Natalie Behr

Table of ContentsCover Tori O’ConnorNote from the EditorsCold Hannah NashUntitled [drawing] Kirk GulezianUntitled [pastel] Brenda BecharaA Preordained Encounter Maria MaierUntitled [painting] Elisielle WilsonUntitled [photo] Jessica MetelusUntitled [photo] Henry DixonExcerpt from “Cross” James GearyUntitled [charcoal] Ali WongSong of Myself Jonathan BlochUntitled [scratch art] Emma MagidsonUntitled [scratch art] Kirk GulezianStudent Spotlight: Raheem BarnettInstagram Throwback ThursdayStudent Spotlight: Lexi VocaturaUntitled [pastel] Belle TuttleYou Swear? AnonymousUntitled [drawing] Greta O’MarahElderly Chloe RosenUntitled [photo] Natalie BehrMusic PlaylistWriting/Art Prompts

p. 1p. 3p. 4p. 4p. 5p. 6-7p. 7p. 8 p. 8p. 9p. 9p. 10p. 11p. 11p. 12-13p. 14-15p. 16-19p. 20-21p. 22p. 23p. 23p. 24p. 25p. 26p. 27-28

2

Note from the

Editors From what we’ve gathered, Nobles students know Calliope in a variety of contexts. You

might know us as the group that spends way too much time in the DDC, chatting about our incomplete InDesign files or Sabrina’s brother’s bar mitzvah; you might know us because your friend spends his or her x-blocks with us in room 229, sometimes organizing

the magazine and more often proposing names for Ms. Brennan’s baby. Maybe you know us only as the magazine that comes out four or two or three times per year, or the people who tie-dye t-shirts at Art Street, or maybe you don’t know us at all. This year, though, we’re out to change that. Above anything else, we are Nobles’ literary and arts magazine, and we work hard at and take a lot of pride in what we do.

In this particular issue, we aimed to showcase this attitude towards Calliope. In addition to featuring a collection of incredible student writing and artwork, our staff members created an Instagram hashtag, spotlighted two talented students, and collected childhood artwork for our Throwback Thursday pages in an effort to better connect ourselves with the Nobles com-

munty. We laid out our body of work with considerable care– our best efforts to do justice to the artists and writers who submitted. We hope you enjoy what we’ve produced.

editors-in-chief HANNAH NASH ANd EMMA MAGIdSONart editors SABRINA ROBERTS ANd CLAIRE COFELICEwriting editors CLAIRE GREENE ANd EMILY OTTlayout editors HENRY dIXON ANd TORI O’CONNORmuse CHLOE ROSENfaculty advisor JESSICA BRENNAN

staff NATALIE BEHR ANd KATIE BUSSEY ANd ALEX KATZ ANd MARY MCdONALd ANd TOM MORRISON ANd CAROLINE PETRO ANd JACK RAdLEY ANd SAM ROSEN ANd ISABELLA SCHUMANN 3

Love always,Hannah & Emma

ColdHANNAH NASH

To start with a childhood tale, for all that rises from childhood,I’ll tell of that morning when I awoke by the cold.It crept in through the unclosed window and slipped beneath my covers; it wrapped itself around my warm feet, suffocating them, numbing them, and running off with my innocent sleepI came to and saw my pale toes shivering against the woolen blanket;I thought perhaps I would never make them warm again.

It may only be a small injustice . . . . but the child is small, and its world is small And its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter,2

And so I hated the cold.

Kirk Gulezian

4

2 Charles Dickens, Great Expectations, London: Penguin Books, 1996, 63.

Brenda Bechara 5

A Preordained EncounterMaria Maier

Stranger, stranger:You were sitting in the plush chairs of the T,Struggling with the NY Times crossword puzzle.

I never had a chance when I saw you sitting across from me.

Stranger, stranger:Miss brunette with blue eyes, red highlights, Chanel no. 5Let me put a name to that face

And have documentary proof that you exist.

Can I take you to a ball game?Let’s watch the Red Sox vs the Yankees.Let’s bet against an old gambler

That the latter team will be ground into the ballpark dust.

Stranger, stranger:Let us set off for a non-clichéd forest walk, whereThe wind caresses your rose-tinted flesh, and your eyes,

Glazed over with fire and seduction, will lock with mine.

Stranger, stranger:Let me send you badly-rhyming poems by express mail,And have you sigh knowledgeably,

‘Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?’

Let me listen intently to your dreams,Your intention to become a writer,And let my mind stagger for a moment-

Or two- under the jolting weight of your stories.

Let me congratulate you when,After tearing out your hair and ripping up your drafts,The Publisher’s Clearing House

Accepted your manuscript.

Let me tell you, if you will,That our future is inevitable-Someday I’ll ask you to marry me, unless-

You end up asking me.

Let our families give us blessing,With evenhanded acceptance.And we’ll think:

If they liked Us enough not to complain, our love must be undying.

Let us become a six-digit income family,With a lavishly furnished apartmentFloating on the Boston skyline,

Overlooking the iridescent Charles.

Some years later I will reminisceAbout the rich man’s cologneYou gave me on our first anniversary,

Around the same time when I was stressing about my job.

And sure: the one day I forgot to wear it to workWas the day they laid me off;But like other poor men in 2008

I’ve since learned to hold love, not money, as my highest law.

Stranger, stranger:Steeped as we are in debt,Let us go to Greece again this summer,

And this time let us bring our daughter, too.

I won’t shout about the sneakers she BeDazzles,Or how she strips her Barbie dolls down to plastic skin.Dropped out of a wayward rib cage,

Somewhere over the rainbow.

Stranger, stranger:Let us batter against the pains of age.Let us combat cancer and Alzheimer’s,

And be history in the making.

Stranger, stranger:In this underground of hushed tunnels and blinking neon lights, Let your curly hair

Bridge the empty seat between us.

I don’t know how far off the future might be,Time is relative.I warily approach you:

‘You look familiar.’

Now you wear an abstracted look,‘Really? It feels like I know you, too?While you’re here, can you help me

With number seven across?’

It’s a six-letter word,Definition: three stars aligned so that they resemble one.‘Fate’, ‘Destiny’, so many options,

But they aren’t six letter words.

A lull, a thought-And it strikes me harder than dreams know how to do,Whisked here on the wings of some prophetic bird.

‘Umm, I think it’s syzygy.’

‘Astronomy major, huh? Thanks!’My crimson face is flushed with shockAnd I wonder how you knew.

Stranger, stranger: don’t be a stranger.

Elisielle Wilson

7

Henry Dixon8

Jessica Metelus

Henry Dixon

Hunter impatiently unlocked the door to apartment 3A and threw his backpack on the kitchen chair with exaggerated defiance. He looked at the clock. 3:34 p.m. It was Friday. Nearly eighteen years old, Hunter dragged his feet and slanted back as he walked around his family’s apartment, his lanky body exuding detachment and ease. Hunter put no effort into looking physically intimidating. Those who observed him, however, sensed that he was the type to pursue a fight for the thrill and come out victorious with a swollen cheek and a maniacal grin. When Hunter grinned, his eyelids reached up to grab his eyebrows, his neck tightened around various tendons, and his smile stretched while still concealing his teeth. It was as though you’d just told him something personal, and he was trying not to laugh at you. His freckled face was lifeless otherwise, complementing his unkempt hair and generic black golf shirt. Hunter paid no mind to clothes with the exception of certain bizarre items that he would somehow come upon, like his shaggy brown sweatshirt with a bear’s head as the hood or his Spongebob beanie hat. These things would give him great joy, or so he said, but they were all bound to end up forgotten on the floor of some friend’s car covered in beer and cigarette ash some number of weeks later.

Excerpt from “Cross”JaMes Geary

Ali Wong

9

Song of MyselfJonathan Bloch

Have you spent much time with the sea?I spend many of my days with her.

I have spent so many of my days with the sea that she has become a part of me.

The ocean is the first to wish me “good morning!”And it is the last to tell me “good night.”

It is always there: a constant, a rock.Constant, yet forever changing.

The ocean can be placid, calm, peaceful; reflecting the sky like glass.The ocean can be playful, covered with a light chopand tiny breakers, distant cousins of those who cause much grief.

The ocean can be awe-inspiring, a sea of majesticrolling walls of water, crashing onto the shore in a symphony of splashes.The ocean can be violent.

A nor’easter warning comes across the radio.Just looking out across the ocean I can tell a storm is approaching.

The sky gets dark, and the water gets dark, and all I can do is wait.

I climb up to the attic and sit down in front of thewindow…I want the best seat in the house.

The storm picks up, and the waves pick up, and I know I am in for quite a show.

Waves the size of houses throw themselves one by one upon the seawall, a relentless assault of foam and water.The house shakes and the wind howls, almost as if trying to take attention away from the waves.

It is no use; the ocean has stolen the show.Seawater splashes onto the frosty panes of my citadel, some 40 feet above the sea.

The sea has showcased its might, and the next morning is back to imitating a lake.I am not fooled.

I know what the sea is capable of.

While I know what she is capable of, there is no place I would rather be than on the water.I spend my summer days sailing.

Sailing is the most intimate way to interact with the sea without being immersed in it.One must be in tune with the sea in order to sail.

When to tack, when to jibe, when to harden up and where to go.To a novice skipper, it might seem as if he is the one making these decisions.

To an old salt, it is clear the ocean makes them.

Sailing is the one way to explore the ocean without being overwhelmed by the land.It is one of the only times where your senses can be overwhelmed and relaxed at the same time.

All you can hear is the splash of the boat cutting through the waves.All you can see is blue water for miles, eventually becoming blue sky off in the distance.

All you can smell is the salt of the water.All you can feel is the wind in your hair, the gentle caress of the ocean as you run your hand through it,

and the gentle rock of the boat as the sea cradles it along.

The splashes of fish jumping from the water write a few lines.The squawk of gulls overhead contribute a stanza or two.

The gong of a buoy somewhere out of sight brings me the synonym I was looking for. The sight of one wave, bigger than the rest, reminds me of an image I wish to portray.

I am not the author of this poem…I am merely the scribe.

As you read this to understand who I am, look not to my words or myself.

Look out into the ocean yourself, and there you will find the truth. 10

Emma Magidson

Kirk Gulezian

11

Q. How has your artwork evolved as you de-veloped as an artist?

In elementary school, my favorite thing to do was to grab a geometric-shape stencil and create intricate, stained glass-esque, kaleidoscopic tessel-lations. As I got older, I started to draw more from observation, and I used that practice to draw more intricate things from my imagination too, though making my ideas come out exactly as I envisioned them was much harder.

Q. Where is your favorite place to draw, and why?

Anywhere I can sit and look out of a window. Trees blowing in the wind and skies full of clouds, regard-less of their either natural or urban backdrop, are incredibly beautiful. Any sort of view out into the world is inspiring and peaceful to look up at while I’m drawing. When I can curl up, warm, with my iPod and a drawing facing a window, I’ll be set for a while. I wish I did this more often…

Q. Why do you make art?

Art is relaxing. When you can just create whatever you are thinking about, or you don’t think and let it flow, there is none of the stress or pressure that comes with most other things in life.

Q. What is your favorite drawing you’ve ever done, and why?

I’ve never thought about it before, but probably this drawing I did on the theme of opposites. It shows a landscape rolling into a huge wave crest-ing into clouds. It exemplifies my favorite kind of thing to draw– somewhat atmospheric, natural scenes.

Q. What or who influences/inspires your art the most?

For who, I have no idea. I’ll see pieces of art that I really like and sometimes try to copy the style or theme, but there isn’t one artist that has stuck with me as a role model.

For what, I also have no idea. When I’m not draw-ing for a class and not drawing from something I see, I’ll often have no idea what to draw. Instead of trying to think of something, I’ll just start drawing. I’ll let my mind relax and start drawing lines until an idea comes to me, then I turn what I’ve done into something concrete. I’ll often like the drawings I do this way better than if I have sat down to draw something specific. These drawings are constantly evolving as I draw them, and it is fun to just see what happens.

STUDENT SPOTLIGHT:

Q. How do you know when a drawing is finished?

I don’t. There always seems to be ways I could work on a drawing and improve it. I’ll often talk to people and get opinions that way, but it’s completely subjective, so I guess it is just when I feel done, though sometimes I’ll feel done one day then come back to it another and add to it.

Q. When did you start drawing?

I guess you could say I started drawing during elementary school. We had weekly classes with a fun and creative art teacher. I went to a very small school before Nobles, and my “homeroom”/math/English teacher would spend time every week reading out loud to the whole class. All of the kids could do whatever they wanted during this time, so I would usually draw. Later on, since I’ve come to Nobles, I’ve gone through periods of drawing and not drawing, which often correspond to whether or not I’m taking an art class.

Q. What is your favorite thing to listen to when you draw?

Chill music. My tastes shift, but I’ve found the best to be atmospheric, electronic stuff. Anything like IJS by Tours, Days by Colobus, Princess by Mint Royale, Australian Summer by Balue, and Outro by M83 are great, but songs like Life in the Fields by Sporting Life or Sweet Disposition by The Tem-per Trap are also some of my favorites.

13

RAHEEM BARNETT

h_nash54

arcatz16

kunwooshin

miranduh4

slummerville

maxmontgomery

calesalad

ecmagidson

miranduh4

yellowsnowisp

lucyylyons

lucyylyons

#NoblesCalliope

g_ret101 ecmagidson morgenmontgomery

samparizeau

asherdawson lucyylyons fizzzywater

arcatz16mattoc21

THROWBACK

16

In fall I had a leaf fight with my older brother Noah. He is older and taller than me. He needs a bigger pile of leaves. I won!! YIPPEE!! It was cold and windy

that day. I said “let’s go inside brother!”

THURSDAY

Sabrina Roberts

18

“The bunny found a

carrot, but one day he

found a frog, and they

made friends so they

played all day.”

Elisielle Wilson

“One day it rained real hard. Everyone was in there houses

exepted Annie.”

Hannah Nash

19

STUDENT SPOTLIGHT: LEXI VOCATURA

Q.

When writing, the most important thing for me is making my words flow and having a good balance of verbs and adjectives in each sentence and paragraph. I also like having quality words that create vivid images for the reader. Overall, I aim for a dramatic and bold style while also being concise. Finally, adding a little humor is always fun where I can manage it.

Like I said, I love books, so there are a lot of authors I have to choose from. One of my favorites is Terry Goodkind. I love the way he is able to not only express but also argue his views on everything from poli-tics to religion through fantastical characters and events. To write in that way with eloquence is amazing and the main reason I admire Goodkind so much.

Q. How would you describe your writing style?

Q. What is your favorite type of writing?

I pretty much like whatever my English teacher happens to assign. I enjoy the challenge of fitting my writing style into different forms, except poetry; I don’t like poetry. If I did have to pick my favorite type, though, I would say that I like analytical writing the most. I bet you never thought you would hear some-one say that did you? I like it because I love reading, and so analyzing books isn’t the arduous task I know it is for many.

Is there any particular author you admire?

Q. How much of other writers do you put into your writing?

I think I put a little of every author I have ever read into my book, and I have read literally hundreds of authors. The reason I like writing so much is, because I have so much experience with the writing of others, words just come easily to me. It’s kind of like if you watch someone kick a soccer ball; you might have never played soccer before, but if you watch closely enough, you can mimic them well enough to make a pretty decent shot. By mixing all the writing styles I have encountered, I can create my own per-sonal style pretty easily.

Q. What is your favorite writing project you’ve done in an English class at Nobles thus far?

Last year I wrote an epic simile in English IV. I was actually excited to go do that part of my homework the weekend it was assigned. I was in Vermont with some friends that weekend; they were going out for dinner, and I was like, “That’s okay, guys, I’m just going to stay here and write my epic simile for English.” It’s still a complete mystery to me (and my friends) why I was so interested in this particular piece of writing. All I know is that writing is a world where the only restriction your imagination, and that can be pretty awesome sometimes.

20

IrresistibleIrresistible. That was the only way I could describe the silver tentacles reaching out towards me as I sat immobile. They wrapped around my legs and slithered up my spine, leaving every cell in their path aching to be pulled into a promised bliss. Seeking wisps crept under my skin and curled around my heart, tantalizing in their vibrancy. Voices echoed around me but the muffled warnings grated harshly against the soft caress of silver whispers and I ignored a slight shiver of unease. Sparkles and fireworks exploded across my vision as silver spread over my face; a mask of liquid light that sunk into my skin. The flowing advance of the tentacles was swift and unhindered as my every fiber screamed for the silver haze. My muscles trembled on the verge of succumbing to the luminescence cocooning my body as my mind began to sink into a sea of unadulterated tranquility. A sudden cry of outrage shattered my peace. Panicked, I summoned splinters of will power and tigtened my grasp on the source of the tentacles. Jaw gritted, I slammed together the thick pages of a book resting on my lap.

A Suspension of TimeSometimes on a bright but hushed winter morning, when blankets of pristine snow blend with a colorless sky and bare branches stand out in sharp contrast, a flutter of movement will catch your eye and you will stop and watch the flock of birds that were strong enough, and stubborn enough, to defy the winter chill; and you will watch as the birds swoop and tumble and dive where their brethren would not because they revel in the untouched frozen silence of winter; and it is with this liberating solidarity that in the frostbitten dawn hours a skier will cut and slide and fly through the powder of a mountainside with the knowledge that this moment in time belongs solely to him.

Belle Tuttle

22

Jane eagerly bit into her fluffy donut, ignoring the chocolate frosting and colored sprinkles smeared across her upper lip. Likewise, I devoured my pastry mercilessly, the créme filling messily oozing from bite marks, the sugary, vanilla aromas and flavors playing with my senses. We were sprawled across separate couches, and the red leather, cold and smooth, soothingly caressed my bare, slick legs. We were untroubled and happy, content with the ambiance and refreshing quiet of that morning. It was during this time, over donuts, that Jane shared with me some of her secrets, some of her somber stories that screamed her smothered fears and unseen courage. She described to me violent times when her mother hurt her. The first story involved the woman drunkenly breaking Jane’s nose. I was scared to hear this truth, and although I already knew the answer, I asked her if her mother always treated her that way. “Yeah,” Jane replied and continued on with unbroken casualness. There were more stories, more bruises, and more broken parts. Her honesty and trust both overwhelmed and frightened me, but I continued to listen– humbled, worried, and shocked. I heard about objects flung at her, about Jane tumbling down stairs, about an alcoholic who didn’t deserve to mother a girl as strong, selfless, and beautiful as Jane. I always remember the way Jane’s tan, sculpted features lit up as she laughed openly at these details of her abusive mother, her cheekbones high and her lips stretched in uncontained amusement. Her warm dark eyes twinkled frighteningly, the secret nestled in them shining. Only a couple others in Jane’s life carried her stories in silence, and now I was another. She feared foster care, and thus she feared police involvement. She never wanted to leave her aunt, whose home she and her alcoholic mother lived in and who she loved more than anyone. But she was so sorry for burdening her aunt with her and her mother’s presence whenever bills came, and it struck me then how purely selfless Jane was. The intense pain she experienced at the hands of an abuser was never her focus; it was a loved one’s happiness that held all her concern. She asked me, though she already knew the answer, “You swear? You swear you’ll tell nobody what you just heard?” I didn’t know better; I swore I would never. We were barely 13 years old.

You Swear anonyMous

Greta O’Marah

Elderlychloe rosen

My soul is old like prunes. It was the summer they bulldozed the blackberry bushes that I realized that there were no fingers on my toes and that I had a wrinkly little old soul that was yellow round the edges. I was something with folds under her eyes and extra skin round her elbows; who spoke like she was singing and slept with her eyes open. The flies were as big as bees that summer. They buzzed round our mustard-colored kitchen, up my skirt and through the holes in screens thrust open in some moment of weakness or another. The one on the left is me. Six years old, a half-melted fudgsicle in one hand and a fistful of ants in the other, sitting out in the dirt somewhere and whispering half-truths to myself while my fairies are whistling. You see, this girl believes in magic. Not the big kind of magic—trapped one day in some big net and shackled with Disney-corsets and half-hour hair dos– but the little kind. The kind that hides in the trees and hums like birds so she’ll have something to listen to, the kind that tickles her too thin lips when she thinks about kissing. She puts on princess dresses over her grass-stained leggings and goes hunting, trying to catch them taking their lunch break in the cracks of the radio but hoping they’ll run, because these are things that a little girl should do. The one on the left is me, and the one on the right is Zenon, because no one pays any attention to the letter Z. Sometimes I trap her in the frozen bodies of my Pollies, and she marries Ken, and sometimes she flies around the room, and I call her my best friend. There are glasses of water that I freeze into ice cubes with my tongue, and there are disembodied combs that tug on my snarls and will try to sort me out if I hold still long enough. And there is no one left but me, so many little unbroken books in my bookshelf with their little un-smelt pages. These days have grown spidery wings that pump air back into my face and blow my fingers of hair over my shoulders, but I like that now. My legs are growing, and I try to tie them to the posts of my bed to stop them from getting big and clumsy like I know they’ll be. I drape big sheets from my canopy-less bed and lie underneath and dream of sparkly stars and dolls that whisper back. I put blankets over my lamps till the light is muddy and romantic, so that when Prince Charming comes he’ll want to stay forever. I’ll bet they don’t love glitter like I do, and I’ll bet you everything I have that they have real best friends with normal letter names and not too little Zenons like me. But I’m special. I like my messy room and my boxes full of dreams, and I dust them sometimes to make sure I don’t forget that I want to fly. I polish my not-finger toes and get coal for Christmas, and I rub lotion all over my wrinkly old soul. My bangs are always too short or too crunchy, but I guess there might be some other Prince Charming out there that likes bangs that move like fingers and climb up over foreheads and might want to gallop away into the sunset with me behind him. This girl’s outgrown those little red cowboy boots, and talking to herself as she whispers, and the twin-kly lights that she hung through her thoughts so that they’d be brighter; and tomorrow when she’s called in for lunch she might not come. I get my soul rebound sometimes in cleaner books with bigger fonts and smarter titles, but the pages are yellow and papery and fall out on the Tuesdays when I forget to read them. I miss when my legs went on for days, and I just worried that I was too small to stay above the cracks, and that someday the vacuum cleaner might suck me in.

Natalie Behr 25

PlaylistPretty Face- Soley

Blood Bank- Bon Iver

Lakeside View Apartment View- The Mountain Goats

Borrowed Time- Prof

Little Bit- Drake feat. Lykke Li

My Father was a Saint, Too – Countless Others

The Chaconne – Dessa

Flume – Bon Iver

Dixon’s Girl – Dessa

White Cedar – The Mountain Goats

Wicked Games – The Weeknd

The Weather – Holy Shadow

Poor Atlas – Dessa

Orange Sky - Alexi Murdoch

Transcendental Youth – The Mountain Goats

Writing PromptsIf you had to express the scent of cinnamon in dance, what would it be?

Walking in a crowd, you see yourself -- not an undiscovered twin, but yourself -- pass the other way.

What is the color of longing?

Describe the personality of the number 4.

What is the sound of hope?

27 photons travel a lightyear -- 5,878,625 million miles -- through space and land dead center in your left pupil.

What do another person’s hands tell you about that person?

Express what melancholy looks like in someone else.

Over half the world lives on a salary of less than $2 a day. Imagine living this way for one week.

Art PromptsRip a piece of rice paper and glue it into your sketch book. Build a drawing around it.

Fill an entire page in a sketchbook with a drawing of a plant or other organic living material.

Draw the sky at a particular time that is meaningful to you.

Doodle to music.

Embody the color red.

Paint on a photo.

Recreate someone else’s art with your own twist.

Set a time limit for yourself. Draw for one, five, ten, fifteen minutes and see what happens.

Trace your hand. Make it into a turkey.

27

Noble & Greenough School • Vol. 1 Issue 1 • Fall 2012