tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60336746522546943982024-03-13T08:34:41.754-04:00Green HillGreen Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.comBlogger397125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-67973831807977321532017-09-18T09:56:00.003-04:002017-09-18T09:58:23.269-04:00long overdue postYes, it has been a while! This blog is still connected to life and work at The Gunnery, primarily, although there is a hardcopy literary publication (which is also on the <a href="https://www.gunnery.org/page/campus-life/student-publications" target="_blank">school's website</a>) that collects the majority of the creative and expository writing -- and also some artwork -- that is produced by students in grades 9-12 at our little (just under 300 students) school. Thank you for checking out this space, and we will do our best to post writing and news a bit more often.<br />
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During poetry month, April 2017, we had a very successful reading in school meeting, involving nineteen students:<br />
Sam Johnson<br />
Lexi Nanavaty<br />
Clara Einhorn<br />
Sabryna Coppola<br />
Bella Byrne<br />
Tony Haoran Zhang<br />
Rain Ji<br />
Joey Lin<br />
Tynka Patkova<br />
Noemi Neubauerova<br />
Mark Jinuk Choi<br />
Casilda Alomia<br />
Cedric Andree<br />
Ana Gabarro<br />
Caye Roca de Togores<br />
Clare Costello<br />
Dana Ross<br />
Huy Pham<br />
Thanks to all!Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10296735761012998121noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-52757661101193511902016-05-08T11:32:00.001-04:002016-05-08T11:33:58.023-04:00congratulations to the maxi-readersCongratulations and thanks to everyone who participated in the April 16th maxi-reading!<br />
<br />
We heard several outstanding student writers read from their work, including original poems, translations, excerpts from stories, and favorite writing by other authors.<br />
<br />
Chloe Coppola<br />
Sabryna Coppola<br />
Lucas Gosman<br />
Philippa Solf<br />
Jingqiong Miranda Yang<br />
Jinuk Mark Choi<br />
Reilly Haskins<br />
Dana Ross<br />
Ataman U<span style="background-color: #bdc2c7; color: #191919; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20.8px;">ğ</span>ur<br />
Jeremiah Yoon<br />
Skylar Cluett<br />
<br />
The accompanying slideshow included images of fantastic paintings and photos by Emily Williams, Skylar Cluett, Kat Carey, Miranda Yang, and Reilly Haskins.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10296735761012998121noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-74313867155651829072015-04-30T09:57:00.001-04:002015-04-30T09:57:22.859-04:00Congratulations to the poets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VIruDXReH6U/VUIysUNk8OI/AAAAAAAAA08/ci6x8Zz66DI/s1600/cms_file_30902507_med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VIruDXReH6U/VUIysUNk8OI/AAAAAAAAA08/ci6x8Zz66DI/s320/cms_file_30902507_med.jpg" /></a></div>
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Thanks for maxi-reading, <b>poetry in school meeting</b>, on Thursday, April 23rd:<br />
<br />
Arkady Ayvazyan<br />
Alyssa Cooke<br />
Aidan Bond<br />
Chloe Coppola<br />
Ataman Uğur<br />
Dana Ross<br />
Laura van Tartwijk<br />
Ele Schickler<br />
Ivy Le<br />
Casey Siemon<br />
Tessa Mackey<br />
<br />
And we had a terrific turn-out for the recitation that same evening: forty-three recitations were heard, and ultimately the judges (thanks, Kevin, Amy, Bart, and Ed!) decided to especially recognize these students:<br />
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Best overall: Laura van Tartwijk<br />
first senior: Regan Butler<br />
first junior: Alyssa Cooke<br />
first sophomore: Dana Ross<br />
first freshman: Mark Choi<br />
<br />
Congratulations!<br />
<br />
Thanks also to Miranda Yang, Miranda Levin, and Ashley Judson for their photographs, shown at the poetry reading (photo above by Ashley Judson).
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-57840066158709014512015-04-18T11:25:00.001-04:002015-04-18T11:27:22.174-04:00Four poems by Ned O'Hanlan<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i>Scuttle</i></b></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><b><i></i></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I met the devil outside of Barstow –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">he was howling at the moon.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I stopped the car and hit the horn, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">thought I’d give the old man a ride.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Well he hopped right in and with a sly toothy grin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Asked me if I wanted a drink.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He said son I know a place, it’s just up the road, and they tend to all appetites.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But I said no, I had places to go –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">still I’d take him as far as he’d like. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It wasn’t but a mile when he told me to stop,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">saying something about a change of plans.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He shook my hand and said thanks for the lift – but I had something to say.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sir, we both know nothing in this life is free –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">every favor has a price,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and I believe you’re indebted to me.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I would have sold my soul for a tank of gas, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but I suppose that I’ve got you beat.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">All the devil did was rear his head and laugh</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">saying this road is long –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and you’ll be back. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i>If were being honest</i></b></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><b><i></i></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I can paint you a picture of the canals that run through the city of Amsterdam – </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">where the moonlight glimmers like a crown atop darkened water. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I can tell you all about the blends of highland whiskey,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">how you’ve never tried wine until you’ve been to Tuscany. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There is no love as there is in Paris, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And no greener hills as there are in Ireland. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The theater in England stands alone. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Salzburg is awfully beautiful in the winter. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But I could never take you there,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Or rather, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">would never take you there. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i>Asylum</i></b></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><i></i></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I followed you to hell</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And when I turned wrong –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You were gone. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So I wandered in the dark</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And studied the silhouettes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Trying to piece it all together,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and understand what it meant. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><i>Airport Bar</i></b></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><b><i></i></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">From port to port –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">To you I left behind,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">To you I know not</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and to you I return –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">you are on my mind. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And my mind wanders,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to a spec far below.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What am I then?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If not a bird headed south,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a blinking light in the night sky,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">or simply a departing thought.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A weary traveler –</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">creating a nest in any branch </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">that can bear the weight.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Only to depart once more </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and leave another piece behind</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">forever. </span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-20393762034589763062015-03-09T16:34:00.001-04:002015-03-09T16:34:41.206-04:00The Average Practice, by Tessa Mackey and Hildy Maxwell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RvSvI09DdoY/VP4DjyVgyMI/AAAAAAAAAx0/8CzbMLt4RKc/s1600/10157142_10201475880973347_4459930442547827009_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RvSvI09DdoY/VP4DjyVgyMI/AAAAAAAAAx0/8CzbMLt4RKc/s1600/10157142_10201475880973347_4459930442547827009_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
“Up over-heads, out and in”<br />
Two at a time, the rowers slide into their seat, most of the time in the least graceful way
possible. Oars are extended strategically, so as not to upset the fragile set. Once past the dock,
the boat flows smoothly across the water. The start of the release begins. The world disappears.
The excruciating wait for this moment is over.<br />
<br />
“Arms Only!”<br />
Trying to keep the rest of their bodies perfectly still, the rowers start to power the boat with their
long, strong arms alone. This is secretly a vile ab work out as well. The pain is welcomed by
these athletes though, as they know that pain is what leads to being one second faster, the one
second that will win the race. As the pick drill continues, the speed of the boat gradually
increases. Finally all four are rowing together at full slide. Now the fun begins.<br />
<br />
“Build for a ten!”<br />
The first time all day full power is allowed to be used. The oars bend from excitement. The
outcome of this is either pure bliss or a disaster. If it is good, the mood for practice is already
great. On the other hand, if it is awful, all five people in the boat have to put everything into
ensuring every stroke taken that practice is better.<br />
<br />
“Ok everyone this is the plan for today…”<br />
That is all the rowers usually remember from the coaches talking, because it is the coxswain's
job to remind them of it as they are rowing. All they know is that the bulk of practice is about to
begin. Most are mentally preparing themselves to go through hell during these pieces. Before
they start, butterflies begin to accumulate, both from the nerves that come with rowing and the
anxiety to begin.<br />
<br />
“Half way!”<br />
At this point most sane people would wonder why in the world they are doing this to themselves.
Rowers are not sane people though. They thrive in adversity and have the willpower to push
themselves past their limits. They are tired and are not quite sure how they are going to get
through the second half of practice. As a rower looks around, she realizes all of her teammates
are going through the same thing. All of them feel the same crying out from their muscles, but they must finish the workout for every other person there. They draw the strength they need to finish
from each other.<br />
<br />
“Last Minute!!!”<br />
Instinct has taken over as your body begins to break. Your heart is pounding, almost numb from
continuous strain. This minute, a tiny fraction of time, seems to last years….interminable,
unbearable, yet vital to your success. Finally, as the coxswain calls last 10, you feel the release
of pressure as all you have put into the season is exposed, feeling nothing but the sheer spatial
awareness of your body. Nothing else in the world matters, only that minute, the final minute.
The water. Your oar. All become one in the last minute.<br />
<br />
“Way Enough”<br />
The hardest part is over. All that is left is a light paddle back to the welcoming boathouse. Often
times there is an unsaid competition between boats on the way back. No one wants to have to
wait behind the other boats for dock space. Once back, the boats and oars are placed in their
own places, their resting place until the next day.<br />
<br />
“One Two Three…Gunn!”<br />
The team cheer officially ends practice. The rowers leave the boathouse sweaty, exhausted,
sore, and hungry. As they walk away though, there is a feeling of being cleansed. They must still
face the problems of their everyday life, but they are now refocused and ready to face anything.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-16743552445339020822015-02-06T11:20:00.000-05:002015-02-06T11:20:15.608-05:00Ms. Huck Finn. Story by Miranda Levin<br />Travelling down the dark roads at night always got Huck thinking about his life. Yes, Huck was rather young, but thinking about all the choices that had been made calmed him. While thinking about his life, Huck began to consider when his hunger for adventure had all started. <br /><br /> Since birth, Huck had been thrown into pretty dresses and forced to play with dolls. Sitting still in Sunday school was never Huck’s thing. Manners, curtsies, all of these typically girly things never worked well with Huck. She always wanted to play outside, the pretty dresses now covered in dirt, dolls kidnapped by pirates. Huck’s parents did not take it very well. This tomboy behavior forced Huck’s parents to accept that their daughter was not going to be their typical child. Hayley soon turned into Huckleberry, then shortened to Huck. The family moved away, hoping to not be recognized, a little ashamed that their daughter, who should be girly, was more of a tomboy. Huck preferred playing baseball to dress-up. However, Huck’s parents continuously tried to suppress her tomboy habits.<br /><br /> After running away from home, Huck became who he really wanted to be. He always wore baggy, boyish clothing, cut his hair short, and his hands grew calloused and dirty from living in the woods so often. Although the living conditions were not ideal for a young child, Huck felt that he could really be who he wanted to be here, in the middle of the woods. He was free from judgment, and no longer Hayley. Hayley would be stuck in silly outfits and going to Sunday school, spending those warm summer afternoons inside because going outside to play was not “ladylike.” Now, Huck was free to run around and play until the sun had set. Huck soon realized that it does not matter the way you are born but what you do with the character inside.<br /><br /> It felt so strange to be back in a dress. Jim had tightly fit the dress around Huck’s lanky body, and Huck winced as she remembered the restraint of dresses, missing the freedom of pants. As Huck walked into the old woman’s house, she repeated her backstory over and over. “My name is Sarah Williams. My name is Sarah Williams,” Huck told herself under her breath. As she walked into the house, the old woman started asking questions. <br /><br /> “Where ‘bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?” she asked as Huck sat down.<br /><br /> “No’m. In Hookersville, seven mile below. I’ve walked all the way and I’m all tired out.” Huck realized that over the time spent pretending to be a boy, she had developed an accent that did not sound very girly. Huck cleared her throat and crossed her ankles, attempting to sit up straight. The old woman attempted to have Huck take off her bonnet, but with Huck’s hair having been chopped to a boy-short length, she kept it on.<br /><br /> The old woman continued to go on about Tom Sawyer, Huck herself, and the six thousand dollars, except the old woman said it was ten thousand. Eventually, the topic of Huck’s “murder” came up, and the old lady asked curiously, “Who done it? We’ve heard considerable about these goings on, down in Hookersville, but we don’t know who ‘twas that killed Huck Finn.”<br /><br /> It was weird for Huck, hearing others talk about her as if she were dead. “Well, I reckon there’s a right smart chance of people here that’d like to know who killed him,” Huck said, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper, “Some thinks old Finn done it himself.”<br /><br /> “No—is that so?” the old woman asked, clearly taken aback. <br /><br /> Huck didn’t know what to do. She just wanted to go back home, all of a sudden a strange urge overcoming her to make her want to storm out the door. She hated pretending to not be herself, but she was already doing that. She had been pretending to not be herself by being who she actually wanted to be and not the person she intended to be. She was interrupted in her thoughts by the old woman asking, “Come, now—what’s your real name?”<br /><br /> “Wh-what, mum?” Huck’s voice trembled.<br /><br /> “What’s your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?—or what is it?”<br /><br /> She had figured Huck out. She had figured out that Huck was really a boy, or really a girl who had been pretending to be a boy for so long so that she practically was a boy. Attempting to cover it up, Huck stammered, “Please to don’t poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I’m in the way, here, I’ll—”<br /><br /> But she was cut off, “No, you won’t. Set down and stay where you are. I ain’t going to hurt you, and I ain’t going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I’ll keep it; and what’s more, I’ll help you.”<br /><br /> Huck breathed deep. She was safe here, about to spill everything to this stranger, but the woman continued talking:<br /><br /> “You see, you’re a runaway ‘prentice—that’s all.”<br /><br /> What? Huck’s mind stopped and words ceased to make sense. This was one of the most absolutely confusing things she had ever come across. Huck didn’t know what to do. For once in her life she felt sensitive, almost in tears, because at that moment she realized that no one would ever be able to know the truth. This was the life she had chosen, and now that her decision had been made, she needed to stick with it. A runaway child is one thing, that happens rather often down South here. Meanwhile, a runaway child who wants to be a boy but is actually a girl is completely unheard of. Huck felt as if a big, black wave of truth was crashing down on her, leaving her forever drowning in her own pool of lies, the very same pool she had started to fill on her own in order to attain her happiness.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-44657851657845257352015-01-20T20:24:00.001-05:002015-01-20T20:24:21.807-05:00'E adesso sul finire del round' by Mario Luzi trans. Nicholas Benson<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And now at the end of the round,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">he leans on the ropes,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">he goes down hard,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">he, the giant, first </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">artfully,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">precisely assailed on each flank,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">his face mashed, pummeled in all his flesh:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and now here it is, leaping to action,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">shuddering from its own </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">sudden transformation,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">the arena resounds: fixes<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a single, terrible </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">pupil upon him, holds him there,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">the evil eye, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to the matt,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">down for the count,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">without mercy counted down.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And the other,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">still caged, guard position relaxed,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">yet chained in the mail</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">of battle, curtailed — while the forcefield </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">of undiminished energy vibrates</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">all around him — and there</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">left alone</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">suspended over the black abyss,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">on the verge of plunging </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">into the dark trench</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">of sweat and spit, into the churning fire</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">of violence unexpressed...</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">he’s done. Each of them are.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Born of struggle,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">struck down at its end: cruelly, at once. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">(from “Per il battesimo dei nostri frammenti” (1978-1984), in <i>Tutte le poesie</i>, Milano: Garzanti, 1988. pp. 516-517)</span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-8462284346968438302015-01-14T20:35:00.001-05:002015-01-14T20:35:13.349-05:00from David Shulman's Spring, Heat, RainsI dream, oddly, of the Greek poem inscribed on the wall of the burial cave at Beit Guvrin, south of Jerusalem:<br />
<br />
Nothing else remains that I can do for you,<br />
or that will pleasure you.<br />
I am sleeping with someone else, but it is you<br />
I love, dearest to me of all.<br />
In the name of Aphrodite, I am happy about one thing,<br />
that your cloak has been left to me as a pledge.<br />
But I flee, I permit you<br />
expanses of freedom.<br />
Do anything you desire, do not strike the wall,<br />
it only makes noise.<br />
We will motion to each other, this will be<br />
the sign between us.<br />
<br />
A woman, apparently, speaks to her dead lover. I carry this poem with me in my wallet. Often, when I read it out loud, people refuse to believe it was written two thousand years ago. Amiel sent me the original last year; the translation is faithful, even the 'expanses of freedom.'<br />
<br />
David Shulman, <i>Spring, Heat, Rains. A South Indian Diary (</i>The U of Chicago P, 2009), p. 7.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-79264988881775550542015-01-08T09:44:00.003-05:002015-01-08T09:44:25.021-05:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: georgia, times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">Tradurre poesia è un umile servizio, da fare in punta di piedi, sapendo bene che ogni traduzione invecchia, mostra dopo alcuni anni le rughe del tempo, mentre il testo originale rimane là, nella sua intatta bellezza.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: georgia, times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: georgia, times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">-Antonia Arslan, "Il bisogno di tradurre poesia," <a href="http://rivistatradurre.it/2014/11/il-bisogno-di-tradurre-poesia/" target="_blank">tradurre</a>. pratiche teorie strumenti. numero 7 (autunno 2014). </span>Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-40158045384631049122014-10-31T18:46:00.001-04:002014-10-31T18:46:31.379-04:00FM5Check out new work by Mebane Robertson, poems by Luca Visentini translated from the Italian by Natasha Senjanović, a conversation with artist Jason Wallengren, Anna Maria Cossiga's latest Letter from Rome, and bracing new work by Robert Margolis, all on the new <i>frankmatter</i>, <a href="http://frankmattermag.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-18007037812626338902014-10-23T11:55:00.000-04:002014-10-23T11:55:09.227-04:00Poems by Virginia Dodenhoff<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone told me once that the reason we live on this earth
is to find happiness, bliss, nirvana. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People say that happiness does not exist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my friend said he found it the other day when he looked
into the eyes of the girl he loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some kid was laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is that not happiness?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happiness is freedom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s letting go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This world is hard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We do what we don’t want to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how the world works.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life isn’t easy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life isn’t fair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who work their asses off win.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They get what they want.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People who give in will lose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They will lose all that they have.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is happiness?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s what they’ll ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t this there is such thing as ‘happiness.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s because they’re lazy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve heard it said that if you just say “yes,” you can figure
it out later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People constantly do things they don’t want to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will that lead to happiness, bliss, nirvana?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carrying things<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, I carry things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always have a Bible, a pen, a journal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe some chapstick<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some mints.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone, my sunglasses, my hopes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A book my friend suggested to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also tend to carry a water bottle and my keys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like having those things that make your chopsticks work
without trying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regret, guilt, temptation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every now and then I’ll bring my laptop with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How you call me “fat” almost everyday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also like to bring some mascara.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Hobbit</i>,
because I started it last March and I still have yet to finish it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hatred.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I carry my wallet,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s filled with money, coins, a smoothie punch card I use
at the gym when I get protein shakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Calluses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blisters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Prayer box.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another pen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A pencil.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An iPod.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Headphones.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deodorant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The schedule for the Saints’ season. (We aren’t making it to
the super bowl this year.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, how could I forget?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always carry a smile.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It covers all those things I carry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-34327781442336104242014-10-17T21:27:00.000-04:002014-10-17T21:27:57.912-04:00Thhooorreeaaauuuu! Thoreau's Last Walk, by Aidan Bond<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Thoreau, a man of solitude, is not
one who can easily translate from isolation into an environment filled with
sociable, conversation-seeking teenagers. Although his first case of contact
was perceived as friendly, slowly but surely, things took a turn for the worse.
Philosophical conversations were great, temporarily that is, until the best
questions ran out. When conversations became too complex, students slowly
became distracted. They lost pace, falling behind as well as running ahead,
leaving few for Thoreau to lecture on transcendentalism. Listening to Bobby
Shmurda proved to be a much more popular pastime, as a result of the poor
attempts to ban any and all technology from the hike. In teenager terms, anything
that violates the rules is instantaneously cool, whereas a historical figure,
in many ways, is seen as lame. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At any rate, as a
result of various distractions in play, Thoreau’s group thinned down. It became
a more defined and relentless group of followers. They were not simply
interested in his ideology, but the sheer reality of Thoreau’s existence is
what excited these super fans. In attempting to evade this painful experience,
Thoreau came into contact with others from outside his miniature mob. He only managed
to express a few words at a time, that is, before he would be cut off by
overwhelming laughter, despite the lack of a genuinely comical statement. All
of this resulted in an obvious realization: Thoreau needed to escape, and he was
going to have to do it quickly. At certain moments along his path there were
check-ins, at which large crowds amassed. At the largest gathering he pretended
there was too much noise for him to hear, and he unheedingly walked ahead of
his companions. He quickly slipped through the crowd, all the way to the front,
and hurried along the trail until he was safely out of sight. Only a few
minutes passed until his anxious friends caught up to him, out of breath,
concerned over his disappearance. This surprise escalated the situation
greatly, and so Thoreau stayed almost silent, giving short, relatively painless
answers, until he arrived at another opportunity. An agitated swarm of wasps
were swirling in the middle of his path. There were hundreds flying about, and
many more crawling all over and around their disturbed hive. Thoreau, without
hesitation, leaped straight through this extremely dangerous path, kicking dirt
at the hive, and screaming like a lunatic in the hopes of further discouraging
any attempt to follow him. Surely it would take a complete idiot to take such a
risk, seeing as there was an alternative route, shortened in length, created
specifically to avoid the wasps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Despite the odds,
as he was inspecting himself for stings, he was interrupted by a high-pitched
scream, “Thhooorrreeaaauuuu!” followed by an abundance of heavy, fasted paced
footsteps. His closest friends had risked the chance of injury for yet another
opportunity to drive Thoreau further into desperation. And so the remainder of
his arduous journey was filled with stories of bravery and valor. Or as he saw
it, stories of the idiots who ran through a swarm of wasps, in order to follow someone
who wanted to be alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Eventually he
surrendered to his fate. He had decided to be happy, at least, for those he
spared from suffering the same fate, had he not been there. Those who will
never know of, let alone appreciate the great deed he carried out that day. At
the end of the day, however, he would’ve much preferred avoiding this
experience altogether, and being Thoreau, it’s not something he’s likely to
risk experiencing twice. He most likely will never take a walk through the
woods again.<o:p></o:p></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-22402890915207106312014-10-06T14:35:00.001-04:002014-10-06T14:35:46.923-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EbnnotuuKo8/VDLgYSQRt2I/AAAAAAAAAwI/_CVe3R_hbyQ/s1600/cms_file_30815151_med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EbnnotuuKo8/VDLgYSQRt2I/AAAAAAAAAwI/_CVe3R_hbyQ/s1600/cms_file_30815151_med.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Stone Pony Asbury Park, NJ</i> photo by Ashley Judson</span>Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-75851249326304729932014-10-01T17:26:00.001-04:002014-10-01T17:26:17.494-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c_W8Z0aI0ps/VCxwc6VYjDI/AAAAAAAAAv4/iKe58tyZo0o/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-10-01%2Bat%2B5.17.49%2BPM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c_W8Z0aI0ps/VCxwc6VYjDI/AAAAAAAAAv4/iKe58tyZo0o/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-10-01%2Bat%2B5.17.49%2BPM.jpg" height="320" width="204" /></a></div>
To check out the latest edition of The Gunnery's literary journal, <b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>STRAY SHOT 2014</i></span></b>, click <a href="https://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/sslpage.aspx?pid=575&category=stray+shot" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-73345710181495951572014-09-29T14:52:00.001-04:002014-09-29T14:52:19.830-04:00Tessa Mackey photo and caption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-62ILbjjihwY/VCmqWaaY07I/AAAAAAAAAvo/J67HGc6zVq4/s1600/cms_file_30454335_med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-62ILbjjihwY/VCmqWaaY07I/AAAAAAAAAvo/J67HGc6zVq4/s1600/cms_file_30454335_med.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Although it was the first race, the girls in this boat practice hard everyday and have many blisters to prove it!</span>Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-88479617698205858252014-09-29T14:39:00.003-04:002014-09-29T14:39:43.797-04:00Nice work by sophomore Henry Pratt, from the student newspaper at The Gunnery. For Henry's article from the first issue of the school year, click <a href="https://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/students/publications" target="_blank">here</a>.Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-86558119838656952402014-09-03T20:10:00.000-04:002014-09-03T20:10:37.215-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WvrjWOrhwDo/VAetwl3PkII/AAAAAAAAAvY/v-P-b2HfKfY/s1600/DSC00598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WvrjWOrhwDo/VAetwl3PkII/AAAAAAAAAvY/v-P-b2HfKfY/s1600/DSC00598.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-4216246689244333892014-07-24T13:20:00.000-04:002014-07-24T13:27:08.358-04:00nyc poetry festival<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bkGl3C82Duk/U9E_icjmwaI/AAAAAAAAAu4/bVk5q84u4PI/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-07-24+at+1.11.00+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bkGl3C82Duk/U9E_icjmwaI/AAAAAAAAAu4/bVk5q84u4PI/s1600/Screen+shot+2014-07-24+at+1.11.00+PM.png" height="208" width="400" /></a></div>
...a quick head's up that five <a href="http://frankmattermag.com/" target="_blank">frankmatter</a> contributors, some of whom have been featured on this site, will be reading at the NYC Poetry Festival this Saturday at 1:40 (at The White Horse stage). For the poetry festival's website, click <a href="http://newyorkcitypoetryfestival.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. We're looking forward to hearing Leslie Howes, Emily Sklar, Mebane Robertson, Gabriele Tinti, and Moneta Goldsmith!Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-45601853733807792592014-06-09T16:36:00.001-04:002014-06-09T16:36:47.700-04:00The ginger lily<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">My ‘living’ memory of Uncle Kanjilal are Champa plants (Dolon Champa in Bangla) that produce the most beautiful and intensely perfumed white flowers. This kind of Champa is found in humid tropical zones, such as certain areas of India, and all of southeast Asia. I have even found it in Texas, where it grows in abundance, and characteristically in a kind of wondrous ‘forest,’ all the more beautiful when it is in flower. In English it is also called the ginger lily. I have always loved this flower, which is extremely rare in the dry climate of the Indian region of Uttar Pradesh, but my uncle had it in his garden. When I asked him for a cutting, he laughed at me a bit skeptically, saying that I would never be able to make it flower. I responded that I was sure I could. And so went our good-natured repartee for some time. My uncle has passed on, but his Champa is still here. It has also produced others, and in season, there are abundant flowers. For me, it is as though my uncle were present, and content, still pretending not to give me any credit. He was slender, wiry, and agile, with an alert gaze, a narrow mustache, and glasses. I still feel his great affection. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">People pass away. Whoever can leaves something: a house, land, and who knows what else. But plants that have been left behind have extra significance for me. They bear living witness to who once lived. Indeed, it is as though they live on.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">in homage to Devi Priya</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">with affection and gratitude</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">an excerpt from her memoir</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>Più di una vita</i> | <i>More than one life</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">from the translation in progress by Nicholas Benson</span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-81528010503431200602014-04-27T08:49:00.000-04:002014-04-27T08:49:23.258-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjB84Ep0kc8/U1z6JNtdqJI/AAAAAAAAAuU/kA7RKtGinmc/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjB84Ep0kc8/U1z6JNtdqJI/AAAAAAAAAuU/kA7RKtGinmc/s1600/photo.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Thank you for maxi-reading!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>at The Gunnery on April 26th</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lexi Nanavaty</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Matt LoPresti</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Casey Siemon</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sam Joslin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Ivy Le</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Ataman Uğur</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Jake Kantor</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Shannon O’Connor</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Laura-Delight van Tartwijk</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Jessica Xu</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sam Hemmingstad</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Henry Palmer</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Zafar Mirzaliev</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Isaac Reguant Escarra y James Benedetto</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Nick Weinstein</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Alexis Dominicus</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><i>and particularly recognized for their outstanding recitations:</i> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><b>Alexis Dominicus</b> </span></div>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Henry Palmer, Sam Hemmingstad, Jake Kantor, Ivy Le, Sam Joslin, Casey Siemon, Matt LoPresti, and Lexi Nanavaty</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><i>Congratulations!</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[illustration by Shannon O'Connor]</span></span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-52877934536627767562014-04-14T10:45:00.004-04:002014-04-14T10:45:57.192-04:00Poem by Nick Weinstein<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Stop</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Growing up you used your hands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Taking roll call every time<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You needed to count between one and ten<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But that never mattered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When you were young you still needed a song<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Never were quite sure what came next, was it J or K?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Twenty-six letters put to a rhyme just so you could spell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But that never mattered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever happened to those days?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Did they slip away in backdraft of time’s momentum?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fall away from our calendars like a dying leaf?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Or are they simply hiding?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just waiting to be rediscovered, our youthful invigoration?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lying around our subconscious, a buried treasure trove of
wonder?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our twenty-four hour workday fills itself<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Labor after labor after labor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even Hercules would be put to shame, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He only had thirteen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What changed us? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Derailed our hopes and dreams?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We used to have literary merit,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So much more than just a story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now we trudge on desperately,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Searching for a
missing theme<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That we will never find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Imagination flew with freedom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We thought in sound and fury<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Shakespeare of our own minds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">An everlasting waterfall of adventures to be had<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Take back those “childish” days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pay back the late fees and renew your sense of wonderment<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Embrace what some may call a crisis<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because what everyone else thought?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, that never mattered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-47196198579126880852014-04-09T10:28:00.003-04:002014-04-09T10:28:55.581-04:00Poem by Emma Ward<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;"><i>Go away</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">Go away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">I want to lay<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">In my bed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">Alone</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">I think it's</span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">best</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">I skip that test<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">I've got a nasty<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">Cold<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">As for that sport</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">You make me play<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">I’m no good anyway</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">So <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">I think it's best</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Fax","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: AppleMyungjo;">You let me rest</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Upon my bed today</span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-71928381293987991302014-04-05T10:46:00.002-04:002014-04-05T10:46:49.182-04:00Gerry Kahari's Spring Break Diary<span style="background-color: #e69138; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #282828; font-size: 13px;">Dear Diary, </span><br style="color: #282828; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="color: #282828; font-size: 13px;"> Day one of spring break I woke up and went to class. Then I took a nap in that class and I woke up when the class ended, it was great. After that I saw Kevin in the dorm hallway. He told me to have a good spring break. Then I responded with, "you too." My dad picked me up shortly after that riveting conversation with Kevin. A few days afterwards I arrived at my abode. I sailed on my rubber ducky to Panama City. Oh what a paradise that place is. While in Panama City I met some very beautiful dolphins. It was fairly warm for most of my stay. To return home I sailed back using my floaties. Due to the absurd winds it was difficult to return and I ran into a young boy on a boat with a lion. At first I thought it was quite odd that this boy was by himself on a boat with a lion but then I figured that I was lost. Because the circus is the other way. While I was home I worked out, watched tv and played a little lacrosse. My parents made me work, because they thought I had too much free time and that I wasn't doing anything productive, while they were at work....they were right. </span></span>Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-81329792421630950122014-03-30T19:29:00.000-04:002014-03-30T19:29:03.459-04:00<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have this project to / change our silence into the beautiful city of a voice.</span><br />
<br />
— Alice Notley, "Millions of Us"<br />
in <i>Songs and Stories of the Ghouls</i><br />
Wesleyan UP, 2011<br />
pp. 167-170; 170.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Notley.php">http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Notley.php</a>Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6033674652254694398.post-35716077227301290382014-03-26T16:43:00.001-04:002014-03-26T16:44:17.673-04:00<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">‘When human beings attempt to come to terms with who they are and who they wish to be, the most effective medium is verbal. Through words we represent ourselves to ourselves, we expand our awareness of the world, we step back, gain distance, on what it is we’ve said. And then we are in a position to change. Images, however exhilarating, do not generally function in this way. Words allow for a precision and nuance that images do not seem, for most people, to be able to provide. In a culture that changes at the velocity that ours does, the power of self-revision is centrally important. Self-aware self-revision is very difficult, if not impossible, outside of language.’</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Mark Edmundson, <i>Why Teach? In Defense of a Real Education</i>. NY: Bloomsbury, 2013. 207</span></div>
Green Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11824394995535719076noreply@blogger.com0