Bilingues et Artistes by Louis Denizet

Bilingues & Artistes

“We must accept finite disappointment, but we must never lose infinite hope”. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Issue N°3 February 2010 1

Bilingues et Artistes team:

Editor in chief Louis Denizet 1°L Writers Alison Cohen TerIB Daniel Valls TerIB Quentin Dauchy TerS Rachel Forster 1°L Louis Denizet 1°L Nathan Woolf 2° Just Ask Photographers Clément Tataru TerIB Charlotte Kagan TerIB Sophie Durousseau 1°ES Victoria Bellami 1°L Thomas Sittler 4° Publication Director Mrs.Elliot LeClainche

Cover and back pages: photos by Clément Tataru, TerIB Clément Tataru, TerIB.

A Liar’s Ballet Ready now girls? Quick, step onto la scène! Sorrow and Despair, stay at the back with Pain While Joy, Smile and Laughter are up front, Don’t forget to hide the tears in your dresses And whatever you do, follow the lead of our little Liar. Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Did you see that spin girls? Nicely done, Smile. And Joy, what a lovely joke, very convincing. Dear me, here comes the question: “How are you?” Time to step in, Liar. “I’m great, you?” Oh, watch how she bows and twirls! Did you ever see such talent? A future star, I do believe. She’s made for the stage that one, So pretty and smiling, her eyes warm like a sun, With magic that blinds them better than any actor. Yes, it’s all just an act kids! Who would think That the grey girls at the back are the true dancers? That faded colours and tear-streaked faces are the leaders Of those sparkling butterflies, when their eyes are black with ink? Then there is Liar, only she stands apart from the rest, Director to this senseless, gaudy production of light And laughter, illusion and disguise, every move a test To her audience’s wonder as she waits for blessed night. Ah, the spectators leave now, the light dims; Like clockwork the dolls stop their graceful limbs. The show is over, the place empty, And so are we. Rachel Forster, 1°L

Clément Tataru, TerIB 3

The Powers that Be I know not, who the Powers that Be are. Are they Justice? Are they God? Are they Fate? All I can feel is their anger, their hate As their nails tear into my bleeding scar. Truly, if the Powers that Be are God, Then where are His peace, charity and love? Why does he bring war, hate and greed? This God Is not the one our holy books speak of. And if the Powers that Be are Justice, Then She is a blind, mumbling old crone. With her heavy Weighing Scales, deaf Themis Slays innocents, never hearing them groan. If Fate alone makes the Powers that Be, I must ask of her why that one child born Tonight must for his whole life suffer scorn, While that other will always be lucky? No, I know not, who the Powers that Be are, Can only guess at reasons for their games, And hope Death is kinder to those they mar. Such Powers are vile, whatever the names. I also know that the Powers that Be Have numerous servants, whom we call men; And what I know of them is their cruelty, Their despair and their fear, so hear me then: I say to you, leave them now, run away Forever flee their soulless eyes of grey And block out the ceaseless, screeching demands. Steal your freedom; lift your life from their hands. Rachel Forster, 1Â°L

ClĂŠment Tataru, TerIB

The Game He loved her. He was sure of it. She was the only star in his sky, the only dream in his sleep, the only person engraved in his heart. He had realized he loved her the day she came out of the bathroom tears in her eyes after having played the violin. He knew why she hurt herself: she thought she wasn’t good enough. But she was more than good enough for him. He loved her with black under her eyes and pink around her lips. He dreamed of kissing her damaged arm and whispering he loved her in her ear. But they were friends, they were best friend. He had become the president of her friend-land while she was his queen of hearts. But she didn’t love him back. He was sure of it. She was always looking for more. What she didn’t know is that the more she looked the more pain she felt. If only she could see him she would stop. He could help her. The problem was that she couldn’t believe she could be loved. Watching herself in the mirror was devastating. When she finally found out he loved her she couldn’t understand why, but she liked it. She liked the feeling of being wanted by someone but had hoped it would be anyone but him, anyone but the one who was a brother to her. So she played with him: hinting that she might be interested but retrieving as soon as she felt that he would act on it. She didn’t mean to hurt him but found it pleasurable to control his feelings when she couldn’t control hers. But now she loved him and he didn’t love her back. She was sure of it. He had been the only one to understand her insanity, her mood swings and her pain. He loved her after she came out of the bathroom with tears crawling down her cheeks, her make up fighting to stay in place and her hand gently hiding the war. He had truly loved her. He had understood her. Even during the darkest hour. She knew that now, but it was too late. It had become too painful for him to see her, reminding him of the game. He had left her alone in her darkness because he couldn’t take it. She understood him but hated him for it. He was the only person she would stop writing music for. He loved her best friend. She was sure of it. He acted with her the way he had acted with her years before. He laughed at all her silly jokes, even the ones that weren’t jokes. He walked with her everywhere. He acted silly and talked to her about every detail in his life. But she also played with him touching his hand while they were walking in the streets and then within minutes talk to him about her latest crush. He had realized he was addicted to the game after he had stopped loving the music player. He constantly looked back on all the wasted years trying to make someone love him, someone that couldn’t even love herself. All he wanted was for someone, normal, to love him. But he was stuck in the game. He was sure of it. Alison Cohen TerIB

Photos by Sophie Durousseau, 1째ES

Alea Jacta Est The Rubicon – in all its might Stands before us. See the power It still gives me a fright, But this is my hour And we shall save Rome from the blight! Who is afraid of a shower? Onwards – to honour and glory Let slip the dogs of war and cry “fury” Feel the temptation take hold Soon it shall be ours to keep All those laden coffers of gold The prizes are ours to reap And the purple togas will be unrolled On my coffer no eyes shall peep! We now have nothing to fear For the almighty gods are here But wait, we have to cross this mighty river With all our equipment and weapons And Rome from those barbarians deliver But with our aid from the heavens We have no need to shiver For we will be teaching them lessons The imminent battle will be won And Rome will be united under One! We have now crossed the mighty river And the bloodlust arises Passed the ever-shifting barrier For I am the wisest I shall be the eternal victor Whilst they are content with their prizes The die are thrown Now onwards - to Rome Daniel Valls TerIB Thomas Sittler, 4°

Photos by Victoria Bellami, 1째L

Tayill – Death

The morning started out to be almost perfect. Tayill, more commonly known as Tay, woke up earlier than usual, just in time to see the sunrise. The view from the top bunk of his bed in the orphanage home was limited, but incredible nonetheless. The golden rays of sunshine entered the dormitory like a new hope for the day, giving the other sleeping boys an aura of serenity and peace. However, Tay couldn’t stay to enjoy the view, because he had had an appointment with Old Jess. The village elders seemed to like the young boy a lot. It could have been because of the energy he seemed to radiate, or the fact that he would gladly run errands or help others without asking anything in return. Each morning, for example, Tay would visit one of the elders. He would usually help them get out of bed, then prepare the breakfast. Sometimes he would stay a bit longer to run errands for them. This morning, however, Tay had arrived a bit too late. Old Jess had already gotten out of bed. Fortunately, Tay was still early enough to prepare his favorite breakfast, which was comprised of chunks of bread dipped in goat milk, with a bit of honey added. While they were eating, Old Jess told Tay about the other cities outside of Kershin, especially about other little boys, with parents, who would eat strange hard plants called ‘cereals’ during their morning meals. This confused Tay, because everybody knew cereals were what you fed to the goats and sometimes to the pig. Later, after having cleaned up the place, Tay had gone to the village library, and finally finished the book he had been reading. There were a lot of dragons in it, which fascinated the young boy. When he was older, he was going to become a dragon slayer! He had even said so to Miss Eryll, but she had just ruffled his hair and told him elevenyear old boys weren’t supposed to worry about such things. After that, he took his time while going to Henry's house to help in the barn, taking detours in the village. He remembered vaguely greeting some of the other elders taking a walk, and even managed to avoid Aaron and his gang twice. They were the kids ‘in charge’ of the orphanage, because there weren’t enough adults to look after it. The village wasn’t really a big one, and everybody had to pitch in for harvesting and repairs. Money wasn’t an issue, because travelers hardly came to Kershin at all, and everybody was quite content to help out. That is, except for Aaron. His father had been the one to think of opening an orphanage, which he ended up building himself, so abandoned infants would have a place to grow up in. The orphanage in itself wasn’t very glorious. Its sole purpose was to raise more hands for the field, or to sustain the village in some way. Nobody questioned this life of hard work, because that was the way it had always been. Nobody, except Aaron. He had found the best way to get his work done: make others do it instead. It had all started when Tay was six years old: Aaron’s father had died, ironically leaving his son in the last place he had built. Aaron had soon found out the way of shirking from his work, but he needed a way to ‘persuade’ others to do it, so he formed a group with some of the other kids in the orphanage. Soon, he had become a master over the other, smaller kids. Unfortunately, he had immediately taken a dislike to Tayill, maybe because of the fact that the younger kid had come from a stranger, or maybe because of Tay’s blue hair. TO BE CONTINUED Nathan Woolf 2°

Silent Cry It happened a few days ago, when I was coming back form work. I opened the front door’s upper lock and turned the knob in a swift movement. I accidentally had dropped my keys. Casually, I bent down to pick them up, quietly swearing to myself, thinking about how clumsy I could be and how some rest would do me much good. That’s when I got a glimpse of the puny crimson dot on my usually perfectly polished parquet. I slightly tilted my head up and finally perceived the long trail of intense red spots, slowly drying and staining my floorboard. The track led to the kitchen. As I approached, feeling my heart pounding unusually fast and my hands getting moister, I thought I heard a metallic sound. I crept towards the revolving door, trying to be as discrete as possible. As I arrived to my destination, I flanked myself against the nearest wall and sat down to think. I didn’t have much time. Should I call the police or confront the intruder myself? Who could get inside of my flat, without my keys, but still being able to close the door from the inside? I checked the three windows I could see from where I was and noted that their clamps were closed. Exasperated by my questions, feeling a spur of adrenaline as well as a sudden surge of heat encircling me, I grabbed a heavy bronze statue on a counter near me, and leaped into the kitchen. Yet, it was empty. Not a peep could be heard, not a shadow could be seen. Every object was in its place. I searched for a metallic object which could have produced the noise. The casseroles and pans were all in their habitual drawer. Abruptly, my entire body stiffened. I couldn’t feel any members of my body anymore. A freezing cold gush of wind was swishing near me. I immediately turned around to face whatever could be behind me. Once again, no one was to be seen, but the miniature fan on the dining table was turned on. I strode out of the kitchen in a fast, but quiet movement. There she was: a young teenage girl, who must have been about fourteen, was sitting on the sofa. One hand was placed on her bleeding nose, her hair was humid from the rain outside and a few diamonds could be seen in the centre of her eyes as they shone in the moonlight. Instantly, all my fears disappeared and gave way to a form of pity .What could this innocent girl be doing in my apartment? “I’m sorry I stained your carpet. I also turned on the fan, as it’s really warm here.” Her eyes were full of fear as she spoke the words. “Please, don’t make me leave. I don’t want to go back there…” That’s when I realized that her nose was actually broken. TO BE CONTINUED Louis Denizet 1°L

Clément Tataru TerIB 10

Be my Friend It’s just like you to hurt me when I’m feeling good Come on call me please Come on be my friend Come on walk me home, you Call on clarity It’s just like you to order me when I’m free Come on teach me please Come on set me straight Come on clarity, you Come an’ don’t mess me up, this time. Just Ask

Sophie Durousseau, 1°ES

Oscilloscope No colors anymore I See all white and black The image fools the eye There is no turning back. We watch the time flick by and switch the frequency back Sounds don’t matter anymore, perception’s just a hack Just Ask

Sophie Durousseau, 1°ES

Snapshots Took out her camera to defy gravity To take a snap shot of eternity The sun bright fighting against the flash Make the colours of the sky unique for her Sunday she will go out again To discover life’s true pigmentations It helps her paint her life With the richest tints Everything she places her sight on She interprets differently than me How can what she distinguish be So much brighter than what I see If pretention makes her flush Talent doesn’t hide its true colours If a momentary humour shades her view The clouds will disperse themselves for her The very reinvention of herself Seen through the piercing sparks Of her one of a kind pop art Is a masterpiece of experiences Everything she places her sight on She interprets differently than me How does what she distinguish be So much brighter than what I see Louis Denizet, 1°L

Photos by Charlotte Kagan TerIB

Untitled The countryside. It was a sunny day. The birds chittered, the grass sprouted. She was lying on the grass. Her hands knotted together behind her head. Her eyes were blue, looking at the blue sky. Her blue dress flittered gently in the light breeze. A blue flower was lying in her hair. She rested near a blue stream. A streak of white appeared. Then a white sphere. The sun shone, hidden by the white clouds. The birds sang no more. The grass stopped growing. She was lying there, her hands knotted together on her chest. Her eyes were white, looking to the white clouds. her white dress clapped, blown by the swift wind. A white flower laid on her chest. The riverbed was chalk-white. ~ Quentin Dauchy TerS Hello? Hello, is anyone here? This empty room is supposed to be mine Yet this is not my dwelling I cannot call this vacancy mine to live in This empty space makes me ache The secret it hides sends sundry signals The pounding heat inside it Trashes my sanity away Hello, is anyone here? It is useless to call for a presence Everyone has left They were all rescued And yet I can’t help trying Who knows? Tomorrow the room might be occupied I dislike that thought Hello, is anyone here? I’m frightened and forlorn Why won’t anyone dare break the silence? I depend on your support Shadows now creep up my spine They trap me The front door stays unopened No one tries to open it Hello, is anyone home? ~Louis Denizet, 1°L Photos by Charlotte Kagan TerIB 14

Poem: Louis Denizet, 1°L, Photo: Charlotte Kagan, TerIB

Loss of Innocence Knock knock knock Teenagehood is knocking on your door It’s time for you to enter a new world A world where everything is consequential Where you always feel exposed Hiding places don’t exist anymore Knock knock knock Maturity comes around again Yet you refuse to open the door If you let this passenger in You’ll have to let another one go The house is too small for you to come Knock knock knock Conditions and restraints have come along Yet why do I have to accept them? And why can’t I dream and believe anymore? Like the catcher in the rye The boy you are must change Echo echo echo The footsteps of innocence leaving are ringing It’s too late to run after them This passenger will never come back He died during his voyage We already all miss his sympathy Echo echo echo Your childhood hopes, fears, dreams All marching away solemnly They have fulfilled their mission It’s time for them to go back home Will you make it without them? Echo echo echo A part of your personality left you It’s a hard blow at first Yet you’ll accept your new half Time will help you learn each other A new life begins for you 15

« The Thing That Is Really Amazing, And Really Hard, Is Giving Up On Being Perfect, And Beginning The Work Of Becoming Yourself ». Anna Quindlen

~Thank You~ To all of you who have bought the magazine To all of you who have participated in its creation To Mrs.Elliot Leclainche

~Special Thanks To Alison and juliette~

For all of you who would like to get published in issue N°4, send me an email at bilinguesetartistes@gmail.com

Louis Denizet 16