Voices 2016

Voices

VOICES 10

Holly Roth

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Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King Street Greenwich, CT 06831 Phone: (203) 531-6500 contact infoFax: (203) 531-5206 voices2016@cshct.org cshgreenwich.org

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Caroline Roche

VOICES Volume 10 May 2016 statement of philosophy Statement of Philosophy

The education of each student of Convent of the Sacred Heart is founded on the commitment to the Goals and Criteria of the Network of Sacred Heart Schools. One such principle encourages students to be "active and informed" in today's global world. Voices, a multilingual art and literary magazine, encourages each young woman to express her creative energy. It highlights student perspectives through prose and poetry in six different languages and multi-media artwork.

This magazine is created by a dedicated group of students who give a louder voice to these languages by selecting writing and artwork from their student body. Translation is an essential creative element of the magazine, and each foreign language piece faces and English version to broaden the understanding of the written works.

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Tracey Hagan

Editorial Board

Victoria Paternina, Editor-In-Cheif & Submissions Caroline Roche, Editor-In-Cheif & Layout Language Editors

Isabella Capponiti, English Editor Ally Grusky, Spanish Editor Nebai Hernandez, Art Editor Tatiana Lieberman, Chinese Editor Victoria Paternina, French and Latin Editor Caroline Roche, Arabic Editor Staff

Magdelena Dutkowska Corina Gonzalez Kiki Ventura

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Faculty Advisors Renee Rodriguez Montserrat GarcĂ­a Special Thanks

World Languages Department Arts Department Recognition

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist 2007, 2008, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist 2014

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Colleen Deconcini

Table of Contents

Cover Alison Danahy, Acrylic

Title Page Holly Roth, Digital Design Information Caroline Roche, Digital Photography Statement of Philosophy Tracey Hagan, Digital Photography Editorial Board Colleen Deconcini, Digital Photography Table of Contents Anna Bella, Pencil

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3.

4.

9.

Arabic

Christina Weiler, Acrylic The Keys, Fatima Kandil English Translation, Madison Miles Ava Vanech, Watercolor

Nebai Hernandez, Pencil

13.

14.

The Alchemist, Anna-Luisa Brakman Julia Pogge, Acrylic

16.

English Version by Anna-Luisa Brakman Julia Pogge, Acrylic

6 No More, No Less, Mahmoud Darwish Interpretive Translation by Izzy Parker

Nebai Hernandez, Oil

19.

Chinese

Nebai Hernandez, Acrylic Wish, Hu Shi English Translation by Stephanie Browder Victoria Paternina, Digital Photography

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Emily Miller, Digital Photography

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I Sing My Own Song, Gu Cheng

Caroline Roche, Digital Photography

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English Translation by Mackenzie Jordan

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Variations of The Stars, Jiang He

Tatiana Lieberman, Digital Photography

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English Translation, Grace Smith

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French

Ava Vanech, Watercolor and Colored Pencil Haiti, Jodanna Domond Kate Gerstner, Oil

The Silver Key, Clare Hammonds Tracey Hagan, Digital Photography

English Version by Clare Hammonds

38.

41.

Courtney Smith, Colored Pencil

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Christina Weiler, Conte Crayon

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A Voyage, Gisele Pineau English Translation by Courtney Smith Delia Hughes, Digital Photography

The Girl With the Blue Ribbon, Courtney Smith Bridget Ann Murphy, Pen and Ink

English Version by Courtney Smith Lilly Pura, Mixed Media

The Cat and The Bird, Jacques Prevert English Translation by Jacqueline Beshoory Nebai Hernandez, Watercolor

Spanish

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49.

51.

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Spanish

Molly Smith, Acrylic Empty Until It Is Filled, Abi Shea English Version by Abi Shea Abi Shea, Digital Photography

Anger, Jacqui Kaplan

Katherine Sepulveda, Acrylic

English Version, Jacqui Kaplan Lauren Capolongo, Mixed Media

The Islanders, Cristina Baptista English Translation by Victoria Paternina

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59.

60.

Zoryana Makarenko, Watercolor and Acrylic

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Katrina Rodriguez, Digital Photography

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The Root of the Moon, Ally Grusky Digital Photography, Abi Shea

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English Translation by Victoria Paternina

68.

Light, Kate Gerstner English Version by Kate Gerstner Kate Gerstner, Digital Photography

The American Dream, Kiki Ventura English Version by Kiki Ventura Caroline Roche, Digital Photography

Waiting for Justice, Christina Weiler

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Zoryana Makarenko, Oil

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English Version by Christina Weiler

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Caroline Roche and Victoria Paternina Mixed Media

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Don Quixote, SoďŹ a Barbosa

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Variety

Kate Gerster, Watercolor The Sheep and The Wolves(Latin and English)

by Clare Hammonds

84.

Emily Wiele, Colored Pencil and Watercolor

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Goodnight (Polish), Adam Mickiewicz English Translation by Magdalena Dutkowska

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Tatiana Lieberman, Digital Photography

Editorial Policy

Emily Miller, Digital Photography

90.

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Christina Weiler

Arabic

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Ava Vanech

‫ا‬ Fatima Kandil ‫اب‬

‫ ا‬

‫اب‬

‫ ا‬

‫ ا‬

‫ ا‬ ‫ ا‬

‫ ا‬

‫ ا‬

‫ إ درا ا‬

‫ت‬

‫ا‬

‫ح ا ي‬

،

‫وا‬

‫ ا‬

‫ أ ن إ أة‬

‫ أ اب‬. . . .

‫ آن ا‬

The Keys Madison Miles

The keys that open doors are the keys that close the doors, and the keys that are hooked in chains do have but drama sound.

But the key that dies in my pocket reminds me that it is time to be a rational woman who lives in a house

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Nebai Hernandez

‫ا‬

‫ ‪Anna-Luisa Brakman‬‬

‫ا‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ ‬

‫ ب ‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ إ ‬ ‫‪ ،‬‬ ‫ ‬

‫ل و ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ‬

‫‪ .‬ن ‬ ‫ إ ‬ ‫ و‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ع ‬ ‫‪ .‬‬ ‫ إ‬ ‫ ا ة‪ .‬و ‬ ‫ة‪.‬‬

‫ ا ب و ش ت ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ذ ‪ .‬أ‬ ‫ ز ج و ا‬ ‫ ‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ و ‬ ‫ ا ج ‬

‫ إ‬ ‫‪ ،‬وأ ء ا‬ ‫إ ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ ا ة‪.‬‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ و ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ُ َ ‬ ‫ إ ا ة و ‬ ‫ ر ‬ ‫و‬ ‫‪ .‬ول ‬ ‫ و ف ‬ ‫ ً‬ ‫ ا ‪،‬‬ ‫ ا ي ا‬ ‫ ض ر و‬ ‫أن ‬ ‫ أن ا ‬ ‫أت و ل أ‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫و ا‬ ‫ ن‬ ‫ و أ أن ك ا‬ ‫و‬ ‫ أن‬ ‫ ‬ ‫‪ .‬ع ا ‬ ‫ة ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ا ى‬ ‫ ا ن ‬ ‫ ذ ا‬ ‫ا ن ا ي ‬ ‫ ا ول‪.‬‬ ‫ن ‬

‫‪16‬‬

‫ إ ا‬ ‫د ‬ ‫ر إ ا م ‬

‫ وو ا ذ ا ن ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ا إ‬ ‫و وج ‬ ‫‪.‬‬ ‫ر ا و إ ‬

‫ت ا اءة ب ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ن أن دد ا‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ا ة و أن ا ا‬ ‫ ُ ر و‬

‫ أ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ة ‬ ‫ات ‬ ‫د ‬ ‫ ا ة وأن ‬ ‫ب أي إ ن‪ .‬‬

‫‪Julia Pogge‬‬

‫‪17‬‬

Juia Pogge

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Review of The Alchemist Anna-Luisa Brakman The Alchemist is a book about a boy named Santiago living in Andalucia, Spain. Santiago sold his herd in order to make the long journey to Egypt in a search for treasure at Giza. On his way to Egypt, Santiago stopped in Morocco and lived there for a short period of time, working at a crystal merchant’s shop and ultimately becoming rich. The crystal merchant encourages Santiago to follow his dreams and go to Egypt. On a caravan to Egypt from Morocco, Santiago meets the renowned Alchemist and learns a great deal about life from him.

Santiago eventually reaches Egypt, however, Santiago and his friends are robbed. Santiago tries to explain to the robbers that he is searching for treasure in Giza and means no harm. The gang of robbers mock him, claiming that dreams are unrealistic, and recount a dream that they once had of treasure in Andalucia, under a tree by a church. Santiago immediately realizes that the robber is talking about a place in which he lived at the novel’s beginning. Santiago returns to Andalucia and finds the treasure under the tree where his journey began. Santiago then returns to Al-Fayoum, a town in Egypt, and marries a woman named Fatima whom he met during his first trip.

This book’s message is to not be afraid of change or risks because ultimately, the real treasure in our lives is our experiences and carrying out our own personal fate.

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‫أ ‪ ,‬و أ‬ ‫َ‬

‫‪Mahmoud Darwish‬‬

‫أ َ ا ُ أةٌ‪ .‬أ َ و أ َ‬ ‫ ِ َ‬ ‫ُ ‬ ‫أَ‬ ‫َ ْ ً َ َ ْ ً‬ ‫وأ َ ِ ُل ُ‬ ‫َ ُ ‪ ,‬‬ ‫ ‬ ‫َ (( أ َو ‬ ‫ُ َ ‬ ‫َ ُ‬ ‫َ )) ُ‬ ‫وأ َرى أ َرى‬ ‫ ُ َ ‪ِ ِ ْ ,‬‬ ‫ُ ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ أ َ أ ُ‬ ‫وآ َ ِ‬ ‫رِة’‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ِ ‬ ‫ُ ْ اً‬ ‫ت‬ ‫‪ :‬‬ ‫ َوَر ِ ا‬ ‫ْ َ‬ ‫ى‪.‬‬ ‫إ ّ ا‬ ‫وري ‬ ‫ض ا‬ ‫أ ُ ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ت ا‬ ‫ ً إ ا ُ‬ ‫ ُ ُ ا م‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ا‬ ‫ ُ ُ ا ُ ى‬ ‫و‬ ‫أ َ ا أة ‪ ,‬أ َ و أ َ‬ ‫ُ َ ُ َز ْ َةُ ا ز ‪,‬‬ ‫ آذار ‪ ,‬‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ُ ‪:‬‬ ‫ً إ ل ا‬ ‫َ ء ا‬ ‫ ُورَد ‬ ‫))ا ُ‬ ‫ َ َ ٍ وا‬ ‫ ‪ ,‬وأ ُ‬ ‫أَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫أ َ أ َ ‪ َ َ ,‬ا ً‬ ‫أ َو ُ َى‬ ‫ٌر ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫ ‬ ‫و‬ ‫َ ‪ ٌ ,‬إ‬ ‫ ‪ ,‬‬ ‫و‬ ‫ أ َ‬ ‫ُ ا و ذاك‬ ‫و‬ ‫ُ ‬ ‫’ ‬ ‫ً و ا ً‬

‫((‬

‫‪20‬‬

No More, No Less Translation by Izzy Parker I am a woman, no more and no less I play the cards I have been dealt. thread by thread, I weave my wool To finish the long tale of Homer and the sun.

I see what I see as my eyes rarely betray something’s true form.

As I stare every now and then into the shadows as if hearing the heartbeat of the damage I write tomorrow on the paper of yesterday: there’s no sound except the echo.

I love the ambiguity required in the words of the night traveler travels with the birds on top of the slope of speech soaring above the roofs of villages.

I am a woman, no more no less

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Nebai Hernandez

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Nebai Hernandez

Chinese

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希望 作者：胡适 我从⼭中来 带得兰花草, 种在⼩园中, 希望开花好。 ⼀⽇看三回, 望得花时过; 急坏看花⼈, 苞也⽆⼀个。

眼⻅秋天到, 移花供在家; 明年春⻛回, 祝汝满盆花!

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Victoria Paternina

Wish Original Version: HĂş ShĂŹ English: Stephanie Browder

I come from the mountains A small orchardgrass perches in my hands I approach a small, yet beautiful garden where I set the orchard into the soil I aspire that in the future it will develop into a beautiful blossom of flowers

Everyday I gaze at the opulent plant three times I glance at it all the time even if spring and summer has come to an end I become so anxious when I lay my eyes on it I wait and wait, but nothing sprouts from the flower bud Soon, fall becomes the present The flower disappears Next year the spring will soon return I am hopeful that one day the pot will be stocked with exquisite flowers

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Emily Miller

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Caroline Roche 28

我唱⾃⼰歌 作者：顾城 我唱⾃⼰的歌 在布满⻋前草的道路上 在灌⽊的集市上 在雪松和⽩桦树的舞会上 在那⼭野的原始欢乐上 我唱⾃⼰的歌

我唱⾃⼰的歌 在热电⼚恐怖的烟云中 在变速箱复杂的组织中 在砂轮的亲吻中 在那社会⽂明的运⾏中 我唱⾃⼰的歌

我唱⾃⼰的歌 既不陌⽣⼜不熟练 我是练习曲的孩⼦ 愿意加⼊所有歌队 为了不让规范的⼈们知道 我唱⾃⼰的歌

我唱呵，唱⾃⼰的歌

直到世界恢复了史前的寂寞 细⻓的⽉亮 从海边向我⾛来 轻轻地问： 为什么？ 你唱⾃⼰的歌

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I Sing My Own Song Mackenzie Jordan

I sing my own song –

on the grass road,

at the market in the woods,

by the dancing pine and birch trees,

on the mountain of joy,

I sing my own song.

I sing my own song –

in the polluted – smoky atmosphere,

in complex organizations,

in construction’s cycle of destruction,

in the progression of civilization,

I sing my own song.

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I sing my own song, Not poorly, not skillfully – I only practiced melodies as a child.

I willingly join singing teams whenever possible.

Do not let the government know – I sing my own song

I sing, sing my own song, until the world returns to ancient loneliness.

The crescent moon walked from the sea towards me, And asked me – Why do you sing your own song?

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星星变奏曲: 作者: 江河

如果⼤地的每个⻆落都充满了光明 谁还需要星星， 谁还会在夜⾥凝望 寻找遥远的安慰

谁不愿意, 每天都是⼀⾸诗 每⼀个字都是⼀颗星 像蜜蜂在⼼头颤动

谁不愿意, 有⼀个柔软的晚上

柔软得像⼀⽚ 萤⽕⾍和星星在睡莲丛中游动

谁不喜欢春天，⻦落满枝头 像星星落满天空 闪闪烁烁的声⾳从远⽅飘来 ⼀团团⽩丁⾹ 朦朦胧胧 32

如果⼤地的每个⻆落都充满了光明 谁还需要星星, 谁还会在寒冷中寂寞地燃烧 寻求星星点点的希望

谁愿意⼀年⼜⼀年总写苦难的诗 每⼀⾸都是⼀群颤抖的星星 像冰雪覆盖在⼼头

谁愿意，看着夜晚冻僵 僵硬得像⼀⽚⼟地 ⻛吹落⼀颗⼜⼀颗瘦⼩的星

谁不喜欢飘动的旗⼦， 喜欢⽕涌出⾦⻩的星星 在天上的星星疲倦了的时候——升起 去照亮太阳照不到的地⽅

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Variations Of The Stars Gracie Smith If every corner of the earth is full of light, Who will still need the stars?

Who will stare at the stars in the night sky, Searching for comfort in the far distance?

Who wouldn't want To live everyday like it is a poem?

Every word is like a star, Fluttering just like bees in your heart.

Who wouldn't want To have a soft and comfortable night?

A night warm and still like a lake, With fireflies and stars floating between the sleeping lotus.

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Who wouldn't like spring?

When the branches of the trees are full of singing birds Just like the night sky is full of stars, Sounds echo and float from far distances, And fat bundles of white lilacs float on the mist.

If every corner of the earth is full of light, Who will still need the stars?

Who will still burn with loneliness in the cold weather Searching for a little bit of hope among the stars.

Who wants every year to be like a suffering poem?

Every poem is like a group of shivering stars That cover your heart in ice and snow.

Who wants a frozen night?

The sky is frozen like the hard land, And the skinny stars are blown from the sky by the wind.

Who doesn't like to see the waving flags, Like a golden star coming forth from the fire?

When the stars in the sky become tired, the golden star rises up, And shines on the place where the sun cannot reach.

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Tatiana Lieberman

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Ava Vanech

French French

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Haïti Jodanna Domond

Je te vois chaque année avec ton eau douce et claire, ton sable blanc légèrement brulé, qui me chauffe les jambes, pendant que mes doigts caressent la noix de coco verdoyant.

Mes lèvres rencontrent l’ouverture de la nxoix, et son jus glacé coule dans ma bouche.

Le vent doux saisit les gouttes qui s’étalent sur la figure et ruissellent sur les bras.

Je me mets dans tes eaux, avec mon regard fixé clairement sur les pieds, et je vois ton interminable bassin baiser le ciel.

Je me tourne placidement vers ton terrain émerveillée de tes montagnes vastes et fleurissantes.

Tes palmiers éparpillés partout dans les collines font avec leurs feuilles un signe de bienvenue Une bienvenue à mon pays.

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Kate Gerstner

Haiti Jodanna Domond I see you every year, with your waters nice and clear, your lightly burnt sand, that envelops and warms my legs, as my fingers caress the verdant coconut.

My lips meet the opening in the round nut, while it’s cool juice flows through my mouth.

The soft wind catches the drops, smearing them all over my face and dripping down my arms.

I stand in your pool, with my gaze fixed upon my feet, seeing your endless basin kissing the sky.

I turn towards your terrain, in awe of your vast blossoming mountains.

Your palm trees scattered throughout the hills wave to me with their branches as a welcome— A welcome to my country.

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Tracey Hagan

La clé d'argent Clare Hammonds Ce poème est inspiré par un roman de Gisèle Pineau: Un Papillon dans la Cité.

Nous ne sommes pas nés avec une clé Mais tout le monde en reçoit, que ce soit D'un ami ou d'un membre de la famille, Au moment ou nous sommes prêts.

Mais, on n'a pas le pouvoir De nous montrer la porte: La porte de la connaissance.

Pour cela, nous devons vivre.

Nous devons avoir des aventures, Nous devons étudier dur, Nous devons nous découvrir, Nous devons vivre. À travers nos expériences, Nous accédons à la porte, Et avec nos clés, Nous pouvons l'ouvrir.

La porte révélera Des idées merveilleuses.

Mais, seulement si nous Vivons la vie au maximum.

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Courtney Smith

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The silver key Clare Hammonds This poem is inspired by a novel written by Gisèle Pineau: Un Papillon dans la CitÊ

Not born with a key, Everyone receives one, Given by a friend or family member, When we appear ready.

But, they do not have the power To show us the door: The door of knowledge.

For that, we must live.

We must experience adventures, We must study and learn, We must discover ourselves: We must live.

Through our experiences, We gain access to the door And with our keys, We gain the opportunity to open it.

The door reveals Marvelous ideas.

But, only if we live life to the fullest.

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Christina Weiler

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Un Voyage (Inspire par Gisèle Pineau)

l’avion, une étoile filante dans la nuit un papillon qui vole sans relâche

une couverture de silence tombe et les yeux regardent par le hublot comme de petites perles d’un animal en peluche

le hublot révèle un petit monde un monde de petites poupées qui conduisent de petites voitures et mangent de petits repas

l'avion passe à travers les nuages qui se répandent dans l’obscurité une vague de soleil submerge le papillon dans le ciel des rayons entrent dans l’avion comme des fléchettes des fléchettes qui percent le coeur de la nuit

l’avion, le grand papillon, a l’air de planer dans le ciel et il atterrit sur une petite île pour reposer ses ailes fatiguées.

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A Voyage Kelsey Donovon the plane, a shooting star in the night the butterfly who flies relentlessly a blanket of silence falls eyes look out the porthole like the little beads of a stuffed animal the window reveals a small world a world of small dolls who drive small cars and eat small meals the plane breaks through the clouds that disperse with the night a wave of sunshine submerges the butterfly in the sky sun rays enter the plane like arrows arrows that pierce the heart of the night the airplane, the large butterfly, seems to soar through the sky landing on a small island to rest its tired wings 47

Delia Hughes

Bridget Ann Murphy

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La Fille Avec Le Ruban Bleu Courtney Smith

Ma respiration est profonde et forte.

Je suis focalisée, nerveuse, mais concentrée.

J’attends le son de la musique, prête à faire la danse.

La pianiste joue la première phrase de musique.

Elle est douce et rapide.

Je sens la musique dans mon corps.

Elle me fait avancer, guidant mes jambes au-dessus de la scène.

Un sourire sur mon visage, j’incarne la confiance.

Ensemble, les danseuses créent une image en mouvement.

Avec elegance, le mouvement me dirige.

Comme une mère et sa fille, il me tient.

Sur la scène, je me sens animée.

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50

Lilly Pura

The Girl with the Blue Ribbon

My breathing is deep and strong.

I am focused, nervous, but concentrating.

I wait for the sound of the music, ready to dance.

The pianist plays the first phrase of music.

It is soft and quick.

I feel the music in my body.

It moves me forward, guiding my legs above the stage.

A smile on my face, I embody confidence.

Together, the dancers create a moving image.

With elegance, the movement leads me.

Like a mother and her daughter, it holds me.

On the stage, I feel alive.

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Le Chat et L’Oiseau Jacques Prévert Un village écoute désolé Le chant d'un oiseau blessé C'est le seul oiseau du village Et c'est le seul chat du village Qui l'a à moitié dévoré Et l'oiseau cesse de chanter Le chat cesse de ronronner Et de se lécher le museau Et le village fait à l'oiseau De merveilleuses funérailles Et le chat qui est invité Marche derrière le petit cercueil de paille Où l'oiseau mort est allongé Porté par une petite fille Qui n'arrête pas de pleurer « Si j'avais su que cela te fasse tant de peine, Lui dit le chat, Je l'aurais mangé tout entier Et puis j'aurais raconté Que je l'avais vu s'envoler S'envoler jusqu'au bout du monde Là-bas où c'est tellement loin Que jamais on n'en revient Tu aurais eu moins de chagrin Simplement de la tristesse et des regrets. » Il ne faut jamais faire les choses à moitié.

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The Cat and The Bird Jacqueline Beshoory

A town listening sadly, The song of a wounded bird.

It’s the only bird of the village.

And the only cat of the village Had half eaten it.

And the bird stops singing, The cat stops purring, And licking its muzzle.

And the village makes for the bird A wonderful funeral Which the cat is invited to.

He walks behind the short straw coffin Where the dead bird is lying, Carried by a little girl Who cannot stop crying.

“If I had known it would make you so sad, Said the cat, to the girl I’d have eaten it entirely And then I would have said I saw him fly away Fly to the end of the world, There where it is so far That no one ever returns.

You would have had less grief, Just sadness and regret.”

Never do things half-way.

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Nebai Hernandez

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Spanish Spanish

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Molly Smith Molly Smith

Vacío Hasta que Se llena Abi Shea Realidad.

Original, duradera Viviendo, respirando, buscando Verdad, Vida. Espejo, Silencio Copiando, emparejando, esperando.

Prestado, breve.

Reflejo.

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Bote. móvil, cambiante.

Viajando, dirigiendo, moviendo Viajes, veleros, cabañas, duración.

Llamando, sentando, esperando. duradera, robusta.

Casa.

Empty Until It Is Filled Reality.

Original. lasting Living, breathing, searching Truth, Life. Mirror, Silence Copying, matching, waiting.

Lending, shortly.

Reflection.

Abi Shea Boat. mobile, changing.

Traveling, managing, moving Trips, sailboats, cabanas, duration.

Calling, sitting, waiting.

Lasting, robust.

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Katherine Sepulveda

Enfado Jacqui Kaplan

Lo siento en mi cabeza, Como él bebe su cerveza.

Lo siento en mis pies, Como ella empieza también.

Cuando mi mamá grita, Cuando mi papá golpea, Lo siento en mi cabeza.

Lo siento en mi nariz.

Mis manos tiemblan.

Las pulsaciones de mis venas.

Mi cabeza palpita, Y mi madre grita, “ay hija.”

La sangre deja de fluir, Y no puedo oír. Él bebe el licor, Mientras yo tengo mucho rencor.

Llamé a la policía, Un abrazo era lo que quería.

Mi madre y yo estamos en la calle.

Nuestras vidas son abominables.

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Anger

I feel it in my head, As he drinks beer.

I feel it in my feet, As she also starts.

When my mom yells, When my dad hits, I feel it in my head.

I feel it in my nose.

My hands tremble.

My veins throb.

My head pounds, And my mom yells “ay hija.�

The blood stops flowing, And I cannot hear.

He drinks the liquor, While I have much rancor.

I called the police, But all I wanted was a hug.

My mom and I left for the streets, And now our lives are abominable.

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Lauren Capolongo

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The Islanders Cristina Baptista Every bit of dust out here is shattered.

Men who board with volcanic ash from these purple ports tucked into the folds of torn

shoes are shown without the earth they call home.

Wind and water are both friend and foe, the wash-clean forces

that unite and engage all men, make them holy

and chafed. Every bit of dust is a memory, a chant,

a morning fog that flutters lighter than sails,

dispersing like a great breath, a recognizable heave – a sigh.

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Los isleños Victoria Paternina

Cada pizca de polvo aquí fuera está destrozada.

Hombres que se embarcan con la ceniza volcánica de estos puertos escondido entre los pliegues de rasgado

los zapatos se muestran sin la tierra que llaman al hogar.

El viento y el agua son dos amigos y enemigos, las fuerzas de lavado limpia que unen e involucran a todos los hombres, para hacerlos santos e irritado. Cada pizca de polvo es un recuerdo, un canto,

una niebla por la mañana que revolotea más ligero que las velas,

dispersando como un gran aliento, un tirón reconocible - un suspiro.

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Zoryana Makarenko

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Katrina Rodriguez

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La raíz de la luna Ally Grusky Cuando hay una luna llena, nunca puedo conciliar el sueño.

Me siento en la ventana y pienso: la misma, la misma en todos los países del mundo

En México es la misma.

En Rusia es la misma.

En Alemania, en China, en Australia, es la misma

¿Es un cliché, no?

La luna es la misma.

Fantaseaba.

Pero todos los clichés tienen algo de verdad

Cuándo te mudas a otro sitio o viajas a otro lugar.

La luna es la misma.

Es el referente.

Raíz de esperanza frente a la enajenación y el aislamiento

Repleta y clara.

Cambiando con el mes.

Nos atrae.

Y nos da un hogar para animar nuestra con ianza.

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cuando estamos aislados cuando estamos tristes y solos cuando queremos gritar y arrodillarnos desesperados, nos dice que hay algo.

Algo que mirar en las partes más oscuras de nuestras almas.

En nuestros ojos está re lejada la luna.

El hueco entre nosotros es cada vez más pequeño, cada vez más ligero.

No hay diferencia entre nosotros y la luna.

Solo hay un ser Lunahumano Humanoluna Raíz y árbol.

Solos y juntos.

La raíz de la luna es nosotros.

Nosotros somos la raíz de la luna.

Nos tira la luna más cerca.

Cotidiana.

Tiramos la luna más cerca—

Una nube pasa de repente por delante de la cara.

Termina ese momento, para volver a la cama

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Abi Shea

The Root of the Moon English Translation: Victoria Paternina When there is a full moon, I can never fall asleep.

I sit at the window and think: It’s the same, the same in all countries of the world In Mexico it’s the same. in Russia it’s the same.

In Germany, in China, in Australia, it's the same

It’s a cliché, right?

The moon is the same.

Fantasized.

But all the clichés have some truth

When you move to a new place or travel to another destination.

The moon is the same.

It is our guide The root of the hope that is against alienation and isolation

Full and clear.

Changing with the month.

We are attracted to it.

And it gives us a home to encourage our con idence.

A trust that when we are isolated 68

when we are sad and alone when we scream and kneel desperately, tells us that there is something.

Something to look at in the darkest parts of our souls.

In our eyes the moon is re lected.

The gap between us is getting smaller, increasingly lighter.

There's no difference between us and the moon.

There is only one being Lunahumano

Humanoluna Roots and tree.

Alone together.

The root of the moon is us.

We are the root of the moon.

The moon pulls us closer, everyday.

We pull the moon closer

A cloud passes suddenly in front of its face.

This time ends, time to return to bed.

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Kate Gertner

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English and Spanish: Kate Gerstner

Luz Radiante, colorida.

Deslumbra, expone, brilla.

Anuncios, construcciones, sombra, cielo.

Cubre, oculta, preserva.

Aburrida, incolora.

Oscuridad Formas Misteriosas, diferentes.

Pueblan, sombrean, esconden.

Signos, multitud, imperio, libertad.

Congregan, construyen, abren.

Altos, inmรณviles.

Edificios Light radiant, colorful dazzle, expose, shine.

Advertisements, buildings, night, sky cover, hide, protect dull, colorless Darkness Figures mysterious, different populate, shade, conceal Form, people, empire, liberty congregate, construct, open tall, motionless Buildings

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El sueño americano Kiki Ventura

“¡Regresa de donde viniste!” “¡Habla inglés! ¡Estás en los Estados Unidos!”

Intento seguir el sueño americano.

Pero, tengo un secreto sobre ese sueño encantador.

Ese sueño no es para todos.

No alienta a convertirse en la persona que quieres ser.

Estimula a convertirse en la que la sociedad quiere que seas.

Así me pongo mi máscara cada día.

Con ella, puedo ser la americana modelo que todos esperan que sea Puedo hacerlo, dejar mi cultura, y ser como ellos.

“¡No olvides tu identidad!” mis compatriotas dicen.

Cuando regreso a mi barrio de compatriotas, puedo quitarme la máscara, y poner otra de nuevo.

Sin embargo, esa máscara es la representación perfecta de la patria.

Pero, ¿cuándo parar ese ciclo de vivir para otros? ¿Cuándo quitar todas las máscaras? ¿Aprovechar las dos culturas? ¿Cuándo ser yo?

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The American dream "Go back to where you came from!"

"Speak English! You’re in the United States!"

I try to pursue the American dream.

But I have a secret about the enchanting dream.

This dream is not for all.

It does not encourage us to become the person we want to be.

It coaxes us to become how society wants us to be.

So I put my mask on every day.

With it, I can be the model American that everyone expects me to be I can do it, leave my culture, and be like them.

"Do not forget your identity!" My countrymen say.

When I return to my neighborhood of compatriots, I can take off the mask, and put another one on again.

However, that mask is the perfect representation of the country.

But, when will this cycle of living for others end?

When can I throw off all the masks?

Enjoy the two cultures?

When can I be me?

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Caroline Roche

Esperaba justicia Christina Weiler

A su casa llegó a las dos de la mañana.

Sucio de tierra en la cara, desfilando, con brazos sueltos al viento.

Su pesada bolsa, su cuerpo, impulsó, cuando abrió la puerta.

No hay luces en el cuarto.

No hay sentimientos en la cabeza.

Los pies deslizó de la misma manera: tirando, empujando, arrastrando.

Esperó la comida en la cocina, aunque sabía que no la habría.

Y cuando lo reconoció, encontró la verdad:

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no hay nadie en la casa vacía.

Sus dedos no tenían flexibilidad, no hacían el juego.

Por trabajar demasiadas horas, por demasiadas razones de la vida.

Eventualmente, el cuerpo se tulle y la cabeza también.

Por horas y horas y horas y horas la misma acción, el mismo agrio pensamiento.

No hay un ganador.

Y cerró sus ojos en la silla, orgullosamente.

Esperando la vida

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Zoryana Makarenko

Waiting for Justice Christina Weiler

He arrived at his house at two o'clock in the morning.

Dirt from the earth streaked his face, he sulked with arms loose like the wind.

His heavy bag, his entire body, he thrust forward when he opened the door.

There are no lights in the house.

There are no thoughts in his head.

His feet slid the same way: pulling, pushing, dragging.

He wished for food in the kitchen even though he knew of its emptiness.

When the thought entered his head, the truth overcame him: there was nothing left in this vacant house.

His fingers lacked flexibility,

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His fingers lacked flexibility, and they refused to play the game.

To work for too many hours, for too many chapters of his life.

Eventually, the body is crippled, and the head too.

For hours and hours and hours and hours, it was the same action, the same bitter thought.

There is no winner.

He closed his eyes as he sat in the worn seat.

He hoped for a life with justice.

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In Memory of Miguel de Cervantes (September 29, 1547 – April 22, 1616)

"La libertad, Sancho, es uno de los más preciosos dones que a los hombres dieron los cielos; con ella no pueden igualarse los tesoros que encierra la tierra ni el mar encubre; por la libertad, así como por la honra se puede y debe aventurar la vida" Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha, parte 2, capítulo LVIII.

"Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that the heavens gave the men with it cannot match the treasures of the earth or the sea conceals, for freedom and for honor can and should risk one's life” Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra the ingenious hidalgo Don Quixote, part 2, chapter LVIII.

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Sofia Barbosa

De un instante al otro los libros lo transforman.

Osa distorsionar todo lo que queda frente a sus ojos.

Nada se salva de su absurda interpretación.

Que un molino es un gigante, una campesina princesa.

Un hombre alto, un hombre bajo – sus perspectivas son diferentes.

Inspirados por la justicia o la codicia, Juntos se enfrentan a sus batallas ilusorias e imaginarias.

Olas de realidades opuestas chocan y se revuelven Todo queda indistinguible. El escape del Engaño llega demasiado tarde. La fantasía consume al otro.

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From one second to the next books transform him He dares to distort everything that is before his eyes Nothing is saved from his absurd interpretation

That a windmill is a giant, a peasant girl is a princess A tall man, a short man – their perspectives are different.

Inspired by justice or by greed, Together they face their illusory and imaginary battles Waves of contrary realities crash and mix Everything is indistinguishable. Escape from the Lie comes to late for one, fantasy consumes the other.

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Kate Gerstner

Variety Variety Variety Variety

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Oves et Lupi (Latin) Lupis et ovibus naturaliter discordia est, sed aliquando foedus inter se faciunt.

Lupi et oves obsides tradunt: oves, in suam partem, canes custodes lupis tradunt, et lupi catulos suos ovibus.

Quietae sunt oves, pascentes, sed lupuli ululatus edunt, matrum desiderio.

Tum lupi irruunt, clamitantes, "Foedus solutum est!

Fides soluta est!" et sic oves laniant, canum praesidio destitutas.

Fabula docet: Stultum in foedere est praesidia tua hosti tradere.

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The Sheep and the Wolves Clare Hammonds

There was at some time a mighty fight, Between the wolves and the sheep.

Then they decided it would be alright To make an agreement together to keep.

They each gave something to the other: The wolves received the sheep's guard hounds, To the sheep the pups of the wolf mothers, And so for a while they stopped messing around.

The sheep were happy with the trade, But the wolves were not so delighted.

They dissolved the treaty that had been made, And killed the sheep with whom they were once united.

And so with this the story ends, The sheep learned this at their own expense: If with your enemies you must make amends, Do not give up your only defense.

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Emily Wiele

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DOBRANOC (Polish) Adam Mickiewicz

Dobranoc! już dziś więcej nie będziem bawili, Niech snu anioł modrymi skrzydły cię otoczy, Dobranoc, niech odpoczną po łzach twoje oczy, Dobranoc, niech się serce pokojem zasili.

Dobranoc, z każdej ze mną przemówionej chwili Niech zostanie dźwięk jakiś cichy i uroczy, Niechaj gra w twoim uchu; a gdy myśl zamroczy, Niech się mój obraz sennym źrenicom przymili.

Dobranoc, obróć jeszcze raz na mnie oczęta, Pozwól lica. - Dobranoc - chcesz na sługi klasnąć?

Daj mi pierś ucałować. - Dobranoc, zapięta.

- Dobranoc, już uciekłaś i drzwi chcesz zatrzasnąć.

Dobranoc ci przez klamkę - niestety! zamknięta!

Powtarzając: dobranoc, nie dałbym ci zasnąć.

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Tatiana Lieberman

GOOD NIGHT Magdalena Dutkowska

Good night! No more will we entertain, Let the angel embrace your dreams with her wings, Good night, let your eyes rest from your tears, Good night, let your heart unwind with peace.

Good night, with every moment spent with me Let all the discord become peaceful and harmonious, Let it resonate in your ear, and when rumination bewilders, Let my dreaminess induce you to ease.

Good night, wake once more for me, Allow yourself to look my way.

Good night - do you wish for something more?

Kiss me good night.

Good night, all is done.

Good night, you’ve escaped and wish to shut the door.

Good night through the door - lamentably closed!

Repeating good night, not allowing any sleep.

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Emily Miller

Editorial Policy Voices is published annually by a group of high school students at Convent of the Sacred Heart in Greenwich, Connecticut. The magazine receives many submissions of student’s writing, which the Editorial Board then compiles, edits and pairs with student artwork in weekly after school meetings. Led by two faculty advisors, a group of dedicated students meets after school and collaborates with the writers and language teachers to select as many pieces as possible that demonstrate the range of creative talents of the student body. Once finished, 140 copies are printed and distributed to the school community at the end of the academic year. Since last year, we have launched the production of digital copies. Students format the layout and artwork using Blurb BookWright on Mac OS X computers. The typeface is set in Times New Roman font sizes 12.

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