Voices 2010 by Salvatore Rotondo

Mame Moran

Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King Street Greenwich, CT 06831 Phone: (203) 531-6500 Fax: (203) 531-5206 http://www.cshgreenwich.org

Catherine Perry

Corinne Grady

VOICES Volume 4 June 2010 STATEMENT OF PHILOSOPHY The education of each student at 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 an English version to broaden the understanding of the written works. Editorial Board Jenna Nobs, Editor-in-Chief and Layout Arianna Arca, Associate Editor Staff Emily Attubato Kerianne Doran Alicia LiCalzi Faculty Advisor Graziella Sidoli Special Thanks The World Languages Department Ms. Inez Andrucyk Mrs. Paula Westcott Grace Hirshorn Laura Platt, Sioux Printing iii

Table of Contents Cover Artwork, Arianna Arca, digital photography Inside Front Cover, Mame Moran, pastels Title Page, Catherine Perry, fabric painting.....................................................................................i Corinne Grady, ink................................................................................................................................ii Statement of Philosophy and Staff List………….................................................…………….iii Mame Moran, pastels...............................................................................................................................1 Arabic, art by Devon Hoffman, marker...............................................................................................2 ‫لك‬ ‫ه ٍك‬ٛ‫هلكيٍكن‬ٛ‫( ن‬Your Night is of Lilac) Carly Sobecki.........................................................................3 Arianna Arca, digital photography ُٙ‫كانُب٘كٔغ‬ُٙ‫( اػط‬Give Me the Flute and Sing), Mary Rassias..................................................5 Arianna Arca, digital photography........................................................................................................6 ‫كفٕضٗكانذٕاط‬:‫( َصكيٍكسائؼخ‬From: Chaos of the Senses), Blair Kennedy and Jenna Nobs....7 Shaniece Raffington, acrylic Arianna Arca, digital photography.........................................................................................................8 Mame Moran colored pencil...................................................................................................................9 Chinese, art by Lauren Church, digital photography.......................................................................10 秋雨夜眠 (Sleeping on a Night of Autumn Rain), Bissy Rail.................................................11 Corinne Grady, fabric 天空暖我的心 (The Sky Warms My Heart), Mame Moran....................................................13 Arianna Arca, digital photography 太阳反映 (Where the Sun Reflects), Kristen Roche....................................................................14 Celina Frelinghuysen, charcoal...........................................................................................................15 Latin, art by Mary Cecio marker........................................................................................................16 Ventus (Wind), Lauren Webb............................................................................................................17 Arianna Arca, digital photography Nix (Snow), Emily Attubato...............................................................................................................19 Celina Frelinghuysen, acrylic Pluvia (Rain), Maria Brusco................................................................................................................20 Audrey Finnegan, digital photography Sol (Sun), Joan Nakubulwa..................................................................................................................21 Julie Goodfriend, fabric. painting........................................................................................................22 Canales Amoris Infiniti (Endless Channels of Love, Mary Liguori.........................................23 Kate Welch, watercolor pencil................................................................................................................24 Mame Moran, pencil...............................................................................................................................25 French, art by Mame Moran, colored pencil......................................................................................26

Arianna Arca

Voeux (Wishes), Claudia Khoury.......................................................................................................27 Katie Ward, watercolor..........................................................................................................................28 Une Lettre Fictive (A Fictional Letter), Grace Hirshorn............................................................29 Kayla Souza, marker...............................................................................................................................31 Mame Moran, colored pencil and ink...................................................................................................34 Lizzy von Klemperer, ink.....................................................................................................................35 Spanish, art by Mary Cecio, fabric painting......................................................................................36 Escarlata (Scarlet), Nicole Narea.......................................................................................................37 Lauren Church, acrylic. Emma Leary, ink....................................................................................................................................38 Una mano (A Hand)..............................................................................................................................39 Lizzy von Klemperer, acrylic Un lazo rojo (A Red Ribbson), Aubrey Kalashian…………………..…………………....41 Celina Frelinghuysen, charcoal…………………………………………….……..……….42 Creaturas (Creatures), Alicia LiCalzi….………………………………………………….43 Mame Moran, pastels Mi misión (My Mission), Nicole Narea………………………………………...………...45 Lizzy von Klemperer, mixed media...............................................................................................…46 Mame Moran, colored pencil and pastel...............................................................................................48 Las campanas (The Bells), Krystyna Miles......................................................................................49 Arianna Arca, digital photography Lizzy von Klemperer, acrylic................................................................................................................50 Es de mañana (It is Morning), Kerianne Doran.............................................................................51 Arianna Arca, digital photography Polly Bruce, watercolor...........................................................................................................................53 Nora Henrie, sculpture............................................................................................................................54 Los que no danzan (Those Who Do Not Dance), Grace Hirshorn and Allie Kenny...........55 Lauren Church, acrylic English, art by Kerianne Doran, marker...........................................................................................58 Ode of Elisheba, Claudia Khoury.......................................................................................................59 Arianna Arca, digital photography.......................................................................................................62 Emma Leary, marker.............................................................................................................................66 Reinvention, Jenna Nobs.....................................................................................................................67 Lizzy Von Klemperer, mixed media...................................................................................................68 Beachside Sundays, Natasha Thomas-Allen...................................................................................69 Julie Goodfriend, fabric painting Production Notes..................................................................................................................................71 Kate Welch, acrylic................................................................................................................................72 Back Cover, Audrey Finnegan, digital photography

Mame Moran

Devon Hoffman

‫لك‬ ‫ن‪ٛ‬هلكيٍكن‪ٛ‬ه ٍك‬

‫يذًٕدكدسٔ٘ػ‬ ‫‪4.‬‬

‫‪ٚ‬جهظكانه‪ٛ‬مكد‪ٛ‬ثكركَٕ‪. ٍٛ‬كن‪ٛ‬هلكيٍ‬

‫ل‪.‬كث‪ٍٛ‬كد‪ٍٛ‬كٔآخشكرفهذكا‪ًٚ‬بءح‬ ‫ن‪ٛ‬ه ٍكك‬ ‫يٍكأشؼخكغًبصر‪ٛ‬لكفزكغشككأطكانُج‪ٛ‬ز‬ ‫ٔرشؼمكضٕءكانُجٕو‪.‬كٔن‪ٛ‬هلكظهلك__‬ ‫لطؼخكاسضكخشاف‪ٍ ٛ‬كخكنهًغبٔاحكيبكث‪ٍٛ‬‬ ‫أداليُب‪.‬كيبكاَبكانًغبفشكأكثبنًم‪ٛ‬ىكػهٗ‬ ‫ن‪ٛ‬هلكانه‪ٛ‬هك‪,ٙ‬كاَبكْٕكيٍككبٌك‪ً ٕٚ‬يب‬ ‫اَب‪،‬ككهًبكػغؼظكانه‪ٛ‬مكف‪ٛ‬لكدذعذ‬ ‫ثًُضنخكانمهتكيبكث‪ٍٛ‬كيُضنز‪:ٍٛ‬كفالك‬ ‫انُفظكرشضٗ‪,‬كٔالكانشٔحكرشضٗكٔف‪ٙ‬‬ ‫جغذ‪ُٚ‬بكعًبءكرؼبَككاسضًب ‪.‬كٔكهل‬ ‫ن‪ٛ‬هل‪...‬كن‪ٛ‬مك‪ٚ‬شغككذجشكانكٕاكت ‪.‬كن‪ٛ‬م‬ ‫ػهٗكريخكانه‪ٛ‬م‪,‬ك‪ٚ‬ضدفكف‪ٙ‬كجغذ٘‬ ‫خذسًاككُؼبطكانثؼبنت‪.‬كن‪ٛ‬مك‪ُٚ‬ثكغًٕضًب‬ ‫يض‪ٛ‬ئبًككػهٗككنغز‪,ٙ‬ككهًبكارضخكاصددد‬ ‫خٕفبًكيٍكانغذكف‪ٙ‬كقثضخكان‪ٛ‬ذ ‪.‬كن‪ٛ‬م‬ ‫‪ٚ‬ذذقكف‪ٙ‬كَفغّكايُبًكيطًئُبكانٗكال‬ ‫َٓب‪ٚ‬برّك‪،‬كالكرذفكثّكغ‪ٛ‬شيشآرّ‬ ‫ٔأغبَ‪ٙ‬كانشػبحكانمذايٗكنل‪ٛ‬فكأثباش ٍكحك‬ ‫‪ًٚ‬شضٌٕكيٍكانذت‪.‬كن‪ٛ‬مكرشػشعكف‪ٙ‬كشؼشِ‬ ‫انجبْه‪ٙ‬كػهٗكَضٔادكأيشٖءكانم‪ٛ‬ظكٔا‪ٜ‬خش‪،ٍٚ‬‬ ‫ٔٔعغكنهذبنً‪ٍٛ‬كاش‪ٚ‬ككانذه‪ٛ‬تكانٗكلًشك‬ ‫ٍك‬ ‫جبئغكف‪ٙ‬كألبص‪ٙ‬كانكالو ‪...‬‬ ‫ٍك‬ ‫ككككككككككك كككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككككبسن‪ٙ‬كعٕثبك‪ٙ‬‬

‫‪Arianna Arca‬‬

‫‪3‬‬

Your Night is of Lilac Mahmoud Darwish English version by Carly Sobecki The night is sitting where you are. Your night is of lilac. Every now and then a gesture escapes from rays of your dimples and breaks the wine glass and sparks the starlight. Your night is your shadow– a fairy-tale piece of land to make equal our dreams. I am not a traveler or a dweller in your lilac night. I am the one who was one day me. Whenever the night grew in you, I guessed at the hearts‟ suspension between two houses: so neither the soul nor the self accepts. But between our bodies, heaven embraces the earth, and all of you is your night, a radiant night like the ink of the planet. A night in the covenant of the dark, crawling in my body, benumbed like the sleepiness of the fox. A night diffusing a mystery that illuminates my language, all the time becoming clearer. In the fist, I became more fearful of the future. A night staring at itself, safe and assured in its endlessness, with nothing to celebrate its greatness but an old mirror and the songs of the ancient shepherd in the summer of emperors, who grew sick with love. A night that flourished in its Jahili poetry on the whims of Imru’el-Qyss and others, and widened for the dreamers the milky path to a hungry moon in the remoteness of speech…

‫اػطُ‪ٙ‬كانُب٘كٔغُ‪ٙ‬‬ ‫ججشاٌكخه‪ٛ‬مكججشاٌ‬ ‫أػطُ‪ٙ‬كانُب٘كٔغٍ٘‬

‫فبنغُبءكعشكالٔجٔد‬

‫ٔأَ‪ٍٛ‬كالَب٘ك‪ٚ‬جمٗك‬

‫ثؼذكأٌك‪ٚ‬فٍكانٕجٕدك‬

‫ْمكارخزدكانغبةكيثه‪ ٙ‬ك‬

‫يُضالكدٌٔكانملٕسك‬

‫ٔرزجؼذككانغٕال‪ ٙ‬ك‬

‫ك ٔرُشمذككانضِ ٔس‬

‫ْمككرذًًذككثؼطش‬

‫ٔرُشفذككككثُٕسك‬

‫ك‬

‫ٔششثذكانفجشكخًشا‬

‫ف‪ٙ‬ككؤٔطكيٍكأث‪ٛ‬شك‬

‫أػطُ‪ٙ‬كانُب٘كٔغُ‪ٙ‬‬

‫فبنغُبءكعشكانٕجٕدك‬

‫ٔأَ‪ٍٛ‬كانُب٘ك‪ٚ‬جمٗ‬

‫ثؼذكأٌك‪ٚ‬فٍكانٕجٕدك‬

‫ْمكجهغذكانؼلش يثه‪ ٙ‬ككك‬

‫رذذكجفُبدكانؼُتك‬

‫ٔانؼُبل‪ٛ‬ذكككرذنذ‬

‫كك كثش‪ٚ‬بدككانزْتك‬

‫ْمكافزششذكانؼشتكن‪ٛ‬ال‬

‫ٔكرهذفذكانفضبءك‬

‫كك‬

‫صاْذاكف‪ًٛ‬بكع‪ٛ‬أر‪ٙ‬‬

‫كك‬

‫َبع‪ٛ‬بكيبكلذكيضٗك‬

‫أػطُ‪ٙ‬كانُب٘كٔغُ‪ٙ‬‬

‫كك‬

‫فبنغُبءكػذلكانمهٕةكك‬

‫ٔكأَ‪ٍٛ‬كانُب٘ك‪ٚ‬جمٗ‬

‫ك‬

‫ثؼذكأٌكدفٍٖكالرَٕةك‬

‫ك‬

‫أػطُ‪ٙ‬كانُب٘كٔغُ‪ٙ‬‬

‫كك‬

‫ٔاَظكككداءكككككٔدٔاءك‬

‫إًَبكانُبطكعطٕس‬

‫ك‬

‫كزجذككنكٍككثًبءك‬ ‫يش‪ٚ‬ىكساع‪ٛ‬بط‬

‫ككككككككككككك‬ ‫‪5‬‬

Give me the Flute and Sing Gibran Khalil Gibran English version by Mary Rassias Give me the flute and sing, for singing is the secret of existence. Cup the trembling lamentation in your hands, near-shadows in the vanishing light. Have you taken the forest as I have, as a home instead of a glittering palace? Have you followed the streams with breathless feet and climbed the battered faces of rocks? Have you bathed in the scent of new rain, and were you dried by light? Have you drunk the pale dawn as wine from cups of ether? Give me the flute and sing, for singing is the secret of existence. Gather up the last mournful notes, smoky traces in the growing dark. Have you sat in the shafts of afternoon sun, between the grapevines like me, beneath the clusters that hang like chandeliers of gold? Have you taken the grass as your bed and the sky as your blanket, been humbled by the retreating storm, forgetting the anger that has passed? Give me the flute and sing, for singing is justice of the heart. Let the lamentation slip through your fingers as old pebbles of forgotten guilt. Give me the flute and sing, and forget the cruel illnesses and bitter medicines that might cure them, for people are but lines, written by trails of water.

Arianna Arca

‫كفٕضٗكانذٕاط‬:‫َصكيٍكسائؼخ‬ ًَٙ‫أدالوككيغزفب‬ ‫ك‬..‫بحكأٌكأثزغىكػششكيشادكلجمكأٌكأضذل‬ٛ‫كانذ‬ُٙ‫ػهًز‬ ‫ك‬،‫كػششكيشادكلجمكأٌكأَطككثٓب‬ٙ‫بغخككهًبر‬ٛ‫ذكص‬ٛ‫ٔأٌكأػ‬ .‫ش‬ٕٚ‫كيُٓخكانزل‬ٙ‫كانًبض‬ٙ‫ٔنٓزاكاخزشدكف‬ ..‫م‬ٕٚ‫انلٕسحكنذظخكصًذكا‬ ..‫كانلًذ‬ٙ‫كرجشثخكف‬،‫إَٓبككبنشعى‬ ٘‫ثهشككٍد‬ From: Chaos of the Senses Ahlam Mosteghanemi English version by Blair Kennedy and Jenna Nobs Life has taught me to smile ten times before laughing... and to consider my words ten times before speaking so I picked up a camera to see the sharpness of the world through its lens. The photograph is an eternal instant of silence... Like the stroke of pencil against paper, it is an unspoken revelation, forever unfolding with the jagged creases and softly curled edges of time...

Shaniece Raffington

Arianna Arca

Mame Moran

Lauren Church

秋雨夜眠

白居易凉冷三秋夜安闲一老翁卧迟灯灭后睡美雨声中灰宿温瓶火香添暖被笼晓晴寒未起霜叶满阶红

Corinne Grady

Sleeping on a Night of Autumn Rain Bai Juyi English version by Bissy Rail It is a cold night in the third month of autumn. One lonely man settles into sleep, lonely and peaceful, in that late night, as the lights wink into dark. The man sleeps beautifully amid the rain. Leftover ashes cover the fireplace, still faintly warm– the fragrance of old fire dwells in the old man‟s sheets. Dawn comes, with skies like clear water, and cold, brisk air. The old man does not wake in that early morning– but frosty red leaves dust the steps of his home.

天空暖我的心 Mame Moran 每个晚上，我凝望窗外在黑色的天空我看月亮和星星他们的光明溶化了我的愁肠也暖了我的心有再大的愁肠有再冷的心星星的火热和月亮的温暖都能解我的心

The Sky Warms My Heart English version by the author Every night, I look out my window to the glassy black sky and the glow of moon and stars. Their light melts my fears and fills my dreams. Even if our worries loom bigger than the sky, and compassion is frozen like stone, stars and moonlight soothe my weary heart.

Arianna Arca

太阳反映 Kristen Roche 有一个地方，太阳反映回来在水底里彩虹反映射线的想象力大地变了，显示一个新的地方一个新的住所，花在唱，天空永远光彩彩虹跳在孩子们的脸上他们欢笑有一个地方，太阳反映回来这隐藏在我们的世界等待等待被发现 Where the Sun Reflects English version by the author There is a place where the sun reflects off of tiny water droplets. The rainbows reflect rays of imagination, and the world then changes to show a new place, a place where flowers sing and the sky is never grey. The rainbows dance across the faces of little children smiling without a care. There is a place where the sun reflects, it is hidden in our own world, waiting, waiting to be found.

Celina Frelinghuysen

Mary Cecio

Ventus Lauren Webb Ventus ululate per turbidam noctem, fervens trans alienam terram. Rami rupta, et radices eversae, sed spes manet. Ventus ruit vi dum properet angulos circum; aequat moles et ruet terras magnas, sed spes , manet. Ventus in rimas domuum reptat. Et stridit per fenestras, facit umbras trans zaetas, ataui spes manet. Ventus decrescit mutans in serenam auram, et sol incohat surgere, et spes super manet.

Arianna Arca

Wind English version by the author The wind howls through the stormy night, surging across the foreign land. Branches are broken, and roots upturned, but hope remains. The wind gathers speed and power, whipping around corners. Buildings are leveled, and great lands destroyed, but still, hope remains. The wind creeps into the cracks of our homes, whistling through the rattling windows. Shadows leap across the room, and yet, hope remains. The wind slows to a quiet breeze, the sun beginning to rise, and hope, above all, remains.

Nix Emily Attubato Velat lodice uniforme humum, velat herbam mortuam et brunam, subter strangulatam. Fingentes centonem unicum Infinitae parvulae. Defluunt alte, sed sub pedibus sunt fractae. Videtur pura et pulchra, sed in pugna inaspecta viride olim vivum conglaciatur dum sit mortuum, conquiniscens in caterva mendica. Mox decocebit sicut numquam fuerat, sed nunc omnia in conspectu obruta ima sunt.

Celina Frelinghuysen Snow English version by the author It covers the ground in a uniform blanket, chokes the grass dead and brown, slowly smothers all beneath it. Infinite tiny flakes, forming a single sheet, fall from crystal skies to crunch beneath my feet. White falls soft and pure, but in an unseen struggle the once live green cowers in a pitiful huddle. One day it will melt away, as if it had never been, but for now all in sight is buried deep within. 19

Pluvia Maria Brusco Defluens molliter complexa me Illabitur in cute meÄ Saltat in spiritu meo Cadens a caelo atro supra me Committens typhonicum, fulgente, formidolosum, caesium marem. Perfectissimae guttulae conor praehendere Pertineo ad nimbos madefactos Prenso fabas nitidas Sicut lux obscura per aerem umidum Illustratans saturam, aquosam, umidam, pluviam terram.

Rain English version by the author Falling coolly all around me, it slides on my skin, it dances on my breath, plummeting down from the dark heavens above, joining the whirling, flashing, frightening, gray sea. Perfect drops I try to catchâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; reaching for the soaked clouds, clutching the shining beads, as dim light dances through the dripping air, illuminating the saturated, watery, wet, rainy world. 20

Audrey Finnegan

Sol Joan Nakubulwa Qui naturam componit cuius arma â&#x20AC;&#x201C; radii tendunt et infinitis digitis complectuntur terram qui dat abditque qui almum caldorem indigibus plantis sed dat, atque castigat, celsas arbores quae simulant Babel ad veras locum in natura referunt. Est sol, rector terrae.

The Sun English version by the author The one who organizes nature, the one whose arms, the raysâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; extend with endless fingers to wrap the earth in an embrace, the one who gives and takes away, who pours nurturing warmth over needy seedlings, but also disciplines, tall, hubristic trees that imitate Babel, returning them to their rightful place in nature. He is the sun, the governor of Earth.

Julie Goodfriend

Canales Amoris Infiniti Mary Liguori Tâ&#x20AC;&#x;eligi et tâ&#x20AC;&#x;inserui in terra, dedi mundo spem et sensum renascentiae. Manus in manu, nos una maestam terram mutare promisimus. Ira permit, falsa nos dissuerunt, judicia conpresserunt, fragentia nostra corda Nos una, florentes amore excedente caelum Similes ramis in arboribus quae conmittuntur Volebam te posse promisum aeternaltier servare. Radicibus in me numquam te patiar cadere. Sed sic debet esse ut sinam te averte Scivi te fieri bona, cum me manendo Nostri canales amoris sunt infiniti Sed uno die tristi dies, non potuisti iam pati. Arbor abruptus, et decidebas ad terram. Endless Channels of Love English version by the author I planted you on the Earth, as you and I, hand in hand, made a promise to change this sorrowful land. Violence overwhelms, lies tear us apart, judgments take control, shattering our fragile hearts. We grew together, you and I, blossoming with a love that could exceed the sky. Like the branches on a tree, crossed and woven together, I wanted you to hold onto my hand forever. Rooted in me, you would never stray from the track, but that is the price I pay for allowing you to turn your back. I knew that I could protect you, if you just held onto me, for our channels of love, they are endless, you see. But one sad day, you could not take anymore, the tree broke, and you fell to the ground. 23

Kate Welch

Mame Moran

Vœux Claudia Khoury Nous avions l‟habitude de faire des vœux, sur n‟importe quoi, les étoiles filantes miraculeuses, les bougies d‟anniversaire illuminées, les pièces sur le point d‟être jetées dans une fontaine. Elles étaient les instruments de notre jeunesse, qui nous donnaient de l‟espoir et du réconfort, et avaient une telle importance, dans leur simplicité influente. Mais en vieillissant, elles ont perdu leur pouvoir, et notre naïveté a été remplacée par notre détermination, alors que nous pourrions être ceux qui contrôleraient si nos vœux allaient se réaliser.

Wishes English version by the author We used to make wishes on anything we could, on miraculous shooting stars, lighted birthday candles, coins about to be thrown into a fountain. They were instruments of our youth that gave us hope and comfort, and held such importance, in their influential simplicity. But as we grew older, they lost their power, and our naivetĂŠ was replaced with determination, so that we could be the ones to control whether our wishes would come true.

Katie Ward

Une Lettre Fictive Inspirée par Une si longue letter, par Mariama Bâ Grace Hirshorn Mon cœur, Farmata m‟a assurée que tes coups si forts, si vigoureux, indiquent que tu es un petit garçon qui me bat en essayant de s‟échapper de mon ventre. Je la déteste toujours parce qu‟elle a trahi mon secret, notre secret de ton existence, à ma mère. Donc, quand Farmata, pour la deuxième fois, m‟a informée de mon destin, j‟ai hoché la tête en signe d'acquiescement pour lui plaire et la faire me laisser tranquille. Mais maintenant, dans l‟intimité de ma chambre, en contemplant mon ventre énorme qui se déplace avec tes moindres mouvements, je me rends compte que Farmata n‟a aucun moyen de savoir avec certitude si tu es une fille ou un fils. C‟est à moi de le savoir. Et même si je ne sais pas comment, j‟en suis sûre. Je suis sûre que tu es une fille, une fille qui s‟ennuie déjà de sa prison sombre et contraignante, une fille qui lutte pour sa liberté avec ses petits pieds et mains inefficaces, ma jolie fille déjà douée de ma force et, malheureusement, mon impatience. Sois patiente, ma chérie. Je sais que tu ne vas pas m‟écouter parce que je n‟ai jamais écouté ma propre mère, mais il me faut le dire. Sois patiente. Nous nous rencontrerons bientôt. En effet, tu es le résultat de mon impatience. Moi, la deuxième fille dans une grande famille, je courais toujours en essayant de rattraper ma sœur ainée. J‟étais toujours consciente du héritage de Daba, qui avait des opinions radicales et fortes, qui s‟était mariée avec un homme qui était son égal, qui savait toujours qui elle était et ce qu‟elle voulait. Donc, quand Iba a pris ma main et mon cœur, en faisant s‟arrêter le temps et me faisant sentir content de vivre au moment présent … j‟étais incapable de lui résister. 29

Ma chérie, tu as un bon père. Il est doux, sincère, et passionné par la quête pour savoir. Il rêve aussi intensément qu‟il aime. Contrairement à toi et moi, il est patient. Pour moi, il était un souffle d‟air après l‟étouffement, un éclair de lumière après des ans d‟incertitude et de trahison. Quand mon père a quitté ma mère, mon monde a implosé, s‟est brisé en mille morceaux. Iba les a ramassés et m‟a fait sentir complète. Dès que tu seras né, nous prévoyons de te confier à ta grand-mère paternelle, jusqu‟au jour où j‟aurai fini mes études. Nous prévoyons aussi un mariage après la clôture de l‟année scolaire. Je n‟ai aucune inquiétude à propos de te laisser avec Mme Sall parce qu‟elle est comme son fils – patiente, généreuse, et véritable. Tu seras gâtée comme une princesse. Mais, même si je suis certaine qu‟Iba sera un bon père, je ne suis plus certaine qu‟il est l‟homme que je voudrais épouser. La fille que j‟avais été aimait Iba avec tout son cœur. C‟est l‟amour qui t‟a amenée ici, si inattendue. La fille que j‟avais été aurait épousé Iba sans hésiter. Et c‟est vrai qu‟après que mon secret a été révélé, Iba a fait de son mieux d‟être responsable. Il a demandé à sa mère de te garder quand tu seras née. Il m‟aide avec mes études chaque jour, et il m‟a promis de m‟épouser et de m‟aimer pendant tout ma vie. Mais sa vie quotidienne reste presque inchangée. Après avoir étudié un peu avec moi et avoir joué avec mes frères et sœurs, il me picore sur la joue et retourne à l‟université, aux fêtes et aux dortoirs où je ne sens plus confortable. Je ne lui en veux pas, (parce que ce n‟est pas du tout sa faute) mais nos mondes sont devenus complètements différents. Tu vois, te transportant à l‟intérieur de mon ventre m‟a profondément changé. Tu étais mon secret, avant même qu‟Iba soit au courant de ton existence. Je t‟ai portée, un poids qui pesait si lourd sur mon cœur que je suis devenue physiquement malade, vomissant en secret d‟incertitude et de peur. En te portant, je suis devenue une femme. Iba est toujours un enfant qui essaie d‟assumer les responsabilités d‟un homme. 30

Il se peut que, après ton naissance, j‟aille retrouver la fille que j‟avais été, ou peut-être Iba deviendra un homme soudainement. Mais je ne vais pas l‟épouser si ça n‟arrive pas. J‟ai l‟expérience directe du chagrin de vivre avec deux personnes mariées qui ne s‟aiment plus. Je ne veux pas ça pour toi. Je t‟aime, ma petite. Il n‟ya rien dans ce monde fou de plus important à moi que toi. Ta mère, Aissatou

Kayla Souza

A Fictional Letter Inspired by Une si longue letter, by Mariama Bâ English version by the author My heart, Farmata assured me that your kicks, so strong and vigorous, prove that you are a little boy who is trying to escape from my belly. I still hate Farmata because she betrayed my secret, our secret of your existence, to my mother. So, when Farmata, for the second time, informed me of my destiny, I nodded in submission to please her and to get her to leave me alone. But now, in the privacy of my own room, contemplating my enormous stomach which ripples with your tiniest movements, I realize that Farmata has no way of knowing for certain whether you are a daughter or a son. It‟s up to me, your mother, to know. And even though I have no idea how, I am suddenly sure. I am certain that you are a girl, a girl who is already bored with her dark and constraining prison, a girl who is fighting for her liberty with her tiny and ineffective hands and feet, my beautiful daughter who is already endowed with my strength, and, unfortunately, my impatience. Be patient, my darling. I know that you will not listen to me because I never listened to my own mother, but I need to tell you anyway. Be patient. We will meet each other very soon. In a way, you are the result of my impatience. Me, the second girl in a large family, I was always running, trying to catch up to my elder sister. I was always painfully aware of Daba‟s legacy, Daba, who had radical and strong opinions, who managed to marry a man who was her equal, Daba, who always knew who she was and what she wanted. So, when Iba took my hand and my heart, making time stop and making me feel content to live in the present moment…I was incapable of resisting him. My dear, you have a good father. He is sweet, sincere, and impassioned by the quest for knowledge. He dreams as intensely as 32

as he loves. Unlike you and me, he is patient. For me, he was a breath of air after suffocation, a burst of light after years of uncertainty and betrayal. When my father left my mother, my world imploded, shattered into a million pieces. Iba picked up those pieces and made me feel whole again. As soon as you are born, we plan on entrusting you to the care of your paternal grandmother until I finish my studies. We are also planning on getting married at the end of the school year. I don‟t have any reservations about leaving you with Mrs. Sall because she is just like her son – patient, generous, and real. You will be spoiled like a princess. However, even though I am certain that Iba will be a wonderful father, I am no longer certain that he is the man that I wish to marry. The girl that I once was loved Iba with all of her heart. This is the love that brought you here so unexpectedly. The girl who I once was would have married Iba without hesitation. And it is true that after my secret was revealed, Iba did his best to be responsible. He asked his mother to watch over you once you are born. Every day, he helps me with my studies and promised to marry me and to love me for my whole life. But his daily life is, for the most part, unchanged. After studying with me a bit, and playing with my siblings, he pecks me on the cheek and returns to the university, returns to the parties and dormitories where I no longer feel comfortable. I don‟t resent him because it isn‟t his fault, but our worlds have become completely different. You see, carrying you inside of my belly has changed me profoundly. You were my secret, even before Iba was informed of your existence. I carried you, a weight which weighed so heavily on my heart that I became physically ill, vomiting in secret from uncertainty and fear. And in carrying you, I became a woman. Iba is still a child who is trying to take on the responsibilities of a man. It is possible that, after your birth, I will find the girl I once was, or perhaps Iba will suddenly become a man. But I will not marry him if neither of these situations come to pass.

I have experienced the pain of living with two married people who do not love each other any longer. I want better for you. I love you, little one. There is nothing in this crazy world more important to me than you. Your loving mother, Aissatou

Mame Moran 34

Lizzy von Klemperer

Mary Cecio

Escarlata Nicole Narea Disgustamente elegante, como un vestido rojo seductor, una bandera ondea en el viento. Un destello escarlata penetra el nublado gris del cielo, aleteando encima de la muchedumbre. Los soldados no oyen las sĂşplicas. Imponentes y terribles, el lozano carmesĂ se desliza por el aire como seda encendida. Tiananmen grita, la bandera se levanta, y sus mazas bajan. De escarlata se tiĂąen sus manos.

Lauren Church

Scarlet English version by the author Filthily elegant, like a seductive red dress, a flag ripples in the wind. A scarlet glimmer penetrates the stormy grey of the sky, fluttering over the crowd. The soldiers do not hear their pleas. Both imposing and terrible, the lush crimson glides through the air like a fiery silk. Tiananmen screams, the flag rises, and their clubs descend. Scarlet stains their hands.

Emma Leary

Una mano Claudia Khoury Cuando era niña, una pequeña, lechosa mano, marcada por frágiles cortes de papel y salpicaduras de pintura, es sujetada por un padre cansado para guiar y que nadie se pierda. En la adolescencia, una mano cubierta con anillos, esmalte de uñas, y manchas florecientes, es sostenida por un amigo cariñoso para el consuelo cuando el mundo ya no está más libre de preocupaciones. En la juventud, una suave, desnuda mano, bella y limpia, limada y pulida, es agarrada por un nuevo y primer amor para la ternura y la alegría. En la mediana edad, una áspera, fatigada mano, marcada por un anillo de matrimonio de oro, seca y agrietada, es mantenida por un esposo para la tranquilidad y silenciosa apreciación. En la vejez, una arrugada, envejecida mano, temblorosa y consumida, sacudida por el tiempo, es guardada por alguna persona, gracias a la fe– para regalar la fuerza.

Lizzy von Klemperer

A Hand English version by the author As a young child, a small milky hand, marked by crisp paper cuts and splashes of paint, is held by an exhausted parent for guidance, so no one is lost. In adolescence, a hand covered in rings, chipped nail polish, and smudges of highlighter, is held by an understanding friend for consolation when the world is no longer carefree. As a young adult, a smooth, bare hand, kempt and clean, filed and polished, is held by a new, first love for tenderness and exhilaration. In middle age, a roughened, fatigued hand, marked by a gold wedding band, dry and chapped, is held by a spouse for calmness and quiet appreciation. In old age, a wrinkled, aging hand, shaking and creased, damaged by experience, is held by any person for faithâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; to pass on strength.

Un lazo rojo Aubrey Kalashian Inspirado por “Las medias rojas” de Emilia Pardo Bazán La niña siempre se viste con colores oscuros o de gris. Conocemos sólo su silencio y la timidez de sus ojos. Susurran que ella es una huérfana. Se preguntan si ella sabe hablar. Dicen que debe vivir con las monjas cerca de la iglesia o en la soledad de los árboles. Ella se viste con colores tristes. Tal vez es la ley de las monjas y las pequeñas severas líneas de esas bocas, apenas visibles al ojo denudo. Pero no estoy de acuerdo, porque en el mar de gris y oscuridad hay una sorpresa. Todos los días en el pelo tiene un lazo, un lazo rojo. Yo veo esta cosa importante. Veo pasión, amor, fuerza, y sobretodo, el rojo del valor. Y aunque ella se viste en oscuridad, tiene ese lazo rojo, grita en desesperación al mundo que adentro de ella hay vida, una vida que nadie puede ver, pero es muy real y fuerte.

A Red Ribbon Inspired by “Las medias rojas” by Emilia Pardo Bazán English version by Jenna Nobs The girl always dresses in colors of dark and gray. We know only her silence, and the shyness of her eyes. They whisper that she is an orphan. They wonder if she ever learned to speak. They say that she must live with the nuns next to the church, or else in the solitude of the trees. The girl dresses in sad colors. Perhaps it is the law of the nuns and the small, sharp lines of their mouths, hardly visible to the naked eye. But I disagree, because in the sea of dark and gray there is a surprise. Every day in her hair she wears a ribbon. A red ribbon. I see this one important thing. I see passion, love, strength, and above all, the red of courage. And although the girl dresses in darkness, she wears this red ribbon, screams to the world in desperation that inside of her there is life, a life that no one can see, but that is very real and strong.

Celina Frelinghuysen

Creaturas Alicia Licalzi Yo desembarco del pequeño bus escolar que me lleva diez salidas a un mundo nuevo. Mientras me apresuro para hallar mi casillero, veo unas creaturas, muchachas en faldas celestes y blusas blancas y limpias, abrazando y saludando a sus amigas, compartiendo sus veranos lejos de casa ¿Dónde están los muchachos en camisas coloridas y las muchachas mostrando sus guardarropas del otoño? ¿Quién me transportó de mi escuela anterior a este nuevo lugar con miles de faldas celestes y blusas blancas? Estoy de pie en una silenciosa órbita. Este extraño universo me manda adaptar, o dejarme sola. una de esas raras creaturas se acerca y me dice, “Hola. ¿Eres nueva aquí?” La campana suena. Me deslizo a una clase y me siento en una silla. Miles de ojos me están mirando. Yo soy la creatura.

Mame Moran

Creatures English version by the author I walk off the small school bus that takes me ten exits from home into a new world. As I hurry to find my locker, I see more of the same creatures, girls in light blue skirts and clean white polos, hugging and loudly greeting old friends, sharing their crazy summers away from home. Where are the boys in their multicolored oxfords, and the girls showing off their fall wardrobes? Who transported me from my old school to this new place filled with a thousand blue skirts and white polos? I stand in a quiet orbit. This unfamiliar universe orders me to adapt, or stay alone. One of those peculiar creatures approaches me and says, “Hi. You‟re new here?” The school bell rings. I drift into a classroom, and slump into a seat. A thousand eyes are watching me. I am the creature.

Mi misión Nicole Narea Ayer, me senté en mi escritorio con mis dedos sobre el teclado de la computadora, reflexionando en mi “misión,” quizás una palabra demasiado grandiosa para mis aspiraciones adolescentes para la vida. No soy una persona sin objetivos; si se me preguntara sobre mi carrera futura, yo podría recitar un plan detallado de mi educación en relaciones internacionales y mis posibles carreras profesionales. Pero la palabra “misión” alude a un llamado superior, algo más significativo e instintivo que mi plan de carrera. Nunca he recibido una llamada de Dios o experimentado una gran epifanía de mi propósito en la vida. Pero tengo un deseo instintivo de escribir. Mi padre dice que la escritura está en mi sangre. Mi abuelo era un economista y novelista con gran éxito en su apogeo. Cuando era niña, recuerdo que mi abuelo pasaba horas encerrado en su estudio con una taza de té, un cigarro, y una máquina de escribir. Yo ponía mi oreja contra la puerta, oía los suaves clics de las teclas e inhalaba el liviano olor de tabaco. El siempre aparecía antes de la cena al momento justo para poner la mesa. No tengo la intención de idealizar la vida de mi abuelo como escritor porque yo nunca entendí su profesión hasta después de su muerte. Busqué artículos de periódicos viejos en Internet para aprender más sobre el autor que era mi abuelo. Su imagen pública era tan diferente del hombre que yo recordaba. Pero reconocí una descripción de su risa gutural y su agudeza, bromeando un poco irreverentemente. Era un hombre de misterio, y yo estaba más fascinada con la carrera de un escritor. Durante el verano cuando yo cumplí trece años, escribí cuentos cortos, algunos garabatos estilizados, en una libretita. Los cuentos eran sobre artistas que viven en la ciudad de Nueva York, pero los borré cuando los terminé, porque no había querido que nadie los leyera. Pero me acuerdo de los cuentos y, a veces, sueño con los artistas que una vez llenaron el paisaje en la 45

confitería de Hungría, que quizás tenga los mejores merengues en la cuidad. Yo nunca realmente comencé a disfrutar de la escritura hasta el año siguiente cuando descubrí el periodismo. Leí cada edición de la revista Vanity Fair. También intenté (pero no conseguí hacerlo) tener la costumbre de leer el diario Financial Times todos los días. Cuando empecé a escribir para el periódico del colegio, ¡que alegría! Había por fin desarrollado mi voz a través de mi escritura. Quizás fue en aquel tiempo cuando comencé mi misión de escritora.

Lizzy von Klemperer

My Mission English version by the author I sat down at my desk with fingers poised over my computer keyboard and pondered my “mission,” perhaps too grandiose a word to describe my teenage aspirations for life. I am not aimless; if you asked me about the career I wish to pursue in life, I could recite a detailed plan for my education in international relations and my potential career paths. But the word “mission” seems to connote a higher calling, something more significant and instinctual than my carefully planned career. I have never received a call from God or experienced a great epiphany about my purpose in life. But I do have an instinctual desire to write. My father says writing is in my blood. My grandfather was an economist and novelist who wrote many bestselling books in the prime of his life. As a child, I remember how he would spend hours locked in his study with a mug of tea, his cigar, and a typewriter. I would place my ear up against the door, hearing the soft clicking of the typewriter keys and inhaling the faint smell of tobacco. He always emerged at dinnertime, just in time to set the table. I do not intend to romanticize my grandfather‟s life as a writer because I never quite understood his profession until well after his death. I searched for old newspaper articles about him on the internet so I could learn more about the author who was my grandfather. His public persona was so different from the man I remembered. However, I recognized a description of his slow, throaty laughter and his witty, somewhat irreverent quips. He was a man of mystery, which made me even more fascinated with his career as a writer. During the summer I turned thirteen, I wrote short stories, some stylized scribbles, in a little notebook. The stories were about artists living in New York City, but I promptly ripped them up when they were finished because I never wanted anyone to read them. But I remember the stories, and sometimes still 47

dream about the group of artists who once filled the landscape in the Hungarian Pastry Shop, which has arguably the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x;s best meringues. I never truly began to love writing until the year after that, when I discovered journalism. I pored over every issue of Vanity Fair, cutting out the articles I liked and placing them in a folder. I also tried rather unsuccessfully to develop a habit of reading the Financial Times every day. When I began writing for the school newspaper, something clicked. I had developed a voice through my writing. Perhaps it was then that I began my mission as a writer.

Mame Moran

Las campanas Krystyna Miles Encima de la colina, allá, las campanas esperan. El silencio susurra, hibernando en la quietud de la mañana. Pero al mediodía, la melodía se despierta. Animado, enriqueciendo el oído con alegría el repique de los instrumentos llena mis sentidos. Mis preocupaciones más profundas se levantan, como las olas tranquilas que envuelven las conchas, lavando los granos de arena en la playa. Un viento nuevo se mueve y un águila extiende sus alas, lista para otra aventura.

Arianna Arca

The Bells English version by the author On top of the hill, there, the bells wait. Silence whispers, hibernating in the morning stillness. But at noon, the melody awakes. Animated, enriching ears with joy, the ringing of the instruments fills my senses. My worries are lifted, just as calming waves engulf the shells, washing the grains of sand on a beach. A new wind stirs and an eagle extends its wings, ready for another adventure.

Lizzy von Klemperer

Es de mañana Kerianne Doran Es de mañana, el sol no está brillando. Las nubes están tomando su sitio en el cielo, estoy caminando, tranquila. Es mediodía, el sol quema alto sobre el mundo. Las nubes se están convirtiendo en olas quebradas, estoy corriendo, curioso. Es de noche, el sol se desvanece. Las nubes se están convirtiendo en olas quebradas, estoy flotando, misteriosa. Es medianoche, la oscuridad ha caído. La luna llena se levanta como ojo brillante, está mirando en silencio, magnificencia. Una y otra vez, el ritmo persiste, hasta que todo es desteñido y gris, hasta que todo ha desvanecido. Silencio, magnificencia.

Arianna Arca

It is Morning English version by the author It is morning, the sun is not bright. The clouds are taking their places in the sky, I am walking, peaceful. It is noon, the sun burns high above the world. The clouds have melted into spotless blue, I am running, curious. It is evening, the sun is fading. The clouds are returning in crashing waves, I am floating, mysterious. It is midnight, the dark has fallen. The full moon rises like a glowing eye, watching in silence, magnificence. Again and again, the rhythm persists, until all is faded and gray, until everything has slipped away. Silence, magnificence.

Polly Bruce 53

Two Ways of Looking at Gabriela Mistral’s “Los que no danzan”

Nora Henrie

Los que no danzan Gabriela Mistral Una niña que es inválida dijo: ¿Cómo danzo yo? Le dijimos que pusiera a danzar su corazón... Luego dijo la quebrada: ¿Cómo cantaría yo? Le dijimos que pusiera a cantar su corazón... Dijo el pobre cardo muerto: ¿Cómo danzaría yo? Le dijimos: Pon al viento a volar tu corazón... Dijo Dios desde la altura: ¿Cómo bajo del azul? Le dijimos que bajara a danzarnos en la luz. Todo el valle está danzando en un corro bajo el sol, y al que no entra se le hace tierra, tierra el corazón.

Lauren Church 55

Those Who Do Not Dance English version by Grace Hirshorn A crippled girl, who longs to danceâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; Dance in your heart, we tell her. A mountain stream, who longs to singâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; Sing in your heart, we tell him. O poor, dead thistle, without limbs, without life, let your heart fly to the wind, and you too, shall dance. O distant God, so alone in the sky, come down from the heavens, and we will dance in your light. The valley is dancing in a circle under the sun, hearts joined in movement as ancient as time. Those who do not dance have chosen death over life, hearts turned to ash. They cannot sing. They cannot dance.

Those Who Do Not Dance English version by Allie Kenny A girl who could not even stand looked to me with innocent eyes and asked: How can I dance? I looked back at her sincerely and spoke, You can dance beautifully in your heart, and she smiled. We spoke with the majestic yet silent mountain stream, and he whispered: How can I sing? We told him that the strength to sing lies in his heart. Next, a poor, withered thistle gasped: But how could I dance? We said to her, Soon you will find the breath of life, and emerge dancing in the light. Then God in the highest heavens, far above our universe, said to us: How can I teach my children to live with love? We urged him to let his heart fly on the wind. Now, the whole world is dancing beneath the sheltering light of the sun. Those who do not join this circle have neither love nor life, and their hearts, sad and dismayed, crumble to ashes.

Kerianne Doran

Ode of Elisheba Claudia Khoury Winner of a 2010 Gold Key from the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers Elisheba, the wife of Aaron, is mentioned one time in the Bible. Her voice, similar to other women in her time, was never heard. This is the fictional song she would have sung had she been given the chance. The blood is sprinkled on us with our heads held high, From the newly sacrificed bulls that have been offered to the sky. Moses has just received the rituals by which the Lord wants us to abide, And with the sprinkling of blood, the covenant is ratified. A light crimson rain stains my tan, dampened face, The covenant is sealed in honor of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grace. My name is Elisheba - I live for the sake of my kin, Aaron, my spouse, completes who I am; he is my essence, my flesh and my skin. My husband has stature, charisma and charm â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and for this reason he is his brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x;s mouthpiece, My love for him is ever still blooming and I know, through the years, it will never cease. My life revolves around my four sons; they serve as my water in this desert land, Nadab, Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, are the very foundation on which I stand. Without being a mother, I would be utterly lost, for it is my core and my soul, In this community, it is all I can be, and I cannot see a more proper role. On this glorious day, my spouse and my sons are being ordained as holy priests, I stare as the ritual is performed; the blood of a ram taints their hands and their feet. I peer at the faces of each of my sons, who will grow to become the pride of their land, They will soon lead their people in prayer; their names will be 59

celebrated, their names will be grand. I glance at my eldest sons, Nadab and Abihu, who have always been discerning and astute, But they are terribly haughty, a trait their actions can in no way refute. Their moist hair is fixed to their foreheads, in the awful, sweltering heat, I catch arrogance only a mother can see, for it is in their eyes and very discrete. I know my eldest sons far too well- their overconfidence being their flaw, They value their own opinions and decisions more than those of the divine law. As they cross to the Tent of Meeting, I wish to reprimand them like I did in their youth, But they are now held in higher esteem than I, and I do not want to anger them or be uncouth. I sit in my tent, not asking myself why God has chosen them to serve as priests, I hope we will soon honor them in a splendid, lavish feast. I sit back with total compliance, hunch my shoulders and nod my head, My prayers are fast and well memorized - I spend more time in the day kneading my bread. I try not to be passive with my faith, but it is all I have been taught, Women are subordinate and never encouraged to have freedom of thought. If a woman should not question a man, what gives her the right to question the Lord? Our absolute power, almighty being; the gracious god we all adore. On the morning of the eighth day, I feel incredibly relieved, I will be reunited with my family once their priesthood is achieved. As they leave the tent, Nadab and Abihu grin; their pride noticeable to more than just I, Their overconfidence pains me, but all I can do is bow my head and sigh. 60

Abruptly, Nadab and Abihu step in front of their father, with conceited grins, From the look on their faces, their actions will probably result in sins. The chains of their censers wrap around their hands, in a dark and ominous way, The coil of the bronze against their skin resembles a serpent around its prey. With the censers still clasped, they start to fanatically chafe stones from the ground, The colliding of the gold and stone make a sudden deafening sound. As an immense fire is brought to life, I stare in utter horror and despair, They scatter incense on the flames and smoke fills the dry, desert air. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We offer this to you, oh Lord, only from us two, Our faith is the strongest, divine-like and true, This fire is a new ritual we knew you would admire, For we are who we are as well â&#x20AC;&#x201C; like you, we will inspire.â&#x20AC;? My sons believe they are equal to God, have I not raised them well? What makes them believe they can make their own proper ritual? Their arrogance and naivety is making their judgment lack, And in a sudden gust of wind, God throws them into their profane fire, never to come back. But in the flames that swept their last breath, I saw their youth and innocence alight, The fire still blazing, now in the wrath of God, was a painful yet mesmerizing site. The children I had breastfed, were brushed away as quickly as the wind carries sand, No warnings, no farewells; I had no final chance to hold their hands.

God did not show any mercy for the naĂŻve; for the two eldest sons I had begot, And though I will hold their memory, in the Israelite history they will soon be forgot. For once I shall not be passive; I will question the action, but not the intent, of my God, I must inquire his harsh decision to let them die; no longer merely accept and just nod. I must inquire his harsh decision to let them die; no longer merely accept and just nod. My bereavement did not diminish my reverence for the almighty Lord, But it made me respect my own voice, and realize my faith must be explored. My faith does not have to be automatic, or completely banal and demure, Nor must it be impersonal; through reflection and prayer it can become pure Their blood was sprinkled on my heart with my head bowed low, And ultimately good came from a tragic blow. The end of my sonsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lives reawakened my own, And it is because of their actions that, in faith, I have grown. In the fires of submissiveness, there is nothing worse to say, That I did not try to understand the God to whom I pray.

Arianna Arca 62

Ode d’Elisheba French version by the author Elisheba, la femme d’Aaron, est mentionnée une seule fois dans la Bible. Sa voix, comme celle d’autres femmes de son temps, n’a jamais été entendue. C’est la chanson fictive qu’elle aurait chanté, aurait-elle eu cette chance. Le sang est versé sur nous avec nos têtes bien droites, Des taureaux venant d’être sacrifiés en offrande aux cieux. Moise a juste reçu les lois que Dieu veut que nous observions, Et avec le versement du sang, l’accord est ratifié. Une légère pluie rouge foncée tache ma figure brunie et humide, L’accord est scellé en l’honneur de la grâce de Dieu. Mon nom est Elisheba - je vis pour le bien-être de ma famille, Aaron, mon époux, me complète, il est mon essence, ma chair et ma peau, Mon mari a de la stature, du charisme et du charme et pour cette raison, il est le porte-parole de son frère, Mon amour pour lui est toujours en train de s‟épanouir et je sais, qu‟au travers des années, il ne cessera jamais. Ma vie tourne autour de mes quatre fils ; ils sont mon eau dans ce pays désertique, Nadab, Abihu, Eleazar et Ithamar sont la fondation sur laquelle je m‟appuie. Si je n‟étais pas mère, je serais complètement perdue, car c‟est mon cœur et mon âme, Dans cette communauté, c‟est tout ce que je puisse être, et je ne peux pas m‟imaginer un meilleur rôle. En ce jour glorieux, mon époux et mes fils sont ordonnés prêtres, Je regarde fixement alors que la cérémonie se déroule ; le sang d‟un bélier souille leurs mains et leurs pieds. Je scrute les visages de chacun de mes fils, qui deviendront la fierté de leur pays, Ils conduiront bientôt leur peuple en prière ; leurs noms seront célébrés, leurs noms seront imposants. 63

Je jette un coup d‟œil à mes fils aînés, Nadab et Abihu, qui ont toujours été perspicaces et malins, Mais ils sont terriblement hautains, un trait que leurs actions ne peuvent en aucun cas réfuter. Leurs cheveux humides sont collés à leurs fronts, dans la chaleur terrible et oppressante, Je surprends l‟arrogance que seule une mère peut voir, car elle est dans leurs yeux et très discrète. Je connais mes fils aînés trop bien - leur excès de confiance en euxmêmes étant leur défaut, Ils tiennent plus à leurs propres opinions et décisions qu‟à ceux de la loi divine. Comme ils traversent la tente de la cérémonie, je voudrais les réprimander comme je le faisais dans leur jeunesse, Mais ils sont maintenant tenus en plus haute estime que moimême, et je ne veux pas les irriter ou être rude. Je m‟assois dans ma tente, ne me demandant pas pourquoi Dieu les a choisis comme prêtres, J‟espère que nous les honorerons bientôt lors d‟une fête splendide et somptueuse. Je m‟installe avec une soumission totale, je courbe mes épaules et j‟acquiesce de la tête, Mes prières sont rapides et bien mémorisées- je passe plus de temps le jour à pétrir mon pain. J‟essaye de ne pas être passive dans ma foi, mais c‟est tout ce qu‟on m‟a appris, Les femmes sont des subordonnées et ne sont jamais encouragées à avoir la liberté de pensée. Si une femme ne doit pas questionner un homme, comment auraitelle le droit de questionner Dieu ? Notre Dieu tout-puissant, au pouvoir absolu, et bienveillant, que nous adorons tous. Le matin du huitième jour, je me sens incroyablement soulagée, Je serai réunie avec ma famille lorsqu‟ils seront devenus prêtres.

Alors qu‟ils quittent la tente, Nadab et Abihu sourient ; leur fierté visible à d‟autres que moi, Leur excès de confiance me fait mal, mais tout ce que je peux faire est baisser ma tête et soupirer. Brusquement, Nadab et Abihu devancent leur père, avec des sourires suffisants, De l‟expression sur leurs visages, leurs actions résulteront probablement en pêchés. Les chaines de leurs encensoirs enroulées autour de leurs mains, de façon sombre et inquiétante, La spire de bronze contre leurs peaux ressemble à un serpent autour de sa proie. En étreignant toujours leurs encensoirs, ils commencent à frotter de façon fanatique des pierres, La collision de l‟or et de la pierre faisant soudainement un bruit assourdissant. Comme un feu immense surgit, je fixe la scène en totale horreur et désespoir, Ils répandent de l‟encens sur les flammes et de la fumée remplit l‟air sec du désert. « Ceci est notre offrande, oh Dieu, seulement de nous deux, Notre foi est la plus forte, divine et réelle, Ce feu est un nouveau rite que nous savions vous admireriez, Car „nous sommes qui nous sommes‟ aussi - comme vous, nous inspirerons ». Mes fils croient qu‟ils sont l‟égal de Dieu, ne les ai-je pas mieux élevés ? Qui leur fait croire qu‟ils peuvent inventer leur propre rite ? Leur arrogance et leur naïveté faussent leur jugement, Et dans une brusque rafale de vent, Dieu les jette dans leur feu profane, à jamais. Mais dans les flammes qui les emportaient, j‟ai vu leur jeunesse et leur innocence en feu,

L‟embrasement des flammes, du au courroux de Dieu, était une douloureuse mais fascinante vision. Les enfants que j‟ai nourris au sein, ont disparu aussi vite que le vent emporte le sable, Pas d‟avertissements, pas d‟adieux, je n‟ai pas eu la chance de tenir leurs mains une dernière fois. Dieu n‟a pas montré de miséricorde pour les naïfs, pour les deux fils aînés que j‟ai eus, Et bien que je les garderai en souvenir, dans l‟histoire Israélite, ils seront bientôt oubliés. Pour une fois je ne serai pas passive ; je questionnerai l‟action mais pas l‟intention de mon Dieu, Je dois questionner sa dure décision de les laisser mourir ; je ne dois plus simplement accepter et juste acquiescer. Mon deuil n‟a pas diminué ma révérence pour Dieu tout-puissant, Mais il m‟a fait respecter ma propre voix, et réaliser que ma foi doit être explorée. Ma foi ne doit pas être automatique, ou complètement banale et réservée, Elle ne doit pas être impersonnelle ; grâce à la réflexion et à la prière, elle peut devenir pure. Leur sang a été versé sur mon cœur avec ma tête baissée, Et finalement du bon est sorti de ce coup tragique. La fin de la vie de mes fils a réveillé la mienne, Et c’est à cause de leurs actions que ma foi a grandi. Dans les feux de la soumission, il n’y a rien de pire à dire, Que je n’ai pas essayé de comprendre le Dieu que je prie.

Emma Leary 66

Reinvention Jenna Nobs Winner of a 2010 Gold Key from the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers When wind rushes through leafy skies in bright swirls of autumn, I find myself waking from dreams of sparrows. They carry small parts of me, like leaves and twigs and streamers plucked from a childâ&#x20AC;&#x;s bicycle on a windy Tuesday. I marvel at how they spin me into the perfect shape, tear me apart, reinvent me, in a way that is like catching my reflection unexpectedly in broken glass. I am a loving, jumbled mess, a refuge to stand alone in crystal air. All the inspiration of a lowly sparrow.

Reinvención Spanish version by the author Cuando el viento corre a través del cielo frondoso en remolinos brillantes de otoño, me despierto de sueños de gorriones. Llevan pedazos pequeños de mi ser, como ramitas y hojas y serpentinas arrancadas de la bicicleta de un niño en un martes ventoso. Me maravilla como me devanan en la forma perfecta, me desgarran, me reinventan, que es como vislumbrarme inesperadamente en un vidrio destrozado. Soy un cariñoso, revuelto desorden, un refugio para quedarme sola en el aire de cristal. Toda la inspiración del gorrión humilde.

Lizzy von Klemperer

Beachside Sundays Natasha Thomas-Allen Stifling vapors of heat burn through my pores, sweet and soft winds sweep through my hair. The fragrance of sea water invades my senses as grains of warm sandy silk caress the soles of my feet. Its golden softness buries countless losses and forgotten trinkets. Beneath yellow rays, waves of turquoise shimmer and sparkle with brilliance. The gentle and lulling whispers of the ocean inspire stillness, but angry squawks of seagulls soon break the silence. Enchanted by the majestic ambiance, I am under a spell with every visit to the seashore. Until next summer, moments cocooned in this peaceful embrace will be etched in my memory.

Julie Goodfriend

Domingos en la playa Spanish version by Emily Attubato Sofocantes olas de calor queman los poros, vientos dulces y suaves arrasan el cabello. La fragancia del agua del mar invade mis sentidos cuando granos de seda caliente y arenosa acarician pies descalzos. Su dorada blandura entierra pĂŠrdidas incontables y baratijas olvidadas. Bajo rayos amarillos, olas de turquesa brillan y destellan con sumo resplandor. Los susurros tranquilos y sedantes del mar inspiran absoluta tranquilidad, pero quejosos graznidos de gaviotas pronto rompen el silencio. Cautivada por el majestuoso paisaje, estoy hechizada en la orilla del mar. Hasta el venidero verano, estos momentos quedarĂĄn abrazados en mi memoria.

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 artwork and writing and attempts to use as many of these pieces as possible to demonstrate the range of creative talents of the student body. Students create the layout using Microsoft Word on Dell computers. The typeface is set in Bell MT.

Kate Welch