HS writers earn National Scholastic Art & Writing Medals

Congratulations to Els Shepard '23, Sarah Page-McCaw '24, Devon Brown '25, and Amelie Soslow '25 on receiving national honors for their creative writing.
By Freya Sachs '00, English Department Chair

Four High School writers were recognized, with five medals and one special award, at the national level in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Their work was read alongside regional winners from around the country and we hope you'll join us in celebrating them. Their work ranges from poems to essays, and reflects their creative risk taking in and beyond our English classrooms. 
 
Amelie Soslow '25 was recognized with a Gold Medal for her poem, "Remember Me Yellow," and a Silver Medal for her essay, "This Essay." Devon Brown '25 earned a Silver Medal for her poem "Odysseus's Muse" and was also one of two Tennessee writers recognized with the New York Life Award, which comes with a scholarship. Silver Medals were awarded to Sarah Page-McCaw '24's poem "Arbor Petrarcha" and Els Shepard '23's collection of poems "Storie."
 
Below, you’ll find work from each writer; their work, alongside the other National Medalists, will be celebrated at Carnegie Hall in June.

"Odysseus’s Muse" by Devon Brown '25

Dear sister, please speak to me. Proffer me
your whispers of another world. Share with me 
your secrets, secrets that could have saved you.
Kept you here. Help me navigate my seas.
Help me proceed through my Penelopes 
and Poseidons, especially when they 
share the same spine. Teach me how you moved on.
Apprise me, Char, what did you learn on Earth?
What has God taught you in your time above?
Inform me of His words. Save me from my
uproarious and tumultuous self.
Restore me from my Polyphemus eye.
Mold me into what you could have become.
Should have become. Sweet Charlotte, I see your 
bright freckles in the stars. Clouds are your hair; 
the moon reflects your eyes. My map to life.
Your features share signs with me. Letting me
trust that you’re still here. Your nightly visits, 
your celestial fingers drying my 
earthly tears. Your constellational arms 
pushing me up, lending me strength. Letting 
me hide behind you. Letting me pretend 
that I am near as strong as you. Thank you, 
my darling, for the comforts and ghost pains 
you left me. I will always wait for you. 
See you soon, sweetheart. Love you forever.

"Arbor Petrarcha" by Sarah Page-McCaw '24
If when the old oak’s gone, I build it new––
Nail bronze on piles of rot, a metal start
With metal limbs and leaves and metal hearts
Restoring memories of me and you:
A tree that’s gilded gold and shines with hue
More sharply than the wood that stands apart,
So watchers call the metal structure art,
Forget the organism that once grew;

Then none remember how our tree once fell,
How it decayed and snapped at love’s dark
curse
And fell to dismal death, a mortal’s spell.
But when I craft a line, the bronze tree’s
nursed––
Immortalizing love when it was well,
Forgetting our decay through this sweet verse

"KBNA" by Els Shepard '23

i’m at the airport.
the new carpets in terminal c break my heart.
another loss i forgot to record.
at least i remember now

i walk towards the women’s restroom
thinking i can enter today
because the pink words around my fingers say i can
and because the parts between my legs
say that is where i belong anyway

as i approach
i hear voices inside.
startled, i turn away 
i cannot enter the women’s restroom today
a sliver in my gut is afraid.

the carpet is brown and gold again
traced with purple circles
they shadow the ones under my eyes this week
and i am tired.

i reach down and hold my hand when i am five
in dinosaur print pajamas
my soft gray dress with stars is stuffed inside 
my green and purple backpack
i hold myself on my hip
i am six months old

“could you direct me towards the family restroom please?”

"Remember me yellow" by Amelie Soslow '25 

Whenever and wherever it be
As the cold arms of death 
Pry me from this world
And as my pale corpse lies cocooned in wood
Dark soil on all sides
It would warm my weary bones
To know that you–someone, somewhere–carries themselves
With my fingerprints
All over.

And maybe there’s a picture of me
Up on the mantel, down the hall
And maybe the sun has leached its color to faded yellow
And it starts to peel in spots
And maybe small feet wander close, 
Smooth hands reaching up to graze the photo
The briefest glimpse of a lifetime under fingertips
Who is she? 
And maybe you will stir, bones creaking like an old rocking chair
You’ll chuckle like windchimes in the breeze
Because what a silly question! Who is she? 
She was a million, million things, you’ll say
And you’ll remember like buttery daffodils poking through layers of snow
She was fresh peaches, golden juice dribbling down her arm
She was that mustard laughter, a bright bark in the foyer
She was the honey-scented wildflowers growing in the backyard–
which she never bothered to groom because she liked to make them into crowns–
She was our hands woven together in firelight, the way it danced over her face
She was the sun, warm petals stretching open through the blushing horizon–
Even when she wasn’t there,
You could always feel her, sunrays hot on your skin.

And maybe the child will pause
Trying to piece me together
And maybe the child will cling to that picture
When their skin sags under time
Who is she?
Maybe they won’t remember my name
Or why they cared in the first place
Maybe it will just be a flicker
But that child will remember me yellow,
Like a single lemon dangling from the tree
A memory of a memory, still toasty in their palms

So when you pay homage to whatever remains,
Tears blending with a bouquet of dandelions
Don’t picture me in the gray tones of death
Or the blue of the distant mountains
Remember me in the setting sun
In the candle on the window sill
In the marigolds on the porch
Remember me yellow. 
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