Bilingues et Artistes
PERCEPTION Editors: Louis Denizet Ter L and Tobie Barb 1 er IB Contributors: Nicolas Pollack 1 er IB, Aisling Martin 1 er IB, Louis
Denizet Ter L, Sophie Durousseau Ter ES, Iris Colomb Ter ES, Dorelle Sluchin Ter L, Amaury Bargioni 3 eme,Daphne Rose 1 er, Matthew Broadbent Meznaric 1 er IB,
March 201 1 Perception. As a group and as individuals we are often troubled by its flaws and confronted by its imperfections. It is sometimes said that you can't trust your eyes, that true knowledge can only be derived through reason and that our senses, as incredible as they may be, are all undeniably flawed. However it is an artist's role to communicate and understand through his perception of the world. When we sit in rooms alone and just wonder... when we feel that the world makes little sense... in times of grief and pain...when we seek to understand why? We strive to find the underlying questions and answers that govern our world's apparent chaos. It is in this time we can remember sensations of sound, sight, smell, touch and taste that awaken our mind and thrust us onto a voyage of the mind into the darkest deepest entrails of ourselves where we can only gaze at the awesome nature of the world that lives and breathes before our very eyes. The works in this issue all show how the world, when seen from the lense of a camera, the eyes of a painter, the hears of a poet or simply in the imagination of an artist, can scream things that would otherwise go by fairly unnoted. It is therefore our priviledge to be able to show in this edition the work of our contributors concerning the question of perception and its failures and their effect on us, be it vision, touch, smell, taste or hearing it will be our pleasure to share with you this beautiful month of March 201 1 .
V I S I O N
"A strange new thirst, a craving, unfamiliar, Entered his body with the water, And entered his eyes With the reflection in the limpid mirror. He could not believe the beauty Of those eyes that gazed into his own. As the taste of the water flooded him So did love. So he lay, mistaking That picture of himself on the meniscus For the stranger who could make him happy." -Ted Hughes
The Ice of the Seas I gaze out my frosty window into the deep crevices of my soul, Which was broken as the soda I saw Shimmering like fairy dust- dust, the ash of the ages That, believe me, will give you youth. Icy eyelashes burn with desire as you near me The whip cries "Away, to fire!" Galloping deafens my ears as you plunge inside me, and I inside you Caresses, a sigh, the saddle is nigh. In the deep opaque mystique of night I inhale your musk Transparency comes, a white veil over your face Salty like the seas, uplifting and liberating And so the great whale plunges back into the depths. So it goes in bygones and aspirations, the cycle of life. Moves inescapably dancing with our slowest selves. Lampshades drawn, the sorbet melts away. Soul River Beauty. It consumes you, doesn’t it? Well? Forever enticing you with its fiery depths Fire, the lone hunter, eternal and alone. I sit alone at the edge of an abyss Abyss, the long wind in the pines. I try to catch it but as I run, I fall. Stumbling over remnants of dead dreams. Dreams, like a better version of your fondest memory, That you wish were as true as your love. I often think of those broken times, when I dove into the oceans of your promises Which you broke, but I don’t blame you, no. All I ever wanted was your special touch, embrace, the hope that I would never be alone. “Why do you hit me?”, I cry, Hoping for some semblance of your ancient antics. My tearstained cheeks, marked perpetually like the sand we had engraved our love within But also time, like a constant wave, Washing away the sods, promises of tomorrow. And so, gentle listener, I ask quite narrowly “What do you think?” Nicolas Pollack (in association with Sophia Fleming-Benite)
V I S I O N
Take, take, take it all but you never give Sitting on the floor Alone, trembling Naked of life Vulnerable.
The clutches Firmer, the Grasps become A trap.
The smooth fingers Of Cold stroke My cheek slowly With familiarity.
Come, they beckon, We're the friends, The ways to Forget.
Loneliness plays With my hair Twisting it to His will, his way.
Slip under The soft, silky Subconscious. Leave reality.
Silence steps up Arm around my Shoulders, rocking The rasping sobs.
Leave the harsh Light, abandon The rejection. End the jeers.
Then penultimate Pain, crouches down Takes my hand To take my heart.
Hope, Love and Faith Are but betrayals. Traitors taunting You with Belief.
Finally her mother, Death, walks up Shaking her head, Sad smile on her face.
They see my Hesitation, my Will for their Downfall.
Go away, I say, I don't need you. I don't want you Anymore, I scream.
They're the wrong Choice, I know. But they're all Painless.
The caressing fingers, The gentle hands The comforting arms The smile of regret.
Impatience Infects the five They wrap their Arms around my body.
Turn on me, To ugliness, To scratching, To yanking.
Pulling me to Death, Opposition seems Pointless. Aisling Martin
T O U C H
Frozen Lips Sitting on a road barrier Nose rsing towards the sky The addictive smell and taste of the petro lSurrounded his body, a cloud so undistinguishable That none would even know that he was there, if it Were not for his dark shadow cast across the street below And the trail of cold and bitter taste in the air around his shadow. Slowly as he observed the passing cars and the battered road signs A new stench emanated from the putrid pile of coton and wool He called his home, the biting smell of coffee stains and dog. He could not care less for the smell himself except He knew the disgust and guilt that would sweat The passers-by and he leasurely sucked in That very smell of sweat and enjoyed The knowledge that he was feared. Under his breath he chuckled At the idea that he who knew nothing and Wanted even less from these people, could cause so much Anxiety in the mind of strangers by a simple glance or flick of the wrist In their direction. As he lay down to rest that night, comfortable In the idea that if he were not to wake in the morning The stench of urine and cheap wine would ensure That none would notice the lack of warm air Tobie Barb Eminating from his frozen lips.
Le courant d’air Dans une ruelle agitée Les murs en coloris s’effritent, Se renvoyant la parité Des courtes marches déconstruites. L’air, de tous côtés assailli Par les odeurs saveurs tranchantes, I wrote this on my first day in Italy, in the city of Florence, Enfant trop loin de son pays, S’enroule dans l’ombre tremblante. which just took my breath away at every step. Full of Courir encore sur les roches Vibrantes légions du passé Et entre les douceurs de pierre Enfin ! Il s’élance et se perd Dans les cent foules effacées, Puis il s’éteint comme un reproche Et laisse les passants passer.
fantastic colors, smells, sounds etc. Just a shame globalisation took hold of it so much. All the fast foods, import shops, big brands for clothing and such... It's only natural seeing how the world is turning today, but it polluted the setting at times. This is largely what the poem is about, along with a criticism of tourism, though, truth be told, I contributed to it also. I tried to encompass multiple aspects of this flourishing city in a sonnet + 1 line, but of course there was far too much to be said.
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart Of the townland; green and heavy headed Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods. Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun. Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
Engaged With Mother Nature What has become? Of the whispering trees, our silent confiders. Of the dusty smell of dirt, smoldering beneath our soles. Of the crisp and cross of leaves waving free. Of the empty silence, of the shush. Of our protector, of our traitor, Nature. Chlostrophobic
Full of new curiosity, I take a look at the city. All is in motion. Gas pushing through the air, the clouds camping on the sky, the suffocating smell of share and shops standing by. People breathing. Trees leaving. Lights changing. Cars still moving. where has the soil gone? and the bushes? is it wrong? where are the shushes of crushes? Questions left to sink while monotony slowly forms a shadow on short, yet trembling rivers.
Stroboscopic Lights break our fluidity, We’re but momentary figures, Flashes of bliss In the vibrant room. Beams pulsating, Music pounding, Heartbeat throbbing, All eyes on her, All eyes on me. We dominate the floor, Our bodies grinding We blaze, we smoulder We light up the room, Our heat overwhelming, Our energy overtaking ‘Till everybody’s gyrating Down and dirty In the sin of dancing, The melody of lust and desire Coursing through the crowd. Matthew Broadbent-Mežnarić