Painted Words Art & Literary Magazine 2012

p a i n t e d w o r d s

north brunswick township high school | art & literary magazine | 2011 - 2012 | volume 26

e d i t o r ’ s n o t e

In the creation of this year’s P������ W����, we began at the beginning of life. We used as a basis a ternary theme: roots, growth, and reflection, the first and second of which were illustrated on the cover. Although our theme is not the most conceptually original, we made every effort to make it stand out among other roots-, growth-, and reflection-based magazines. This year, we took a layout risk that will perhaps mark a turning point in P������ W���� history: we freed ourselves from the confinement of template, yet, somewhat paradoxically, managed to maintain what we like to call “classy consistency.”

We stressed growth, the progression of life, by ordering our photographs and writing in chronological order according to images and impressions that are indicative of a particular period in everyone’s life. As rain refreshes old life and brings new life to earth, never failing to signify birth whether literally or figuratively, a photograph of grass and rain introduces this book. From there, the point of birth or rebirth, we move through the stages of life, pointing to the emotions that scatter the seeds to meaningful, artistic expression. Some are truly poignant, some are too predominant in existence to be worthy of attention beyond their moment in the spotlight, and some are so concealed that their very existence is doubted or denied.

You will witness chapters on childhood (remember crayons? remember eating them, some of you?), reckless and revolutionary teenage years, abandonment, the power of society, falling in love, thinking that you have fallen in love, painful disillusionment, plateaus, wrath, nostalgia, liberation, forgiveness, the acquisition of wisdom. Death. Remembrance.

The final page of artistic content is a photograph of eggs, which, like grass and rain, are a telltale symbol of birth. We are back at the beginning. After all, doesn’t the progression of life lead invariably to the cycle of life?

In your hands at this moment, you have in essence the journey of living—all of its stages, ages, sorrows, regrets, joys, memories, and beauty—depicted the way most of us will remember it. Although individuality and freedom of deviation are exciting, maybe every so often we can acknowledge that our roots are joined, that we are all branches of the grand tree of art (that is, if you’ll accept that humans were bred by art), and maybe even find that liberating too.

Sincerely,

Lana LiEditor-in-Chief

ADVISORY BOARD

EDITORIAL BOARD

Grace MolinaMichael Buchman

Editor-in-Chief Lana LiManaging Editors Maria Diaz Yasmin RamadanCreative Director Abigail BonettLiterary Director Damini PandejeeArt Director Aqssa MohammadCopy Editor Emily ScialabbaPoetry Editor Meryem UzumcuArt Editor Chris RomanProse Editor Natacha SchroederPhotography Editor Randy IrarragorrySecretary Haley Gorda

LAYOUT BOARD

Lana LiMaria DiazAbigail BonettYasmin Ramadan

LITERARY BOARD

Molly KuchlerZil NaikSarah AhmedNichole Maldonado

ART BOARD

Brandan CalhounRachel SchroederTaylor YoungAlaina Rubin

GENERAL STAFFAmanda GlebusEmily NoraJamal MiriLaura CurryDanielle Gary

PAINTED WORDS is the award-winning, non-classroom supported art and literary magazine of North Brunswick Township High School in North Brunswick, NJ. Published once a year, PAINTED WORDS features the best poetry, prose, visual art, and photography created by students and staff of the school.

98 Raider Rd. North Brunswick, NJ 08902

Interested in joining the PAINTED WORDS staff? Send us an email at [email protected] and request to be added to our contact list. No experience or application necessary—just an interest or passion in art, reading, and/or writing.

Submissions Guidelines1. Only students and staff of NBTHS are allowed to submit work.2. Any student from any grade is welcome to join the club and become a part of the selections process.3. Any student from any grade is welcome to submit an unlimited number of works for consideration.4. Each art and literary submission is evaluated and selected for publication by a staff comprised entirely of students.5. Each submission is evaluated on a scale of 1 to 5 by four editors or staff members; the higher the score, the more likely a submission is to be published.6. Submissions receiving scores of 16 or higher are almost always selected for publication, while taking into account layout, suitability, and pairing.7. Submissions receiving scores between 13 and 15 are sometimes considered for publication, while taking into account layout, suitability, and pairing.8. Selections for magazine publication are based on creativity, originality, talent, and overall quality.9. All submissions are reviewed blindly by a committee of objective and dedicated staff members.10. All submissions are, if necessary, subject to edits made to improve clarity (i.e. grammar and punctuation). Editors do not reserve the right to alter the meaning of any of the submissions.

Cover illustration by Abigail Bonett.

“Storms make the oak grow deeper roots.”—George Herbert

t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s

Crosshatching Randy Irarragorry 4The Struggles Within Me Christine Yip 6

Artistic Flavor Stef Romatowski 7Innocence Andre Sousa 8

The House of Numbers Huafeng Fan 10Boxes Emily Scialabba 10

Post-Apocalyptic Tetrus Tatianne Chizualum P. Ezeonu 11Shoes Randy Irarragorry 12

The Call Savannah Robertson 14The Beauty of Hope and Rebirth Brandan Calhoun 15

Let the Ignorance Shield Us Joanna Kuldinow 16What It Means to be a Soccer Player Aryana Paley 18

The Problem with Acting Normal Molly Kuchler 18Chase Like Wild Lana Li 19

Vantage Ground Javier De Peña 19It Doesn’t Matter, No One is Perfect Randy Irarragorry 20

Envy Aryana Paley 22Society’s Girls Haley Gorda 23

When I See a Secret Molly Kuchler 24Dancer Steph Novak 25

Petal Aqssa Mohammad 26A Tone So Lovely Anizette Rodriguez 28

Aquatic Eruption Randy Irarragorry 29Four-Letter Words Joanna Kuldinow 30

The One Daisy Ruiz 30City through a Lens Elvin Rios 32

The Huntress Instinct Steph Novak 34Sleeping Giant Stef Romatowski 35

Fighting Flamingos Stef Romatowski 36Overthinking Lana Li 38

The Shut Ups and Shushes Lana Li & Nikil Revuri 39Sea Glass Aryana Paley 40

Male Gaze Meryem Uzumcu 41 Lacework Heart Nikil Revuri 42

birth, childhood, adolescence

early, middle, late adulthood

43 Tree by the Sea Chris Roman44 Self-Portrait Abigail Bonett46 Harry the Puppeteer Abigail Bonett47 With Grandma Abigail Bonett48 Bruise His Heel Abigail Bonett49 Inevitable Apprehension Abigail Bonett50 The Bluest Eyes Victoria Link51 The Destruction of Ideology Jacklyn Romero52 Ruins of Literature Daisy Ruiz52 An Untold Story Marcelino Garcia54 Gray Top Hats Maria Diaz55 Iconoclasm Roshni Shah55 The Fathers Michael Santa Maria56 Freedom Yasmin Ramadan57 A Beautiful Mistake Brandan Calhoun57 Empty Room Abigail Bonett58 My Footprint Brandan Calhoun58 Something Space-Time Cannot Comprehend Marissa Gravesande59 Dictatorship Javier De Peña60 Uprooted Lana Li60 More Than Branches Lana Li61 Hi-Res Self-Portrait in Weeds Michael Buchman62 Nick Gracie Giglio63 The Demolition Abbey Barker64 Send in the Clowns Chandler Gorda65 Hung Lana Li66 Have a Rose, My Dear Steph Novak67 Flames Gracie Giglio68 A Taste of the Spectrum Brandan Calhoun68 From the Perspective of a Beta Fish Peter Grace69 Stone Soul Nikil Revuri70 A Flowering Blessing Aadil Rizwan70 Egg Katie Farina71 Editors’ Biographies

four

Crosshatchingby Randy Irarragorry

digital photograph

five

Irritated by the smallest things,Annoyed by the words that have been said,Upset by the things that have been done.

All this anger is bottled up inside me Just waiting for the last straw.Anxiously wishing to explode,Eager to release all this rage

Trapped in my body.Anger corrupts my mind,

And taints my soul.This foul demon,

Contained inside of meTries to claw its way out.

I feel it flowing to my face,My throat, my hands.

I can’t repress it anymore.I feel like screaming and punching things.

My face is contorted with rage.It’s burning with fury.

I can’t control it,I muffle my screams into my pillow.

I instantly feel better.It feels so relieving to let this demon out.

But I know,This fiend will soon find its way inside of me again.For anger is a disease that spreads like a wildfire.

This beast always manages to seize control of my body,But I can’t do anything about it,

And I hate it so much.

The Struggles Within Meby Christine Yip

six

Artistic Flavorby Stef Romatowskidigital photograph

seven

eight

Innocenceby Andre Sousa

digital photograph

nine

ten

They swirl around me.Intricate patterns formed at every angle.The x, the y, the zThey fill my brain.I can’t see anythingThey have hijacked and clogged my system.

I run to the libraryFaster…I must solve it…

Blurry Can’t see anything exceptThe equationThe xThe yThe z.

The books are falling apart No more consciousness of what I am doing.

How did I get into the dumpster?When did I buy mcdonalds?I knew that dividing by zero was a bad idea.

The House of Numbersby Huafeng Fan

My life is a field of boxes.And I am stuck Carrying them,

Living inside them.

There are boxes made of splintersWhich will hurt you

Make you bleed An attempt to escape.

And then there are boxes made from water

You try to hold itAnd it slips through your fingers

Revealing its impossibility.

And there are boxes with glue on the base

Pinning you down, trapping youLeaving you screaming;“Pull me out! Save me!”

Some boxes are sound proofBlocking people from hearing

your wordsOr that only let them hearThe wrong things you say.

Boxes that shatter Made of glass, they break at the

touchThe explosion massive

God forbid a mistake is made.

I’m tired of living in boxes.They constrain me

Suffocate me Keep me from living.

I need to break them allSomehow, let them fall to ruin.

And I know I can.Guess who just got a hammer?

Boxesby Emily Scialabba

eleven

Post-Apocalyptic Tetrisceramics sculpture by Tatianne Chizualum P. Ezeonu

digital photograph by Brandan Calhoun

twelve

Shoesby Randy Irarragorrydigitally enhanced photographs

thirteen

Shoesby Randy Irarragorrydigitally enhanced photographs

Last December, I dialed a number I hadn’t in years: my father’s. I stood in my kitchen, hands trembling, and listened to the dial tone. In my mind, this was a moment pregnant with meaning, an act of forgiveness on my part; a pardon. I remember the exact moment when my father’s voice broke on the line, the way it erased from my mind years of resentment and anguish, the old familiar leap in my heart. In a second, I felt years of missed recitals and forgotten birthdays disappear, replaced by a strange joy at simply being acknowledged. My father asked questions about my life to which he should have already known the answers, and I cheerfully filled him in. After a brief conversation, he told me that he had to go, asked me to take down his email address, and hung up the phone. After I’d placed the phone in its cradle, and the spell of my father’s charm had worn off, a wave of realization washed over me. I had been dismissed, albeit tactfully, as one would dismiss someone who was selling something they had no real interest in purchasing. Sitting on my kitchen counter I began to recount every ploy for my father’s attention I’d ever made and to render them all useless. For seventeen years, I had vied constantly for my father’s approval in one way or another. In the years since we’d spoken last, my phone number and address had not changed. I had lived a manageable distance away for all seventeen years of my life, and he had rarely visited. In essence, I had been offering a place in my life all along, and my father had politely said “no thank you” time and time again. To my surprise, I didn’t find myself feeling angry, sad, or slighted. In fact, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. In forfeiting his place in my life, my father had taught me an invaluable lesson about myself: There is no failure, no rejection, which I will allow to define me. For me, this experience will forever be reminiscent of my coming of age. It marked the beginning of a period of autonomy in my life. Knowing there was essentially nothing I could do to gain my father’s approval allowed me to exist as an individual, rather than a composite of qualities I felt would impress him. I realize that I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by people in my life who are far better examples, and also far more worthy of my deference. I think often of my stepfather, who could have viewed my presence as a burden, but who instead embodies fatherly pride, loving me without question or condition, and I know the meaning of integrity. Integrity is doing the right thing wholeheartedly, not because someone else is watching, but because you know it is the right thing to do.

The Call

by Savannah Robertson

“In essence, I had been offering a place in my life all along and my father had

politely said ‘no thank you’ time and time again.”

fourteen

fifteen

The Beauty of Hope and Rebirthby Brandan Calhoundigital photographs

The order came from up high,I heard from some of the guys that everybody was in on it.

I wasn’t prepared for how it went downThe training didn’t help

Not when they were real people.Not when I could see their face, or hear their voice.

It all just seemed like something my kid brother would be in on.They all looked like him after that.

They camped, They stayed withstood everything that we threw at them

They should have just gone home.But they didn’t.

Let the Ignorance Shield Usby Joanna Kuldinow

It started getting worse.The spray felt heavy in my hands,They don’t have a shield,So their arms were raised to shield their eyes.The cries didn’t settle.

Six months laterThe truth came.

It made my stomach churn and clench.It made me cry out into the night.

To this day the tension hides just under the surface.Ignorance has been lost.

sixteen

The order came from up high,I heard from some of the guys that everybody was in on it.

I wasn’t prepared for how it went downThe training didn’t help

Not when they were real people.Not when I could see their face, or hear their voice.

It all just seemed like something my kid brother would be in on.They all looked like him after that.

They camped, They stayed withstood everything that we threw at them

They should have just gone home.But they didn’t.

Let the Ignorance Shield Usby Joanna Kuldinow

It started getting worse.The spray felt heavy in my hands,They don’t have a shield,So their arms were raised to shield their eyes.The cries didn’t settle.

Six months laterThe truth came.

It made my stomach churn and clench.It made me cry out into the night.

To this day the tension hides just under the surface.Ignorance has been lost.

seventeen

eighteen

What It Means to be a Soccer Playerby Aryana Paley

digital photograph

Someone needs to tell me why I can’t ever think straight,There has to be a reason I can never concentrate.Help me understand that I am not the only one?

I promise and I swear that there is nothing wrong with me.

I don’t feel anything like the emotions I used toDid someone turn the dimmer down on my impressions too?

I can’t tell if this is normal, no one else says the same.But I really do believe that there is nothing wrong with me.

Where has the motivation gone, that huge and blinding spark?I have no idea where I’m going when I’m so lost in the dark

“Well, everyone has those days when they just don’t care at all...”I have them all convinced that there is nothing wrong with me.

I’m guessing I’m alone in this, I’m not sure of anythingMaybe it’s cliched but I think truth has lost its ring

There’s no way a girl so blinded by life could really hope to see,I can’t tell anymore, so maybe...something’s really wrong with me

The Problem with Acting Normalby Molly Kuchler

nineteen

Vantage Groundby Javier De Peñadigital photograph

ChaseLikeWild

Rushed goodbyes to your bedAnd you’re off to chase the rising sun,A pursuit that becomes one of a train:It stops, watching only the clock.A tiger it is, dressed in zinc,Silver, and styrene plastic andPowered by electricity.Electricity. Immediacy.No time to think,No time to slow down For a dancing heart Racing with savage hands.You run, shove, dodge, hope.Hope that the insentient beast willThink to look back, rest, andWait for you to catch your breath,Breath you’ve wasted on an electricSleigh. But a feline is independent;Slave, you are, to it.Remember, though, that it is soulless,That you are not inferior.You, too, can feel the wind.by Lana Li

twenty

twenty-one

It Doesn’t Matter, No One is Perfectby Randy Irarragorry

film photograph

twenty-two

They bend and break their bones,Trying to fit a Barbie-doll mold.Hidden in bathroom stalls,Hanging from a measuring-tape noose.In the name of beauty and the fight for love– Love for themselves, and love from anotherThey will kill themselves.

Society’sGirls

by Haley Gorda

Envyby Aryana Paley

digital photographtwenty-three

A random name shows up in conversation, Through a spark in her now-interested eyesI see faster covered-up emotions,Than I’m ever meant to really recognize.

I watch closer for betrayal of the hidden,A nervous twitch or falter in her tone,I can’t assume or guess I see the reason,I won’t pretend to understand what I don’t know.

Sometimes they’ll open up and share the stories,Most times I’m left to wonder on my own,When it’s as subtle as a short ironic statement,Or as obvious as the side she’s never shown.

If you’re still surprised by all the small connections,You really should take time to let it go,Though I’ll admit that I’m scared of the reactions,I’m still amazed at all the things I don’t know.

by Molly Kuchler

When I See a Secret

twenty-four

Dancerby Steph Novak

digital photograph

twenty-five

Petalby Aqssa Mohammad

digital art

twenty-six

twenty-seven

Aquatic Eruptionby Randy Irarragorry

digital photograph

twenty-eight

by Anizette Rodriguez

It’s lovely yet overbearingSeeing his cheeks sprinkle with a heavenly tone

That is of fresh rose petals.

It reminds me of a new lit skyWhose body shines from its peeking sun

Fiery, yet taming.

This toneExplodes across the surface of his head

Along with the irises of my eyesLike the scattering seeds of a pomegranate

And just like bleeding wolfberriesThat stain the tip of its thorn

The opaque tone slowly bleeds Along his every line and angle

Becoming a velvet mask for just an instant,For the spur of the moment

It breaks my heart to see something so lovelySo fiery yet heavenly,

Disappear the next second

So now I’ll just stay hanging by every momentThat I see your face flutter with humility

Giving off a romantic color,Leaving its vibrant stain

On everything I do or see.

A Tone So Lovely

twenty-nine

My mother always told meTo never say four-letter wordsThat is, someone is Never to repeat themSo no, I will not repeat them.Ladies don’t use four-letter words.

You can use them all you want,But those words will neverPass my filter,If they try to escape my brainI will stop them.Because people like me,Don’t use words like that.

Please don’t take it personally,Don’t be so touchy.What’s the big deal.Its just a word.Another four-letter word,It doesn’t mean a thing,It’s the feeling that matters.Not the words used to describe it.The word means nothing.Anyone can say it.And the meaning of the word is lost on me.Because ladies don’t say four-letter words.

Four-Letter Words by Joanna Kuldinow

thirty

The Oneby Daisy Ruizdigital photograph

thirty-one

thirty-two

City through a Lensby Elvin Rios

digital photograph

thirty-three

by Steph Novak

thirty-four

The moment is stifl ing.I can do nothing but cross my fi ngersAnd hope for the best.

We are strong,Yet even the strongest have moments of weakness.

I do not move as time unravels.It seems as if everything is suddenly fast forwarded.

Inside of me is a growing intensity,One that rivals that of a predator,A huntress,Though I am not physically attacking anything.

The voices and faces around me just form a spectacular blend of color,Light,Cacophony,Confusion.Everything is soon blocked from my senses.All but my target are vaguely acknowledged.

I make my approach:Nimbly,Powerfully,Proudly.Contact has been reached.

Instead of receiving the onslaught,An opponent dodges it, fear lingering in her features.Our gazes meet,She recoils from the net.

Inside my eyes is a ferocity I have never known,But am proud to embrace.Watch me.

I will hunt my target,That ball that everyone is so worried about,And crush it down.

Teams will meet me with a humble nervousness.They will learn to cower when my glare meets their stares.

Here’s a friendly warning:You’re next.Don’t mess with me.

TheHuntress Instinct

thirty-five

Sleeping Giantby Stef Romatowskidigital photograph

thirty-six

Fighting Flamingosby Stef Romatowskidigital photograph

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

Overthinkingby Lana Li

digital photograph

Scatter to the wind, the little things.Picked up by the amber beaks of finches Just freed from canvas: memory’s clasp.Perfect prized seeds of moribund still life Lie in wait to sprout, then reminisce.

Swimming feebly in vernal flurries,Songbirds to silence, cast into shadow;Notes of remembrance, embrace, foresight.The ripples swallow, now dying in the sea;Hear your ghost speak to you.

Only chips of tattered husks remain;Somersault into memory, a golden feat;And tempt us to a voiceless journey.We look to the sky, seeking feathers,And find ourselves breathing identity.

Crumbling, we turn to dust:Ashes flitting around like child acrobats.Yet the echoes sail to us, gyre with us,As we knit ourselves with the blue, Forgetting past, forgoing future.

Empty shells crack at the seams; youngWhispers gape through the porthole.Unbidden intuition guides; with caution, We step. Wings of ash remodel; to light,We spread. Our old voices reply.

As we let the rising sun lave our skin,We are alate: peppy grains in the wind,Hunting history, forming one retrieved voice.The marvelous invention of a mute deity,Or just a fantasia. Phantoms in my mouth.

Leave wary minds behind. Fewer voices,Fewer sounds lifted to the wrinkling sky.Just a quick brush upon cold, waiting lips;Unbounded, avulsed from freedom. It’s safe. Sigh.

by Lana Li & Nikil Revuri

thirty-nine

The Shut Ups and

Shushes

forty

M a l e G a z e

Sea Glassby Aryana Paleydigital photograph

by Meryem Uzumcu

forty-one

Lacy daintiness adorns her wispy strands of hair Porcelain lips dance with her fleeting eyesOld men pinch her cheeks, fingering the fleshy nostalgia of feminine youth Patronizing nettles, rhythmically stinging with every intellectual thrust Their words, like a sweet milky dream, pacifying a feral foal.

Young men gaze, preserving her into the glass jar of their dark perversions They first undress her, slipping off her outspoken negligeeNext her endearingly quirky brazierUntil her once effervescent body lays limply in his unforgiving, calloused handsHer bones chipped like delicate seashells, Her skin thinned with turpentine, trembling Her weary eyes, darker

He watches her, Taking her in, Swallowing her whole, like a serpent ingesting its prey: a once smooth, alabaster egg,Now fractured and disemboweled.

by Nikil Revuri

Abandoned avenues wander, Shouldered by swaying trees, Cast in shadow, leaving stiles In darkness. The grassy paths, The deep carved channels, theRecesses of my mind, the intricateRoutes, dusty pathways, untrodden,Debris strewn, emotion leftUnwanted, dirt lanes in my heart.

Cold and frost breathe their silence, Chilling landscape to bone, leechingWarmth from feeling, shrivelingFruitful waste, tamping the embersOut. Tattered cloth on the bodies, Arms upraised stakes, legs worn planks, The human forms beaten down By glacial suppression.

The lacework of courses meet,Converge at a point, a door,Massive, oaken, weathered,But secure, worn by the uses.Sieges withheld, battles prevented.Inside stands the city, a haven fromPassion, the residents ignoringThe creak of the wood, tension inGrain, bowing in resignation of duty.

The lacework of courses start,Diverge from a point, a dam,Bowing, tenuous, water-whipped,Built to withhold, bar, eradicate,The raging torrent behind, twisting,Snapping, tearing into wood; Frustrations, dreams unrequited,Forgotten, abandoned to the past,Assumed waste and misbegotten.

Cracks, like veins, spread,Sounding above the tempest.Like so many surging beasts,Ripples like muscles, ragingAgainst the space confined, burstThrough, wood morphing to splinters,Like the serrated edges of untethered Passion, water’s paroxysm.

Frustration, boiled passion,Streaks down avenues, shatteringSilence, turning desolation to chaos,Raising the undead emotion, refuse of Haven. Seething, the wave rushes Through the tree-bound pathways, and Greets the solidity of the doors to haven.It explodes light lightning, then floods.

The elements of stability swept away, Houses like prisons, leaving beds of roses,Fences like barricades to open fields,Lanterns like sentries to the mother moon,Overthrowing peace for spiraling chaos.

Lacework Heart

forty-two

Tree by the Seaby Chris Roman

digitally enhanced photographs

forty-three

Featured Artist

Abigail Bonett

Abigail Bonett was born on April 27, 1995. Abi is a spunky, aspiritional adolescent, who takes pride in her love of God and in

her academic diligence. She is a junior at NBTHS and loves to draw and paint. “Art is my passion,” she says. “I could never see myself doing any thing else.” Bonett discovered her love for the arts at a very young age, and persisted in developing her skill because

she simply “never stopped coloring and doing the arts and crafts that all little kids do.” Whatever her methodology, the meticulous

beauty that resides in her work is evident.

Self-Portraitby Abigail Bonett

graphite and colored pencilforty-four

Featured Artist

Abigail Bonett

Abigail Bonett was born on April 27, 1995. Abi is a spunky, aspiritional adolescent, who takes pride in her love of God and in

her academic diligence. She is a junior at NBTHS and loves to draw and paint. “Art is my passion,” she says. “I could never see myself doing any thing else.” Bonett discovered her love for the arts at a very young age, and persisted in developing her skill because

she simply “never stopped coloring and doing the arts and crafts that all little kids do.” Whatever her methodology, the meticulous

beauty that resides in her work is evident.

Self-Portraitby Abigail Bonett

graphite and colored pencilforty-five

Harry the Puppeteerby Abigail Bonettpen and ink

forty-six

With Grandmaby Abigail Bonett

colored pencil

forty-seven

forty-eight

Bruise His Heelby Abigail Bonettballpoint pen

forty-nine

Inevitable Apprehensionby Abigail Bonett

wire sculpture

fifty

Keep your head down.I see the ground through my chadri,

Crunching and giving way to my sandals.The sand disperses quicker,

We must be late.I peek

No dress,No turban,

Adorned with foreign robots.They separate and come together,

Whispers,Clandestine meetings.

Patterns beneath my knees,Who we are and where we’ve been,

Prostrate in the direction of salvation.

I feel her hands before I feel the earthquake,

The patterns disappear,She was a gazelle.

Lost in dust.Putrid air fills my sponge.

The robots sing.

She does not look back,Steadfast in her escape,

The gazelle pushes forward.Wind whipping my back,

Watching the wreckageThrough stinging eyes,

I see what my mother doesn’t,I see the end.

The Destruction of Ideologyby Jacklyn Romero

The Bluest Eyesby Victoria Link

digitally enhanced photograph

fifty-one

fifty-two

by Marcelino GarciaAn Untold Story The untold story, the elephant in the room and the sound of his own breath were a constant in his mind. He was as human as anyone, with human habits and hobbies. If his life were a blanket, he would have put it together using many different fabrics and textured swatches from all of his foot leavings. His memories and routines had become a colorfully woven collection of existence. As of late he had become quite skilled in the art of avoidance, weaving it into his blanket: a detailed herringbone of music and distraction being one of his more successful patterns. And as he loomed through the day, he’d often pause and reflect on his obvious task. I gotta check the mail... That which had become what he did not want to do. But, first I’ll take out the trash, sort the recyclables and do the laundry... buy more soap. He’d put it off for a long time, now it was time. He looked up from his sheet music as if to catch the sight of a shadow passing over him. It was nothing, conceivably a figment of his mind. Anything to distract him. True to form,

his eyes lay on a spot on the multi-coated but still-cracked wall, uninvited realization, I gotta check the mail. Decisions are hard to make when emotions are involved. So we turn away, avoid, even paint over things we don’t like to see. Unfortunately, bumps remain and cracks find their way to the surface, no matter how many coats we apply. Sometimes decisions are made for us because we lose or do not use the opportunity to make them ourselves. Like moving furniture so much and becoming so tired that the last attempt becomes the final arrangement: All to avoid sweeping up our messes. He’d played the task over and over again in his mind, he’d wait for things to get completely quiet, that would be his opportunity, the universe giving him a sign that it would be his time. Then he’d walk slowly to his mailbox, a journey easier imagined than done. He would pass through a very clean and manicured garden that served as a focus of avoidance for months. The garden was beautiful; the tiger lillies were in bloom. He avoided a lot. The mailbox, old and slightly rusty, intentionally antiquish, housed a messy overflow of envelopes, all of them fighting to stay inside, the mailman’s daily reverse game of Pick-Up-Sticks. Upon arrival he’d be less anxious than anticipated, knowing he’d have to sort through all the parcels first,

Ruins of Literatureby Daisy Ruiz

digital photograph

“The mailbox, old and slightly rusty, intentionally antiquish, housed a messy overflow of envelopes, all of them fighting to stay inside, the mailman’s

daily reverse game of Pick-Up-Sticks.”

fifty-three

another assignment in avoidance. Finally, there it would be the envelope that pressured his sleep all this time. With confidence and preparedness, he would then open the letter and read words and phrases, carefully written with perfect attention to detail. He didn’t actually care what the words spelled; he just knew he wanted them to be decisive so he could stop rearranging the furniture in his mind. This reoccuring daydream was well rehearsed. This is the day it would be played out. Unfortunately for him, it was September and tiger lillies bloom from June to mid-August. His plan already had flaws, and so was he, flawed. He knew preparing would be no more useful than fishing in a rain puddle. On the outskirts of avoidance, he realized that putting off the inevitable would inevitably come to an end. And so, he put his guitar on its stand, stood and walked to the front door. He took in a deep breath of the garden’s aster through the screen door. He pushed on it feeling the resistance of

the creaky spring. He paused and for a moment wrestled with the thought of using this as a distraction tool. And, before allowing himself to commit, he pushed the door wide open and with equal force came in all the fragrances from the garden. In came the sweet and the sap of the Black-eyed Susans and lilac. The barely recognizable Bougainvillea and Laurel bushes bullied their way through the doorway. He allowed them to billow and sway all around him. It was

precisely then when he found his perfectly quiet moment. If it could be explained better, he felt the iron rusty hoops that tightened

frustration to his soul, ease and release. He experienced the function of his lungs, and it was then, when he felt the garden settle into the bottom of his lungs that he walked fifteen patient paces to the mailbox. He lifted his arm to reach for the loose handle and gave it that familiar pull, but this time, he didn’t only feel it in his fingertips but throughout his entire body.

Gray top hats,held gently between fingersof men far too young to life them,while Russian bags of beauties restupon elbows far too frail to bump.Yet they do, and while that happensthe top hat is lifted, not to the full head of hair carryingbut the air, and apologies are exchanged.A touch. Nothing more.What is more is a touch from the one you(hope does not suffer)love.The way the stamp loves an envelope,or a fetus loves a womb.It is all they’ve ever known,so it seems.So it seems, as they trace theirfingers across a palm spellingI love you, or the way they protectBecoming the father, every child wants,has, or never knew, so it seems thatthey are all you’ve ever known.The top hat, a frail elbow, an accident,touches.Unless included a heart,Human, so not immature to touches by love,becoming a feeling.

Gray Top Hatsby Maria Diaz

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by Michael Santa Maria

The FathersRight now let’s remember the ancestors—The untold millions whose DNA made itThis far—far enough for me to grip this penAnd create these scribblings. How manyFathers did that take? Who were they? If the race continues at allWe will be like them some thousand years hence.Obviously, we existed, or you could not be,But just as forgotten. Occupiers of a shared oblivion.

So what? I am your father. And today IAcknowledge the lost fathers. An endless, linked,Double-helixed, self-hating, self-reflecting chain—I’ll hold my spot, pass it down, and aware I’ll remain—Me as much them as you will be me.

Iconoclasmby Roshni Shah

digital photograph

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“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens could change the world. Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.”

Margaret Mead’s advice is inspiring, but it is ignorant of the fear that comes along with trying to change the world. Although I was not in Egypt during the winter revolution, I experienced every bit of the fear – I heard every gunshot – as a group of committed citizens tried to change their world. Few ever remember that when fighting for freedom, there will be someone else fighting to take it away. And as Egypt rebuilds itself, I plan to be of the company protecting its freedom.

Five minutes glued to one television and five minutes glued to another is how I divided my time during the week of January 5th. The Egyptian news blasted louder downstairs, the voices of Arab newscasters muting out CNN upstairs – and I watched, praying that the names of my family in Cairo did not appear on the rolling list of casualties on either. The massacres that replayed on each screen made me wonder whether the uprising against President Mubarak was worth it. My country was bleeding, and I felt useless. He was ruthless. He would kill them all, I thought. Then the phone rang; an incoming long-distance call from Cairo, Egypt. My mother beat me to the phone. She picked it up, desperate to hear good news, only to find her sister screaming on the other side. Through her shrieks I could make out “I love you, I love you all so much – I wanted to hear your voice before I died!”

The criminals that broke out of the country’s prisons as the Egyptian police force attacked revolutionists were trying to break into her home, and her husband was downstairs fighting alongside fathers, husbands, and brothers. That day, staring into my mother’s face while she gripped the phone impossibly closer to her head, I learned how frightening fighting for freedom can be.

My family survived the Egyptian Revolution physically unscathed, but the same cannot be said for their sense of well-being. It dawned on me, while I watched my country try to rebuild itself blindly and with no experience in proper democracy, that taking advantage of the freedom to live safely is the worst crime. An ambition planted itself in me, and I have thus veered my future towards a career in law. I hope to root myself in the justice system, so that I may give a voice to those who want to be heard. So that I may fight for the freedom of others in a bloodless manner.

I too, deserve the freedom that America stands for, just as Egypt deserves the freedom of a fair ruler. Although to this day I am singled out in restaurants, airports and the like, whether by a look or a “Could you please step aside, ma’am? We need to search you” for the scarf that I wear around my head, I will change the prejudice that taints the vision of those around me. I will fight for freedom.

by Yasmin Ramadan

Freedom

A Beautiful Mistakeby Brandan Calhoundigital photograph

A piece,A slice,A delicious ray of sunlight.Peeking through,Something ajar.The door longs to be swung open.

But the room is empty,Noon has passed.Shadows grow against the wall.The tinted air,Some other day,To be breathed.

Empty Roomby Abigail Bonett

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If only you knew the strife I feltEncrypting the memories into the membrane

Leaving with your crooked Achilles tendon“Isn’t it better this way?”

All of your misplaced euphoriasPlaces I swore we’d return to

Neglecting your ears and overusing your other senses“My courage was obviously false.”

This made living pleasant and bearableThe thought of misguided precedents

Flaunting around warmth in every shape or form“The days seem shorter darling.”

We believed nothing was a simulationEven the most simplistic subjects were catalysts

Just try to fathom the sherbet atmosphere surrounding us“I’m sure you have no doubt to give me.”

Articulate the coveyance of wordsTrain emotions to withstand the brunt of the galaxy

What more can this epitome of the world expect?“I’ll just wait for another introduction.”

Something Space-Time Cannot Comprehendby Marissa Gravesande

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My Footprintby Brandan Calhoun

digital photograph

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Nature is subject to law.Reason submits to fallacy in exchange for imaginary easeEndowing powers to the corrupt and ill-willedBereft of morality and empathy, they abuse the position they holdInciting mass murder to promote globalization of idealsRepressing the public into a state of complacency and narrow-mindedness Identifying undesirables and confining them to isolated quarters Propagating the polarization of the public opinion

We brought this on ourselvesWe contributed to the rising of the evils that control usWe allowed instability to cloud and misguide usWe reacted to the problem on our hands, Failing to see the clear signs preceding itSome left while they had the chanceOthers aligned themselves with the wickedCan we blame them? It’s the American Dream.

Dictatorshipby Javier De Peña

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U p r o o t e d

The city behind you is dying;Flames drown ancient wood.Houses sink in a sea of gray,As you wipe the sweat off your foreheadAnd wash the sweat off your arms.

You stand, With a twisted spine and a twisted mind,Eternally exhausted from extracting A foundation of precise carvingsOnce built with arms of youth and dreams.

Pick a place to be buried;The generation has fled.Time has come to let the soil sift through your fingers,To look up and follow the smoke,A token of your delayed regret.

by Lana Li

More Than Branchesby Lana Lidigital photograph

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by Michael Buchman

After all these years, I found it. There I am on the ground,

My shadow holding a cameraZooms to an indistinct mesh of stalks and leaves.

Why did I take this, snap this up?My frame of mind shifts

To a seasons-old walk meant to please her, but refocused: What I saw, what I meant,

Fingers and thumbs Describing newly squinted compositions

Of plant and leaf tilting sunlight And out-shadowing those below.

In the corner, a compound flower like a bumblebee,Rustles, bristles, flies out of the frame.

Zoom out to the landscape, the hidden pictures before the pathway:

Can you see the mammoth, the Indian chief,The logger, the watering can, and now

The photographer alone, remembering What he had taken and lost,

The picture he brought with him?

Hi-Res Self-Portrait in Weeds

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The Demolitionby Abbey Barker

Nickby Gracie Gigliodigital photograph

Ravenous hatred boring Through ignorant approval

Bearing burning stylusesScorching all signs of weakness at the root

Singed earthNo advancement, no progression

Spite and revengeAnger contorting into madness

A metamorphosis.An unsurpassable barrier

Trapped in a series of one’s irrational precedentsHopeless until actions can no longer be justified

Perspective and rationality restoredA deep breath

Animosity pacifiedA chance for forgiveness and reunion

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Send in the Clownsby Chandler Gordadigital photograph

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by Lana Li

HungI am the picture of my mother on the wall:Rushed brush strokes hiding light sketches,Eyes not close enough to the hairline,Skin too ruddy, like tomato flesh.But I was told to see beyond the artist’s haste.

The skin—It looks thick,But mostly over the shoulders.The shoulders—They are dragged by the weight of thought.

ThoughtsOf the ocean’s depth,and, Do I really love?Days wasted on watching eggs crack softly:Your horizon is only imagined.

Under the protection of lunar light,I saw the sorry strands of your hairIn a pool of pink.I embraced,And I became pink.

I’d pay—I pray—for your thoughts now;I’d pay for them with love.I am peeling off my skin to layer yours.Mother,I am cold, cold in the lunar light.

Preserved under dust in the glen of my head,Your faint eyes watch over me.The day they shut above the modest ruby waterfall,I heard you:“Save for me the possibility of memory.”

Please,Be my witness and tell meMy hands are covering my eyes;Tell me I’m invoking color from the absence of light.Eyelids protect.

The body is of the pastAnd there is a better copy on the wall,But nothing burns like a barren heart(When it is the only working organ in the body);I am my mother.

H a v e a R o s e , M y D e a r by Steph Novak

Roses represent love in the purest form.They are beautiful, lovely, everything that The woman that is receiving them is.But for love?No, roses are not an appropriate symbol of love.

All that love is:Everlasting, eternal, indescribable,Roses are not.Roses can be given to someone as an act of adoration,Slight affection.Love is much more powerful.

Think hard:If you can think of a way to use the past tense of “love”,Then you never really had any love at all.Your love was false,Just like the symbolism of roses is.Roses represent love in the purest form.They are beautiful, lovely, everything that the woman that is receiving them is.But for love?No, roses are not an appropriate symbol of love.

All that love is:Everlasting, eternal, indescribable,Roses are not.Roses can be given to someone as an act of adoration,Slight affection.Love is much more powerful.

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Love is eternal,You will never stop loving someone or something.“Loved” is not a real term.There is no past tense of love, only lov-ing.Love is forever.

Roses, which are meant to represent love,Are not.Roses wilt in just a few days,Showing how easily life can be over,Not how strong your love is.They die away,And is that meant to say your love will die off as well?

Love is eternal,You will never stop loving someone or something.“Loved” is not a real term.There is no past tense of love, only loving.Love is forever.

Roses, which are meant to represent love,Are not.Roses wilt in just a few days,Showing how easily life can be over,Not how strong your love is.They die away,And is that meant to say your love will die off as well?

Think hard:If you can think of a way to use the past tense of “love”,Then you never really had any love at all.Your love was false,Just like the symbolism of roses is.

Flamesby Gracie Giglio

digital photograph

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A glass case filled with my source of being able to breathe.The dangerous thought of the animal that lurks outside my dome.The funny faces that press against my home.The occasional time when I am transported to another home.The rage inside me that keeps me separated from others of my kind.With an assortment of different colors, I am often surrounded by strange people.I miss my true home, the home of the sea, where I can roam beyondThe perimeter of a glass bowl someone decided to put me in.But I am just a beta fish, savage because of my nature,And taken away from my home to “entertain” these people who ruleOver the world that I am also a part of.But, because I am small, I will always be in this bowl, unless...

by Peter Grace

From the Perspective of a Beta Fish

A Taste of the Spectrumby Brandan Calhoundigital photograph

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by Nikil Revuri

Stone SoulLike arrows, high pealsShot the silence, andThe pitter-patter Of footsteps, light onThe cobblestone steps,Sounded as feet raced Down, eager to skip.

He yearned downward inSearch, fingers feeling.Closing, the tips tracedSmooth glass, its contour,Of youth, innocence.

Hiding it within, Raising his arm, likeCoiled spring, waited.It whipped, the sage hurled.Earth, air, a twirl, andA hollow kerplunkLanding at still feet.

In waves the peals swept,Chiding, mocking himGently. Furrowed browsturned to mirth, as oneMore voice joined the surge.

And it laughed as well.

Amid the wavingReeds, barefoot they walked.The ripples of sand,Blown by wind, they snakedAmong the tans and greens. Probing toes turn itOver. He grasps, holds.

Age and memory’s Child, the grooves watched.He offered and sheClosed. From embrace, itDropped from loose fingers.

And it loved as well.

Like hushed sentinels,They stood, gazing at Streaks of red, yellow blooms.Water chilled, ice fled,As daisies opened.She walked, fell to knees,Striking the aged ridges.

A sear of stars, and aGasp, as she clutched herWomb. He advanced, andSwiping it away, Helped her. It was time.

And it hurt as well.

Light gurgles, feathers,Brushed the warmth of life,Ensconced, the infantWatched her parents speak. Kicking up sand, sheRaced, saw gulleys, weightOf memory great.

Gritted, as she crunched, Taste odd, and too hard.She removed, and left,Leaving the buttes, inWait and watch, till time.

And it thought as well.

Forgotten, it lay.The feet came and went.Large, unnoticing Waves crashing, grinding, Quietly return.

Then, it is picked, thrust In demonstration. Fingers, small, slide, and Skip. It watched canyons,Age’s mark, and cried.

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Eggby Katie Farina

digital photograph

Stronger than anything man has witnessedSimply undefeatableWhen challenged to a duel.Residing in a cozy cushion of affection—Tucked away from the evils of this world.An effervescent collage of stirring emotions,Unable to be transcribed into any words.Breathing goodness into one’s heart,It casts a plague on any venomThat has penetrated deep into one’s soul—The damage is never done.Human nature willingly carries it,Feeling its pressure bulging within,Once the hasty waves of hereditary love overflow—A stream of twirling roses,Naturally set themselves in place.It comes as sweet as cherry cola taffy,Leaving a tinge of its flavor behind—A seed that will grow into much more. As it reaches the end of its career, The heart throbbing feeling of its Presence always remains. El amor es un regalo eterno.

by Aadil Rizwan

A Flowering Blessing

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e d i t o r s ’ b i o g r a p h i e s

Lana Li ’12 is in a long-term relationship with pistachio ice cream, loves the smell of books, and will always sleep late.

Yasmin Ramadan ’12 is a girl in a scarf, who has a naturally capricious tendency to write and overthink.

Maria Diaz ’12 is a writer who expresses her love for creativity through her dedication to the magazine. She will join the Rutgers magazine next year.

Abigail Bonett ’13 loves art and looks forward to being an illustrator one day. She enjoys taking hard classes even though she will never need them.

Damini Pandejee ’12 loves reading, eating chocolate chip cookies, and stuffed toys. She adores the Harry Potter series and aspires to be a phamacist.

Aqssa Mohammad ’12 is just your everyday 18-year-old kid with a fondness for all things art, literature, and Painted Words. Note my club advertising (hehe).

Emily Scialabba ’14 can be a little strange, but would rather be seen as a bit odd than be someone that she is not.

Meryem Uzumcu ’12 enjoys discussions on feminism, policy debate and the Middle East. She plans on enrolling as a Women and Gender Studies major and Philosophy minor at Rutgers.

Chris Roman ’13 loves to be lazy and sleep, but still enjoys coming to Painted Words and having fun.

As Michelangelo said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” Natacha Schroeder ’12 is proud to see the “carvings” of the magazine come alive.

Randy Irarragorry ’12 believes our world consists of extraordinary visuals and is honored to help others present their takes on these visuals.

Haley Gorda ’13 enjoys poetry and is interested in sociology & psychology. she feels that music is the most beautiful from of art.

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Princeton University’s NASSAU LITERARY REVIEW for giving us tips on the selection process, John Hamilton and the NBTHS tech department for helping with network crises, the NBTHS art department for allowing full access to student works, Daniel Paxton for providing us with quality submissions from his Creative Writing students, and the Board of Education for supporting PAINTED WORDS for 26 years and for allowing us to publish a magazine of quality year after year.

Special thanks to . . .

Honors & awards of our 2010-11 issueGold awarded by the Columbia Scholastic Press Association1st Place awarded by the American Scholastic Press Association

ColophonThis publication was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and was sent in PDF format to GraphiColor Corporation in Vineland, NJ. We used Adobe Photoshop CS3 to enhance image quality. The fonts used throughout the magazine are Constantia, Georgia, Times New Roman, Corbel, Trebuchet MS, Footlight MT Light, Arial, Garamond, ITC Franklin Gothic, Tw Cen Condensed Extra Bold, Adobe Jenson Pro, Vivaldi, Perpetua Titling, Centaur, Baskerville Old Face, Haettenschweiler, Colonna, Kunstler Script, Rockwell, and Century Gothic.

“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.”

—Marcus Garvey