Literary EditorsMichael Pumphret ’13 • Peter O’Leary ’16

Jamie Bell ’14Jordan Blackington ’13Charles J. Carpenter ’15Jackie Chen ’15Luis Consguegra ’14Alec Ferry ’16Matt Gill ’16Wyatt Hamilton ’13

HippocreneThe Arts and Literary Magazine

of Avon Old Farms School

2012 – 2013

Writers

Artists & PhotographersNick Bernie ’14Austin Brawley ’14Vincent Caputo ’16Jiuhua Chen ’15Justin Cho ’14Arden Coleman ’16Diego Davila ’13Jake DeSaint Phalle ’16Frankie Driscoll ’14Cooper Fairbanks ’16

Cover by: Min Hyoung Kim ’13

AdvisorsSeshu BadrinathBradford CarpenterMichael DembicerGail Laferrière

Grace McGeeCristina PintonGayle Robinson

Avon old FArmss c h o o l

Daniel Heitmann ’16Young Jun Song ’16Donghee Kim ’16Min Hyoung Kim ’13Kurte Linke ’16Darren Longbottom ’13Yusuf Mansoor ’15Orion Marco ’16Devin McKenna ’15Luke O’Connor ’16

Michael Perrone ’16John Rick ’15Max Rieser ’16Nate Rosemond ’15Henry Schopp ’14Zach Sibert ’14Young Jun Song ’16Sinthorn Xie ’16

Donghee Kim ’16Samuel Kim ’14Sam Loizeaux ’14Christopher Macca ’13Seamus O’Brien ’13Lukas O’Connor ’13Luke O’Connor ’16Peter O’Leary ’16

Michael Pumphret ’13Tucker Roy ’16Jaekyung Song ’13Tucker Symes ’16Reid White ’14

—Max Rieser ’16

—Max Rieser ’16

3

Prep School Drums

I find myself in a classroom, full of people I have never known, and answering enquiries that I had never considered. The squealing chalk glides across the blackboard, leaving only a trail of numerical enigmas for us to decipher. The clacking of fingers against our calculators is a symphony of annoyance and wonder. The teacher’s instruction is like a starting piece to a puzzle. One hint, and suddenly over time, the most abstract of questions becomes the as clear as the water in my cup. As the bell rings, a chorus of sighs and sarcastic Thank God’s sound off, amongst the rustling of papers and the slamming of book covers. My classmates throw on their jackets like baseball jerseys, signifying their freedom from the educational dungeon. As they leave the room, the sound of Timberlands and Sperry’s flow against the pavement and cobblestone. The prep school drums are sounding.

—Michael Pumphret ’13

Fearlessly Afraid

I am afraid.Unafraid to admit it, foolish as this may be

a sort of contradiction of the highest degree.Not of death, no.

afraid of an unsatisfactory legacy.what will St. Peter say when I reach those gilded gates

shimmering with the power of the almighty?Am I worthy to reside in the kingdom of accomplishment?

what worth do I have?how much value is my legacy?

will I be remembered for the man I wasor at least aspired to be?or will I be forgotten?

the simple forgotten memory of a former loveencased in the mistakes and follies of my being.

Perhaps Kacey Musgraves is right, for“you’re damned if you do

and you’re damned if you don’t,so you might as well just do whatever you want.”

no book, no church, no executive can tell us what we wantnothing tells us who to be

because I am not a thing, I am a bodyand I am the only body that can tell me what to dofor I understand myself better than any doctor will

but my fear controls me.like a medication that starves your appetite

or restricts your antics because they are deemed “unfit” for societyhowever, society is made up of differences

America itself is a melting pot.but fear is the resonating and restricting chain of control.

it is only when we are placed in a box and buriedthat we are given the tools to

break the chain.shatter it.

live your life evading fearfor that is the true face of death.

—Michael Pumphret ’13

5

—Arden Coleman ’16

—Cooper Fairbanks ’16

7

The Pitch

The pitcher is tired, worn out, and dehydrated--- everyone can sense it.

He shoves his size 14 black Nike Swingman series spike off of the torn

up, white rubber, placed ever so precisely on top of the dirt mound that

baseball pitchers call their home. The ball looks as if it just glides off

the long fingers of the tall and lanky pitcher. The ball is thrown with so

much force and effort that the pitcher grunts in discomfort as he follows

through with his release. A spectator’s jaw drops as he witnesses a faint

vapor trail behind the white projectile. The seams on the ball are revolv-

ing fast, so fast that the ball doesn’t look white anymore, it looks red from

the revolutions of the seams. The ball is just about half way between the

mound and the old, tan, leather, dried out catcher’s glove. Something

very strange happens, the ball suddenly takes a dive towards the ground,

the ball thuds against the ground and then rolls a little and comes to a

stop. Everyone is baffled by what has just occurred. The umpires are just

as astounded as the players and fans. The umpires have no clue what to

do. Do they call it a strike or a ball? Do they end the game? Do they have

a re-do? No one knows for sure what to do, because no one was expecting

this. The umpires talk amongst themselves and then call for the coaches

to come in and talk with them too. Imagine this: you’re on the mound in

a crucial game, you’re one pitch away from winning the championship,

something very awkward has just happened, and the outcome of the game

is riding on someone else’s call/judgement. The umpires break out of the

talk amongst themselves and the coaches. What will the call be?

—Matt Gill ’16

Pushed, Punished, Pride

You’re fat,You’re ugly,You’re Gay,

I heard your boyfriend broke up with you today.Facebook Message,

Send,Text,Beep.

I hope you understand this is on the internet for keeps.Will you be Pushed,

Will you be Punished,Where’s the Pride.

Over 80% of teens use a cell phone regularly,Making it the most common medium for cyber bullying on the con-

trary.81% of young people have an easier time getting away with bullying

online rather than bullying on his or her own time.Shall the percent go higher?Or can cyberbullying retire?

Will you be Pushed?Will you be Punished?

Where’s the Pride?

Touch,Type,Call,

Skype,Offend,Pretend,

Hear it Again and Again,These are all examples,Of keyboard tramples,

A stampede,Of unrighteousness,

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These words of messages say,The golden gate bridge is over that way.Will you be Pushed?

Will you be Punished?Where’s the Pride?

Where’s the good,The happy stage,Where cyberbullying doesn’t get its own Bubonic Plague.It’s on its way,Is that the price we will have to pay?How ‘bout a good page one with Pride,You’re great,You’re Awesome,You’re athletic,Anything but pathetic.Facebook post,Click,Call,Wanna come to the mall.Don’t be,PushedPushed,Pushed,Into things you don’t want to do,Just answer the questions and you’ll know how to get through.Will you be Pushed?Will you be Punished?Where’s the Pride?

—Alec Ferry ’16

—Justin Cho ’14

11

Freedom

A Poem By the Poet Tucker Georges Miller Roy

Is it the blindness that we use as excuses to bypass responsibilitiesThe slim percentage on a pie chart where the rest is covered by laws and guidelines making usblind following into the dark cave like a country following a dictatorCovering yourself in mud and slipping yourself under fences attempting to create a better life foryour family in a land of opportunityWhen you walk out on stage in front of millions to spread a message of hopeOr when you take away from some to give to othersWhen you breathe that last breath on a field with wounds no doctor can healWhen a child is born and held in the arms of its motherFreedom, a collection of fears disarming the citizensPresenting the image of world peace, while in the guts of that body, disease is spreadingThe people being betrayed by their governmentBelieving in what they are forced to believe inFollowing the dreams they are persuaded to followThe idea of freedom is different from the realityFreedom is in the hands of our generationFreedom is the kiss goodbye when a child is on their way to school

N.B. Tucker Roy ‘16 earned an honorable mention in the “What Freedom Means to Me” Poetry Contest sponsored by the Connecticut Civil War Commemoration Commission, the Amistad Center for Art and Culture, and the African-American Affairs Commission. Tucker was invited to recite his poem, “Freedom,” at the New Year’s Celebration at the Connecticut State Capitol and at a celebration of Martin Luther King Day at the Wadsworth Athenaeum.

—Tucker Roy ’16

—Min Hyoung Kim ’13

13

The Cave’s Fire

They dance andI’ve heard them singtheir voices echoecho so prettily through the roomroom and the shadowsthe shadows dance acrossthe roomroom is not very large but it hashas a very large a large echo, andI’ve watched so many shadows begintheir dances and their singingand listened to the echoesechoing through the room untilthe dancers grow smaller and the echoing andthe singingsinging grow louder until the dancer is done anddrifts through the air sosmall and soblack andthe new dancer begins untilonce againall you can hear is the sound of echoesechoing around the roomroom of the dancing shadows untilthe echoes make no soundthat you don’t sound yourselfand the shadowsthe dancing shadows remain silent as the echoesecho around the room andyou can’t stop singing andthe echoes don’t stop and the fire paints such a sharp shadowthe shadow of a man dancing and singingand the fire won’t let me stop movingand I can’t stop screaming

—Seamus O’Brien ’13

No touching

I woke up this morning from the coldest night sleep in a long timeOr at least it felt that wayShaking all nightShivers running up and down my spine so fast it felt like I had fallen asleep on an ant hillAs I laid there, numb,Teetering on the border of sleep and insanity, but not quite able to make it over the edge to peace and tranquilityI am soaked in a pool of regret, freezing me overThe image of your beautiful half cocked smile displayed out in front of meThat smile that so matched those eyes, beautiful, colored, deep,But empty and shallow with no emotion left to give

It kept me upLast night more than mostThe image was so real that it baffled me, left me thinking that you were really hereIn a delirium I got up and screamed for you, and like an ignorant fool I reached out to try and grab youObviously there was nothing there to grab,Just a fading memory.So I just laid there as if I was looking at a priceless piece of art,the Mona LisaLookingAdmiringwishingwantingBut not touching

And like others before me looking at the Mona Lisa I pondered your smileA smile that had made me so happy it gave me new hope picked me up from my pre dug coffinBut that was then, now it is empty, and even as I try and fill it with emotions of every nature, they seem to seep through like water through a broken mugThat smile that I loved I now loathe

15

That smile made me now breaks meThat smile that gave me sight left me blindThat smile that drove me crazy drives me madThat smileThat smileThat smile

And NowThe emptiness that is, replacing the joy that was.OnceYou

—Luis Consguegra ’14

—Luke O’Connor ’16

Life?

I am not here today to give you any answers and try to pretend I know what I am talking about; rather I am here to ask one single question. What is life?For me life is like a game, a really hard game; in fact it is the hardest game you can ever play. No one will tell you how to play this game, because no one really knows the rules. Maybe we just make up some rules so we can have something to work for, to look for, and to give us a dream, a hope that there is a way… to win. Maybe there aren’t any rules? Maybe we are playing this game because we are simply, just play-ing.However, we are all forced to play, since they day we are born we are put in clothes set up social background and given a name. We don’t got to choose what gender we want to be, what place we want to come from, or just simply, who we are. And we are forced through kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school, undergraduate, A.A, A.S, A.S.S, B.A, B.F.A, B.S, J.D, M.A, M.D, M.S, M.B.A, M.Ed. Ph.D. Ed.D, and probably ADD or ADHD.We are asked to run faster than other people, recite poems better than other people, get better grades, get into a better college, marry a better wife than the one who abandoned your father, get a better job than those low class workers who have to work three different jobs just to keep food on the table for himself, and his family. We are told… to live a better life.A better life? Ha, what an interesting thing to say. What is a better life? Make more money? Live in a bigger house? Marry a hotter wife? Or being respected by other people? Devote your life helping poor people? Sacrifice yourself for someone else? All of these might seem to be the greatest life for you, but they are less than nothing for others. And for someone like British writer Douglas Admas, the answer to the great question of life, the universe and everything is just simply, forty-two.We wake up every morning a day older than yesterday. Body grows bigger, mind grows mature, hair grows grayer, heart beats slower and slower, until it finally stops beating. What we got left when we die? Money? Certainly not! You would wish to bring all you have into after-life. Egyptians tried to, Chinese tried to, even Uncle Scrooge tried. But they all failed, we can’t bring anything, absolutely anything. We come from the earth and we will go back to dirt. If we cannot gain anything from this game, why we play, what does 6 billion 973 million 738 thou-sand 433 human being and countless other life form on earth play this

17

—Nick Bernie ’14

game for? There are more and more babies born while I am talking and they are forced to play this game. Why? What is this game for? What is life? What is it?I will probably not understand the meaning of life for a long time, just like Danish Philosopher Soren says, “life must be understood back-

wards; but it must be lived forwards.”

—Jackie Chen ’15

—Nick Bernie ’14

Sneaking Out

After William Shakespeare

The unusuality of the dusk that transforms to night,Gave guidance permitting me a few houses down,Left not but one star to shine so bright,A beauty who glowed, from an upside down frown.As the snores echoed throughout the hall,The doors creaking at the commence of my trip,Determined in Love, my heart stood tall,Mind was wandering, waiting just for a nip.The driveway, I am accelerating, without turning around,Jog, Sprint; I will not make her wait.Embracing each other, and addressing the ground,“This be? Mine, hers, our first date?” Approaching, she teased and showed her bliss, Pressing her face against mine, for our first kiss.

—Wyatt Hamilton ’13

19

—Devin McKenna ’15

—Young Jun Song ’16

21

—Diego Davila ’13

—Patrick Fricke ’14

—Nick Bernie ’14

23

I Run and Don’t Stop

I run and don’t stopThey are everywhereWhite houses, white clouds, and a lot of white peopleI worked and workedNow I run and runTo the North I goI run and don’t stopMy legs are soreMy hands are blisteredMy heart is crippledTo the North I goI run and don’t stopThousands workThousands marchThousands dieTo the North I goI run and don’t stopFarmers watchSlaves workWhips crackTo the North I goI run and don’t stopMany have traveledMany have fallenFew have succeededTo the North I goI run and don’t stopMy brothers stayMy sisters stayMy family staysTo the North I goI run and don’t stopThey search during the dayThey ride at nightTo the North I goI run and don’t stopI run to freedomI run to the NorthI run and don’t stop —Tucker Symes ’16

Ode to the Symphony

In the theatre filled with a crowd

the conductor’s hand jumps

and they all start to play

the sound

travels around

into the ear

like the coal being put into the furnace

keeping the fire going inside.

The souls in the hall

listening to the ocean flow in and out,

the low tide comes and the hall,

very quiet,

with just the sounds of the winds playing,

the medieval drop

drops from the heavens

down to the terra firma.

The symphony plays on

into the cloudless,

deep blue sky,

the conductor,

raining from his forehead

finally throws the last beat

into the silence.

—Luke O’Connor ’16

25

—Darren Longbottom ’13

The Soldier

Through the cold light of winter, the wind grazed his cheeksIt chapped his nose and dried his tongueThe dirt below him surrendered to his lustrous greavesThe air was crisp but benevolent; it tormented himThe wind spiraled along the wooded pathHe hastened his strideHis blood dripped with valor

Darkness soon collapsed on his pathHe lay, knowing they had nothing to fearHis silhouette slowly disappeared

—Sam Loizeaux ’14

—Donghee Kim ’16

27

—Stephen Guglielmo ’15—Diego Davila ’13—Donghee Kim ’16

—Kurte Linke ’16

29

—Manuel Barnes ’12

—Vincent Caputo ’16

Life a Centimeter LongClose your eyes until you find yourself walking with the ants. Stunned, you observe the ants roam as your bare feet sink under the pulpy soil. You are in middle of a march, a journey to reach home, an under-ground kingdom far away. Lined up perfectly, you and your fellow ants venture through the bushes. You notice how the battalion of ants seem like a chunk of black paint oozing. The ants are armed with polished external skeletons. You see the keen hook-like jaws scintillate as the ants stride under sunlight. You can feel the frigid soil becoming mushy as the sun awakens. The odor of fresh dirt and dew fills the atmosphere. The scraps of smarties, crumbs of someone’s breakfast toast and stained pennies are scattered all around. Frogs and grasshoppers jump around hectically reminiscent of a scene from the movie Jurassic Park. The sun rises higher, boiling the surface of the Earth. The ants, exhausted by the heat, rest until you and the ants detect a sense of jeopardy.

Down the Rabbit HoleAn aperture lies on the coarse and torrid earth, reminiscent of a scene of Alice in Wonderland. You approach closer, lured by the entrance. The thick darkness of the hole carries out a dangerous scent, compel-ling you to step back. Your fellow ants courageously dive into the suspi-cious hole. Suddenly you slip in and fall down, screaming and howling with fear. You drown into an infinite universe that doesn’t seem to have an end. Shivering from the frigid atmosphere, you wake up. Your eyes blinded by the darkness, try desperately to adjust to the sudden change. Relying on your senses, you reach forward. As you wander through the kingdom you encounter ants, each from its own distinct hierarchies. Ergates, dinergates, and the queen ant — all a significant subject of the underground society. Ants with unusual wings enjoy their time, shar-ing jests: for they will be gone forever, in the upcoming nuptial flight. You venture further in the intricate maze and arrive at a narrow room full of milky sacks. The infants slowly awaken from the eggs. The body not fully black yet, scintillates under the gleam of light. The beauty of birth fascinates you. You walk back up and meet brave soldiers return-ing with the carcass of a beatle. The ants celebrate their successful hunt with honeydew and meat in their home, sweet home.

31

Nuptial FlightMy flesh and wings were born for today and no other. To imitate the dancing of ballerinas in the sky, leaving nothing behind. Our birth itself was unique as we were born from the void, transparent and unfertilized eggs. Still we remain weak and fragile unable to hunt or even toil. Isolated in a room—inferior as a ghetto—we jest and exhaust time. Some envy our life that seems royal and fine, but we are princes without a harbor, a daily subject of mockery. And yet we only live a life of 180 days. The luminous star sparkles in noon, fluxing my blood with heat. I straighten my crippled wings to carry out a brief aviation. Buzz-ing noises start to fill the tera, and few already left the breasts of god-dess Gaia. Marriage flight is a death game where jeopardy prospers. The mesh of spiders and flying predators have longed for this moment to feed their offsprings. Thousands of men chase a single princess darken-ing the sky. My roaming ended with the scent of Juliet’s perfume—an irresistible and overwhelming pheromone. The women hover even faster only allowing the fastest ones to clutch them. The fatigue of my body, pumping blood, veins, and trembling wings, tells me to stop, but I reach further. I have seized my Juliet and expressed an art drawn by a man and woman. The exploding moments pass and I drown like cherry blossom petals in May. Eaten or decayed, circumnavigating the cycle of life.

—Donghee Kim ’16

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

33

To My Grandmother, Dorrie

Dorrie,

Today my dad told me that you are going to die.

I cried a lot. I tried not to at first, but then my dad made me talk about it.

I couldn’t move for an hour. I was so mad. I don’t understand why you’d want to die, except I totally do.

When it was time to go back to study hall, it was pouring outside. How fitting. He offered me an umbrella, but I wanted to be connected to my sadness. Rain does that for me.

I felt bad, like I should have visited you more or called you more, but for some reason, I thought you were going to live forever. He told me not to feel bad and that you have already forgiven me.

It’s the end of study hall now, and I’m not as sad; I listened to music and talked to my friends. He told me I was strong; I guess he was right.

I’m sure I’ll feel sad again eventually, but for now, I’m happy you’re getting what you want, and I’m happy I got to know you.

Today my dad told me that you are going to die,

and I’m doing okay.

—Charles J. Carpenter ’15

Nature’s Concert

After Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The trees speak to meLike the concertmaster discussing the scoreOr is it the wind, playing the blades of brass like sharp green violinsTheir orchestra whispers softly in my earA sweet, sweet melody played by yearNuts drop, percussive and sharpKeeping the beat of timeBranches crack like the slapstick snapsAnd the trees keep singing in timeThen comes the choir, one hundred deepChickadee altosAnd owl baseAll sing the songAll join in, in nature’s concert

—Jordan Blackington ’13

35

—John Rick ’15

The Boring Class

After Walt Whitman

As I sat in class, learningof a poem and its meaning,

I grew tired of dissectinga poem into nothing.

Its words lost their powerin repetitions, over hoursand its precious diction

was examined in the vivisection.

In due course I started dreamingand words came together, screaming,

careening and colliding, formingpoems of inexplicable complexity, shamingbooks that hindered the process of creating.

When the dust had subsided,what I beheld was simplicity itself:

there was no need for stringent rulesor interpreters on my behalf, just unbridled,

distilled emotion capturedin words as true and transparent as a crystal

and as easily accessible to me as to you.

—Jaekyung Song ’13

37

—Krit Pranich ’12

—Yusuf Mansoor ’15

+ her all

I take It once in the morning to help focusoverall It improves gradesbutIt makes mequietshylonelymisguidedIt brings a weird feeling with Ita sense of confusionI am forced to question? everything?happiness is not a concernit’sCollateral Damageat the end. of the daya smile starts to sneak through that grey matterthe mind is at ease but the brain is in a panic.

Solution:take another.no need to have a good meal or good laughit’s better to get what needs to be done without any DiStRaCtIoNsbut do the ends justify the means?They say so...They say in Society achievements are measured by successandsuccess starts with This thing I takeIt keeps me up and wired for eighteen hours and sleepy and restless for sixsleep is overratedthey say you need itbut who has the time?

—Christopher Macca ’13

39

—Orion Marco ’16

The Film

There was a time when I watched it happenNot really the first timeBut on screen and with headphones – of courseAbout a thing not totally proper

I have heard the wonders – or pleasures – or fantasiesOr rather the vulgar, embarrassing noisesThat they become obsessed withAbout this particular thing that nobody wants to share

I have seen the unseen-the skin- covering the screen-That they sensually – and mentally – enjoyAbout something very difficult to see outside

Pathetic-to know that most people enjoy thisAnd strange-to know that it’s part of humanity

—Samuel Kim ’14

41

—Daniel Heitmann ’16

Ode to The Air Bubble

After John Keats

Push, fold, push, foldand feel the crisp coolair exit from the porcelain clayas it bleedsfrom the actions of your hands.

Slapped and centered onto the wheel,the beginning of a masterpiece begins to spinas water is rubbed onto the outerskin of the piece like abeautiful goddess being massaged.

As your thumb digs into the center of the pieceit creates a hole of endlessopportunities and unimaginable creations.Your mind begins to swirlfaster than your own potter’s wheel.

Your new mate loves cherry blossoms,why not make a vase?Your experienced hands pull up the piece,creating a perfect cylinder.However, a bubbly surprise awaits.

The vase begins to form as your hands slide through the clay;and as they slide, you feel a hollow lump.Uneasiness takes over your body and yournervousness rips through the air bubble and destroys the piece.Fuck, it’s time to start over.

—Lukas O’Connor ’13

43

—Nate Rosemond ’15

This is Just too Sweet

After William Carlos Williams

I awoke,And I confrontedYour loveBut no you.

I smirked atThe thought of youPilfering my precious plumsAnd dashing out the door.

I now so craveYour returnFrom busy affairsAnd my missing plums.

—Lukas O’Connor ’16

45

—Nick Birnie ’14

Observing an Icicle

An icicle isfrom the day it beginsslightly changing each and every dayBizarre and exoticit’s immensely hypnoticdistorting the world behind it

Some glisten while others may shinesome crookedsome as straight as a line

Building upon itself from hours beforeit does not stop until it reaches the floor

It draws close to its limitor so it may seembut its limit grows further away

And without hesitationor any frustrationit carries on its display

But at first glimpse of the sunit’s stopped in its tracksits descent is now doneand it starts to head back

Decreasing in sizethe icicle climbsback to its rootsuntil its next time

—Jamie Bell ’14

47

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

Untitled

After “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle

A man close to death rests, nakedlike a fish miles and miles underwater

The heart scored and tornburnt and molten

nearly haltfeeling life flying away from the harrowed heart

Savoring the ambitions, dreams he had as a childlife he has bricked up are now all shattered

lying cold, frigidruptures sludge the heart rate

the fear swirls and whirls inside

The man criesferociously and madly

howeverhe retreats and finally visits death

—Donghee Kim ’16

49

—Frankie Driscoll ’14

—Jake DeSaint Phalle ’16

51

—Michael Perrone ’16

—Arden Coleman ’16

53

—Sinthorn Xie ’16

—Min Hyoung Kim ’13

55

—Jiuhua Chen ’15

—John Rick ’15

57

—Justin Cho ’14

—Austin Brawley ’14

59

—Henry Schopp ’14

—Zach Sibert ’14

Avon old FArmss c h o o l