Download - 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
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 .
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
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)
VISION
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
TOUCH
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
SCENT
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
HEARING
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