The

Phoenix

The Phoenix Fall 2010 / Issue 1 / Volume III

The Phoenix is the Isidore Newman Middle School literary magazine. This is the third year that it is

being published, and the idea came from the Upper School literary magazine, Pioneer. Since quite a

few members of the middle school were entering pieces in the Upper School magazine, we decided that

the Middle School should have its own. Students from sixth, seventh, and eighth grade chose to be in

The Phoenix club. Then, announcements were made, bake sales were hosted, and pieces were submit-

ted. The pieces inside The Phoenix are a mix of poetry, photographs, drawings, paintings, and short

stories. The Phoenix is a great way for Middle School students to share their talents with others.

Enjoy!

The Phoenix Committee

Hannah Bernick Alexa Friedman Jamie Hawkins Miranda Heath Haley Johnson Sarah Lane Peyton LeCorgne Julia Pindaro Alisen Reed Raven Rice Julia Son Julia Wellons Sarauniya Zulu

Faculty Sponsors

Ms. Alexis Watts Ms. Jamie Keene & Dr. Jacob Leland

Front Cover Graphic Art

Christy Mo

Back Cover Graphic Art

Jamie Hawkins

Table of Contents The Eyes of a Love, Lost Miranda Heath

Doc1 Jamie Hawkins

Untitled Anonymous

Haiku Dr. Michael Guill

Untitled Annie Laura Cherbonnier

What If? Graham Drennan

Design Bird Rory Cummings-Dise

Locker 788 Mr. Roger Hibbert

Beast of the Stars Toby Luongo

Untitled Sarah Lane

This is New Orleans Eric Margolin

Underwater Bubbles Christy Mo

Design Rory Cummings-Dise

Little House Ms. Alexis Watts

Writing Graham Drennan

David Ross Kyla Bernberg

No Words (Falling Whistles) Miranda Heath

Fort Lauderdale Annie Laura Cherbonnier

Fair Ms. Alexis Watts

Spring Might Be Here Sophie Evans A Childhood Snatched Miranda Heath

Design Tree Rory Cummings-Dise

Wind Christy Mo

Gray Miranda Heath

Untitled Mariam Qader

Kanuga Trees Alisen Reed

By Dawn Anonymous

Haiku Graham Drennan

Wedding Photograph Dr. Ronald Cram Winter Graham Drennan

1625 Kyla Bernberg

Shoes Jamie Hawkins

A Poem for Katelynn Miranda Heath

Eye Miranda Heath Untitled Miranda Heath

Where Are We? Jamie Hawkins Untitled Ms. Alexis Watts

Farm Graham Drennan

Baseball Anonymous

So Much Worse Miranda Heath

Robot Dragon Ben Cohen

3 3 4 4 5 5 5 6 6 6 7 7 7 8 8 8 9 9 10 10 11

11 12 12 12 13 13 13 14 14 14 15 15 15 16 16 17 17 18 18 18

The Eyes of a Love, Lost

Amelia‟s brown, shining hair flew behind her shoulders as the wind whirled,

whipping her with its force. Her red trench coat hugged close to her body,

providing her the warmth she so eagerly craved. A clicking sound vibrated

against the walls of the subway station, heels clacking against the floor.

Amelia sat on the cold, metal bench next to man, whom one couldn‟t help

pity. He was quite obviously wealthy, but rather sickly as well. The tube

that provided him with oxygen snaked around his neck, dipping down to

connect with the tank he had situated next to himself. Amelia was sure that

if the man beside her stood and began to walk she would burst into tears;

the sight being such a depressing one that this man would probably haunt

her to her death and perhaps beyond. The man simply looked up, unaware

of the pain he was causing the young woman next to him. But his motions

caused his eyes to be visible to Amelia, and her heart sunk at a shocking

realization. The senile man‟s eyes were a shocking blue and she distinctly

remembered them glowing ecstasy when she had professed her love while

looking into them; and he for she, as well. Amelia could remember arguing

with those eyes, accusing them of wrongdoings. Crimes committed out of

love, which eventually led to the severing of all ties they had once held.

Amelia opened her mouth to greet the old professor, but was cut short by

the very man himself. “Don‟t look so surprised, dear. I‟m fine. Working my

old job is all.” His voice was soft, but not raspy as she had expected. She

gasped as he disconnected the tube from the tank; an action that should

have caused a rather painful death. “Amelia. It was nice seeing you.” He

stood with the effort of a man much younger than he appeared. The man

lowered his face to hers and Amelia was given the opportunity to see that

the wrinkle present on his face were a product of his expertise at his trade:

mere makeup. He pressed his old, withered lips against her own and Amelia

was unsurprised to find his lips not tasting a day older than her own. She

smiled at the familiar feeling. A pop resounded in her ears as the man pulled

away, turning his back to love for the job. Again. Amelia felt a silent tear

make its course down her cheek, the most vulnerable kind. “Jacob,” Amelia

whispered.

Miranda Heath

Doc1 Jamie Hawkins

drawing

3

Untitled Annie Laura Cherbonnier

photograph

A haiku inspired by the poem The Consent (1975) by Howard Nemerov

Ginkgo leaves turn gold

and fall to earth overnight.

Winter is coming.

Dr. Mike Guill

Untitled

Wants

To be strong

To stay

Fears

Afraid of death

Afraid of failing his father

Features

Peaceful

Serene blue eyes

Loving

Generous

Himself

Anonymous

4

5

Graham Drennan

Design Bird Rory Cummings-Dise

graphic art

What If?

6

Locker 788

Locker 788

Has a cell phone in it

The cell phone has an alarm

The alarm‟s going off

It‟s not loud but

It‟s

Driving

Me

CRAZY

Mr. Roger Hibbert

Untitled Sarah Lane

photograph

7

Design Rory Cummings-Dise

graphic art

This is New Orleans

The sun is rising on a warm summer day. You‟re lying in your

nice bed inhaling the amazing summer air. You have your A/C

turned on high and your house is still hot. Your alarm just

went off and it‟s playing WWOZ. You stare out your window

looking down on Bourbon Street thinking, “I can‟t believe it‟s

so quiet.” There are no car horns, no people, just you and your

radio. The only moving things are a nice fog and a sweet sax

solo playing in the distance and you think what a life to live in

this great city and to have such a great house. After ten min-

utes of lying you put on your warm robe and walk outside to

the potent smell of seafood shells. You see the sweet bloom of

the magnolia tree. Then you see it, your neighbor is standing

on his roof playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” You

look down the street and see a Fleur De Lis on every house. In

less than a day this street will be flooded with people, but for

now it‟s time to sleep. This is the best city in the world. This is

New Orleans.

Eric Margolin

Underwater Bubbles

Underwater,

A glimmering sphere of life.

Floating up, up, up,

A jellyfish in the deep,

A pearl waiting to be free,

The jewel of the sea.

Common before your eyes,

But to try and keep one,

Pop!

You will find none.

Christy Mo

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Little House Ms. Alexis Watts

photograph

Writing

What to write

I cannot think

I tried to write a story

(It turned out really bad)

I will try to write a song

Wait that would take too long

A poem maybe

No one will like it

I still don‟t know what to write

Help me

PLEASE

This is too hard

I give up

So here you go

My excuse

My terrible excuse

A poorly written

Unimportant

Excuse

Because I can‟t write

Graham Drennan

David Ross

His eyes fluttered as they called out names

He clutched his hat beneath his moist palms

Listening patiently, waiting for the man with the puffy bold voice to say it

His own name

So this tall awkward man can follow through

Go through this transformation

This step

The step believing himself can be capable

A Martian becoming a man

A frog becoming a prince

David Ross.

He stood up, walked through the murky room

Taking his time because he knew,

He knew these moments are the last moments before he becomes a frog

As he approached the stand he glanced around the room

Filled with people of different cultures

With beautiful accents speaking different languages

The bald puffy man stuck out his hand

Congratulations

David greatly accepted the handshake

Gripping it firmly

Because this handshake meant the world

It meant pride.

Welcome to our family, you are now a British citizen.

He took the certificate in pride

I am now a Prince.

Kyla Bernberg

9

No Words

(Falling Whistles)

Rough, dry grass scraped against a young boy‟s hands. The calluses of an older man had already formed on the young

boy‟s fingers. His eyes are round and full of a faith he knows will fail him. “What if I lose?” The voice of innocence. Even

though the boy, the one who speaks and fears the loss, has seen more than you or I will ever see.

His father‟s eyes bore into his, glistening with unshed tears. “You won‟t lose. You can‟t lose.” He could, though. The

father knew he could. And if the boy lost, there would be no words to describe the father‟s loss. For in the event of failure, the

boy would be at peace, at one with everything. But the father -- for him, the world would be aflame with grief.

The father grasped the black metal in between his fingers and his palm, letting go of everything when he let go of the

gun. His eyes met his son‟s and he vowed, “You won‟t lose. You can‟t. I won‟t let you.”

And the small boy, dressed as a soldier with a weapon nearing his own size in his arms, smiled. His father‟s calm wash-

ing over him; he was ready. He walked off into the swarm of young children like himself, all of them just as abused as he. “I

love you, Dad,” he whispered. And he laughed. A shot rang in his ears and he died, laughing. The cheerful peal almost drowning

out the father‟s agonized shouts.

Miranda Heath

Fort Lauderdale Annie Laura Cherbonnier

photograph

Author’s Note: There is a non-profit organization called Falling Whistles designed to rehabilitate the child soldiers in Congo, a

country located in central Africa. This story was inspired by their mission.

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Fair Ms. Alexis Watts

photograph

Spring Might Be Here

I wake up in the morning

Smell the fresh humid air

See the flowers popping up

The trees blow without a care

It just could be Spring

Even though it‟s Fall

I wonder if the trees know

Or even care at all

The ducklings and the geese

Follow 1 by 1

Swimming, splashing in the water

Having so much fun

Maybe it is Spring!

The calendars could be wrong

Listening to the birds

Singing their cheerful song

Oh, the snow is starting to fall

The calendars are right

The nights are getting colder

The wind‟s beginning to bite

The people bundled up

The Christmas bells ring

Mother Nature, do me a favor:

Hurry up and make it Spring!

Sophie Evans

11

A Childhood Snatched

James watched as blood pooled around the slice in his index finger. The red fluid shined in the warm glow of sunlight, as his

mother‟s cool hands quickly wrapped the adhesive of the bandage around his throbbing finger. The playground looked so very

appeasing, and all his limbs ached to do was quite simply climb to the highest point. His mother released him from the comfort

of her arms. James was quickly to the green and blue structure without so much as permission from the shocked mother he had

left behind. As his feet hastily climbed the aqua steps, a sound reached his ears. A shrill scream erupted from the place he had

just fled from and he turned to see his mother wrapped in the arms of a burly man. James watched, helpless, as his mother

shrieked and squirmed, desperate to escape the large, unfriendly arms of her captor. She rather suddenly stilled, and the man

dashed toward the road and hurriedly escaped the scene. James rushed down the steps, tripping on the last one and scraping his

knee against the rough concrete as he fell. But there was no mother to comfort young James as he attempted to stop the scarlet

liquid‟s flow, staining his hands and screaming in his pain. She was gone.

Miranda Heath

Design Tree Rory Cummings-Dise

graphic art

12

Gray

A wave of exhaustion

Encompasses your entire body,

Wrapping around it like a

Thin, poor-quality cloak.

You take in the morning after

A fearsome storm,

Marveling at the eerie calmness of

Everything around you.

A dull ache pounds in the

Back of your head,

Never considered severe but

Never leaving you alone.

A single tear cascades down your face

As you quietly mourn the loss of a friend.

A loved one who always

Was someone special in your eyes.

A wave of numbness

Clogs up your throat,

Refusing entry to

Happiness, fond memories, and

Any existing emotion.

Gray is calm,

But a quiet, unheard suffering.

Miranda Heath

Wind

She howls at cracks she troubles to reach,

He terrorizes with his screech.

She goads on rivers, storms, and seas,

He glides and rips through the trees.

Stealing away all their leaves.

She rearranges at her will,

He never bothers to keep still.

She picks and hurtles things around,

When done, you hear her laughter sound.

This prankster king to try and catch,

The best will finally meet their match.

Yet,

In hot summer days,

Without any shade,

A gentle breeze she may be.

He alone reaches the far corners of the world.

He is the right hand man of nature.

Oh the trouble mankind go through for her,

To find her,

To call her,

To use her.

To stop her,

To block her,

To catch her.

What a fickle creature he is,

For she alone is wind.

Christy Mo

Untitled Mariam Qader

drawing

13

By Dawn

The rain is falling

Down it comes

Hear it tapping

Tip, tap, tip

The rain has gone

Tapping no more

Wait „til tomorrow

It‟ll be gone by dawn

Boom, Boom

Storm is here

Boom, Boom

Power‟s gone out

Children crying

Don‟t have no doubt

Storm will gone by dawn

Rumble, rumble

Earth is shaking

Crash, crash

The buildings fall

If you pray

Well it may

Be gone by dawn

House is robbed

All is lost

I say this ain‟t going to be done by dawn

Anonymous

Kanuga Trees Alisen Reed

photograph

Haiku

What is a haiku?

A strange Japanese poem

How do I write them?

Graham Drennan

14

Wedding Photograph, City Park, New Orleans 2010 Dr. Ronald Cram

photograph

1625

Bricks stacked up

Green shutters which enclosed the house with love & happiness

My favorite destination.

A beautiful garden,

A rose blooming.

Perfection.

August 29th, 2005

Windows clash

12 feet of water allowed the love and happiness to seep out.

Emptiness

Destruction

Everything. Gone.

The few t-shirts packed -- I will never let go.

Bricks scattered.

Kyla Bernberg

Winter

The leaves are falling down

Every plant turns to brown

Winter knocking at the door

All the birds start to soar

Migrating for the cold wind shall come

All our fingers start to numb

Brrrr!

Sitting around like a bunch of goats

We grab our mittens and winter coats

We trudge outside with so much glee

However there is nothing to do we all agree

We have no ideas not one

There is nothing to do without the hot summer sun

Finally an idea is found

We shall all sit inside until summer comes around

Graham Drennan

15

Shoes

I’ve got a new pair of shoes.

When I step, the autumn leaves crunch beneath my feet.

I’ve got a nice long walk home

I subconsciously walk to the steady beat.

I’ve got “Banana Pancakes” playing into my ears.

The music runs around like circles in my mind.

I’ve got nothing to worry about

Because in this moment, everything is fine

I’ve got a new text, sitting in my inbox

He says he just might die

I’ve got to hurry to his house

For sure, this is a lie

I’ve got to figure out why he would…

He opens up the door

I’ve got to realize there’s no more time

His blood upon the floor

I’ve got to do a lot of things

But I‟m incapable of achieving

I’ve got the impression he’s hurt himself

I hardly am believing

I’ve got so much, some have much less.

But I‟m still careless, I will confess.

I don‟t know what I’ve got until it‟s lost.

I‟d never thought of the worth or the cost.

I’ve got to give.

I’ve got to live.

I’ve got to give it all I’ve got.

Jamie Hawkins

A Poem for Katelynn

Eyes of the grass.

Lips of the sea.

Hands of the sky.

What should it mean to me?

I'm told I should marvel,

At the beauty of life.

But it's with ignorance,

I make my plight.

I'm new to this life,

But the words I write,

Will never grow old;

They shine in my light.

Or lack therof,

Perhaps I should say.

Darkness is more of my way.

I‟m all alone,

My hands are tied.

A sliver of brightness,

Catches my eye.

My words are death.

My lies, they kill.

It shouldn't be my place,

To instill,

The learnings that,

I do not know.

These feelings that,

I fear,

Must go.

Miranda Heath

Eye Miranda Heath

drawing

16

Untitled Miranda Heath

drawing

Where Are We?

Where are we? Set us free

Where worthy days,

are guaranteed

The Wind… has

only

just began

to soar

Smear ripples in the air space.

Bare expressions

Cryptic remarks are all to be heard

As aimless sounds… are forming words

This is disarray,

With widespread verisimilitude

In this mad existence

We‟ll run away, not to be searched for

You‟ll never reach me or the ones you adore

Our collected impressions are past withdrawn

At last, you wonder but we‟re too far gone

Pinch me now again…

And share regard,

Sustained from deep within

The flooded streets are static

With encompassing community

Staring blankly

In this calm existence

You can‟t keep a secret for more than 1 minute

We compose phrases that you transmit

They all believe, because they presume

Do not distress. We will be home soon.

Jamie Hawkins

Untitled Ms. Alexis Watts

photograph

Farm Graham Drennan

drawing

17

Robot Dragon Ben Cohen

graphic art

Baseball

Baseball is a game of life. Sometimes we strikeout and other

times we hit a home run. When a player strikes out they get in

line and try again. If a player makes it home they get the satis-

faction of finishing what they started. The entire time the play-

ers play this game, they have fans and people to support them

and give them encouragement. They might make enemies along

the way to success but many of the players are capable of making

it home where they started, home where there team awaits.

Anonymous

So Much Worse

Mahogany coffin.

White satin inside.

Black suit,

Black tie.

Red eyes.

Clear tears.

The boy I love.

Rope burn „round his throat.

In the closet,

He was too brave.

His body pale.

His nails are purple.

I painted them.

I cry now.

I kiss his lips.

A final farewell.

They taste of death.

I cry forever.

I love him.

They say

“It Gets Better”

But this feels

So much worse.

Miranda Heath

Author’s Note: In light of the recent homosexual youth

suicides, a trend of videos entitled, “It Gets Better,” has

swept the internet. These videos are designed to reach out to

the LGBT youth and any other minorities to give them

hope and support, to tell them that life is the answer.

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