MHS Writing club
EST 2022
poetry, composition, prose, analysis
multimedia, art
2023
Spring
Issue
Lead
Jules Antonino
Editors
Advisor
Dimitri Markovich
Caitlin MacNeil
Gavin Tramontozzi
Timothy Hurley
Mrs. Miller
01
about US
The MHS Writing Club is a club dedicated to student creativity.
We welcome all art forms, including poems, short stories, essays, and non-literary works such as paintings, drawings, photos, short films, music, and games.
Writing Club aims to share students' creative endeavors in all mediums!
I wonder
“Humans like to watch a little destruction” (109)
“I see their ugly and their beauty,
and I wonder how the same thing can be both” (491)
“I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race” (550)
“Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin.
Their great skill is their capacity to escalate.”( 109)
“I'll never know, or comprehend
- what humans are capable of” (215)
“I am Haunted by humans” (550)
“There were broken bodies
and dead, sweet hearts” (349)
“It kills me sometimes,
how people die”( 464)
“I listened to their last, gasping cries.
Their vanishing words.
I watched their love visions
and freed them from their fear.” (350)
“So” (243)
“I ask” (13)
“myself” (4)
“again” (12)
“How could the same thing be so ugly
and so glorious” (550)
thickets
branches extending through blood
the fruit of their labors becoming the fruit of my faith
amidst the greenery and starlit treelines
i am home
though my home has been entrenched in thorns and nightshade,
i push my way through bramble and bush
to reach the ghosts of my past lives and the ghosts of who i once was and,
suddenly realizing i am surrounded by those who share
my penmanship, my prose
my songs, my embroidered clothes
my love, my hallowed oaths,
i know i am not alone - i never have been - but now
i feel it the way i feel when i run the leaves of a pothos under my fingertips
i feel it the way i feel cold water on my face in the evening
i feel it the way i feel the stickiness of morning dew on my bare feet
i feel it the way i feel my mother’s embrace
i feel it.
i feel their blood running through me and i know
i belong here,
in the grove.
02
Poems
A large focus of the MHS Writing Club is on poetry composition and analysis. Many of the students in our school are poets but do not have places to publish their work. We intend to provide a platform for these poets and give their work a place to be seen and heard by the student population -- something deeply important for aspiring writers.
Anonymous' Submission, "I wonder"
Caitlin MacNeil's piece, Thickets
1st place winner of the 2022 RoundPier Global Poetry Competition
03
Poems cont.
Day.
flowers flow, aghast
soft springtime wind apprehends
the promise of night
nighttime owls murmur
beneath blanketing moonlight
a feather in the night
smooth green leaves make way
for the sky god's soaking wrath
silence unfounded
whispering waves whoosh
the orange painted sky cries
tears of soft, pink lies
wisps of cloud sifting
through woods, harbinger of light
come mourn the dark night.
Tips of trees and gardens brown
The sun dips below the horizon
The cold bites
You pull back your bedcover
And your eyes slip shut to hide the
Sunlight
The whistling wind in the branches of the trees
Tucks you into bed and whispers
Good-night
Anonymous Submission titled "Day."
Note from Poet: "A collection of five haiku formed into a larger work due to interconnected themes."
Anonymous' Submission titled "Tips of trees and gardens brown..."
Autumn Night
Pleasantly the flailing leaves wisp away
Coasting through the cool breeze
Leaving behind the hollows of wonder allowing only spectators to see
Without the worries of the world
Allowed to be free
Peacefully and blissful but unaware of the faults below
Soaring above cities and meadows
Above mountains and oceans
Following the wind and heeding to no one’s path
Allowed to be free
When tensions rise and fall
Empires sprout and wither away
Throughout Conquer and Famine
Leaves gently wisp away
Allowed to be free
Whilst the world evolves and wastes
One thing is for sure
Slowly they drift
Towards their final resting place
Knowing that they have always been
Allowed to be free
Anonymous' piece, "I wonder"
Gavin Tramontozzi's pieces, "Autumn Night" and "Crystal Clear"
Crystal Clear
Crescently glittering in the moonlight
Shadows creeping
Glowing from the sun
Dew of newly descended water
Warmth of ice
Frost establishing its roots
Rivers and lakes drying
Bright sunsets
Mystical icy wonderlands
steering below a spectacle
Waiting to find its new home
Arriving at an unknown destination
To finally find its place
Knowing it won't stop
Knowing it can’t stop
Knowing it will thrive
Knowing it is finally at its resting place
Knowing it’s known for a long time
Accepting it is at peace
Realizing it's been clear for a long time
Crystal Clear
Poems cont.
04
05
Poems cont.
Caitlin MacNeil's piece, "please cradle this entropy."
please cradle this entropy
do you think she would love me
even when i am hideous
with a hole in my chest?
would she reach into the depths of her own
fumble around and
pull out her own heart to plug the cavern in mine?
would she uproot the flowers in her stomach
to make a bouquet for me?
would she clean my scratches with her holy antiseptic
open and bleeding from trying to pull the bramble away from her ribs
and in doing so
would she take my hands in hers
caress them like she has with no other
trace the star lines and sarcastically tell me my future
while i would just gaze at her in a way as if to tell her “it’s entirely and completely with you”
secretly, though
in the gaping cavity
i keep hidden the ice she fell on and the breath that hitched in my lungs
the feet that fought to run to her, the legs that restrained them
so if she were to see inside
would she adore it or hide from it?
would she slip on the ice again
make me gasp
and this time,
could i run to her?
would i slip with her would i fall next to her would she catch me would she take me in her arms
ice and all and would she embrace me with the deep gashing monstrous pit inside me without
fear that it would consume her and would she love it like she never has like i never have and
could we love it together
Anonymous' Submission titled "A New Chapter"
The autumn leaves of chlorophyll are draining
And thus become a canopy of red.
Some when they see them, feel their own hearts paining
To think those trees will soon stand grey and dead.
But those old dying leaves, my soul remembers,
As through them autumn sunlight coldly glows
Blaze all the brighter, like gold living embers,
Most beautiful in their last cold death-throes.
And over you, though heavy dark clouds hover,
When they gain weight, as rain to earth they splatter.
The sun shines brighter after. You’ll recover
In future days when present dark clouds scatter.
The heavy storm clouds aren’t everlasting.
Just like all other things, they must decay.
They hang a short while, their dark shadows casting,
But then, just like all else, they fade away.
The cycle of endless decomposition
Brings things more wondrous than those which just fell.
So mourn not for some forgotten tradition
When other ways would serve you just as well.
Remember that while some good things lie broken
All things must. And besides, you need not frown
Your woes are, by the very selfsame token
Doomed by the laws of nature to break down.
Anonymous' Submission titled "Further Reflections on Entropy"
Poems cont.
06
Poems cont.
07
Halloween
Dusk
Nightly Howls
Ghostly Figures Visible To All The Naked Eyes
For One Time A Year
Shadows
Faint Whispers
A Ghoulish Gathering
A Transformation
A Glare From A Bright Moon
A Town Full Of Cheers
A Town Full Of Woe
A Town Full Of Happiness
Tricks With Treats
A Fantastic Year
With A New Tradition
A Tradition Called Halloween
Gavin Tramontozzi's piece, "Halloween"
Mayhem
As life rolls by
So do the heaps of magma
Consuming everything touched
Taking, not leaving all held sacred
Life runs with the magma
With all friends and family consumed
The loneliness creeping closer
All I can do is run
Run from the ever growing source of consumption
Run from the taker of life
Run from the harsh destiny that is determined by such a monstrous volcano
All I can do is run
Life runs with the magma
The stench of burnt flesh and the echoes of screams cascade through ears
Destruction looms closer
My city turned to ashes
Turned to rubble
Left to only ruin
The captured souls all left to roam the eternal darkness
The darkness that was once our home
Life runs with the magma
The blaze and warmth grow closer
There will be no escape
Our fallen civilization
Taken by the cursed volcano
If only we had known
Life runs with the magma
The glow of the sun explodes behind
Earth shattering light flies overhead
Life runs with the magma
But as all lives it ends
This life could not outrun the magma
Life is consumed by magma
Gavin Tramontozzi's piece, "Mayhem"
lost pet
sometimes i feel like i’m a
mutt running through the trees
out of everyone’s grasp
do not chase
my claws tear up dirt as i become reminiscent to my ancestors
my owners just want me home
but i will gladly sacrifice the refuge of a roof over my head
if it means i have wild autonomy
and they will put up posters
pleading with strangers to look out for me
paste a number no one will call
right underneath my face
and i will find one, ripped off the post by a stray gust of wind
and conclude that i am meant to be missing
Caitlin MacNeil's piece, "lost pet"
Poems cont.
07
Visual arts
Another core focus of our club is highlighting the visual arts in all of its forms.
Embroideries, drawings, comics, and even online media, such as video games, movies, and other performed arts.
We encourage further submissions of this genre.
07
Embroidery by Riley Ashok
Tiered Cake by Sofia Mercier
Visual arts
08
Drawing by Nina DeWitt
prose
Prose is the written word in its natural form. Most commonly demonstrated in sentences and paragraphs.
This is common writing we do every day in school.
You do it every day, too.
It connects us to the past, to the present, and to our future.
We hope you share your words with us someday.
08
prose
Keys
My first love was books. I would get drunk off of the smell of distant dreams through the hands and eyes of distant dreamers. The soft cracking of an opening spine as I travel through time. Of holding the world in my hands. The intimacy of finishing a book and taking in the enormity of what has just been opened. Through books I found myself. And I escaped myself. I freed myself in the folds of chapters. I laced myself through the hinges. There are pieces of myself scattered throughout the worlds I have visited. I longed to carve the words I inhaled into the bottom of the sea to ensure I would never forget them. I longed to unlock the secrets of the stars; the question Why? would haunt my days. But I didn’t mind. I was reading and evolving and learning and breathing and living. So give me a book, and I’ll give you my keys.
Jules Antonino, titled "keys"
"Mortimer's Genius" by Anonymous
Mortimer was a genius poet, but not a poetic genius. The familiar forms confounded and frustrated him; as a young child, he couldn’t even compose a simple, vulgar limerick to amuse his friends; in middle school he discovered that even the most rudimentary knowledge of numbers fled his mind wherever syllables were concerned; and in high school, his attempts at Shakespearean sonnets were more or less the sole cause of his perpetual single status. It was only in his second year of college that he finally discovered where his true genius actually lay. At a poetry slam in Martha’s Vineyard one Saturday evening, Mortimer was scheduled to perform after twelve other poets. He listened to the first three and quietly tore up the handwritten sonnets he had spent the previous, sleepless night composing. He grinned through the next several performances and was giddy with anticipation by the time the twelfth performer spoke.
The twelfth performer was a young woman with various piercings and an NPR tote bag slung over her shoulder. The tote bag had numerous ribbons and pins of various colors pinned to it; Mortimer briefly considered counting to see who had been decoratively pierced fewer times, her or her tote bag, but gave up after she began to speak. Her poetry was exemplary of the evening’s fare:
“Birds” by Molly Van Amsterdam
Twitterfly, bitpeck, bitter and
flittering, a bird comes flapping, fluttering in
The wind, a storm-tossed, Vulnerable miracle and a
-lights on a twig which snapped
09
prose
Mortimer had no idea how he could hear the absence of a period at the end of Molly’s poem, but he very distinctly heard it. As Mortimer applauded along with everyone else, someone leaned in to whisper to him, “genius. The sheer beauty speaks to something much deeper.”
As an experiment, Mortimer hesitantly replied, “it’s not really about the bird, is it?”
“Of course not.” No more was said. The applause died down. Then Mortimer took the stage. The audience was silent and Mortimer’s newly-discovered genius shone forth as he spoke.
“a thousand capillaries billow silently,” he said, and the lowercase letter at the beginning of the sentence was somehow also audible.
“a dozen
green
plugs.
I never built a shark.
COPERNICUS! COPERNICUS...and coleslaw.
After almost a full minute of silence, and another minute of agreeable muttering, the audience burst into deafening applause. The audience was in agreement: Mortimer’s words were the most beautiful ever spoken. There was no need for further analysis, for the profundity of Mortimer’s words were apparent to all who heard them. The poem spoke for itself, and all present assured each other that its meaning, while subtle and perhaps lost on the less educated, was obvious to all present. Mortimer alone had no idea what those words meant, and being their author, he was, of course, correct.
prose
09
prose
09
“‘Bricks is the answer,’ proclaims the silence to the eggs,
‘bricks-and time—Travel.’
In odd
places like a pecking toad in a pecking
order I peck at food and photos.
at they who proclaim the news.”
Now Mortimer was speaking to a much larger crowd. His voice was sore from speaking, but he swallowed a glass of water and took a bow. This was his third speaking engagement this week, and between those and his many, many book deals, his poetry and his genius had become his primary source of income. His audience was spellbound by his every word, sagely nodding along and impressing themselves with their personal theories about Mortimer’s deeper meaning. Mortimer himself couldn’t have grown a larger or more devoted audience without providing loaves and fishes for them. Few suspected, and none dared suggest, the true nature of Mortimer’s genius. Yet for fear of embarrassing themselves and being proven wrong, Mortimer’s followers said nothing meaningful about his poems. Thus, in a way, his true meaning was perfectly articulated by all who discussed his work.
Years later, at a poetry slam in Albany, Mortimer met his match. Her sly confidence was just like Mortimer's, and in her profound words Mortimer heard the same meaning that was inherent in all his published work.
“and then there is david Hasselhoff, accursed, who dooms my
Proverbial dog.
I walk the streets of Mars tomorrow, Canaan
yesterday. I knew not who I would find in the alley
but there a Tactless Martian Ditch-Digger Sold Me A Stolen Turnip.”
Mortimer heard these words and knew that the jig was up. No one was going to reveal the true secrets of Mortimer’s poetry—all who tried would have been dismissed as simpleminded Philistines at best (at worst his many admirers would go out of their way to ruin his critics’ lives)—but now someone had not only discovered his secret, but that she too could use it. This woman would be just the first of many. They would flood the market and dilute his work. The balloon would swell with them until it finally popped. One more metaphor (a word whose meaning Mortimer did not and does not know) crossed Mortimer's mind: he decided to nip this problem in the bud.
He waited for her to finish. When she was done, the customary muttering of the audience began. Several faces turned to Mortimer, waiting for his authoritative opinion, desperate to consult Mortimer’s genius. Mortimer suppressed a wicked grin and loudly whispered to those nearest to him, “you all understood what that meant, right? There’s no need for me to explain it?”
“No, no, of course not,” came the reply.
“Good,” said Mortimer. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who was offended...”
prose
09
Traditions are cycles. Circles. This is the tradition of my family. The cycle of blunt rage and regret. My mother never drinks; she never laid a hand on me. She doesn’t smoke or drive recklessly. But. My mother is a workaholic. Early mornings, late nights. Irritability. Constant arguing. No sleep. Never having time nor caring for the accomplishments of her children. She didn’t play with me or nurture my scraped knees in my youth. She is invisible at times. I long for the peace I felt floating in the amniotic euphoria of my mother. I longed for the love of my mother.
But she doesn’t remember bliss. No, she remembers the pain. She remembers the pain of my birth when all I remember is the oxygen pumping through my cells. And like the adoring child I was, I took after my mother. I learned to sense the pain in others. I learned to make myself small to fit through the expectations of others. I have since skinned old habits and hung them out to dry.
I have since unlearned my childhood, unfolded the circle, and ironed it out.
prose
10
Anonymous, titled "circles"
You are a creative, too.
Let's find your genre.
Thank you for reading the first issue of our Literary Magazine.
Please look out for our next issue.
Use this link to consider submitting your own work.
Faculty and Staff may also consider submitting their work, too.
https://forms.gle/sWUr6xfvaf4fCEVS8