VOX POPULIspring 2013

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VOX POPULIspring 2013

table of contents table of contents

Cover: Taylor Tomasso

2-3 Photograph Tudor Craciun

5 Photograph Tudor Craciun

6-7 Sand Andrew Bone

8 Chicago Police Officer Max Lehman

9 Sheik Zayed Mosque Gaby Cova

10 The Brightest Star Deborah Russo

11 Fading Light Jonathan Huntenburg

12 Fantasy Portrait Savannah Renauldi

13 Border Line Luis Rodrigo Castillo

14 Nine Standards Sabrina Putnam

15 Here’s Looking at You Giorgia Bruni

16-8 The Hermit Max Lehman

19 Painting on the Bridge Sami Hercules

20 Self Portrait Marie Yamamoto

21 Jackson Pollack Homage Anahe Arevalo Poincot

22 Fantasy Portrait Alexandra Krasnoperets

23 Another Day Maurizio Cremi

24 Hades James Siegel

25 Old Beauty Aidan Brooks

26 Memories Gavin Muenzberg

27 Journey Angela Locatelli

28-9 Velavaru, Maldives Roman Khudoliy

30 Just Dream Maria Montes de Oca Arena

31 Man and Woman Yu Kanumaru

sand

We tend to forget the sandWe should never forget the sandThe first instruction to first manWho came to the end of land

Perhaps it was a promontoryOf the kind I remember whenToying with bucket and storyI dabbled in the invention of men

But the sandThe sand it rained inwardlyAnd in sea-scribed hasteSoon laid waste to the short-reigned effigy

And all the while the valley lofted seaClapped its chasms at the skyAnd seagulls staking territoryFlagged phantasms from on high

Suddenly there were cloud shardsConspiring to rivulets of lightThundercliffs of luminanceWhich drove sand rivets on my sight

I heard us as blubber rocksBrailling the algal shoreBarnacle sure and hungryWe bray for ever more

I saw how man first strode the sandsDrawn like venom through dishabitate landsTurning his face to the copper-headed skyIn case vipered lies relearnt him why

And with the air newly cavernousThe aquean rock descendedAnd shaped the eddies in our cellular seaTo play host to loves offended

And ever since the hollowed sandCarves cavities for beastsAnd boats of travesties by heroes mannedCourse venal paths to rivered neaths

We should never forget the sandHow can we forget the sandThe last instruction to last manWho comes to the end of land

SandAndrew Bone

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A man in blue tells me what to doYet this man in blue does what I do

The city is beyond comprehensionThe city has a mind of its ownEver working, ever churning To boil down what is sought after in lifeAnd sell it to the poor who cannot tell the difference

That old man in blue,Perhaps he is blind too.Perhaps he does not know his role as a puppet,To this city, and to those he is employed to seize.

The breath that comes through the bars is soaked in ginThe same breath that croaks for its liquidation The same breath that comes from the mouthFull of carnage torn from thoseWhose hands are cut and calloused

Perhaps those hands were cut from gears of machineryPerhaps the tracks of this machinery are to blame,Or maybe the tailored coats and shined shoes who lay these tracks are to blame,For what has happened to this cityFor what has happened to me,For what has happened to the man in blue.

chicago police officerMax Lehman

Sheikh Zayed Mosquephotograph

Gaby Cova

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It’s my favorite moment of the dayright before She silently descends, the dark cool veil that will always end up obscuring the luminous day.As Hemera reluctantly surrenders her spot to her mother, I watch; the sky is dyed in soft shades of pink, orange, purple and blue, the hues fusing together in a melodic symphony that echoes for a regrettably short period of time.The first bright stud of light makes her presence known, nestled in peaceful loneliness, delighted by its own uniqueness.But then Twilight is replaced by Dusk, and under the watchful eye of the caringmilky moon, her siblings shine forward, just as anxious to show off as she is.She is but one pebble in the pile,and yet she will always remain thefirst and brightest star in the night.

The Brightest StarDeborah Russo

Fading LightPhotograph

Jonathan Huntenburg

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Lovers! It may be seen but never felt,Our country may be claimed but never seized.The kings and queens will not dismay our end.Our fight for shade beneath the sun will notBe clear but rough, will not be faint but bright.Our eyes shall not behold our dull decline, Remark an old oration, mend our plight.Shall you decide, unite beside raised arms,Do not assess the blood, which sped, disgorged,But feel the mighty air coursed ‘tween our palms.Our hands will be distinguished, yet our packAdmired. Let us yell in unisónFeared as the country we defend, in hand,And heart. As we reserve the name, Deutschland,We heed the light, raging the stars and sun.By day, by night, illumine in banalTerrain. I stand before ye to endorse Pain and our grit, for our degree of greatFreedom is held in the eyes, of our foe.Affray the land, move heaven, altar hellFor righteous flame upholds our name, Deutschland.

Fantasy Portraitpastels

Savannah Renauldi

Border LineLuis Rodrigo Castillo

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Nine Standardsphotograph

Sabrina Putnam

Here’s Looking at Youacrylics and marker on canvas

Giorgia Bruni

The HermitMax Lehman

As the dusk of mankind came over the horizon, and the pinnacle of man’s own hubris fell, there was a rift in the earth’s essence. It was as if na-ture struck back at those who lived to alter and taint her beauty. Leviathans swam through the oceans, and the claws of beasts, with skin under the nail and poison in the mouth, began to roam the lands that were once paved. Metal tow-ers toppled from the bindings of roots as wide as rivers. Crops were lit up by the fury of the skies, and the soil was refurnished with the blood of those who were burned, crushed and eaten. From the ground sprung trees and vines that grew taller than the buildings they crumbled, and crept further than the roads that stretched across cities. The hand of Atlas broke through the earth, bringing along the firstborn of Mother Nature, and for the first time in what seemed to be eons, a silence so vast the hum of the earth could be heard again.

Yet there lingered a troglodyte who refused to be stamped out by the rampant vines and beasts. Like every living and breathing animal on the planet, the man fought for his sustenance and hearth ev-eryday. To his credit, he understood the terms of his survival far better than his fallen kin. But make no mistake, the story of the Hermit is not one of triumph, nor is it one of companionship or love. His is a tale of tragedy, and as the only sentient being who has had the pleasure of hearing his voice, I recount his tale through his own recorded epitaph.

I suppose it was the smell that at-tracted me to him specifically. What had brought me to his residence was the smoke rising from the grassy meadow nearby. The crickets and grasshoppers that leapt through the grass were apparently much larger than the ones that predated the extinction of men, as I would later learn from the Hermit. The flames were slowly marching, and the flinging insects hur-dled over the meadows away from the fire towards the edge of the forest. Where the grass met the trees, and where the hard-ened ground met the moss and soil was where I noticed something utterly too deliberate, something that was impossible to have been made by chance. It was his doorway.

His doorway was carved into the tap-roots of the redwood that he lived both in, and underneath. Were it not for the rot that fouled the air of his extensive

home, it would have taken hours to find him, but the stench could not have marked anything but death and decay. Up into the redwood where he had built himself a study, he laid dead in his chair, in a pool of dried blood and flesh with his left arm hanging stiff from the armrest. His right arm sat coiled and collapsed in his chest cavity with the bones of his fingers clenched around a device. In the process of retrieving it, I touched what used to be his heart and broke his hands and ribs, but knowing what I know now, I doubt he would have minded – the device was a tape recorder, and it was the key to everything.

After taking a good look into what was left of his eyes, I found the entrance and exit of a gunshot to his head. Lis-tening to the man’s last words was the only thing left to do.

“I used to pray for the day where I could sit in peace, without the sting of human mediocrity and take in the land. But it seems that I have prayed for the worst hell on earth. I realize now that it was naïve of me to envision listen-ing to Nirvana while I attained it at the same time. Despite having all of the possessions that I hoped to have at the end of the world, I became more dissatis-fied as each day passed – and many did at that.”

He paused for a moment, and the sounds of his breath clearing rustled in the background of the recording, and

after listening for a second time, the sound of his tears hitting the desk could be heard.

“If anyone, or anything is hearing this, it means that I am dead. Hopefully I have decayed beyond recognition, and my bones are nothing but brittle, white and bare, as my forfeit would have been in vain. I can say the last decades have been quite odd to say the least, and the beginning was not as hellish as it later grew to be. To what may be your surprise, the breaking of the world was nothing to me. I understood it from the moment it started. I saw Scylla on the news, and I knew her name from the mo-ment I saw her coil through the sea. I saw the children of the sky and the earth return triumphantly, and per-haps that is why I was allowed to earn my place in this overgrowth. I salvaged furniture from destroyed houses and antique shops and drove them back to my home in these trees until there was no gas left to siphon. I scraped together as many batteries I could find so that I could continue to listen to the CDs I saved, and I read all the books I en-countered. I built the home of my dreams in this forest, yet I still felt the scathing of desolation. It took me some time to understand why, but I finally did. It was because of self-preserva-tion. For the most part, we humans did not only act to live. We enjoyed, and we ravished, and we took part in pleasures that we created and encountered. But we also possessed empathy. We did things

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for others. But I found that I was the most selfish being left on the planet. I could not stand it. The bushels of rose-mary that I tended to produced a smell that only I smelled, and imbued the steaks of boars and squirrels I hunted with a taste that only I could enjoy. The feelings I felt when I listened to my favorite childhood albums were only felt by me. The nostalgia was something that the wildlife did not understand, but perhaps it did, and I was just too young. I thought once, that I had bro-ken the barrier when a family of deer as tall as basketball hoops, stopped in their tracks and seemed to listen to the sounds of an orchestra coming through my window. But they were only perplexed by me, and I was forced to watch as the smallest deer tripped over my Chevro-let as it was being chased by a wolf the size of a Volkswagen. The animals grew too large to be threatened by me, and all that were once domesticated were now emancipated. The guilt and the sol-itude drove me mad, and I forgot my own name as soon as I realized that there was no one left to call it out for me.

This is my last cassette, and my final farewell. If luck should ever shine on me once again, then you will listen to the rest of my stories, and you will be the last reason I have had to exist. You will find my records, you will read my books and you will season your game with the herbs I tended, for it could not have been all for nothing.”

I realized much later what the Her-mit was after listening to his stories, and reading the works of his favorite authors, and listening to his favor-ite albums. He was the exception to the flaws of man that the earth had purged; he was everything to validate the emer-gence of the conscious mind and all that followed, and he was everything worth saving. After the years spent at his home, enjoying the fruits of his efforts, I understood why the flames took the meadows on that day that I met him.

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Painting on the Bridgephotograph

Sami Hercules

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Self Portraitacrylics on canvas board

Marie Yamamoto

Jackson Pollack Homagemixed media and photograph

Anahe Arevalo Poincot

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Fantasy Portraitpencil

Alexandra Krasnoperets

It’s another day,Yet continuous flurries of windImpose upon the tedious daily routine of the CityLike enraged beasts.

Suddenly, Mother Earth settles downWith a definitive, frightful bolt of lightningWhich calls upon an authoritative silence.

Everything comes back to normalityAs the City resumes its usual obligations,Just like another day.

Another DayMaurizio Cremi

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scowls. Persephone’s carpeted her throne in purplenightshade again, those yellow eyes mock

his rule, her girlish voice sings the songsOrpheus sang during his dark descent.

Hades waits, knows the long silence that follows. Somewhere above his velvet chasm

a blizzard howls. He longs for that chaotic rapture when he first saw her—imagines

the clash of opposites, the drop of pomegranatejuice like blood that corners her lips

and thinks—once more, one more bite!But she will never be anything but a summer

teen who throws Christmas parties, stringspopcorn, hangs mistletoe, tongues

the recently deceased to taste the salty momentsof their mortality and whirls across the black

granite dancing a tarantella, haira mess, eyes lacquered to the blur

of his beetled face as he watches the weightof her blue hips, her feigned fall

against his nocturnal abyss. Her laugh is lonelier than eternity’s eventual end.

Previously published in The Modern ReviewSummer, 2006

Old Beautyacrylics on canvas

Aidan Brooks

HadesJames Siegel

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I watched my mother float away upon an empty ocean breeze She looked like dust but a bit darker and somehow a little more free.Then it began to lead me.

Her dust flew east, and I followedit here.That’s when I felt my heart began to tearThe strings got caughtMaybe in Denver maybe somewhere over Delaware I really don’t care.

Now like a favorite sweater, my heart started to unwind,Holes began to appear (here…and here).So I decided to do what anybody would do I would snip the string Then burn the tip so it won’t break

But see it wasn’t that easy.To snip the string I began at my wrist And tried with a razor to cut the wire,But that just made the string tighter against my chest until I realized,This string wasn’t made out of earthly material,It was made from memories.

You see, memories are the best material in the universeBecause they are alive,They grow and develop and change every time you repeat them.If you try to ignore themthey’ll cut into your skinUntil you bleed black drips of confusion,That run down your arms like rivers mapping out stages of depressionAnd leave marks as deep as the recession.

When I realized this,I turned around so that my strings weren’t pulling at my back any moreAnd I faced my memories.I thought this was better.No longer could they cut into my skin.The only way they could hurt me, would be to pull at my heart strings,So I just waited until the moment they tried,And when they tried they pulled harder than I expected.they pulled my heart out.And I died.

MemoriesGavin Muenzberg

We leave with no luggageAnd fill ourselves with excitement Like children who see everything for the first time.

After losing ourselves in the night,We find our way,Following the distant glowing and sparkling of the city.

We don’t know where we’re going,But no doubt,We’ll love what we find.

JourneyAngela Locatelli

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Velavaru, Maldivespanoramic photograph

Roman Khudoliy

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When the head and body are at rest,the eyes close, but the mind opens.I wish that dreams could not only be at night,so I could dream even in the daylight.As I go to bed, I think what I will see:a field full of lavender perhaps.I’m just a dreamer,and I can’t wait for the day to end.

Man and Womanphotograph

Yu Kanumaru

Just DreamMaria Montes de Oca Arena

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Vox Populi, the TASIS Art and Literary Magazine, encourages creativity and appreciation of both art and literature and seeks to publish work from its community of students, teachers, administrators, and staff. The magazine strives to balance excellence

and diversity in a wide variety of media.

2012-2013 Vox Populi Editorial Board

Aleksandar AnteljIlya BessudnovHailey HibbardZoe HunterAleksa Ilic (editor-in-chief)Gavin MuenzbergMaja PankowskaNadine SchellekensTodd Matthew (faculty advisor)