The Cauldron 2018

“The creative arts foster within us an aesthetic appreciation of our world and of ourselves. Writing enables us to share our innermost thoughts with others. It may create a tranquil world, a chaotic world, or a world filled with hope.”

a gift of love in memory of a man and his love for the lively art of writing.”

C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing editor of The Gardner News. Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding.

Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.

So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speak-ing, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive.The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron.

In establishing this endowment Mrs. Bell fur-ther said, “I can think of no better way in which to honor the memory of C. Gordon Bell ’50. It is

the cauldron

2018Xander Carey, Knowledge of Good and Evil, oil on canvas

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Erin Cho, Lost, collage

Table of Contents

ArtXander Carey Knowledge of Good and Evil 1Erin Cho Lost 2 Still Life 3 Break 17 Pretense 25Katelyn Courtney Black Ink Self Portrait 6 Sepia Self Portrait 7 Mushroom Monster 41Serena Hou Mask 20Stanley Hsia Counting Sheeps 11Victor Kang Mask 20Kathryn Li Stargazing 31Sunny Li random clouds 45June Woo Lim Loose Lips Sink Ships 26 Tribute to Otto Frederick Warmbier 27Nathalie Radtke Untitled 1-4 53Ellis Wu Faces 5Sally Yu Plastic Pollution 10

Calligraphy Mathelide Hou E’er Wonder What Youth Is Made 36 Chinese Spiritual Flowers 47

Poems Authors Unknown Blackout Poem 24 Blackout Poem 33Lara Li Not There 9Sarah Choi Not For You 13 Wordplay 23Mathelide Hou E’er Wonder What Youth Is Made 36Serena Hou Beautiful Things 55Erica Qin Lion King 35Beatrice Voorhees Blackout Poem 43Emily Yemington Phantom Boy 5 Sonnet of the Spotlight 16 Clay, Part I 20 Clay, Part II 21 Stars of Golden Dew 30 You’ll Find It 33Kevin Zhou Mondays 51

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Erin Cho, Still Life, charcoal

Erin Cho, Lost, collage

Photography Beatrice Chen Shoot and Run 14 Cólera 15 Let Life Be Beautiful Like Summer Flowers 34 Surreal 38 And Death Like Autumn Leaves 42Lia Fadiman Untitled 52 Tennis 55PJ Kaewsawang The Great Daisy 18 The Great Daisy 49Sunny Li When Life Was Good 37Jeffrey Liu Dreamland 8 Upside Down 32 Tembo 44 Panorama 44Eleanor Rose Orange Foods 50 Laundry 54Ellis Wu A Dwelling 4 Plastic Palms 12 Bird Sitting on Sand 22 une volée 28

Sculpture Savannah Adamo Kujira 46Erin Cho Toothless 21Michael Eustace Lux 19 Fumus 48

Short StoriesErica Qin Once Upon a Time 39Beatrice Voorhees The Harvard Varsity Lawnmowers 40

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Ellis Wu, A Dwelling, photography

Phantom BoyEmily Yemington

He haunts the halls,Wandering whithersoever.Evanescent, he disappears.

Ellis Wu, Faces (series), drawing

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Katelyn Courtney, Black Ink Self Portrait, ink6

Katelyn Courtney, Sepia Self Portrait, ink7

Jeffrey Liu, Dreamland, photography

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Not There Lara Li

Toothpaste on a brand new blouse— Multi-layered, eyelids that swelled the shape of late night grievancesCrumpled, exam flying aheadWithout corrections Ripped up to-do-lists that had boxesUnticked, the clock on the mouldingWall, a brain blanks out on, every forgotten obligationExcept for lyrics Ruffle the gigantic waste of laundryTumbles, to inhale a retrieved breath with headPlastic bound, every single gummy bear countsMissing nights of rest Scramble? for eggs or AfricaWith the seasoned guilt of springThat spent warm nights under satellitesLost under contempt

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Sally Yu, Plastic Pollution, pencil

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Stanley Hsia, Counting Sheeps, ink

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not for youSarah Choi

i’m about two and a half cups of waterheld inside a cardboard box.

i ripple, i giggle,i change my direction,and i clash with my own intentions.

i sometimes stain the cardboard,occasionally dampen the look of things,and often leak a few drops of sentiment.

i spilled all over your already distressed jeanswhen you opened meand lingeredand made you wait for time to dry off my mess.

i don’t fit in a neat and tidy boxthat you can put up on a shelf,but you need not worry;i don’t burst.

i’m sorry i’m not a pretty package strung togetherand topped off with a bow,but i was never looking for you;i never had your address.

Ellis Wu, Plastic Palms, Photography13

Beatrice Chen, Shoot and Run, photography

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Beatrice Chen, Cólera, photography

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Sonnet of the SpotlightEmily Yemington

You want to tear the sky, paper shreds.I’ll never know the masks you wear so highlike crowns adorning proud, remora heads,ornately cultivated twin designs.Like circus lions, pose, your chin held up.I wonder; have you suffered, underneath?On powder, paste, the show—the masses sup.Demands draw out desire, your need to please.I promise you, in ways, I feel the same.You want a household name. Remember me.This desp’rate reach, my dear, leads not to fame.The clothes you wear are dying embers, see.Like parrots, fluff your feathers, squawk like this.You hate the act, but spotlights shine like bliss.

Erin Cho, Multifaced, 3D Illustration, Mixed Media

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Erin Cho, Break, Acrylic Painting

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PJ K

aews

awan

g, Th

e Gre

at D

aisy

, pho

togr

aphy

Michael Eustace, Lux, sculpture

Clay

Emily Yemington

Have no soul to sing,body none to dance;do say, love—are you strong enough to stand?

Your eyes, they wander so,Trembling, your hands.Whisper, dear—are you strong enough to stand?

Spine locked forward,your cornered-prey stance.Look here, dove—are you strong enough to stand?

I have voice to spare—true, I may be damned.But, my love,daresay; I can help you stand.

I’ll chase all you fear.Our wish is command.I, my dear,promise; I will help you stand.

Come, you can escape.I make no demands.Quick, my dove,decide; do you want to stand?

Victor Kang, Mask, ink, collage

Serena Hou, Mask, ink

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Clay (Part II)Now, our hands tied together,she hangs from my shoulder,but

time,

time,

time,

she hangs from my fingers;her feetbecome mine.

Erin Cho, Toothless, 3D sculpture, clay

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Ellis Wu, Bird Sitting on Sand, photography

wordplaySarah Choi

the night was rosyas we danced to the cdscratched by the player,almost knocking over the wineand wrinkling your new shirt

the cat was whiningas you knockedand i rose to the scratched dooronly to find your eyes dancing,eager to see how things would play out

the scars were red wineas your voice roseand my wrinkled, knocked up heartcalled you a player anddanced as you walked away

the roses were pink,but i was still blue

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Author Unknown, Blackout Poem

Erin Cho, Pretense, acrylic painting

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June Woo Lim, Loose Lips Sink Ships, collage

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June Woo Lim, Tribute to Otto Frederick Warmbier, collage

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Elli

s Wu,

une

volé

e, ph

otog

raph

y

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Stars of Golden Dew (Inspired by Langston Hughes’ Harlem NigHt SoNg)

Emily Yemington

Chase off your dark

with the heartbeat of the blazing sun.Replace it with great neon letters,

itching to grab your attention. Replace it with bright LED streetlights

to guide youthrough the winding road.

Replace it with flashing lightsand fireworks that crackle

as loud as thunder,so you can surround yourself with a muddy-colored day.

Hide the shadows under lampsand under porchlights.

Nudge them awayinto another dimension,

where no human eye can see. Make them disappear,

chaining them to the corners of prisonsand setting them aflame.Chase the lurking shades

with torches afireand little nightlights

by the bed. Just go on and flood

that grassy field of nightwith lights like beacons.

But now,you have destroyedand drowned out-

every single shining

star.

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Erin Cho, Still Life, charcoal

Kathryn Li, Stargazing, digital imaging

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Jeffr

ey L

iu, U

psid

e Dow

n, ph

otog

raph

y

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You’ll find itEmily Yemington

You’ll find it in the whispers of leaves,Lounging under the ceilings of sycamore trees.

Where the weeping wind glides across the forest floor.

It’ll be where the blue flames waver,In the drum of your heart and the rain’s sweet flavor,

Where the stars waltz behind the night’s navy curtain.

Beyond the reaches of gravity,Along the horizon where the sky kisses sea.

On the ivory mountain peaks veiled in gray fog,

Just look a little closer.

Author Unknown, Blackout Poem

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Beatrice Chen, Let Life Be Beautiful Like Summer Flowers, photography

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Lion KingErica Qin

I thought of the catthat I brought home from the street. Black and grey stripes with a slight lemon tint. A kitten, really,lost in a forest of hurried legs like a stray lamb in the woods,limbs trembling,black agate eyes shifting here and there in split seconds,retreating and retreatingalong a tiny circular path,from the angry ghost of a lionthat I couldn’t see.

I brought it home from the streetand called it “cat.”I shared my milk,and my hamsters shared (confiscated) the living room.The cat, now,jumped up and down the shelves,patrolling its territory,firm with confidence,glistening eyes looking straight ahead,marching and marchingalong the highway of window sills,chasing a trembling lambthat I still couldn’t see.

Whatever became of the catI never knew. But now and then I think of it, and I wonder.

Be a lion, or not,cat, (me,)but not the lamb.

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E’er Wonder What Youth is Made Mathelide Hou

E’er wonder what youth is made:Morning dew on sea bird’s feather,Sunlight on a newborn clover—Dimming in Past’s hoary shade.

Gorgeous is the trickling cascade—Splashing through the ivory boulder,Sadly when there comes the winter,All her sparkling magic fade.

Golden gnomon firmly fixThe stretching roots onto the ground,Terminating Life’s escalade.So not a lovely heart shall mourn, asTime moves on—without a sound—Killing me with his heartless blade.

Mathelide Hou, E’er Wonder What Youth Is Made, calligraphy

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Sunny Li, When Life Was Good, photographyMathelide Hou, E’er Wonder What Youth Is Made, calligraphy

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Beatrice Chen, Surreal, photography

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Once Upon A Time Erica Qin The Narrator stands center stage. The narration begins. Not with his words, but before he speaks, before he pauses, upon his entrance, the narration begins.

–John Clancy, “Another Beautiful Story”

“The Narrator takes over the page. He tells his own story. No more ‘once upon a time’s, and no more ‘happily ever after’s. Dear loving parents reading bedtime stories to their little monsters, dear incessantly curious tiny human beings, dear college professors lecturing ignorant young adults about the art of storytelling, I am here to end it for you once and for all. I am tired of living inside the endless book pages. I am tired of repeating and repeating the same old stories over and over. I am tired of the narrow abyss between the present and the past, of the present that soon becomes the past as you skim over the archaic opening address. Different stories, different characters, maybe different plots even, but all the same. The books die; pages grow yel-low and brittle. But they do take me with them. Story to story, page to page, I live on. I’m born in every ‘once upon a time,’ and I die with each ‘happily ever after.’ But all the living and dying, the story I tell does not tell my story. You don’t see me, or hear me, or recognize my existence in anyway, yet I am everywhere visible in your fonts, audible in the tender voice of your moth-er, and when you decide to revisit a childhood fairy tale for a rose-sweet dream, I’m always pacing around in your head. But enough. This will be the last time you hear from me. I am wiping myself off the page. This is my suicide note. I sincerely apologize for any

inconvenience I may cause in taking away storytelling from the world. I am deeply sorry for my death, but I am setting myself free. I hope you would be so kind as to let me, finally, have my share of the ‘happily ever after.’ ”

First reported Boston, Massachusetts, by eight-year-old boy Eddie Reynolds and his parents, it is soon discovered across the world that all contents relating to storytell-ing, printed or electronic, have disappeared, replaced by either blank pages or the mes-sage above. While the rest of the world is still processing the unexpected reveal of this narrative figure’s existence, scholars have already suggested a few interpretations of the Narrator’s message. One prevailing theory at this moment is that this Narra-tor felt threatened by society’s diminishing desire for stories and increasing interest in other types of entertainments with modern technology. Despite the ongoing debate regarding the motivation behind Narrator’s tragic death, scholars concur that this suicide note is in-deed the “once upon a time” to end all “once upon a time”s.

(Scratch it all. Goddamn you for ruining my poetic death. Goddamn you for saying those goddamn four words, twice! And goddamn me, the freaking, everliving, me.)

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The Harvard Varsity LawnmowersBeatrice Voorhees

I was running late to my meeting. The sun was going down, making the sky all the color of the inside of a banana, like a giant man had stomped on a banana and the guts had flown all over the sky, emanating from a single point of blinding light.

I was running through campus now, afraid of being late to the interview. I really needed this lawnmowing gig. Mrs. Spencer had found a new guy to mow her lawn, so I was out of a summer job.

I found the statue where I was supposed to meet the lawn maintenance director. He was standing there, his shoulders high and narrow, his legs at least 70% of his body, narrowing into feet as small as pistacchio shells. His skin was as pale as white Gatorade, and he glanced over his shoulder as he shook my hand. He had a real bad handshake- they talk about limp fish, but this guy’s hand was like slimy leaves at the bottom of a compost heap. When his hand came away from mine, I noticed it had left red-brown stains on my skin.

“Hi, Mr. Santoulos,” I said. “Boy, I’m sure excited for this lawnmowing gig! It was super swell of you to fit me into your schedule. I know you must be real busy.”

He sort of shook his head and looked sideways at

me. “You seem like a nice kid, Hayden… I hate for you to get mixed up in all this stuff.”

Boy, this guy was wild! “Nah, Mr. Santoulos, lawn-mowing is my passion! I’ve been mowing ol’ Mrs. Spencer’s lawn for years. And it sure would be sweet to be a lawnmower at a great university like Har-vard. I really hope I get a job!”

“How long have you been a lawnmower for, Hayden?”

“Oh, since like eighth grade! So that’s like, uh, four years?”

“And you still have … both your hands?”

“Hah, yeah, I do!” There were a couple close scrapes when I was changing the lawnmower blades one time, but I never actually got hurt real bad. I re-member scrambling around in the dark of Mrs. Spencer’s garage, my hand bleeding like a barrel of wine had sprung a leak. I managed to bandage it up with a rag before anybody noticed, though, and it healed up just fine.

“Son, you know what this job entails, right?”

“Yeah, Mr. Santoulos. I mow the lawns, right?”

“Hayden, here at Harvard… well… I think we have a different type of lawnmowing program than the one you’re envisioning.”

“What, do you have, like, the push mowers, instead of electric? Because I’m good at those, too, I used one before Mrs. Spencer got a gas one—”

Katelyn Courtney, Mushroom Monster, sepia ink

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Katelyn Courtney, Mushroom Monster, sepia ink

“Listen, kid…” Santoulos faded off. He was staring at the sunset, which had gone from banana peel to more of a rot-ten pomegranate. “Well, let me show you the lawnmower’s dormitory.”

“Ok!” Santoulos and I started walking through the campus now. The students were returning to their dorms like mice before the cloak of darkness descended upon the earth, hiding owls and untold horrors in its folds.

“Most of our lawnmowers declined any material payment for their work, and so we provided them with room and board instead.”

“Oh, so this comes with a room and stuff? Nice!”

“And we do all of the lawnmowing at night, so as not to disturb the students.”

I was getting kind of a weird vibe from Santoulos. He was talking quietly in this kind of whispery voice like a possessed librarian, as if he were afraid somebody was going to overhear.

“But sir, don’t the students find the noise annoying? I know if I were trying to sleep and I heard the sound of a—”

“Not really, no—most of our lawnmowers are pretty quiet.”

Santoulos was leading me to a gray building on the outskirts of campus, made of concrete as cracked as a clay face mask left on too long. A tornado of gnats had formed around the flickering electric light on the out-side.

“If you do really want to be one of Harvard’s lawnmow-ers, Hayden, you’re going to have to sign a contract,” said Santoulos.

“Ok! Yeah, sure, sounds great.”

“I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. You see, the contract is lifelong, and has certain… clauses.”

“Lifelong job security? Sick!”

Santoulos pulled out a ring of grimy keys and with trembling, parsnip-like fingers, unlocked the door. As it swung open, I could hear some people talking, but it didn’t sound like any language I knew or anything.

Santoulos took a flashlight from his belt and turned it on, the blue-white beam shining through the open doorway into the dark room inside like Moses parting a Red Sea of nighttime.

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“Hayden, this is the lawnmowers’ dormitory.”

The room was filled with people, all on their elbows and knees, wearing grass-stained gray jumpsuits. They looked up at the light, but where their eyes should have been were fleshy protrusions of scar tissue, like skin over cottage cheese. They had no hands or feet, only stumps stained green from grass. Green stains edged the corners of their mouths, and when they opened them to speak, I could see they had no tongues, only flat teeth like milky marbles.

They rushed towards the open door, climbing over each other like a box of shaved kittens turned on its side. I pressed myself to the wall of the building as they hobbled into the night on their knees and elbows and threw themselves into the grass like ants into sugar.

“Gosh, Mr. Santoulos, what’s up with these guys? Why don’t they have any hands or anything?”

“There are certain… procedures performed on our lawn-mowers to increase their productivity.”

Santoulos and I watched them in the ghastly cold of the flashlight as the lawnmowers tore up chunks of grass with their marble-teeth. Their nocturnal skin shone in the blue light like that of maggots in a field of broccoli.

“Mr. Santoulos, I like the idea of job security and every-thing, but I also kinda like having my hands and stuff. Is there any way I could like, do this as a summer job?”

Santoulos looked up at me from under the brim of his cap, and I saw his eyes for the first time, glittery black like a box full of dead ants, or a misshapen garbage bag. “I’m afraid it’s all or nothing, Hayden.”

“Then that’s a no for me, dog. Thanks anyway!”

Beatrice Chen, And Death Like Autumn Leaves photography

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Beatrice Voorhees, Blackout poem

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Jeffrey Liu, Panorama, photography

Jeffrey Liu, Tembo, photography

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Sunn

y Li

, ran

dom

clou

ds, W

ater

color

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Savannah Adamo, Kujira, sculpture

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Mathelide Hou, Chinese Spiritual Flowers: Plum Blossom, Orchids, Bamboo, Chrysanthemum, calligraphy

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Michael Eustace, Fumus, sculpture

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PJ Kaewsawang, The Great Daisy, photography

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Eleanor Rose, Orange Foods, photography

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MondaysOr A Meeting Of The Beginning

Kevin Zhou

One day in the early “spring” month,I woke up by the Sun’s first dawn.Less than a second scarcely passedBefore I realized Monday is here.

In a hurry, I got up and changed,And groaned in protest against the glaring light.Monday, many wish you ill!For you is their thundering clock:Disrupts their rests,And them banish from their nests.

Storming out of Borsdorff Hall,To the distant library, where my papers would be printed.But when I glanced towards the distant hill,There, high up the sky, by the faint daytime moon,Stood some certain figure, determined and haloed.That was Monday, without gems or precious cloths,Leaning against a banner that shot forth light.

Monday, I pity you, thought I in the journey.your cloths lack grandeur,your head misses a jewelry-crown,your banner plain and uninspiring,you arouse us, humans around this world, to work;Yet this, your job, does make you dull.In wonder, you are also a slave of toil!Should our ancestorsChoose another day, one of your brothers,To start their work.Then you would not need to sufferAll these life-lacking years.Monday, I do pity you for yourself !

Monday glanced, and saw through my thoughts.And with a clear voice did speak:“Pitiful creature, ignorant man,

Unaware of your vital plightShould your future years beNothing but holidays, as you wished.Wherefore thenShould your clothes be decent,And yourself clean?Wherefore thenShould you indulge in lowly joyBut avoid the earthly dirt and hunger?

I, Monday, am the beginning,And what is spent in the beginningIs shown in the end.As the work in the SpringPrevents starvation in Winter.

But you have betrayed your very beginning!Such a gloomy and sullen path you do pickFor your very self; I care not.Would you rather detest meAnd live Mondays like my sixth brother,Then prepare yourself in a suffering life-long,When you lost all your luxurious privileges,And in bitter regret doth wail.Au revoir, as I shall come to you,Twenty years from now,And see the fate of a manWho lost his beginningthus lost his endAnd himself.Then may you call me dull.”

O Monday, you beginner of all things.Your words, though harsh,Did compose an admonition fair and just.With that I shall leave for the day.Praises to you, to your banner of light,May more shall see youIn delight.

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Lia Fadiman, Untitled, photography

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Nathalie Radtke, Untitled 1-4, oil on canvas

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Eleanor Rose, Laundry, photography

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Beautiful ThingsSerena Hou

Yeah, her-Oh how I missed the way she talks, incredibly soft and nervousand the smell of her bed sheetThe way her eyes shine under the winter sunThe time she cut her hair shortOh and how we used to stay up all night reading poems of unknown authorsNaming all the flowers along the streetand jokes about adopting each other

Lia Fadiman, Tennis, photography

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The Cauldron 2018

Layout Editors: Beatrice Chen, Sunny Li, Jeffrey Liu, Audrey Zhang

Staff: Sarah Choi, Connor Fahey, Serena Hou, Kathryn Li, Jonas Schemm, Ellis Wu, Paige Wu, Alpin Yukseloglu

Special Thanks To: Ms. Armstrong, Mr. Hinman, Mr. Russo, Mr. Scofield, Ms. Varga-Wells

Faculty Advisor: Mr. McDonough

photo by Sarah Choi

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The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedicated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of 570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymously, are selected by an editorial board of students. This edition is set in Adobe Caslon using Adobe InDesign. Allied Printing of Manchester, CT prints and binds the magazine. This issue was printed on paper with 15% PCW. All of the electricity used to manufacture the print of the magazine is generated by wind and solar power.

Front and back cover: Anonymous, When You’re Wrong, Apologize, Blackout Poem