Latin: /'vɒks pɒpjʉliː/ VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

It's Winter and we're Migrating

Exciting web developments are allowing us to migrate to an independent page of the school website within the month.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

What A Woman Needs by S Linkov

Diamonds are forever
They cut her and they burn,
Singe unwanted wishes,
Spear what dares to yearn.

A necklace is a noose
She fits around her sin
So that when it tightens
It will not spoil her skin.

Dresses twist her figure
Into something more
A goddess or a sinner
Whichever they ask for.

A handbag is a darkness
A darkness she can tame,
So that when they purge her
She may keep the blame.

Shoes train her to stand
When she wants to fall
Blisters keep her ready
To stand against them all.

Make-up covers bruises
Mascara catches tears
Varnish soothes bitten nails
And love, it kills the years.

Love by A Hess

The way they look
Deeply into the others' eyes
The smile they give
That lights up the sky

The gentle summer breeze
By a picnic on a river
How the guy gives her his jacket
When she starts to shiver

The way the stars
Light up the night
The way her hair
Reflects the light

The way the birds
Come out and sing
How it's all so perfect

Then the first kiss
So soft so quick
All the joys of love
It makes me sick!

Dead Girl To Dying Girl by S Linkov

Still your voice in asking where I speak from
What skies are here, is not for you to know.
What depths below, and what the kingdom
That bids me lay this rose upon your woe?

Your fallen tresses' gentleness of rose-gold
The ash a mourner scattered on your shroud.
These ivory lips, jewel-houses weeping sold
Unto Her, Whose scythe shines darkly proud.

And even in your cradle, you were weeping
A woman's passion bound with baby's cry.
Father's hoary head, and Mother sleeping,
A candle to kill moths, and a Bible to deny.

And Youth had not a garland to beguile you,
And the clouds had not a single drop of rain.
Your tears fell, and mistaking them for dew
You sprouted, blossomed in the soil of pain.

You sang where every voice was screaming,
You danced, obscured by cruel electric light.
You may forget how you fell into dreaming
Still you rose, and in your heart the fight...

And on this whitest altar you fell daunted
The worm he smiled, and laid disease's pall
On the heart unloved and shadow-haunted,
Your feathers fell, and Winter smothered all.

So take this hand and wander into stillness
For there, we know, the great is not in vain.
There we wait to wash your wings of illness,
For She has come to reap Her tainted grain.

A Love Song by S Linkov

Follow me tonight.
Let us flow through backwater streets,
Where lampposts spill puddles of light,
Where the longing heart silently beats,
Let us find an empty cafe,
Order a corner table.
Let us shelter ourselves there, till day
Leads our woes back to their stable.
Let the lurid signs burn away,
Let the voices throng through the cable
Of the two-penny telephone.

We have, in our time alone

Rehearsed our birthdates and names,
Learnt to wear our faces in frames,
Trained our hellos and goodbyes,
Dug graves for the world in our eyes,
Cast locks and keyes for our tongues,
Cut them safes in between our lungs,
Sewn bullet-proof vests for our hearts,
Poisoned the tips of love-darts...

We no longer pose a danger to society!
Come evening, dear, they're setting us free!

Yet we rise with so little time!
Our lives are nothing but dust.
Dust that loved, that paid a dime
To clean old shackles of rust.
When we are gone
Still the lampposts will bleed
Light where the day is done,
Still the seas will recede
Then bring in our sorrows again.
This city will always exist,
Morning and night will remain.
Was there something we missed?
Is there anything left to achieve?
Who have we killed, and kissed?
Are there any lies left to believe?

Will I fall as a queen or a slave?
Answer me in dew on my grave.

But life is not over yet!
We have time to love and to hate.
Time to remember, time to forget.
Time to pray and time to wait.
Time to watch time fly.
Time to live, and time to die.

Time to fight like dogs over our daily bread.

There are places where we do not dare to tread
Around the edges of a bright new world we toil
Fear-maddened animals, forever ready to recoil.

Duckling by S Nakada

He never knew why,
'cause others saw.
But why should he know
when it didn't do difference?

But as time ticked and flew-crawled by; he
uncovered the core of
acapella life.
With waves of emanating-dislike
-for himself- society and himself-enormous-
he buried himself alive.
No more to be.

Now he drags and lurching-crawls,
longing-long love, longing-long life,
realising abrupt time.
Now he knows better than
listen himself-society talk,
when himself-miniscule knew truth.
Beauty is inside.

His Walk by S Nakada

The white lillies yield to the wind and hang their heads, acknowledging the passing of a hero. They seem to want to scatter as strong gusts overwhelm the wreath, and as it finally takes off only to land some footfalls away, the sweet scent envelopes me. Farewell, my senses hear. Joy be unto you. I begin to hear the first chords of a forgotten melody, the lyrics beckoning me to a life not unknown.

My father once told me to think of life as a bridge that we all must cross, that even if the crossing is painful and long, the banks of the river on the far side gets closer with each step. He told me to look back once in a whiile, to see the progress I have made. I remember that night as we sat on the roof and he told me never to forget my past and the roots from which I came. I listened quietly until he made me promise.

"Do you understand, Margarid? Our people have been persecuted since the dawn of Christianity because we were the first to accept what others would not. Your grandparents were murdered for belonging to the motherland. Promise me, promise me you'll never forget who you are." He sang me a song afterwards. He was an excelled singer, his tongue expertly rolling the words in his mouth, taking me to that strange land in the East. I have not set foot on my father's beloved country to this day, yet I feel as if I belong to its intricate story.

He was one of the lucky ones. I think it was partly his stubbornness that kept him alive. After all, he was only a teenager who wanted to see the world and live. He wanted to be a musician and travel the globe with his friend. He wanted to know what being rich felt like, wanted the experience of spending money on useless objects just because he could. He wanted to see tigers in India and the bull fights in Spain. He wanted to learn to swim. But I think it was mostly the will to see his father again that kept him walking. The possibility of seeing those wise eyes woke him each morning and allowed his legs to move forwards, although it seemed to him as though he was floating above the sand rather than dragging his feet. By the time he reached Aleppo his mother's body had long been left behind, as so many others' had. His sister Anahit - to whom, according to my father, I am identical - died three weeks after their arrival. And afterwards, when he did not find his father's name on the list of survivors of those who were deported to Turkey, he was forced to learn the fact that his life had been changed drastically and that nothing would ever be the same. He grew harsh and cold living with his aunt during his last years in Armenia.

He stepped on a boat on a cold, foggy morning of 1920 after a breakfast of porridge and stale bread. He and his cousin Hagop both kissed his aunt goodbye and left Armenia behind without a backward glance.

I watch as one of the lillies frees itself from the tangle of leaves and stems. As I bend to pick it up, somebody gently rests their hand on my back. It is my mother, a pale woman by nature, but all the more paler today. Not a single teardrop has escaped her eyes, she shed all of hers a week ago. She is responsible for breaking my father's cemented shell, for teaching him to be what he forgot to be. I stand here now, facing her, and see her pain-filled eyes, but also a sense of serenity and acceptance. I give her the lily and she holds it with both hands.

I look back before closing the gate behind me. I see the shiny granite, smooth and cold. In my mind I read its inscription: Aram Dorian 1900-1978 Loving husband and father. And underneath in tiny letters, Enjoy the walk. Standing beside his words, I glimpse my father waiting for me on the other side of the bridge.

Driving by H Searle

"Welcome to the session, Bob." He said warmly. This was followed by the stereotypical chorus of "Hi Bob..."
"Would you care to tell us why you're here?"

I looked down at my very clean hands. I looked up and said, very slowly, "I have aichurophobia, ankylophobia, amaxophobia, belonephobia and dysteychiphobia."

The room silenced completely. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes. I squirmed in my chair. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes again. I prepared to leave. Someone said, "Is that all?"

I felt a smile of embarassed relief overwhelm my facial muscles and spread across my face.

He looked up at me kindly and said, "Now group, as usual, Bob is going to share his problems with us in more detail. He will also try to pinpoint the cause of the problems." He looked at me expectantly.

"Well..." I said, clearing my throat, "it all started when I got into a thing with wheels, steering wheel, break..."

"A car." He said. I winced.

"Yes. That. You know I heard a funny thing the other day to do with phobias."

"Great but we are really trying to-"

"It went like this: 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
'You mean heights.'
'I know what I mean! It's the ground that kills you!'"

"That was really funny, but you were saying..."

There is just no side-tracking some people.

"I got into a...car... And I drove. And as I drove, I became aware of a number of things. People don't realise it but driving is dangerous and complicated. We often get told, 'Oh, you know an aeroplane is safer than a car?' and our subconscious reply is, 'Yes I do, but my death trap has a stereo and private air conditioning'. Sure some people struggle with moving the flappy things by your legs, but there's more to it. What we are essentially doing when we drive is taking a metal cage of doom on wheels and driving it along a piece of asphalt. All, and I mean all, that sits between us and the next metal cage of doom on wheels is a little line. Not a wall, or a glass barrier but a little painted white line and the hope that the guy coming towards us at 80 kilometeres per house in a machine weighing over 400 kilograms will stay on his side. It's like fighting kids... 'This is your side, this is my side. So long as you stay on your side, we won't have any problems.' And I guess that's where most of my phobias come from. It asll started, I think, with dystychiphobia, the fear of accidents."

"I have that," said a brown-jacketed man to my left.

"Isn't it annoying?" I asked him.

"Yes, I guess," he replied, "but it's kept me alive up until this point. I mean, is it really irrational to be afraid of accidents?"

The doctor finally spoke up. "To the point where it inhibits your quality of life, yes. It is, however, good to be wary of accidents on the road and to do all one can to avoid them."

"Anyway," I said without a trace of annoyance, "that obviously lead to aicurophobia, the fear of being touched by pointed objects. If I'm in a... thing on wheels... and am in an accident, I will be touched by sharp objects, like glass or broken metal and probably die."

"I think that's a little extreme," a woman on my right said. "Many people drive daily without accidents. And impaling is not all that common in accidents due to the way the cars are designed. Crushing should be your main concern, as when a car collides with-"

"Okay I think that's quite enough Percilla."

"Yes doctor."

I continued, "Then if you're in an accident, you can't move. So that's where I got my ankylophobia from. What if I'm trapped and I can't move a joint? It'll be like not having an arm! It'll be so terrible, it'll-"

"Calm down, Bob, you're in a safe place." The doctor soothed.

"Alright. I'm fine." I said panting. "And obviously with that come belonephobia. I can't stand pins and needles, it-"

"Let's not go there today, shall we?"

"Okay. And I guess all of this adds up to my amaxophobia." I finished levelly.

"So you're afraid of automobiles because of all the other things you're afraid of. Not uncommon. Group, where do we usually start?" the doctor asked.

As one voice they answered, "What do you do as a profession?"

"Well?" he asked me, one word and a raise of eyebrow doing the job of a whole sentence.

"I'm a learner driver."

Dreamers of Tomorrow by A Hess

My head is spinning
My breath comes fast
Images are blurred
Future, present and past

A flash of light
The movement slows
What wonders what
This scene will hold

I see an ocean
Of dark red blood
A field of corpses
Left in the mud.

All these horrors
This pain and sorrow
Is this what's left
For the dreamers of tomorrow?

Crime and Punishment by H Searle

A person with an unpleasantly heavy black bag walked through the open door. The things the bag contained and who they were meant for, they would find out later.

In the passageway before the open door stood a confused man. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he said, a tear, like a silent raindrop, rolling down his cheek.
"It does." The man replied plainly, his drawn face set with resolution to do the deed. "A price needs to be paid. A crime cannot go unpunished."
"By why you?" the man pleaded, "You have never done anything wrong! Only good has come from your life!"
"I know the prisoner," the man replied, looking into his eyes. "I know what he has the potential to become if the price were paid."
He was silent.
"It is time," the man said, "for mercy."

The man in black fell on his knees and blocked it all out, covering his eyes.

He heard a gunshot.

Price paid, the prisoner stepped through the massive archway, in front of the man on his knees. Putting his knees into the damp dust in front of him, the prinsoner whispered, "Why me?"

I Wonder Why PART ONE by S Tinelli

I wonder why? I thought as I was running, but then my thoughts were pushed to the side as another bomb hit and I was thrown down by the force of the explosion. I lifted my body up as if I was a masterless puppet and pushed on. I am running from the German officers, my name is Katiana, it is October 5th 1939 and the war has just begun....

As I ran down Von Aldrecht Street, I thought of the day our house was bombed, I thought of Caris, Alexander and Silvia my two brothers and younger sister. My mind also happened to bring up my parents and grandmother. when the house was bombed I was downstairs, outside, and they were all insidetrying to escape, knowing that they might die any second. And at that moment it hit. The house crumbled and I lay under what was once my home, unconscious and unaware that my whole family had just been killed and were buried under our memories. And I am left alone.

I cleared my mind and tried to think of a place to hide that the Germans weren't already guarding. I saw two of the officers and I knew that they saw me, although I wished to heavens above that they hadn't. I tried to hide around the next bend but as I looked up to clear my surroundings they were there. I felt alone, out of place, I felt Jewish.

As I was carried away I tried desperately to fight my way loose but they were too strong for my weak body, I felt them put something or other on my ankle but before I could see it I was unconscious.

We were summoned outside by the loud, heavy voices of the German generals. We stood in a crows but it was not long until we were forced into a line. I drifted off, looking at a beautiful line of trees just at the end of the camp. And then I broke the silence in my head and carried on listening. they said to lift up our left sleeves. I was not looking forward to this, I already knew what they were going to do to us, but I wished I didn't know. As I looked at the other girls I noticed one, surprisingly gentle looking German officer, who was watching me. It was a relief to me, to see gentle but scared eyes and I could immediately see that he didn't have a choice in being there either.

The general took the branding iron out of the heated chamber and muttered something under his breath, in German, just so that the other officers could hear and we all watched as they laughed dangerously at what the general had said, only he didn't laugh. His name badge said his name was Heinz. I don't know why but every time I lay my eyes on him I felt a rush of adrenalin and reassurance.

I watched as the general walked down the row of girls, branding them. I knew that he knew that he was hurting them but in his eyes you could se that he didn't care who got hurt, just that they did. I couldn't image their pain and what made it worse was that my turn was still coming. As he pushed the iron into my skin I could feel the reaction of heat melting skin under the red hot sizzling surface. He lifted it off my skin but the pain lasted long after he had removed it.