Université de Lausanne
Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun here where I belong
I revel in the tranquillity of this special place and wonder
If I should pierce the glimmering surface headlong.
I wish this serenity were broken this summer
By the chance to glimpse the wondrous moose;
I crave the chance to see that majestic wanderer.
But this thought leads me astray and I abuse
The pleasures given to me by this birdsong
And the breathing forest the season has set loose.
-I.L.
The intense heat troubles the horizon,
On the left, bulls race toward the water supply
Trampling everything on their rush.
On the right, a breathless shepherd wanders
With his faithful sheepdog and his emblematic beret.
Farmers relentlessly harvest cork
Braving the furnace of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, villagers try to hide under the sparse shades
During the zenith’s hours.
Though, at the end of the dusty road, drawn
Between an ocean of olive trees
Stands a modest village
Of pure limed white walls and ochre roofs.
I stop in front of a wooden door,
An elderly woman sobs on hearing the engine noise
Yet enfolds me vigorously in her tender arms…
-V.B.
The rain keeps on falling and the river keeps on rising,
I can’t tell if it’s the women in the church singing,
Or the echo of this river ringing.
The corrugated steel roof makes the rain sound like the endless clip of an AK-47,
Sometimes it really is tumultuous gunfire and others just God’s desire.
The river is climbing, I swear it’s beneath me,
But it slowly fades away, the heavens on its knees.
And after this cacophonous flood, I’m sure now it’s the faithful that are singing,
Sunrise hymns in tune with the roosters and xolotas.
Even amidst these off-key voices, I hear one that rhymes true and never leaves me blue.
As the water lessens and the puddles remain,
The green of the jungle reminds me I’m sane.
After a silence comes the pat, pat, pat of each morning,
Corn ground pure by mortar and pestle,
The daily routine with which she must wrestle.
Pat, pat, pat, pat and one more tortilla,
Abuelita Esmeralda and an ave maría
-C.H.
Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.
I waited until the beginning of the evening
when the sun gently began to set.
I took a ball and went to pick the blackberries.
I enjoyed it despite the thorns’ bruises I knew I would get.
The bees where buzzing around.
I started picking up the blackberries.
There were so many. Some really dark and ripe
and others going from a light pink to a vibrant red.
I knew I would come back in a couple of days.
It was really quite. There were just the mountains,
on which the sun was setting, surrounding me.
The same old ones. They have always been by my side.
Picking the blackberries I was thinking
of the jam and pies I would bake
still facing the mountains from the kitchen’s window.
-E.R.
The drops of water fall from the sky,
Making darker the light and soaking what was dry.
The birds rush their quest for a shelter
As I’m sitting in a warm classroom ignoring the teacher.
The glitter of the Leman imprisons my mind,
And all elements mix in a way to me very kind.
The wind baffles my sight as it starts to blow.
Something’s still flying: is it a mew, or a crow?
A vessel crosses the white aisle on the perturbed surface
And I realize how far I went from this artificial place.
As I try to focus on the words wandering in the room,
My brain starts filling with gloom.
Has the weather changed?
The birds are now singing,
They are happy and swinging;
The light that lightens outside
Like a magnet, catches my eye.
Around me the walls disappear,
I was thoughtful, but now I cheer.
I am flying with the birds,
And the inexistence of words.
An allergy turns me into a cry,
My mind is in great confusion:
Is the blue of the sky
Only a mere illusion?
-A.L.
How many springs
Can one year yield?
Across changes of time
Central Europe, Greenwich mean and BST.
Snowy flower-trees
And sweeping winds
Carry me further
Than I’ve been so far.
These recent weeks, the setting sun
– from rocks to waves,
From shore to shore
Elevates the mind.
Not far from home,
There is a spot, offering views
Over the oldest tree,
Which slowly blooms.
And every day,
From early spring
My task is to watch
For subtle changes.
A single petal, a tuft of leaves.
Beware, the first stirrings of Spring
You may find they free you
From winter echoes…
“To keep me from the lake
Is cruel torture.
To see it glisten from afar,
Watch its waves beckon,
Waver in the weak winter sun,
Is it necessary?”
And so I ask, and venture out to see
How many springs
Can one year yield?
– L.M
I remember sitting on the swing
just outside the house, hearing the birds sing.
I can still feel the sunlight, warm on my face,
my heart was slowly beating in its steady pace.
The swing moved but I was resting as if in a freeze,
only my blonde curls were restless in the breeze.
I stayed there for what seemed hours,
thinking of princesses, animals and flowers.
I could be lost in a world of imaginary creatures
and sometimes I would later tell a story to my teachers.
Swinging back and forth on the swing
made me feel happy and I wanted to sing.
There were days on which I would actually dare
but seeing me sing there was rather rare.
All quiet and peaceful, I was brimming over with mirth:
honestly, the swing outside was my favourite spot on earth.
-A.K.
Two-Lakes Romanticism 