Student Writing from Orléans, France

Bea Sollins, Extended metaphor poem, 3/24/25

Wonder is the sun breathing over the city. Its rays hits the groggy faces of those barely awake. It fills their eyes and they sip their coffees with awe. Each is content as they wake up to lay their eyes upon the world like the sun lays itself down over the tops of the trees. People turn towards it like flowers – tilting their heads with curiosity – they can’t understand something so grand and so bright.

Isabella Scherbarth, 3/24

There’s a sculpture that is white and shiny. It gleams a light milky color. It’s supposed to represent coral but its appearance also resembles a brain. It’s hanging in the air over the room. It looms, making it’s presence known without overpowering. It’s distant but still noticeable. Almost ghostlike. Each piece of clay looks a bit like monkeys in a barrel. Like people grasping on to each other, grabbing onto limbs to stay together. I think it’s peaceful.

Isabella Scherbarth : An ekphrastic poem on: “Jonas précipité dans la mer” by Adrien Manglard, 3/14/25

In the sea

We are swallowed up

Carried away 

Swaying 

The tides change 

The boat rocks 

And then one of us is gone

Sent to feed the hungry blue 

Running to one side, a glimpse 

Of his splash 

The boat tips in his favor 

Lost in the sea 

We grieve at a watery grave 

Each one of us surely swallowed up by the sea

Oliver Todd, 3/13/25

It is rarely seen, but at some spots in Orléans the first flowers of spring have arrived. On my way to school I bike through The city center and over the river. On the path there are small beds of flowers either in the middle of the street or up on the windowsills. In these beds lie the real early words of spring, Bright with color and growing fast, everyday it seems they grow taller and new buds of color appear. I cherish their look and smell for as long as I can, for I know that nothing lasts forever, especially flowers. Their death is imminent weeks after creation, you learn to accept this and enjoy the time that you have with these flowers with their beauty in every detail. Lucky for me, when I leave France, the flowers will be dying, but when I get home the flowers will just be blooming into Spring flowers to come.

Eli Lapaix, La vieille maison de Louis, 3/18/25

Louis is a young man full of ambition to start a business and become a millionaire. I recount stories of how I want to become a professional soccer player. He explains that he has an idea to get rich, disgustingly rich, before the age of 30 with his friend. He explains to me the business of dropshipping, reselling, all the things that Caleb told me about back in the days of when he used to dream of buying properties around the world, which is no longer a dream as he currently owns 29. So maybe dropshipping could be the strategy. Whatever. But however, moving on from Louis, the house tells a much different story. It smells of well-worked wood, it feels like the ancestors are watching you in it, it comforts you like a caring mother at the end of the day. It is exquisite and shows that Louis is all set for the next few years. His parents are doctors and though time will tell, I think Louis is all set for the future. I don’t know yet. But one thing I do know is that his room is comfy, with one window, two doors (one for the closet, the other for people), a bureau, the whole french bit. It’s just all so beautiful. Boy, what a room he has. It also has Legos, and a whole lot of comic books. It’s like a childhood dream. The room isn’t spacious, but there’s definitely enough space to do some push-ups or something. One thing I noticed though is that French houses are different from every other type of house I have ever seen. It’s very weird. To me they are similar to German, Italian and American houses, and have somehow created the perfect mixture. At least Louis’ house has. When I say Italian I mean that it feels floral, pretty, well rounded, summer-y even in March and still spacious enough (kind of mignon). German as in effective, intelligently constructed and reliable. And lastly, American as in, family friendly feeling, being home-like and existing as a place one must always miss, even through adulthood. I guess I just love French housing.

Aren Bloom, 3/12/25

The hole in the wall tells many stories. An angry fist, a boot, a brick. Who knows. It is not small, yet not large. If you want, or could be a portal, a way to another dimension. Or simply, or could be another room. One can imagine. Almost hidden behind a dresser, I wonder who knows of it. They didn’t mention it. It’s just large enough for my water bottle’s bottom. Anger, maybe, or just an accident. It is unknown what will happen to the hole in the wall. Whether covered, filled, or ignored, I will always remember the gap. Until I get on the plane, at least.

Noah Este-McDonald,  An ekphrastic poem on: La Petite Danseuse, 3/14/25

her dress was as pink as her cheeks

the day was as hot as ever

she went into the garden

and picked a bouquet of flowers

the sky was blue

but only for a little while longer

so she danced to her tambourine

all the way home

Jack Schaeffer, Haiku, 3/15/25

Wake, no clothes on me

Put on my strange clothing, yes

Night, disappointed

Hazel Streb, An ekphrastic poem on: L’incendie by Alexandre Antigna, 3/14/25

It’s coming,

The fire that is so bright it burns.

Grabbed the blankets and the children

Lock the door and cover the windows

That people may look through

And see your soul,

Entirely.

There is nothing to do, but hide.

Cast our sins into the sea of regrets

That crashes so loudly behind you.

Julian Carlson-Lier, 13/3/25

The streets here are very nice, nicer than in America. The town/ market we visited yesterday had beautiful cobblestone streets. I like those best, they add so much more visual variety and detail. The stones are uneven and weathered, they tell a story better than pavement ever could. Even the normal roads are nice. Even though they are grey and boring like back home. They are small, leaving everything more space to live and breathe.

Bea Sollins, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Orléans, 14/3/2025

I’ve  always liked the kind of art that makes you feel small. Pictures of the ocean and the sky; paintings of things that are incomprehensibly big have always caught my eye. Art like this can change our perspective, put us in our place, and feel completely otherworldly, all at once. It’s as if we’re viewing the scenes through eyes that aren’t even human. Sitting on the floor, looking up at a painting of this group of people at the bottom of a canyon, with rocks perfectly formed into sleek right angles and menacing points, I feel like the artist wants us to feel the same fear as their subjects; below the immense stones and the never-ending sky. 

Leo Goodman, March 13, 2025

The ticking goes on and on. It is relentless. The alarm clock beside my bed refuses to stop its incessant noises. I press my ear against my pillow yet I seem to hear it more. It is a fast beat, with a slightly lowder tick every 5 or so. I can’t get it out of my head as I pray for sleep. As soon as I begin to doze off it becomes even louder. The wire goes down behind the nightstand; I cannot follow it to its source. This small blue clock, yet such a large nuisance. How can anyone sleep with such a thing?

Abigail Peabody, Journal Entry 1-  March 12, 2025

When we landed I was so nervous I had a stomach ache. We wentWe had went to see the Chambord castle which was big and beautiful. The guys were being really weird as always but it was funny. When we got to the school it was nerve-wracking racking at first until we realized we were at the wrong place. When we got to the right one it was chill though. That first night I felt sick to my stomach and had a hard time eating, but now it’sits better. Waking up from my twelve hour sleep was good but I was still tired. We had to run to catch the tram. Walking around Orléans was quite fun in the afternoon. The end.

Katherine Steinmetz: An ekphrastic poem on: Henri Cuge’s Les Hommes rouges and Bernard Rancillac’s 5h35 un jour de plus, March 17, 2025

Forked on my belly 

Is your writhing eyes,

My tithing times,

Her dying cries.

Reach up and you’ll kick around

You’ll see the sound,

You’ll touch the ground.

Slower, girl,

I see the rain,

I see the haste,

I see the way you drink the pain.

Babydoll,

On my face,

In your vein,

Intoxicated by the shame.

You’ve lucked me out,

Like sour cow,

We crumple down. 

Like we were nothing.

Jack Fedorowich, 3/13/25

G.K. Chesterton’s last words: “The issue is now clear.  It is between light and darkness, and everyone must choose his side.”

Although a veiled fog remains, it feels that a temporary darkness has been lifted, and now the path ahead finally clears. Communication with my wonderful correspondent and his family has cleared significantly.  Although just beginning, it feels like the time of year is almost double in speed.  Each day marks a new adventure, and each adventure brings infinitely more stimuli, new people, new places, and new memories, ones of which I’m sure will be looked upon fondly. It remains a confusing time but it is certainly one both self-discovery and exploration.  Although having just started, I feel as if we are inching closer and closer and closer and closer to the end.

Harrison Tinger, 3/12, 25

In the morning, I got up at 6:15 and ate this French brioche bread for breakfast. My correspondent’s dad toasted a piece for me and gave me a plain piece as well. I put strawberry jelly on one, and apricot jelly on the other.  I liked the non-toasted one a lot, so the next day I just had that.  We took the tram to school and we had to switch trams once to get to where we were going We took Tram B to the De Gaulle stop and then Tram B to the stop near school.  The school is a cement building with metal grates for stairs and walkways. It looks a lot like a prison, especially because of the odd window placement.  The was was not that great today, but we went to the cathedral and I got sorbet ice cream and a weird chocolate filled donut.  I also went to a cheese place and found the best cheese in the world, Mimoulette. It is an orange cheese that tastes like extra sharp cheddar.  We then went on to the carousel and I went in a balloon that you can spin yourself in.  I went so fast I got dizzy enough to get sick.  But I didn’t. 

Cira Sweeney, 3/18/25

A crack that’s all it was just a small little crack on a tile. The tile was blue green and the crack a light brown. I wonder how it happened,how it got there, it must have a story. Did someone do it? Did it happen naturally or was it always there? From the moment it was made was the tiny brown crack spanning no more than a finger nail always there?is the tile ashamed that it’s cracked that it’s different or is it proud to be that way? Is it a battle scar from a fight with a shoe does the tile feel like it’s unnoticed? Do all tiles on the floor feel that way? Either way the tile and the crack have a story intertwined. 

Sorelle Indresano, Stack of magazines, 3/13/25

I see a stack of news magazines in the back corner of the library at our host school in France. They look old and forgotten. The backs are chipping. I look at the cover and it is Trump’s face on each and every one of them.  I am ashamed. I thought the noise of our crumbling country was left at customs, but it seems there is no ignoring it. I don’t want to be associated with the actions of that man but as a foreigner I don’t have much control. I guess lack of control is a theme right now.  So here the magazines sit; surrounded by culture, language, architecture, butter and so many different people.  It is a shame if you ask me. 

Adam Bererhout, Les toilettes, March 12, 2025

In America the toilettes are very round. There are no sharp wedges on the interior and everything is sometimes white and pristine. From what I’ve seen in Orléans, France, the toilettes are extremely different from the good old throne I’m used to. The porcelain on the interior is shaped in a more rectangular fashion. Everything funnels to a larger, rectangular hole. While in America, everything is more rounded out. Another big difference is the water level. In the US, the water typically sits around ⅓ from the bottom while in France, the water is at an all time low. The shape of the back of the toilettes in France is perfectly shaped to completely silence any incoming stream.

Arlo Kinsey, 3/12/25

Heart thumping from his chest,

Muscles tensed in anticipation.

Hesitation for less than a second,

And then his fingers clasp the worn disc.

Deep breath in, and out it goes

One step, then another.

Up to the starting line.

Max Cook

A sliver of white

a cloud escaped from its family

in between the tall rolling hills

a shockwave sent in the water

wades through the long river

until it subtly disappears 

the blue sky

fading to orange

soon to be black

a shadow cast from the mountain

barely visible through the thick fog

and the sun sets

all is calm