Bilingues et Artistes March 2011

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Theme of Perception

Transcript of Bilingues et Artistes March 2011

Page 1: Bilingues et Artistes March 2011

Bil ingues et Artistes

Editors: Louis Denizet Ter L and Tobie Barb 1 er IBContributors:Nicolas Pollack 1 er IB, Aisl ing Martin 1 er IB, LouisDenizet Ter L, Sophie Durousseau Ter ES, Iris Colomb Ter ES, Dorel le

Sluchin Ter L, Amaury Bargioni 3eme,Daphne Rose 1 er, Matthew

Broadbent Meznaric 1 er IB,

PERCEPTION

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March 201 1

Perception.

As a group and as individuals we are often troubled by its flaws andconfronted by its imperfections.

I t is sometimes said that you can't trust your eyes, that true knowledge canonly be derived through reason and that our senses, as incredible as theymay be, are all undeniably flawed. However it is an artist's role tocommunicate and understand through his perception of the world. Whenwe sit in rooms alone and just wonder. . . when we feel that the worldmakes little sense. . . in times of grief and pain. . .when we seek tounderstand why?

We strive to find the underlying questions and answers that govern ourworld's apparent chaos. I t is in this time we can remember sensations ofsound, sight, smell , touch and taste that awaken our mind and thrust usonto a voyage of the mind into the darkest deepest entrai ls of ourselveswhere we can only gaze at the awesome nature of the world that l ives andbreathes before our very eyes.

The works in this issue all show how the world, when seen from the lenseof a camera, the eyes of a painter, the hears of a poet or simply in theimagination of an artist, can scream things that would otherwise go byfairly unnoted.

I t is therefore our privi ledge to be able to show in this edition the work ofour contributors concerning the question of perception and its fai lures andtheir effect on us, be it vision, touch, smell , taste or hearing it wil l be ourpleasure to share with you this beautiful month of March 201 1 .

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VISION

"A strange new thirst, a craving, unfamil iar,

Entered his body with the water,

And entered his eyes

With the reflection in the l impid mirror.

He could not believe the beauty

Of those eyes that gazed into his own.

As the taste of the water flooded him

So did love. So he lay, mistaking

That picture of himself on the meniscus

For the stranger who could make him happy."

-Ted Hughes

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The Ice of the Seas

I gaze out my frosty window into the deep crevices of my soul,

Which was broken as the soda I saw

Shimmering l ike fairy dust- dust, the ash of the ages

That, bel ieve me, wil l give you youth.

Icy eyelashes burn with desire as you near me

The whip cries "Away, to fire!"

Galloping deafens my ears as you plunge inside me, and I inside you

Caresses, a sigh, the saddle is nigh.

In the deep opaque mystique of night I inhale your musk

Transparency comes, a white veil over your face

Salty l ike the seas, upl ifting and liberating

And so the great whale plunges back into the depths.

So it goes in bygones and aspirations, the cycle of l ife.

Moves inescapably dancing with our slowest selves.

Lampshades drawn, the sorbet melts away.

Soul River

Beauty. I t consumes you, doesn’t it? Well?

Forever enticing you with its fiery depths

Fire, the lone hunter, eternal and alone.

I sit alone at the edge of an abyss

Abyss, the long wind in the pines.

I try to catch it but as I run, I fal l .

Stumbling over remnants of dead dreams.

Dreams, l ike a better version of your fondest memory,

That you wish were as true as your love.

I often think of those broken times, when I dove into the oceans of your promises

Which you broke, but I don’t blame you, no.

All I ever wanted was your special touch, embrace, the hope that I would never be alone.

“Why do you hit me?”, I cry,

Hoping for some semblance of your ancient antics.

My tearstained cheeks, marked perpetual ly l ike the sand we had engraved our love within

But also time, l ike a constant wave,

Washing away the sods, promises of tomorrow.

And so, gentle l istener, I ask quite narrowly “What do you think?”

Nicolas Pollack (in association with Sophia Fleming-Benite)

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VISION

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TOUCH

Take, take, take it al l but you never give

Sitting on the floor

Alone, trembling

Naked of l ife

Vulnerable.

The smooth fingers

Of Cold stroke

My cheek slowly

With famil iarity.

Loneliness plays

With my hair

Twisting it to

His wil l , his way.

Silence steps up

Arm around my

Shoulders, rocking

The rasping sobs.

Then penultimate

Pain, crouches down

Takes my hand

To take my heart.

Final ly her mother,

Death, walks up

Shaking her head,

Sad smile on her face.

Go away, I say,

I don't need you.

I don't want you

Anymore, I scream.

The caressing fingers,

The gentle hands

The comforting arms

The smile of regret.

Turn on me,

To ugliness,

To scratching,

To yanking.

The clutches

Firmer, the

Grasps become

A trap.

Come, they beckon,

We're the friends,

The ways to

Forget.

Sl ip under

The soft, si lky

Subconscious.

Leave reality.

Leave the harsh

Light, abandon

The rejection.

End the jeers.

Hope, Love and Faith

Are but betrayals.

Traitors taunting

You with Belief.

They see my

Hesitation, my

Wil l for their

Downfal l .

They're the wrong

Choice, I know.

But they're al l

Painless.

Impatience

Infects the five

They wrap their

Arms around my body.

Pull ing me to

Death,

Opposition seems

Pointless.

Aisl ing Martin

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TOUCH

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All year the flax-dam festered in the heart

Of the townland; green and heavy headed

Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.

Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.

Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles

Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell . Seamus Heaney

Frozen Lips

Sitting on a road barrierNose rsing towards the sky

The addictive smell and taste of the petrolSurrounded his body, a cloud so undistinguishableThat none would even know that he was there, if it

Were not for his dark shadow cast across the street belowAnd the trai l of cold and bitter taste in the air around his shadow.

Slowly as he observed the passing cars and the battered road signsA new stench emanated from the putrid pi le of coton and woolHe called his home, the biting smell of coffee stains and dog.

He could not care less for the smell himself exceptHe knew the disgust and guilt that would sweatThe passers-by and he leasurely sucked inThat very smell of sweat and enjoyedThe knowledge that he was feared.

Under his breath he chuckledAt the idea that he who knew nothing and

Wanted even less from these people, could cause so muchAnxiety in the mind of strangers by a simple glance or fl ick of the wrist

In their direction. As he lay down to rest that night, comfortableIn the idea that if he were not to wake in the morningThe stench of urine and cheap wine would ensureThat none would notice the lack of warm air

Eminating from his frozen lips.

Le courant d’air

Dans une ruelle agitée

Les murs en coloris s’effritent,

Se renvoyant la parité

Des courtes marches déconstruites.

L’air, de tous côtés assail l i

Par les odeurs saveurs tranchantes,

Enfant trop loin de son pays,

S’enroule dans l ’ombre tremblante.

Courir encore sur les roches

Vibrantes légions du passé

Et entre les douceurs de pierre

Enfin ! I l s’élance et se perd

Dans les cent foules effacées,

Puis i l s’éteint comme un reproche

Et laisse les passants passer.

I wrote this on my first day in I taly, in the city of Florence,

which just took my breath away at every step. Ful l of

fantastic colors, smells, sounds etc. Just a shame

globalisation took hold of it so much. All the fast foods,

import shops, big brands for clothing and such. . . I t's only

natural seeing how the world is turning today, but it

pol luted the setting at times. This is largely what the poem

is about, along with a criticism of tourism, though, truth be

told, I contributed to it also. I tried to encompass multiple

aspects of this flourishing city in a sonnet + 1 l ine, but of

course there was far too much to be said.

Andrew Szczurek

Tobie Barb

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SCENT

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Engaged With Mother Nature

What has become?

Of the whispering trees, our si lent confiders.

Of the dusty smell of dirt, smoldering beneath our soles.

Of the crisp and cross of leaves waving free.

Of the empty silence, of the shush.

Of our protector, of our traitor,

Nature.

Chlostrophobic

Full of new curiosity, I take a look at the city.

All is in motion.

Gas pushing through the air, the clouds camping on the sky, the suffocating smell of share and shops standing by.

People breathing. Trees leaving. Lights changing. Cars sti l l moving.

where has the soil gone? and the bushes? is it wrong? where are the shushes of crushes?

Questions left to sink while monotony slowly forms a shadow on short, yet trembling rivers.

Daphne Rose

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HEARING

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Stroboscopic

Lights break our fluidity,

We’re but momentary figures,

Flashes of bl iss

In the vibrant room.

Beams pulsating,

Music pounding,

Heartbeat throbbing,

All eyes on her,

All eyes on me.

We dominate the floor,

Our bodies grinding

We blaze, we smoulder

We light up the room,

Our heat overwhelming,

Our energy overtaking

‘Ti l l everybody’s gyrating

Down and dirty

In the sin of dancing,

The melody of lust and desire

Coursing through the crowd.

Matthew Broadbent-Mežnarić