Daystar once again hosted our annual Haiku Contest. A haiku is a 3-line poem, where the first and last lines have five syllables and the second line has seven syllables. 

‘‘Sideline’ is an annual Essay Competition open to student-athletes attending Hopkins School in New Haven, CT. Founded in 2025, our goal is to provide an opportunity for young athletes to show their skills in writing and literature and challenge themselves with academic rigor. As part of a larger initiative, we aim to uplift the student-athlete community and bring awareness to the many amazing stories that come out of it, including triumphs, hurdles, and more.” - Thooyan Thirumaran ‘26...

Fireworks

Exploding out of the depth of winter

Fracturing the desperate clench of death....

on Instagram feeds martini glasses clink in
what feels like a never-ending loop,
photo carousels from nights out show
low-lit steakhouses, tartare and souffles, and
what, in this economy, is screaming Luxardo cherries?...

it’s become more of a silent whisper
on sidewalks
taxis
familiar places
unfamiliar places
saying to just go.
going, gone.

Wear decent clothing for God’s sake; pop on your retainers, every night, every morning, don’t skip it, don’t have crooked teeth; brush for at least two minutes each time…this is non-negotiable; you must learn to be independent...

Ay, me duele la cabeza.

Dígame sus preocupaciones, mi hermanita.

Hermana, mis hijos están enojados,
Un tercio de ellos están en mis caminos,
Mis hijos fuertes luchan para mí,
Un hogar donde su líder no les quiere.

But do we have the rights,

To not believe in ghosts,

To not believe,

That those who passed are somehow here?...

Damian was always sick ever since he turned 13, garnering symptom after symptom. The doctors never knew what he had, they only knew that it stemmed from his heart. Damian was now 17, a drop-out since he had too many absences from school, so he eventually stopped attending. At first, his Father would give him some home-schooled lessons, granted he always seemed condescending when he gave them, but over time he stopped....

Empty? But yet I feel full, full of thoughts,

swirling around like a bathtub when the plug is

pulled....

You don’t move on after loss
you move with it

Shake hands with grief,
welcome her in, she’s here to stay
Pull her a chair at the table—
offer her comfort for free
She is not the monster you first thought her to be

I am the absolute monarch of France,
I built a palace, rich and grand, to dance.
Beneath the weight of France, I stand alone,
A king, like god, yet still I feel unknown.

Sitting there amidst skyscrapers it looks like a piece of history had forced its way through.

Memento mori engraved on the ramparts,

a dead language for a forgotten building from a bygone time.

Memento mori....

I am my mother with a painted face.
I hum the lullabies of the night and
She belts the ballad of the dawn...

I was sorting through old boxes
Boxes meant to be thrown away
When I found a photograph...

November Has Come, heavy with smoke and missing faces,
down by the Enchanted Waterfall
I watch the years break apart like soft bread.

Three Little Birds shiver in the branches,
singing songs no one listens to anymore....

Each flake descends through crisp and quiet air,
While on the couch I rest with cocoa near,
Its warmth a balm, a solace for the year,
The trees, with snow, no longer stripped and bare.
Alone I lie, the heavy snow so rare,...

charred sunsets – sights scarred
horizon tattooed eyelids
my eyes burn raw with
your tears, your blood in my veins;
so we scorch our pains with mirth....

The Maker lived a life of creation. The Maker made himself, building each individual part of himself day after day. Every day, The Maker would wake himself by winding himself, the gears in his body activating for the day. The Maker left his house and entered his workshop underneath. Before opening, he would take the zeppelin into the city center, and buy his parts. The Maker was well liked. No matter where he went, the citizens would wave to him. They would discuss with each other quietly, “I wonder what The Maker will create today?”...

Dedicated to Malala Yousafzai

From mountain schools, where bullets rang,

A girl stood firm, through danger sang.

Books in hand, and eyes so wide,

She faced the dark, she did not hide.

Around the corner, hidden away in the dark recesses of the hall, lay a small wooden door. It
had weathered many storms, its rough
wood knotted with age. The iron bolts
were corroded, and the stone entranceway
was worn, cold, and uninviting.

Inside this complicated world, built like a maze,
will these problems ever have solutions?
My intuition is telling me there’ll be better days,

where the sky won’t be masked with haze,
and the stars can be seen through the pollution.
Inside this complicated world, built like a maze,

If I did, I wouldn’t see myself.
            How could I, when the sun’s not there to see?
No, he’s nothing special; he’s not that bright,
             he’s not immense; he’s a yellow dwarf