The Tenth Muse





Spring 2021

Discover the Light Within by Chloe Park '24

With every new beginning 
another beginning ends.
In life’s dips and dives, 
and in every moment of our lives
           lies gloomy starkness.           
Yet in the dark,     
                glittering with stars,               
we no longer fear the night
since dark now twinkles with bright lights.
We must pause therein  
to discover the light within.
Embrace the new beginning
to fly our wings.

・・・

To fly our wings,
embrace the new beginning.
To discover the light within
we must pause therein.
Since dark now twinkles with bright lights,
we no longer fear the night
glittering with stars.
Yet in the dark...
 lies gloomy starkness. 
And in every moment of our lives,
in life’s dips and dives, 
another beginning ends
with every new beginning. 

Fearful of Flight by Eden Conner '25
I think I must have lived
Once before. Not as a girl, but as an anxious owl.
This would explain my eyes, luminous kaleidoscopes of
truth: locked, like a failed amusement park ride.
I hold the key, but it is sandpaper slashing my
thoughts until they are
crumpled up dreams sitting in invisible waste bins. 

A deftly 
dangerous whirlpool spiraling in the middle of the pacific,
I am capable of the invisible demise of myself.
Whispered help at first tickles my ear. Soon, I discover it is a mosquito,
sucking the scarlet blood of my ideas until I am forever
Isolated from the opportunity of 
Adventure.

I chose to cower on my perch alone.
My cracked claws grip to the
wobbling oak of purpose, but I am ripped away.
Forced to pave a life with no
Answer key, not even a rule book.

Yes I must have been that anxious
Owl.
Whose bones, light as my own armor of feathers,
Impede me from trying anything too out of the box.
For I think that my
fragility is not my decision.
My sleek feathers fly silently like
My voice, an outreached hand grasping
at a seashell before it is swept away by the ocean.
Gone.
I choke down my problems like a rodent swallowed whole,
Twitching at the idea of someone
 finding out they exist.


Izzy Welsh ’22
Dear Holden by Grant Park '24

The lights blink on the whites and yellows of the carousel
Illuminating the bleak and hazy desolation of the day
I turn suddenly and hear, “Well isn’t this just swell”
as I sense the brown, dry leaves nearby sway away

“I remember the good old times
When we were young, carefree and innocent”
He nods and agrees: “Hell, they were indeed sublime;
And if I could go back to those days I would be content.”

“If people are running
Without knowing where they’re going
I want to know how they have so much cheer
Without a single fear?”

To that, I exclaim, “Boy! How it all changes so fast
I guess time really does fly,”
“Time is an element of the future and past,”
Holden replies, “As I’d just be the catcher in the rye.”

But it’s how the world is today, so distressing
We are connected yet alone and hollow
As everyone races each other to nowhere, passing
Blurs of amorphous dark figures who follow.

There’s no time for the simple joys and happiness
For innocence will crush you like falling boulders
As we march through the maze of miserable madness
Our hearts heavy, worldly burdens on our shoulders.

That’s why I want to say something astonishing
We must slow down and walk toward the future
We must give our yearning hearts moments for breathing
And remember to nourish and nurture.  
Alexa Druyanoff ‘22
 
The End of Summer by Averie Perrin'24
 
I dream of the time where the days lengthen 
And the sun decides to waltz with the moon at a particularly scandalous time
When the hours seem never-ending,
Tainted with sweetness,
But by the end,
They seem shorter than the smallest of seconds,
Like parcels stored deep in your mind,
Only memories.
 
When the nights can become your days,
Untethered from the usual confines of the year,
The months of summer feel like a warm blanket on the very coldest of winter nights.
 
The fruit is always in season, ripe and saccharine,
And the only time you wince is when drops of cold ice cream attack your feet,
Softened by the summer sun.
 
You wake up to light creeping through the windows in intricate patterns,
And glance at the mirror to see that the sun has left its rosy mark on your cheeks,
And freckles like constellations scattered on your face. 
 
The moon at night shines like never before,
Vibrant and lucid,
It’s silver edges luminously glowing with fervor,
Something you’d only glimpse at in the best kind of dream.
 
I’d bury my toes into the sand,
And dive, birdlike, into the glittering sea
Submerging myself in the heavy water, 
Laughing without a care in the world,
Until the end of summer came,
 
Then,
I’d wait for the next one to arrive.

 

 Three Paths Two One by Derek Esrailian '24
  
 When the newborn child sees the mountain and the river,
 that is all they see.
 For the child has yet to decide
 what deciding is.
 Has yet to think about
 what thinking is.
 For the two bright balls in the sky, the roaring echoes of silver bullets in the valley,
 the tasty wind, and the feeling of their mother’s hand on their face,
 are all just happenings.
 Defined by what is there and what is not.
 The child does not know,
 yet is more whole than anyone.
 If only they could remain so.
  
 When the child sees the mountain and the river,
 now believing themselves to be solid, undrifting –
 a man, so they say –
 they not only see the mountain and the river, but more.
 For now they have been taught what the mountain is –
 what the river is, what the sun is, what planes are, what that hand must be –
 and no longer surrender themselves to the universe,
 no longer waving a white flag in concession,
 no longer friendly with life but attached to it.
 If they were life they would know not to do so.
  
 Have they experienced the union of man and woman?
 Have they seen how beautiful the sunset and the ocean really are?
 Have they treasured their mother’s gentle hand?
 They cannot be sure.
 They must die to know! As do I.
  
 When the child sees the mountain and the river for the last time,
 back they are to being newly born.
 Though I wouldn’t be able to tell.
 A long beard and fogged glasses wouldn’t be too revealing of this fact.
 But they see the mountain as a mountain,
 and the river as a river.
 Though this time with infinite more certainty
 of a thing that cannot go deeper into itself.
 The water was nice then.
 So was the snow
 They laughed.
 How funny it was!
  
 The end the same as the beginning,
 with a purposeful yet unintentional middle
 to give the two shape
 and the one an infinite form.