DEC 22, 2011

These students have been working very hard to make this year's art show spectacular! We thought we would show case some of our favorite pieces created by fellow students!


Dalton S.





Emilie S.




Michelle S.




Jordan G.




Sarah C.




Aimee C.




Olivia C.

NOV 8th, 2011





The next Coffeehouse will be taking place on December 9th! It's a Friday, at 7 p.m. It's $5 to get in. We have solid musical acts, and awesome poetry. There will be baked goods, and, of course, coffee. 

 

 Here's a quick video promoting our older coffeehouses, but you can get a good idea of what to expect.  Enjoy.  Click pics to download files.

FROM THE FALL 2010 coffeehouse - performers during auditions

 

FROM OUR DECEMBER 5th 2008 coffeehouse

 

March 24, 2011
     We have some incredible new photographs courtesy of Danni S. Enjoy!








We also have a new poem Emily K. entitled "Choice".


Choice
They'll talk about tomorrow,
They'll talk about today,
They'll talk about the future,
And the things of yesterday.

But..

I'll sing to the path I'll never wander,
To the leaves I'll never stir,
I'll sing to the fields I'll never run,
To the rivers I'll never swim,
I'll sing out loud.

I'll sing to the friend I'll never care for,
To the tears I'll never cry,
I'll sing to the laughs I'll never free,
To the hopes I'll never have,
I'll sing out loud.

I'll sing to the hand I'll never hold,
To the lips I'll never kiss,
I'll sing to the man I'll never love,
To the child I'll never have,
I'll sing out loud.

They'll talk about their chosen path,
They'll take the road less traveled,
They'll talk of the choices that they picked,
And the differences they made.

But..

I'll sing to the things that will never be,
To the words I'll never hear,
I'll sing to the choices I'll never have,
To the untaken option,
I'll sing out loud.













January 13, 2011

    We have some new artwork courtesy of Ms. Yenni's art class! We also have some new Poetry. Check it out below:

 

-Marisa C.


-Lauren M.


- Desireé R.

Hey everyone!

Coffee House Auditions will be next Wednesday April 28th, 2010. Come out and show your talent in room 143 after school! New and old acts are welcome!!

Check out these poems from winter 2009-2010!

Chong-Shi Village
By Kana S.

With heavy shades of banyan trees
whose roots protrude from humble earth,
Where mental chairs had always sat
to play a game of Chinese’s chess.

The balcony with Grandma’s pots
of desert roses held in place
by cinderblocks to brace against
impending rage of all typhoons.

A few bell apples resting in
a wooden bowl, and longan trees,
like children in aquariums
with noses pressed against the glass

lean passionately on hostile walls
all crowded with colored glass to warn
off those who scorned the heavy doors
proud in red, good fortune’s hue.

The ugly truth: all will be gone,
This gentle street – a shopping mall
The spot where Mama nicked her chin
Deserves a plaque, a sign, a guide

Who can narrate to passerby
And later mumurs to herself,
“I’d llike to think I resurrect
That place I knew that disappeared.”

Gymnastics
Adele F.

Just six years old,
And already on belay.
A crack in the mountain
Gnaws on her finger
While shredding muscles pull her up.
Syrup-like sweat clashes with
The thirsty paste of blood and chalk.
Dismembered layers of skin erupt molten blood.
October is gone but her passion continues,
Though her heart beats slower,
And her whole body starves.
But the top is so near.

January is her new coach,
He forces her to campus the way up.
He screams blizzards and freezes her tears.
At least he numbs the pain from
her shattered soul.

Laying down on the Bivi,
Her thoughts are at war.
They battle over the fine line
Between the strong and
The weak.
Though she hadn’t noticed,
That line is now extinct.
Her muscles melt while
Her eyes wilt to sludgy blinks.
The restrained steam from her lips
Diminishes.
 

Grandma Dadey
by Becky D.

She would wear the most chaotic hats ever made.
I remember that she once made a hat out of hundreds of fluorescent lights.
She would wear them in public and everyone on that street would give her the strangest looks.
But she didn’t give a care in the world.

Now all she wears on her head is wires to sustain her.

She would sport the most out of date clothing.
She had sweaters with basketball sized daisies and sunflowers
that obnoxiously called for attention.

Now all she wears are the one sized fits all
white gowns that reach to her knees.

She was so energetic.
I remember when she walked me around in her neighborhood one day in the snow.
When I was turned away from her,
she secretly picked up some powder from the ground.
We had a snowball fight as if we were two year olds.

Now the only battle she has is death.

When I shut my eyes all I can picture for the future is me in a black dress,
everyone silent
and her lying there like she was in her hospital bed.

But now her fluorescent lights are turned off.

Windows
by Katie S.

From the walls we watch
-with lucid eyes-
As sentries between our princess’s lonely tower
And the realms of Spring’s Outsides.
A place where
Electric cannons strike from cloudy frontiers
-the heartbeat of war thundering in the distance.

Stoically we watch-silently we stand-
Tolerating the constant stream of heat-from Summer Rebels-
And relishing our Ally Summer’s gift that sprinkle down upon us
with splattering splendor

Under my watchful guard
-through our sturdy alabaster gates-
We soldier peasants of light and shadow past
-guarding out Rapunzel inside her stony walls.

Valiantly, we bar out Autumn Armies alike
-they pelt us with sodden grim and guck
And spear with needles crafted from the forest pines.

At times, our commanding princesses watches us absently-come rainy days-
And clothes us with thick, sleek shades-come frigid nights-
By her orders do we guard her fortress
But it is because of the orders of Others that we –must-guard her in.

With Winter’s Wanderers, comes the irritable temptation to impatiently grumble.
-to sight and mumble and curse in agitation-
as Snow and Wind playfully billow around us,
The maddening teasing and taunting of the children of the Seasons.

Hungering for light, we rumbled and moan
-Thirsty for the warmth of Summer’s lot.
Yet, if broken or battered,
To death, we will stand-and defend our fair maiden.

So fair well, beautiful light travelers
We close our-simply wondrous-gates
Come starry, starry night.

The Escape Artist
by Michelle S.

It began during the season most adventures usually do.
Bare backs and legs were a common sight,
And the freedom of it all was tempting and inviting.
And with that freedom came numerous possibilities
For fate to step in and take control.

It was the perfect setting for your white blouse and my black dress.
The air so thick from the night before
As we sucked it in, gasping for a breath between our fits of joy.
Inching and shifting closer
While those looks of approval from the audience illuminated
The hues of wine red and forest green.

We were soon discussing pirate ships and wild things:
The topics of or childhoods were rushing back.
And all the while, the elephant in the room remained unacknowledged.
Made up of past events and preexisting relationships,
This animal was naively pushed aside
Until it became a simple décor for our future selves to deal with.

Your silence and fear soon identified the creature
As the season faded into one of responsibilities.
And not a word would be spoken of those lurching events.
The evidence would be shut in a drawer and placed feverishly in the dark,
And no one would know of that night when joy began.
 

1-28-10

Update: We'll be donating our proceeds from the Coffee House to various aid organizations, including Partners in Health, Doctors Without Borders, and Charity Water! Once again - thanks for coming out.

Our next Coffee House isn't until June - but we have some artwork for all of you to enjoy in the meantime.

---

These were created in Mr. Mussari's Photo 3 Class. Enjoy!

Created by Lauren B.

Created by Rhiannon H.

1-14-10

Thanks to everyone who attended this past Coffee House and made it one of our best; we raised over $800 for Charity Water and relief efforts in Haiti!

 Don't forget that when we're not doing Coffee Houses, Phantasmagoria is a Literary Magazine! We'd like you to submit your artwork and poetry/short stories to submissions@phantas.net!

Also, check out Facebook (search "CB East Phantasmagoria")

12-3-09

Hey guys!

The Winter Coffee House is Friday, December 18th! Come to the East Cafeteria at 7:00 PM for a night of poetry, music, and fun.

10-22-09

Coffeehouse is coming.  Auditions are going to be held November 12th in RM 143.  Come out and show us what you can do!

Some more artwork for you.....

Haley C.. 

10-06-09

Hey guys!

It's Alex W. and Kelsey H.! Welcome to our wonderful abode of Phantas! As of now, we really need all the submissions we can get, so if any of you have artwork or writing you think would be a good addition to our collection, don't hesitate to send it in at submissions@phantas.net. We're working on a Coffee house theme so spread the word about auditions coming up within the next month! Look out for our posters and wall space and SPREAD THE WORD OF PHANTAS! Also, stop by room 143 any Thursday at 2:45 for our meetings (we're really chill and open to new people who are interested in the arts).

Love,

AW and KH

4-30-09

     Hey guys! Remember, our Coffeehouse is on May 29th! Come at seven with five dollars! There will be poetry and music! Wow!
     Here's some art and poetry.
                                                                                                                    -Will H.

Foundations
Divya H.
 
He tries to stand but
His two weak foundations
Painlessly crumble
Before open hands
Catch and cradle him
 
After moments of hesitancy
He hungrily grabs my two
Slender index fingers and
Stands with unreliable triumph
 
His two plump fingers
Encasing my own,
He plods along
At an uneven pace
 
And while gazing at
His bouncing feet
Gently slapping the
Pillow-ridden floor,
 
I realize that
At this precise moment
I am his indestructible
Foundation

Tree
By Maiya H.

 His hair covered his head in a rather untamed, wild manner,
and on his face,
and down his arms,
and sprouted from the tips of his long, mangled fingers.
The man was dark;
His skin ripening
and in it
wrinkles like crevices extending to his long open hands,
and down his legs to his immobile feet.
Evidence of the man’s age loomed dauntingly around him,
a formidable view unveiled by years.
It surfaced as irrepressible tumors,
that began to consume what was left of him that time had not yet devoured.
They were fragile things,
able to be seized by a strong wind.
Tormented or indifferent;
the man does not speak of his age,
though his humble shadow towers.
His thick, solid frame has no room for boast;
and his lips, that are only but by abstraction perceivable,
edge a black hole like a gaping pore,
where dust and other exiled things thrive.
Like spiders, his words keep to themselves,
silenced,
constantly persuing escape from apathetic eyes.
But there are others like him living in a shrinking home for the old.
Everyday someone dies there or is killed,
yet the deaths of these men most times go unnoticed
and others seldom shed pity.
They are all mournful,
diseased,
and damaged in some way;
but none speak of it,
out of the tragic knowledge that their slowly dripping tears
and trembling cries shall go unheard.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

4-23-09 News and Submissions

     Hey guys! I know it has been a while, but we're back with a super mega update of both content and news!
     Come hear East's own Jordyn Kimelheim, Kate Aseltine, and Cassie da Costa read their poems along with top poets from West and South and over a dozen Bucks County Poets Laureate this Wednesday, April 29, at the Michener Art Museum in Doylestown.  The event runs from 6:30 pm to 9 pm and is free and open to the public.
    Our Coffeehouse is now on May 29th at 7 pm. That's a different date, so adjust your calendars! It's five dollars, so show up with some money for both admission and the awesome food we have.
                                                                                                                   -Will H.

The Games We Play
Jackie S.

A game of tag that will not end,
A back-and-forth that no one wins,
The boxers circle ‘round the pen,
The bell rings, and the fight begins.

It’s all a shameful relay race.
The gun sounds, and the sprinters run.
The torch is passed from place to place,
But no one wins when it’s all done.
 
It’s like whisper-down-the-lane.
They’ll cup your ear and tell a lie.
Each time they’re told, the stories change.
None have the courage to deny.
 
The sport of slander, hate, and blame,
Why do we play this childish game?

Lumber to the Mill
Joe W. 

Seeds once planted
With the hope
Of growing for a hundred years

They haven’t yet seen
Eighteen winters
 
But the call for lumber
Rings out over the forest
 
Men swarm the woods
Uprooting the trees
 
Their bark stripped away
They are naked
Standing shoulder to shoulder
 
Loaded by the ton
Shipped overseas
 
To be past of a foreign plan
For reasons they’ll never know

Duracell
Mary Kate S.

Copper brown cheeks,
I’m dressed in Sunday’s finest—
Black tuxedo,
Wrapped in a blue silk tie.
 
I could see her there,
High upon a velvet field.
Resting, almost waiting,
Her image drowning in my thoughts.
 
The day had come to meet—my love,
At last.
Plastic arms returned embrace
As her lonesome springs nuzzled my sleek forehead. 

And a light poured out of her butter cream sky,
From a star suspended in air.
Warmth spread like vanilla sugar along her curves,
As I watched in sweet composure.
 
We were in love, though no one knew,
But that was the way it should be.
Kept from the glare of those in their bins,
Coveting her and me.
 
Until the day
They used our light to see
Pictures of anything, everything,
On that pulsing, flashing screen

They drained us of our love.
Stricken with a mere buttons push,
And I no longer to fulfill her
Died right there within.
 
Then warm hands came and ripped me from her,
And I was tossed into the sea.
Left there to cry my acid tears,
Unbearable stench invades my empty core.
 
And as I sank,
Weeping in this decomposing cell.
Black sheen smeared,
Never again to see the red light of her eye.
 
Now she is sprawled there empty,
Lost on that velvety plain,
Soon to be filled by another,
But I, never to love again.
 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

3-12-09 News and Submissions

     Our brand new- Coffeehouse is on May 1st! [No, it isn't. Check out the latest update].  Woah what? I bet you didn't expect that! Naturally, this means we need acts to perform at it! April 2nd is our audition date, so if you want to play, show up in room 143 after school!

Untitled-
Surrealism
Jenny R.
 

Driftwood
Katie B.

A journey
Begins on a beach
A lone piece of timber planted on the shore
Allowing sand to caress its exterior
As the breeze changes the grains’ positions around the plank
Tide east away at the shoreline
And foam reaches the wooden block at its place on the sand
It is consumed by the sea
Despite its resilient efforts to stay put
 
It travels
Each bead of water like sandpaper
Against the grain
Weathering, working and whittling the wood
Shaping and smoothing its surface
Its youth deteriorates continuously
The frees, raw, lively plank
Now an old man with sullen skin
Its pigment discolored and weary
 
It’s tired with the sea
Its landing is relief
And the journey ends the same way it began
On a beach

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2-19-09 News and Submissions

     HI EVERYBODY! THIS IS THE UPDATE. ENJOY.

-Will H.

-Interpretation of MC Escher with 3D Modeling, Ryan W.

-Multimedia, Olivia G.

-Multimedia, Shana S.

The Activist
By Tyler W.
 
In the night the state came
And put your head in a bag
Drawn tight as if a shroud
You stood by the news stands
Every morning passing
Out pamphlets to the crowd
I’d walk to the office
Pretending not to notice
So no one would suspect.
 
Now all that’s left is litter
Blown about as if you lingered
To make a last attempt
Fingers dug into floorboards
As I had dreams about you
You were dragged into the hall
I don’t know where you are now
But I hope you know I love you
Although they tell me not to.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2-5-09 News and Submissions

     THIS IS PHANTASMAGORIA. WELCOME TO OUR WEBSITE. THIS WEEK, WE HAVE NEW WRITING, AND NEW ARTWORK. IT IS AMAAAAAZING.
     After a period of time which we spent trying to get permission from performers, we finally have put the music from the Spring '08 Coffeehouse up. You can find it on our multimedia page. The Fall Coffeehouse files are coming soon
     Poetry alert! There are two poetry contests in our area you should know about. I will let you know about them now. The first I will mention is the C.B./Michener Poetry Contest. Winners of this contest will read their poetry with other special "celebrated" poets at the Michener Museum on Wednesday, April 29th. To enter, select THREE of your best poems (of any length), get a contest cover sheet from an English teacher, attach it to your poems, and submit it to said English teacher.
     The other is the Twenty-first Annual Bucks County High School Poet of the Year Contest 2009. If you're in high school and in Bucks County, talk to a teacher about this one. The deadline is Friday, March 6th.
     And now, art.

-Will H.

-Untitled,
Multimedia
Kate T.

Comb
Justin S.

In a man’s hand, it becomes a sixth finger
Another ligament to force man’s truest nature to surrender
Parting tendrils and vines that grow rampantly

A score of hanging stalactites, a row of pointed teeth
Like the farmer, plowing and cultivating the land to his desire
Apollonian order through straightening, gussying, and grooming

It has a symbiotic relationship with the fresh pressed suit and patent leather shoes
A triangular trade route
Each complementing each other, bringing out the best in a man

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1-22-09 News and Submissions

        Welcome back to Phantas.net! It's the new year, and we have new stuff. Make sure you guys check out our multimedia page for audio files from our Spring 2008 Coffeehouse. Now, here's a poem. That's a poem that one of you submitted. You should all submit poetry, and maybe you can win our highly selective lottery! Keep hoping, kids.

Tree
By Maiya H.

His hair covered his head in a rather untamed, wild manner,
and on his face,
and down his arms,
and sprouted from the tips of his long, mangled fingers.
The man was dark;
His skin ripening
and in it
wrinkles like crevices extending to his long open hands,
and down his legs to his immobile feet.
Evidence of the man’s age loomed dauntingly around him,
a formidable view unveiled by years.
It surfaced as irrepressible tumors,
that began to consume what was left of him that time had not yet devoured.
They were fragile things,
able to be seized by a strong wind.
Tormented or indifferent;
the man does not speak of his age,
though his humble shadow towers.
His thick, solid frame has no room for boast;
and his lips, that are only but by abstraction perceivable,
edge a black hole like a gaping pore,
where dust and other exiled things thrive.
Like spiders, his words keep to themselves,
silenced,
constantly persuing escape from apathetic eyes.
But there are others like him living in a shrinking home for the old.
Everyday someone dies there or is killed,
yet the deaths of these men most times go unnoticed
and others seldom shed pity.
They are all mournful,
diseased,
and damaged in some way;
but none speak of it,
out of the tragic knowledge that their slowly dripping tears
and trembling cries shall go unheard.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

12-18-08 News and Submissions
     Hey everybody! I have a question for all of you: have any of you ever tried to Submit? That's right, we want you to submit. We'd like you to submit your artwork and poetry/short stories to submissions@phantas.net. Then you can have your artwork and stuff on the website, like this stuff down here!

-Will H.

-Untitled, James H.

I Burned All the World’s Maps
by Nick M.

Now we can dream.
The backyard is now the tundra.
The plants and trees, having forgotten
Their allocations, have grown;
Proliferated.
Tigers lurk within the lush, green dawn.

Now we are free.
The prison bars; lines dividing river,
Continent, and mountain are breached.
I have sunken longitude, and
Derailed his lateral brother,
Weakening their grasp.

Now we are content,
Our surroundings have replaced the globe.
The stars are closer now.
There is no key to distort distance.
Reality is tangible again,
The world flattened, only existent
Before the horizon.