Voices
Voices
Volume 8 Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King Street Greenwich, CT 06831 Phone: (203) 531-6500 www.cshgreenwich.org
i.
Alana Galloway
Editorial Board Angela Jaramillo & Audrey Moukattaf, Editors-In-Chief Molly Geisinger, Submissions Editor Angela Jaramillo & Priscilla Valdez, Layout Editors Language Editors Victoria Paternina, Spanish Editor Jenny Blessing, English Editor Audrey Moukattaf, French & Arabic Editor Molly Geisinger, Chinese Editor Kylinn Askew, Latin Editor Staff Gissele Alzate Bianca Chiappelloni Daisy Flores Christie Huchro Gaby Lopez Corina Molina-Gonzalez Faculty Advisors Graziella Sidoli RenĂŠe Rodriguez Special Thanks World Languages Department Arts Department Karl Haeseler
ii.
VOICES Volume 8 June 2014 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.
iii.
Angela Jaramillo
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v.
Liz Moran
Table of Contents Cover Nebai Hernandez, Watercolor Title Page i. Alana Galloway, Digital Photography Staff and Statement of Philosophy Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
iii.
Artwork v. Liz Moran, Digital Photography
Arabic
Emma Sapio, Oil on Canvas
1.
Quatrains by Jelaluddin Rumi Arabic version by Izzy Parker Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
2.
Search the Darkness by Jelaluddin Rumi 4. Arabic version by Caroline Roche and Madison Miles Emma Wilfert, Digital Photography You and I by Jelaluddin Rumi Arabic version by Grace Campbell Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
Chinese
6.
Jane Gerstner, Oil on Canvas
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You Are the April of the World, Paige Wilkens Margot Butler, Digital Photography
11.
I Wish by Hu Shi Maggie Ellison, Ink
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English version by Grace Cashman Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
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Gissele Alzate, Digital Photography Interpretive translation by Devon Gordon
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Interpretive translation by Julie Pogge Alana Galloway, Digital Photography
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French
Emily Davenport, Oil on Canvas
21.
The Dawn, Margot Butler Isabella Caponiti, Digital Photography
23.
Pride and Power, Victoria Paternina Bianca Chiappelloni, Digital Photography
24.
Par le feu: A portrait of the Arab Spring, Grace Isford 26. Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography Maggie Ellison, Charcoal 30. Hope, Isabella Caponiti Bianca Chiappelloni, Digital Photography Fiona Cahill, Digital Photography
35. 36.
Emily Lencyk, Watercolor 39.
Latin
Anabeth Bostrup, Oil on Canvas
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Peace Overshadowed, Emma Novick Fiona Cahill, Digital Photography
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Love, Emma Church 45. Alana Galloway, Digital Photography She Dared, Colleen O’Neil Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
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Nebai Hernandez, Watercolor 49. Help, Kate Larkin 51. Clare Keeney, Pottery Revealing Shining Stars, Anabeth Bostrup Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
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The Sad Slave, Tara Hammonds Alana Galloway, Digital Photography
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Spanish
Emily Casper, Acrylic 57. TĂş me quieres blanca by Alfonsina Storni Kelly McLaughlin, Watercolor
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Abigail Smith, Watercolor 60. 61. English version by Sarah McDonald Katherine Sepulveda, Watercolor
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Maggie Ellison, Acrylic 64. The Snow, Sarah McDonald Caroline Geithner, Digital Photography 67.
Considering the Future, Emily Casper Pippa Leigh, Colored Pencil
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A Virtual World, Gabriela Lopez Mari Riera, Digital Photography
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Eternal Withering, Gissele Alzate Anna-Luisa Brackman, Tatiana Lieberman, Kate Gerstner, Acrylic
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The Little Women that Dance, Catie Capolongo Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
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Beauty, Jennifer Esposito Mary Grace Henry, Digital Photography
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Public Speaking, Jenny Blessing Lilly Pura, Mixed Media
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Regina Ferrara, Mixed Media
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Kidnapped, Priscilla Valdez Aria Eastwood, Digital Photography
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Aria Eastwood, Digital Photography
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Body of Salt, Emma Sapio Angela Jaramillo, Digital Photography
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Balada de los dos abuelos by NicolĂĄs GuillĂŠn Eva Carrasquero, Watercolor English version by Molly Geisinger
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Isabella Caponiti, Digital Photography
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Production Notes 99. Maggie Ellison, Graphite
Arabic
1.
Emma Sapio
Quatrains by Jelaluddin Rumi English Translation by Shahram Shiva Tonight is the night when the secrets will be revealed. Don’t go back to sleep. Think of yourself as Jupiter and turn around the moon. Thank God that others are fast asleep, because the creator and I have much work to do tonight.
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Angela Jaramillo
Search the Darkness by Jelaluddin Rumi English Translation by Kabir Helminski Sit with your friends; don’t go back to sleep. Don’t sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea. Surge like an ocean, Don’t scatter yourself like a storm. Life’s waters flow from darkness. Search the darkness, don’t run from it. Night travelers are full of light, And you are, too; don’t run from it. Be a wakeful candle in a golden dish, Don’t slip into the dirt like quicksilver. The moon appears for night travelers, Be watchful when the moon is full.
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Emma Wilfert
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From Love is a Stranger by Jelaluddin Rumi English Translation by Kabir Helminski You and I A moment of happiness, You and I sitting on the verandah, Apparently two, but one in soul, you and I. We feel the flowing of life here, You and I, with the garden’s beauty and the birds singing. The stars will be watching us, And we will show them What it means to be a crescent moon. You and I unselfed, will be together, Indifferent to idle speculation, you and I. The parrots of Heaven will be cracking sugar As we laugh together, you and I. And what is more amazing Is that while here together, you and I Are at this very moment in Iraq and Khorasan. In one form upon this earth, And in one form in a timeless sweet land.
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Angela Jaramillo
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Chinese
9.
Jane Gerstner
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You Are the April of the World English version by Paige Wilkens I say, you are the April of the world. Your laughter lights up the wind as Your light spirit dances and laughs in the bright spring. You are the April morning mist while The dawn blows a soft wind and The stars twinkle a light rain on the flowers. You are shining and graceful, Wearing a crown of a hundred bright, fresh, flowers. You are so pure and elegant, You are every night’s full moon. You are a fresh green flower bud. You are brighter than the sunny, yellow color of a newborn duck, A gentle happiness. You are as elegant as a light white lotus beginning to float on water, Your hope is as abundant as blossoming flowers in the spring, Your vitality is as plentiful as a swallow chirping on the edge of a roof You are love, warmth, and wishes; you are the April of the world!
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Margot Butler
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Maggie Ellison
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I Wish English version by Grace Cashman I descended from the mountain With the radiant orchid seed I planted it in a small garden I yearned for it to grow. I looked three times a day I looked and looked, until the blossom season passed. I was distressed The bud never grew I saw Fall coming I brought the seed back home. When next year’s Spring wind blows I hope my orchid will be blossomed.
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Angela Jaramillo
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Gissele Alzate
I Wish Interpretive Translation by Devon Gordon The leaves that encompassed my house were once a vibrant lush green. Now shriveled up and a muddy dull brown, I knew that autumn had come. I noticed that my orchid has yet to blossom I then tenderly scooped the fragile bud and some dirt into my motherly hands. And whisking it away to the safety of my house I would sit patiently waiting for the smell of the spring wind. And when life flourishes again I wish that my orchid will blossom And fulfill its destiny of being a full beautiful flower.
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I Wish Interpretive Translation by Julia Pogge I descended from the mountain That was shrouded in a fine mist Concealing its secrets from prying eyes I bore the seed of an orchid flower Its brethren I left standing proud, soft white petals glistening with dew In the dawning light and hushed morning This flower’s beauty would one day rival Aphrodite’s, I knew I cupped the seed in my hands, shielding it from the elements I blanketed it with soft earth and waited with baited breath Wishing it would make haste in sprouting from the ground But a watched kettle never boils I lingered in the gardens and as the black sky dotted with silver Ate away at the moon before spitting it back out And the silver disk sat whole on the horizon once again I was riven with worry When the leaves lost their vibrant green and became an ocean of vivacious colors Crimson red, sunglow yellow and vermillion orange And still there was no bud protruding from the soil Not even the barest hint that a small life under the ground was Reaching towards the azure skies With a heavy heart I dug into the ground and reemerged with the seed Cradling it with a tender hand, I relocated it to my humble home Where I would patiently wait Until the next blooming season came knocking on my door And I would once again Bury my hopes into the earth with the seed And pray that one day My eyes could feast on the unparalleled glory of the august orchid One day
19.
Alana Galloway
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French
21.
Emily Davenport
L’Aurore Omar Belhadj Dès l’aurore Un ciel sang et or Émerveille mes yeux Puis peu à peu Une paillette de nuances De couleurs et de brillance Révèle la beauté des cieux Puis le soleil, le soleil Comme un danseur étoile Dans son habit de lumière Apparaît du fond de la toile Pour rayonner sur l’univers Dans un geste de semeur Il lance les paillettes à la mer On les voit briller à la surface Quand le soleil et la mer s’embrassent Quoi que l’on fasse Rien n’efface Les souvenirs
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The Dawn English version by Margot Butler At dawn see a sky of blood and gold Stare in amazement Then slowly a pallet of shades, of colors and glosses, that reveals the beauty of heaven Then the sun, the sun like a dancer from the stars in his suit of lights appears at the bottom of the canvas to shine on the world In a gesture of sower it tosses glitter on the sea we see it shine on the surface When the sun and the sea embrace Whatever happens nothing can erase the memories
23.
Isabella Caponiti
Orgueil et Puissance Victoria Paternina La tour qu’ils ont commencé à construire était un signe de puissance, était censé être leur heure de gloire. Regardez en bas sur la terre les personnes avec un seul objectif, Leur motivation n'étant pas pure, leur arrogance la clé, Menacer avec les poings le ciel, en déclarant, regardez-moi! Dieu les a punis, confondant leurs langues, dans une tentative de sauver leurs âmes. Leur fierté gardée à l'intérieur, ils sont partis. Avec des langues différentes et un manque de pouvoir, ils ont été laissés perplexes.
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Pride and Power English version by the author The tower they began to build was a sign of power, meant to be their finest hour. Looking down on earth at the people with one goal, Their motive impure, their arrogance the key, Who shake their fists at heaven, declaring, look at me! God punished them, confusing their tongues, in an attempt to save their souls. Their pride kept inside as they wandered away confused, with different tongues and humbled egos, they were left bemused.
25.
Bianca Chiappelloni
Par le Feu : Un portrait du printemps arabe Grace Isford Une histoire d'injustice immense, d'oppression et de désespoir, Par le feu par Tahar Ben Jelloun peint l’image authentique du printemps arabe du point de vue d'un jeune homme de trente ans. Dans cette situation, Mohamed Bouazizi s’est sacrifié et son immolation a aidé à provoquer des révolutions démocratiques au Moyen Orient. Mohamed est le protagoniste de l’histoire qui porte un fardeau très lourd, car à la suite de la mort de son père, il devient responsable de sa famille. Par conséquent, il décide de devenir vendeur de fruits, comme son père, pour gagner la vie et ne réussit pas à trouver un emploi bien qu’il ait une licence en histoire. De plus, Mohamed voit bien la corruption de la police et du gouvernement. Ben Jelloun, lauréat du Prix Goncourt en 1987 pour son roman « La Nuit Sacrée », du Prix Ulysse en 2005 pour l’ensemble de ses œuvres, et en 2008 nommé grand officier de la Légion d’honneur, raconte ouvertement les rigueurs du monde arabe en 2010, la frustration profonde de ses habitants, et le manque d’opportunité qui mènent au sacrifice d’un jeune homme. Mohamed continue à faire face à la corruption malgré le succès croissant de son étal de fruits. Un jour, lui et sa petite-amie, Zineb, voient des prostituées dans la rue qui donnent de l’argent à des agents de la Sûreté Nationale afin que ceux-ci ne les arrêtent pas.
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En plus, Mohamed regarde une émission de télévision, célébrant les trente ans du règne du Président de la République corrompu. En effet, il observe la richesse du Président qui dit que tout le pays est heureux bien que ce soit complètement faux. Mohamed est même interrogé par la police qui lui donne des coups de poing simplement pour avoir parlé avec un ancien ami de l’université. Malheureusement, celui-ci travaille sans salaire, comme fonctionnaire, à la mairie depuis six mois. Mohamed continue à vendre des fruits et au-dessus de son étal il affiche une photo de la chanteuse très populaire Oum Kalthoum, que deux agents de police lui demandent de remplacer par une grande photo du Président. Mohamed se sent opprimé parce qu’on lui a volé le droit de liberté de faire ce qu’il veut. En outre de ses propres rencontres avec la corruption, Mohamed constate des injustices contre les autres. Par exemple, dans un article de journal il lit que des chômeurs diplômés ont payé une grosse somme au gouvernement pour la permission d’émigrer au Canada, mais on ne la leur accorde jamais. Il voit aussi un cortège funèbre d’un pauvre homme qui a été tué par la police seulement à cause de certaines rumeurs qu’il avait défié le gouvernement.
27.
Angela Jaramillo
Toujours soupçonneux, des policiers en civil prennent des photos de gens qui font partie de la solidarité. Le point culminant de la corruption dans l’histoire, c’est au moment où la police s’empare de la charrette de Mohamed et le jette brusquement par terre. Abasourdi et incapable de penser, il demande finalement au concierge de la mairie la permission de parler au maire. Mais celui-ci refuse de l’aider et Mohamed perd tout dernier espoir. Zineb propose que Mohamed aille directement chez le chef de police au commissariat central. Mais encore une fois, il n’est pas reçu. Déprimé, Mohamed s’habille tout en blanc et demande une fois pour toute à voir un responsable à la mairie, mais personne ne veut le recevoir. Le concierge bat Mohamed avec son gourdin et il tombe par terre. À ce moment, il sort une bouteille de gasoil et s’asperge de haut en bas et il s’allume de son briquet Bic rouge. Le feu prend tout de suite et, après quelques minutes, il ressemble à “un mouton grille”. Le Président se rend à l’hôpital où il s’enquiert du sort de Mohamed, qui est dans un coma. Quand Mohamed décède le 4 janvier 2011, des manifestations partout aux cris de “nous sommes tous des Mohamed” font peur au Président qui fuit le pays.
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Par conséquence, Mohamed devient victime et symbole pour des manifestants. Quand un réalisateur de cinéma rend visite à la famille de Mohamed, en espérant profiter de sa mort, ses frères et sœurs sont consternés - c’est la société corrompue, encore! L’histoire de Mohamed n’appartient à personne, parce que c’est l’histoire d’un homme simple comme des millions. Après avoir lu cette tragédie, je me demande, comment un homme intelligent pourrait-il être amené à se tuer de manière si macabre. Pourquoi ne lui donne-t-on-pas l’aide quand il en demande ? Qu’est-ce que notre monde est devenu quand des jeunes gens valorisent la mort plus que la vie ? Ben Jelloun oblige le lecteur à se poser ces questions difficiles. Il saisit dans son écrit les émotions fragiles de Mohamed et démontre comment Mohamed sert d’étincelle qui embrase le monde arabe en 2010. Quatre ans après la mort du vrai Mohamed, on voit que la situation dans les pays arabes est encore lamentable. On verra si le monde peut répondre à ces problèmes répandus et peut aider des gens comme Mohamed à retrouver le zèle de vivre.
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Par le Feu: A Portrait of the Arab Spring English version by the author A story of immense injustice, oppression and hopelessness, Par le feu by Tahar Ben Jelloun depicts an authentic portrayal of the Arab Spring from the point of view of a young 30-year old man. In this instance, Mohamed Bouazizi sacrificed his life and his immolation helped provoke a series of democratic revolutions in the Middle East. Mohamed is the protagonist of the story who bears a very heavy burden upon his shoulders. Following the death of his father, he must become responsible for his diabetic mother and siblings. Consequently, he decides to become a fruit vendor to earn a living when he fails to find a job, even though he is an educated and well-qualified history teacher. Meanwhile, Mohamed clearly observes the corruption of both the police and government. Ben Jelloun, winner of the Goncourt Prize for his novel, La Nuit SacrĂŠe in 1987, the Ulysses Prize for the corpus of his literary production in 2005 and named Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor in 2008, openly recounts the rigors of the Arab world in 2010, the profound frustration of its inhabitants and the lack of opportunity that leads to the sacrifice of an intelligent young man.
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Mohamed encounters more corruption despite the growing success of his fruit stand. One day, Mohamed and his girlfriend, Zineb, see prostitutes in the street giving money to National Security agents to ensure they will not be arrested. In addition, Mohamed watches a television program celebrating the thirty years of the reign of his corrupt republic’s president. Indeed, he notices the wealth of the President who says that the entire country is happy although that is completely untrue. Mohamed is also interrogated by the police who punch him several times for having talked to a former university friend. Unfortunately, his friend has been employed as an office worker without pay at the town hall for six months. As a result, Mohamed loses all hope and becomes a defeatist. He posts a photo of the singer Oum Kalthoum, which he is forced to replace with a larger photo of the President. Yet again, Mohamed feels oppressed because he has been stripped of his personal liberty. In addition to his encounters with corruption, Mohamed recognizes injustices inflicted upon others. For example, in a newspaper article he reads that a number of unemployed college graduates paid a large sum of money to the government seeking permission to emigrate to Canada, but of course the government denied their request. He also sees a funeral procession of a poor man who was killed by the police merely because of rumors that he defied the government. Always suspicious, undercover police officers took photos of those who participated in the procession out of solidarity.
31.
Maggie Ellison
The culminating point in this story of corruption is when the police confiscate Mohamed’s cart and throw him violently to the ground. Dazed and incapable of thinking, he gathers the strength to request that the concierge of the town hall allow him to speak to the mayor. However, his request is denied and Mohamed loses all hope. Zineb proposes that Mohamed go directly to the police chief at the central police station, but yet again, he is not received. Depressed, Mohamed dresses completely in white and requests, one final time, to see an authority figure at the town hall, yet no one wants to receive him. The concierge even beats Mohamed to the ground with his bat. At this point, he takes out a bottle of gasoline and douses himself with it from top to bottom, lighting himself on fire with his red Bic lighter. The fire spreads immediately and after a few moments, Mohamed resembles nothing more than a “grilled sheep”. Afterwards, the President goes to the hospital where he inquires about Mohamed, who is in a coma. When Mohamed died January 4th, 2011, demonstrations to the cries of “We are all Mohameds” frightened the President who fled the country.
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As a result, Mohamed became a symbol for protestors as well as a victim. When a movie producer visits Mohamed’s family, hoping to profit from his death, his sisters and brothers are appalled - corrupt society manifesting itself again! The story of Mohamed belongs to no one, because it is the story of a simple man like millions of others in the Arab world. After having read this tragic story, I wonder, how could such an intelligent man be driven to take his life in such a macabre manner? Why did no one help him when he asked? What has our world become when young people value death more than life? Ben Jelloun compels the readers to ask themselves these difficult questions. He grasps the fragile emotions of Mohamed in his writing and demonstrates how Mohamed served as the spark that ignited the Arab world in 2010. Four years after the death of the original Mohamed, it is evident that the situation in Arab countries is still deplorable. One will eventually see if the world can respond to these widespread problems and help individuals like Mohamed rediscover their zeal for life.
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L’Espoir Isabella Caponiti Je suis ce qui tourne l'horloge de l'enfant à l'adolescence, de l'adolescent à l’adulte. Je remplis vos rêves et j’inspire votre imagination. Je vous fais rêvasser. Mais, je vous laisse quand la vie est dure. Vous me blâmez de vos échecs. Je suis la cause de vos larmes et vous pensez que je suis disparu. Vous avez tort, Car, je suis sous votre oreiller et dans l’air. Quand vous êtes petit, je suis la raison pour laquelle vous regardez les étoiles et que vous rêvez. Quand vous avez 15 ans, je suis la cause de votre amour pour un beau garçon. Quand vous avez 45 ans, je suis la cause de vos grands efforts. Je suis ce qui vous fait attendre quand votre petite fille a le diagnostic d’un cancer. Je suis ce qui vous fait continuer à jouer à la loterie d’une semaine à la suivante, Même après avoir perdu votre maison. Je suis l'Espoir.
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Bianca Chiappelloni
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Fiona Cahill
Hope English version by the author I am what turns the clock of a child to adolescence, of a teenager to adulthood. I fill your dreams and inspire your imagination. I am what makes you daydream. But, I leave you when times are hard. You blame me for your failures. I am the cause of your tears when you think I have disappeared. You are wrong. I am under your pillow and in the air. When you are little, I am the reason you look up at the stars and dream. When you are 15, I am the reason you love that beautiful boy. When you are 45, I am the reason for you relentless effort. I am what keeps you waiting when you daughter is diagnosed with cancer. I am what makes you continue to play the lottery week after week, even after you have lost your home. I am Hope.
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Emily Lencyk
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Latin
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Anabeth Bostrup
Pax Obumbrata Emma Novick Stabilitate soleo, sed mundus permanet erraticus. Consequentia aestumatur, sed timor de proelio futuro exstat. Patientia pullulat, autem gemmans in vires. Bona acta perducunt malas sententias, dum mala acta bona responsa in nostro mundo. Omnes habent varias perspectivas et cogitata Cogitant splendidos colores et personas splendidas mundum nostrum conplere; Dum timor et cura infestent pectora eorum.
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Peace Overshadowed English version by the author I am eased by predictability, but the world continues to evolve erratically. Progression is valued, but it evokes fear of future conflict. Tolerance is sprouting, budding into violence, and positive actions have negative connotations. Negative acts have positive responses in our world. Everyone has different moral perceptions, everyone has different interpretations. They think vibrant colors and vivacious personalities speckle our world, while fear, anxiousness, and unpredictability infest my heart.
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Fiona Cahill
Amor Emma Church Nemo eum rumpere potest Nemo eum adigere potest Est tam potens Ut ad mortem ducere possit. Est dux vitae Ubi amantes regnum non habent. Stivam adserit Numquam absolvens. Ubi aliquis cadit in laqueo, Non revertere potest Quia amor culter est Qui animam demergit. Nemo eum rumpere potest Nemo eum adigere potest Est tam potens Ut ad mortem ducere possit.
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Love English version by the author Nobody can fracture it Nobody can force it It is so powerful That it can lead to death. It is the conductor of life Where lovers have no control, or dominance. It grasps the wheel with its hands Never letting go. When someone falls into its trap, There is no turning back. Because love is the dagger that plunges the soul. Nobody can fracture it Nobody can force it It is so powerful That it can lead to death.
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Alana Galloway
Ausa Colleen O’Neill Prēnsa puella ā illīs circa eam sēnsit nunc. Iam nōn sē possitne scīt hinc linquere ipsa? Illa modum dīcta est vīvandī serva stāns hīc. Certane omnibus ā poterit disrumpere? Ausa. Optima numquam reddere hinc prioram discēssit.
*Composed in dactylic meter
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She Dared English version by the author At once, the girl felt trapped by those around her. Now, she did not know herself, how might she leave this place? She had been told the way to live, a slave standing here. Will this fixed girl be able to break free from all things? She dared. The bravest girl has left this place, never to return to her former self.
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Angela Jaramillo
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Nebai Hernadez
Auxilium Kate Larkin Magni Di, mea tristia audite precis verba, Omnes mundi dolent, sunt non mentumque esca Omnibus oppidis auxilium nunc tempestate detis Nos ob tegatis bÄŤlem bonorum leges rumpente Nos, ululant canes et liberi flent servetis morte.
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Help English version by the author Great gods, hear my sad words of prayer, all people of the world are suffering, and there is no meat or grain. Give your aid now to all the towns by storms. Protect us from the one who broke the laws of good on account of anger. The dogs are howling and children are crying, save us from death.
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Clare Keeney
Splendidas stellas ostendit Annabeth Bostrup Per agrum aureum currit, Coma in vento flectit Equus domum redit, Ad urbem orientem et montis Atque moratur, subito, degit Oh, utinam sol defluat ‌ exit! Splendidas stellas ostendit.
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Revealing Shining Stars English version by the author Running through a field of gold, Mane waving in the wind The horse returns home, Toward the mountains and rising city And yet he pauses, suddenly, waiting Oh that the sun might fade‌ It leaves! Revealing shining stars.
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Angela Jaramillo
Trīstis Servus Tara Hammonds Trīstis et īnfēlīx servus stat in lītore tandem. Ā dominō vērē enim vult Rōmam volāre, Sed pulcherrima fīlia ērī amat miserē; petit Corde tōtī eam, et hunc ea amat quoque. Sīc et exīstimat et subsistit, et spectat frētum; Sūmerene et puellam et lībertātem forsam potest?
*Composed in dactylic meter
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The Sad Slave English version by the author The sad and unlucky slave at length stands on the seashore. For he truly wants to flee from his master to Rome, But he loves the very beautiful daughter of his master. He wants Her with all his heart, and she also loves him. Thus he stands still and ponders, and he looks at the ocean; Can he perchance have both the girl and his freedom?
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Alana Galloway
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Spanish
57.
Emily Casper
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Tú me quieres blanca Alfonsina Storni Tú me quieres alba, Me quieres de espumas, Me quieres de nácar. Que sea azucena Sobre todas, casta. De perfume tenue. Corola cerrada
Por cuáles milagros, Me pretendes blanca (Dios te lo perdone), Me pretendes casta (Dios te lo perdone), ¡Me pretendes alba! Huye hacia los bosques, Vete a la montaña; Límpiate la boca; Vive en las cabañas; Toca con las manos La tierra mojada; Alimenta el cuerpo Con raíz amarga; Bebe de las rocas; Duerme sobre escarcha; Renueva tejidos Con salitre y agua; Habla con los pájaros Y lévate al alba. Y cuando las carnes Te sean tornadas, Y cuando hayas puesto En ellas el alma Que por las alcobas Se quedó enredada, Entonces, buen hombre, Preténdeme blanca, Preténdeme nívea, Preténdeme casta.
Ni un rayo de luna Filtrado me haya. Ni una margarita Se diga mi hermana. Tú me quieres nívea, Tú me quieres blanca, Tú me quieres alba. Tú que hubiste todas Las copas a mano, De frutos y mieles Los labios morados. Tú que en el banquete Cubierto de pámpanos Dejaste las carnes Festejando a Baco. Tú que en los jardines Negros del Engaño Vestido de rojo Corriste al Estrago. Tú que el esqueleto Conservas intacto No sé todavía
59.
Kelly McLaughlin
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Abby Smith
YouWant WantMe MePure Pure You Englishversion versionbybySarah SarahMcDonald McDonald English Youwant wantme measasdawn, dawn, You Youwant wantme measassea seafoam, foam, You Youwant wantme measasmother motherofofpearl, pearl, You As a white lily, As a white lily, Aboveall, all,chaste. chaste. Above Offaint faintperfume. perfume. Of Ofclosed closedflower flowerpetals. petals. Of Notaaray rayofofmoonlight moonlight Not Canseep seepthrough throughtotome. me. Can Not even a daisy Not even a daisy Cancall callherself herselfmy mysister. sister. Can Youwant wantme mesnowy, snowy, You Youwant wantme mewhite, white, You Youwant wantme measasdawn. dawn. You You,you youhad hadallall You, Theglasses glassesatathand, hand, The Offruits fruitsand andhoneys honeys Of Andyour yourlips lipswere werepurple. purple. And You,that thatininfeasts feasts You, Werecovered coveredwith withvine vineblossoms, blossoms, Were You abandoned your flesh You abandoned your flesh CelebratingBacchus. Bacchus. Celebrating You,that thatininthe thegardens gardens You, blackwith withDeception, Deception, black clothedininred red clothed rantotoCorruption. Corruption. ran You,preserve preserveintact intact You, Yourskeleton skeleton Your
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don’tknow knowyet yet I Idon’t Bywhat whatmiracle miracle By (Godforgive forgiveyou), you), (God You expect me chaste You expect me chaste (Godforgive forgiveyou), you), (God Youexpect expectme measasdawn. dawn. You Fleetotothe theforests, forests, Flee Runtotothe themountains, mountains, Run Cleanyour yourmouth, mouth, Clean Live in huts, Live in huts, Touchwith withyour yourhands hands Touch Themoist moistearth, earth, The Nourishyour yourbody body Nourish Withbitter bitterroots, roots, With Drinkfrom fromthe therocks, rocks, Drink Sleepon onthe thefrost, frost, Sleep Renewyour yourflesh flesh Renew Withsalt saltand andwater, water, With Speakwith withthe thebirds birds Speak Getup upatatdawn. dawn. Get Andwhen whenyour yourbody bodyreturns, returns, And Andwhen whenyou youhave haveput putback back And Into it a soul, Into it a soul, Thatininthe all all those beds That those beds Remainedentangled, entangled, Remained Then,my mygood goodman, man, Then, Expectme metowhite, Expect be white, Expectme metosnowy, Expect be snowy, Expectme metochaste. Expect be chaste.
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63.
Katherine Sepulveda
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Maggie Ellison
La nieve Sarah McDonald Una cobija interminable que cubre la tierra Sábana blanca sobre todo Mis manos la tocan Es más que su textura fría y mojada. Las posibilidades no tienen fin Un ángel de nieve, un hombre, una bola Mi imaginación cobra vida. Un mundo nuevo Transformado en una noche Perfecto, puro, limpio Todavía sin ser tocado por el caos del universo. Me cambia, me hace fuerte Absorbiendo todo lo que ofrece Y mi vida se renueva también.
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The Snow English version by the author An endless blanket that covers the land White sheet over all My hands touch More than its cold and wet surface. The possibilities are endless An angel of snow, a man, a ball My imagination comes to life. A new world Transformed in a night Perfect, pure, and clean Not yet touched by the chaos of the universe. It changes me, strengthens me I absorb all that it offers, and my life Rekindles too.
67.
Caroline Geithner
Considerando el futuro Emily Casper Las opciones son oportunidades con las cuales te defines. Pues, pensar en eso no es difícil ni nada. Las decisiones que haces ahora te afectarán para toda la vida. ¡Gracias! ¿Y no la llamas presión? Escoge esto, no eso. Debes ser así, pero cuidado con ser eso. ¿Perdí mis opciones? No, para nada, eres quien eres. ¡Pues, ahora claramente las perdí! Sabes cual es mi futuro, ¿verdad? Sí, pero eres demasiado joven para entenderlo. ¡Entonces deja de darme todas estas opciones! ¡Ingrata! ¡Inútil! Sin ganas de empujarte más allá. ¡Pero yo quiero, quiero, sí que quiero! El reloj sigue andando, mi amor. ¿Pero, hace un segundo yo era demasiado joven? Tú me entiendes. ¿Sabes verdaderamente lo que tú quieres decir? TIC TAC TIC TAC... Por favor, PARA! Me haces sentir como... Como que todo el mundo se acabará Solo porque escogí un bizcocho en lugar del cereal. No soy tu saco de arena Ni soy tu trofeo para exhibir Y luego olvidarte de mí por no ser más adecuada. Mi vida, siempre eres adecuada. Simplemente, no me desilusiones. Estoy mareada, ahora me siento mareada ...
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Considering the Future English version by the author Choices are opportunities with which you define yourself. Well, that’s not stressful to think about at all. Choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life. Thanks, no pressure. Choose this, not that. Be this, not that. Did I just lose my choices? No, of course not, you are who you are. Okay, now I definitely lost them. You know my future, right? Yes, but you’re too young to understand. Then stop giving me all these choices! Ungrateful Unworthy And unwilling to push yourself. But I am, I am, I am! Really, dear, that clock is ticking. But wasn't I just too young? You know what I mean. Do you even know what you mean? TICK TICK TICK TOCK... Please, STOP! You make me feel like... Like the whole world would end Merely because I chose a muffin over cereal. I’m not your punching bag And I’m not your trophy to put on display And then forget about me when I’m not relevant. Oh dear, you’re always relevant. You just don’t want to fail our expectations. Now my head is spinning...
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Pippa Leigh
Un mundo virtual Gaby Lopez Vivimos en un mundo donde preferimos mandar mensajes por texto y no en persona. En un mundo donde podemos conectarnos con gente que viven en todas partes del mapa y donde podemos subir fotos y comentarios para que todos los vean. Un mundo que cada día se está adaptando a la nueva y mejor tecnología. Un mundo donde pasamos más tiempo en la computadora y el celular que tiempo afuera o con amigos y familia. Esta generación está creando un mundo en el cual dependemos de aparatos. La verdad es que vivimos en un mundo virtual. No me malinterpreten, yo también abuso de la tecnología. Es difícil y un poco triste que no puedo acordarme de un día en el cual no usé mi celular o computadora. Para alguien como yo, aspirante a cineasta y escritora, estos aparatos son mi vida. Sin embargo, a pesar de mi uso diario de la tecnología, trato de buscar otras alternativas. No es nada fácil cuando el mundo en el que vivo está convirtiéndose cada día más y más tecnológico. Estoy entre la necesidad de seguir avanzando con la tecnología y el deseo de vivir de una manera más simple sin tantas complicaciones. Con la tecnología podemos cambiar muchas cosas. Podemos encontrar una cura para el cáncer o construir un coche volador y mucho más. Sin embargo, el progreso de la tecnología trae muchos problemas. Por ejemplo, hay problemas con las redes sociales y las personas adictas a la vida virtual. Se necesita un equilibrio entre estos dos mundos . Debemos seguir avanzando con la tecnología pero al mismo tiempo vivir en el mundo real y no solo el virtual.
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A Virtual World English version by the author We live in a world where we prefer to send text messages instead of talking in person. A world where we connect with people from all different parts of the map and where we can upload pictures and comments for all to see. A world where with every day it is adapting to new and better technology. A world where we spend more time on the computer and our cell phones than outside or with our friends or family. This generation is creating a world where we depend on devices. The truth is that we live in a virtual world. Don’t misinterpret me, I abuse technology just as much as everyone else. It’s difficult and a little sad that I can’t remember a single day where I have not used my cell phone or computer. For someone like me, an aspiring director, these devices are my life. Even though I use technology daily, I try to be more open to alternatives. It is not easy when you live in a world that is becoming more and more technological. I am divided between the necessity to continue advancing in technology and the desire to live a simple life without so many complications. With technology we can change many things. We can find a cure for cancer or invent a flying car, and so much more. However, the progress in technology bring many problems. For example, there are problems with social media and people becoming addicted to a virtual life. What we need is an equilibrium between these two worlds. We should continue to advance in technology while at the same time live in the real world and not only the virtual one.
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Mari Riera
Eterna decadencia Gissele Alzate Lo miran bailando en el aliento oscuro, está cerrado. Sentado en las primeras horas se esconde de los destellos de la luz, que luchan para agarrarlo. Se entierra. Siente la lluvia de ella sobre su piel. La sensación de la vida Se abre. Un pétalo arrancado uno a la vez Hasta el último: Ella no me ama.
Anna-Luisa Brackman, Tatiana Lieberman, Kate Gerstner
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Eternal Withering English version by the author They look at him dancing in the dark breath, he is shut. Sitting in the small hours he hides from the flashes of light, as they fight to grab him. He buries himself. He feels her rain upon his flesh. She stops. The sensation of life. He opens. One petal plucked at a time Until the final one: She loves me not.
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Las mujeres pequeñas que bailan Catie Capolongo Las mujeres pequeñas que bailan Lucen vestidos inefables, Y miran al espectáculo delicado Con un centelleo blanco y alumbrado. Las mujeres pequeñas que bailan, Brindan alegría a los niños, Y llegan a los juegos olímpicos, Ofreciendo entretenimiento a todos. Las mujeres pequeñas que bailan, Giran, giran y giran Brincan Brincan Y brincan Con ardor y mejillas rosadas. Ellas vienen del cielo Y cuando descienden El mundo para y se hiela Al ver a las mujeres pequeñas que bailan.
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The Little Women that Dance English version by the author The little women that dance, Dressed uniquely, Watch the delicate show With a bright, white glow. The little women that dance, Bring joy to the children, Bring games to the Olympics, Bring fun to everyone. The little women that dance Twirl, twirl, and twirl, They leap And leap And leap again, With their rosy and ardent cheeks. They come from heaven, And when they land, The world freezes, and watches The little women that dance.
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Angela Jaramillo
La Belleza Jennifer Esposito ¿La belleza, qué es realmente? Un día nos dicen: Lleva esto, no lleves eso, “Esto” es bello. Pero los días pasan volando, el tiempo pasa, y la belleza, cambia. Una mariposa llega volando con sus colores vibrantes Hoy, su color es belleza Y ahora, “esto” es bello. Pero el tiempo pasa su color se pierde. Y la mariposa brillante ya no es apreciada. ¡Ya no es bella! ¿Qué es ahora? ¿Fue bella… en algún momento? ¿Quizás nunca? Tirada por aquí, empujada por allá. Esforzándonos para la belleza nosotras mismas nos transformamos. ¿Pero, por qué? La belleza nos cambia. Cada día la percepción cambia Percepción: La belleza es sólo eso, El mundo determina este rasgo voluble. ¡Vuela mariposa, vuela! No prestes atención a las maneras erráticas, que no tienen importancia.
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Beauty English version by the author Beauty, what truly is it? One day we’re told: Wear this, not that, “This” is beautiful. But days fly by, time goes on, and what is beautiful changes. A butterfly flutters by, colorful, vibrant. Today she is beautiful, So “this” is beauty. Yet time keeps moving , her color fades, and the sparkling butterfly is no longer cherished. No longer beautiful! What is it now? Was it ever beautiful... at all ? Pulled this way, pushed that way. We change ourselves, Striving for beauty. But why? Beauty changes everyday, Perception changes. Perception: that is beauty, the world dictates this fickle trait. So butterfly, fly on! Pay no attention, meaningless as they are, to the erratic ways.
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Mary Grace Henry
Hablar en público Jenny Blessing Palabras resonando, pensamientos nadando, mente corriendo, corazón latiendo, Estoy de pie. Un mar de caras en blanco me esperan, escudriñando, juzgando. ¿Por qué me expongo voluntariamente a esta forma de castigo cruel e insólito? Silencio. Me rodea, me ahoga. En mi mente, todo se detiene. El público me espera, vigilante. Comienzo. El miedo da paso a la confianza. El paralizante pánico trae un diluvio de perspicacia, una liberación del caos interior de mi mente.
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Derrame de palabras, un río caudaloso rompiendo diques y excavando rocas; llenando cada grieta, siguiendo interminablemente, despiadadamente. Yo divago, persiguiendo un pensamiento que nunca alcanzaré. Las palabras se forman lentamente, incoherentemente, simplemente, apenas audibles, a veces ninguna en absoluto. El torrente se apacigua, estoy llegando al final. Mi boca está seca, pero mi mente está límpida, ya anticipando el siguiente discurso.
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Lilly Pura
Public Speaking Jenny Blessing Words echoing thoughts swimming mind rushing heart pounding I stand. A sea of blank faces greets me, scrutinizing, judging. Why do I voluntarily subject myself to this cruel and unusual form of punishment? Silence. All around me, drowning me. In my mind, everything stops. The audience waits, expectant. I begin, and fear gives way to confidence. Crippling panic brings a deluge of insight, a release of the inner pandemonium of my mind.
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Words flow, a rushing river of them breaking down dams and eroding rocks; filling every crack continuing interminably relentlessly. I ramble, chasing after a thought I never reach. Words are forming slowly incoherently plainly inaudibly sometimes not at all. The torrent slows, coming to a close. My mouth is dry but my mind is clear, already anticipating the next speech.
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Regina Ferrara
Secuestrada Priscilla Valdez –Boletos, por favor– le pidió el agente de viajes del aeropuerto. Pero él no estaba enfocado. Echó una mirada al público, buscándola con urgencia. Éste es mi única chance, se dijo. Mi única oportunidad. Siguió por la terminal casi corriendo, buscándola como si fuera una niña perdida. Llegó a un café y había solo una joven sentada de espaldas. Con cabello color de oro que llegaba hasta sus caderas, no necesitaba voltearse para que él la reconociera. Su corazón paró y también el tiempo. Por fin la había encontrado. Ahora, Martin, recuérdate del plan. Caminando hacia donde la muchacha estaba sentada, él miró a su alrededor antes de sentarse detrás de ella. Buscó a sus padres, pero no los vio cerca. La estudió por unos minutos y al mirarla le parecía sentir que el mundo había desaparecido. Su cabello caía en su cara como una catarata aunque trataba de echárselo hacia atrás. Él estaba fascinado por la manera en la que ella miraba hacia algo en el vacío, soñando en algo que él no conocía. Todo lo que ella hacía le parecía un arte, y no creía que era posible ser infeliz en su presencia. Él estaba tan integrado en su belleza que casi no se dio cuenta cuando ella se dio vuelta y lo miró. El inmediatamente miró hacia otro lado. ¡Órale, me vio! ¡Qué estúpido soy! Seguro que ya cree que estoy tratando de coquetear y molestarla. Pero cuando se volteó otra vez y tenía una pequeña sonrisa, comprendió que ese no era el caso. La joven se paró y se acercó a su mesa. –Hola, me llamo Lucía– le dijo. –Eh…hola…– él respondió nerviosamente. Nunca había estado tan cerca a su belleza. Sus ojos verdes e iluminantes, su sonrisa brillante y llena de alegría, y sus labios rosaditos que cantaban palabras lindas. –¿Y…no me vas a decir tu nombre?– Se paró delante de él, esperando una repuesta. –¡Martín! Perdón, me llamo Martín. Siéntate si quieres.
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Lucía se sentó con precaución, intrigada por su amable sonrisa, pero desalentada por sus ojos misteriosos y oscuros. Él se veía tan familiar, ella sabía que había visto su sonrisa en otra ocasión. Y esos ojos…ella sabía que los había visto. –¿De dónde vienes?– le preguntó a Martín. –De un pueblo pequeño cerca de Londres, se llama Richmond– él dijo. –¡Yo también! ¡Qué raro! ¿Tal vez te he visto? –No. Claro que no. Nadie me conoce allí– él respondió muy sospechosamente. –¿Por qué no? Es un pueblo pequeño, casi todos se conocen– agregó ella. Cambiando de tema, él comenzó a hablarle de una tienda que abrieron en el aeropuerto que tenía arte de todas clases y era supuestamente muy interesante. –¿Quieres ir a verla? Tenemos un poco de tiempo hasta que nuestros vuelos despeguen– sugirió Martín. –Bueno, ¿por qué no?– le respondió ella. Perfecto, pensó Martín. Todo va perfecto. Caminaron hasta donde Martín le dijo que quedaba la tienda. –Bueno…¿dónde está?– preguntó Lucía, parada en lo que parecía ser una tienda que se había cerrado hace mucho tiempo. Martín se veía nervioso. No se quedaba quieto. –¿Qué pasa?– preguntó Lucía. –Lo siento, Lucía, lo siento… --------Lucía despertó y se sentía como si hubiera dormido por años. Abrió los ojos y creía que todavía estaba en un sueño. ¿De quién será este cuarto? No parece mi hotel… ¿y dónde están mis padres? Ni siquiera recordaba cómo había llegado a este lugar extraño. Y cuanto más lo pensaba se daba cuenta que tampoco recordaba haber subido al avión. Empezó a sentir pánico cuando comenzó a entender su realidad. Se paró más rápidamente que el tiro de una pistola y corrió hacia la ventana. No veía más que arena. Arena roja que corría kilómetros y kilómetros hacia el horizonte, y tal vez más allá.
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¿Qué es esto? ¿Un sueño?... ¿Una pesadilla? El cuarto era hecho de madera desnuda, y no había nada más que un catre y una sencilla cómoda. También había dos puertas. Lucía caminó lentamente hacia la más cercana de las dos y abrió lo que parecía ser un armario; pero no tenía ninguna ropa. Las tres paredes estaban cubiertas del techo hasta el piso de fotografías. Mirándolas más atentamente no podía creer lo que estaba viendo. Fotos de ella misma en el parque, de ella caminando a la escuela, jugando en el patio de su casa, y hasta fotos en las casas de sus amigas. ¡Esa soy yo! Todas estas fotos sacadas en cada año de mi niñez. Fotos de mí que nunca había visto antes. Sentada en el piso, casi incapaz de respirar, Lucía estaba rodeada de las memorias de su vida que de alguna manera la había traído a este lugar. Alcanzando una foto marcada con la fecha de 2005, vio en ella una mochila familiar que no era la suya. Entonces entendió. En ese momento la otra puerta del cuarto se abrió y entró el mismo hombre que había conocido en el aeropuerto. Tan pronto como la caída de una avalancha, todo tenía sentido: era la mochila de Martín. El que le había parecido tan familiar ese día. El que la persiguió desde su niñez. El que la secuestró.
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Aria Eastwood
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Aria Eastwood
Kidnapped English version by the author “Tickets please,” the airport attendant asked him. But he was not paying attention. He scanned the crowd, looking for her urgently. This is my only chance, he told himself. My only opportunity. He continued through the terminal, almost running, looking for her like a lost child. He reached a coffee shop and there was only a young girl seated with her back to him. With hair the color of gold that ran down to her hips, she did not need to turn around for him to recognize her. His heart stopped, as did time. He had finally found her. Okay, Martin. Remember the plan. Walking towards where the girl was seated, he checked his surroundings before sitting down behind her. He looked around for her parents, but they were not anywhere near. He studied her for a few minutes, and looking at her made him feel like the entire world had disappeared. Her hair fell on her face like a waterfall as she tried to brush it back. He was fascinated in the way that she stared into the distance, dreaming of something unknown to him. He saw everything she did to be an art in itself, and he knew it was impossible to be unhappy in her presence. He was so focused on her beauty that he almost didn’t notice when she suddenly turned around and looked at him. He immediately looked away. Shoot, she saw me, he told himself. How stupid can I be? I bet she thinks I’m some creep trying to hit on her now. But when she turned around again and smiled, he realized this wasn’t the case. She then stood up and approached his table. “Hi, my name is Lucia,” she said to him. “Uh…hi…” he responded nervously. He had never been so close to her beauty. Her eyes green and luminous, her smile bright and full of happiness, and her rosy red lips that sang the words she spoke. “Well…aren’t you going to tell me your name?” She stood waiting for his response. “Martin! Sorry, my name is Martin! You can sit here if you want.”
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Lucia sat down cautiously, intrigued by his amiable smile, but somewhat intimidated by his dark, mysterious eyes. He looked so familiar, and she knew she had seen his smile somewhere else. And those eyes…she knew she had seen those eyes before. “Where are you from?” she asked him. “From a small town near London, it’s called Richmond,” he replied. “Me too! How strange. Maybe I’ve seen you around?” “No. Of course not. No one knows me there…” he responded very suspiciously. “Why not? It’s a small town, almost everyone knows each other,” she added. Changing the topic, he began telling her about a store recently opened in the airport that sold all kinds of art and was supposedly very interesting. “Want to go see it? We have some time until our flights leave,” he added. “Well, why not,” she responded. Perfect, he thought to himself. Everything’s going perfect. They walked towards where the store was apparently located. “Well…where is it?” asked Lucia, standing in what seemed to be a store that had closed down a while ago. Martin looked worried. He couldn’t stand still. “What’s going on?” asked Lucia. “I’m sorry, Lucia, I’m so sorry…” ------Lucia woke up and felt as if she had been asleep for years. She opened her eyes and thought she was still in a dream. Whose room is this? This doesn’t look like a hotel…and where are my parents?
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She could not even remember how she got to this strange place, and the more she thought she realized that she could not even remember boarding her flight. She started to panic as she grasped her reality. She shot out of the bed like a bullet and ran towards the window. All she could see was sand. Red sand that ran for miles and miles towards the horizon and possibly beyond. Where am I? In a dream? …a nightmare? The room itself was walled with naked wood, and there was nothing there besides the cot on which she slept and a plain dresser. But there were also two doors. Lucia walked slowly towards the closer of the two and opened what appeared to be a closet; but this closet did not hold any sort of clothes. The three walls were covered from top to bottom with photographs. Looking at them closely, she could not believe what she was seeing. Photos of herself in the park; walking to school; playing in her front yard; even photos of her at friend’s houses. That’s me! All these photos, from every year of my childhood. Photos I’ve never even seen before. Lucia sat in the closet, almost unable to breathe, surrounded by the memories in her life that somehow had lead to this moment. Reaching for a photo marked with the date 2005, she noticed within it a familiar backpack that did not belong to her. Then, she understood. In that moment the other door to the room flew open and in came the same man she met at the airport. As sudden as the crashing down of an avalanche, everything began to make sense: the backpack belonged to Martin. The one who had looked so familiar to her earlier that day. The one who had followed her since her childhood. The one who had kidnapped her.
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Cuerpo de Sal Emma Sapio Yo corro con las olas que besan la arena, me embeleso en la escena. El sol se despierta en el cielo, y mis pensamientos se esclarecen. Miro los surfistas y los barcos de pesca, y estoy rodeada por la exquisitez de la vida. El calor es intenso y me lanzo al mar. Me abraza la sal, y la vida palpita en mis venas. El mundo se estĂĄ despertando, y todo es enorme, como el ocĂŠano. Mi alma entra en las eternas mareas, y en las olas yo tambien me siento infinita. Capto este momento de paz, y lo guardo para cuando lo necesite.
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Body of Salt English version by the author I run where the waves kiss the sand, I become immersed in the scene. The sun rises in the sky, and my thoughts are clearer. I look at the surfers and fishing boats, and I am surrounded by the richest of life. The heat is fierce, I jump into the sea. The salt embraces me, and life pumps through my veins. The world is awakening, and all is enormous as the soothing sea. My soul enters the endless tides, and I too feel infinite in the waves. I store this moment of peace away for a while, and save it for when I shall need it again.
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Angela Jaramillo
In memory of Nelson Mandela
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Balada de los dos abuelos Balada de los dos abuelos Nicolás Guilllén Nicolás Guilllén Sombras que sólo yo veo, ¡Qué de barcos, qué de barcos! Sombras queme sóloescoltan yo veo,mis dos abuelos. ¡Qué de barcos, quédedenegros, barcos!qué de negros! ¡Qué me escoltan mis dos abuelos. ¡Qué de negros, de fulgor negros!de cañas! ¡Quéqué largo Lanza con punta de hueso, ¡Qué largo fulgor cañas! ¡Quédelátigo el del negrero! Lanza con punta de hueso, tambor de cuero y madera: ¡Qué látigo elPiedra del negrero! de llanto y de sangre, tambor de cuero y madera: mi abuelo negro. Piedra de llanto y deysangre, venas ojos entreabiertos, mi abuelo negro. Gorguera en el cuello ancho, venas y ojos yentreabiertos, madrugadas vacías, Gorguera engris el cuello ancho, armadura guerrera: y madrugadasyvacías, atardeceres de ingenio, gris armaduramiguerrera: abuelo blanco. y atardeceres ydeuna ingenio, gran voz, fuerte voz, mi abuelo blanco. y una gran voz, fuerte voz, el silencio. despedazando Pie desnudo, torso pétreo despedazando¡Qué el silencio. de barcos, qué de barcos, Pie desnudo, los torso de pétreo mi negro; ¡Qué de barcos, de barcos, quéqué de negros! los de mi negro; pupilas de vidrio antártico qué de negros! pupilas de vidrio antártico las de mi blanco! Sombras que sólo yo veo, las de mi blanco! Sombras queme sóloescoltan yo veo,mis dos abuelos. África de selvas húmedas me escoltan mis dos abuelos. África de selvas húmedas y de gordos gongos sordos… Don Federico me grita y de gordos gongos sordos… – ¡Me muero! Don Federicoy me grita Taita Facundo calla; – ¡Me muero!(Dice mi abuelo negro.) y Taita Facundo calla;en la noche sueñan los dos (Dice mi abuelo negro.) de caimanes,los dos en la noche Aguaprieta sueñan y andan, andan. Aguaprieta deverdes caimanes, mañanas de cocos… y andan, andan. Yo los junto. verdes mañanas de canso! cocos… – ¡Me Yo los junto. – ¡Me canso! (Dice mi abuelo blanco.) – ¡Federico! (Dice mi abuelo – ¡Federico! ¡Facundo! Los dos se abrazan. Oh blanco.) velas de amargo viento, Oh velas de galeón amargoardiendo viento, en oro…¡Facundo! Los dosdos se suspiran. abrazan. Los dos Los galeón ardiendo en muero! oro… Los dos suspiran. Los cabezas dos –¡Me las fuertes alzan; –¡Me muero!(Dice mi abuelo negro.) las fuertes cabezas los dosalzan; del mismo tamaño, (Dice mi abuelo los dos del mismo tamaño, ¡Ohnegro.) costas de cuello virgen bajo las estrellas altas; ¡Oh costas deengañadas cuello virgen bajo las estrellas altas; de abalorios...! los dos del mismo tamaño, engañadas de –¡Me abalorios...! los dos del mismo canso! ansia tamaño, negra y ansia blanca, –¡Me canso! (Dice mi abuelo blanco.)ansia negra y los ansia dosblanca, del mismo tamaño, (Dice mi abuelo ¡Ohblanco.) puro sol repujado, los dos del mismo gritan, tamaño, sueñan, lloran, cantan. ¡Oh puro sol repujado, gritan, sueñan, lloran,lloran, cantan.cantan. preso en el aro del trópico; Sueñan, preso en el aro cantan.cantan. oh del lunatrópico; redonda y limpiaSueñan, lloran,Lloran, oh luna redonda y limpia Lloran, cantan. sobre el sueño de los monos! ¡Cantan! sobre el sueño de los monos! ¡Cantan!
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Eva Carrasquero
Ballad of the Two Grandfathers English version by Molly Geisinger Shadows that only I see, My two grandfathers escort me. A spear with a bone point, A drum of leather and wood: My black grandfather. A collar on a wide neck, Grey armor of war: My white grandfather. Barefoot, strong torso Those of my black one; Pupils of Antarctic glass, Those of my white one. Africa’s humid rainforests And wide, deafening gongs I am dying! (Says my black grandfather). Water dark with crocodiles Mornings with green coconuts… I am tired! (Says my white grandfather). Oh, sails of bitter wind, Galleons burning in gold, I am dying! (Says my white grandfather). Oh, coasts of virgin necks Deceived by glass beads…! I am tired! (Says my white grandfather). Oh, pure engraved sun, Imprisoned in the ring of the tropics! Oh, moon round and pure Above the dreams of the monkeys!
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Oh the many ships, so many ships! Oh the many blacks, so many blacks! The far-reaching brilliance of the cane! So many whips from the slave driver! Stone of tears and blood, Veins and eyes half-open, And vacant dawns, And darkening fields, And a grand voice, strong voice, Breaking the silence. Oh the many ships, so many ships, So many blacks! Shadows that only I see, My two grandfathers accompany me. Don Federico yells at me And Taita Facundo quiets; Both dream in the night, And they walk and walk. I join them together. Federico! Facundo! They embrace. Both sigh. Both lift Their strong heads up. Both of the same size, Below the high stars, Two of the same size, Black longing and white longing, Both the same size, They shout, they dream, they cry, they sing. They dream, they cry, they sing. They cry, they sing. They sing!
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This year's edition is dedicated to our passionate, and loving moderator, Graziella Sidoli. Without her constant reassurance and guidance this magazine would surely have never come to fruition. She has given so much to Voices, and we cannot thank her enough. Her fervent spirit will guide all future publications of Voices. Buon viaggio e grazie mille!
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Isabella Caponiti
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Maggie Ellison
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 Mac OS X computers and the artwork is formatted using Adobe Photoshop CS5. The typeface is set in Garamond, font size twelve.