FROM PRINTERS ROW

Spring 2021
 TABLE of CONTENTS
1 “You, the one who sits in front” by Juliette Cambron
2 “Redemption” by Tegan Daley
3 “Belly Fire” by Lucía DeLeón-Solowiej
4 “Paper Planes” by Tiffany Leong
5 “Ode to Shoes” by Lucien Meunier
7 “if souls could walk” by Joanna Soltys
8 “And We Fall” by Ava Delariman
9 “River” by River Williams
10 “The Great Plague” by Maya Henschel
11 “The Girl in Blue” by Midge Makowkski
13 “Wish I Were Pretty” by Rebecca Leal
14 “A Burning Envy” by Sofia Richter
15 “Broken Necklace” by Olivia Pucylowski

16 “Scarlet Grief” by Rashawn Carter

17 untitled by Andy Krimm

18 “Tangled Up” by Henry Kuzma

19 “Guided by Stories” by Alana Lee

20 “Introverted Dreams” by Mary Baker

21 “Bronzville at Night” by Midge Makowski

22 “Weapon” by Aspen Zacny

23 untitled by Brenna Paul

24 “20 20” by Camilla Smith-Donald

26 “Grasshopper: Siren of the Green” by Eli Tolefree

27 “pandemic teenage burnout” by Lucian Sheldon-Wesley

29 “An Ode to a Deaf Right Ear” by Senna Charles

30 “Quiet” by Juniper Balbus-Holmquist

 “You, the one who sits in front”
by Juliette Cambron

For the 13 years I spent learning, I didn’t know you were there
recent events made me remember you again, the diligent worker that was never recognized.
overlooked, you work harder and harder everyday
never shall your worth be forgotten

To me, you are my problem solver

a train conductor that rules over the judgment rails, who controls the switch between green and red.
The lighthouse flashing to the sea of people the colors that the drummer below beats.
The rock of space between us erodes with each usage like a canyon forming.

Like a child who received new crayons I have worn you out
overused and tired, you left me one day. I was
backed into a corner without you. I relied on you too much
everything that makes me is due to your hard work.

For the ones who use you too,

let them know you’re there
like the wind that moves the clouds
and the force that pulls us down

We, who can’t touch, see, smell, hear, or taste you,

need to learn your value
Larger than any gem, but equal to a person
You, the one who sits in front

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 “Redemption”
by Tegan Daley

Jewel-toned sun mottled by dust

From the top of the room
Our savior is declared fervently
Within the windows that loom
A group all together, we sit
Togetherness, you should not assume.

Dressed up in fine sunday attire

Among them all, there exists
A kid with shiny, scaly skin
Hidden by sleeves down to his wrists
Eyes piercing, and teeth pointed,
His stomach slumps in knots and twists.

Each week the day comes ever closer

He will proclaim the belief
Disjointed thoughts, flooding all in
Acceptance, disillusionment, grief?
All of the parish will listen
Will it be enough to bring them relief?

Twelve years old, confidence mounted

Ready to proclaim the ultimate truth
He will recite a speech he has writ
With his pointed smile missing a tooth
He is twelve years old must understand
Truly, his vision is blinded in youth.

And as if out of nowhere,

Sunday again, the day has arrived
He is now dressed and prepared
All eyes are on him but he has survived
But his scales remain hidden
Some things are not meant to shrived.

Now it is all said and done

But uncertainty stirs beneath
Did he believe what he said?
One truth is for sure, deep down underneath
I have never seen an angel
With filed, pointed, razor sharp teeth.

2
 “Belly Fire”
by Lucía DeLeón-Solowiej

I crave hurt
Unloved and unloveable
Seven year old me
Day dreaming about someone directing enough attention on me to hurt me out of love
I ask Santa for a kiss for Christmas
I tell him its ok even if he hits or leaves me after

I crave the belly fire

The kind I first felt with you in the coffee shop

We yelled and you stormed out
I gave you space because I thought that was the healthiest response
I know about healthy responses
Im a trained fucking dv responder
You told me you would never have let me walk away upset
That I should have chased you
I chased you down so many streets after that

I kind of enjoy the belly fire

The drama, because its comfortable

Reminds me of my childhood, the chaos
The delightful familiarity of explosive Latin men
So thanks, for the dose of nostalgia
But as a favor to myself and of respect for my ancestors
I refuse to dismiss the work they did and do to revolutionize my womyn

I will find the belly fire somewhere else

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 “Paper Planes”
by Tiffany Leong

YOU ARE ICARUS INCARNATE—

where there is gold wax, melted to créme,
your wings are made of crude wrinkled sheet:
bare-skinned & blue-streaked,
worn in laughter and grime and everything between.

I watch you from below,

fleeting,
and something in my chest begins to crumble like
fine white sand under a child’s thumb or the jagged edges of textbooks in summer, touch-starved, or
feathers whisked by cruel ocean tides—

but here you are now, touching the blazing azure,

the raw merciless sun beating your back,
and yet you fly, still,
over young racing bodies and red maple kingdoms
and the dust kicking into our yearning mouths, that shout:

Icarus incarnate!
where you bear my bad cursive and the print of my kid-palm,
fallen angel to return tucked under gum-brimmed desks,
they call you a soldier of godly winds and rippling pages
from a maze of graphite dreams.

then i watch you, falling,

like tender yellow shavings from pencils or
the bittersweetness of a papercut, iron-scented, or
a boy’s embers lost at sea—
gone & gone & nothing more.

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 “Ode to Shoes”
by Lucien Meunier

Fitted fabric bodies

taut by soles.
Selections of skilled soldiers
specialized from
aesthetics and styles
to
sorts and sizes, sutured
with emblems.
Ready
tongues out
not a sound to speak.
All of them
on standby.
Dutied to a perpetual polarity
of patience,
to poundings
then back
to waiting.

Bouncing along the track

my brooks hugging
to my feet.
Caressing my arches
and
encircling my toes,
they protect
my feeble phalanges,
feet, unfit
for my own
falling force.

Their rhythm
that of squirrels
playing
prancing
chasing, one
after the other.

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 Passing me by
a pair captures my gaze.
Five toed runners, sporting
their respective health nut.
Their slick physiques,
sailing through the air
molded
to the contour
of the perfect foot.

Pulling me down the track,

they play faster.
Contorting half their body over,
before snapping
back to form
with acrobatic flexibility.
Vaulting over one another
like swinging trapeze artists.
Smashing down flat
to reinflate,
and repeat.
Not just a cushion
a muscle.
This soul is breathing.

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 “if souls could walk”
by Joanna Soltys

if souls could walk,

mine would take me back
to that little park in the city sea
where the world, seemed, to stop.

where the gentle wind

held its breath,
in hope of forever caressing
the cheeks of chipper children,

where swinging legs and billowing hair

became musicians,
creating symphonies
from cacophonies of creaking chains

where the taste of green tea kit kats

danced
to the sound of snapping
strawberry pocky sticks

where river droplets

crystallized,
preserving our shadows in
cocoons of floating falling leaves,

where space, and time, transcended,

to bring peace to you and I,
if only,
for a moment.

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 “And We Fall”
by Ava Delariman

My love is not of rose quartz

Or of lavender fields, jarred.
Nor the vision of a white horse,
More picturesque than the lovers card.

I love you as an emerald,

Entombed in a gold gallery.
Shield you from the world,
But shatter with mortality.

Perhaps classic devotion is naive,

Perhaps we bloom with the season.
Petals falling, we do not grieve
And we fall to avoid freezing.

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 “River”
by River Williams

My name is Heavy,
it comes with strings attached.
Not light like thread, but like chains--
Difficult to bear.
I shake and stumble
Yet one attempts to lighten it;
to make it easier to carry.
You add weights,
You change the letters.
It becomes ‘Ocean’.
It becomes ‘Lake’
It becomes ‘stream’.
It becomes ‘puddle’.

I am confused…
these words have never slipped from my Mother’s lips.
Her mouth never curved to form an O sound when she called me.
Never hissed that sneaky S to tell me “I love you.”
Has not once rolled out an L before telling me to clean my room
And still--

Here I sink,
my name, a burden on broad shoulders.
For my name to flow from your lips correctly would be a joke.
To break the floodgates of my anger would make you giggle.
My five letters leave your lips crooked.
Twisted, Cold, Unfamiliar.
Unforgiving like frigid tidal waves,
Curling over me and dragging me down.
The weight of my name pulling me under,
Demanding that it’s presence be felt.

I am drowning.
Suffocated by five letters.
Just five letters that take up space in your mouth like stale food.
You are forced to swallow crashing waves
Relentless currents.
My name rushes through the rocks you call teeth and over the bed of your tongue,
A force of nature itself.

When you fix your lips around my 5 letters

If your mouth dares to bear the weight of my name
You have held a single link
In the chains I’ve cherished my entire life.

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 “The Great Plague”
by Maya Henschel

Her childhood once surrounded her like air,

Breathing came easily through summer days.
She romped freely without much of a care
And spent her life in an innocent haze.

But our cosmic forces did so design

That golden youth does not linger for long.
All too soon, those clear days were lost to time
The vague memory of a pleasant song.

For plague and anger and trouble and strife

Drove the young girl from her blissful daydreams.
Distances kept for the threat of the knife
And faces obscure what was once sunbeams.

The playground is now empty and barren,

She entered a girl, exits a woman.

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 “The Girl in Blue”
by Midge Makowkski

There is a painting hung above the dresser

of a young girl
dressed in blue, hair braided with plucked flowers.

I have always been caught by her eyes

they seem to look through me
large and bright, yet longing.

Her hands, arms

reach out to me
in a desperate attempt
to hold and be held.

She is merely paint,

but I weep for her,
feel my body ache for her,
only then do I notice, she is crying too

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 By Lena Yao

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 “Wish I Were Pretty”
by Rebecca Leal

Look upon the planes of my translucent

complexion- blue hues and rouged veins.
Unlike the alluring scarlet that tints blooming cheeks,
It’s the angry red of eczema-eroded skin
which runs the expanse of my aching hands.
Gazing upon my reflection, I felt ugly within.

Everything, everything, everything goes

Lights off, maybe I’ll be happier

being unable to see my imperfections.
Take it a step further and drape me with
dark, loose clothes that act as extensions
of my flaccid biceps and unfastened thighs.
Once again, I feel the defeat of rejection.
But this time, I have no one else to blame.
I am the one who utters the slander and lies.

Everything, everything, everything goes

I am festering, bleeding, choking

with an infection of the mind.
For now, I remain unmoved.
But one day, I’ll be inclined
to see with eyes unclouded by shame.
and say I’m finally free of my confines.

Everything, everything, everything goes

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 “A Burning Envy”
by Sofia Richter

A fire deep inside me starts to grow

The flame is burning bright; she makes it sting
When will this torture end? I do not know
Just look at her, oh, she’s got ev’rything

The flame begins to venture toward my brain

My thoughts are full of hatred toward myself
I’m searching for something to numb the pain
The flame just keeps on growing; I need help

I look at her and I see perfection

Her beauty takes away my confidence
She makes me truly hate my reflection
And yet I still love her; it makes no sense

I do not see how this torture will end

I cannot hate her; she is my best friend.

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 “Broken Necklace”
by Olivia Pucylowski

I snapped the half heart chain that I once wore

The pendant gave me a crimson red rash
My face was lying to my broken core
A friendly picture was now burned to ash

And this necklace wasn't always dreadful

Although not made well it once held a shine
But it was designed to break, cheap metal
Disguised in a glass display case as fine

So I ran away from it hastily

And that other heart has now lost a half
But maybe it was wrong to shamelessly
Leave another human broken and cracked

I rescued myself but hurt another

You heal some wounds and open up others

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 “Scarlet Grief”
by Rashawn Carter

Snowy white skin altered by grief’s hold

Mind soaked in pools of insanity.
Now float in cups laced with Hannity.
Despite her pain, she seems to be quite bold.
Within, the demon caresses its gold
It growls wanting to taste humanity
Their blood-filled with nothing but vanity
Fuels the glistening devil’s wild cold.

It all exists within an illusion

Worlds woven with lies.
It is all lives within a delusion
Worlds where those who may die are met with life.
Your heated love is nuclear fusion.
It scorches my hide, meaning I'm left dry.

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 untitled
by Andy Krimm

I sit with my best friend in my room

Me on the floor, him on the bed, head thrown back in laughter
His legs swinging off the side, blissfully unaware.
I wonder if he can feel something grabbing at his ankles
Because I can see it一 reaching towards him, trying to pull him under

The monster wants to eat him, and I brought him right to its mouth.

I feel sick. Next time he comes over I don’t let him in my room.
Instead I keep the door shut, locked even.
We sit down in the living room, where I can’t hear it rattling my bed frame
Until it slithers under my door, and I don’t let him come to my house anymore.
I try to pretend things are normal, I try to ignore the familiar shadow following us back to class
Until I can’t, and I stop coming to school, spending my days fighting with the beast in my room.
He comes by, asking why I’m gone. I wonder if he sees the tendrils grabbing at him under the door.

The monster wants to eat him, and I brought him right to its mouth.

The beast has gone ignored and unfed for too long. I ask myself if I’m the real monster.
For letting that… thing live in my house. Why didn’t I kill it the first time I saw it under my bed?
The next time my friend comes by, I ignore him, knowing if I open the door even a crack, he’ll be gone.
He busts down the door, crying. Begging me to tell him why I won’t let him in. I beg for him to run.
Right before he is swallowed, I see another beast, the very same kind, behind him.

The monster wants to eat him, and I brought him right to its mouth.

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 “Tangled Up”
by Henry Kuzma

I dreamed I was a writer

Who could thoughtlessly create
But every time I went to write
I could only hesitate
And despite my desire
To follow the will of my dream

I was tethered by a length of wire

I began to doubt
I began to be afraid
That despite my desperate wants
I lacked the means to generate
An original story
An original song,
An original thought
So I procrastinate

I was tethered by a length of wire

When finally I noticed my tether

I followed it from end to end
The desperation to be with others
Tied to the need to pretend
And at last I knew what held me back
And I cut

I was tethered by a length of wire.

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 “Guided by Stories”
by Alana Lee

Stories are a dream where you close your eyes

The world blurs to black in the page's embrace,
Welcome the visions of color and grace.
To struggle in darkness, to light the sky-
Wander in sorrow or victory rise.
Such colors carry no hue to your face
But beat with your heart where they cry their praise
Though still reigns the darkness above closed eyes.

All too soon you wake, and the visions fade,

To darkness stiff and silence cold. Nowhere
Knows the colors, now flickering away.
Now in the silence your voice crying fear.
But this was the journey wandered asleep
Now paint your story to echo those dreams.

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 “Introverted Dreams”
by Mary Baker

In my dream, they sit,

Listening to the stream of unspoken words
That surrounds them in a dome of silence.
But when I wake, those words stay unspoken
In a place where only they can speak.
A man hears himself.

I remain silent.

I listen to them,
A scream is met by a louder growl.
I attempt to make a noise, even a squeak,
But my throat is dry and empty. I leave,
But the bickering follows. A never ending
Symphony of noise created by those
Who never need to hide behind a dream
To know they are heard

I remain silent.

So back into sleep,

I fall hard. The stream of words is longer,
Louder than before, screaming to be heard.
But they followed me here, and the voices
Scream over mine, louder, more confident,
So alone I sit.

I remain silent.

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 “Bronzville at Night”
by Midge Makowski

There was a symphony

of broken glass
in the alley last night.
Glass bottles crunching
under leather booted feet
like fresh fallen snow.

My body was the instrument,

tuned to the screeching wind
and the rumbling growl of the train tracks.
My lungs filled with secrets and moonlight.

Everything is clearer at night

when I escape the cold clutches of sweaty bed sheets and stale water.
When I remember what it is to be alive,
to feel the sharp embrace of cold air,
to fill the empty night with sound.

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 “Weapon”
by Aspen Zacny

A sunny day in New York City,

just perfect for walking to school.
Our Kid walked to Kennedy High
wearing a jacket for the cool.
January had come so soon
But tests coming sooner are cruel.

Our Kid was just a plain old kid

with parents that loved them to bits
even though they had straight C grades.
At age 14, they were a blitz
on video games, not friends
but they had time; don’t forget this.

At 9:31, gunshots rang

from a gunman’s hunting rifle
and kids’ screams suddenly went quiet.
The man’s, Al Benz, quick arrival
left 12 dead and 40 injured
Ten minutes; there’s no denial.

Kid’s math teacher was terrified

as the door that kept kids away
wouldn’t close as shots drew closer.
It was too late to block the way
so Kid grabbed a heavy stapler
and standing guard there they would stay.

Weapon in hand, Kid made a move

as Al came in Grim Reaper’s stead
bashing the stapler on his skull.
A trigger pulled as he bled dark red
with the barrel pointed at Kid.
Their life ends with shots to the head.

The last death of many is tragic.

Kid’s body on a stretcher, cold,
lifelessly yearning for their home.
They’re a casualty, undersold
as a hero when they’re a child
wanting to live just one more day.

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 untitled
by Brenna Paul

We are the runoff of Western Avenue

nestled behind chain linked fences and
snaking over wobbling sidewalks.
We got car lots, crashed ones or used and
new construction that never holds up a fight.
Our gas pipes are indefinitely marked in chalk.

We are the two story brick bungalows

sinking into slanted foundations
with two car garages in the back, shouting
“Hey, can you put the doors up, buddy?”
Soon we toss Frisbees into the dusk
or drink on dusty flannel couches

We are the wrong side of Western Avenue

It’s Northside, but just the bargain section.
Soon the bungalows will be torn down, but hey,
cornhole at mine tonight? Come through
the gate by the lady with all those gnomes.
I promise, you are going to love it over here.

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 “20
20”
by Camilla Smith-Donald

We're all connected

But we're not
We're still alone
We think
Because we can connect with anyone
We're really not that isolated
But
A picture on a screen is not really the same
Is it

Isolation

That's not
Loved ones halfway across the globe
We can talk to

It's the little lights

On our iPad screen
Our grandmother's warm smile
Chopped up and frozen, like
A banana waiting to be bread

The anticipation of
Like
Each day
Brightening
Exactly the same
Not
Having those shared moments, even if
We can be
We try

If

Possible
To stay away, what's
Crazy even when we have
A world like this, it's
Not lucky to live in
This time, you can't say we're
Better off with remarkable modern technologies
We're

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 Seeing how much
Came at a higher cost

Separation

Safe, but
We just wanted to be
Past pandemics

The country has struggled

And we've watched and
Worried alone
We know we're not
At least
Seeing many human faces
Too scared to be
Together
We're all doing it
Alone

This is a reverse poem, meaning that you can read it from top to bottom, and then read it from bottom
to top, line by line.

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 “Grasshopper: Siren of the Green”
by Eli Tolefree

Oh Sweet voice of unknown location

The sweet shrill sound of the chirp
Forever lost in a sea of a green
Chipping away at the darkness of the night

Oh ironic voice of unknown location

You are the judge of comedic offenses
You display what humor is to us
And ensure to judge those who lack it

Oh small creature which hides away

You make this sound oh so sweet
You sing in the night unaware
Of the impact you produce on humanity

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 “pandemic teenage burnout”
by Lucian Sheldon-Wesley

lost is the ghost at their laptop

up top, no thoughts can be found
hiding from the sound under the covers
only three essays to write words that were once beautiful
remain undutiful behind the eye strain
gaining nothing from class
how will i pass when reality moves against me
the carefree days long in the past
blast! goes the world outside my window
zero seconds to showtime and i am in my bedroom
destruction looms far away and i have to learn calculus
how fabulous the teenage burnout
trying to blackout the world
but my world is made of four walls and lots and lots of blue light

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 By Ayan Chandrasekaran

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 “An Ode to a Deaf Right Ear”
by Senna Charles

A crow’s warble or people talking

What’s the difference?
It’s all noise that fills up one good ear
The other has mastered the art of ignoring

The left ventures out in the world

Soaking in the crisp harmonies that fill life
The right remains muffled
Drowning underwater

But the right has the power of a pause button

It’s the filter of what information reaches the brain
And what hatred and smog is left behind
It has been granted the power of a final decision

When a sweet song or a melodic conversation is sensed

The left ear leans forward
Grasping for the valuable contents
Yearning to soak in every heartbeat and sign of life

When mind-numbing remarks are being slammed into every opening that reaches the brain
The right ear takes charge
It acts as a forcefield dodging each blow
A protector of my mind, and my sanity

My deaf right ear

A master at ignoring
The oblivious organ that was wrongly labeled as useless
Is a guard that defends the mind it is attached to

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 “Quiet”
by Juniper Balbus-Holmquist

A thought arises in an undisturbed mind

What in the vacuum moves the wave?
Sitting in silence often causes questionable discrepancies
Oh! Oh!
Thought is feverishly erksome
Why on this forsaken earth
Can we not feel?
A destroyed creation
Cause we think
Think we are a genius
And we are, this society, this monolith
But a conflicted one
Tragic and anti
Why are those the heroes of our minds
The trichotomy of the heroes typed in print
Told to us by graffiti on bath room walls
To do is to be -Plato
To be is to do -sarte
Do-be-do-be-do- Sinatra
Another Trichotomy
The law of three is ostensibly a liberation
Must now it be a natural progression to a law of 4
“Lies” the lier exclaims
Quietly into the dark
Done
But but
Yet we awake
Arise
Anew
And we find that 2+2=5 not 6
Can’t you see it’s getting better
And you were right I was wrong
This is the revolution
And and
The stars are so new
They’re made of plastic
Taken from excess synthetic fat of Barbie dolls
And and and you
Were one of them
One of the stars
On the velvet and in the sky

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 Both
Should be pronounced both
Like froth
Froth from your lips as you drink the frozen Mojito
Virgin you’re 15
15 rotations around the sun
Another 15 girls of 15 on Pluto
Yet of a different age
Dictated by different rotations
Of your skull about your body
Because everything is moving on the planet
Thus if a part is part of a whole
The whole affects the part
And a part is lesser than a whole
So it affects it lesser
Lesser than the sky god
Who dreams a never ending dream
Of being connected with the earth
And the Aether of our dreams
Is in them both
And in this we live
A long long time
Again

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 Artists and Photographers

front cover Jaiya Everett

13 Lena Yao
29 Ayan Chandrasekaran
back cover Maxwel Lind

Lead Editors

Nico Vasquez
Joanna Soltys

Editors

Maizie Hirsch
Laurel Huntley
Annika Sevig
Isabel Roseth

FROM PRINTERS ROW

We are JCP’s literary magazine.

Jones College Prep’s students are vibrant and have stories to tell, voices to share. We are seeking
submissions so we can honor those voices.

We want poetry, short stories, and narrative essays. We also publish student artwork. Editors review all
submissions for potential publication. Submissions are accepted year-round. If you are interested in
being published, please share your work with Mr. Bastyr at [email protected]

Creative Writing

Creative Writing is an elective presented by the JCP English Department. It is open to juniors and
seniors. Sophomores who have completed English II in their first year at Jones are also invited to join us.
This class is designed to allow students to find their voices while creating poetry, memoirs, and short
stories.

For more information, contact Mr. Bastyr: [email protected]

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