Voices
Voces 声音 Voix Voices
Voices 2011 Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King Street Greenwich, CT 06831 Phone: (203) 531-6500 Fax: (203) 531-5206 http://www.cshgreenwich.org
Nora Henrie i
Editorial Board Jenna Nobs, Editor-in-Chief Taylor Blevin, Associate and Layout Editor Staff Emily Attubato Arianna Arca Alicia LiCalzi Grace Hirshorn Claudia Khoury Jeannette Sucre Bianca Chiappelloni Audrey Moukattaf Angela Jaramillo Alexa DeAlessandrini Katie Martinez Sarah Hirshorn Carolyn Schnackenberg Faculty Advisor Graziella Sidoli Special Thanks Kevin Donnelly The World Languages Department Inez Andrucyk Kev Filmore James Ritch, Graphic Management Partners
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VOICES Volume 5 June 2011 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.
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Table of Contents Cover Erin Myers, Digital Photography Title Page Nora Henrie, Watercolor
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Staff and Statement of Philosophy Helen Ziminsky, Clay
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Stephanie Viola, Digital Photography
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Ala Wales, Digital Photography
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Spanish Emily Molinelli, Ink
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La mĂĄscara (The Mask), Bridget Mudd Nora Kenrie, Watercolor
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La vida en soledad (Life in Solitude), Alex Root Nicole Fischer, Digital Photography
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El amor y una flor (Love and a Flower) Alexa DeAlessandrini Maureen Leitner, Cray Pas Maggie Ellison, Cray Pas
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Recuerdos (Memories), Sarah Hirshorn Nicole Fischer, Digital Photography
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Los pimientos (The Peppers), Taylor Blevin Taylor Blevin, Digital Photography
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Las uvas (The Grapes), Krystyna Miles Helen Ziminsky, Watercolor
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Las dulces criaturas (The Sweet Peas), Grace Hirshorn Charlotte Rhodes, Digital Photography
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Regreso a ningĂşn lugar (Back to Nowhere) Ashleigh McGrath Marian Ziminsky, Watercolor
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El baile (The Dance), Angela Jorge Emma Leary, Watercolor
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Eymie Prieto, Cray Pas
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Chinese Acacia Snash, Ink
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永远 (Eternity), Kritsen Roche
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Three Nature Haikus, Katie Martinez
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Arianna Arca, Digital Photography
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French Emily Molinelli, Ink
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La glace au chocolat (Chocolate Ice Cream) Sarah Hirshorn Abby Smith, Watercolor Jane Gerstner, Marker
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Les pensées d’une mère (A Mother’s Thoughts) Katie Colford Nora Henrie, Watercolor
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Clare Verrochi, Digital Photography
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Mary Furth, Digital Photography
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Arabic Acacia Smash, Ink
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Nothing But Light, Carly Sobecki Audrey Finnegan, Digital Photography
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From the Rihani Essays, Alex Murray Courtney Fischer, Digital Photography
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Nicole Fischer, Digital Photography
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Ines del Castillo, Clay
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English Amanda Molinelli, Ink
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Lebanon, Audrey Moukattaf Arianna Arca, Digital Photography
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Giulia Campana, Watercolor
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Ode of the Guilty, Claudia Khoury Digital Photography
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Nicole Fischer, Digital Photography
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Latin Amanda Molinelli, Ink
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Diēs Nivei, Viae Niveae (Snowy Days, Snowy Ways) Mary Liguori Chrissy McCabe, Digital Photography
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Piscis (Fish), Emily Attubato Faith Morely, Watercolor
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Production Notes
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Stephanie Viola
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Ala Wales
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EspaĂąol Spanish
Emily Molinelli 1
La máscara Bridget Mudd Cuando el sol se va del cielo, emergemos. Ocultados por máscaras de lo que no somos, o lo que queremos ser, celebramos la noche. Las niñas transformadas por las prendas y coronas en princesas elegantes, niños fingiendo que podemos salvar el mundo— veo cientos de héroes. Durante esta noche, nadie puede distinguir entre el presidente de la clase y Britney Spears, la capitana de lacrosse y la animadora. Identidades se estiran y se juntan como máscaras de goma, modelándonos en quiénes debemos ser. Esa noche, yo no me disfracé. Me aventuré en la oscuridad sin ninguna identidad salvo la mía, como simplemente yo misma. Quién soy. Quién quiero ser.
Nora Henrie 2
The Mask English version by Bridget Mudd When the sun leaves the sky, we come out. Obscured by masks of what we are not, or what we want to be, we celebrate the night. Young girls transformed by feather boas and tiaras into graceful princesses, boys pretending that they can save the world– I see hundreds of Supermen. On this night, no one can distinguish the class president from Britney Spears, the lacrosse captain from the cheerleader. Identities stretch and merge like rubber masks, shaping us into who we ought to be. This Halloween, I did not dress up. I ventured into the darkness with no identity but my own, as simply me. Who I am. Who I want to become.
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La Vida en Soledad Alex Root Yo camino con una pasión que ha sido largamente olvidada, una pasión tan brillante como el sol de la tarde que arde encima. ¿Puede existir la pasión sin un destino? Las hojas temblorosas y la hierba pisoteada debajo de los pies responden con un clamoroso—¡sí! El sol filtra a través de la fronda y cubre el camino, manchas brillantes que capturan mi vista e iluminan los colores cambiados de los árboles que están susurrando. De verde joven a rojo ardiente, el bosque adquiere una nueva identidad mientras voy errando en la dirección de la mía. Puedo oir los coches que pasan cerca, pero por un momento, parece que viajo en la soledad.
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Life in Solitude English version by the author I walk with a passion that has long been forgotten, a passion as bright as the afternoon sun that blazes overhead. But can there be passion without destination? The quivering leaves and trampled grass beneath my feet all answer with a resounding—yes! Sun filters through the leafy canopy to dapple my path, bright patches that capture my sight and illuminate the shifting colors of the rustling trees. From young green to fiery red, the forest takes on a new identity as I wander in the direction of my own. I can hear cars whizzing by just yards away, but for a moment, it seems that I tread in solitude.
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El amor y una flor Alexa de Alessandrini El amor, como una flor, empieza en una forma cuidada, una semilla pequeña, plantada en el corazón del mundo. Viaja a través de las venas de la tierra y atraviesa las orillas del mar. Existe como un pulso, un ritmo de los viajeros en las ciudades, Como un pájaro atrapado en el viento, batiendo a través de los campos, sin detenerse, sin detenerse para nadie. Como una flor, el amor cultiva sus raíces propias en las jóvenes sonrisas, en los momentos pequeños entre una familia en la tarde de un domingo, en la risa entre amigos en el patio de la escuela, en las visitas a los seres queridos lejos, muy lejosel amor es, como una flor, portable. Capullos brotan mientras nuevas relaciones revelan hojas jóvenes, raíces empujando en la tierra fragante. Y por eso los pétalos se extienden y multiplican hasta que parece que no pueden abrirse más. Aunque la lluvia puede golpear el tallo delicado de la tierra y rasgar los pétalos con puños enojados, las raíces resistentes brotan desde el corazón del mundo, decididas a tocar la luz otra vez.
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Maureen Leitner
Love and a Flower English version by the author Love, like a flower, begins in a careful way. a small seed, planted in the heart of the world. It travels through the veins of the earth and traces along the shores of the sea. It exists like a pulse, a rhythm of commuters in cities, like a bird caught on a wind, churning over fields without stopping, not stopping for anyone. Like a flower, love grows its own roots In young, innocent smiles, in the small moments between a family on a Sunday afternoon, in laughter among friends in the schoolyard, In visits to loved ones far, far away— For love is like a flower, portable. Buds sprout as new relationships unfurl their young leaves, roots pushing ever deeper into the sweet-scented soil. And so the petals spread and multiply, until it seems that they cannot open any wider. Though rain may beat the gentle stem to the earth and tear its petals with angry fists, the hardy roots press upward from the heart of the world, determined to touch the light again.
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Maggie Ellison
Recuerdos Sarah Hirshorn En las grietas de la mente, guardo mis recuerdos— ¡ahí están! Fragmentos de mi pasado están volando. Recuerdo por un momento mi niñez, cuando mi vida fue fácil, y todo fue simple. Pero los días ya han pasado. Recuerdo el año pasado– ¡Lo rápidamente que voló me asombra! La alegría y la locura con que pasaban los días. Agarro los pensamientos del verano pasado en Paris, cuando los mejores días de mi vida estaban llenos de cultura y lengua. Los días que me gustaría volver a vivir en un latido del corazón, pero ya han pasado. Los recuerdos son como mariposas– vivos, evasivos. Si no los recuerdo, se van, revoloteando en reminiscencias hasta que yo los recuerde.
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Memories English Version by the author In the crevices of my mind I keep my memoriesThere they are! Fragments of my past are flying. I remember for a moment my childhood, When life was easy, And everything was simple. But those days have gone. I summon to mind the past yearI cannot believe how it flew by! The joyful insanity with which I passed my days. I hold onto the thoughts of my summer in Paris, When the best days of my life Were filled with culture and language. I could fly back to those days in a heartbeat, But they, too, have gone. Memories are like butterfliesBright, elusive. If I do not remember them, they slip away, Flitting amidst swirling reminiscences Until I recall them.
Nicole Fischer 9
Los pimientos Inspirado por “Oda a la alcachofa” de Pablo Neruda Taylor Blevin Una explosión de colores brillantes, de olores sabrosos, de sabores fuertes. Atados juntos, en diversas familias de varios colores, formas, tamaños y gustos. Los gorditos, rechonchos y orgullosos, adornan la planta con sus colores frescos. Los pequeños flaquitos se ocultan en las hojas de la planta, esperando sorprenderte con un hormigueo de sabor. La piel casi plástica refleja las imágenes del mercado frenético invitándote a participar en este placer a experimentar el crujido jugoso, con una explosión de sabor, de color y de olor.
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The Peppers English version by the author An explosion of brilliant colors, of delicious scents, of dizzying flavors. The fat ones, squat and proud, adorn the plant with their fresh hues– The small and skinny ones peer out from between the leaves, waiting shyly to surprise you with a tingle of flavor. Their almost plastic skin reflects the images of the bustling market, inviting you to participate in this pleasure, to experience the juicy crunch, with a burst of flavor, of color, of smell.
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Las uvas Inspirado por “Oda a la alcachofa” de Pablo Neruda Krystyna Miles Un racimo, apiña juntas. Amistades se forman entre vecinos, que cuchichean entre sus pieles humildes. Todos tiemblan en el refrigerador, cercanos. El pepino valiente y digno al lado las mira con indignación: ¡Qué frágiles, qué cobardes! Y entonces-la puerta se abre, entra la mano amenazadora: la ladrona. Esta lucha para las uvas es nada para la mano, como una chiquita que arranca los pétalos de una flor inocente– ingenuamente destruye la vida. Las esferas resisten, aún tienen miedo de sus vidas precarias, cosechan todo su esfuerzo pero al final, los dedos triunfan. Un puñado morado, enterrado. La fragilidad de la familia de uvas le causa al pepino mirarla con ojos abatidos. La cacofonía resuena en el refrigerador, previamente piel fuerte ahora la destrozan. Se revientan con sus jugos violetas: son lágrimas. Como sus pobres amigas, aplastadas en la boca de un hombre ignorante. 12
Helen Ziminksy
The Grapes English version by the author Ignorant. A bunch, crammed. Friendships emerge between neighbors whispering through their humid skin. All tremble in the refrigerator, close. The valiant cucumber next door looks on with indignation. How fragile, what cowards! And then– the door opens; enter the menacing hand: the thief. This battle for the grapes is nothing for the hand, like a young girl ripping petals from an innocent flower– destroying life, obliviously. The spheres resist, yet fear for their precarious lives, harvesting all their strength. but in the end– the fingers triumph. A purple handful, gone. The fragility of the family causes the cucumber to look on with condescending eyes. The cacophony throughout the refrigerator, previously taut skin breaking down, violently bursting with violet juice: their tears. Paralleling their poor friends squashed inside the mouth of an ignorant man. 13
Las dulces criaturas Inspirado por “Oda a la alcachofa” de Pablo Neruda Grace Hirshorn Seres pequeños y redondos se acurrucan en la oscuridad de su hogar cerrado y protegido. Nunca habían visto la luz del sol pero sienten la caricia de sus rayos. Nunca habían escuchado el susurro del viento pero sienten sus movimientos tiernos. Duermen en silencio, soñando con el día cuando se abrirá la cáscara exterior de su casa y entrarán a la luz.
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Sweet Peas English version by the author Tiny, rounded creatures snuggle together in the darkness of their enclosed and protected home. They have never before seen the sun, but they feel the gentle caress of its rays. They have never heard the wind’s soft whisper, but they are rocked by its gentle force. They sleep in silence, dreaming of the day when the shell of their home will open and they will enter the light.
Charlotte Rhodes 15
Regreso a ningún lugar Ashleigh McGrath El día es nuevo y estamos en casa. Paquetes rellenos de cartas y corazones llenos de alivioalivio de estar vivo. El polvo oscurece los ojos y yo recuerdo: edificios destruidos, el humo llenando los pulmones y la vista mientras intento apuntar…!PAF! Oí un chasquido y algo me roba la respiración. Todo de negro. Mi radio susurra la estática en la oreja como la voz del amigo viejo. Hay una luz adelante, levantándose del polvo, un momento raro de tranquilidad. Salimos del callejón cubiertos por una mortaja de alivio. No podemos hacer nada sino reír! En casa, se dice que un soldado emerge de la batalla como un hombre nuevo. No noto nada diferente. La mente regresa al campo de aterrizaje. Estoy contando los días. Contando hasta que vea a mis hermanos. Contando hasta el día que regrese a la nada.
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Back to Nowhere English version by the author The day is new and we are home. Packs stuffed with letters and hearts filled with relief– relief to be alive. The dust clouds my eyes and I remember: buildings blown apart, smoke filling my lungs and my sight as I try to aim… HIT! I hear a snap and something snatches my breath. Everything is black. My radio whispers static in my ear like the voice of an old friend. There is a light just ahead, rising from the dust, an odd moment of serenity. We leave the alley covered by a shroud of relief. We can’t help but laugh! At home we are told how a soldier comes out of battle a new man. I don’t notice anything different. My mind flashes back to the landing pad. I am counting down. Counting down till I see my brothers. Counting down to the day I go back to nowhere. Marian Ziminsky 17
El baile Angela Jorge “Uno. Dos. Tres.” Estas son las palabras que el profesor le dice a su clase para empezar un ejercicio de ballet. Siempre me ha fascinado el ballet. Hay algo al sentir los músculos cambiar y ver las piernas estirándose en el aire con tanta precisa y dolorosa delicadeza. La clase puede ser de las más lentas o rápidas, y siempre tendré una sonrisa al bailar. Al fin del año siempre hay recitales y esos, por supuesto, son los mejores momentos: cuando me parece renacer. Ya no tengo que ser más una niña de diez y siete años de un pobre pueblo y desperdido, me convierto en Julieta bailando con todo su amor para su adorado Romeo. Puedo transformarme en un pájaro, o en alguien tímida y silenciosa, o alegre y dinámica. El año pasado, estaba yendo a una competición en la ciudad de Nueva York. Iba a solicitar para ser aceptada en una importante compañía de ballet. Algo como esto no le puede pasar a cada niña que danza. Tiene que ser muy buena bailarina y tener una gran pasión para el baile. Si me escogen podré viajar a diferentes sitios, por todo el mundo: un sueño que tuve desde que tenía diez años y vi el ballet del Nutcracker Suite.
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Un día cuando mi papá estaba manejando en la carretera, un coche pasó con monstruosa velocidad mientras cantábamos juntos una canción de la radio, cuyas palabras no recodaré jamás. La oscuridad se abrió frente a nosotros y se oyó el ruido de un metal que gritaba. El próximo día me desperté en un cuarto del hospital y mi pierna izquierda estaba enroscada en un forro blanco. Los doctores, con mis padres, entraron a mi cuarto y me dieron las noticias. Un carro había chocado con el nuestro en el mismo lugar donde yo estaba. Mi pierna había sufrido más de todo mi cuerpo. Después mi dijeron que no iba a poder ser una bailarina profesional porque, por el resto de mi vida, iba a tener la pierna izquierda cuatro centímetros más corta de la pierna derecha. Lloré. Lloré por toda la dedicación que había puesto en el ballet y porque yo vivía para bailar. Lloré por días y noches. Lloraré por años. Porque si no soy alguien de mis sueños ¿entonces quién soy yo?
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The Dance English version by Angela Jorge and Jenna Nobs “One. Two. Three.” These are the words that the teacher says to our class to begin an exercise. I have always loved ballet; there is something about feeling your muscles change and seeing your leg extended in the air with such precise, painful delicacy that has always fascinated me. The class can be a slow adagio or something quick and sharp, and always I will wear a smile. At the end of the year there are recitals, and those, of course, are the greatest moments: the moments when I come alive. In a single, fluid motion, I am no longer the girl from a small town, but a yearning, passionate Juliet, dancing with all the love that she can possibly feel for her ill-fated Romeo. I can morph into a bird, wings spread and poised for flight; I can be shy and reticent, or full of life. Last year, I set out for New York to dance in a prestigious competition, where scouts would be recruiting for a major ballet company. Opportunities like this do not arise for every aspiring dancer; she must be excellent, passionate, flawless. If I were chosen, I could travel all over the world: a dream I have had since I was ten years old and saw my first performance of the Nutcracker Suite. The day before the audition, my father and I sped down the highway towards the city, the skyline rising beneath a faint sketch of moon. We sang along with the radio, humming the tune of a song I can’t remember. Then, in an instant suspended above time and motion, darkness filled my sight. A grinding mass of metal, twisting and screeching around us. 20
Then white. The starkness of the hospital room, the white cover binding my leg. Two doctors in white coats telling me that the car had collided with ours. That my leg had been enveloped in metal. That I could never be a professional ballerina because for the rest of my life, my left leg would be four centimeters shorter than my right. I cried. I cried for my dedication, wasted, and because I lived to dance. I cried and cried. I cried for days and nights. I will cry for years because if I am not the girl from my dreams, wings spread and poised for flight, who am I?
Emma Leary 21
Eymie Prieto 22
中文 Chinese
Acacia Smash 23
永远 Kristen Roche 在一个安静的晚上，我 仰望天空 星星火花，火得安静 远山在升起 贯穿了天空中的星星 永远 沉默永远 Kristen Roche 开始在时间以前 在一个安静的晚上， 永远不会结束 我仰望天空 星星火花， 火得安静 安静，完善，无声 远山在升起 星星火花，火得安静 永远 远穿了天空中的星星 远默永远 远始在远远以前 永远不会远束 安静，完善，无声 星星火花，火得安静 永远
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Eternity English version by the author On a quiet night I look to the skystars winking silently. A mountain rises in the distance to pierce the dark and sit among the stars. The silence is everlasting, a song that began before time and will never end. A quiet night where there is nothing to hear but stars winking, silentlyeternity.
Nicole Fischer 25
Katie Martinez
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Three Nature Haikus English version by the author I watch the flowers I watch flowers, petals unfolding, and think of you, How both of you are so beautiful. The water runs fresh and cold A refreshing escape from the heat of the day I splash in its deep coolness. From where does the wind blow? It is formless and invisible, but strong. Let us go and spread the good news.
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Arianna Arca
Franรงais French
Emily Molinelli 29
La glace au chocolat Inspirée par À la recherche du temps perdu de Marcel Proust Sarah Hirshorn Et tout d’un coup le souvenir m’est apparu. La glace au chocolat s’attardait sur ma langue et la sensation glaciale m’encerclait. Ce goût était assez pour me ramener à une ancienne expérience. Ce n’était plus l’an 2010, c’était plutôt l’an 1998 et j’étais au Parc Central à Londres. Ma grand-mère m’avait promis que je pourrais manger de la glace près de la cour de récréation. Mais nous ne savions pas où se trouvait ce lieu et le parc était un petit peu plus grand que nous avions anticipé. En conséquence, nous nous sommes perdues. Nous nous promenions et nous cherchions la cour quand tout d’un coup le ciel a ouvert ses bras et de l’eau en cascade a commencé à tomber vers le sol. Ainsi, nous n’avons pas pu trouver la cour de récréation, mais nous avons trouvé un marchand de glace qui était en train de fermer sa boutique sous la pluie battante. Quand ma grand-mère et moi sommes arrivées, ma grand-mère a dit qu’elle irait m’acheter de la glace comme promis ! La glace était soumise à une bruine de pluie mais c’était génial d’être sous la pluie avec elle. Il y a d’autres nourritures qui me rappellent Londres. Parfois quand je mange des oeufs avec des tomates et des fèves au lard et je suis dans un petit café de la rue près de Buckingham Palace. D’autres fois le goût de l’agneau me rappelle le Noël que j’ai passé à Londres. Cependant, aucun autre aliment n’incite en moi autant de souvenirs que la glace au chocolat. 30
L’été passé, j’ai eu l’occasion de visiter Londres avec ma famille dix ans après notre retour de Londres à New York. Quand je suis arrivée au Parc Central, il m’était si familier. Comme toutes les autres vacances, mon Sexpérience du temps passé à Londres s’était terminée mais la mémoire, qui ne déplace jamais les souvenirs, les avait gardés. Le goût de la nourriture peut les réveiller d’une manière que les appareils-photo ne le peuvent pas. C’est incroyable que le goût de la glace froide ait réveillé des détails de mes souvenirs que je ne savais pas que posséder. J’ai décidé de prendre encore un peu de glace et le souvenir m’est encore apparu.
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Abby Smith
Chocolate Ice Cream Inspired by À la recherche du temps perdu by Marcel Proust English version by the author And suddenly, the memory came to me. The chocolate ice cream on my tongue enveloped me in an icy sensation, a treat vivid enough to bring me back to an old experience. It was no longer the year 2010; instead, it was 1998 and I was in Central Park in London. My grandmother had yielded to my bright, pleading eyes and promised me that I could have ice cream at the playground; however, we soon found ourselves lost in the winding paths of the vast, sprawling park. As we searched and searched in the blistering summer heat, convinced that the day could not become any worse, the sky suddenly opened her arms and flooded us with an afternoon storm. As the rain pummeled our unprotected heads, we stumbled upon an ice cream merchant, who was scrambling to close his stand beneath the wet, raging torrents. To my delight, my grandmother took my sopping hand and announced that she would buy me some ice cream as promised. The sticky dessert mixed with the rainwater, but it was wonderful just to be in the rain with her. There are other flavors that remind me of London. Sometimes when I eat eggs with tomatoes and baked beans, I feel as though I am in a small cafÊ close to Buckingham Palace, gazing absentmindedly into the bustling street. 32
Other times, the taste of lamb returns me to the twinkling lights of London Christmas. No food, however, can evoke memories as clearly as the sharp, sweet taste of chocolate. This past summer, I returned to London with my family nearly ten years after our move to New York. Wandering the paths of Central Park once again, it all seemed very familiar to me. The taste of food has the power to awaken memories in a way that photographs cannot, reviving details of recollections I did not even know I possessed. So, I take another lick of chocolate ice cream, and the memory comes to me once more.
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Jane Gerstner
Les pensées d’une mère Inspiré par la lettre d’Ingrid Betancourt à ses enfants Katie Colford Quand mes enfants rêvent, de quoi rêvent-ils? Est-ce qu’ils rêvent de leur mère, celle qui veut tout leur donner? Ou de la tante qui est venue chez nous hier, celle qui a apporté l’ours en peluche ? Est-ce qu’ils rêvent de leurs frères et soeurs, ceux avec qui ils jouent à cache-cache ? Ou de l’homme dans la rue, celui qui leur a fait peur ? Et quand ils se réveillent, est-ce qu’ils se sentent comme s’ils tombaient dans les escaliers, comme moi, qui suis si anxieuse ? Le choc de la réalité dans le berceau – doux ? effrayant ? Moi, je ne serai jamais là pour les voir se réveiller, clignant les paupières, leurs doux visages tournés vers le ciel.
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Moi, je suis prisonnière de la jungle, où tous les matins ressemblent aux soirs, où la pluie est un écho de mon esprit, où le soleil est un intrus dans ma caverne. Mais pour mes enfants, que le soleil soit un ami qui les baise, que la pluie soit une source de fraîcheur. Pour mes enfants, je souhaite des rêves de leur tante, de leurs frères et soeurs, je les protège de l’homme dans la rue, je les attrape au bas des escaliers. J’espère qu’ils rêvent de leur mère, qu’ils se souviennent de leur mère, de moi– moi, la mère de ces chers êtres, des êtres humains qui rêvent.
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Nora Henrie 36
A Mother’s Thoughts Inspired by a letter from Ingrid Betancourt to her children English version by Katie Colford When my children dream, what do they see behind their fluttering eyelids? Do they dream about their mother, who wants to give them everything? Or of the aunt who visited yesterday and brought them a teddy bear? Do they dream about their brothers and sisters, playing hide-and-go-seek? Or about the man in the street, the one who made them afraid? And when they wake up, do they feel as though they are falling down the stairs as I do, always anxious? The shock of reality in the crib, gentle? Frightening?
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I will never be there to see them wake up, eyes blinking, sweet faces turned towards the sky. I am a prisoner of the jungle, where every morning is the same as every evening, where the rain echoes my mind, where the sun is an imposter in my cave. But for my children, may the sun be a friendly kiss, may the rain be a source of freshness.
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For my children, I wish dreams of their aunt, of their brothers and sisters. I’ll protect them from the man in the street, I’ll catch them at the bottom of the stairs. I hope they dream of their mother, that they remember me, their mom– mother of such dear ones, human beings who can dream.
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Clare Verrochi 41
Mary Furth 42 42.
Arabic
Acacia Smash 43
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Nothing but Light Mahmoud Darwish English version by Carly Sobecki Nothing but light, I stopped my horse only to pick up a red rose from the Orchard of a Canaanite who had lured my horse and entrenched in the light: “Do not enter and do not go out” ... So I did not enter, and I did not go out. Then she said: Do you see me? I whispered: I need to know, a difference between the traveler and the road, and a difference between the singer and the song ... Jericho sat, like a letter of the alphabet, within her name and I tumbled in mine at the crossroads of the meaning… I am what I become tomorrow and I only stopped my horse to pick a red rose from the orchard of a Canaanite who had lured my horse then went looking for my place higher and farther, and then even higher and farther than my time…
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Audrey Finnegan 47
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The Rihani Essays by Ameen Rihani English Translation by Alex Murray Neither the glory nor the fame is my utmost wish, neither the sovereignty nor the splendor, neither the money nor the wealth… I would like to live without hatred, and to love without envy, and to rise without elevating myself above another… I would like my life to radiate and not explode, to be as a planet spinning in the universe and not as a flaming star…
Courtney Fischer 49
Ines del Castillo 50
English
Amanda Molinelli 51
Lebanon Audrey Moukattaf The scent of Turkish coffee, the feel of the salty breeze, the taste of the pungent spices, the touch of cool water. The memories of my homeland. Exploring the mountains of Faraya, running on the sand at the Riviera, chatting with distant relatives, indulging in the delicious maneesh. My spirit grieves for its misperceptions. Not a bitter place, not a whirlpool, not a warzone, not a broken land. Just an old country surviving in the modern world.
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Mon Liban French version by the author L'odeur de café turc, la sensation de la brise salée, le goût des épices piquantes, le contact de l'eau fraîche. Les souvenirs de ma patrie. Explorer les montagnes de Faraya, courir sur le sable à la Riviera, bavarder avec ma famille, goûter le Maneesh délicieux. Mon esprit pleure pour les idées fausses. Ce n'est pas un lieu amer, ce n'est pas un tourbillon, ce n'est pas une zone de guerre, ce n'est pas un désastre; juste un vieux pays qui survit dans un monde moderne.
Arianna Arca 53
Giulia Campana 54
Ode of the Guilty Claudia Khoury Each person holds a fountain of strength, From which courage floods and virtue flows, His ran with golden, auburn water, That could sink any qualms and drown any blows. But I caused his ultimate drought, And dryness is all that now fills the air, I left him feeble, frail and parched, By shaving off his braided hair. I am a devout farmer of the Philistines, as was my kin in the past, When my ancestors first stepped foot in Soreck, a beloved light was surely cast. Our family holds a great respect, for all things that sprout and grow, We cultivate with passion and zeal, and bless the sacred land below. We see growth as something to sanctify; a miracle to be held in the highest esteem, The sweat from our work that rolls off our face is dubbed by all a righteous stream. But the Philistines are labeled the men of the sea, and I am scorned for being a man of the land, I’d rather have my fingernails caked with fertile dirt, than with the ocean’s lifeless sand. The men see my work as cowardly; a way to escape the grand, ferocious seas, The women see my work as pitiful, they mock my tattered pants and my faded chemise. 55
My labor brings me such a joy, but a need for status is my tragic flaw, I yearn for men to respect my name, to speak of the work of my hands with awe. A formidable fiend of the Philistines has just arrived in our beloved land, His killings are so numerous, that they cannot be counted on a single hand. This man’s name is Samson, and he holds an unbeatable, God-given strength, His vigor and might is only betrayed, by his hair’s long, feminine length. The source of his strength is a mystery, but the source of his weakness is one we know, The seduction of a woman his only downfall - to a woman, his secret he’d bestow. Delilah, a splendor of our land, was induced with silver coins, to commit this act, To make Samson reveal his secret, through her persistence, seduction and tact. Though Samson has tried to trick her, with drivel of bowstrings and being bound by new ropes, He has finally admitted it is through his hair that his strength flows and potency slopes. But the men of my valley fear to shave off his hair, for he might retaliate, This is my opportunity to establish myself, to gain approval, and achieve my fate. I have volunteered my service to cut off his locks and tonight is when I’m to perform the deed, I need to attain the respect I deserve, and I pray to God that I will succeed. 56
The day has passed, the night has come, I walk into their darkened room, I feel misplaced in their intimacy of pale lace covers and sweet perfume. I shuffle to where Samson sleeps, where his hair dusts the floor with the slightest of ease, From my pocket, I procure the cutting tool - a Philistine instrument passed down for centuries. This tool is one used for farming, one respected amongst all my kin, It truly holds a veiled power: it spine so lethal yet so thin. But as I was about to cut off his locks, the tool kept slipping from my hand, As if it were telling me to not commit a deed that was against its morals: a reprimand. I held its blade firmly in my palm, and it made an indent on my blistered skin. I grasped a piece of Samson’s hair and when he did not awake, the task I did begin. My life had been built all around growth, yet I was taking away what he’d carefully grown, I’ll no longer be able to foster my land, my seeds will never be scattered nor sown. As each strand fell, from the summit of his head, I felt myself wane in sorrow and guilt, I had committed an unthinkable act, and it was I who began to wither and wilt. Cutting off another’s strength, only made me feel more weak, I went against the values I held and no longer deserve the respect I seek. 57
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Ode du Coupable French version by the author Chaque personne tient en elle une source de force, D’où le courage provient et la vertu s’écoule, La sienne coulait comme de l’eau dorée, auburn, Qui pouvait faire disparaître tous les doutes et étouffer tous les coups. Mais j’ai causé cette sécheresse ultime, Et seule la sécheresse remplit l’air maintenant, Je l’ai laissé faible, fragile et assoiffé, En rasant ses cheveux tressés. Je suis un fermier pieux philistin, comme l’étaient mes parents auparavant, Quand mes ancêtres sont arrivés à Soreck, il y avait sûrement une lumière bien-aimée. Notre famille tient un grand respect pour toutes les choses qui germent et poussent, Nous cultivons avec passion et zèle, et bénissons le sol sacré sous nous. Nous voyons les pousses comme quelque chose à sanctifier; un miracle à être tenu en la plus haute estime, La sueur de notre travail qui coule de notre visage est surnommée par tous un courant vertueux. Mais les Philistins sont appelés les hommes de la mer, et je suis méprisé pour être un homme de la terre, Je préfère avoir mes ongles couverts de sol fertile, que de sable sans vie de l’océan. 60
Les hommes considèrent mon travail lâche ; une façon d’échapper aux mers importantes et féroces, Les femmes considèrent mon travail pitoyable, elles se moquent de mes pantalons en lambeaux et de ma chemise passée. Mon travail m’apporte tant de joie, mais mon besoin de statut est mon défaut tragique, J’aspire que les hommes respectent mon nom et parlent de mon travail avec admiration. Un ennemi redoutable des Philistins est juste arrivé dans notre pays bien-aimé, Ses meurtres sont si nombreux, qu’ils ne peuvent être comptés sur une seule main. Le nom de cet homme est Samson, et il a une force imbattable donnée par Dieu, Sa vigueur et sa puissance sont seulement trahies par la longueur féminine de ses cheveux. La source de sa force est un mystère, mais la source de sa faiblesse nous la connaissons, La séduction d’une femme sa seule chute – à une femme, il confierait son secret. Dalila, une splendeur de notre pays, a été poussée à commettre cet acte avec des pièces d’argent, Pour que Samson lui révèle son secret, grâce à sa persistance, sa séduction et son tact. Bien que Samson ait essayé de l’induire en erreur avec des histoires de cordes d’arc et attaché par de nouvelles cordes,
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Il a finalement admis que c’était par ses cheveux que sa force venait et sa puissance émanait. Mais les hommes de ma vallée ont peur de couper ses cheveux, car il pourrait se venger, C’est l’occasion de m’affermir, de gagner l’approbation de tous et d’accomplir mon destin. Je me suis porté volontaire pour couper ses boucles et c’est ce soir que je passerai à l’action. J’ai besoin d’acquérir le respect que je mérite, et je prie Dieu que je réussisse. Le jour est parti, la nuit est venue, je marche dans leur chambre obscure, Je ne me sens pas à ma place dans leur intimité de couvertures en dentelle pâles et de doux parfum. Je me traîne vers où Samson dort, où ses cheveux balayent le sol avec la plus grande aisance, De ma poche, je sors l’outil tranchant – un instrument philistin transmis depuis des siècles. Cet instrument est utilisé en culture, respecté de tous mes proches, Il détient véritablement un pouvoir voilé : sa lame si létale pourtant si fine. Mais comme j’étais sur le point de couper ses boucles, l’instrument n’arrêtait pas de glisser de ma main, Comme s’il me disait de ne pas commettre cet acte qui était contre sa morale : une réprimande.
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Je tiens la lame fermement dans ma main, et elle fait une indentation sur ma peau boursoufflée. Je saisis une mèche des cheveux de Samson et quand il ne se réveille pas, je commence ma tâche. Ma vie a été construite toute autour des pousses, et pourtant je prenais ce qu’il avait fait pousser soigneusement, Je ne pourrai plus cultiver ma terre, mes graines ne seront plus dispersées ni semées. Comme chaque mèche tombait, du sommet de sa tête, je me sentais décliné, de peine et de culpabilité, J’avais commis un acte impensable, et c’était moi qui commençais à me faner et à dépérir. Couper la force d’un autre, m’a seulement fait me sentir plus faible, J’ai failli à mes principes, et ne mérite plus le respect que je cherche.
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Nicole Fischer 64
Latina Latin
Amanda Molinelli 65
Diēs Nivei, Viae Niveae Mary Liguori Nix refulget in viis. Contrarietas albi in atro. Et omnes colores residui me portaverunt ad novam lucem. Niveus lente diffluit et redit ad tenebram. Spes videbatur nunc perdito est. Sed veniet iterum cum gelo hiemis Et cum flore lotorum.
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Snowy Days, Snowy Ways English version by the author The snow glistens on the roads. The contrast of white on black, colors lingering, has brought me to a new light. The white slowly dissolves and returns to darkness, hope once within grasp, now lost. But it will come again with the white winter frost, with the flowers’ gradual bloom.
Chrissy McCabe 67
Piscis Emily Attubato Audēmus coruscās arbōrēs. Quaerentēs miserē castellī inter rūpēs arduōs. Interdum invenitur cibus. Lūdus rōboris, est nūllus superante certus. Specto ut currunt in custodiā clārā. Caelum suum, nescii de tricis meis. Talis vita debet esse, operae infinitae. Piscis in lacu, decoramen parvum.
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Fish English version by Emily Attubato We venture into the swaying trees, searching desperately for refuge between the towering cliffs. Every so often, a small morsel presents itself, a twisted game of endurance with no sure survivor. Now, I watch as they dart about in their transparent prison, their own little world, ignorant of my troubles. What a life it must be, filled with endless care and provisions. A fish in a tank, just a thoughtless decoration.
Faith Morely 69
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Production Notes
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 Adobe InDesign CS5 on Dell computers and the artwork is formatted using Adobe Photoshop CS5. The typeface is set in Times New Roman.
Sophie Radtke