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Bilingues et Artistes


MEET OUR CONTRIBUTORS!

EDITORS IN CHIEF: LOUIS DENIZET, TERL RACHEL FORSTER, TERL

WRITERS: DAFNA GOTTESMAN, TERL RACHEL FORSTER, TERL LOUIS DENIZET, TERL AISLING MARTIN, 1째IB

PHOTOGRAPHERS: DEBORAH LETER, TER LOUIS DENIZET, TERL

ARTISTS: MARGOT BRAVI, TERL

ADVISORS: DAFNA GOTTESMAN, TERL RACHEL FORSTER, TERL

FRONT COVER BY AND WITH: LOUIS DENIZET, TERL


Issue n°7 November 2010

Dear all,

WOW! It’s hard to believe that the magazine has already gone this far in so little time!

Welcome back for another rollercoaster ride through the colorful landscapes of our contributor’s imagination! Hopefully, these brief glimpses into their worlds will sweep you away from reality, at least for a while. After all, this is what this magazine is: a handful of minutes to escape…

Following the last issue’s focus on the sometimes ostentatious world of fashion, we decided to go back to basics and explore what motivated so many people to join this project: passion. Each and every one of us - you included - is capable of passion, though we express it in different ways. Maybe yours will come out through the memory of a gaze like Rachel, upholding the values that make who you are like Dafna, or the pleasure of defining your own style like Margot...

Bonne lecture!


Riding For nine years, I have never ridden alone. There is always the horse. Although I may have a whip in hand, I must never be cruel Or abuse my power. I must lead with patience. Understanding. Every move counts. The slight jerking of a rein Or pressing of a calf Can be a call to gallop Or to stop. I must be precise. Disciplined. I am never alone with my horse. There are other riders With other horses. I must be careful. Considerate. Riding is more than a sport Practiced within an enclosed carousel. It’s a school of values. By Dafna Gottesman, TerL


Prey Though the gods of old be long dead, Their bright essence suffuses still The earth their footsteps once cracked And the wind theirs voices did fill. So came it that Apollo’s ghost Stirred from its grave and, restlessly, Lifted up its burning arrows In time to see a shadow flee. The undergrowth snapped at its legs, Venom sap slobbered from their thorns; The trees came at it with boar spears While birds sounded their hunting horns. Through howling woods the shadow ran, Arms scarred, calves bleeding, ankles bit; Hope, though scarce, was not gone until By a branch was the creature hit. The tormented beast fell, silent, On the hard, unwelcoming ground; His eyes turned to meet his killer, Fearful breath was his only sound. He found no one. Simply the woods, Circling like carrion birds. His foes Were the trees themselves: oaks, birches Joined by wolves, foxes, even does. His tired limbs pushed him up and Onwards he fled, to his village Behind which’s safe walls he kept to, Nevermore the woods to pillage. By Rachel Forster, TerL


Photos by Margot Bravi, Ter L


Flames in the Crowd As I shuffle down the darkened platform, Holding promisingly stained parcels in my hand I see shapes swaying in a noiseless storm; Grey’s the uniform to this marching band. Just the time to unwrap the steaming meal Before the tide changes, and I am swept into The cramped compartment. Grabbing the cold steel, I look up from the dull reflection in my shoe. Around, the marching band stops mid-tune. There are two eyes – bird eyes, sparrow egg eyes – Looking up at me. Asking a question to which Only we know the answer. My own gaze shies, Too proud to admit my breath hit a hitch. There is no such thing as love a first sight, But I do believe in lucky coincidence. Not that it matters: before I took my chance, Out of the moving cage did that bird take flight. The band starts up again, but I’m miles away, Thinking back to another time, another day, Another crowd. Morning where there was eve, Heat where there was cold, sunglasses instead of scarves, Food for the mind instead of food for the body. Once again the tide flows out, flows in to the wharves. With it, it brings two brown pebbles, little planets All to themselves, spinning me into their orbits. Nothing like a meteor diving through my sky To pluck from my soul its vibrant welcome cry. We’ve been taught it’s not polite to kiss a stranger. So we stood there, held by each other’s gaze Until the empty faces lost us forever. Next stop was mine, and I stumbled out in a haze. There’s nothing left now, nothing but Four eyes, four roaring flames in the crowd of my memories. By Rachel Forster, TerL


Photos by Deborah Leter, Ter L


Photos by Louis Denizet Ter L


Freak Show “Ladies and gentlemen, May I have your attention please? Behind this very screen are The most fearsome The most dangerous The most violent Aggressive, treacherous, loathsome, hideous, repulsive, Undesirable creatures our mothers ever brought to light. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The teenagers. Gather up, gather round ladies and gentlemen, I assure you there’s nothing to fear. The beasts Can’t harm you, our cage makes sure of that. They used to be quite tame you know, soft As kittens and so eager to please. What happened, What happened? One day they roared to be free, Shook the pretty cage we built for them. Poor things, They can’t understand it’s for their own good.” In the circus the crowd swelled up, red faces Pressing against the cold grey bars to get a better look. The speaker sung along from his perch, unaware that His beasts mimicked his every move. The viewers snorted, grunted, howled in delight While the animals stared out through the bars, wondering Who where the poor devils they saw trapped behind. Poem by Rachel Forster, TerL


Confessions Episode One Eyeliner and Golden glitter Form a thick stream Gushing down her face. Dark raccoon eyes Now a black mess Flecks of sparkle Stamped on her face. Spiky heels flung In the corner Tight shiny dress Crumpled on the chair She sits on the Floor; knees huddled To her heart; still Lost inside her mind. That nightmare of A party, the drinks Coursing through veins And the forced kisses. An ugly side Of an old friend A new monster Rears its violent head. A shiver passes Through her scarred mind She quakes suddenly And everything goes black Just like the smudges on her eyes. By Ailsling Martin, TerL


Bad Boy Bad Boy The exact appellation would be Systematically drunk, never free Too promiscuous for his age Embracing to evacuate the rage Trying to hang on, but doing it all wrong He knew the effort was always in vain Trying to kiss sin goodbye, promising to try He knew a shadow never leaves a body Struggling to stay clean, in case he’d be seen He wondered if anyone could be observing him Seeking for a better life, but it felt like a lie He knew exactly where he belonged Bad Boy The exact designation would be Systematically drunk, never free Too promiscuous for his age Embracing to evacuate the rage Who he was afraid of, the stranger or himself He wanted to show either one who he really was Who he needed security from, loneliness or fame Either one seemed to hold him captive If you give him respect, know what to expect Knowing your intensions he’ll play your game If you give him your disapproval, pity his indifference At this point there’s no more space for guilt Bad Boy The exact designation would be Systematically drunk, never free Too promiscuous for his age Embracing to evacuate the rage By Louis Denizet, TerL


Jack Kerouac:

ÂŤ The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars. Âť

Thank you for reading this edition and don’t forger to watch out for the next one!

If you want to contact us, whether to send us your work or to comment on the magazine, email us at:

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Bilingues et Artistes