Inscape 2020

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine • 2019–2020 • Volume XXXVIII

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2019–2020 Volume XXXVIII

By Inscape I mean the particular nature of things, the unique, essential form and meaning of any object or experience. ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

Members of the Inscape staff would like to thank the following people for their help and support: Christopher Brandon, Janice Carey, Susan Cook, Tim Doherty, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Cloe Jones, Lindsay Key, Marianne Laramée, Sheila Lyster, William Mitchell, Miranda McGie, Régine Mesnil, Jennifer Monk, Linda Rodeck and François Tessier.

We would also like to thank Scott Abbott for his generous support of the English department and all of its endeavours.

Design and typesetting by the Inscape staff at BCS. Bishop’s College School Sherbrooke, Quebec J1M 1Z8

Printed in Canada by Blanchard Litho inc.

From the editors… colours are multifaceted and they dye the worlds within us. our emotions, fragmented like shattered glass glimmering in the sun, beg the question: just how many faces can a colour have? let red be not only the image of love and hate, and orange the name of discomfort —and distinguish yellow from nothing but smiles— for these colours speak more emotions than they have shades. to the untrained eye, green may take the shape of disgust and jealousy, patterns of blue are made only by tears, and purple embodies but relaxation. so close your eyes and listen to the vibrance in their screams. the words within these pages plead you to paint your heart in strokes of more than just black and white, and will you to smash your perceptions before creating beautiful art. just as colours come together to fill the sky in the wake of rain, gather fractured emotions to form your own mosaic after the storm.

—Vio & Cala

Table of Contents Red

The Rain, Youyang (Catherine) Guo......................8 Whispers in the Spring, Cala Tesolin...................9 A Brief Reminder, Izzy Macfarlane.....................10 What is Love?, Maya Goury...............................12 Unintentional, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez............13 My First and Only Best Friend, Naydeline Yasmin Trinidad Lorenzo..............14 I Owe You No Explanation, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana............................15 holy, Cala Tesolin..................................................16 Summer, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez......................19 Eve, Zuzanna Skolimowska..................................20 Hectic Hall, Priscilla Allatt.................................21 forever i will love you, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez...............................23

Orange dis.so.nance, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana............26 Storms Don’t Shine Orange, Justine Soucy.......28 Black Swan, Youyang (Catherine) Guo...............30 Erosion, Jurney Lavoie-Condo..............................31 Coincés, Zofia Kolankowska.................................33

–4–

Yellow A Pet Name, Zack Morissette..............................36 Goodbyes, Zofia Kolankowska.............................37 The Golden Harp (excerpt), Emma Andrews........................................38–39 A Question to a Colour, Luke Christian Sykes......................................40 Smoke & Mirrors, Aidan Feddema................42–43 one through four, Izzy Macfarlane.....................45 August Sunrise, Zofia Kolankowska....................47 Green Icy Moon Drops, Lisa Eichmüller.......................50 The Once in a Lifetime Experience, Aidan Feddema...............................................52 A Simple Stump, Aglaée Bérard..........................52 Wooden Feelings, Emma Andrews.....................55 That Day, Sofía Ramírez Garrido Toussaint ........57 Beige, Emma Andrews..........................................57 For Anne, Edith Klimoski.....................................58 Lost in My Mind, Zack Morissette.....................61

Blue The First Dive, Maya Goury...............................65 Blue Eyes, Maya Goury.......................................66 Midnight, Youyang (Catherine) Guo...................67 Dull and Faded, Laura Carrière..........................68 Winter, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez.........................70 Coloured Foundations, Anthony Herbst...........72 Estate Sale, Vivienne Webster........................74–75 Purple The Chill of Desire, Elizabeth Couture...............78 The Natural World, Jacoby Goodson..................80 Extremis, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana..................81 Façade, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez........................82 at three a.m. i love you, Cala Tesolin.................83 The Reluctant Fist of Injustice, Jacoby Goodson...............................................84 Hidden Hope, Priscilla Allatt.............................84 Abécédaire poétique, La classe de français, langue d’enseignement, Form III...................87 summer affairs, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana......90

Editors: Cala Tesolin Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana Inscape Staff: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Mulan Fan Youyang (Catherine) Guo Artists: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Tingyi (Justin) Chen Mulan Fan Sarah Francoeur Zhengrui (Angel) Huang Mia Kerub Zofia Kolankowska Jurney Lavoie-Condo Izzy Macfarlane LiYu (Laura) Tao Jie (Coco) Wang Vivienne Webster Faculty Advisor: Scott Kelso

–5–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –6–

red

The Rain In spring, the rain drop is as tender as the soft silk thread in the tailor’s hands.

In summer, the rain is as violent as an army a million strong.

In autumn, the rain is as silent as the fog in the morning.

In winter, the rain is as warm as when you put my hand in yours.

Youyang (Catherine) Guo, Form V

Painting by LiYu (Laura) Tao, Form IV –8–

Whispers in the Spring I whispered poems of you to the Universe once through a wall of grapevine— I whispered to Her all the poems of you and me in the peak of spring two years past— and I felt Her tremble with shame for She felt oh so tiny in comparison (and with good reason for She was) even the stars taunted Her for Her petiteness so She got drunk on the wine from the grapes and shrunk Herself to the size of a flower which I gave you two winters past you watered Her for another thick spring and sunlit summer but then came fall and the flower started to wilt She became ill and frail with the wind so She did like the leaves and sunk into the ashes and the dirt the flower became soil and from it sprouted ten more each one more beautiful than the first— but they too would wilt before making it to fall for not one could compare to poems of us in the spring Cala Tesolin, Form VII

–9–

A Brief Reminder Your eyes give you away They tell me things you’d never say And we’ll converse in ebbs and flows The traffic slows The hedges grow You owe me everything you want to Give me—that and nothing more.

The flames grow in those eyes of yours, I watch them lick along your face The colours of your cheeks have changed, Your feathers all got rearranged— And sink your teeth in deeper so I know that

I am safe.

The light along your halo contrasts mine,

but it’s okay though— Hold my hand and pray.

I think I still hear myself say I’m not religious.

Stubborn ignorance, Left overs, last night’s grief.

Let it slide because you wouldn’t have me

any other way.

Oh, we’ve proven, time and time again.

Don’t ever say “remember when,” I don’t remember anything, But lord knows I’m not a fool.

I don’t owe or have or keep, but you don’t sing and you don’t weep.

What we have in common is a base and

desperate need for sleep, and the fact that you are no more fool than I. I’ll make something out of nothing as the sun

begins to rise, while you gently tuck away the charted colour

of my eyes.

Well past the line of “something’s wrong,” so gladly drowned in siren’s song, I’ll mail my faculties straight overseas, they’re just getting in the way.

I’ve seen those eyes in beams of light when

sinking through the ocean floor, I’ve heard that laugh beat down between the

raindrops in torrential roar, I’d know you anywhere— Quite simply, you are everything to me.

And I would know you as I know you in all

love and truth and grief.

For all the suffering I’ve kept in harboured

faith and bided time, I give you who I am in whole, And all I hope is that you’re mine.

(And brief reminder: You owe me everything

you want to.

Give me that and nothing more.

What matters isn’t what is given, But the thing it’s given for.)

Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII

Drawing by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –10–

–11–

What is Love?

Love, people tell me, is like a spark igniting a wildfire.

It is a natural force of attraction, the sun shining bright on a gloomy day.

But really, what is love?

It is hidden behind a door and the key holders are the ones with uniting hearts.

The waves of an ocean crashing together, like the tingling sensation of passion running like a soft lightning bolt through their veins.

When lovers’ eyes meet the explosion of passion running through space tries to cross the finish line of love.

The feeling of love truly is blissful once you can feel the tigers roaring in your stomach, before the touch from your lover.

That is love; the complete unnatural and uncontrollable feeling of devotion.

Maya Goury, Form V

Painting by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –12–

Unintentional A deafening darkness surrounds me.

Unsolicited thoughts flood the once calm valley of my mind.

Good intentions turn into malevolent actions without any explanation.

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

–13–

My First and Only Best Friend I cherish when I first met you— the way your eyes would light up when you grinned, and the way you would laugh would make me laugh too.

I miss all those little moments between us, how happiness was just an ordinary feeling.

It wasn’t something that we requested; it just was.

Naydeline Yasmin Trinidad Lorenzo, Form V

Drawing by Mia Kerub, Form III –14–

I Owe You No Explanation As my lips pressed lips your eyes, filled with disappointment emblazoned my soul with guilt.

But I was not wrong, because my lips pressed the lips of those I wished to be pressed against.

In fact, it was you who was wrong, for you were not mad at the love I made, simply at the lack of my love for you.

As I explained my intent was not to hurt you, your drunken grasp pulled me in, willing me to stop kissing her, and perhaps to kiss you instead.

How can you blame me?

We aren’t in kindergarten.

“He teases you because he likes you” does not apply.

Because I don’t like you.

I don’t like the way you pull my hair, the way you tickle me when I tell you not to, the way the world gives you praise for my torment.

I don’t like you.

So when I choose to press my lips against another, do not blame me.

Blame your f***ing torment, for your torment is the only thing you have mastered.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VII

–15–

holy

eat a thousand crackers, sing a thousand hymns, you are not going to heaven.

eat a thousand crackers, sing a thousand hymns, you are not going to heaven.

walk up the stairs bow-legged on Sunday morning and ring that bell.

confess that which you’ve done and that which you know you’ll do —but repent your sins only today.

ring it hard so it rings loud enough to muffle the sound of your sins from last night.

you must keep the Sabbath day holy, but nothing’s been written about the Holiness of tomorrow.

eat a thousand crackers, sing a thousand hymns, you are not going to heaven.

so eat a thousand crackers, and sing a thousand hymns, you are not going to heaven

make a cross over your chest once for every time you screamed His name.

Cala Tesolin, Form VII

and pray at least twice as many Hail Marys for She is all that which you are not.

Drawing by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –16–

–17–

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –18–

Summer In June we travelled to the sunny coast of Italy.

We dived, carefree, into the crystal ocean, our bodies flashing rays of crimson light powered by the love we ignited.

We ate and drank and danced and loved until our bodies could no more, our flesh brushing secretly (between the buttons of your shirt).

And then you knew, and I did too—or I thought I did.

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

–19–

Eve God is an author, too.

Woman is his poetry, too intricate to be appreciated.

From the sun’s brightest ray, She addresses implacably their resounding voices and raised fists.

In time with the heavenly chorus, Her body’s beauty plots lilting words across the earth, lost in men’s voices.

You, from Eve’s placenta created, carried in pain, born in blood, how dare you?

Dressed in bareness, running through the sky, lengthening the shining golden thread above their heads.

How dare you ignore Her words, yet lustfully stare at Her? How dare you?

From Adam’s rib created, She is the star of all lyricists, the colour palette for all painters.

How dare you touch Her uninvited, bearing that heavy gun in your pocket?

How dare you?

Underneath Her velvet skin, She carries the burden of love, that disconcerts them.

The shots still, the voices quiet down, because it is She whose sweet mortality stirs latent power.

Zuzanna Skolimowska, Form VII

Painting by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VII –20–

Hectic Hall Down the hall you’ll find unfaced girls and hear muted screams, each twisted in thoughts, triumphant in their loss.

Further down someone crippled running from the poisonous whispers of a flying snake whose fangs can’t pierce an unfilled cloud.

Turn to the left to see blood-soaked words sink into the flesh, leaving unmarked scars and orange molded keys to the newly surfaced distress.

Stop right now before the taunting compliments filter into your ears, before the mousey monster tramps all over your subconscious and your glass bones shatter into nothingness.

Priscilla Allatt, Form VI

–21–

–22–

forever i will love you

forever i will love you exclaimed she (among our burning passion of midnight in embrace which upon i wished no end) love her (i knew i did) but how sure could anyone be that love is love when lust it could be (or perhaps simply lost) earth moon earth my love will travel for you (said she) my last breath (and all that remain) give to you i will truth this could be but may anyone know ever when terrible fates are faced if in dangers way would stand one and ones soul of let go an overused word (love) those who felt not it to death argue they have those who have truly to their graves take it often can love understood ever be?

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

Artwork by Zhengrui (Angel) Huang, Form VI –23–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –24–

orange

dis . so . nance

touch not for fear glass broken by love most loved kissyou may i never of forward bounds —fearful crawl to least near see you not i will eyes unwanted attention attention away from i whomst craved features uncreate into nothingness unwanted want feared fear comes shatter stays gone wants shelter left is i right here keeped Emotions falling up from fractured heartmind fragments Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VII

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –26–

–27–

Storms Don’t Shine Orange Decades ago, in what we call our home, what is known as a place of peace, was anything but.

Like pretty clouds masking a storm.

It was believed that none must be different— not equal, but the same.

Children taken from family, forced to change, no memories allowed, not even orange shirts.

Abuse and belittlement, malnourishment; the storm was forming, yet you stayed strong.

Those who fell now rest, those who stand still fight.

Your bravery is unmatched, we honoured you all.

And, like the rainbow after a storm, you shine bright with prideful orange.

Justine Soucy, Form VI

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –28–

6:05 Falling asleep, Roses might be red, Violets might be blue.

Where to go, What to do, Truth is, I’m not sure what to do.

Mix confusion, Bad decisions, My thoughts like a whirlpool of my own chaos and commotion.

Running away from what’s already in front of me, Begging, Please don’t engulf me, Ring.

The alarm, Now I’m awake.

All I do know for sure is that, Roses might be red, And violets might be blue.

Laura Carrière, Form V

–29–

Black Swan In the golden hall, sun shines through the broken window Silence is the lord He looks down and interrogates I walk on tip-toe and answer I hold my head high and stand tall I must look like a swan that is going to fly Spread out my arms and rotate My white dress blooms like a flower I’m a sword and I break the air When the echo hit me a thump, I know I am dancing on the flame It is burning my feathers and the smoke rises to paradise, oh darling, it should be my soul I won’t regret, no never If I can’t dance, then take my wings I crawl upon the floor or I kneel down I don’t mind, darling, I don’t mind I pray for my lord even if I’m alone, for I’ve already been so alive When I jump in the middle and I fall, I still have my head up because I know I’m a proud swan, maybe a black one Youyang (Catherine) Guo, Form V

Artwork by Mulan Fan, Form IV –30–

Erosion In a thriving emerald forest a small stream quietly flows downhill; it moves constantly, restlessly, to the end of its path, a pond.

Days, weeks, years flow by; the force of the water pushes the ground.

When it hits against the rocks, slowly it erodes the once small path, making way for that to come behind it.

The rest follows.

Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form VI

–31–

–32–

Coincés Dès le début nous avons été condamnés.

Nous n’avons pas choisi cette vie.

Oh! terrible destin, Pourquoi faut-il que nous ne puissions jamais sortir?

Le cycle sans fin de l’immoralité et du regret.

Et pourtant, dans l’obscurité nous avons trouvé la lumière…

C’était l’amour.

C’est lui qui nous a guidés et qui nous a rapprochés, Quand les temps devenaient difficiles et que la vie était impitoyable.

Il a essayé si fort de nous sauver de nous-mêmes.

Mais hélas! nous étions condamnés depuis le début.

Coincés dans le cycle…

Quand nous avons manqué de temps, Nos corps près les uns des autres, Nos esprits entrelacés, Nous nous sommes retrouvés.

Au milieu de tout cela, nous avons appartenu à ce schéma.

Dans notre douleur, nous nous adaptons parfaitement au scénario Un script créé juste pour nous.

Coincés pour toujours, Dans la zone.

Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –33–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –34–

yellow

A Pet Name Day after day, second after second, a pet name, a shapeless and weightless entity, like the scratchy tag of a meaningless shirt you’ve been forced to wear.

Zack Morissette, Form V

–36–

Goodbyes My eyes were opened at the break of day, upon the light you gave my sorrow mind; with careful hands you led me all the way, to unknown lands where sun has always shined.

So, when the bitter time to leave arrived, I hid my face and forced away the tears; ensured the spirit, trials of time survived, embarking on a quest to face my fears.

We parted ways when I was still a child, not knowing my decision’s deadly cost; but in those lands so distant and so wild, I learned the value of the love I lost.

But even though we still are miles apart, I keep your image etched into my heart.

Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI

Artwork by LiYu (Laura) Tao, Form IV –37–

An Excerpt From

The Golden Harp by

O

Emma Andrews, Form III

ne humid day during summer vacation, a curious young boy named Curtis was walking through the woods behind his house. His house was big and had many rooms that were filled with various treasures and antiques, but the house bored Curtis, for he already knew where everything was. He would much rather be exploring outside and discovering new places. As Curtis walked through the woods, he came across a stream. This stream rushed almost silently; the only sound was an echo of the forest. Curtis took off his shoes and cooled his feet in the stream. As he sat back, he saw a golden harp across the creek. At first, Curtis thought he was seeing things due to dehydration, but once he rubbed his eyes, the harp remained in its place.

Curtis rolled up his khaki pants and crossed the stream. He pulled himself up onto the tall rock which the harp was standing on. He stroked the golden detailing on the harp, which felt smooth and elegant in his hand. Curtis had never seen a harp, only read about them in books, or wrote about them in stories. Even though it was heavy, and he hadn’t a clue where it came from, Curtis decided to transport it back home.

When he came home, Curtis’s mother came outside to greet him. She was a little, round woman with thick, coffee-brown curls that rolled down to her shoulders.

She was very surprised to see Curtis transporting a heavy harp out of the woods.

“Curtis, whatever are you doing?” She yelled, and Curtis looked up and saw her marching toward him.

“I found it in the woods, look! It was near a stream I discovered. It is very detailed and beautiful, and I am going to learn how to play it,” Curtis said determinedly.

“How will you learn how to play it? And did you ever wonder how it got near a stream in the middle of the woods?”

Curtis stopped pushing the harp. He had never even stopped to question the origin of the mysterious harp, and how was he supposed to learn how to play it?

Nevertheless, he at least wanted to keep the harp, because he thought that it was magical.

“It’s a magic harp,” Curtis said, “and I am going to keep it.”

He walked past his mother slowly. As the harp was so heavy, he couldn’t make a grand exit.

“Curtis,” she said with a sigh in her voice, “your cousins are coming tonight, so clean yourself up.”

~~~ –38–

Later that night, Curtis’s cousins arrived. There were four of them: Meredith, Elenore, George, and Henry. Curtis had sent two of the maids, Betty and Margaret, to bring the harp to an unoccupied room with dark green curtains.

Curtis and his family ate at a long, dark table with a bright white tablecloth.

There was a turkey with cooked vegetables and warm bowls of tomato soup. All of the adults had a tall glass of wine while the kids had a large glass of milk.

“Jane, do you remember when we used to play in this house?” Curtis’s Aunt Mary started.

“Of course,” replied Curtis’s mother, “we used to hide in that large wardrobe, and it would take us away to another world.”

“We had quite the imagination.” Aunt Mary and the two of them exchanged laughter from across the table.

Curtis continued to eat his dinner, but as the adults talked about their work, about their children, about their friends, and even about their childhoods, Curtis became increasingly intrigued and forgot all about his meal. It turned out that his cousins were doing the same thing.

“If all of you are done, you may be excused,” Curtis’s mother said, gesturing at the five children.

Curtis and his cousins got up from their chairs and pushed them in silently; only Henry’s squeaked when he pushed it in, but he was little, and the chair was too heavy for him. They exited the dining room into the grand lounge where they sat in armchairs, usually reserved for adults, and discussed their plans for the night.

“We should explore,” said Elenore.

“No,” replied Curtis, “I already know where everything is.”

“We could play tag,” said Henry.

“You would have to be mad to play tag in the house,” replied Meredith.

“What about that wardrobe?” It was the first thing he had said all night.

“They were children, George,” started Meredith, “you don’t actually think there was another world.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to check,” said Curtis.

Curtis led them to a big empty room with a humongous wardrobe. They entered inside, remembering to leave the door a little open because it is a very silly thing to shut oneself into a wardrobe.

There were rows upon rows of big furry coats, and it was as dark as a thick lump of coal. But as they walked further and further in, the coats became rougher and rougher. With every step, they were expecting to touch the back of the wardrobe, but they never did. Instead, it became lighter and lighter and warmer and warmer and warmer. Soon enough, they were stepping onto green grass outside a large forest. There was a shiny lamppost near where they had just come from.

So, it’s true, Curtis thought, it’s really true.

–39–

A Question to a Colour What warms life?

It’s a wholesome question for an egregious place, perchance, Some have memories of the past shrouded in a certain colour, I’ve heard, Sometimes, A fierce strong bright, Brilliant booming light, Or maybe an insecurity, perhaps, or…

Something around integrity and strength, Something about resilience and staying on the same wavelength, A certain vastness, maybe scary, somewhat comforting?

Maybe eerie, kind of bloodcurdling, But no, there’s warmth, And a texture, Like sleeping in on a warm morning, perhaps, Calming sunlight and raging skies, A mood of sorts, kind of, Maybe, What is it, no one can tell, Feelings of a summer afternoon?

The hot beaming sunshine?

I guess it differs between people, probably, A colour, Beating down on you? Conceivably, You don’t know if it’s, good or bad, What is this colour, A hyperbole, an exaggeration if you will, It’s everything you’d need it to be, A mix of two things separate, possibly, What is it?

Delicate, I think.

Luke Christian Sykes, Form V Photograph by Tingyi (Justin) Chen, Form V –40–

–41–

Smoke & Mirrors I walk the journey alone both day and night, with headlights blinding me from oncoming disaster, stars too dim to mark the nighttime path.

I stumble and fall, the blazing sun pounding, radiating from all sides— ache, pain, the sheer intensity burns my body.

I struggle to regain my footing, am utterly lost in my battle— confusion, rage, hopelessness echo in my skull.

Yet no one knows, no one feels, no one commiserates, no one consoles.

–42–

Society doesn’t know; it will never understand, for its perceptions are shaped by what it wants to see.

Focusing on the snapshots posted on social media, on the carefree smile one flashes when others walk by, on the material comforts easing the challenges of daily life, on the healthy pay cheque deposited regularly in the bank account.

Yet these creature comforts are merely a façade, curtains of billowing smoke, untruthful, misleading mirrors, creating an illusion to hide my painful reality.

If society truly wanted to know, my red leather journal carries the weight, the burden of truth, carries the tears, the anger, the jealousy.

The holes in my heart, in my life, depict the darkness, showing the truest colours, but these images will never be seen by human eyes, for then there would be no smoke or mirrors to hide the quiet desperation carried in my thoughts.

Aidan Feddema, Form VI

Photograph by

by Alfonso Alfonso Aguilar Aguilar Vázquez, Vázquez, Form Form VII VII Photograph –43–

Painting by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –44–

one through four

since and when if once and then with or lusting, six or ten a waiting room with more to less there has never been.

kept and tucked alive and f****** grounded fingers out-of-lucked a feather in the foreground and the blue.

wings are many always mine never any waste of time awake dead he called ahead no more counting crime.

Breath of thunder form of thin thicker more but coughing sin lost it who this costed this predicament i’m in.

Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII

–45–

–46–

August Sunrise With the first song of birds high up in the trees, the sweet breath of a youthful day has come.

The delicate leaves whispered calmly and with ease, unheard songs of summer carried by the bees’ hum.

My empty mind lusted for a liberating breath of life.

As I walked out and gladly left the memories behind; exhaled deeply, releasing the unspoken strife, I set out without knowing that I was still blind.

The flowers of the past became so meaningless, mistakes forgotten, like yesterday’s Wall Street Journal, the history of my soul so distant, yet so timeless, consciousness etched in weary time, made eternal.

But still I found hope in the August Sunrise, to bring change—a human’s most desired prize.

Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI

Drawing by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –47–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –48–

green

Icy Moon Drops While the night’s so dark and daunting, While the stars shimmer faintly and pale, Silent drops of water from the sky fall.

Ice cold touches familiar warmth Replacing the tears from the past.

Your gaze wanders towards the moon Resembling the shape of those moldy oranges Which have been lying on the counter for too many days.

But it did not matter; nothing mattered.

The last person left the street.

The man selling bananas Smiled at you— You didn’t return it though.

The ocean waves crashed in the distance.

The silence made the sound seem annoyingly loud.

The ice-cold moon hovered over you.

A salty drop ran down your cheek, And you closed your eyes and you fell asleep.

Lisa Eichmüller, Form VI

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –50–

–51–

The Once in a Lifetime Experience Death is not winter.

It is much more similar to spring.

The season of rebirth and new beginnings.

Our bodies are planted like seeds, while our ashes blow in the wind just like the seeds of dandelions.

We do not rot uselessly. That is not our fate.

We feed our mother as a giving of thanks, while also replenishing the ground, fertilizing it for the future of our children so they too, can enjoy life as we once did.

Aidan Condo, Form VII

A Simple Stump I am a stump Cut from a tree trunk As simple as it may seem I have been through a lot Moss has had the time to grow on me Pine needles have had the time to fall on me Sun and rain Summer and winter And I am still here Sometimes, friends pass by They don’t pay attention to me Since I am just a stump to them Covered by snow and leaves all year round This is my life but I would never trade what I have seen The construction of a community Right in front of my eyes Aglaée Bérard, III

Drawing by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VI –52–

–53–

–54–

Wooden Feelings I am a tree.

My long, thick branches reach over all I can see.

People, big and small, seek shade and shelter under me.

I provide warmth, And devotion, To those who sit beneath me.

Sometimes people come, To play, To hide, To cry, But either way I am here.

I am always here.

I might just be a piece of the forest, A shard of the mirror, But I can think, Feel, And listen.

Especially listen.

People try to cut me down, To strip me of my branches, My leaves, My soul.

But I feel just like anyone else, I am just like anyone else, Just not in the sense that you might think.

Emma Andrews, Form III

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –55–

Artwork by Mulan Fan, Form IV –56–

That Day I’m jealous of that day, Of the way I felt that day, When nothing really mattered And I was just living life on Earth.

I’m jealous of that day, Of the thoughts I had that day, Wondering why we’re doing this, Wondering why we’re killing Earth.

Just looking at the trees and grass, Not thinking about my past.

Just being thankful for what I have, Just being thankful for life.

Sofía Ramírez Garrido Toussaint, Form V

Beige Boring, but beautiful beige Being bold By being bland Bandages Brooms Bread Boxes But beautiful, Bronze, blonde Beaches Breathtaking Blurry Borderline broken.

But brave.

Brave by being bland Beautiful by being basic Bold by being boring.

Emma Andrews, Form III –57–

For Anne I stared into my goddaughter’s big blue eyes.

They sparkled with innocence, blind to the dangers of the world.

I reflected on the fact that I was once this young— like a dry sponge, ready to absorb anything I saw or heard, not yet exposed to any of society’s heavy pressures, not yet had my brain been rewired by the experiences that damaged my soul.

I prayed that she would never encounter the evils of this world.

The vulnerability of a child, something so precious, something that could shatter so easily, like a crystal glass being nudged off a table, yet I knew it was inevitable.

Practically impossible to live a fully pure life, she would grow up, as I did.

Experiences would shape her into her own being, she would turn her into a beautiful, caring person.

Her vast potential shined through her soul.

I wish I could protect her innocence forever, but I knew she would one day fret about the future, and this would be the day she had grown up.

Edith Klimoski, Form V

Painting by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VII –58–

–59–

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –60–

Lost in my Mind Have you ever seen a toothless shark, or a colourless rainbow?

Me? I’ve seen everything.

Because I’m a child with white hair and fading skin.

I feel like a prisoner.

I’m stuck like a blue whale in the Sahara desert.

Sometimes, I force myself to see the bright side of darkness, and to believe in things that exist, like the tooth fairy.

Somedays, blood is in my tomato bisque, and the moon is my only light.

I see the sunny days blurry, and the rainy days as a beautiful gift.

I can’t survive like a blind eagle.

Zack Morrissette, Form V

–61–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –62–

blue

Photograph by Sarah Francoeur, Form IV –64–

The First Dive The first time that I took a breath underwater, it was a new world.

The ocean was like a whole other planet, sitting right under us waiting to be discovered.

There were fish, turtles, and corals awaiting us.

In this vast space of blue, I wandered, discovering through my goggles and breathing through my tank.

I took slow breaths and pushed myself with my fins, and for miles there was nothing to hear but the peace of the underwater creatures swimming around.

Maya Goury, Form V

–65–

Blue Eyes They had a thousand hues of blue— dark and light, still an ocean of wonder— blue eyes touched by clouds before a storm.

They were ice to match the winter, but a river to match the spring.

Maya Goury, Form V

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –66–

Midnight The moon is a balloon You need a whole month to blow it round The moon is the last lamp That waits for you to come back home The moon is the nightlight That comforts a kid who wakes up from a nightmare The moon is the stamp That sends your homesickness to a distant place Youyang (Catherine) Guo, Form V –67–

Dull and Faded Nutless shells, reflectionless mirrors, dull knives.

Down to heaven and up to hell.

Huddles of waltzing broomsticks, all part of a master plan, programmed for nothing; expecting the best, deserving the worst.

Crowds of manufactured dolls, heads filled with absolute nothingness; high and mighty like lambs in an empty zoo.

Not realizing it’s worth equal to a French franc.

It is only at the break of dusk that truly it sees its true worth— dust.

Laura Carrière, Form V

Painting by Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form VI –68–

–69–

Winter We were splitting from within.

We had lived (recklessly), we had loved (carelessly), and now we were dying (desperately).

I could do nothing to save us you me, yet, there was so much left to save.

Who could have thought that ‘forever’ would never be long enough?

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

–70–

–71–

Coloured Foundations Bay, Berry, Blue.

How are you nowadays?

In that stream of trickling calm.

In that dank smelling cabinet.

In the eyes of that once Berry blue-eyed baby boy.

On that chewed-on pencil Which was the key to His world.

On those crumbling, chipped walls.

On the feathers of those birds Dwelling in the mixture of pine And colours.

On that Mustang ’69, Glistening was your paint.

Bay, Berry, Blue.

Are the emotions they Speak of you true?

If it were not for those memories, For the smell of wet grass, The itching between toes, The sweet and sour sound Of a garden hose.

For the etchings in the walls, The laughter in the stairwell, The slick feeling of wet feet On dry deck.

Were it not for all those things, I would believe them.

Bay, Berry, Blue.

I really miss you.

Anthony Herbst, Form VI

Photograph by Vivienne Webster, Form VI –72–

–73–

Estate Sale Dull Atlantic wind pushes her through the door.

The waves watch her, she shivers.

The air chills her skin.

A step, then another.

Clouds smother the sun.

She turns, looks, knows the top left room is quiet.

The thalassic roar tamed to a whimper.

Little hands grab at absence.

The waves watch. –74–

She stares back, her ears fill with salt.

Then, the moon.

Glass stars.

The waves sleep.

Shirt, skirt, shoes laid neatly on the sand.

A crab buys a shoe, leaving a shell in its place.

The waves claim a sock.

Gentle wind carries the shirt.

Little eyes look up at revolving dreams.

Vivienne Webster, Form VI

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –75–

Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VII –76–

purple

The Chill of Desire This weakness of hers is undisciplined low resonant voices, in lightless rooms.

Eyes you barely dare to look into.

She’s not seeking the warmth of a nest to settle in. A stagnate tie, that wipes out years of youth.

Hoping for a decisive hand to seize her breath, she scrutinizes every act.

Raising her eyes in an innocent manner, the gaze she throws speaks more than words.

She wants the icy cold, the crude and the bold.

Hurt me gently Squeeze me softly Bruise me lightly The hair lifts on her tense frame, knowing what she has incited.

Not the warmth of a blaze, but the chill of desire.

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –78–

She wants to be stunned with passion.

An empty passion.

The kind that makes your back arch, without making your chest ache.

The sheets feel like a vault; she’s happily stuck indoors.

She doesn’t bother forcing the lock— from the inside.

Elizabeth Couture, Form VII

–79–

The Natural World The natural world serves us with sun and shine.

As we bask, the polar bears drown.

As we thrive, the birds guzzle with tar.

As we play, the apes surrender their homes.

The natural world grants us with the ability to breathe.

As we dress ourselves, the children of poverty sleep with the looming fear of

no tomorrow.

Mother Nature is our guide, but where is she leading us?

To glory? To war?

The will to change our destiny lies within our own mind.

Act on the intention to change.

Jacoby Goodson, Form VII

–80–

Extremis I. I’m not ready to die.

Every kiss you burn into my skin pulls another leaf from my branches.

It is not autumn; my leaves are not ready.

Please, stop trying to kill me.

II. I’m not ready to die.

The way you hug me rips the bark from my trunk.

With each piece you strip away my joy, my youth, my sanity.

Please, stop trying to kill me.

III. I’m not ready to die.

Branches slowly tear from my trunk when you hold me and I resent the scars you etch into my chest.

You don’t deserve my love.

Please, stop trying to kill me.

IV. I’m not ready to die.

I shouldn’t crumble beneath your touch, but I do. Why does it hurt to be loved by you?

I can’t stop hurting if you keep loving me.

Please stop loving me.

Please, stop trying to kill me.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VII Drawing by LiYu (Laura) Tao, Form IV –81–

Façade I am standing alone, like a magnificent tower soaring miles above the ground.

The fragile belfries that surround me would swear I’d never crumble back down to the dust from which I rose.

But I am not truly made of stone, my roots are shaky and a simple gush of wind makes me tremble.

As the light of dawn crawls through my windows, it slowly scorches my delicate interior.

I become feebler by the day— and my days are numbered.

Time has caught up to me.

Life is slowly seeping out of the cracks on my walls.

My glory days have passed me by and they were replaced by far darker ones.

The beams that supported me have broken one by one and they’ve left no witnesses.

Dawn replaces dusk unforgivingly.

At the end of each day, the knell rings and echoes within me.

As dusk arrives, I fear the morning when my pieces will be scattered across the floor, pulverized.

I need a column to support me once again.

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –82–

at three a.m. i love you

at three am i love you different good from how i loved you at three pm different good is always for different bad is never now and you and i mean more than that which

always means (though always will never mean different and love is any which is always) again our love is different like sun from moon (and moon is you) its different good and good in always like moon and sun (and sun is you too) and it is never nothing but always which is love and may our love have bad in different? (like oceans crashing one on two) yes but no more bad than different which is different but different good (like tides that rise way more than you) this is never nothing but always true

though you and i mean more (than sun moon at war and more than bad which never means

always) we mean good bad different always different us will mean always now for three pm rises my i love you (and i promise, sun and moon) that (like stars) i will sing never your always but always your goodbyes on lonely skies at three am love i you now at nine pm a love which always means always and never means different

(not even different good) for different is for danger (but make like moon and do like sun) for safe is always which is you Cala Tesolin, Form VII

–83–

The Reluctant Fist of Injustice The seeping threat of corruption slithers toward the common family as the horns of war bellow in the distance.

The reluctant fist of injustice waits for its next victim.

As the weak become weaker and the rich become richer, the judge who upholds the truth is nudged into the shadows before his inevitable demise.

The free world is dead.

Jacoby Goodson, Form VII

Hidden Hope Sunglasses hide a waterfall of tears slipping down her cheeks.

She reaches in her back pocket for her fake smile.

No one can know what she feels: aching emptiness, loneliness, unrequited love.

But then comes a hug from behind, warming her fragile body.

The soft lilac voice of a friend speaking her name silences the lies.

She dares to lift the amethyst glasses to gaze on a world drenched in light.

Priscilla Allatt, Form V

–84–

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII –85–

Abécédaire poétique La vie, c’est comme une aiguille, elle pique les moindres défauts La vie est une académie, elle t’enseigne tout ce que tu dois apprendre La vie, c’est comme un brouillon, on peut toujours l’améliorer La vie est un bus qui te mène vers ta destinée La vie, c’est comme une cage à oiseaux pour certains La vie est une carte sur laquelle sont tracés plein de chemins La vie, c’est comme un dessin qui s’anime La vie est un défi que chacun doit relever La vie, c’est comme une échelle, chaque barreau franchi te mène plus près de la fin La vie est un empire que l’on doit construire La vie, c’est comme une fable racontée aux enfants La vie est une fantaisie pour les petits et les grands La vie, c’est comme une gageure, on peut gagner ou perdre La vie est gratuite mais souvent gaspillée La vie, c’est comme l’hiver, elle te donne des frissons La vie est une hallucination d’un monde meilleur La vie, c’est comme une inéquation, parfois les éléments ne vont pas ensemble La vie est une illusion, rien n’est comme il y parait La vie, c’est comme un jeu complexe où tu ne connais pas les règles La vie est un jargon souvent incompréhensible La vie, c’est comme le karma qui t’attend au détour La vie est un kayak qui vogue sur une rivière d’idées La vie, c’est comme un livre qu’on écrit La vie est un labeur, il faut travailler fort pour atteindre ses buts La vie, c’est comme mourir de bonheur La vie est une maison remplie de souvenirs –86–

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VII

La vie, c’est comme de la neige fraichement tombée

La vie est un nuage de pensées

La vie, c’est comme de l’or, elle est précieuse et rare

La vie est un ouragan de possibilités

La vie, c’est comme un périple dans un monde inconnu

La vie est préoccupante

La vie, c’est comme un questionnaire aux réponses infinies

La vie est une question à laquelle on ne peut pas répondre La vie, c’est comme une radio qui diffuse sans arrêt

La vie est le remède à toutes nos plaies

La vie, c’est comme le sacrifice de la perfection

La vie est une scène sur laquelle on peut s’exprimer La vie, c’est comme le triage des forts et des faibles

La vie est un tatouage qui nous marque à tout jamais La vie, c’est comme l’union des émotions

La vie est un univers sans limite

La vie, c’est comme un vent d’inspiration

La vie est un voilier poussé par le vent des idées La vie, c’est comme un wombat, elle te fait sourire par son étrangeté

La vie est un wagon qui te transporte vers ton destin La vie, c’est comme un xylophone mélodieux

La vie est un xylographe qui grave des inscriptions sur le monde La vie, c’est comme un yo-yo qui monte et qui descend au rythme des réussites et des échecs

La vie est une yole qui vogue sur un ruisseau

La vie, c’est comme un zancle aux couleurs aussi vives que l’arc-en-ciel

La vie est le zeste qui met la touche finale à notre monde.

La classe de français, langue d’enseignement, Form III

–87–

Index by author Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso Façade............................................82 forever I will love you....................23 Summer.........................................19 Unintentional................................13 Winter............................................70 Allatt, Priscilla Hectic Hall.....................................21 Hidden Hope..................................84 Andrews, Emma Beige..............................................57 The Golden Harp (excerpt)......38–39 Wooden Feelings............................55 Bérard, Aglaée A Simple Stump............................52

Carrière, Laura Dull and Faded..............................68 Couture, Elizabeth The Chill of Desire.........................78 Eichmüller, Lisa Icy Moon Drops.............................50 Feddema, Aidan The Once In a Lifetime Experience..................52 Smoke & Mirrors.....................42–43

Goodson, Jacoby The Natural World........................80 The Reluctant Fist of Injustice......84

–88–

Goury, Maya Blue Eyes.......................................66 The First Dive................................65 What is Love?................................12

Guo, Youyang (Catherine) Black Swan....................................30 Midnight........................................67 The Rain..........................................8 Herbst, Anthony Coloured Foundations...................72

Klimoski, Edith For Anne........................................58 Kolankowska, Zofia August Sunrise.............................47 Coincés ..........................................33 Goodbyes........................................37 La classe de français, langue d’enseignement, Form III Abécédaire poétique.......................87 Lavoie-Condo, Jurney Erosion...........................................31

Macfarlane, Izzy A Brief Reminder...........................10 one through four............................45

Morissette, Zack A Pet Name....................................36 Lost in My Mind...........................61

Ramírez Garrido Toussaint, Sofía That Day........................................57

Skolimowska, Zuzanna Eve.................................................20 Soucy, Justine Storms Don’t Shine Orange..........28

Sykes, Luke Christian A Question to a Colour..................40

Tesolin, Cala at three a.m. i love you...................83 holy................................................16 Whispers in the Spring....................9

Trinidad Lorenzo, Naydeline Yasmin My First and Only Best Friend.....14

Webster, Vivienne Estate Sale................................74–75 Zeitlinger Fontana, Violetta dis.so.nance....................................26 Extremis.........................................81 I Owe You No Explanation...........15 summer affairs...............................90

Index by artist Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso Bebe Bad...................................66–67 Cotton Candy..........................42–43 Crystal Showers.......................50–51 Drifting Away.........................74–75 The Fall....................................60–61 Flazéda...........................................79 Fulfilling..................................70–71 Lover’s Dream...............................32 Lover’s Lock...................................83 Party City................................86–87 Roots........................................54–55 S & S........................................28–29 Show Me the Way..........................27 Soaring....................................18–19 Spirit........................................84–85 Chen, Tingyi (Justin) Losing Control.........................40–41

Fan, Mulan Strays in the World of Green.........56 Where Are You Upon To ................................... 30–31& 57

Francoeur, Sarah Ocean Antics...........................64–65 Huang, Zhengrui (Angel) Spring......................................22–23

Kerub, Mia Mellow Melting.............................14

Kolankowska, Zofia Dancing With My Ghosts.............11 Determination...............................46 Dual Consciousness.......................17 Ice Cold Dawn.........................44–45 Inception of Reality........................53 Mirrored Feelings..........................13

Lavoie-Condo, Jurney Back to Blue...................................69

Macfarlane, Izzy Arthur............................................63 Arthur’s Rainbow..........................62 Bailey...............................................7 Bailey’s Rainbow.............................6 Darcy.............................................25 Darcy’s Rainbow...........................24 Everybody’s Rainbow....... back cover Heather..........................................49 Heather’s Rainbow........................48 Lachlan..........................................35 Lachlan’s Rainbow.........................34 Zicca..............................................77 Zicca’s Rainbow.............................76 Tao, LiYu (Laura) A Flower, A World...........................8 The Spirit of Wind.........................80 Tan Girl.........................................36 Wang, Jie (Coco) The Elementalists—Earth.......58–59 The Elementalists—Fire................21

Webster, Vivienne Cotton Blue..............................72–73

–89–

summer affairs the summer slips between my fingers. good times caught only by words. i don’t want to forget they way your hands felt, the way your laugh sounded, the way our midnight snacks smelled, the way the sunsets glowed, the way our drinks tasted— and so i write. the words catch the feelings, the sounds, the smells, the sights, and the tastes, because poetry is the the only way to immortalize my happiness; my memories of you.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VII

–90–

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine • 2019–2020 • Volume XXXVIII