January Art and Writing

Composed by Charlotte Suttee

Check out these works by our very own Jenks students! Thank you everyone for the beautiful January submissions. Keep the art and writing coming by February 27 to be featured in February Torch Art and Writing. See full guidelines here.

Le sang sur la mur, Le sang comme une fleuve

Et le couteau qui viens d’un main, un coeur rempli avec jalousie

Je deteste que tu est mignonne, ta visage me fait furieux

Mais, voir les cendres de ta corps, je regret mes actions

C’était une figure magnifique: la beauté vrai que j’ai detruit.

Je te manque

Ton amoureux narcissique

By Abhinita Premkumar (12)


Youth’s Tongue

I don’t have enough experience for this
You ought not trust me
I am far too young in body
Water is bubbling and weeping
out of the cracks in my skull

My skin is too taut for this
And I don’t understand what you hear
Whenever I sing
I am the unborn fawn within the doe
Buried in embersome oak leaves

I have only just learned to speak
And I have trouble shaping the words
My mouth is soft and unformed
My soul does most of the talking
My bones have only just
Reformed. They are soft and bending

By Chloe Jackson(12)

by Charlotte Suttee(12) acrylic paint, newspaper, cardstock, cardboard, buttons, ink, Ferraro Rocher candy wrapper, bubble wrap, string

by Jesse Holt(12)


Light waves all around

Exploding off the sun, bouncing off the ground
They reflect, they distort, they manifest color.
But through familiar facets or peculiar ways
90 million mile away rays find a home in the back of the eye
Mixing, matching, love the contrasting -Sight.
But even though this is inset,
I need you to teach me to see
Forgo the habits of normality
Don’t let repetition dull a vibrant life
See the beauty minimalize the strife
Teach me to see -the beauty of average.
From the way the sun tiptoes its warmth across your face,
How peoples complacent smiles curl into grace,
To the billions of molecules which make our foggy friends in the sky,
To seeing minds buzz and beep.
To how at night despite our fright a silver goddess offers us her lofty smile.
Take beauty in the grey grit of concrete,
Triumph in a bird beating its wings,
Take beauty in all sorts of things
It is our perception which blossoms meaning
In our latent lives and the vast galaxies beyond.
Existence is empty without our two bead button eyes
Casting color across fields of clay
Let your eyes thrive, let meaning be derived
But most of all,
Teach me how to see.

By Parker Plank(12)

Light House by Hudson Mazzei(12)
oil Paint
Oklahoma skies by Sophie Novak (12)
acrylic paint

Twin Lungs

I harken to you
I am looking for you
I know I am not alone, there is more
I am blind and singing for you

With our twin lungs
Too long separated
Breathing only one note when alone

Speaking in landscapes
Speaking in tempests and seascapes
Speaking in groves and alcoves
In craiges and creeks and nighttime falling
No one else understands our calling

I feel your inside whispers
Atop your skin
They spin cirrus clouds between us
Our fingertips strung together- far, far
Won’t you sing of them to me?
I’ll sing to you
I’ll sing to you

We’ve flocks of birds in our chest
Caught and distant in the sun
Are they coming or going?
Leaving or flying to nest in our mouth

I harken to you
I am singing for you
You are far

We will meet out of our bodies
We will meet within one flame
We will meet within fate’s palm
I harken to you
I harken to you

By Chloe Jackson (12)

sunrise by Sophie Novak(12)
crayola markers
the distance by Sophie Novak(12)
oil paint

Si notre vie a moins de sucre
Si l’orange qui fait la mousse
Chasse nos rêves sans espoir de dessert,
Si périssable est toute chose née,
Que songes-tu, mon âme emprisonnée ?
Pourquoi ne manger pas de chose sucré,
Si pour la santé dans l’avenir,
Tu est une malade de diabète?
La, est le chocolat dans mes soufflés,
La, les fraises dans mes pâtisseries,
La, est la dépendance vraie, la, le plaisir encore.
La, ô mon âme le plus haut bonheur!
Tu y pourras être attirer de l’idée
Du goût, le goût de ce monde j’adore.

By Abhinita Premkumar(12)

“when the party’s over” by Jasmine Oben(9)
colored pencil
by Camille Jones(11)

Baccus Drowns a Moth

It’s never for the taste

In the dark

The red mark

At the foot of my bed

On my tongue

A deluge of the head

I am a moth

In a glass of warm water

Comfortably drowning

Slowing amounting

To foam

My mind is cavernous

My heart desperate

And ravenous

My body is warm and relaxed

By the sting

And my legs don’t need to stand

And my lungs don’t need to sing

By Chloe Jackson (12)

Self portrait by Jesse Holt(12)
by Jesse Holt(12)

12 January 2019 how can one person

be your everything?

your stars, your comet, your sun, your molten core, your compass

your atlas.

you know

Atlas broke under the pressure of expectations, of

punishment. he buckled.

how can you

do that to someone else?

learn how to

light your own stars, rotate

upon your own axis. then you can divide up the tasks


by Eliza Fitzhugh(11)

For Mom by Charlotte Suttee(12) magazine paper


Monument by Hudson Mazzei (12)

21-22 January 2019

i have written the same poem

over and over again

for a thousand years.

i read them and in between every
line–as if

the words themselves weren’t
chock full–

is you.

you permeate all my creations

as if we ever had a chance at

each phrase carries

some of you.

some of your optimism or your

depression. it’s hard to tell them
apart sometimes.

i suspect you’ve imprinted on me,

i should have realized

long ago. none of the excavations

really worked.

but look at me now. useless

fused into my vocal chords. i have
such hatred for the thing i have
become, and yet
i can’t care less about that when

your memories slide across my
mind. my hands

chime out odes and sonnets to

on blank possibilities lying open
to the sky–

out of the multiverse, still i
choose you

without thought, like an eager

Lion Hearted by Hudson Mazzei color pencil, led pencil

how, after all the ache i’ve been

can i still bear to remember you?

but this is one anchor i could not
live without. i simply

could not be me

without your imagined butterfly
kisses brushing my nose

when i’m brushing my teeth,

hearing your laugh in between the
breaths of my poems

did you know poems breathe?

only through

their creators.

Brooks’ shoes (12)

you are my every breath, my
every line,

anyway. and this could be cpr for

if you so desire.

by Elisa Fitzhugh(11)

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