TROY
Issue one of three
Volume Nº37
Odyssey
Cassandra, Part I
By Tzipora Gordon
When I opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was. My ears rang with the sounds of war cries
and meeting swords; my nose flooded with the tang of blood and upturned soil, the smell of ash; my hands clenched into trembling fists at my sides. The vision of warriors, of death, of my city in flames, faded slowly.
My breaths came fast and hard. It couldn’t be true, there was no way any of that could
happen. Troy had been at peace for decades, as my father liked to remind us. It didn’t matter that Apollo was god of truth and prophecy, this could not be real. I stumbled up from the bench, bile in my throat. No, no, no, it could not be true, it could not! The god’s words at my rejection rang in my memory:
“I cannot rescind my gift, but I can curse it. You will see truly, but no mortal will believe you.”
No one would listen if I told of what I had seen. Of Hector, curled on the ground with a spear
in his chest. Of my family killed, the women of the city–my mother, my sisters, my cousins, myself, and all the rest–sold into slavery. Of Troy not only in flames, but in ruins.
My heart beat like a resounding drum in my chest, an endless mantra of no, no, no, and I
suddenly became aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks. The smell of the fruits on the various trees in the sacred grove finally overtook the scents of battle, the quiet rustling of wind in the leaves overtook the sounds of pounding feet and clashing swords.
I knew where I was, and what’s more, I knew where I–and my family, and my city–would be.
It was nowhere pleasant, and there was, apparently, nothing I could do to turn that ship of fate, in flames, off of its course for my home.
Elana Algarin
Troy
By MiLLIE Schwartz
I. THE TRAVELER
What would keep me away from you?
Shining gold, torn of my leaving, your face is engraved in my mind;
Sailing off toward the unknown, your fear my heart will hold near in my peril;
Besting great beasts, I will spend not a moment with thoughts off of your smile;
No soldier, no battle, no treacherous plot
Will keep me away from you.
What would keep me away from you?
Eyes that reflect off the steel of my blade keep me grounded in the fight;
Glimmers of joy, your laughter the stars constellate, shining, by the moon;
Battlefields strewn with the dead make me eager to see you, safe once more;
No archer, no general, no manic fighter
Will keep me away from you.
What would keep me away from you?
Ink on papyrus and battles unfought bring to mind your sweet, hushed voice;
Something to see on return to our home, our son, praying I’ll come soon;
Strategies, theories, all for ensuring the war will be won quick;
No trick, no trap, no brilliant thought
Will keep me away from you.
II. THE SENTINEL
What would keep you away from me?
Wise, thoughtful eyes whose last glance is embedded inside, deep in my soul;
Heart of pure strategy, you are an asset to soldiers who know naught;
Waiting at home, I can only think what you are facing on the field;
But you said no soldier, no battle, no treacherous plot
Would keep you away from me.
What would keep you away from me?
Sunshine reminds me your sparkling eyes when you spot a new thought path;
Stones call your solid hard confidence to my mind, thinking of the war;
Foxes your image reflect with their wily intelligence and craft;
But you said no archer, no general, no manic fighter
Would keep you away from me.
What would keep you away from me?
Salt by the seashore brings thoughts of your ship, which you said would return soon;
Wind in the air calls out sails to be filled with life, speeding boats home quick;
Waiting for you to return, I sit windowside, yearning to see you;
But you said no trick, no trap, no brilliant thought
Would keep you away from me.
Too Small to Face the World
By Elana Algarin
In a little leaf she scrambles to hide
Everything was to big, too tall for her to face it
Her eyes went wide
Her hands trembled
So she ran and ran till she saw a section of a cave
Hidden from the world
She stayed
Sitting down, she wrapped her arms around herself
Laid her head on her arms
And sat in silence
She didn't have a name for the emotions that bubbled up inside of her
Yet she knew something was wrong
She couldn't go out
Everything was too big, too tall, too scary for her to face
How could she confront it
When it was bigger than her?
Her chest became tight
She looked up slightly at the cave and her eyes became pained
She hid her face again and held tightly onto her arms
Tiny she remained
Becoming smaller and smaller
As she wallowed in doubts
She was afraid
All inches of her skin eaten up by her worries
She scratched her skin but it left marks
She cried and cried but it only stained her clothes
She bit and broke at her nails but they only bled
She remained
Unable to soothe herself
Unable to seek what she needed to be unafraid
Hiding her face she laid back again
Feeling like a failure
Her head was back on her arms
And she cried
Whispering a dream to stained clothes and greasy hair
She hoped for a better reality for herself to live in
One where she wasn't taunted by what she feared
One where she was free
To stand up tall
To have her hair flowing in the wind
To smile bright
This dream was too hopeful
For her grim reality
She bit her lip till it bled and looked up to the sky
She felt she deserved to feel pain because she wasn't strong enough to do as she wished
And so she banished herself to the cave forever
As she wasn't strong enough
Not big enough
To face the world
Her fear visiting her from time to time
Hoping one day she'll realize its wish
For her to realize
It comes as a friend not an enemy
If only she were to acknowledge and think deep
Her fear showed signs of worry about facing the world, to fail the expectations she wants to live up to
Her fear’s core was her insecurities
Too scared to admit
She felt inferior
She remained scared
Without ever knowing–
Ever learning
Her fear was a friend, not an enemy.
Twisted Growth
By Rebecca Haberman
I have to believe that that we are all the same
Flowers bloom through the rain
Beauty flows through pain
Is this the way it has to be
It is
It is
Can’t you see
How the beautiful seed turns into
That trunk
That branch
That flower
That tree
That apple, at once so raw and bitter, now so sweet
The human experience is just the same
It’s raw
It’s hard
Fraught with imperfections
Blemishes
Challenges
Yet
Beautiful
Unique
and
Sweet
Indeed we are the same
I see
I see
A Journey's Start
By Ben Fisher
Greece and Troy, powers of the sea/Each called the strong, brave, and mighty. To fight a war for those transgressed/for the Trojans broke the laws of guest.
The war drags on/ no end in sight. The Gods took sides/ and joined the fight.
Odysseus, wiliest of them all/devised the means for Troy to fall. Though this was a fearsome path/to risk invoking the god’s wrath.
Victorious he sails away/but for his deeds he’ll surely pay. Shipwrecked on a cursed isle/as his wife falls prey to suitors’ guile.
A chronicler of all the ages/in distant lands an old god rages. Reading tomes of heroes old/ She never dreamed she’d be so bold.
The heroes guard the power of joy/to grant the will to create and destroy. Imprisoned in a shimmering lake/ lurking, scheming, desiring the break.
Our heroine seeks the order strong/to find the place she will belong. Beneath her home, she tracks them down/buried deep into the ground.
For ten long years she battled Joy/Subduing him to her employ. The title Nilah she did claim/ Monsters of yore shall fear her name.
These warriors, soon to be, / embark on voyages through the sea. For passion, glory, gold, and strife/each one of them shall risk their life.
Tiffany
By Millie M. Schwartz
There’s a woman named Tiffany
Who had an epiphany
While sipping her ice-cold tea.
It was the middle of summer
And as the day grew dumber
The birdsong rose from the tree.
“My gosh!” she cried out,
And––my gosh––she did shout,
“The birds must be warm!” said she.
“Without fans to cool off
Or cold drinks they can quaff
They must be doing just miserably!”
So Tiffany thought hard
To cool the birds in her yard….
And she found what the answer could be!
“Oh, I’ve got it!” she cried,
And off her tea-lid she pried,
To get to the ice–floating free.
“I’ll give them my ice,
Which I’m sure they’ll find nice,
And I’m certain that they will thank me.”
So she took ice from the cup,
And her hand lifting up,
She sent the ice flying with glee!
But the birds flew away,
And even still to this day,
They keep a safe distance from Tiffany.
Noodle Soup!
By Elana Algarin
Helpless, I felt. Holding a spoon, with a bowl right in front of me. The soup liquid is yellow with plenty of noodles in the bowl. It should be delicious, with the steam still somewhat in the air and the noodles so plentiful. I should feel safe, engulfed in a blanket with a warm cooked meal I made for myself in front of me. I want to be feeling better, but somehow I feel so weak. I feel like that time in 7th grade Language class where I felt like a baby and didn't know what to do if I was called on. I just copied everything from the board and hoped for the best. It's the same feeling as back then. A soup bowl in front of me, many years have passed since then. Yet I carry that same helpless emotion within me. The feeling seeps through the spoon and into the soup. The soup no longer seems comforting, like it has become devoid of warmth. My hand seems so small, gripping onto a spoon from my childhood home. The bowl seems so big, with liquid endless for an appetite that has departed. Why does it have to be so hard? For something that would normally comfort me to make me feel so helpless.
Aderet Feldblum
The Kraken
By Millie Schwartz
It’s there.
Beneath the surface.
Deep under those murky blue waves, it’s there.
The Kraken.
That great, cantankerous being.
At the bottom of the ocean, where the sand looks no different from the twilight waves that keep it grounded––there.
There the Kraken lies.
It sleeps with its eight gargantuan limbs curled tight to its behemoth body, its eyes veiled in translucent membrane.
The fish––those who can survive down there––steer clear.
None wishes to be the one to wake the Kraken.
And it will awaken.
It always does.
An unfortunate eel slithers too close; a floating bit of driftwood casts a misplaced shadow.
And the beast arises.
One may think it happens slowly––the eyelids must be lifted, the creature must come gradually back into this world.
No.
It happens in an instant.
The normally peaceful seabed leaps up in alarm, sending waves of dark sand flying in obscuring clouds.
The monster’s limbs––usually so closely kept––shoot out and snatch what happens to be near, holding it like a vise, like a lifeline.
And all at once, the seabed screams.
The fish fly––away, away from the tormented beast!
The eels scatter and bury themselves deep under the sand, where they will be safe.
The driftwood is blasted to smithereens.
And the Kraken’s wails.
Ear-blasting, heartrending, pulse-quickening shrieks.
A deep, primal keening that can only come from a place of pain.
And what but some immense sorrow could drive the Kraken to howl?
Eventually it stops.
Not before the seafloor is swept up in a frenzy of sand, noise, grief.
But it stops.
Slowly, but certainly, the Kraken rests its head back on its pillow of sand.
Slowly, but surely, the beast closes the filmy skin over its eyes.
And slowly––every so slowly––does it return to its place of fantastical slumber.
The fish begin to return: they know it is over.
The eels peek their heads above the sandy floor.
More driftwood floats by, unchallenged.
All is quiet, peaceful once more.
For now.
Elana Algarin
Untitled Document
By TziPora Gordon
Staring blankly at an empty page
I take first one breath, then another
The weight of all unwritten words
Settles on me with each beat
I have nothing to say
Or rather
I have too much to say,
I have no way to say it
That’s not even true
There are ways, I’m sure
But nothing quite fits
With the true story-truth
Of what I am trying to say
The fog of my brain
Pushes against my skull
In a desperate attempt
To find what I am looking for
My mind is shuttered
That lore and fable weaver
Unable to catch its threads
Staring at an empty loom
And here I sit
Fingers sliding rapid-fire
Across computer keys
Faking productivity
When all I’ve done
Is said
I don’t know how to find
What I set out for
When all I’ve written
Is yet another poem
About an inability
To write
I keep adding
Worthless words
That add nothing
But are all I have
I cannot find
Anything of value
There is nothing I know how to say
In any effective way
So I guess
That makes this where we part ways
And where I give up
I guess that makes this poem an empty slate
A blank document
A canvas of white paint
I have accomplished nothing for my efforts
And must at last abandon this
To forever staying
Trapped within the recesses of my mind
To forever waiting
unfinished
Tzipora Gordon
There’s an island
By Naomi RuttenBerg
There’s an island off the coast of that town where you live. The water is deep between them. Blue and green. Magnificent. On the island is where the other people live. Some are musicians. Others are artists. It’s peaceful there. Quiet and boring. The waves make thudding sounds against the sand, all packed together. There are a few trees, but not very many. Houses rest on hills. They block the morning sun. Inside them are people. They live inside the house. On one hill, there is a house that looks like every other one. A girl who’s maybe six or seven turns the knob on the door. It opens. And while I speak to you, right now, she steps out over the threshold that her father built three years ago to protect her from the cold. She steps onto the grass outside with naked feat. A rock scratches her skin. She walks along the path by her home. She walks tall and with her chest in front of her, as if to boast of her bravery. She travels down the hill. Soon, where she stands, the ground is no longer grass, but sand. She stares into the water before her. The edges of her wonder splash at her feet. She lifts one leg and puts it before the other. The water tickles her bare legs and she walks forward in excitement. The wind flies by her and pushes back her hair. The water pulls. The sand gives way. She lies on her stomach amidst the waves. It pulls and pulls away. There’s an island off of the coast of that town where you live. The water is deep between them. Sharp and fuzzy with malice. Magnificent.
Aderet Feldblum
Serendipity
by Michael Duell
The hollowed branch plays her tune –
as the breeze whistles against its crevices.
In symphony, music notes begin to stream
Yet, all we “hear” – is the taps of leaves
as they hit the frosted ground
in heaps of blinding color
The flowing air sings her song –
sending blissful warmth in delirium.
In euphony, the bushes harmoniously applaud
Yet, all we “feel” – is the chills of winds
as they are manipulated by disdain
in stacks of austere freezers
Our effervescent summer paints her canvas –
in euphonious rays of humming light.
In ovations, her lissom bees buzz
Yet, all we “know” – are the dreams of fall
as they are transformed by a serendipitous mother
into an incubus we sorrowfully call – “winter”
To Forget
by Millie Schwartz
I sit on the banks of the Lethe, watching the whispery gray waters as they roar their way downstream.
I’ve heard it’s painful.
I shudder and press my fist to the wrenching, aching hole that has already been torn from my heart.
I’ve heard those who do it are never the same again.
I squeeze my eyes shut and dam out the flash-flood of memory that tries to wash away my mind.
I’ve heard it changes you; it turns you into a different person.
I fight the rising bubble of scream that claws its way up my throat. I’ve already screamed enough.
I’ve heard many things, but no one can answer my only true question––is it worth it?
Is it worth it to wash away the faces of those I have loved? Is it worth it to let the pain of their sorrow melt harmlessly into the foam, to be swept far away by the current?
Is it worth it to stitch up the black chasm of terror that gnaws like an animal on my consciousness? To tear out the fangs of their love and drain the venom from my veins?
I throw my head back and wail in harmony with the river, with the shrieks of those long forgotten.
I rise, unsteady, to my feet and try once more to throw myself into those howling gray waters.
My heart leaps at the thought of the cool, cleansing rush of the river washing over me and wiping my heart clean.
But once more, the chain digs into the skin at my ankles, sending me tumbling back down to the blood-stained sands of the riverbank.
Because this is my torture, my eternal torment.
I am cursed to forever recall the demons, the ghosts that haunt me.
To sit alone on the banks of the Lethe and listen to the cries of the lost.
To never quite be able to forget.
Tribulation
By Percy Jackson
Her eyes of glass
My face aghast
The shriek of a brother
Tears are streaming
Flag stands half mast
I will never be the same
Her diamond smile
My mouth is vile
The weeping of a sister
Hands supporting my head
Birds, they scream wild
I can't ever be the same
Her hair of gold
I am no longer bold
The cries of a mother
In sadness my body quakes
The air bitter cold
I won't ever be the same
Her rainbow presence
There is no pleasance
The mourning of a father
My teeth gritted with pain
Air filled with menace
I will never be the same
Her bitter scars
Emotions are bizarre
The anguish of friends
Anger swells, "ignorance"
The wind withers with her life reduced to char
but...Can I come out better
Her beautiful shining emerald heart
Far too long we have been apart
Choked up, stories her family retells
The wind should die instead it swells
Why has everyone moved on and left me here
to bleed?!
Her wonderful creative artistic mind
condolence on her loss I can not find
Her friends remember with smiles and laughter
their ice begins to thaw yet mine only plasters
I try to heal time and again, but it's not the same without her,
her–my friend
Her soft painted talented hands
Tears still outpour from within their glands
I hide my tears for the sake of my friends
The moon is yet to glow, my purpose dwindles
I plead for her return like Orpheus once did
yet out of reach she remains while tears flood my brain
Her cute harmonious smile-inducing laugh
Stitches attempt to mend my heart of halves
Scars on my heart on my arms on my face
With those sad marks our lives are traced
To move on from my love is all that is said
Yet to move on means it's true that she is gone
Mask
By Abby rich
Exasperated gasps, intense hyperventilation
Confined to a chamber of total sleep deprivation
Their firm claws refuse to ever let her go and escape
She works until her soul fades, for she is a mere small slave
They viciously seize a hold of her hardly beating heart
In a gut-wrenchingly gory scene it gets ripped apart
But despite inner agony her two feet must still walk
And yet her true self remain unseen amongst the whole flock
All this time she cannot shake off feeling delirious
Insidious thoughts oft cry “Turn away not, come hear us”
So she turns to them, but they do not ever disappear
Trapping her in a never-ending cycle of despair
All day she waits to be gripped by the sweet embrace of sleep
For a brief moment all her troubles go away and fleet
Rebirthed in her own mind, now free of dark and muddled thoughts
Impervious to the facts of life that leave her distraught
But this dreamy haze fades and she now awaits more hurting
She stumbles into another soulless day of burden
But to please the flock she fastens over her face a guise
With a demented mind hiding behind her bloodshot eyes
Yet another day of toiling and turning to conform
As though the sole purpose of life were merely to perform
But they will never see the actor behind the white mask
For they are blind yet indifferent to all of her sadness
Shrouded in hiding ill feelings is this false field of bliss
Locking away truth and submerging it into abyss
Her feelings brew a storm that can no longer be contained
Retiring this suffocating mask, unleashing wrath’s reign
Let them show their cruelty and judge her in every which way
She is too numb, much rather not follow them anyway
Or rather, wishes she could conjure up this confidence
But alas she is far too afraid of the consequence
Tzipora Gordon
Like The Plague,
Like The Terrible Plague
By Chaya Guttman
The dead tree yields no shelter, the cricket no relief
Trembling ‘neath its branches, reaching jaggedly
Have you gone up the mountain to break yourself a knee?
Doc’s tired of your wrenching cries, an’ sheer stupidity
Those mongrels search nose-first for you, plodding through the snow
The voice of town-folk echo, leash in hand as they trail so
Have you gone and lost all sense, too frostbitten to know?
Ambling from your own self is a journey six feet alow
