheehan 48
"Morning Break" by Nealy Anderson 39 "Hermione" by Meghna Ramaiah 52
"Static Summer" by Valerie Sheehan 40 "War Knight" by Katie Wilkins 54
"Time" by Abigail Nichols 43 "Exposed" by Katie Wilkins 57
"Relativity" by Kaili Wang 43 "Butterfly Kisses" by Sadie Paczosa 58
"Jörmungandr" by Valerie Sheehan 45 "Social Inversion" by Adele Grohovsky 60
"Rising from the Deep" by Dhara Patel 47 "Winehouse, Hendrix, Jackson, Ledger" by Julia Nahley 62
"Watching the Gold Fade" by Ashley Zhu 49-50 "In Memoriam" by Helen Riley Lazenby 63
"Nightfury" by Lizzy Asad 51 "Hung" by Sydni Hill 65
"Joanne" by Grace Anne Holladay 53 "Friday Morning Murray" by Claire Trabue 67
"A Savory Bravery" by Bushra Rahman 54-55 "Sisters" by Sarah Tolbert 68-69
"Polo" by Vivian Herzog 56-57 "I Too Am America" by Karen Dordor 71
"Your Woman" by Murray Hannon 59 "A Look Within" by Ainsley Hanrahan 73
"Rainbow Thoughts" by Gaby Viner 59 "In Vein" by Sadie Paczosa 74-75
"Baggage Claim" by Emma Mathews 61 "Queen of the Bees" by Jordyn Lesh 79
"Swings" by Caroline Daniel 64-65 "Alien" by Sloan Fridrich 80
"The Man Who Works at Starbucks" by Rachel Hagan 66-67 "Dedicated to Elvis" by Margaret Gaw 83
"When Do I Feel Alive?" by Seville Croker 68 "Church down the Street" by Grace Scowden 84
"ER Waiting Room" by Sophie Fuchs 70-73 "Seeing Double" by Taylor Farrington 86
"My Kind of Ghosts" by Skye Dupree 75 "Beautiful Nightmare" by Emari Frazier 87
"Oh Father" by Augusta Bowhay 76 "Amsterdam" by Elizabeth Wood 88
"My Sister" by Sophie McKenzie 77 "Neon Nashville" by Ellie Truitt 90-91
"The Gardener" by Rachel Hagan 78 "Shotgun Rider" by Grace Claybrook back cover
"First Love" by Ella McKenzie 81 "Trials 1 and 2" by Celeste Maddux below
"A Drag-Racer's Symphony" by Marimac McRae 81
"Scenario" by Maggie Sullivan 82-83
"Remembrance" by Mary Blake Graves 85
"The Sea" by Sterling Akers 85-86
"Relief" by Marimac McRae 87
"Life Is Slow until It Isn't" by Karin Scott 89-90
Phoenixaria
Poem by Lizzy Asad
Watercolor and gouache on paper (detail)
by Jordyn Lesh
Words hide in the feathers of a voice—
They fly through flumes of sound.
Words stick to the slippery beak of speech—
They preen themselves with punctuation.
After they feed on the seed of language,
do they choke on the worms of silence?
After they slumber in the throat’s nest,
do they fear the fall from the mouth?
Where do words go to die?
The answer is this:
Words
Do
not
Die.
They take flight.
They reawaken in l e t t e r s.
Words do not fade—
they sink their claws into the bark of time’s tree.
Words do not abandon—
they shine in even the darkest ravines of thought.
Words do not die—
they
scorch
the
soul.
— 6 — — 7 —
A Brief Biography of Loneliness understated, recognition and appreciation of the other’s existence. Silence would
help Loneliness remember what the universe was and for whom it existed. Silence
kept him off the train tracks, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
or — A Love Letter to Him
Loneliness felt like a current, gently aware of its own strength. He was
painfully far away, and very, very near. Like the song in the back of your head or
tomorrow. And he loved living because he loved dying, like how the setting of the
(Probably Both)
sun is just the backdrop for its miraculous comeback story. He would never ruin a
moment with words because he understood the internal power of his friend,
Silence, and his profound ability to explain himself. Loneliness was one of those
who couldn’t be swallowed up by the world, he wouldn’t drown in it, no matter
how hard the world tried. He hated Silence sometimes because Silence couldn’t
Narrative by Kelsey Kay Herring
swim. But Loneliness always found a way to save him. Loneliness was the best life
Photograph (film) by Emari Frazier
guard. Even in the winter.
Loneliness didn’t have many enemies—one of the advantages to living the
life of a nomad. But he and No One never got along. He disliked No One the way
Loneliness always smelled of sweat and sunshine and something distinctly
men dislike other men, with cool disinterest and flaming focus. With rage, caged.
human. The sky unfurled before him, and he went out late at night, drifting
No One never noticed the eye rolls or the missed phone calls or the topic changers.
through dusty, smoky bars, drinking with the stars, reminiscing about the days
He thought they were buddies, I suppose. A part of the trinity—Loneliness,
before there were curfews and pollution. His friend, Silence, would join him, as
Silence, and No One. Silence laughed at No One sometimes, at the sheer
he always did when alcohol and sleep deprivation mixed. They didn’t talk much;
ridiculousness of it all. Loneliness never laughed, only raged.
between the hangover headaches and the pounding in their bones, there was little
And Loneliness was a mystery to No One. Loneliness skipped from job to
room for words, or worlds, or memories.
job—No One was never brave enough to ask him where he worked. No One didn’t
Loneliness loved Silence the way men love other men: a mutual, usually
even know how he got along, where he got all his money. It was possible that he
didn’t have any, but Loneliness never asked for help. His handshakes were always
strong, so No One never worried. Loneliness never invited No One over, so No One
never knew where he lived. He seemed to appear out of a sigh or a shrug of the
shoulders. No One never saw where he showered, where he ate. Loneliness wanted
it that way.
Loneliness probably wouldn’t like the idea of a biography, but I could not
think of any other way to honor him, to tell his story. He didn’t let many people in,
and Silence wasn’t about to speak up. And in risk of offending Silence, I just want
to say that I will choose Loneliness every time. Not because he was safe—he
was the kind of dangerous that accompanies dark side streets and smiles from
strangers. Not because he was easy—he was painful and confusing, and he felt like
the color gray or putting on sweatpants. Not because No One wanted him. Not
because he liked me. Not because he didn’t.
But because he always smelled of sweat and sunshine and something
distinctly human. And he always felt like home.

Sorry,
Silence.
— 8 — — 9 —
Who
Poem by Ella McKenzie
Digital art by Sarah Johnson
Who doesn’t recognize her own voice,
Who smokes sage from an apple pipe,
Whose eyes are dollar-green and quarter-round,
Who blinks like an incandescent bulb,
Who was dragged down by the stone,
Who dreams of phenomenology,
Whose future is bike rides to bus stops,
Whose future is buildings built in 1722,
Whose future is toothache,
Whose immediacy is toothache,
Whose memory is airheads, airheads and toothache,
Whose memory is Catullus,
immediacy Vergil,
future Homer,
Who takes incense, drops fire, raises crowns of virginity,
Who breaks them too,
Whose story is not to be passed,
Whose past is not to be fabled,
Whose questions consume,
Whose life is a blade,
Whose life is a vapor,
Whose life is her love,
Whose love is her helium,
her oxygen,
her carbon monoxide.
— 10 — — 11 —
Sleep Siren
Poem by Lizzy Asad
Oil on masonite by Susanna Andrews
Dicere quæ puduit, scribere iussit amor -Ovid
What I was ashamed to say, love has commanded me to write.
It starts with a fall,
A release from the too bright, too crowded mess of daylight
And ravaged birds pecking at every half-wormed idea—
the tangled ball of thoughts that will never be woven into something
tangible.
I step off from the cliff and
Fall
Into your waiting arms.
You cover my mouth with cold velvet hands
And whisper in my ear as I breathe the sweet floss of dreams.
I struggle to keep my eyes open, just to catch a glimpse of you—
But no one has ever seen you
And no one ever will.
You are
frigid black water just for drowning
slick twilight ice just for slipping
silk ravens that soar in grey rain splattered skies
the slit of a burnt candle’s throat
Embers flickering with hours past.
You are the answer to every day’s question.
Nothing can ever stop you, for you are invincible.
Let them try, you said.
I’ll have them in the end.
— 12 — — 13 —
You used to love me
because why else would you come to me every day
And hold me until the blistering sun
Burned
Your kingdom of dreams? Reflection
You used to twine lullabies into my hair
And cover my eyes with soft darkness
And although your night mares dragged me away,
Poem by Augusta Bryan
I came back
For nothing could compare to the Dream of you.
I wanted to be yours.
That is, until you left me. She returns my stare but looks away quickly.
The space between us grows.
Left me too desperate to drown, I lose sight of her;
Crave the touch of a black feather, she wanders off like a ghost.
Bare my own throat. In thunderstorms,
I see her at my feet.
You left me… At night, I see her
in windows.
I want to This broken mirror
Splinter your mind serves her no justice,
Into bone white slivers that cut reality, she feels the cracks
Shatter your wings like thorns in her face.
with one cool breath, I turn away.
Suck the minutes and marrow
Out of your bones.
I want to break you.
But no one has ever mastered you,
And no one ever will.
— 14 — — 15 —
Gap Social Contract ( )
after Rousseau
Poem by Kaili Wang Poem by Anna Clarke Harrison
When I hear the words stereotype and expectation, I have signed the social contract.
I think of the jade necklaces I’ve received
And the red string that loops through each of them. Not even I, the one with hollowed out bones,
I think of the hard-boiled egg in a few drops of soy sauce Built for being unburdened
When my mother made sure the eggs were firm, immovable. Can escape the corruption.
I think of the smoked salmon I bought at camp,
Which swam up to the surface of my consciousness to tell me that I cannot teach anyone to fly when I am stuck on the ground,
There’s a gap. So I leave my five pure un-cracked eggs under another’s wings
There’s a gap between the smoked salmon and the instant Ramen. Hoping they will escape and learn to fly,
There’s a gap between the turtleneck poncho and the Aztec patterned cardigan. Better than I ever could.
There’s a gap between the Mediterranean Gouda and the American cheddar.
There’s now a gap between me and the hard-boiled egg of my childhood, Sitting on the damp dark earth,
The yellow yolk incubated and solidified within the white shell of my peers. I pray
Recently, they found out how to unboil a boiled egg. to the heavens,
But that may lay in the future, away from Connecticut, knowing no one is listening.
Away from the Powder Puff cartoon of now. Still, I hope that someone will hear my plea
Shall I defy the odds, reverse the boil for a return to freedom,
And crack open the raw egg, for a way out of this contract,
Spilling the exposed yolk of my soul? which has rendered me flightless.
— 16 — — 17 —
Adjectives “List three adjectives about yourself.”
I blink
Again, again, again,
Syncopating to the rhythmic tick, tick
Of my watch.
Poem by Haviland Whiting Shy, logical, comical.
Painting (oil on canvas) by Claire Trabue I’m shy because I struggle with saying hi to someone
My ears ring and my cheeks sting when I receive a compliment
And…
I stop writing.
The question didn’t call for an explanation.
All they want to know about me
Are three words
And some commas.
I am in a house with three walls
With ink spilling out of my pores.
I am so alive it hurts.
The adjectives stare back at me,
As flat and expansive as the paper.
I am logical
Because girls like me
Don’t get to dream.
We live in three-walled houses,
Letting the world spin around us.
I am comical.
Funny girls don’t get their feelings hurt,
Right?
I watch the dark ink of my ballpoint pen I use irony to hide my own anxiety.
Filter into the white spaces on the paper— I have mastered the ability
Curly, winding figures becoming letters, Of wrenching a full laugh from my belly
Information Letting it burble out
That you will keep as my application, Believable and carefree
A paragraph that is meant to illustrate As a soft, shallow brook.
Why I think I deserve the spot. I stop writing.
Letting the pen balance between my index and thumb, My hand cramps and a faint pounding
I try to calculate a witty response Reverberates in the back of my head.
To the question presented. But even then,
The question itself is cold, lifeless. I start to feel the three-walled house,
I can almost hear the mocking monotony in the words: Fall Away.
— 18 — — 19 —