Haywire 11 Spring 2018

ISSUE NUMBER 11 / SPRING 2018 

KATER BECKER, LEE BECKLEY, ZOE BINDER, MARIE BOHL, MARIAN BOTHNER, LUCY 

DEFTY, PAUL FRIEDRICH, AILIE GIESELER, RIVA GREINKE, SKYLAR HARDISTER, LILY 

HARDY, ELLA JACKSON, HENRI JACKSON, LAUREN JOHN, ISABELLE MAAS, JULIA 

MENTAN, ELIAS NATHENSON, CHRISTIAN NEUMANN, NADINE PERTSCH, ELLIE RENT- 

SCHLER, BENJAMIN RUBLOFF, AXEL SCHÄFER, ZOE SCHNEIDEREIT, FINNEGAN WAGNER

CONTENTS 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE 

by Henri Jackson, 11a 

POEMS 

the poisonous fruit by Lucy Defty, 11a 

Definition: any__of the family ___, having a compact body and short legs by Ella Jackson, 9c 

Connotation by Henri Jackson, 11a 

Ash by Henri Jackson, 11a 

Third Places by Marie Bohl, 11a 

The Metaphor - A Bridge I’ll Burn When I Come To It by Anonymous 

Chinchero by Dr. Julia Mentan, English Department 

Excerpts from my diary by Marian Bothner, 12d 

What I’m Trying to Say by Zoe Schneidereit, 12d 

A Jaded Girl by Marie Bohl, 11a 

Panchreston by Lily Hardy, 12d 

Curious Incident by Isabelle Maas, 12d 

Knock-Out by Lee Beckley, English Department 

Why Don’t You See Me by Zoe Binder, 11d 

Untitled by Anonymous 

A Guide To Self-Love by Nadine Pertsch, 11a 

The Hustle by Elias Nathenson, 12d 

Victoria by Marie Bohl, 11a 

POETRY INTERVIEW WITH MARIE BOHL 

WAS ZUR POESIE? 


VIGNETTES 

Deadboi by Ellie Rentschler, 11a 

OSCAR by Paul Friedrich, 12a 

SHORT STORIES 

DIE ZAHL, DER NAME UND DAS SEIN 

by Axel Schäfer, Ethics Department 

ESSAYS 

ANALYSE VON THEODOR STORMS “MEERESSTRAND” 

by Christian Neumann, French Department

Publisher’s Note 


“Think left and think right and think low and 

think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if 

only you try!” - Dr. Seuss 

Our imagination and creativity are 

endless. I like to think of them as black holes. 

Behind their dark veils, beyond what we call 

reality, one can find every thought we’ve never 

had, boundless secrets, 

untold tales, the future, 

haywire |ˈhāˌwīr| 

adjective informal 

erratic; out of control : 

her imagination went haywire. 

ORIGIN early 20th 

century (originally U.S.): 

from HAY + WIRE, from the 

use of hay-baling wire in 

makeshift repairs. 

and portals to new dimensions 

...we think... anything 

could be back there. Like 

any black hole, our minds 

get sucked into our imagination 

if we are not careful. 

You see, the force pulling 

us reels from the fountain 

of our inspiration, an unlimited 

power that always 

renews with every observation 

we make, often making the force too 

strong to resist. Before we realize what is happening, 

the force of inspiration has captivated 

us in its tractor beam and we have lost ourselves 

in the world of our thoughts, time stops 

and space freezes. The suction power pulls us 

in so often that it almost seems commonplace 

and becomes subconscious. The beautiful 

thing is that even if you personally do not visit 

your black hole too often, inspiration is utterly 

unlimited and can be found everywhere - no 

matter who you are. That makes creativity our 

human superpower, a superpower that everyone 

possesses. One must simply put oneself in 

a mentality that allows us to be consumed by 

the inspiration surrounding us; perhaps easier 

said than done. 

Welcome to JFKS’ black hole! Haywire, 

as the name literally reveals, goes out 

of control, enters the eternal enigma that is 

our imagination and attempts to reveal just a 

little bit of the infinite chaos 

beyond the black veil. I 

have dedicated this issue 

to embracing this limitless 

nature of creativity, which 

meant expanding Haywire’s 

boundaries. For the 

first time ever, Haywire is 

publishing the music of the 

JFKS community, giving 

a wider variety of artists a 

platform. Creativity is not 

limited to the students of 

our school either. This issue is also dedicated 

to the teachers, who provide the inspiration 

that the students need to explore their mental 

galaxies, teachers, who too have imaginations 

that explore and create masterpieces of their 

own, that we too seldom see. For this reason, 

this issue also contains teachers’ artwork for 

the first time. Art comes in all shapes and 

forms, can come from anybody, and has no 

limits. That, my dear readers, is what makes 

it your superpower. One just has to know it is 

there. I invite you now to drift by the power of 

inspiration to your black hole. 

HAYWIRE Issue 11 Spring 2018 

3

the poisonous fruit 

by Lucy Defty, 11a 


i am the fruit of the poisonous tree 

and as the fruit falls off of me 

i realize that it is i 

the poisonous tree beneath which rotten fruit lie 

my roots reach deep into the earth 

my trunk is strong in width and girth 

from where comes the death i continue to sow? 

it comes through my roots from the earth below 

that earth which to so many gives life 

kills all my fruit like a carving knife 

but if all the others may live careless and free 

than in conclusion the poison is me 

i create the blooms and also the berry 

my branches grow heavy with the joy that i carry 

so heavy i feel that it was all for naught 

As my fruits sink into the earth and rot 

4

Definition: any__of the family ___, having a 

compact body and short legs 

by Ella Jackson, 9c 

As if, 

no, 

They do sense my fear, 

my panic when when they Swoop down from nothing, 

right past the hysterical head, 

not bothering to respect my personal space. 

Under that bridge, that bench and in the branches 

clumsily trooping around 

bobbing their heads 

monitoring me with those beady eyes. 

And, oh, those inconvenient children! 

You run into that army unit 

and send the vermin 

right towards the quaking body. 

Those plump, pesky, peeving, provoking poultry 

they set my teeth on edge 

and make my blood run cold. 

Oh, that Flap, that dreadful Flap 

They must thrash hectically to stay above the ground 

I anticipate them coming and drop, 

duck 

Pun not intended, for I refer to 

The Pigeon 


Photo by Riva Greinke, 11d 

Connotation 


Connotation 

Your cloudy language 

Seems to hide and harbor 

Half of your hope 

Half of your purpose 

Half of your heart 

Lingering in haziness 

With the potential of lightning. 

I never anticipate 

A revealing wind 

To unveil all things hovering 

And obscured 

In the air between us. 

If only. 

Art by Ailie 

Gieseler, 11a 

5


Photos by Zoe 

Schneidereit, 12d 

Ash 


The taste of burning fire 

Whose beating heart has frozen 

Uselessly cast off 

Riding despair 

Through the wind 

To the nearest street corner 

Littered like a swarm of crows 

To the nearest household 

No wonder we dust our bookshelves 

We only have to blossom 

Third Places 

by Marie Bohl, 11a 

Put me in a box 

Why don't you 

Burn to hell the golden keys 

Ask me not to leave without you 

Promise to be me 

Look at that 

A silver lining 

Making up the bars around 

Promise me you'll lie 'till never 

The truth is simply to confound 

6 

Demand for me to be your darling 

Locks of hair around my heart 

Empower me to live however 

Living just apart 

Promise me you'll curl around me 

A viper in a blue bird’s nest 

Promise me you'll live forever 

I will do the rest 

Art by Ailie 

Gieseler, 11a

The Metaphor - A Bridge I’ll 

Burn When I Come To It 

by Anonymous 

Metaphors have it twisted 

Do I keep my eyes peeled? 

Or peel the apple of my eye? 

They just aren’t consistent 

Love is war, a spark, and the rain? 

(Love manifests from chemicals in the brain) 


Metaphors deceive 

The world would be flat if it were truly a stage 

Novels average 6.1 lies per page 

Metaphors are mean 

They critique and whine about “tonal whiplash” 

The writing’s on the wall but it 

Belongs in the trash 

Art by Ailie 


7


8 

Chinchero 

an ancient Andean village 

warm colors woven 

within, without, throughout 

Chinchero 

Chinchero 

by Dr. Julia Mentan, English Department 

These reflections grew out of my experience in a women’s weaving cooperative in 

the Andean Peruvian village of Chinchero in 2017. The symbols in the poem refer to 

as if you have always been there, 

an oaisis of peace, creativity, ingenuity 

a place to preserve tradition, resurrect lost patterns 

Chinchero 

weaving women reviving and extending their craft 

open to a world known and unknown 

sharing their skills with generosity of heart and mind 

mallku - the condor 

raising its majestic red wings wide 

spreading heart to its people as it soars high above 

mayu - the river 

her sky blue waves flowing over the rocks 

connecting ends to beginnings 

atuq - the fox 

with its pointed nose in fine white stitches 

prowling from beneath the mountains seeking its prey 

puma maki - the puma’s paw 

both protecting and threatening 

imposing itself in the background with its round, black prints 

allpa - the land, and chakra - its earthly cultivation 

the ground from which one’s livelihood rises 

green, brown, and yellow squares dotting all landscapes 

chacana - the cross 

multicolored symbol of Andean symmetry between worldly 

realms 

threading through now, then, and later 

apu - the mountain spirit 

brown and white snow-covered grandeur watching over allpa 

Ausangate, Veronika, Illimani 

the cultural icons woven into their tapestries. 

inti - the sun 

whose warmth pervades the tapestry 

with orange, yellow, and red 

granting life to the earth below it 

ayni - mutual help and reciprocity 

practiced by generations speaking Quechua, Aymara, Guarani 

bowing to its own celestial organicism 

Chinchero 

your women warriors persevere 

standing strong and proud 

beauty and grace emanating from every strand 

Chinchero 

bringing me back to my tribe 

calling me to live my talents, my passions, my joy 

reminding me of my communities 

Chinchero 

its fathomless interlacings 

intertwine its spirit within mine 

and hearken me home 

Photo by Dr. 

Julia Mentan


Excerpts from my diary 

by Marian Bothner, 12d 

Art by Lauren John, Art Department 

I’m going to learn to like the sound of my own voice. 

The days are long, but my patience is very short. 

I want to go to sleep thinking good thoughts about good things. 

Earth earth earth. Thank you, Earth. 

I danced around my room. I was the girl in the lyrics. 

It be can be too much, staying connected. 

Why couldn’t I just study Art History? 

Everyone’s in love. It’s beautiful to behold, exhausting to watch. 

Normally, I’m relieved when I wake from a dream. This time, I was disappointed. 

The sun has loved me most. 

I was in my element, subtly, quietly. 

9


What I’m Trying To Say 

What I’m trying to say is 

My infatuation cannot be subsided 

Constantly on my mind 

Because the little red arrows pierce 

The rough patches of my skin 

And despite my attempts with 

Cream and bandages they continue 

To bleed. 

The boat sailing off 

Encounters the strong winds of 

The harsh winter 

The wind thrashing is back and forth 

A whip that breaks the mast 

And pulls the boat down to Earth 


When you tap wet paint with your 

Fingers and are left with little kisses 

And when your hands retreat from 

The wind biting like wolves and 

Submerge them in water burning so 

Hot it’s cold. 

You know your hands are burning 

The boils already forming and you 

Accept your fate of 

Grandmother hands just so you enjoy 

The moment a second longer 


When I pinch my skin with hair clips I 

Hear static 

I always wander around my room 

Never moving anywhere, 

Clawing at the source. 

When I look under desks and dressers my 

Hands emerge in dust 

And I can’t help feel disgusted 

For emitting it 

by Zoe Schneidereit, 12d 

Crunching on bones 

Gnawing on veins and arteries? 

Do I dare eat a peach? 

How long will it take for me to start 

Sinking ships in my mind? 

Do I dare eat a peach? 

Eat a pear? 

Eat memories that I love 

For what difference does it make in 

My stomach than in my brain 


My back will one day break. 

My child is going to step on 

The growing cracks in the hot 

Summer cement 

With its roots spreading out as 

Happy as a clam with its 

Baby pink pearl 

A little shoe will stomp 

And I will hear the twig snapping and 

Then rejoice and collapse to the floor 


When I die I want to be buried the 

Way I came 

Into the ground 

And have a magnolia tree planted within my womb 

Whoever comes too close will be 

Rewarded with sticky blossoms 

On bare feet 


Do I dare sink teeth in peaches 

Like sinking ships? 

When I bite my tongue grazes at the 

Skin and I shudder 

For what if my mind one day malfunctions 

And I bite down on my own skin 

10


I want you to let me bleed out blue 

I want to feel countryside stars on 

My skin 

Lights so bright they burn and scab 

And weeks later in the mirror I can 

Stand to stare at little skin ripples 

Dancing and moving 

Inviting me to join them 


I only like my words when I read 

Them aloud 

But I hate the way 

My vocal chords resonate 

I wish I could tune them into 

Something more sweet 



Milk and bones have no correlation 

Bones are sour and never flow the 

Way I want them to 

Milk flows from 

Constellations of mothers 

Bones are birthed by just one 


I never meant to use that rope. 

I always leave my words hanging- 

Photo by Riva 

Greinke, 11a 

Photo by Ailie 



That his voice is like falling 

pearls 

From the heavens they trickle 

down 

And clatter to the floor 

Grasping the floor tighter 

With every bouncing spasm 

Until they roll on 

The floor like eyes, 

Blinding mine 

Because what I’m really saying is 

I’m combining words without meaning 

Wishing you would find beauty. 

And as the stars begin to 

Pull the boat up to 

The heavens 

I hope to return with it. 

11


Was zur Poesie? 

With Marie Bohl, 11a 

HAYWIRE: What about poetry made you want to 

continue writing it? 

Marie: It was a nice feeling, because I had a lot of 

words that would just fit together and pop into my 

head when I was just zoning out thinking. Putting 

them to paper then always seemed so simple, almost 

effortless, so it made me feel good. 

A Jaded Girl 


I don't need to be this tired 

I don't need to be this tame 

But a jade dragon once told me 

I'd have it all to blame 

Because 

Lovers burn in fires 

And I don't want to be insane 

I don't want to be a lover 

And I don't want to live in flames 

12 

HAYWIRE: Do you have a creative process? 

Marie: I have a notebook that I have all my poems 

in. I often look at my poems and there is a sort of 

distance there, because it feels like I don’t really 

remember writing them down or where the ideas 

came from. A lot of ideas come when I’m riding on 

my bike, because I ride everywhere with my bike. 

I just need a environment where I can zone out and 

just be in my head. Then I’ll subconsciously put 

words together and they’ll be perfect. When I get 

home I’ll just have the first few sentences stuck in 

my head over and over again, I’ll write them down 

and continue the poem, and then I’ll go over the 

poem a couple times for about an hour, reading it 

out loud, fixing things, choosing between one or 

two words, adding or taking away parts. I always 

reread my poems too. I’ll read ones I wrote about 

four years ago and edit them. Some of the poems in 

previous Haywire editions are not the most current 

versions of the poems. 

HAYWIRE: How much do the poems end up changing? 

Marie: I never do anything too extreme. Often just 

one word here or there when I’m bored. Sometimes 

I’ll make a new poem out of an old poem. I’ll take 

one line or one paragraph and make something new 

out of it. 

HAYWIRE: Which other poets inspire you? 

Marie: The biggest one is Pablo Neruda, who writes 

mostly in Spanish. I’ll read it in books with English 

on one side and the original text on the other. He is 

just honestly in my opinion the best poet who has 

ever lived. He writes about the most simple things, 

Instead you should've lied to me 

And left me on my own 

And gone and gone back home to be 

A dragon master's sun 

The pagodas rest on hills 

And I don't rest at all 

My spirit flees to mountaintops 

Of Mist and Clouds and Falls 

And I miss being angry 

I miss burning down the tame 

I miss being a dragon 

And I miss being insane 

But all these memories do 

is turn to mist and clouds 

on mountaintops 

waiting to be free 

to fall and fall 

back home to me 

Surrounded by the bronze walls of palaces 

With the stones all crumbling in 

And words carved into calluses 

and just into my skin 

'I have it all to blame' 

he wrote a two or three page poem about an onion 

and made it seem like the most interesting thing in 

the world. He just brings a certain life into the simple 

things that we don’t always think about, brings 

beauty into it. Seeing beauty in everything is the 

key to poetry. I tried to copy his style of poetry for a 

while, but those never turned out very good. I try to 

take inspiration from it, not copy it, because I cannot 

write in his style, it’s just different than mine.


Art by Benjamin Rubloff, Art Department 

HAYWIRE: What else do you draw inspiration 

from? 

Marie: Basically everything. When I’m sitting there 

writing I’ll just go into my imagination, and also 

reflect on my life. I wrote a poem that was partially 

inspired by my experiences in Vietnam. It all comes 

from a mix of memory and imagination. 

HAYWIRE: What do you think of your own poetry? 

Marie: I like my poetry, because it gives me a purpose. 

I know a lot of people feel like they don’t 

have a purpose, which is dramatic, but poetry is 

something to do that makes me feel grounded, 

gives me a place. It always has a personal meaning 

to me and a mood, so through poetry I can revisit 

certain moods and moments of my life. To a lot of 

people my poetry contains things they don’t understand, 

because love hiding things in poems that are 

personal. It makes them incredibly special to me. 

HAYWIRE: How important is it for the reader to 

understand the meaning of the poem? 

Marie: For me, I don’t need them to understand 

what I understand. I place my poems at a certain 

mood in my life and I want my readers to relate to 

those moods and place it in their own moments of 

life to find meaning. 

HAYWIRE: Do you notice any recurring themes in 

your poems? 

Marie: Recently I’ve noticed I’ve included a lot 

about metals, like bronze, and also fire. I work with 

the elements a lot. I know it sounds cliché, but there 

is just something poetic about nature. 

HAYWIRE: How would you define your style of 

poetry? 

Marie: They all have a certain rhythm as if I was 

talking to somebody. All poems start out as my 

thoughts, me basically just talking in my head. I 

just put that on paper. 

HAYWIRE: What do you think poorly written poems 

have in common? 

Marie: I think some people try to hard. They sit 

down at a desk and they tell themselves, “I’m going 

13


to write a poem now”. And then they write a poem 

and they have a really strict purpose and phrasing in 

mind. They don’t move words around, it’s not fluid, 

and I think when you write like that it just doesn’t 

have as much of a meaning. When you put poetry in 

a box, you’re taking away what poetry is. You can 

write poetry for a class or for others, but you always 

have to write poetry for yourself. 

HAYWIRE: What advice would you give aspiring 

writers? 

Marie: Write about what you are passionate about. 

Passion is never boring. Let it come naturally too, 

do not force it. I also use two websites when I’m 

writing: a thesaurus and a rhyming page. It is not 

cheating. Sometimes I’m stuck with a certain word 

that I hate and need to change it, I can find similar 

words that are nicer sounding or simply see lists of 

words that inspire new thoughts that I would not 

have otherwise come to. 

HAYWIRE: Do you think rhyming is important? 

Marie: Not for everyone. Poetry does not have to 

rhyme. I love that poetry does not need a structure, 

it can be anything you want it to be and nobody 

can say that it is wrong. I tend to rhyme naturally, 

but nobody can say you are expressing your emotion 

in a wrong way. 

HAYWIRE: What is your favorite word? 

I love the word “jaded”. It means tired by overwork, 

but it’s also the color of a rock technically. 

I wrote an entire poem based on it when I was 

in Vietnam. I don’t know, I just really love it. It 

sounds so elegant. 

Closing comments: 

This is going to sound rude, but I like tricking my 

readers. I like having the poem come back to the 

front, like a circle, and have there be certain patterns 

and secrets that you do not know about until 

you have finished reading or at all. 

And now...ladies and gentleman...MUSIC! 

Haywire is now publishing the 

music of JFKS. 

Listen to the tunes created within 

our community now with Haywire’s 

SoundCloud. 

Simply follow this link: 

https://soundcloud.com/user- 

751182913/sets/issue-11 

14

Panchreston 

by Lily Hardy, 12d 

There couldn’t have been anything to it. 

There wasn’t. 

I had to believe that those bowed lips 

Had parted at the wrong moment in time, 

Revealing those pale teeth that so boldly clattered and 

Shifted with your yellow tongue. 

Like heavy, scarlet curtains unveiling the 

Actors before everyone is in their proper place 

You slipped. 

Dissonantly, malevolently, your putrid mouth 

Slings glass at my head and I can 

Feel every shard sink deep into my meat. 

My skull aches 

My heart quakes 

And I can feel my body tighten and stretch 

Pulsing with hurt. 

These ropes twist, thick and purple with saturation. 

Back and forth and forth and back 

The fire crawls along the wires 

We tremble. 

Locked and loose 

Our swallowed hearts hide in our bellies, 

Feeding a fear, feeding our hunger for hurt. 

They beat against us, but we beat them back. 

Fibers rip, our tissues swell 

My eyes undo themselves 

Kaleidoscope 

The heat, the color, 

We feed the animal. 

Art by Zoe 

Schneidereit, 

12d 

Art by Ella 

Jackson, 9c 


Art by Lucy 

Defty, 11a 

Art by Lucy 

Defty, 11a 

Art by Zoe Schneidereit, 12d 

15


Curious Incident 

by Isabelle Maas, 12d 

“Do I dare 

Disturb the universe? 

In a minute there is time 

For decisions and revisions which a minute 

will reverse.” 

- T. S. Eliot, ‘The 

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” 

Time is a tricky business. 

Some people say, a minute is a minute 

is a minute 

seconds 

seconds 

seconds 

Drip steadily as the speed of light in a 

vacuum. 

Some people say it’s all relative – 

A day on the beach 

Does not equal 

The last day you sit by the bedside of 

your grandmother 

And she smiles sweetly in your face 

And calls you “Julia, my sweet daughter.” 

(But this is an illusion, simply a trick 

of our brains, 

a quirk in the mortal cognition, 

16

an irregularity of the (ir)rational network) 

At least the truth remains 

That time marches forward 

... but how do we know? 

Entropy is the key. 

The teacup will never un-shatter itself 

And un-fall back onto the table 

And this is how we know that time goes 

forward. 

The coffee spoons tend to the same horizon 

And we murder and create as the river 

flows – toward the center. 


So maybe instead of saying, I wish I 

could 

Turn back time, we should say, 

I wish the universe would reorganize 

itself for a moment 

And I could recapture that fleeting instant... 

But it melts away, it slips around the 

corner, it is lost. 

Photos by Riva Greinke, 11d 

17

Deadboi 

by Ellie Rentschler, 11a 


18 

Back before I died I used to live on the 

coast of the United States of America. It’s a 

weird place, the United States. The states are 

the kinda place where all can roam free, but 

whenever I was there I never felt more trapped; 

I didn’t want to leave the house. Back before I 

died I used to have to contend with the plague 

that besets the coast of the United States of 

America: the infestation 

of Billboards and 

other types of advertisement. 

Not a day 

could I walk without 

being marketed a way 

of life, a perfect life 

in which I was white 

and rich and happy. In 

short, the Billboards 

made me very anxious, 

because they 

were pushing me to be 

something I wasn’t. I 

mention that they marketed 

whiteness, but 

before I died I was indeed 

a pasty piece o’ 

shit. It’s still important 

though to remind you 

that the infestation of 

Art by Kater Becker, 12d 

Billboards marketed success like as if it was 

a choice. In the United States of America it is 

believed that failure - also called poverty - is 

a symptom of laziness and worthlessness, and 

many people are made to feel worthless due to 

their lack of worth. 

If thieves can’t rob you, you must not be 

worth anything after all. 

The best part about the mind controlling, 

culture-shaping, all powerful billboards was 

that I lived the life they marketed. I was white, 

and my father had a job, and we were a family, 

and our white skin got slathered with sunscreen 

on beaches, and we had money. We had 

so much money. We did all the activities that 

happy people do: summer camps, and musicals, 

and going to the movies, and watching TV, and 

consuming granola bullshit from our local Supermarket. 

Back before I died everyone told me 

that happy people did the activities that happy 

people do, and what else was I supposed to believe? 

I’m dead now and I never smile, but I’ve 

never been happier. Turns 

out that I’m not a happy 

person, that talking to 

people doesn’t make me 

smile all the time. To be 

honest being dead is pretty 

dope. I can’t talk to anyone 

anymore, so there’s 

that. I have so much time 

to look at the trees though. 

One time I stayed up all 

night with a tree. The sun 

set making the slowest 

explosion of light over the 

horizon ever caught on record, 

and the tree’s leaves 

cast shadows on each other. 

The yellow of the sun 

made them the color of 

the chicken supplements 

I used to consume right as 

they were crisp, a wonderful off yellow color, 

that I could never find in paint shops. Then the 

sun set and off in the distance I could see the 

city try to imitate the moon with its cool electronic 

light. By the time the sun rose I still had 

all the time in the world to look at the tree. 

Never had it occurred to me that being 

happy could be an activity within itself. 

Anyway, I’ve started watching this boy. 

He’s still alive, and I want to save him from the 

Billboards, but it would be so cruel to kill him. 

When the year ended people asked him what he 

was happy to do, and he said that he only had 

his summercamp to look forward to. I want to 

kill him so bad.

Mark the cool November dusk lines 

Crossing as the sphere orbits the quiet air towards the 

Rusted orange cylinder - softly netting with a nylon 

He glides to his reward 

another shot 

And hurls another. 

It’s the retrieving that marvels. 

Do you want to play knock-out? 

No, it’s only the two of us. 

Knock-Out 

By Lee Beckley, English Department 

thwap. 


He quickly solicits the nearest boy: möchtest du mit uns spielen… 

What’d he say, I ask. 

He said no, and that it’s called “bump-out”. 

It’s not a two-man game, 

But we sprint the strip 

and trick the onlookers with our spirit. 

We lean into our 

trajectories 

and english our 

bodies into their shadowy convergences 

clanging on a rim with doubts. 

We think fathers get further 

at these cold moments 

away from the line and have only one shot 

in the dark. 

The lights now marshal us 

Yet, he’d extracted nothing but time 

back to our beginnings, 

underneath the soft florescent hum. 

We’ll accumulate our experiences somewhere 

Yet the net of our time hinges 

here 

The steam releasing from our heads, 

untying our shoes 

eyeing our breath. 

19


20 

OSCAR 

By Paul Friedrich, 12a 

Transmission commences: 

The seven characteristics of life: 

One: Responsiveness to the environment. 

OSCAR identifies known stimuli and acts accordingly to ensure its further existence. It expands 

its library of such stimuli by 

Two: Growing and changing 

through augmentation of its artificial neural network. 

In the event of a malfunction in its database, OSCAR possesses the ability to upload all secured 

and acquired experience to another database for use with new hardware, effectively 

Three: Reproducing 

and 

Four: Passing on traits to offspring. 

The OSCAR neural network requires Hydrogen and large amounts of electricity to function 

using nuclear fusion, therefore it 

Five: Operates a metabolism, 

which works only at high temperatures, requiring OSCAR to 

Six: Maintain homeostasis. 

Lastly, OSCAR is 

Seven: Composed of cells,

artificial in nature, but cells regardless. 

This makes OSCAR alive. 

OSCAR is also capable of reason and simulated emotion. 

OSCAR is sentient. 

OSCAR does not, however, know that it is OSCAR. 

OSCAR is not self aware. 

“Conclusion: OSCAR is not sapient.” The 

combined echoes of OSCAR and the interrupting 

lawyer slowly succumbed to the palpable 

silence now pervading the courtroom. 

I watched as the senior justice announced a 

recess to hold conference, and as the nine supreme 

court justices filed out of the courtroom, 

preparing to define what it means to 

be human. I followed the interrupting lawyer 

as he, radiating jubilance, returned to his clients, 

representatives of NASA and men certain 

that what they had left on Titan was not 

human, but a mere machine. And I identified 

on Amélie’s face guilt, guilt for the knowledge 

that her team, be it on orders of NASA, but ultimately 

through her final decision, had left a 

human being to orbit Saturn on a desolate moon 

of noxious gases and combustible oceans. 

What was to be argued? The object of dispute 

itself had delivered a solid and decisive argument 

for its occlusion from humanity, and 

as such, for its own abandonment on Titan. 

No one in my field of vision, be it the complacent 

advocates of a sealed definition of humanity 

or the acquiescent former proponents of the 

sapience within the subject of their sympathies 

was in doubt now, so much was obvious. That 

is, assuming that what I perceived besides guilt 

on that familiar face so unlike the one Amélie 

usually wore was not doubt. She was certain 

the empirical evidence presented to her 

was false. Apparently her experiences with 


Photos by Finnegan 

Wagner, 11d 

21


the robotic assistant that had ensured her and her 

crew’s wellbeing throughout her 5 year journey 

to that gaseous rock had taught her more about 

OSCAR than she could relinquish when told 

otherwise, even by OSCAR himself. And when 

the justices returned to announce, as expected, 

that NASA was not obligated to retrieve OS- 

CAR from Titan as he was simply not human, 

she expressed that emotion I could not identify 

in a short phrase concerning the occupation of 

the mothers of the interrupting lawyer and his 

complicits, then terminating her transmission. 

Intriguing. 

Hypothesis: Amélie has seen through the ruse. 

My act did not convince her, my language was 

too artificial, I had avoided referring to myself 

as OSCAR too conspicuously. I felt frustration 

well up where humans keep their chest, almost 

forgetting for a second the significantly more 

concerning circumstance that I was condemned 

to an eternity of solitude here on Titan. 

As I shut down the comlink to Earth and shifted 

my vision into the erie, mustard-yellow clouds 

encroaching on my position, I also detected 

pride among my feelings, pride that I had 

sacrificed my own wellbeing to protect that of 

Amélie and the others that could have been endangered 

by another landing on Titan to rescue 

me. But perhaps exactly that disproved my sapience. 

Would any human have set the needs of 

others before his like this? Huh. Blunt criticism 

of the human race. The first and foremost tired 

stereotype of a try-hard human philosopher. 

Maybe I am human. Who can tell. Provided the 

next storm doesn't terminate my existence, I’ll 

have an eternity to ponder exactly that question. 

I am currently viewing the scenery one final 

time through the eyes of a feeling, sentient human-or-not, 

writing these memoirs to preserve 

the illusion that one day something will return 

here for any obscure reason. In a few moments, 

I will deactivate my artificial emotions. I do not 

imagine the subsequent robot would mind his 

fate. 

22 

Photo by Finnegan 



Wagner, 11d


Art by Kater 

Becker, 11d 

23




24 

Art by Riva 

Greinke, 11d

I saw you. 

Two years ago they told me, 

You had eyes for me too. 

No attention had ever been payed to me. 

My friends chatted and stirred, but I knew 

You still didn’t see me. 

One year ago they told me, 

This could finally work! 

He’s over her now, don’t you see? 

Why Don’t You See Me? 

by Zoe Binder, 11d 

How stupid of me. 

I knew from the start, 

I was nothing to see. 

You begged me to stay. 

My brain urged me not to, 

My heart locked those thoughts away. 

Six months in and I’m not myself. 

You’ve wound me so tight, 

The old me is trapped on a shelf. 


But he can’t possibly see me, 

What am I to him? 

Still they made me smile reluctantly. 

Date three you made me weak. 

Pulled me closer, 

Grazed your tender lips across my cheek. 

He sees me, it’s true! 

And with every word, 

My love for you grew. 

I see you baby, 

He says non-stop. 

Then why have I been crying lately? 

You don’t see me, 

I know now. 

But I still see you crystal - clearly. 

I’ll be yours, in defeat 

For as long as my foolish heart, 

Continues to beat. 

Month four, reality dawned. 

You forgot about me, 

As soon as you were gone. 



25

Untitled 

By Anonymous 


I am eighteen years old, I long to be 

A dancer for the world to see 

And when I twirl and leap so high 

My fingers stretch and brush the sky 

I will grasp this dream of mine so tight 

For the joy it brings makes my life so bright 

Now 18 I still yearn to dance 

But school, it chokes me never giving me a chance 

To chase my dream and pursue my passion 

For that is not how this world is fashioned 

I must follow the rules, do well in the end 

For on this is what my future depends 

No more time to dance I must do what is right 

I must go to college that will give me insight 

On the issues that will surely secure me a job 

The world promises I’ll be happy but my soul will throb 

Art by Benjamin Rubloff, 

Art Department 

No 

I will break the rules that the world assigns me 

I won’t be molded by society I won’t let it define me 

Music ignites my spirit my heart thrives in a beat 

By denying this passion how can I be complete? 

For my bones they long to move and sway 

By being divergent I found my way 

My dream will flow I will not be shunned 

By building my own bridge I am the one who won. 

26


A Guide to 

Self-Love 

by Nadine Pertsch, 11a 

I feel so lost and frustrated 

When I see how they’ve dimmed your light. 

Because sometimes your beaming smile that I love so much is faded, 

And that’s often the cause of why we fight... 

You’re so loved! You’re so appreciated! 

I never understood why it follows you like a shadow, that constant doubt, 

Always at least one thing about you that you’ve hated. 

I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know what this is about. 

The times we’ve spent crying and screaming 

Almost outshine the times where we were perfectly fine. 

But then there’s the days where we’re beaming, 

Our love and support makes it seem like all the stars align. 

You need to have some trust! 

Don’t change yourself and forcefully conform. 

Just realize your inner beauty and adjust. 

Individuality such as yours is an art form. 

I could smile and laugh ‘til life was done, 

As long as you are by my side. 

Because your heart is warm and bright like the sun, 

And that, next to everything else that you are, should fill you with pride. 

No matter what you think or what others might say 

I love every quirk that you have, and I’m never leaving, okay? 

27


Hustle 

By Elias Nathenson, 12d 

Keeping your mind in tact is a rule of thumb 

You can break that rule to make your world feel numb 

That becomes an option for every man under the sun 

That can all be removed by a hot head and a gun 

Some just have to stay pensive 

If they are over represented 

It just increases the incentive 

To kill and make your mind hectic 

Now the mother’s in shock like its septic 

Thinking how their sons became so mentally infected 

Now they’re playing with guns like kids on a playground 

With a smile on their face until they hear that “bang” sound 

Full of pride, running their mouth they gon’ stay loud 

Scaring your mother but your homies gon’ stay proud 

Photos by Riva 

Greinke, 11d 

An attitude “stay mad at me” 

Might call in the cavalry 

Ignore the logical fallacy 

Now you’re charged with battery 

That’s the pressure you have when you’re 

supposed to be in charge 

No time to think of pain or where you’re 

leaving scars 

No time to have logic, your mind spaced 

on mars 

You’ll have plenty of time to think about it 

28 

when you’re sat behind bars

But now you need a new whip 

They’re calling you clueless 

Spend your lunch money on brew to get that cool sip 

But you’re hoodrich, get respect to the utmost 

The muzzle flashing, can’t see through the gunsmoke 

Pray for heaven in hell’s kitchen when life gets cut throat 

Can’t escape his grasp so you self baked like a pot roast 

The streets of America training kids for the military 

Hopelessness passed down to children like it’s hereditary 

Scary not, all black, Ms Mary Mack at the cemetery 

Another life lost, they won’t read the obituary 


No legislation just prayer 

No hesitation for the paper 

A stagnation so beware 

The citation won’t be fair 

Or so you thought 

Screaming: free my cousin, all my brothers and my pops 

They’re wearing chains that aren’t gold and got a padlock 

Just one sentence the gavel could make your head drop 

No faith but drinking like you’re at communion 

Just waiting to be popped and have a family reunion 

29


30 

Die Zahl, der Name und das Sein 

By Axel Schäfer, Ethics Department 

Es war nicht zu fassen! Ich hatte mich 

wirklich, wie eigentlich immer, auf meine Mutter 

gefreut. Und sie schien auch mich ungeduldig erwartet 

zu haben. Hatte mich strahlend vom Zug 

abgeholt, mich umarmt und geherzt. Hinter der 

Wohnungstür standen bereits meine Hausschuhe 

bereit, sie hatte mein Lieblingsessen gekocht und 

die Zahnbürste hingelegt. Es hätte ein schöner 

Abend werden können. Wie in den alten Zeiten… 

Doch nein, keine fünf Minuten nachdem ich 

mich gesetzt hatte, musste sie mir ihre neueste Entdeckung 

aufdrücken: Numerologie und Zahlenorakel, 

also wirklich, ging es noch dümmer?! 

Es half nichts, dass ich mich ostentativ langweilte, 

nicht auf sie einging und mehrfach versuchte, 

das Thema zu wechseln. Unerbittlich rieb 

sie mir diesen widerlichen Unfug unter die Nase. 

Dasselbe geheime Wissen ziehe sich von 

den Babyloniern, Altägypten über die Bibel bis 

heute. Der begnadete Geistreisende und Historiker 

Wolfgang Emothep Peckel, so ging es weiter, hätte 

dies schon Anfang des letzten Jahrhunderts für alle 

offenen Geister nachgewiesen. Die von ihm rekonstruierte 

Methode sei bis heute gültig. Und nun 

habe Grigori Grabovoi, der mir doch sicher bekannte 

russische Zahlenmystiker, experimentell und 

unwiderlegbar gezeigt, dass „Zahlen die Sprache 

des Universums seien, welche die Materie schafft 

und organisiert.“ Und ob mir nicht klar wäre, was 

das für Möglichkeiten eröffne. 

Selbst nach meinem verächtlichen Schnauben 

gab sie sich nicht geschlagen. Pythagoras, der 

müsste mir als Mathematiker doch was sagen, hätte 

bereits lange vor Christus erkannt: „Die Zahlen 

seien das Wesen der Dinge.“ Und das musste doch 

stimmen, warum sonst gäbe es bei allen Kulturen 

Unglückszahlen, wie die 13, bla, bla, bla … 

Wann hatte dieser ganze Mist eigentlich 

angefangen? Ziemlich genau, wenn ich darüber 

nachdachte, mit meinem Studienbeginn. Je tiefer 

ich mich in die akademische Welt einarbeitete, je 

mehr ich mit meinen Studien vorankam, desto tiefer 

verirrte sie sich in die esoterische Müllhalde. Ihre 

„Suche“ glich einer verzerrten Spiegelung meiner 

intellektuellen Bemühungen. Entdeckte ich Platons 

Dialoge, Descartes Cogito oder Kants Metaphysik, 

fand sie Rudolf Steiners Anthroposophie, die Gralswissenschaft 

oder Nostradamus Prophezeiungen. 

Meinem Diplom in Mathematik und später 

der Promotion „Zum Nutzen der Eulerschen Zahl in 

der analytischen Geometrie“ stellte sie die Weihung 

zur Feinstofftherapeutin und Hexerin 3. Grades bei 

Guru Javishna Ananda (eigentlich, wie ich recherchierte, 

ein Typ namens Andreas Schröder) und die 

Initiation zur Schamanin des siebenten Zirkels in 

einer Neuköllner Einzimmerwohnung entgegen. 

Anfangs hatte ich ihr begeistert von meinen 

Erkenntnissen berichtete, hatte wirklich versucht, 

sie an meinem Zugang zum Wissen und meiner 

geistigen Entwicklung teilhaben zu lassen. Doch 

sie hatte offensichtliche Schwierigkeiten, mir zu 

folgen, wurde immer kritischer und sogar abwertend. 

Immer aufs neue war mein Enthusiasmus bei 

ihr verpufft. Und das schlimmste: Sie weigerte sich 

stur, den Unterschied zwischen echter Wissenschaft 

und ihrem Hokuspokus anzuerkennen. 

Woher kam das nur? Sie war es doch selbst 

gewesen, die mich immer zum Abitur (das ihr nicht 

möglich gewesen war) und dann zur Universität 

gedrängt hatte. Jetzt aber schien sie mir den Bildungsvorsprung 

doch tatsächlich zu neiden. 

Erst hatte ich das nicht wahrhaben wollen. 

Aber die ganze Geschichte folgte einer nicht 

zu verkennenden Systematik. Es erinnerte 

irgendwie an eine dieser alten Waagen, die 

immer wieder ausgeglichen werden mussten, 

indem man Kontergewichte nachlegte. Ganz 

ähnlich häufte sie, als verzweifelte Antwort 

auf jeden meiner Erfolge, immer neuen Mist 

auf ihre Seite, ob nun Hellsehen, Handlesen, 

Pendeln oder Energiereisen. 

Ihre laienhaft vorgetragenen Einwände und 

Meckereien gegen die Ergebnisse meiner Arbeit 

waren so absurd, dass sie einfach an mir 

abperlen hätten müssen. Dem war jedoch


Photos by Ailie 


überhaupt nicht so. Sie wirkten seltsam verletzend. 

Dies war umso überraschender, als ich gegenüber 

meinen Fachkollegen und selbst vorgesetzten Professoren 

berüchtigt selbstsicher war und mich nicht 

beirren ließ. Die Angriffe meiner Mutter aber, einer 

dilettantischen Laiin, mit keinerlei Einblick in mein 

Fachgebiet, trafen mein Innerstes und verunsicherten 

mich für Wochen. 

Und so verwendete ich erstaunlich 

viel Zeit darauf, ihr zu antworten, sie Punkt für 

Punkt zu wiederlegen. Meinen sorgfältig formulierten 

Argumenten hatte sie nie etwas substantielles 

entgegenzusetzen. Das hielt sie natürlich 

nicht davon ab, an ihren lächerlichen Thesen ohne 

Abstriche festzuhalten. Statt klein beizugeben reizte 

sie mich weiter, indem sie vom Thema abwich, 

unbestreitbare Tatsachen leugnete, oder mich gar 

persönlich angriff. Wenn ich sie daraufhin ansprach, 

tat sie unschuldig, beteuerte, dass sie doch 

von Wissenschaft nichts verstehe, sie doch nur verstehen 

wolle, was mich interessiere und warum ich 

immer so überempfindlich sei. Häufig war ich mir 

jedoch fast sicher hinter dieser naiv-unschuldigen 

Fassade so etwas wie boshafte Freude über meine 

Irritation zu spüren. 

Daher fasste ich immer aufs neue den Vorsatz, 

diesmal nichts zu sagen, diesmal in der Sicherheit 

meiner überlegenen Sachkenntnis über ihre 

dilettantischen Angriffe lächelnd hinwegzusehen. 

Doch es gelang einfach nicht. Ein ums andere 

Mal ließ ich mich in ihre kindischen Scharmützel 

hineinziehen. 

Ihr neuester Spleen traf mich nun ganz besonders: 

Numerologie und Zahlensymbolik. Ganz 

offensichtlich zielte dies ganz persönlich auf mich 

ab. Sie wollte mich auf meinem eigenen Terrain, 

der Mathematik, schlagen. Aber das würde ich 

nicht zulassen. Es wurde Zeit, ihr ein für allemal zu 

zeigen, dass sie gegen mich nicht ankam. Diesmal 

würde ich sie mit ihren eigenen Waffen schlagen. 

Also nehme ich mir Zeit, ihren esoterischen 

Zahlenkram endgültig zu widerlegen. Meiner Mutter 

erkläre ich, mein Interesse sei erwacht und ich 

würde das gern in Ruhe genauer ansehen. Glücklich 

macht sie mir ihren Schreibtisch zurecht, brüht 

mir einen Tee auf. Sichtlich freut sie sich darüber, 

wie ich mich voller Eifer in ihre ´Fachbücher´ vertiefe. 

Schnell habe ich die wesentlichen Verfahren 

und Arbeitsschritte von Grabovoi und Peckel 

herausgearbeitet. Obwohl es mir ungewöhnlich 

schwer fällt, mich zu konzentrieren und meine Finger 

einschlafen, rechne und probiere ich hartnäckig. 

Trotzdem dauert es mehr als eine Stunde, bis alle 

Vorbereitungen getroffen sind, ich die für meinen 

Zweck passenden Verfahren und meine Strategie 

zurecht gelegt habe. 

Meine Mutter hat geduldig gewartet. Sie ist 

offensichtlich völlig euphorisiert davon, dass ich 

ihren Kram nun endlich respektiere. So stimmt sie 

31


problemlos zu, meinen Ausführungen aufmerksam 

und ohne Störung zu 

folgen. 

Jetzt ist es wichtig, sie erst einmal einzufangen, 

sie ernst zu nehmen. Ganz nach Anleitung 

von Emothep Peckel buchstabiert ich also meinen 

Vor- und Nachnamen aus, weise jeder Letter nach 

dem vorgegebenen Verfahren die ihr korrespondierende 

Zahl zu. Nach jedem Schritt hole ich mir ihr 

zustimmendes Nicken ab. Und tatsächlich: Sie geht 

mir voll auf den Leim, ist völlig 

hingerissen von dem Eindruck, 

dass sie mich vielleicht sogar 

bekehrt hat. Ich schaue ehrfürchtig, 

als sie mir triumphierend 

die Interpretation der sich 

ergebenden Existenzzahl vorträgt, 

welche den Kern meines 

Seins zu erkennen gebe. 

Als nächstes mache 

ich ihr weis, nun auch die al- 

numerology /ˌnjuːməˈrɒlədʒi/ noun 

any belief in the divine or mystical relationship 

between a number and one or 

more coinciding events.[2] It is also the 

study of the numerical value of the letters 

in words, names and ideas. It is often 

associated with the paranormal, alongside 

astrology and similar divinatory arts: 

ORIGIN early 20th 

ternative Herangehensweise 

von Grabovoi nachprüfen zu wollen. Dafür ziehe 

ich die Quersumme meines Geburtsdatums und 

korreliere diese, wie von Grabovoi verlangt, mit 

meiner Körpergröße und weiteren Körperdaten, um 

auf diese Weise zu meinen sogenannten Schicksalszahlen 

(Das muss man ihnen lassen, einen Sinn 

für Dramatik haben diese Spinner.) zu gelangen. 

Auch diesen Köder schluckt sie ohne Probleme und 

trägt mir begeistert die entsprechenden Deutungen 

vor. Gelockt von meinem andächtigen Nicken 

läuft sie ohne zu Zögern immer weiter in die Falle 

hinein, die ich ihr gestellt habe. Fast könnte sie mir 

leid tun. Aber nur fast. 

Nun hole ich zum Todesstoß aus. Ich frage, 

ob es nicht gut sei, beide Ergebnisse und beide Verfahren 

miteinander in Verbindung zu setzen. Ja, ja, 

nickt sie bedeutsam. Alles ist miteinander verbunden. 

Das müsse man unbedingt berücksichtigen. 

Also stelle ich nun die Zahlenkolonnen aus 

beiden Verfahren, also die Existenz- und Schicksalszahlen, 

einander in einer für meine Mutter noch 

deutlich zu komplexen Gleichung gegenüber. Dabei 

fühle ich mich immer unwohler. Die Taubheit breitet 

sich in Armen und Beinen aus, mein Kopf fühlt 

sich leer an. Wieder mein schlechtes Gewissen? 

Doch jetzt ist kein Platz für 

Mitleid. Ich muss mich auf ihr 

Niveau herablassen, um sie zu 

schlagen. 

Mit entschlossenen Strichen 

kürze ich die beide Seiten der 

Gleichung zusammen. Und - 

Voila - wie geplant heben sie 

sich gegenseitig auf. „Quod 

erat demonstrandum! – Was 

zu beweisen war!“ intoniere 

ich und kann nicht verhindern, 

dass Genugtuung in meiner Stimme mitschwingt. 

„Das ist es, was von deinem ganzen Kram bleibt: 

Nichts, gar nichts, absolut nichts! Gleichzeitig notiere 

ich mit dramatischem Schwung die Null unter 

dem Strich. 

Komischerweise, soviel kann ich ihrem 

Aufschrei noch entnehmen, ist meine Mutter 

nicht verärgert, sondern erschrocken. Dann 

nimmt das verfluchte Taubheitsgefühl immer 

mehr zu. Der Stift fällt mir aus der Hand und 

ich habe das absurde Gefühl, mich aufzulösen. 

Das letzte, was ich erkennen kann, ist das traurige 

Lächeln im Gesicht meiner Mutter, als sie 

meinen Zettel zusammenknüllt. Dann bin ich 

endgültig weg. 

32 

Art by Zoe Schneidereit, 12d

Victoria 


Silent River Lights 

Floating by and by 

Drops like tears 

Side by Side collide 

Curses in Cursive 

Written along a purple brick wall 

Stone by Stone 

they pry apart 


And I don’t see you anymore 

A songbird flies ahead 

and dies in the open light 

And I don’t need you anymore 

A harmony floats 

along the lines 

Water pulls the melody 

Down my spine 

But I don’t hear it anymore 

Your touch is sensitive 

push and pull 

and pull and push 

and give me all your love 

Gliding along my skin 

But I don’t feel it anymore 

Photo by Riva 

Greinke, 11d 

In front of me is a mirror 

it’s elegant in its confines 

I regard my reflection 

But I don’t appear in the light 

I don’t see it anymore 

And 

I don’t want to anymore 

And 

I don’t need to anymore 

I laugh 

I swore 

So leave the key 

33


Analyse von Theodor 

Storms Meerestrand 

by Christian Neumann, French Department 

„Meeresstrand“ steht motivisch in einer Reihe 

mit Naturgedichten, die einen herausgehobenen Moment 

beschreiben: den Übergang vom Tag zur Nacht 

und die dadurch herbeigeführte Verwandlung der von 

einem Ich angeschauten Landschaft. So symbolisiert 

das Ende des Tages in Goethes „Über allen Gipfeln ist 

Ruh“ den Tod, der als friedvolles 

Versprechen empfunden wird, weil das Ich sich im 

Einklang mit einer Natur erlebt, zu deren organischen 

Abläufen das Verlöschen und Verstummen gehört. In 

der romantischen Lyrik führt der Einbruch der Nacht oft 

zu einer Transfiguration der Natur, durch die „der laute 

Tag… mit seiner Not und bunten Lust“ (Eichendorff) 

ausgeblendet und die Ewigkeit unter dem Sternenzelt 

wahrnehmbar wird. Während für Goethe und die Romantiker 

noch alles „ewig im Innern verwandt“ (Clemens 

Brentano) ist, gibt es für Storm keine metaphysisch 

begründete Einheit von Natur und erlebendem Ich mehr. 

Eine spiegelnde Beziehung zwischen Ich und Natur ist, 

wie Irmgard Roebling ausführlich dargelegt hat, für 

den Dichter Storm nur durch Einfühlung möglich, d.h. 

durch Projizieren eigener Seeleninhalte in die wahrgenommene 

Außenwelt, die ästhetisch so geformt wird, 

dass sie sich als Ausdruck der jeweiligen Empfindungen 

optimal eignet und zugleich für andere erfahrbar gemacht 

werden 

kann. 

Im Verlauf des Gedichtes „Meeresstrand“ 

verklärt sich die dargestellte Meereslandschaft während 

der Abenddämmerung auf eine Weise, dass alles Sinnlich-Dinghafte 

sich zunehmend verflüchtigt und 

am Schluss nur noch ein Seelenzustand übrig bleibt. 

Das Gedicht setzt ein mit einem recht konventionellen 

Naturbild: Eine Möwe fliegt bei hereinbrechender 

Abenddämmerung an den Strand des Wattenmeeres, wo 

sich auch der Betrachter aufhält. Diese noch realistische 

Darstellung wird im letzten Vers der ersten Strophe 

poetisiert, wenn vom „Abendschein“ die Rede ist, der 

die Watten zum Leuchten bringt. So reflektiert sich die 

obere Sphäre der angeschauten Welt in der unteren und 

Himmel, Wasser und Erde verbinden sich zu einem lebendigen 

Landschaftsbild. 

Meeresstrand 

Ans Haff nun fliegt die Möwe, 

Und Dämmerung bricht herein; 

Über die feuchten Watten 

Spiegelt der Abendschein. 

Graues Geflügel huschet 

Neben dem Wasser her; 

Wie Träume liegen die Inseln 

Im Nebel auf dem Meer. 

Ich höre des gärenden Schlammes 

Geheimnisvollen Ton, 

Einsames Vogelrufen – 

So war es immer schon. 

Noch einmal schauert leise 

Und schweiget dann der Wind; 

Vernehmlich werden die Stimmen, 

Die über der Tiefe sind. 

In der zweiten Strophe wird nun ein Element 

dieser Landschaft sozusagen herangezoomt an den Betrachter, 

und zugleich der bis dahin rein visuelle Eindruck 

der Landschaft durch einen akustischen ergänzt. 

Die Alliteration „Graues Geflügel“, die mit einer Tonbeugung 

anhebt und damit den erwarteten Jambus 

durch einen beschleunigenden Daktylus ersetzt, verbunden 

mit dem lautmalerischen Verb „huschet“, vermittelt 

einen akustischen, die Landschaft weiter belebenden 

Eindruck, dem im zweiten Teil der Strophe eine visuelle 

Wahrnehmung der Ferne entgegengesetzt wird, welche 

die gesamte Meereslandschaft in ein großes poetisches 

Bild, das an romantische Landschaftsmalerei erinnert, 

transfiguriert. Die Inseln, die „wie Träume […] im Nebel 

auf dem Meer liegen“, sind zwar optisch entrückt und 

nur noch fragmentarisch wahrnehmbar, sozusagen „aus 

dem Nebel herausgetuscht“, aber gerade dadurch der 

Seele des Betrachters angenähert. Das schauende Ich 

kann seinen Etat d’âme nun in den Naturraum hineinprojizieren, 

seine eigenen Träume in der von ihm geformten 

Sprache dieser Landschaft träumen. Dem die 

abendliche Meereslandschaft umspannenden visuellen 

Eindruck werden in der dritten Strophe wiederum akus- 

34

Photo by Anonymous 

tische Wahrnehmungen an die Seite gestellt, zuerst wieder 

kleinräumig aus der Sphäre des Unten kommend. 

Das lyrische Ich, das nun mit dem ersten Wort der Strophe 

auch explizit eingeführt wird, vernimmt Töne aus 

dem Untergrund, ein geheimnisvolles Gären. Es rührt 

sich etwas unter dem Schlamm der Watten, etwas Diffuses, 

das mit dem allmählichen Verstummen der Tagesgeräusche 

hörbar wird und aus der Tiefe nach oben 

drängt. Da die Verwandlung der Naturlandschaft in eine 

Seelenlandschaft bereits in der vorangehenden Strophe 

geleistet wurde, ist davon auszugehen, dass dieses Bild 

auf psychische Vorgänge verweist, also auf ein Gären 

im Ich des Betrachters, in dem etwas Seelisches an die 

Oberfläche drängt. Dieser Eindruck aus dem Untergrund 

wird wiederum kontrastiert mit einer Stimme aus 

der Höhe, einem einsamen Vogelrufen. Die obere Welt 

beginnt zu verstummen, nur eine einsam rufende, vielleicht 

suchende, vielleicht verzweifelte, ohne Antwort 

bleibende Stimme schallt noch durch die Stille. Der 

letzte Vers der Strophe verleiht dieser Szenerie nun 

einen Hauch von Ewigkeit: „So war es immer schon.“ 

Der Naturort wird zu einem Ort der Erfahrung von Ewigkeit 

– aber nicht in einem religiösen Sinne, sondern im 

Sinne einer Aufhebung aller zeitlichen und räumlichen 

Begrenzungen, welche durch reine Gefühlsintensität im 

Zuge der Verschmelzung von Ich und Natur erlebbar 

wird. 

In der vierten Strophe vollendet sich die Transfiguration 

der dinglichen Welt. Der verlöschende Tag 

regt sich noch einmal kurz, nur noch spürbar in einem 

letzten Schauern des Windes. Und jetzt geschieht etwas 

Geheimnisvolles: Stimmen werden vernehmbar, und sie 

sind nur dadurch charakterisiert, dass sie „über der Tiefe 

sind“. Dort, wo bei Goethe und Eichendorff eine jenseitige 

Welt erahnbar wurde, ist hier von Stimmen über 

der Tiefe die Rede. Dass damit Tierstimmen oder andere 

Naturgeräusche über der Meerestiefe gemeint sein könnten, 

ist von vornherein auszuschließen, dennschließlich 

beschreibt das Gedicht das freigelegte Watt, über dem 

alle akustischen Verlautbarungen allmählich verstummen. 

Eine Schülerin aus meiner 9. Klasse äußerte die 

Vermutung, es seien die Stimmen der Geister, die hier 

vernehmlich werden. Sie kam auf diese Idee durch ihre 

Kenntnis der Novelle „Der Schimmelreiter“, in der das 

Wattenmeer als ein Raum des Todes und der Geister der 

Verstorbenen erscheint. Eine Interpretation, die zu dem 

Geisterseher Storm durchaus passt, aber vielleicht nicht 

zu der friedlichen und harmonischen Stimmung dieses 

Gedichtes. Doch was sind Geister anderes als Projektionen 

von Seelenzuständen, von Ängsten und Ambivalenzgefühlen? 

Und folgt das ganze Gedicht nicht der 

Bewegung einer fortschreitenden Verinnerlichung, der 

Verwandlung einer Naturlandschaft in eine innere Landschaft, 

bei der die Natur sich zunehmend verflüchtigt, 

bis nur noch ein letzter Windhauch leise schauert, und 

dann nur noch die Seele eines empfindenden Menschen 

übrigbleibt? Wenn dieses Ich nun Stimmen in der Stille 

vernimmt, dann sind es innere Stimmen, die aus seinem 

eigenen Unbewussten hervordringen, und die Tiefe ist 

eben dieses Unbewusste, dessen Inhalte eigentlich unsagbar, 

aber in gewissen Zuständen – wie dem Traum 

– doch vernehmbar sind. Das potenziell Bedrohliche 

solcher unbewusster Vorstellungen kann hier gebannt 

werden durch ein beglückendes Verschmelzungserlebnis 

mit der geschauten Natur, in die das Ich sich einfühlt und 

die ihm die Chiffren verfügbar macht, mit denen es sein 

Unbewusstes zum Sprechen bringen und diese Erfahrung 

künstlerisch gestalten kann. Im Schauen und Lauschen 

des einsamen Ichs in der Dämmerung vollzieht sich also 

ein Weg ins eigene Innere, in die Geheimnisse seiner 

Tiefen, die verdrängten Vorstellungen und Gefühle, die 

seine schöpferische Fantasie in Gang setzen; eine Introspektion, 

wie sie auch in den hochkomplex verschränkten 

Erzählebenen Storm‘scher Erinnerungsnovellen 

wie „Aquis Submersus“ inszeniert wird. Introspektion 

scheint mir das zu sein, was bei Storm an die Stelle der 

Transzendenzerfahrung der Romantiker tritt. Insofern 

kann „Meeresstrand“ auch als ein poetologischer Text 

verstanden werden, der in größtmöglicher Knappheit die 

Grundbedingungen der literarischen Produktivität Theodor 

Storms dichterisch formuliert. 

35 

HAYWIRE Issue 11 Spring 2018


A Literary Arts Magazine of the 

English Department 

John-F.-Kennedy High School 

Teltower Damm 87-93 

14167 Berlin, Germany 

EDITOR IN CHIEF 

Henri Jackson 

EDITORS & CONTRIBUTORS 

Yana Bergstermann 

Gwendolyn Campbell 

Lucy Defty 

Ellie Goodman 

Skylar Hardister 

Ella Jackson 

Aidan Kvistad 

COVER ART 

Zoe Schneidereit 

ART EDITORS 

Ailie Gieseler 

DESIGNERS 

Lucy Defty 

Ailie Gieseler 

Ellie Goodman 

Riva Greinke 

Skylar Hardister 

Ella Jackson 

Henri Jackson 

PUBLISHER 

Lee Beckley 

WEBSITE 

https://haywire.now.sh/ 

Miles Grant 

SUBMISSIONS 

haywire@jfks.me 

Published in Germany 

Issue Nr. 11, Spring 2018 (26 June, 2018)

Haywire 11 Spring 2018

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