Sophie Fyfe




Sydney Cusack 


You tell me

to speak up —

Or else


Or else,

no one will hear me.


Speak up

or else,

someone else

with full, ferocious sincerity,

will snatch the stirring statement 

from the depths of my mind.


Your condescension 

cackles in the face

of my quiet.


When I listen,

Listen listlessly —

Tyranny never tires.

Oppressors become rulers 

by default, because 

they were born

into dwellings of expression.


Speech enables possibilities.


So I listen to you

to end my listening


I speak.


My words impale

like a sharp, 

self-assured succulent


My words 

shatter glass houses,

and shine spotlights on

the rage

that’s boiled in the stomachs

of my ancestors.


And you finally catch a 

measly glimpse 

of what we’ve endured

for millennia.


Speech enables succession.


Katie Mondry

By Katie Mondry


Victoria Pascrell


The brush, such as a guiding force.

Colors dragged behind on paper course,

damp, and begging to be encased

in an explosion of hues that refuse to be erased. 


A still-life scene of grapes on a vine.

A complex masterpiece composed of overlapping lines. 

A young lady with silver wings.

A flux of emotions her expression brings. 


The rawest of expression in a forgiving form.

Watercolor paints calming an internal storm. 

Anger, depression, euphoria, and shame

are easily explained in an art form most plain.  


I paint to control my emotions.

To put ever-racing thoughts in straight motions.

An untamed mind is the downfall of sanity. 

Therefore, I paint to stall chaos and prevent calamity. 


Haseena Ahmed


I tried to laugh about it

Hiding the tears in my eyes

                                 -The Cure


Feeling extra ignored by you, I

Carefully pick my responses to be

Extra bitchy in order to passively



But your utter unbothered 

Mood penetrates me like a

Searing knife, and a wave of

Relief overtakes me.


Why should I care if you don’t?

This mindset slowly gets juiced 

Out of me, as I will always

Care more than you do and the

Relief is gone.


And while I show you I 

Don’t care, the tears begin to

Sting my eyes

Julia Crapanzano

By Julia Crapanzano

Walking in Public

Adelrhany Georges


Without fail,

I am observed.

Surveyed superficially, 

as the silver scalpel of those around me

begin to probe my soul.


Peering out through their windows,

with curiosity both 

childlike and cautionary,

I avert my gaze

to release my blinds,

covering an essence 

that renders opaque after a single breath.


Inhaling, exhaling

exercising animalistic autonomy 

enclosed in a pen of flesh.

I take residence in myself

and in others,

swallowed and asphyxiated 

under the soaked duvet

of self-consciousness.


I've chosen to be selectively permeable,

conceivably I’ve convinced myself it was of my own volition.

Denying my admittance, 

naively neglecting 

the traces of myself that stain the window panes around me.

Ariella Sanon

By Ariella Sanon

Volume 22

Emily Rollman 


Drive with me

into the night,

the moon and the stars gleaming

like my face and smile did at my happiest,

driving across town




on past lovers


who no longer look us in the eyes

or stick around,

who no longer understand us

appreciate us

care for us

love us,

drive across town

with me

no destination in mind,

just the sad songs on volume 22

reminding us

of prior happiness gone with the setting of the sun.

Luca Cioffi

By Luca Cioffi

In a Field as I Lay 

Sarah Cruz


Tiny blades of grass

impale the Earth

straight to my heart.

I touch the ground, 

feel it close to my chest.

Intertwined we collide

I see myself in every strand. 

Tall, short

cut and slant—

they are as green

as I’ve ever been. 


And now they are blue.


Endless like the sky, 

bits of white cloud my eyes.

The leaves of grass 

fall from grace 

littered, gone with the wind, 

wisps of hair 

thorn across my face. 


Tangled we are

together in time

me and the hellbent 

weeds that hold on tight. 

Wrapping arms

in dirt surrounded by

barbed-wiring trees, 

My legs land upright 

As I stagger to my knees.


Deliberately, I stand 

planted with 

green-stained hands

trailing grime and grit

like it’s sweat off of 

my upper lip.

Licking softly 

the taste of 

my own medicine, 

I’m sweet with a hint 

of summer lemon grass.

Sunday Nights

Candida Villalta 


Sunday nights nights of solitude.

The nights before waking up too soon.

Routinely getting no rest; 

nightglows glowing 

through the window.

Candle glows flowing

through the mellowness 

reaching the unlit and 

lit corners.

Sunday nights,

nights before chaotic mornings.

Featured Artists

   Our Dear Cool Father. 

Sarah Daniels
Sarah Daniels

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Katie Mondry
Katie Mondry

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Sophie Fyfe
Sophie Fyfe

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Sarah Daniels
Sarah Daniels

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Walt Whitman_edited.jpg

   Thank you for arriving!

Wonderful to see you.

Our magazine prides itself on diversity amongst its artists. We are a publication run by students, for the student body. Here you will find lifetime creators and students who have built and shared something for the first time. We like to include all things that might inspire more creation. More voices.


Just take a walk around our gallery and you will be dazzled. Truly dazzled. Read a few poems and prose pieces and reflect on the voices and craft. Visit the art section and disappear into the oils and acrylics, the water colors and charcoals. Imagine the eyes of our photographers and love what they have shared. Go to the media page and  listen to the TSDC  live performances.  Enjoy the raw, softly produced spirit of those musicians and spoken word poets.


This is a good place. A place that believes creation is activism. That the more we create, the more we exist. Walt Whitman wrote that a "kelson of creation is love." Yep, we agree. We are steered by it. We believe that a community of thoughtful sharing is a strong and beautiful place.


Want to read more about our team here at Xanadu? Head on over to our about page where we discuss our history and talk about our plans for the future.


Paige Elar
 By Paige Elar

   2021/22 PTA Reflections
   The PTA Reflections is an annual contest that honors the creativity and arts within the Whitman community. Students were encouraged to write and submit poetry based on the prompt: "I will change the world by." Below are the  poetry winners for this year:

 Award for Literary Excellence
          Salma Laraki 

        Angela Shedlow

Congratulations, to the Xanadu community for the 2020 Silver Crown Award, one of the highest honors granted to digital publications this year by the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. This award honors the top online student publications chosen from those of its members. Xanadu was one out of two online magazines nationwide to receive such prestigious recognition. The only gallery in New York. Much thanks to the many hands and hearts who contribute to the magazine.  

Want to know more? Click here.

    Walt Whitman


    Over 200 years and there is  plenty of evidence that Walt Whitman is very, very alive. And yet, there is plenty  to reveal he is sadly absent. These days, we need his spirit and his funk more than ever. 200 years. Pick up Song of Myself  and read one section a week (there are 52 sections) and we will bring him back- To Stay! 

    The "Father of the Free Verse,"- our town's very own Walt Whitman was an extraordinary essayist, journalist, and poet. Whitman was a controversial humanist who brought aspects of both realism and transcendentalism into his works. Whitman struggled to receive both recognition and compensation for his works when he first began writing, specifically his most famous work, Leaves of Grass.  His writing was considered to be extremely controversial due to his mentioning of sexuality and broad thinking. Whitman fell in love with the written word at an early age through reading classic works of Shakespeare, Dante, and Homer, along with the Bible. Other than just being a writer, Whitman made a living through teaching and journalism. He continued working on his writing within newspapers, constantly developing his unique style. Whitman was praised for his non-conformist way of writing, as he was known to have little to no form, meter or rhyme. However, we know now that he did indeed have a wild new exciting and free and democratic way of exploring the human experience.  We are so, so proud he is our father.