COVER: Miriam Benavente ‘16

Apple, Apple, Motts, Apple Unknown Artist

TABLE OF CONTENTS ARTWORK

 

Miriam Benavente ‘16 Cover

Apple, Apple, Motts, Apple – Unknown i

Unknown Artist ii

Frank Brown (Faculty) 1

Tristyn Naile ‘16 2

New Shoes – Logan Metzel ’15 3

Various Artists 4

Lydia Yost ’16 5

Noah Terrill ’16 6

Josef Kundl ’14 7

Planets Series – Natalie Casanova ’15 8, 11, 14

Peace – Noah Terrill ’16 15

Abby Sowder ’16 17

CAT – Ian McCormick ’14 18

Some Flowers – Reilly Houck ’14 19

Tristyn Naile ’16 20

Matias Day ’14 22

Grendel – Erik Lee and Paul Rice ’14 23

Grendel – Alex Noya and Allison Weil ’14 23

Grendel – Unknown Artist 25

Unkown Artist 27 Unknown Artist

Dreamer Caroline George ‘14 I dreamed a dream Of a dreamer of dreams. Yawning within darkness I was overcome By concepts brimming with togetherness undone, His thoughts, my thoughts were far from holy. A dreamer he was, These dreams I hate, As his demons waited In salivation for my fate. This dreamer was I, But I was not he. Alas! This thought has eluded me.

Untitled Frank Brown

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When Death Comes Mary Oliver When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox; when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility, and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular, and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence, and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth. When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Analysis of “When Death Comes” Logan Metzel ‘15

Mary Oliver’s free verse poem, “When Death

Comes,” meditates on the natural course of life and death. The spiritual and female voice of the poem seriously, yet vibrantly captures the common curiosity in humans regarding the feelings and aftermath of death. Oliver’s use of symbolism, personification, repetition, and alliteration throughout the poem helps to smoothly guide the reader to the conclusion that death is indeed going to arrive, regardless of how one’s life is spent. The majority of the poem contemplates the many forms of death, leading to Oliver’s personal ending summary of what she wants and doesn’t want to do with the rest of her days on this planet.

Oliver creates a rural setting in the poem, incorporating natural imagery and similes. For example, in line 2, her straightforward simile, “hungry bear in autumn;” suggests that death is usual, expected, and comes with the season. The poet also uses earthly imagery in describing life: “and I think of each life as a Artwork: Tristyn Naile ‘16

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flower, as common / as a field daisy,” (lines 15-16). This stanza in particular describes life as a a unique normality. The use of the word, “field,” suggests life as a community. Oliver also uses the brief image of an iceberg in line 8, suggesting the shocking chill of death as it comes to extinguish a heart’s warmth “between the shoulder blades.”

The short title, “When Death Comes,” quickly introduces to the reader the repetitive clause in the poem, lessening the importance of the line and shortening the reader’s time spent contemplating it. Speaking of repetition, Oliver’s utilization of the literary tool parallels with the repetition of the cycle of life and death. She repeats the phrase, “I look upon,” in the fifth stanza, which ultimately serves the purpose of “zooming out” in terms of view/standpoint. Other repetitive clauses are introduced during the turning point of the poem (stanzas 9-12). The ninth stanza begins with, “When it’s over,” to introduce Oliver’s positive goals: “I want to say all my life / I was a bride married to amazement. / I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.” The poet utilizes personification here: “amazement” as the groom and “world” as the bride. These lines also reveal the poet’s intention to extract everything out of life, from every possible angle. In the next stanza, Oliver repeats, “When it’s over,” to alternatively introduce the next repetitive phrase, “I don’t want to…” This repetition brings the poem to a single, ending line: “I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” The isolation of this one line in the poem symbolizes the terse ending of death.

Logan Metzel ‘15

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In taking a closer look at Oliver’s descriptions of death, one can see the many forms that the word takes on. In the first stanza, death is an animal (bear). Next, death is a man who “comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse / / to buy me…” In the second stanza, death is a physical state or illness (measle-pox). Additionally, the second stanza includes surprising words such as, “snaps,” “shut,” and “pox,” in order to instill in the reader the surprise feeling of death. Next, death is an obstacle (iceberg). Lastly, death is in the disguise of a shelter: “what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?” It’s important to dig deeper into this line, as it is the only rhetorical question in the poem (before a line-break). The placement of “cottage of darkness” at the end of the line emphasizes how death becomes a new, isolated home for a soul. Also, the question helps the poet get on the same level as the reader. Oliver shares her uncertainty and curiosity about death, creating a welcoming and friendly feeling before the reader jumps into deeper meaning in the rest of the poem.

The fifth stanza begins with an enjambed line which

isolates the word, “everything,” pointing out the vastness of the world/life and further “zooming out” of the picture for the reader. The following line includes the words, “brotherhood,” and, “sisterhood,” again revealing Oliver’s view of communal living. This theme, along with the masculine representation of death in the first stanza, causes the reader to identify the poet as a transcendentalist. Speaking of world views, without prior research, one may begin to question Oliver’s religious views as she curiously considers “eternity as another possibility.”

 

Various Artists 4

Oliver writes the next three stanzas as couplets, isolating the concrete images to concentrate the reader’s attention on a life as a flower, a name as music, and a body as a lion. These three images address the common components of human life. Firstly, the poet “zooms in” through the description of a flower. Next, Oliver incorporates alliteration in the seventh stanza: “and each name a comfortable music in the mouth.” When read aloud, this line becomes a kind of music which takes some effort to pronounce. However, this music comes to an abrupt end in the next line: “tending, as all music does, toward silence,” (line 18). Oliver cleverly places the word before a line break emphasizing the silence and suddenness of death. Lastly, the poet “zooms out” again with, “earth” at the end of the eighth stanza.

Initially, readers might label Mary Oliver’s “When Death Comes” as depressing and haunting. However, upon delving into the rich imagery and symbolism, they discover the poet’s hope and belief that there is time to seize the remainder of her life on earth. Oliver does not come off as fearful throughout her poem of observation. Rather, she beautifully and artistically conveys her awareness of the usual fear of death and its causes.

Lydia Yost ‘16

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Gun Control Jack Huntress ’14

I am a huge supporter of gun control, and think that everyone should feel the same way. I

mean, without gun control, you would never hit the target. Gun control involves the combination of a steady hold on the gun, and a tight squeeze of the trigger. Ammunition costs are always rising, so it would be rather silly to take clumsy shots and miss the target. Simply take the example of an armed robber busting through your door. If you have a family to protect, and a gun in your hand, it would not be prudent to wildly fling to gun around and shoot for the best. You need to have good gun control, or else you might put a hole in your wall or break your TV, all while letting the intruder attack you. By supporting gun control, you let the robber know that the front door stays locked not for your protection, but for his.

What is that I hear, that gun control is actually supposed to mean gun restriction? Claims that gun restriction would decrease gun violence and prevent the shootings of schools and public places thus making places “safer” are heard everywhere. This makes perfect sense, to take away all the guns from the good guys, leaving them available for all the criminals. Besides, guns don’t even kill people. I left my gun unlocked and outside all day once, and it didn’t even try to kill anyone. Actually, people kill people. Therefore, I have come up with a proposal that I think could solve the problem. We could make pointer fingers unlawful. The entire shot revolves around the finger squeeze of the trigger. Therefore, if we just cut off everyone’s first finger, we couldn’t shoot anything. Not even the criminals could shoot us. And why would we stop at just banning firing fingers. There are a plethora of objects that can be used to kill people. While we’re at it, let’s go ahead and ban scissors, knives, forks, spoons, bats, wrenches, and power tools. One might think that with all these dangerous objects banned, there would be no possible way for violence to happen. Unfortunately, evil people will always find a way to carry out their evil. For example, the

Untitled Noah Terrill ‘16

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human sees an automobile as an invention used to comfortably travel to different places in a short period of time. But an evil man, on the other hand, views the same car as a two-ton projectile that can reach speeds over 100 mph and can easily overpower large masses of innocent humans. This being said, the car should also be restricted. But do not forget the chair, which could be used to slam somebody over the head. Not to mention to pencils, tables, doors, lamps, bricks, computers, TV’s, dumbbells, and alarm clocks. Each and every one of these objects can be used to hurt another individual. Imagine living with just about everything banned. It would be complicated, because soon enough trees, rocks, and water would also be banned. Keeping up with all of the things that need to be banned would be very overwhelming. Luckily, I have a much better proposal. I did say that people kill people. So then we should just ban people. Guns, along with just about every other object, could be free, but all the people could be locked up. We could even change the Constitution to begin with “We the AR-15’s”. If we banned people, then there would be a decrease in overpopulation and a decrease in global warming (since people also somehow cause that as well). Since guns do not need food, water, exercise, friends, employment, entertainment, knowledge, religion, politics, experience, or even clothes, since they are in fact inanimate, society would be a lot more easygoing. Thus, everyone would be in a better mood. So, if you are to piece everything together, one could say that by banning people but letting guns run free, you are creating an atmosphere where everybody is more relaxed.

Untitled Joseph Kundl ‘14 7

The Star Arianna Pouzar ‘14

“When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance

Drive the nations together, Who can stand?”

—  William Blake

Every house stands silent. The Night is warm and stifling, though a cool zephyr tousles the Heat, taunting its presence. The Stars freeze and the Moon grimaces over the grime of the rues.

In the City, a single window glows golden in the Darkness. Inside, a white-coated figure paces against white walls, over white tile. Clippity-click-clack the heels tap, against the floor. Painstaking and exact, pristine lines crisscross acrossthe clipboard: ones, twos, threes, and fours festoon the door.

“Only a little while, if the numbers tell right;

For a great and terrible thing shall pass tonight.”

TTT

Several flights of stairs below that strange laboratory, in a darkened cell, the walls close in, their musty breath hot against the prisoners’ necks. A shard of glass hangs high against the ceiling, and the prisoners catch their faces, wan in the worn reflection:

Planets 1 Natalie Casanova ‘15

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“Weathered faces shadowy and upturned, The people lifted their hands

In supplication And raised their voices,

And beat upon the Earth A wild throbbing Pulse that spiraled, ebbed

and rose and flowed Thrashing, writhing

With the low-rolling growl, Of their matched and murmured cries.”

Many a night they sit there packed together, half beast half man, jeering at each succeeding hour until Morning. For each Morning, a whistling warden fetches the unhappy inmates and leads (yet again) to the white-tiled room and:

“The balding little rodent men In white coats,

Carrying odd instruments. They bound the people

With wires, And pinched their temples with peculiar-

prong-things. The men, they scrib-scrip-scrabbled

Like squirrels Upon tiny tablets,

And clicked their tongues,

And clip-cloppedied briskly ‘Round and round the examination altar.

Each subject would glance about, catching his own eye in the mirror

And start at the face he met: Sallow, Misfortune tugging down at his lips.

He would at himself, in jest — For too well did he comprehend the ‘tests’.”

After the tests, the rodent men yell sharply; the door to the white room creaks open, and the same dreary warden drives the prisoners back to their cell.

He never whistles on the way back.

When he leaves the Prisoners, their eyes follow the Sun as it arcs across the sky, and they spit at each succeeding hour until Dusk. Each night progresses as its predecessor: cold and still and stale.

But this Night prickles with fear and pulses with a cold fever.

And all the Stars bleed poison…

TTT

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… As a little lithe something slinks past the cell’s barred window.

The Cat slides, slinks, and slithers her way to the rooftop. Observing the city spill over the landscape, decrepit and grim and insignificant — from above, the houses might be but toys crushed beneath a misjudged step!

She hears the Houses groan with the weight of the Sadness

That overflows from the cobblestones. It gushes from the houses, Bleeds from the churches,

And quietly roars through the streets. Creeping up

Around every structure It slithers through the windows and walls.

Everywhere, but evidently nowhere, None recall how the city got here.

Has anything changed? Anything at all?

Something has changed in the City. The Cat remembers days when every man, woman, child, and rat in the City thronged in the streets shouting joyfully at a black-clad procession of armed men.

Every day she observed this ritual.

And every day, the people’s cries grew fainter, until no one yelled ‘Hurrah!’ anymore, or dared to creep out into the street and note that ghastly procession.

Since that time, the Cat saw an odd Uncertainty shroud the people’s faces; it haunted the City…

Still the Cat knows not how to name it, but she feels that Sadness lap at her paws.

She has often seen that invisible Monster follow some citizen with its eyes, skulking in the windows of the Houses or the gloom of some alley.

She has watched it prowl, hunting the City. Tonight she hears the Sadness, that Monster, growl, preparing to pounce for the last time: the City has wrought destruction on itself, choking beneath years of oppression and disconnection.

The City must die.

The Cat fears to descend from her perch.

No, indeed, from the rooftops, she can breathe for a while yet.

TTT 10

Planets 2

Natalie Casanova ‘15

Meanwhile, a raggle-taggle Gypsy Girl huddles by the City Hall. Four days and she has not eaten nor has she slept, for when last she slept her dreams turned to Horrors:

“She dreamt that flaxen tresses Cascaded from her head.

They coiled around an iron bar Bolted firm to the wall

Of a dreary sunlit chamber by the hall. The strands wrapped, serpentine, tighter,

Of their own will, Straining her neck, setting flames to her scalp.

She ripped them, The pale golden threads,

From ‘round the bar; She plucked them from her head.

Perchance she glimpsed her face in the looking-glass: Spectral, and two eyes,

Tinged the blue of the wild Blue Yonder, Gazed back across the glass. “’Tis not I, not I!” she cried

As iron fetters bound her hands, And a thought her mind crossed

That she soon would die By some mysterious,

Irrevocable mischance.”

Such were the Nightmares that kept her awake at Night, so that in four days she has not rested nor moved one inch from the wall!

And her people are all gone. 11

She knows not where.

Last she saw them, they were herded, shoved together like sheep, and locked away inside a dark cell:

With such recollections, the Night grows colder, and the breeze breathes, threatening, to extinguish the girl’s candle light.

No one ventures out tonight.

She gazes blankly at nothing, and chants low:

“Hi-ho! The prince is dead

And the king is fall’n in the can.

His serfs stole out over the sand. Hobble-dee wobble-dee roo!

There’s a witch in the sky, Said the queen shall die.

Hobble-dee wobble-dee Hobble-dee wobble-dee

Hobble-dee wobble-dee doo!”

She chants awhile, while…

TTT

… In the Heart of the City, a Poet observes the

Stars through a puff of smoke. Macabre verses

parade across his countenance; he chuckles and turns from the window.

Across the room, a book lies on the table, and he opens it, musing: a diary, but someone has concealed each line with white paint.

Why? He wonders: whose thoughts does he hold in his palm, and who saw fit to hide them?

And why?

He browses the pages, blank after seemingly blank sheet, increasingly perplexed. In the bottom right corner of the last page, a tiny symbol catches his eye: two lines, one long and vertical, intersected by a shorter, horizontal line.

Something stirs in his mind; the symbol appears familiar, but he cannot place it…

Beside it, crammed into the margin, a line catches his eye:

“And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth,

holding the four winds of the earth, that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the

sea, nor on any tree.”

—Revelation 7:1

Shivers quiver this Poet’s spine; 12

All hushes, still, without the house.

Trembling, he rushes for paper and quill,

And writes the following lines:

“What dark portents stand In snowy robes, there outside the door?

They beckon with pale fingers And features as none I’ve seen before!

Dark shadows from the unseen realms, I quake beneath thy gaze:

Eyes clear as the Night into which I fade. Alas! They watch beyond the window;

Nearer my form in bed they creep. So near, they leer

And lift me. Cradled in their arms, we fly.

We leave the land behind.”

He once overheard an old woman timidly recounting a time when Humankind honoured Higher Powers: singing songs and pouring libations, dedicating verses and burning sacrifices to some being they christened ‘God’.

But that was a long time ago.

Since then, society has changed. People have ceased to seek significance. Each morning the sun rises over a greyer world, one in which no one can discern whether they have forgotten the Important Things, or realized that They never existed.

No matter.

For now, what Light blazes yonder he wonders, and washes the City in white?

TTT

Across the City the white-coated man and his Prisoners below, the Cat on the rooftops, and the Gypsy in the cold, and the Poet all watched, mesmerized, a Light so bewitchingly bright erase the Night:

And an orb swelled from the Sky,

Severing itself from the fabric of the Night, Weaving tranquility into terror.

Every eye glistened With the reflection of this Star

As it descended, stately and inevitable,

Through the Atmosphere towards Earth.

They observed their Sun succumb, Their moon flicker out

Against the Orb;

All echoed empty beneath its leering light, Burning black and brilliant, As It devoured the Night…”

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… Devoured the Night, the Day, and the whole World into its vacuum, absorbing all of all the Nothings and Everythings; thus that the Light became everything that was, the only thing that is, and the only thing that will ever be.

“So, away one, all, and every!

Children, to bed.

There will be no tomorrows, anymore.”

Planets 3

Natalie Casanova ‘15

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Danny Glover Caroline George ‘14

My work of art: a latex glove named Danny Glover. Let me explain. My brother, Joey, was born with a rare genetic disorder known as Cystinosis, in which crystals form

in the body due to an overproduction of the hormone cysteine. He is one of the oldest survivors of the condition. According to genetics, only one child out of four will be entirely unaffected by this crippling condition. Why am I that child?

I, too, should be sick. Or dead. Right? Not a day goes by where this thought does not emerge from the deepest recessions of my mind and

take hold. I recognize that siblings of chronically ill children often have behavioral problems; however, these children never met Danny Glover, my creative inspiration.

Danny Glover was not one man. He was not a work of Picasso or a feat of literary genius. No, he found his dwelling in hundreds of different sheets of latex cut into the shapes of hands throughout my brother’s hospital stays.

One of my first childhood memories is of my father blowing air into a hospital glove and bringing it to life with a Sharpie. The hours he would spend putting on shows for my mother and me as we waited for Joey to finish a test are innumerable; accordingly, the copious amount of laughter that came out of a hospital room had the nurses questioning our sanity.

You are in a hospital. Be sad. Danny Glover refused. I refused. A second, weaker memory is walking into my mother’s bedroom and seeing tears stream down her

cheeks. We had just learned that, due to a kidney stone, my mother could not give my brother, now in renal failure, a kidney. I went and held onto my mother, who was in the fetal position, despite the fact that I did not know what was happening.

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A second, weaker memory is walking into my mother’s bedroom and seeing tears stream down her cheeks. We had just learned that, due to a kidney stone, my mother could not give my brother, now in renal failure, a kidney. I went and held onto my mother, who was in the fetal position, despite the fact that I did not know what was happening.

The next day we went back to the hospital and, to my surprise, there was the same Danny Glover from the previous day, slightly deflated, but still smiling. To this day, I have yet to experience a more

Untitled Abby Sowder ‘16 17

profound work of art. This story may sound childish or silly, but Danny Glover and my parents’ resilient attitudes toward

life are the two most defining factors that make me Caroline George. Danny Glover would not have felt guilty for being born without a particular gene - and neither do I.

Instead, I feel blessed. I had the unique opportunity to witness what the faith and endless hope my parents possessed accomplished: my brother’s survival.

I have the ability to laugh despite defeat because I am fully aware that God’s plan always prevails. I believe that the most insightful works are found in the every day, with God being the artist.

Danny Glover directed me towards a career path in nursing or physical therapy in which I fully intend to utilize the fierce empathy I feel towards others as a result of how I spent my formative years. I desire to be a light, my own work of art, just as he was to me. Above all else, I want to bring people in pain a moment of solace.

Perhaps one day someone will write about how I was their work of art within a college essay. I wish I could tell Danny Glover how much he meant to me, but thankfully our days in the hospital

are now few and far between. Even his absence is a reminder of how suffering may seem all-consuming, but it is only a fleeting

moment in time. You see, I am not sick. I am not dead. I am alive and well. Because of this, I will not focus on what could have been and live for what

CAT Ian McCormick ‘14 18

Some Flowers

Reilly Houck ‘14

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Toiletry Anonymous

I am a restroom aficionado; rarely

does the stark gleam from incandescent bulbs of irrelevant voltage against alabaster linoleum, or better, marble, escape my cultured eye. I have spent more time locked away in washrooms than men twice my age. I recognize the masterpiece presented in a freshly sanitized commode that retains faint, fragrant traces of lemon and bleach.

For over 1,460 days and 19,710 meals, I resided within these beautiful cubic hubs, fanatically praying to the porcelain God. I was severely bulimic. My parents, never suspicious of my voracious appetite or of the erratic, furtive behavior displayed during meal time, were only slightly more than aghast when finally, as the urging of my primary care physician, I admitted to them my taboo religious affiliation. What I viewed as a personal jihad on combating the collectivized contextual conservation of cultural confinement within physical constraints, my parents called crazy. They did not, could not, would not understand why any healthy person would engage in this behavior. Specifically I remarked, in the cliché, “We all have vices, so what? I won’t get out of life alive”. Unamused

by my humor, immediately I was swept off into a tsunami of psychiatric jargon and

Untitled Tristyn Naile ‘16

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Bulimia was never the issue. Although inconvenient, disordered eating didn’t eradicate all motivation to succeed, nor did it cause an immense amount of turmoil; it was a character quirk- intrinsic. Just as John Doe may have had cretaphobia (irrational fear of chalk), I was bulimic (and cretaphobic!). This statement of complacency, however, obliterated my accustomed routine. Being forced to recover hit me harder than H1N1 paranoia hit the WHO in ’10; during the midst of my sophomore year, my schedule became Medicated Monday, Tumultuous Tuesday, Woeful Wednesday, Therapy Thursday, and Freudian Friday. My full schedule of varsity gymnastics and conglomeration of 6 AP and Honors classes became, incredulously, the least stressful facet I faced.

My mindset remained buttressed against psychotherapy and pharmacology until the threats of getting uprooted to Walker Wellness Center almost prevailed. Spending one begrudging night, against every ounce of musterable will-power in Children’s Medical Center, enlightened me to the extent of detriment I unnecessarily burdened upon my person, both physically and mentally. Accepting help catapulted my recovery. Six months later, not a trace of illness lingered. The SSRIs, MAOIs, and anxiolytics had been weaned from their deluding concoction and refined to a simple dose of Prozac. I finished the school year, miraculously, with a 103.39 GPA, 5s on both my psychology and world history AP exams, and an acceptance letter to Bishop Lynch High School.

Dealing with bulimia and the coinciding depression, insomnia, and anxiety without a doubt was the paramount to all my prior experiences. Conquering my demon ignited me with a passion for nutrition and health: I began exercising regularly and applied the compulsive tendencies towards food into cooking organic gourmet meals. (Thanksgiving since, has been my charge- turkey through adorning side dishes.) Last year, pursuing my newfound adoration of fitness, I convinced Bishop Lynch’s power lifting coach to allow me to be the first female lifter in its 50-year history. This year I’ve picked up pole vaulting and secured a spot on varsity track. I’m currently working towards a 500-hour yoga certification through 21

Sunstone, so that I will have a renewing love for my job. I aspire to get an IFBB Pro Bodybuilding card before graduating college- while double major in computational neuroscience and molecular biochemistry with a minor in business.

More than that though, I am a Yes Man. I want to help others reach their potential. I understand that nothing is inconceivable and that sharing in my experiences could support those struggling to persevere. Changing cognition alters the course of one’s life, and if I can relate that to others and demonstrate my passions for life and constant enrichment, I will be content with any other success.  

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Grendel Galen Wallace & Shannon Lotti ‘14

White pustules, thoughtful concrete Of a premature decay coats the skin Ability alienates, sight blindly spiteful makes That which neither drowsily nor wakefully walks.

Sundry hues, perpetually cyclical, each altering The next. Blackness consuming, by blackless consumed cannot be; Skinless scars stretch thickly, windingly over grottoes of bones. Taut ropes, gristle and straps of sinew Tent charred, oozing canvas-flesh; the body in its magnitude exceeds boundaries by nature outlined In the beast. It defies, spits upon and ridicules these boundaries

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Pau

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Alex Noya & Allison Weil ‘14

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Boar’s heads minced, shaped precariously, oh how it slips over shoulders broad, over horrible Mountains of deformed, misplaced design. Bristles, dead and hard, rot forth from the thing. Talons, bony manifestations of a pursued quarry’s last breath, jutting painfully, Wistfully, even, out from heavy and broad digits.

Thought within bubbles up without, blistering Ideals oozing existential pus, and tears wax-paper Tissues, spilling judgment out into a world unaccustomed to Even the mild assertions of hairless apes.

That which walks neither drowsily nor wakefully Between us and a void possessed of, strangely, no substance, Has come to realize that they who define monstrosity Are themselves possessed of no right in definition.

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Born down through the mere, That quelling pool of disgust and evil, Did live a horrendous beast, spawned by darkness. The creature, Grendel was its name, grew within its world, Surrounded by terminal walls, pestered by unknown beasts, Was neglected the sound of its mother’s voice! It did not understand… Eve’s passed, and the fiend grew. Its childish games grew dull, as a sword would without use from its master. Its simple fantasies deemed themselves unworthy, And so, the demon sought difference. Casting into the realm of men, the foolish imp Placed itself at the murderous and calculating tusks of men. Only did the dastard survive due to its mother’s awareness. The monster grew, calculating its own movements, growing ever aggressive and ragged, And with its experiences in the new world, its old innocence began to evaporate. So long ago could the Mephistopheles be considered virtuous, Now, the stinking brute had nothing but evil intent. With a damned fire burning in its belly,

Grendel Zachary Stuart ‘14

Unknow

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Grendel came to look at men with a new light. The djinn saw how their usefulness equated to him, And as the ravishing sensation bloomed within it to the point of rupturing, It made its move, In the devil’s black night, As the coalescing darkness continued to gather, So did its thirst… Only to be quenched with guiltless blood. The hellion began its cursed raids. Breaking into the hall of the noble Dane Hrothgar, Killing with glee. The king of Danes against a prince of darkness. The scoundrel gnawed and ripped, tore and gorged, Snapped and disemboweled, Like a pack of bewitched wolves, his claws soiled the hall. Those who were unlucky enough to be within Grendel’s murderous reach, Left in the bloody wake.

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BL SCHOLAR STAFF Coordinator: Mr. Stuart Kantor Editor-in-Chief: Jennifer Dorn ‘14 Layout Editors: Hana Kurihara ‘14, Courtney Koch ‘14

How to Get Published in BL Scholar

If you are interested in being published in the BL Scholar Literary Arts Magazine, please submit y o u r w o r k t o M r . S t u a r t K a n t o r a t stuart.kantor@bishoplynch.org. Suggestions for submissions include paintings, photography, rhetorical essays, research papers, poetry, prose, as well as any other work that you would like to showcase. Please include your name, class year, and the title of your piece.

Unknown Artist 27