vox
populi
1
vox
populi spring
2012
e
tabl Cover
photograph:
6
Kim
Nelson,
7
Aleksandar
8
Aleksa
9
Cathrine
contents
of Kate
Robinson.
photograph
Antelj,
Ilic,
“What
“Trouble
Hansen,
in
is
Treasure?”
Wonderland”
watercolors
and
ink
on
paper
10-11 Alisher
Tashpulatov,
“Ode
to
British
English”
12 Yulia 13 Todd
Gusarova, Matthew,
14-16 Andrew
photograph
“Service”
Bone,
“The
Rime
of
the
Amorous
Banker”
17 Alejandro
4
and
Avila
acrylic
Gasperin, paints
on
oil
pastels
handmade
paper
18 Orianna
Sibada,
19 Beatriz
Pardo
20 Ekaterina
Wyler,
22 Vincent
Otero,
photograph
Ikonomova,
stencil
21 Pia
“Finally”
poster paper
on
paints
and
“Ayesha”
Huntenburg,
“Underground
Whisper”
23 Michael 24 Sina
Davis,
Mueller,
25-26 Max 27 Anna
Lehman,
Fujii,
solder
wire
acrylics
on
canvas
“Prose”
pencil
and
graphite
powder
on
paper
28-29 Aleksa 30 Lisa
Ilic,
31 Sofya
Krikun,
“Black
acrylics
Guguberidze,
and
on
oil
Red”
canvas pastels
board on
paper
5
Endless
Kim Nelson. Photograph.
6
What is Treasure? Aleksandar Antelj.
Not all treasure is silver or gold, nor is it gems and rubies. What do we think of treasure? Is it something we cherish or something we need to exist? A treasure can be something as family and friends, or something like a beautiful view of the rising sun over a snowy mountaintop.
7
Trouble in Wonderland Aleksa Ilic.
Her majesty cried out, “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!” Her favourite sentence, which everyone dreads Each day of the year, a few heads would roll, But today there’s a problem, one rather droll The Queen’s roses were painted again, you see, While she was enjoying her afternoon tea When the culprit was found, the headsman complained, For it was the headless horseman, tied up and chained “How can I make his head fall off and roll, If he has no head, no head at all?” All of Wonderland was shocked, I’ll tell you that, Just like when the Mad Hatter misplaced his hat Everyone thought what to do; they needed a plan, And the best came from the little gingerbread man The horseman had to wash all the roses clean, And wash them he did, all five thousand fourteen He worked for days, and he was tired, dead, At this point he wished they killed him instead So don’t mess with the Queen’s roses, please, She’ll have your head, if you have one, that is.
8
Montagnola
Cathrine Hansen. Watercolors and Ink on Paper. 9
Ode to British English Alisher Tashpulatov.
I was missing English one day; British English as some might call it. On the other side, I just call it English, because it comes from England of course. Posh and elegant, yet the hooligans of Manchester and Liverpool use it in the dirtiest way a language can be used. No copy is ever better than the original. Yankees with their rapid ruthless and irregular pronunciation of the letter ‘R’, Australians with their over usage of the word “Moolah,” well, they are prisoners after all, and the Scottish, well that’s a whole different story. I miss the occasional “fella,” “chap,” “mate,” or even “sir” which Americans throw around as if it were a dude or guy, because, well you know, they are all knights. I miss the English in which simply by hearing one’s speech you know where and what type of family he is from. The English used by Shakespeare, Dickens, Attenborough, Carroll, and the Queen. British English is the Old Testament, the original trilogy, The Pierce James Bond’s for God’s sake! All others see is the Queen, Monty Python, “would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Bean,” Little Britain, some hot tea? But it is not all about walking around with a monocle talking about the languishing efforts of that numpty Herefordshire 10
continued on next page
chap who tries to seem like he is not a grammar school fella. Nobody seems to know about the booze, birds and the bastards from Bristol. How can you explain to a foreigner that Yorkshire Pudding is actually a piece of dough or what a Shandy is, or try explaining to an American what a Spotted-Dick is without making him giggle? “The sun never sets on the British Empire,” they said, but as I admire the West-Midlands sunset during supper, I enjoy what is left of the Great British Empire and realize that our Prime Minister is a spliff-smoking, smooth talking Whitney, it suddenly makes sense. The House of Commons is filled with Chester chapel chavs. How is England still considered posh? We are runner-ups at sports that we invented: cricket fourth, rugby sixth, football is out of the question. Well at least we are still champions at fives. Our ladies? Oh our ladies, the noble royalty of the highest sort, are now nothing but birds or as Attenborough would say, “Makeupious Ridicolus of the Avialae species.” I am still a great lover of England, but I am waiting for the day when England’s Craig period will be over and we will get back the Sean Connery years, that is when the Union Jack will billow above the Parliament instead of being on the cover of girls’ iPhone cases.
11
Young Blood
Yulia Gusarova. Photograph.
d
gran
photo
12
e
priz
contest
Service
Todd Matthew. Their names, we have long since forgotten four. Inspired by thoughts of equal civil rights, They sat and ordered coffee is the lore. A peaceful protest swelled to various sites In Greensboro, Nashville, Winston-Salem too. The people sat not knowing future fights.
Bewildered Woolworth knew not what to do. Support and harmony their only tools, And soon the scope and numbers grew and grew. Museums hold the counters and the stools. The halcyon grievance altered all the rules.
13
The Rime of the Amorous Banker Andrew Bone.
The Pirate Queen spoke in cheery spite To her crew and kidnappees, ‘It’s been a period of low growth, A time for austerities, ‘When there’s ships all ripe for plunder, From sea to brimming sea, The little fish hold breath in wonder For a pirate’s net tax free, ‘But the tide has turned on easy gain, The sun has set all round, Our roving life begins to wane, No off-shore wealth be found. ‘When the market’s rich and growing, Pirates profit well from thee, If not, well there’s no prize in knowing Death’s an eager path and free.’ The captured men cry in lament, They berate their luck austere, They turn to a man that heaven sent, Whom they beg to allay their fear. The learnéd man toned in psalmy voice, Trumping with celestial claim, Nor beast nor man had any choice, When death so bestial came. And the pirates sing: ‘For those of you who emfest a creed 14
In a cosmos slung for trade, For those the faithful, lost, weak-kneed, For you are the slings and arrows made.’ One by one, to the cheering crew, The passengers plead their last, But each appeal brings nothing new, For such is their die cast. The crew joyed in on the screams, On the fears and agonies, Sometimes in ones, a-times in teams, They bring the faithful to their knees. The banker stood in easy pose The banker bade his time The banker smiled sweetly at the crime His face the while composed. The wheel broke keels on the rack, The bones did croak to crack, The banker looked down as souls sailed on, Ne’er once did courage tack. The pirate queen amazed at him, The pirate queen was grim: ‘I’ll save you for the last, my friend A torture foul your end.’ The banker spoke his easy terms To the queen and company: “I look at your ship and I like what I see, Especially when I look at thee, I do not fear your deathly call, For soon I’ll be the captain of you all.”
“For I share the love of piratry, For a gamble, a throw of the dice, We take heart from law’s a’versity, Ne’er shun a profitable vice, “Twixt us there be no differing, We answer the same creed’s call, Set me a test, the test of a king, And I’ll be the captain of you all.” The banker’s words found good rejoice, For chance was the pirate’s leisure, Not one did pause to sound the choice, They pacted this transient pleasure. The queen mused: ‘Where be your treasure now? To which wind do you turn your bow? We’ll haul you across your own keel of advice, And chance you now to the throw of the dice, We’ll set you a task on which all must fall, For you’ll never be captain of us all. ‘For my friend, there be plank enough for the walking, And sea enough for your bones, You can talk of your love of economies, While the sturgeon come nibble your knees.’ ‘You choose a bronze bright day in which to die, The nickel-tipped waves, the copper green lie, The golden orb on glittery sea, Wave on the souls that we set free. ‘The silver sea is our braided yarn, Rolled out from sky to sky,
Emboldened epitaths to dusk and dawn, Golden epaulettes to the watchman’s eye. ‘Tell us, my would-be king, Who plies the accountancy, In all the sea-long hunting, Which metal keeps us free? ‘Not all treasure is silver and gold, Aurum et argentum are but a passing test, If all that’s value can be bought and sold, Which is the metal we love the best?’ The banker heard what they did ask, And considered good the task, “I’ll wager the wage of a banker’s life, The metal I gauge wins you my wife, When I answer this by judicial call, I’ll be the captain of you all. “Iron shapes well the pike and the bore, The ball, the sword, and the sheath, But many have found when they slip to the neaths, It makes for a sorrowful wreath. “Stamped is the face of a man far away, Coined for our toil each day, Through his parting our joys do we earn, Then sweat for his speedy return. “Does he laugh at our toils, this man far away? For pirates and bankers we? In the cutting throat life of the boardroom sea, Where nobody is master but thee? continued on page 16
15
“We ride and fall to the market surge, Pray to the winds our scourge, When the sails flap fast feel the boards the chase, When the wind blows out we’re the chaste of chaseds,
The banker replied: “I can be in accountancy, A pirate as bold as at sea, For my answer I must then settle, Nothing competes with our own hardy mettle.
“For the ship of ruin sails an icey sea, The wave-drummed hull beats a sorrowful last, Sales flap down round an unmanned mast, And ticker a stream of such misery.
“I knew that you were seeking a gold, That matches a pirate’s hard soul, It can only be this mettle bold, That scores in this highly set goal.”
“Bronze rings bells to the budding day, As sweet as cold seaspray, Cannon that win bad arguments old, And monkeys that warn of the cold.
As the Banker thus triumphed in his kingly cause, Deafened was he by applause, We see him cheered on shoulders ride, Till united he stood with his bride.
“The masts are a brass-tipped forest, The rigging our lovers’ nest, The sails a cast-wide canopy, In our vast cathedral sea, “Our ships ride coppery to the sun, Beam unto beam do we fly, Clouds hang red like surgical swabs, In an alabaster sky,
If uncloaked in a night’s mist dream, By lover’s craft you’re caught, You’ll soon discover a sturdy beam, On the vessel that docks your port.
“We two follow commodities, As they cut and vear and tack, The metals that rule our atrocities Spike keener than cat-tails the back.” The queen enraptured called: ‘There be no differing it would seem, Twixt us when our greed has its head, So which is the metal of which we dream, Flash silver, bold gold, or base lead?’ 16
For our lifely voyage begins with a slap on the hull, We pew fish-mouthed as we grow, Before bankers and pirates our senses dull There’s something we all should know, Aurum et argentum are but teasing play, Light to porpoises in love’s bay Not all that’s value can be bought and sold, Not all that’s treasure is silver and gold.
Mackerel Study
Alejandro Avila Gasperin. Oil pastels and acrylic paints on handmade paper. 17
Finally
Orianna Sibada. I see nothing but tall trees, the cold wind within the bird’s calling, they appear in my thoughts, it’s winter. Am I lost, or am I just hallucinating? Sensing their care, I believe it’s love. I realize I was never alone. Once again, I am home.
18
Patterns
Beatriz Pardo Otero. Photograph.
19
Paysage
Ekaterina Ikonomova. Poster paints and stencil print on paper.
20
Ayesha
Pia Wyler. Ayesha is a veiled Cinderella, Rocking stolen promises of schoolyards and playgrounds to sleep In the corner of a black and broken balcony, Withdrawing ever further into the hole her childhood was meant to fill, Tucking herself into castoff crescents and creases Of elbows and knees now overused by hands much bigger then her own. White cement walls and barred gates that never open Fill this eight-year-old adult with dreams of a far off treasure. Not all treasure is silver and gold, and behind her sunken Cinderella eyes, she plays memories of flying kites and little sisters Floating on a much kinder Himalaya breeze. She rocks herself to sleep with few memories Not yet made sour by the hundreds of times her no longer tender hands Have washed, scrubbed, carried, struggled, mended, and then end Limp at her sides as this baby Cinderella shudders from the cold Himalaya breeze upon which her deaf Allah rides.
rand
g
poetry
e
priz
contest 21
Underground Whisper Vincent Huntenburg.
Walking down this empty road Rain, dirt, neon lights. I have no place to go But a thousand thoughts on my mind Cigarette smell, whiskey taste gamblin’ man, All in, just one chance to win will I become what I desire? Leave this road? Or get eaten by an inner fire? Faces pass, they’re all the same my power I suddenly regain there will come change, there is hope my only drive it is hope.
22
Jaguar
Michael Davis. Solder wire.
23
Live!
Sina Mueller. Acrylics on canvas.
24
Prose
Max Lehman. The hardwood counter was finished and had stains from glasses set on it without a layer in between. The surface was dusted with crumbs of shortbreads, dust, and spilt ice. There was a man, who I couldn’t help notice, sitting a few chairs down. I did not notice him for his charm, but only because I happened to overhear his heinous opinions being thrown across the bar. “You know, when you really think about it, Presence is a much better album than Led Zeppelin II,” he arrogantly asserted to some hopeless woman sitting next to him. The blasphemous statement made me cringe. Sadly I was the only person to notice the garbage flowing from this hipster’s mouth. “They sang that song Stairway to Heaven, right?” The woman replied. She was blonde, and I noticed that she had some oriental characters tattooed on her lower back. The classy tramp stamp. I felt disgust for both of these people, and I started to wonder why I concerned myself with their stupid conversation. “Here you go Max, the steak’s coming right out,” I heard Rob tell me. “Thanks, Rob.” There was a large bowl of spring onion pasta steaming in front of me, flowing into my nostrils, purging all concern for the hipster and dumb blonde to my right. Rob had always been a friend since he opened his restaurant with his wife in my neighborhood. I was a frequent customer. He knew what I wanted when I sat down at the bar; a bowl of salted, fried shishitos, a large portion of his spring onion spaghetti, and a hanger steak. I sat in glory eating my dinner. Frankly I couldn’t care less what the tacky duo next to me were talking about. Even if the guy started about how he was going continued on next page
25
continued from prior page
to use his trust fund to open up a vegan restaurant that only played records no one else but him, and the band that made it (probably his own), knew of. I could stomach Rob’s pasta over any circumstance, no matter how tacky, or how socially offensive. The two had left, and I had not noticed. It was just another woman sitting alone at the end of the bar, and me. I had finished my pasta, and boxed the rest of my steak to re-use in the morning. Rob had brought me a portion of his wife Allie’s shortbread cookies, and I pained myself to continue eating them. I attempted to brush off the buttery crumbs and sugar off my fingers, and wiped the rest on my pants. I stood up to use the can, and walked passed the woman at the end of the bar. I stood there standing, stupefied at what was on the back of her shirt. The album cover for London Calling had locked eyes with me, and I stumbled to open the door to the bathroom because I was paying no attention to it. I broke my gaze and returned to my task at hand. My hand had been missing the doorknob entirely, and had been aimlessly trying to turn a handle. I thought to myself damn‌leave it alone, and continued on my current objective, which was to take a leak and go home.
26
Self Portrait
Anna Fujii. Pencil and graphite powder on paper. 27
Black and Red Aleksa Ilic
The Sun is setting, escaping behind the sleepy hills, The wind is singing, rhythmically carrying the pink petals, All over that field so green, so peaceful. Two men are approaching very slowly, They look each other dead in the eye. On their backs, banners proudly fly, And their armours shine, one black, the other red, While terrible horned helms adorn their heads, Brave and determined postures, paces synchronized, There they meet, in the middle of the field. They bow to one another, without uttering a word, They look at each other, carefully, but very briefly, When cold steel so gleaming flashed from the scabbards, And the two men began comparing power, like tigers, In a dance followed by the song of blades. Rapid are their paces, but their hearts beat slowly, Blades whistle furiously, but their minds peaceful, And cold sweat already caresses their stone faces, Behind masks static, but so terrifying, In this game of life and death. 28
All around them, cherry blossoms fly helpless To resist the roaring wind, And the Sun in the distance, willingly stopped, To gaze at this scene, just for a moment, It was a clash of furious dragons. The red warrior falls, his back hugged by grass, His opponent approaches, to finally end it all, And with a loud victorious roar, he bends over him, Raising his weapon, ready to deal the final blow, When the black warrior felt pain. And everything stopped, even the wind that raged before. The hero in black falls on his knees, gazing into the distance, Utters the words of repentance, and falls forever, gripping his sword. And the victor rises, breathless, his armour seemed like melting. It is over. The warrior headed home, slowly, glad to be alive, Sorrowful for having to kill a friend, a brother, Never, as long as he lives, will he forget that moment. When in the green field, all of nature carefully watched The dance of Knights of the rising Sun. 29
Still Life
Lisa Krikun. Acrylics on canvas board.
30
Self Portrait in a Shiny Bauble
Sofya Guguberidze. Oil pastels on paper
31
Vox
2011-2012 and
literary
Liudmila Isabella
art
board
Andreeva Broggini
Anastasia
Chavdia
Galbiati
Caro Zoe
Populi
Hunter Ilic
Aleksa
Elizaveta
Krikun
Maria
Mikulina
Maria
Pankowska
Bella Tali
Samaniego-Clark Sandel
Natasha Lauren Todd
Watson Stephanson,
Matthew,
Editor
advisor
32 literarymagazine@tasis.ch
Vox Populi, the TASIS Art and Literary Magazine, encourages creativity and appreciation of both art and literature and seeks to publish work from its community of students, teachers, administrators, and staff. The magazine strives to balance excellence and diversity in a wide variety of media.
THE AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SWITZERLAND www.tasis.ch
33