by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on March 19, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

The flowers that sit on my desk,
die when I go home. 
They were once effervescent, lurid, plump. 
The water is absorbed and the contents grow shriveled. 

Their beauty will forever be stored in the softness of my insides. 
I tear up when I see the bouquets, swiftly carried through the swinging doors,
I squint in the sunlight, it is hurtful but is wondrous, 
it’ll melt the snow, and the winter will die, all the same. 

Where are the flowers so effortlessly being carried to? 
I wish to inhale, let their sweetness, their clarity, infiltrate me, assuage my bitterness. 
I want them in my room, at my bedside, the first sign of life as I wake. 
The flowers I once had were only temporary, unlike the statues they leave behind, vestiges of color and lucidity. 

My tears are like petals, I wish they radiated the same. 
There’s courage in being a flower, you exist without knowledge of what you leave behind, but you embolden my belief in seeking a similar blush, 
a parallel passion I felt when I once received you. 

by Clara Johnson ’26 on March 19, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

Staggering wildly to the corner
The two girls giggling in the dark
Yesterday on the run from the party
Small hands pressed into my own
The room is caught in the summer’s warmth
In the linoleum walls of the church basement
With folding chairs
We dance in Sunday shoes the whole night long
To upbeat songs and the light’s buzz leaves
Us cast in gold
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Empty chairs
Staggering drunkenly in the corner
I shiver with cold and tears collect
My skin goes pink from the drink, imitating
The youthful flush of yesterday
The tile is stained by the leaking roof
On the linoleum walls of bar bathrooms
The fan is rustling the stagnant air
10 years gone, I’m lonely
Echoes of yesterday haunting
On the concrete the wheeled bag rumbles
The red truck idles on the curb
Standing there with her arms wide open,
My smile cleaves old familiar lines
The juice of peaches, the ivy fence and the tangling roots
Of the old oak tree
The giggling girls with their golden curls in the basement
Of an old white church
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Empty chairs
Echoes of yesterday haunting
Echoes of yesterday haunting

by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on March 19, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield
And armor punctured o’er his heart,
Punctured by a well placed dart.
Glamorous life, he lived it well
With wine-dark drink and revel unquelled,
And fame he won with war-worn hands,
Leading his troops across the lands.
Yes, it would approach one day:
That doom what steals his breath away.
He lay there then with that in mind:
Fate had dealt him death in kind.
But not with grudges did he die,
No tint of vengeance bleared his eye,
Nor lack of wealth to draw forth tears,
Neither sloth to shame him ‘mongst his peers.
For one lone virtue he did want
Which neither saints nor sinners vaunt.
From the blood-soaked ground to the blue above,
He said, “I wish that I had loved.”
There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield.
From the blood-soaked ground to the azure sky,
He spoke a prayer and then did die.

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on March 19, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

There’s a growing cloud on the other side.
It rumbles across the fence posts and barns.
Bursts of light will come down on animal hide
running away from drops, away from alarm.
For now, let’s sit and wait for daylight dark,
whistle with the winds as they blow the sheets
across the yard, where chasing dogs bark
in an oncoming storm molded by summer heat.
Chimes pick up, green trees breeze to white.
Our porch starts to creak with the new traffic
of footsteps, lamenting lost yellow kites.
Pattering rain reaps the dirt, tilling horrific
streaks of mud across the driveway.
Table lights flick on with giddy cheers,
awaiting the bleak end in a wooden hideaway.
Waiting for thunder to roll with joyful tears.

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on February 27, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

The silence that seeps into my mind
keeps me staring, looking up into the night.
Snow lands evenly, knowing it will be kind
to the passers. Treading their steps so light.
Out here, only lampposts break the walk
across the land. Disturb the sleeping world
when harsh beams break. No animal stalks 
small their prey, icy pack, with feet unfurled.
Colder the air, warmer the thoughts that 
treat me. Dreaming of mountains draped 
across my view, God’s ordained matte;
dripping colors, dotting lines in landscape.
To where I am going, I know not where 
I journey. Into the dark, I am off the path 
which lights my way. Eyes out there 
protect me, saving me from their wrath.
Deeper into the frost, no voice can carry
what I see. Winds thrash, tug my bones
from their warm hidings. The longer I tarry,
the farther I get. Time has come to roam.

by Andrew Auclair ’29 on February 27, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

Within the white and wintry snow,
I tread along the shrouded path.
My destination is unknown,
but I hope it leads to you.
Each step I take a quarried mark
as I wage through the towered banks,
my leather boots leave a fine art—
just to be filled anew.
When it’s your turn to trek the storm,
with luck you’ll find my engraved gift.
look for the grounded snow I formed—
I pray you step there too.

by Grace Batsie ’28 on February 27, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

All Toyota Camrys are driven by teenage girls.
Girls, who can give you the definition of love by citing their best friend.
The friendship that makes them consider that soulmates are not necessarily always romantic.

These girls worship pop music played on the car’s crackly stereo system, and corner store snacks,
The same way that devout religious figures worship God.

They carry lip gloss and felt tip pens,
But forget to bring their wallets places.

These drivers feel their feelings so deeply.
Their tears melt into the fabric of the seats the same way salt off their fries does.

They can see heaven in their side mirrors.
And the meaning of it all in their glove compartment.

by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on February 12, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

I used to walk for a long time,
before I knew of swiftness.
I was not familiar with the plan I could possess,
where these new, lithe strides could lead. 

A developed cognizance for the satisfaction,
discomfort, strenuity, contemplative hours.
I ache for the slow grind, but I move quicker than expected.
All the strain, the choice to fly instead of merely flutter,

It does me well.
I can appreciate the flap of thoughtful wings,
walking will stay in the ambit of my movement.
Nothing will exert me, like the twist of my torso, the reliant trace of my eager
bounds.

I run now because walking could never suffice,
I’ll always control this, 
the distance, my legs slicing across the pavement, scooping out my insides,
I tumble along, I trust myself wholly.

To run is to have the privilege of feeling complete,
even when you are overcome by the thrumming,
riotous uphills,
you’ll always meet the downhill, you’ll be relieved,

But you’ll trust, she’s forever there.
To run is to know the harmonious end,
singing and surging through your red-hot ears.

by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on February 5, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

May the angels light our way tonight
on such a desolate island. Where seals
swim up the harbor mouth, birds take flight,
and sheep roam in octaves on green fields.
Boats offshore watch not us, but waves
that slap their sterns in a prolonged rock.
We’re left to the hills and stones, and caves
that fall darker and deeper than the loch.
No film nor image can capture the land;
a fertile moonscape that can subtly bloom
single houses, which have sunk into sand.
Names remain only on the slabs of doom
that remind us of these nights, where cruel 
wind and water take no prayers in the rain.
Souls of our fathers hold an everlasting duel,
and our mothers hold their breaths from pain.
Sleeping a century later, this island holds
the remains of a generation that is lost.
Broken chimneys and windows have told
any passer that the sea around has a cost.

by Grace Batsie ’28 on February 5, 2026

---

Portfolio - Poetry

---

“I’ll text you,” you say as you leave.
But we both know you might not.

The text thread is on borrowed time,
And it may be a miracle that you showed up
in the first place.

The expiration date has passed,
But then you show up again,
And it’s like everything is new again.

So, you may or may not text me after,
But you leaving,
Means I had you in the first place.