The Creative Corner

Welcome to The Creative Corner!

Introduction:

At The Morgan School, we have talented athletes and academic leaders who are recognized often. Creativity though is often dismissed, and this page is meant to highlight the creative students at our school and in our community as well as encourage it. We have many talented artists, photographers, writers, graphic artists, chefs, as well as musicians in the school, and though they may show it off to their family, friends, or social media, their talents may be unknown to other students and teachers. In the creative corner, students will be able to show everybody what they have to offer.

Lily Cummings

 

 

lily.cummings@clintonpublic.net or staff@morganpawprint.com.

 

 

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Artwork done by Logan Cummings

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Sophomore Logan Cummings has a passion for drawing. Here are a few of his drawings, all featured on his art Instagram account @log.artwork

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“The Ethicist” Written by Wyatt Reu

It is ironic, that in an unused kitchen, down the hallway past the side entrance of the building, behind the church secretary’s office, in the company of an old TV with a pile of Jesus themed VHS tapes I was exposed to, for the first time, ethical philosophy. But I didn’t realize that at the time. The irony I did realize, however, was that our Sunday school teacher was an atheist. Underspoken and humble he greeted each member of our (on average) five-person class with genuine surprise, as each of our attendances was relatively volatile. He would bribe us to attend each week with hot chocolate and marshmallows, or, on occasion, with a special beverage called a “New York Egg Cream” which could only be made by a very particular set of ingredients including a special kind of chocolate syrup he got from a special store in Brooklyn just to share with us, along with a daunting combination of seltzer and milk. Conversations would usually be prefaced by a compliment to us, and how smart he thought we were, and how when he was our age he didn’t care about school or learning and the most common grade he received was a C. We would pass some of the time talking about our weeks, making various beverages, and talking about our teacher’s past.

It was not as though Mr. Rainy, our teacher, was a covert agent — a cunning and vengeful atheist infiltrating the ranks of the church to corrupt the town’s naive and impressionable youth; that was certainly not the case. He said nothing with certainty or force, but rather with a careless smile and maybe a shrug of ambivalence. Sunday meant it was the day that the congregation congregated, sang songs, and atoned for their sins and transgressions (I think, I never really paid much attention to what happened); but it also meant that it was the day that the New York Times Sunday Edition was released and with it the New York Times Magazine and in that a column called “The Ethicist.”

The Ethicist was and is a column written by an NYU professor of philosophy named Kwame Anthony Appiah. The column features two (and sometimes three) ethical quandaries — everyday dilemmas like, “Should I accept a Cash Reward for Doing the Right Thing?” or “Can I talk to My Dad About His Affair?” or even “Can My Cat Go Out if He Bullies Other Cats?” As a professor of ethical philosophy at one of the most prestigious ethical philosophy departments of any University in the world, who would be more qualified to answer these questions than Appiah? Mr. Rainy would read the question but, rather than reading Professor Appiah’s response, allow us, the Sunday School junior ethicists, to attempt to answer the question. These conversations would last to the end of the period most of the time with Mr. Rainy remarking innocuously on how quickly our 20 minute class period had passed. This tradition would be repeated every week (although I certainly didn’t have the asceticism required to achieve perfect church school attendance); New York Egg Creams followed by a reading of the ethical dilemma and a challenging and untainted discussion to follow.

What I think of as being most valuable, looking in retrospect three to four years in the future, eager to engage in academic life and professional philosophy, is how subtle but how distinct the practice of our ethical conversations and the practice of religious dogma truly were. Church morality is absolute, it requires rigid adherence to certain rules and regulations; commandments and statutes. This rigidity continues even beyond the church and into the world where one is required to follow laws and rules placed forth by society. However, a conversation about ethics, especially with children who have “not yet been taught to reason incorrectly” (to quote Montaigne) is the essence of situational or circumstantial ethics. Rather than applying the dogma of the church or the law of the land to sort through any dilemma or conflict, this style of ethics requires the individual to question the nature of each dilemma presented to them and chose, flexibly, an ethical judgment. The world is not perfect and absolute; it cannot be cleanly split into good and evil, black and white, sin and virtue; reality is more complex and labyrinthine than it seems.

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“To All The People Who Say They Don’t Love Me Anymore”  Written By Lily Cummings 

First off,

Stop lying to yourself.

We began in honesty,

Let us end in it too.

Don’t you dare,

Pretend a piece of my heart is not still a part of you.

I see the way my words slipped so carelessly into your everyday vocabulary.

My wisdom is now your motto.

Don’t act like you don’t know that.

To All The People Who Say They Don’t Love Me Anymore But Yet Are Still “Forced” To Deal With Me:

You’re welcome.

Please, I beg you,

Laugh at my jokes in silence. Be alone like the way you left me.

But do not echo your laugh into my ears.

I don’t need to hear how happy I am making you.

I already know that sound too well.

As I slowly watch the people who say they don’t love me anymore slip away,

I know their new partner,

Or best friend,

I know that the way you fell for my dark golden eyes,

And my contagious dimples,

As well as my enchanting laugh,

I know you won’t find that, and love that in the same way you did with me.

I treated you like the prize you were to me,

But I now must pawn myself off, and find new people to love,

Since my last love,

Not wasted,

Not forgotten,

But was just simply not worth it.

I am.

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“Break-Neck Hill” Written by Senior Wyatt Reu

 

I explored the whole town.

Twisting roads with canopies,

Green glittering light

Painting the ground below me.

 

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My name is Claire Pease, a sophomore here at Morgan. I enjoy photography and I enjoy taking tons of different kinds of pictures! I got the camera I use now, a Canon Rebel EOS T6, last Christmas. I have basically not put it down since I got it!

The following slideshow is a few of my favorite pictures I have taken recently and in the past. I hope you enjoy the slideshow as much as I enjoy taking the pictures. Thank you!

 

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Mirrors  by Taylor DiFilippo

Looking at everyone else

is like looking into the pond

you see yourself staring back

but the image is all wrong

 

The nose is small,

the hair is different

the eyes have a different meaning behind them

a different purpose in front of them

 

We see little pieces of ourselves

scattered throughout the world

some in places, some in people

that we know from old times long gone

 

We try to see ourselves

to use things as mirrors

to face ourselves, find ourselves

in everything that we do

 

For isn’t that our purpose?

to know ourselves so true

that we no longer need the mirrors

to know what to do

 

To see someone else

you must look past the reflection

on the surface of the pond,

and look instead into its depths

teeming with wonder and life

pain and strife

 

a diffrent person looking at diffrent mirrors

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fullsizerHeather: So to start this new page, let me show you a short little piece that I wrote a little while back.

Many people seem to like me. Various people will say they like a different version of me. But I’m mostly known for the various hues that make up my personality, the brights and darks and everything in between.

Some days I’m vibrant, proud, and bubbly. I pour my heart and soul into every bit of work that I do. I start conversations with those I normally wouldn’t,  and I treat everyone with kindness and respect. People say that on those days I’m like a puppy who just saw its owner affullsizer-1ter several hours of being home alone.

Other days I’m mellow, placid, and unique. I work endlessly to get things finished, I plan out my work and get things done. I speak calmly, converse with those who wish to be spoken to. On those days I like to compare myself to a simple tree swaying in the breeze, going with the flow, simply following the endless stream of life.

Then thfullsizer-2ere are those rare days where I’m dull, murky and silent. I attempt at my best to work but find it hard to focus.  I‘m quiet and seldom communicate unless I’ve been provoked; my mind at war with constant thoughts. I’m an aged stone in a meadow of magnificent flowers.   

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Heather: Hey, guys, I want to start this off by saying I’m sorry. I know I haven’t posted in awhile because I’ve had some family issues followed by a lot of schoolwork. I will be trying my hardest to start getting on a schedule of updating every week to every other week. I hope that school will be merciful and slow down a little bit to give me some time to write more. Besides all this, I managed to find some time and was able to write.  I think I wrote this on a cloudy day because it’s a bit more somber than some of the other pieces. I promise when the sun decides to come out, my pieces will be brighter and more upbeat. These clouds really put a damper on my mood and I didn’t really appreciate it. Without further ado, I present this week’s piece.

The Waters That Are My Thoughts

The waters mellow and still
But no one sees below the surface
And undertow so strong and grown man would struggle
The waters, that’s what I like to call my thoughts
One minute it seems that all shall be fine
The water gently splashing ashore
Then the storms come
Violent waves destroy the once peaceful shore
A place of peace destroyed
Winds tear apart the innocent trees
Rain drowns the rocks that have seen one too many storms
A single word can change thoughts
Can change these waters
But it’s the worst when there is no movement
Silence strangles the air
Raindrops refuse to fall
The winds dead, as if they had been stolen by the sun
In these moments I don’t know what to do
The time when I’ve been hurt beyond the point of tears
I’ve been placed in a world of eerie silence and muted words
Sometimes I wish the waters would cease to exist
Would stop causing me to plunge into darkness, fear, anxiety
But I chose to let them be
Let them take my emotions in their grip
For what am I without the waters
The waters that are my thoughts.

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Abbey: Slam Poetry Club has been creating blackout poetry. Blackout poetry is a form of poetry where a page of a book is taken and some words are blacked out, creating a new string of words. Here are some examples of the poetry made.

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the
soft night was early summer,
the bright windows irreg-
ular patches of light.
she had avoided unnecessary conversation
all crowded
with stars
Night had come slowly
to erase the towers

 

 

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With someone better than me.
“I’m a murderer.
my lover.”
I killed
him!”
he killed your friend.
never
was my friend.
trembled with grief.
he wasn’t afraid
looking for a fight
restless and vicious,
always failing.

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Perhaps
Next year
There’s time enough For a moment
that would
be
long
and hope would
alter
thinking
of the sadness

 

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The thing was to get away.
boys of the night
Her name a really beautiful name.
sounds
too loud
lovers
had gone
even the stars
had been searching
for, him.
remember
the girl
see her make certain
she lived,
girls
have the strength

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For the knife made him as big as anyone
With it sharp signal
he ordered keep your
eyes on me

 

 

 

 

 

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This they need not answer, for
they had only to touch their pockets
with its
Winking lights
coming
from
the kitchen
She wanted so much to
stretch her arms and embrace the
moon and stars. Yesterday she had been sixteen and
her mother had kissed her many times as
her
with eyes filled with love.
Standing on her toes, Marla whirled
and kissed her hands at the sky and the distant tow-
ers.

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he felt so betrayed
a knife in his back
he trusted and loved,
raged
holding her wrist.
please,
He said nothing
take her home,
nothing
turned away
into the cold
anxious

 

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thousands
roamed the most frightening
thought
Nothing was safe
their enemy.
fell upon
Their victim
with minutes
destruction,
turned upon each other.
unsafe, people
lived
upon the
target

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When this happened
four nights running
he was warned not to cry out.
they had him
they pushed him
they had half-drowned him
They
pounded the table end

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as he left
no telling when he’ll get back
She struggled to free herself
He ain’t here
boys were
dangerous,
her voice low
Please don’t

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outrage must have been done by
“Renegades
and traitors
open the
door, throw the bomb.
clucked.
The guy
who took off
rumblers know
gentlemen.”
to buy both
a suitable gift
with oratorical flourishes that
make us better citizens and
without blind
ignorance.
Snowboy took a backward step
to the reach of night-
stick.
Moving quickly,
his right hand held
hard and painful grip,

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Take thy fair hour
A little more than kin and less than kind
the clouds still hang on you
I am too much in the sun
all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity
my inky cloak
solemn black
forced breath
the fruitful river in the eye

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blood was flowing quicker now
the small ceramic dish
from the summer pomade
The liquid of life (God’s ink)
pain would come soon.
the
serpent dancing its way across the
sun pearly with sweat,
greedy with lust
a foreign land uncharted and
untouched. No one to marvel at its beauty
a scarlet banner across my skin.

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His dancing
stronger than ever,
it was then we saw
the half-deflated balloons the two brown-
and-white husks of Bonnie’s saddle shoes
in a pink dress.
like a pinata.
her spindly legs
in their white confirmation stockings,
shining
and dripping
twist on her rope.

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In winter
I heard him swallow, his throat dry
some sweetened wine on the bedside table.
wake the dead
it was light.
I was warm. But he was cold.

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the pink shell
the crenellations in the plastic
simple, humane, conscientious,
forgiving
playing a radio softly, singing along.
A beam of light from
the risen moon penetrated the window,
smudged fingerprints.

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singleness of purpose,
her mythic mutability
amid the disaster oif his life.
the loves of his earlymanhood
were docile creatures
during the act of love
he
always hit false notes,
she tried to sneak back inside
It was agony,

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Abbey: April 27th, 2017 is Poem in Your Pocket Day. Here are some students reading their poems.

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