On Thursday, Dec. 12, the Middle School English Department hosted its MS Poetry Connections programming, in its second year running. Each student wrote a poem to highlight aspects of their identity. They were encouraged to share who they are and coached by their English teachers on how to read the poem aloud to their peers. 

“This is a powerful experience where we are showing the students that a) their writing has a larger purpose, b) the D-E community is what it is because of them—their differences and similarities—and c) our Middle School community can come together to celebrate each other’s words, for their stories truly matter,” says Pooja Patel, 7th Grade English and History Teacher.

Poetry Connections is held twice a year. The first poetry share of the academic year is around the theme of identity, and in the spring, says Ms. Patel, “students will write an ode to their school year and share this with the same group.”

During these poetry shares, Ms. Patel notes that the Middle School, typically bustling with chatter and noise, is noticeably quiet. “It shows us that Middle Schoolers can deeply listen, can respect each other, and can celebrate community… there is comfort in the quiet because it is that space, at that moment, we know that we are forming a stronger bond,” she says.

In a similar spirit, the Upper School hosts an annual Write Night in The Imperatore Library, where students can have a larger “safe space” in which to share their creative writing. This year, Jeremy Meserole, English Department Chair and US English Teacher, teamed up with the D-E Writers (DEW) club for the event on Tuesday, Nov. 12. Club member Oriana Huang ’26 was among a dozen or so presenters. Her work, a series of letters, was titled “Dearest November” and is featured below.

“Writing is a core instructional element at D-E,” says Ms. Patel. “We work hard to create learners who are critical thinkers who can write in multiple genres. We show kids that through writing they can understand the world and, most importantly, they can leave an imprint and impact it in a way that they feel is important.”

Read on for a few of the literary works that our students shared during these events.

Dearest November

by Oriana Huang ’26

Dear Leaves,

You are my feelings: swift-changing, confusing, needed, and appreciated.

You’re swift because one day I’m cruising down my road admiring the lush green foliage to the best of my abilities because my mum is hurtling the car forward, as if chasing the last ray of moonlight that threatens to vanish as soon as the clock turns to 7:15 AM. The next day a sheet of crisp scarlet and gold adorns the branches, while a blanket of fire warms the grass from the cold winds that come with mid-autumn. I didn’t get to think of saying goodbye, let alone actually saying it. You’re my feelings when they switch from happy to angry, passionate to practical without so much of a choked whisper that sounds remotely like a “farewell for now.”

That’s why you’re confusing as well as swift. You’re green in summer, a cool color in warm weather. Yet, you’re fiery in autumn, warm-colored in cold weather. Whenever I see you, red leaves, I think it feels as warm as red but forget about the winds that exist. I’ve felt the chill cut through the thin clothes. I’d mistakenly thought were perfect because I picked them with your crimson and gold lies veiling my judgment. You’re my feelings when they fill my mind with fruitless tales that infiltrate my dreams that settle themselves on my nose bridge like a pair of glasses that, instead of clearing my vision, clouds it with flimsy aspirations.

But I appreciate you. A dash of green coolness in the summertime heat is like a minty droplet forming in my belly, refreshing my body. A flourish of scarlet flames in the whistling winds is like a hearth from the eyes, tingling throughout my body. The perfect dosage of comfort alongside confusion, just how I like my feelings to be.

Thank you,

Yours truly

~

Dear Pumpkin,

Why is it that you show up as a jack-o-lantern for the entirety of October, then become the most sought after autumn flavor and scent in November? Pumpkin spice lattes held in countless hands half hidden in woolen sweater sleeves. Pumpkin scented candles are sold out everytime I search for one to grace my room with its orange glow and fragrance. Pumpkin pies are on every magazine cover by the cashiers at Whole Foods. A pumpkin oat milk face mask is soothing my face and invading my nostrils at the very moment I’m writing this.

Since you’re so important in two back-to-back months, I can’t help but ask which one is your favorite? If I were you, I’d say November. In October, they cut you open and scoop out your intestines before putting you back together, a literal shell with nothing of worth inside.

They don’t leave your shell alone, they mar it with faces for their entertainment. A broken shell, that’s all you are, laughed at when used and immediately thrown away with disgust when the 31st turns to the 1st. I’d enjoy November more. At least they’re cutting you apart with the intention of using you for joyous reasons.

Have you seen the families that gather around a table, laughing and smiling, while the pumpkin pie steams in the center? Have you seen the lips of panda-eyed students twitch upwards when their tongues contact their pumpkin spice lattes? Have you seen the foreheads and breaths of burdened society ease out when the candlelight and scent from the pumpkin candle illuminate their wrinkle-free faces, slowly steadying chests? And you’re recognized as their solace. That’s an upgrade from being a joke of a decoration, literally left to rot after use.

Best regards,

Yours truly

~

Dear Seasonal Depression,

When I breathe in summer air I can’t even fathom you’d creep up on me. When I gasp in autumn breeze I can’t imagine how I’d denied your existence. You’re there as I watch the cold pluck a leaf of hope from the branches, sending it fluttering down. Each leaf on the ground makes me feel empty: no pain, no sadness, no joy. Each leaf that flutters in the wind, helplessly twisting and flipping in a cruel dance finale, reminds me of what my death performance will be. It happens everyday; my day full of educational accomplishments and time spent with friends, falling from my heart and coming to rest in depths of hell beneath my two feet like a leaf falling from its mother branch and coming to rest on a bed of dead siblings.

No one could care less about the brown leaves that crunch under boots that bring them closer to admire the inferno upon branches. I see you in the leaves that are both fire on branches and death on the ground. Kneeling down, I pick up a leaf from the ground, rubbing it between the pads of my fingers. Half of it crumbles to dust, blown into the wind. The other half remains, but dull and patches of decay are forming, brown like the dust that just left. They’re gilded, I realized, ruby-encrusted and gilded gold, once the shining layer is gone all that remains is dirty, fragile, ugly brown.

You show up in other ways. The pumpkins I see in trash cans, forever leering at nothing with their crudely carved smiles, and the songs.

Oh, the songs.

In the summer, songs on young love make me hopeful for a classic summer romance, party songs made me live life with the spunk of a party girl, soft ballads make me express my inner poet as the sun set. You change autumn. Now, songs on young love make me hopeless for a romance that braves the winds, party songs make me remember the practicality of being a student: study as hard as I’d party (hard), soft ballads make me wax poetics on the regrets and impossibilities of the “what-ifs” of life: What if I’m part of the Victorian nobility, waltzing the evenings away? What if I’m a tribute in The Hunger Games, worrying for my life and not my grades?

Actually, I know why I couldn’t fathom your creeping up on me. You don’t creep. You’re the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, and I’m Red herself. You wait, pounce, swallow, keep me in your dark, sorrowful stomach full of fallen, gilded leaves and rotten pumpkins and countless songs until the hunter (I hope) cuts me out.

Sincerely,

Yours truly

~

Dearest November,

I might consider naming a future child after you. You are both appearance and personality, both hated and needed, both loved and sorrowful. At least for me, this child will remind me of leaves and pumpkins and songs and Little Red Riding Hood even when it’s not the beginning of school, Halloween, or Thanksgiving. Every time you come around, I learn something about myself: creativity, personality, dreams (of stockings and fairy lights and hot chocolate as soon as you roll around the corner). I see that you’re veiled mistily in misery, but the love, creativity, and deeper understanding of myself that the misery veils is anything but misty.

Cheers with all my heart,

Yours truly