A journal of creativity
Compiled and produced by Estella Gutulan Bastide, Greg Morgan & Maria Radford
St George’s British International School Via Cassia, La Storta, 00123, Roma 0044 06 3086001 www.stgeorge.school.it
Journeys There is some ineffable compulsion which draws us away from the commonplace, an intoxicating allure which travels on the wind, which ripples in rivers and streams, which rumbles deep down in the heart of earth, and invites us with singing whispers of chang e and new dawns. Change, change is the architect of this revolution. Life is such a journey, and with every step we take we are in the process of transformation, being touched, startled, humbled and inspired by its boundless variety. The first step on th is labyrinth of life is not a step at all. It is an awakening, an opening of soft, childlike eyes to the infinite universe, and realising the direction our journey must take. The map is unclear however, crumpled by valleys of doubt, and peaks of adversity. The signs in the stars do not point the way, but wink from afar when we gaze into the pool of our thoughts and see our destiny reflected back. The second step is not a step, but a rising, a lifting of the spirit in anticipation and moral preparation for the journey ahead. Feet set, foundations of friendship, memories, and experiences uphold us; secure us as a shield to part the way. However, the vision that guides us is ours, very ours. Grasping the firm staff of our values, and listening to the symphony of our dreams, we are propelled as much as compelled towards that distant sun, which rises as we embrace our future. Yet even as we take the ponderous third step into that shining dawn, dark clouds roll in, phantasms dance and play at the side of the road
, and grey rain floods the
horizon. Lost in the oceans of time, that map of certainty, that path etched onto the sphere of the sky, is swept away. Past, present and future mingle and merge on these grey seas, and even hope seems to despair. We drift, drift through that mindless expanse of nothing, bleached to our bones. Some dreams cannot be stolen, some journeys not stopped. Tossed by time, and in time, we grow wiser and see the waves and clouds for what they really are: veils on our ambitions, shadows th at linger in the wake of our dreams. From within shines forth the light to banish the darkness. From within we find our compass to point the way. Waves cease, and sorrows fade. Winds whisper, and doubts disappear. Clouds meld back into the past, or even the future, for our timeline is chosen and is laid out before us. And as the sun reaches its zenith, we too realise that the world does not make us, but we make the world.
Matthew Sumption
Thoko Phiri
Multicoloured Clouds I was walking by shallow water, It seemed crystal reflecting Those ruby red apples, A treasure box in the wonders of nature. And those juicy strawberries, Precious gems. I could see those multicoloured clouds, obscuring the golden rays of the sun. The emerald leaves, shining in the daylight, Would dance in that summer fair. The azure sky seemed sapphire, As the clouds were drifting in the air. Lavinia Massatani
E quel petalo... E quel petalo color sangue, spiccò il volo reso prigioniero dal potere del vento. E quel petalo color tramonto mi svolazzò davanti con le sue fatte d’aria senza mai stancarsi. E quel petalo color amore fece capriole nel cielo turchese, e con un sorriso di gioia angelica lievemente mi prese in giro, Perché lui volava alto, ed io, restavo in basso. Livia Bresciani
Katie Barber
Nature’s Kaleidoscope
The fruit in the baskets like rainbow coloured balls The clouds in the sky like waterfalls The green grass like emeralds The red strawberries like rubies The flowers like heralds, Tell it’s time to go and harvest. The sombrero like a stadium on which play the cherries The other team, of course, are the blueberries The light like a flood On the fields of wheat The red poppies like blood, Tell it’s time to go and harvest. The people on the fields like bees in a hive To reap the harvest all of them strive. The tractor and the plough They both go to work, While flower petals in the wind flow. Zuzanna Klikowicz
Gioia Emidi
Dedicated to my sister, Marion Colibeau
She’s the one I can always count on, She’s the Yin to my Yang, She’s the kind I can always depend on, On my own, I cannot stand, She’s the light in the darkness, She’s the way out of the maze, Without her I’d be in a complete daze, She’s the girl who has her own ways, Now, I bet you’re probably wondering, Who is this mysterious soul? So I’m not going to keep you waiting, Or you might just lose control, She’s the girl that I can trust, Whenever, whatever, I’ll tell you who she is if I must She is my sister, my best friend forever. Julie Colibeau
Anna de Lemos
My Best Friend Our fingers intertwine. The sparks fly. A rush. A release. My hands slide up her spine, Caress her horizontal form: The sleek and slender bones, that tremble at my every touch, cause stirrings deep within her, an ecstatic song; The pearly teeth that smile enticingly, inviting me to reach out and become at one with her. Together we feel everything: love, joy, sadness, lust anger, pain and fear. What better friend can a man have than his piano? Tommer Spence
Autunno Un gioco di colori e sfumature, un lieve turbinio di foglie aride color arancio e amaranto. Una pozza d’acqua, lievemente appoggiata al terriccio umido dello stesso colore del cielo turchino sopra la mia testa. Ogni albero è scosso violentemente dalla tramontana, che raccoglie i sussuri dei trepidi uccelli. E la pioggia che scende incerta sui selciati ancora addormentati, lasciandosi alle spalle settembre. Scompare l’odore pungente di bacche scarlatte e investe le mie narici quello caldo di castagne appena cotte. Nel campo vicino, un vitigno muore, assieme ad i suoi pampini bruciando nel gelo, nell’ombra del crepuscolo di una sera. Alessandra Vinciarelli
Julia Galway Witham
Harvest
As the wheat grew, up and up like sticks of gold, The mango trees turned green as grass, while The watermelons thrived upon the soil, Miniature earths expanding in space. Multicoloured spices scattered in piles A million grains of pollen, blown by the wind And strawberries, bright red, almost like blood drops.
Under all these things, what keeps them alive is a bed of soil Like an ocean of melted chocolate And once everything’s grown, ripped from their stems And taken away to faraway places, Some over oceans and some to the desert, All will be sold, from daybreak to sunset, Until the moon shines again and resembles a face. Then the next day comes, then the one after, And beautiful ladies with long curly hair Will sell and sell, until the harvest is over. When the time comes, new seeds will be planted.
But this cycle of life is not as happy as it sounds: Children are working, like broken down cars Day after day, with no water, no food, ‘til their job is done. All they get is a few grains of rice.
Raffi Turner
My FAO Poster and How I Designed It , by Alessia Phillips When I was told about the theme: “United for hunger” I immediately thought of lots of different people working together to reach one goal. There were many ways I found you could draw it, like building blocks or big stairs, but in the end I thought of many different people actually standing on top of each other to reach for one apple on a high tree. When I drew all the people that were making the human pyramid, I made sure they were all different and that they were of all ages, because to fight against hunger you can be anyone anywhere and you can do something. I put plump rich busine ssmen and the skinny and poor women holding hands to help the little boy at the top of the pyramid to reach for the plump juicy apple. I wanted to show that to solve big problems like hunger had to be helped by every single person possible, because if some one isn’t there, the pyramid won’t be high enough to reach for the faraway fruit of happiness.
Moving Again In the beginning there is no escape. All is silent, All is dark, All is small. But after nine months I see light; It is time to find a new home. Caged; A one-foot monster in a Disney-fied prison. I feel too safe for comfort Smothered in swaddling, a perambulatory pillow After an arduous five years I am free Free to move on. Here I am enveloped by education Surrounded by students Helped by headmasters. Here I feel I belong. Unfortunately not for long. Reputation, regulation and regional managers Prevent me from enjoying my new home. In time transferred, translated, I am relocated once more. My new home resembles a morgue. Men and women shuffle to and fro, Shriveled skeletons of their younger selves. I join their ranks as I begin to slow. Then I am placed into a new home. In the end there is no escape. All is silent, All is dark, All is small. My youth gone, Age confines me to this final “home�. Joe MacKenzie
Ana Marques De Barros
The Open Road
Cutting, sharp and black, a line from here towards infinity, The open road splits the sallow skin of land in two. Step after step after step The torn tarmac rolls beneath me, Each slap of my foot pushing the past A little further behind. The open road can be trusted To bring adventure, chance and fun. As each horizon peels away, Just beyond lies a better place, An explosion ‒ red and purple, white, A clamour of cheer and laughter. The open road will be there to protect me, No bitter barbs or lunges reach me here. The air hangs prickled like razored muslin but the only violence is the thumping heat upon my back; The only angry eye That ball of fire in the sky. Here with this there is an understanding ‒ The lonely, withered plants are just like me. The prickly air is just a warm and passionate embrace, The scratching crunch below Is conversation. Here I'm free to live and dream as I see is fit, As I sleep beneath the wide and dark and empty, glaring sky. Tommer Spence
Marijke Everts
My Brawny Sailor “The sea is my friend, my mistress. Do not worry, my love – you shall Wait. Bitter, black, bruised by Loneliness; a fisherman’s wife, that’s the life”. I weep still: He fell funeral fathoms Deep into restless sleep and the watery murk Where the jellyfish lurk. Into the churning, turning foam that broke his brittle Body and severed his proud Spine. In spectral twilight – moonless night – When storm-echoes creak, In darkest light, I hear his sunken voice; bleak, bleak cries That rise like the last bubbles of Breath. Death. He too wept in the wild, Wet, wicked waves. He called out at the end, I am sure, For his wife, His life. Then blue-green tears eddied, rippling ‘round His now bulging, foetid lenses. Sick orbs Like milky fisheyes Seeming to gasp and grasp At that last shuddering, stuttering Suck of air. He lies rotten at the bottom. He drowned, my brawny sailor, Down, down, down. He plunged like a diver Sinking to the pit Where only the Kraken go, Deep below. And left me here, standing at the pier. Fearful. Alone.
Fergus Johnson
Stephanie Menin
Exile
I abandon my crown Putting it gently down I abandon the kingdom For another to adopt My queen weeps From my eyes too, tears do seep One final embrace Before we part The last few bonded beats Of two broken hearts The white wings beckon I am washed aboard By a tide of tourists, an insensitive horde Through the portal I look In my stomach wrenches guilt’s barbed hook I raise my hand in farewell Where once was heaven, now hell Gatwick Airport and the green folds of Oxfordshire Are familiar enough But now I feel a stranger Once king, now pauper on this sceptred isle.
Oliver Turnbull
Jonatan Smulders Cohen
An Enchantment for Oberon, spoken by Titania “Fireflies, alight your lanterns The Fairies and your Queen Are here. We meet by this magic mere To rid laughter of thee, cruel King Oberon: Phoenix joy, Dragon tears, Blackberry thornsinto the cauldron they go, With sizzling stings Bright green wings And a thousand ash rings. O, Fairies do stir it true, Let the airborne lights guide you. Make it stink, Make it choke, Make it issue spark and smoke. Then, to finish this broth, Squeeze one drop of scorpion oil (For your malice, my Royal Husband!) Careful, my swift attendants! Spill not a drop Upon these yellow sands. And when consumed this potion be, Thou jealous acorn, thou painted bead, Shall burn like fire, shall need obey, Under my charm thou wilt not sway.”
“My dearest Mistress-Queen Titania, So proud, so great, thy servant I shalt be, For all eternity; Through fire, Through wood, Through smoke, I would dance in roundels, I would play and sing The entrails of a sheep, I would eat and drink. For my Titania, Wondrous Titania, My wise Titania. Name thy bidding!” “Serve me, obsequious Oberon! For nothing will be as sweet, As sweet as my Revenge.” Gabriel Gutulan-Bastide
Robin Bonar-Law
Home He sits, alone. The hard chair seizes his frail frame in a cold embrace, As he stares morosely at the disused oven Missing her. Sepia-toned photographs on the discoloured walls which surround him, Grinning faces which mock, Constant witnesses of a man’s slow decline – Left him behind. If he squints, looks beyond the shafts of hazy light Cast from the dusty window, The particles of dust dance around her, A bustling figure preparing Sunday roast. She’s singing. A high voice carried harmoniously above the Clashing of pots and pans, A hymnal melody accompanied by the hiss of steam. Now he can smell her. A faint blend of lavender fused with powdery talc Clings to the air around him. Comforting. Shifting forwards, his brittle bones bash against the hard surface of the chair, He struggles to stretch an arm to stroke her golden hair – Blinks and she’s gone. A cruel apparition of what used to be. He shuts his eyes, Forces back the familiar film of liquid forming. He can hear her calling him now in her soft Devon burr, A calm smile framed by plump cheeks. The corners of his thin lips rise into a weary smile, The delicate head droops and the cup of tea held in Trembling hands is still. Smashes to the tiles below. He is home. Alice Brooksbank 2010 Winner of COBIS International Poetry Competition
Jessica Moens
Familiar Collage
The smell of burnt toast and the sound of laughter The feeling of love and protection A hug which can’t let you go Memories painted on the wall Dancing in the kitchen to the radio Toasting marshmallows in the fire The sound of your dad’s guitar Moments created, treasured and relived The familiar hiding places The shoes which didn’t fit The taste of your mum’s chicken soup Favourite toys now dusty on a shelf The wilted flowers on a windowsill The letter you never wrote The letter you never read The money you saved for a rainy day The voices you loved, echoing… The words you shouldn’t have said The slammed doors and raised tones The chocolate muffins you made again and again The book you couldn’t put down The lonely bark of the dog The blanket soaked in tears Lavender soap and musky perfume Your painting hung proudly on the wall The souvenir from that faraway place The dream you wished had never stopped Family you wished you had never lost Flames that were put out Too late Smoke smothering, embers enveloping, ashes absorbing Warmth tingling up your spine in a flame of thoughts Home- there was no place like it. Abigail Sumption
Michael Di Rienzo
Still.... Life in memory of Jacopo Fanfani
Lying in the lush green grass I think of you. Lying under the harsh sun I remember you. With the soft melodies that fluttered across the field as we waved our last goodbyes or, rather, as I waved to you as you drifted off Still. Peaceful. All in white. Strange, now with the softer rhythms of our gathered breathing Your footsteps seem to glow and your feet stumble and your laughter echoes down the places we once knew. A small boy scampering across the playground with bright curious eyes and a mischievous smile. That was you. When we first met. And how you grew! Another bird skims the blue sky that you've become part of. The same sky you sailed beneath, the same sky we worked beneath. We had our adventures. We climbed infinite cliff faces and braved the icy waters of the rapids together. You braved the night Alone. Funny, to think we all lie here listening to your faint whisper that will never leave our ears. Your bright green eyes watch over the boys beside me. Forever young you will be and forever smiling. Funny, the scraps of photos you left with us we hold sacred and have your signature smile stamped on each one. And as we drift into a blissful silence A memory of you sparks And an intrusive grin creeps onto my face, Our faces, staring into the infinite blue sky.
Anna de Lemos
Portrait of Jacopo by Cecilia Caporlingua
Voyage Voyage has always been at the centre of great literary works: it is movement towards seeking a goal, it’s letting go and continuous experimentation.Therefore let go of your hold, leave the safety of the harbour behind, take hold of the winds with your sails. Explore, dream, discover new horizons. Mark Twain There is no feeling in the world, like that of sleeping under the stars for the first time. Looking up at the endless blue -black universe smudged with stars and mist, you feel a sense of belonging. Of intoxicating infinity – like the head rush of falling i n love, and the tragedy of falling out of it; all rolled hastily into that one velvet night. *** The smell of salt sticks to my teeth, to my skin, is thirstily soaked by the stray strand of hair which has escaped the hood of my fluorescent green sleeping bag. Salt. Night. Salt. The hot scent, to be savoured on the tip of the tongue, of this Sicilian summer’s night; fine as the sand which grinds and crunches under my wakefulness, each toss and turn becoming a pastel shiver down my spine. I close my eyes; a futile attempt at resting, at regaining some of that precious energy. It seemed to evaporate, today, with as much ease as the heat rising in the brightness of the open sea. A memory, a faint echo of white and blue and turquoise shimmers on the inside of m y eyelid – It taunts me, tempts me. For a while, I almost believe I’m halfway dreaming and the rhythmic lapping of the sea (the tide rising dangerously close to our sleeping bags) is almost hypnotic in the blue-black night. An hour or a minute passes – time is flexible in this darkness. All is still except for the crickets and the tide, each singing its summer lullaby to the crescent moon; beating its own time, whistling its own tune. Hardly in harmony - somewhat like us, a haphazard group of improvised sai lors. Yet there is a musicality in these late night concertos, a hidden prettiness which I am only now learning to appreciate. Sailing will do that to you. You learn to listen; listen! To the ropes and the deck and the sails – creaking, groaning, moaning from their impromptu mooring in the rising tide. I wriggle myself up, the rustle of my sleeping bag on the sand only a whisper in the enormous night. Sitting feels unreal – it is too mundane to fit into this intoxicating dar kness. Too bland to contain all these sensations. And yet here I am, sitting on a thin slither of beach with the waves inching closer to us each time they race along the shoreline. There is a moment, when the wave has stretched to its furthest point on land, where the water is at its thi nnest and each pebble and grain of sand which lies beneath it is amplified. In the moonlight, this gives the beach a lilac shade which dances on my face like a disco light, like a streak of a crazy Van Gogh carelessly strewn on this narrow stretch of sand. A raindrop plummets onto my skin, slowly tracing the lines of my eyelash, my cheekbone, as if trying to pass unnoticed and to blend with the black sea. It leaves a chilly trail behind, its echo pulsing through the silence. A distant clap of thunder, like an afterthought, announces the cascade which envelops us in a moment. Sleepers awake and snorers sputter as the thousand raindrops blur fantastic dreams of crystalline seas to the murky no -colour of dirty paint water. Half dreaming, half laughing, half f rantic, we stumble to the little wooden shack under the olive tree – nine shadows cocooned in dripping, fluorescent tints. Then dawn... and the salt, and the tide. Marianna Vincenti
Indrie Cesareo