1 wonderful bird 2015

Ardingly College 2015


S P E C I A L E D I T I O N

Haywards Heath, West Sussex RH17 6SQ EnglandTelephone: +44 1444 893000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ardingly.com

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Ardingly C

ollege 2015

THE

I N O C T O B E R 2 0 1 4 , E I G H T E E N I N T R E P I D

C R E AT I V E W R I T E R S S E T O F F O N A M I S S I O N T O

L U M B B A N K , T E D H U G H E S ’ R E M O T E Y O R K S H I R E

FA R M H O U S E . T H E R E T H E Y S P E N T F I V E D AY S

W R I T I N G P O E T R Y, W I T H T H E E X P E R T H E L P

O F M A S T E R P O E T S C A R O L I N E B I R D A N D C L I F F

YAT E S . A M A G N I F I C E N T W E E K O F W R I T I N G ,

WA L K I N G , C H AT T I N G A N D T H I N K I N G L E D T O T H E

C R E AT I O N O F D O Z E N S O F P O E M S , T H E B E S T O F

W H I C H H AV E B E E N C A R E F U L LY C H O S E N F O R

I N C L U S I O N I N T H I S A N T H O L O G Y. W E H O P E Y O U

E N J O Y R E A D I N G T H E M A S M U C H A S W E E N J O Y E D

W R I T I N G T H E M .

T H E A R V O N C R E AT I V E W R I T E R S , 2 0 1 4 .

T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R

I R E M E M B E R

6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R

M E N TA L

I G R A N T E D C I N D E R S A W I S H …

A V E R Y S C I E N T I F I C S U R V E Y

T H E G I R L I N T H E P H O T O G R A P H

T H E D E F I N I T I O N O F O K AY

T H E P O E M F O R A P O E T

W E L L I E S A N D R A I N J A C K E T S

H O M E C O M I N G

H I P J O I N

A S L E E P

G U I TA R

I S AW

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A L I T T L E J C B

T H E L I T T L E B O Y U P S TA I R S

T H E P H O N E R A N G

M E M O R Y R E E L

J A C K - I N - H E R - B O X

R O G E R A N D VA L E R I E

H O M E - C O M I N G

C O M PA N I O N

F I V E O B S E R VAT I O N S O F A C AT

A L A R M

D O L L S

T O R O R O A N D H O I M A

A P O E M F O R T H E WAY

P E O P L E O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N L I T E R AT U R E

I ’ D L I K E T O P R O P O S E A T O A S T

T O M Y TA M A G O T C H I

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W E H AV E

R I D G E S

T O M Y P I N K S PA R K LY H AT

L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4

S E A S I D E S E T T L E M E N T

I N D I A N C O W

I T ’ S A T U R T L E L I F E

D I S G U S T

PA R A D I S E

H O W I S AV E D T H E C A R

N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2

A C K R I K

D O O R S

L I M I T E D E D I T I O N M O D E L

H A R V E S T

3 3 P R I N C E S S T R E E T, O X F O R D – O C T O B E R 1 9 8 9 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )

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B A B Y P I C T U R E S

E D WA R D I I ’ S G R E AT M I S TA K E

D R A G O N I N A C AV E

6 WAY S O F L O O K I N G AT A M I R R O R

W I N D O W

M A P

B E C A U S E

F R O G

F I R E A L A R M

T O R T O I S E

T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M

T I N Y B E A R B I G B R O T H E R

S S I K

D R I V E

Y O U A N D M E

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I R E M E M B E R

6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E

H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R


On Monday we shared an apple,

we were good friends,

the hungry caterpillar and I.

On Tuesday we upped the stakes.

We ate two pears, it was great

He made a joke about the pears being a pair

He said we were a pair of pears.

I laughed.

On Wednesday we ate three oranges

He was a very hungry caterpillar

He accidentally ate the second all by himself,

Not sharing. He apologised, I accepted

On Thursday, we shared four plums

He ate three and I ate one

There was no apology, no jokes

On Friday we fought over five strawberries

I ate two and a quarter,

I said we were in this together

He said I was holding him back.

On Saturday I watched as he gorged himself,

A lollipop stolen from a baby, a salami half

rotted

A piece of pie stolen from a windowsill

and a bar of chocolate

My stomach rumbled, empty. His gurgled, full.

The next day he disappeared

Into a cocoon of his own success

I shouted insults from afar

I told him I hoped he would suffocate

In that dark tomb

It was Monday again and I was old

I hadn’t seen him for what felt like a week

I went to tell him I was sorry, he could come out

We could share an apple again

The tomb was empty, the stone rolled away

And a beautiful pair of wings lay

untouched on a silver glistening net

My stomach rumbled empty

My heart followed suit.

A N D R E W T E L F O R D

I R E M E M B E R

I remember being the last one in the playground, just me and Mrs Atkins.

I remember the not very sincere apologies and the even less sincere “That’s all right”.

I remember the Volvo, a beast roaring smoke and fire, with AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’ carrying us through the night.

I remember the darkness, shrouding the verges of the road, a shadowy veil, perfectly concealing.

I remember tears, falling silently onto a dinosaur duvet, the ‘Doyouthinkhesaurus’ staring at me.

I remember the speed, the excitement, the thrill that came before,

I remember the eyes, the fear and the jolt.

6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R

1. An educational story about the natural process of a maturing caterpillar.

2. A tragic tale of a teenage caterpillar with a love for food, who becomes obsessed about her appearance, overeats when trying to lose weight, goes into depression and dies but ascends to heaven as an angel.

3. The insect world’s version of Man vs Food.

4. A thriller about a caterpillar and his race against time to become a butterfly within one week, breaking the previous world record.

5. A children’s story that I think about far too much for a seventeen year old.

6. A comedy about a grumpy, jealous little man who finds himself through his love for food and blossoms in later life.

A N D R E W T E L F O R D

M E N TA L


M E N TA L

There is a couple nattering away to each other

in the ‘St Elwin’s Mental Institute’.

One of them is sitting in sad acceptance,

the other slouching on her chair and scowling like an offended mushroom.

“I told you it’s not fair”

“just stop, life doesn’t even matter”

One, raging in her crispy white pyjamas

got up and threw a chicken out of the window,

Two slowly dropped her face into her bowl of porridge.

they sit still, as if waiting for retribution.

“Where’s Retribution”

“She should be here by now shouldn’t she…but honestly who cares” she adds hastily.

awkward silence.

One’s toadstool frown darkens and she hisses,

“I’m angry about something”

“What?...actually I don’t care”

the medicine green door swings open,

there stands Retribution, her white pyjamas glowing in self-satisfaction,

“You Two are so uncaring and nasty, you too One”

One strolls over, screeching like a reindeer.

Picks Retribution up,

Opens the window and drops her out,

To join the feathery mess below.

“irritating little bitch isn’t she”

Two smiles and then immediately wipes the offensive mark off her face with a whiteboard rubber.

A clattering comes from behind the tinted windows.

A hoard of Shes pile through the doorway.

It giggles and I cackles.

a box of polystyrene wanders in with them

I picks it up and dumps the dry, squeaky snow on her rag-tag-wig hair.

A grin stretches across her face.

Me sits in the corner like a muttering sewing machine and whispers,

“Me is confused.”

A N N A E LW I N


A letter landed on my doormat,

A gilded, sugar-sweet, custard-cream envelope.

I had been cordially invited,

The little brat’s gone and done it hasn’t she.

She had begged to go to that dance,

Well perhaps I offered,

But it was her- excited by sparkling glances, swinging cloth and singing champagne flutes.

The lure of sugar-sweet, silky-smooth ‘Romance’

She was never one for practicality.

I thought she’d end up with crystal splinters, not a rock on her finger.

But that envelope,

The silver letters swirled like pretentious house-plants.

Time to prepare for another ill-matched wedding.

She barely knew him,

She was a face in the glitter of night,

made up with a cement trowel I might add.

He didn’t even remember what she looked like,

But the little gold-digger didn’t care.

The cow ruined my best pumpkin.

No doubt she’ll reach forty, a miserable housewife,

Snot in on hand, vomit down her back,

With a husband who forgets her name

While she tries to forget his.

Not as bad as that floozy with the long hair though.

She let down her golden weave

and her lingerie too.

Her mother cast her out, I don’t blame her.

Twins before eighteen!

At least my protégée still has her figure.

I suppose I ought to go.

Get my regular dose of frosting and crocodile tears.

I’ll go to her wedding,

Her and her darling foot-fetishist.

A N N A E LW I N







1. Why do people stop loving each other?

2. What is your favourite colour? Why?

3. Does yoga actually have any beneficial qualities?

4. Is the ‘resting bitch face’ genetic?

5. Why do they manufacture women’s clothing with such insufficient pockets?

6. Are birds afraid of heights? Are you?

7. Rain? Expand.

8. How many pieces are left when your heart breaks?


I want to reach in and pull her from the polaroid

and scream, “What do you want from me?!”

I threw the frame across the room once,

it broke, but her gaze did not.

I grabbed the photo and shoved it

into the shoebox beneath my bed,

in a desperate attempt to avert her gaze.

Some nights, I smell cardboard burning.


Okay is a rubix cube,

with a jumble of faces,

swivel left, swivel down.

Okay is the bowed head of a nun

entering the church’s belly,

odd socks hidden by her habit.

Okay is a teenage girl,

clunking down the phone receiver,

preening into the mirror,

knowing she’ll never be

so beautiful again.

Okay is that strange stain on your coffee table,

a museum of moments,

with a gift store at the end.

A S H L E I G H J O H N


Sadness is twins,

wearing matching shades of grey.

The boy with his bowler hat,

to host the shrapnel of love gone sour.

The girl with her ribbons,

ends trailing the ground,

leading the way for the souls of lost loved ones.

When they walk they hold hands,

careful not to touch anything else.

They wear wellies and rainjackets in the house.

They don’t want to intrude.

When their presence is called upon they play

rock-paper-scissors to decide who must knock on the door.

They spend their days staring at windowpanes,

and cleaning up after their neighbour,

whose wheelie bins host whole rainbows,

and leak puddles of sunshine when put out on the curb.

They are experts at making the perfect cup of tea.

They drown in the mixtapes dedicated to them.


I want to write about how I feel

but I can’t find a good enough

metaphor to shroud it in.

Guess I’ll have to write some

nature poetry.

A S H L E I G H J O H N

H O M E C O M I N G

H I P J O I N

H O M E C O M I N G

The dead man was found in his dining room.

The drop leaf table’s leaf had dropped,

shattering calcified kneecaps,

and disturbing the dust on his clothes.

Dust motes gusted upwards, landing

along grey lashes and wiry eyebrows.

Finding new homes on the hairs in his ears

and settling up into his nose.

For a moment, the man’s face was covered,

features uncertain in the cloud of silver.

Dust clung to sockets and wrinkles and lines,

resting on lips and dried spit.

Sunshine glanced into the dining room,

lighting up the dust like a trick.

Sequins sparkled suddenly, ready for the show,

and the dead man’s grin stayed fixed.

B E C K Y A L L E N

H I P J O I N

Our hip join has started to hurt.

It used to work so beautifully.

Oiled, silent, discreet.

It began to ache weeks ago,

after your mother phoned.

I thought it was the cold.

It got frosty, but our hands were warm.

We rubbed its socket and bolts

and polished its hinges with our breath.

It was squeaking again last night.

When I was drinking with that man,

I thought I felt it tugging.

And last weekend, on the Sunday,

when you got back from the pub,

I swear you’d developed a limp.

I’ve bought some WD40:

I know Christmas means wear and tear.

We’ll be crippled if it gets any worse.

B E C K Y A L L E N

A S L E E P

G U I TA R

I S AW

A S L E E P

There is a single mountain in the village

made out of sugar and glass

that throws big shadows of

light around the corners of the

plain streets in early morning hours.

At night the shadows turn into ruling kings

trying to deaden all light and replace it with mist

but the silver moon above the mountain

shines on a plane

careful not to destroy the village made out of sugar and glass.

F R A N Z I S K A L O R D I C K

G U I TA R

I want to be a guitar

and not think about you.

I want to be free, happy and calm.

I want to be a guitar who is put into the corner of a boy’s room

and has time for itself and never knows when it is played again.

I want to be a guitar who travels around the world,

with stranger’s fingers put on its strings,

with unfamiliar melodies being introduced to it –

Romance Anonimo, Brushfire Fairytales, La Isla Bonita, Cupid.

I want to chill with hippies on a beach,

I want to sit around the Christmas tree with children taking no notice of me,

I want to see the smile of a girl who listens to a love song,

I want to be in the hands of superstars splitting one of my strings into two during a concert.

I want to be a guitar who never feels homesick

who only knows wanderlust.

I S AW

I saw a baboon dancing ballet with a baby.

I saw a banana vomiting in a church.

I saw a high school girl murdering her goldfish with a knife.

I saw a palm tree running a marathon in New York.

I saw a tomato turning red when flirting with a fork.

I saw a grandpa drinking Earl Grey in a sidewalk café.

I saw a lamp getting drunk from red wine.

I saw a violin farting in a bus.

I saw a cloud dancing tango with a robot.

I saw an elephant changing clothes for a candle light dinner.

I saw a pianist turning back in time on a winter evening.

F R A N Z I S K A L O R D I C K

A L I T T L E J C B



A L I T T L E J C B

Behind the hills,

the valleys,

the trees,

Lies a little JCB,

It Dug,

It Dug,

It ripped into the ground,

It destroyed the forest ground,

It looks small,

insignificant when faced with its ten tonne older brother,

It is dragged to menial tasks by his family,

However its cracked windows tell of a fallen star.

Now it is sitting, South of the Dales,

East of Leeds,

It is a photo op,

It is a little JCB.

J A K E F R E E M A N


A creak, A crack, A yelp

Is this house haunted?

This banging is driving me to the edge,

closer and closer, further and further,

The echo cast over this house is my nightmare

Room 101 has been unlocked

Holes are appearing in the ceiling,

time leaking out.


I remember, when the phone rang, and I was left staring at Iona,

Alone in the garden, alone in Stockwell.

I remember the feel of cold, stainless steel in my hand.

I remember the cry, the rushing of feet,

The sound of another’s rage.

I remember the plasters, the hatred, the silence…

J A K E F R E E M A N

M E M O R Y R E E L




M E M O R Y R E E L

I remember the violent grooves

in the glazed ceramic of my mother’s

baking bowl, the freckled egg curving

on its edge. I remember

scaling the sturdy staircase,

untottering forever. The sound of expectancy

rang in my brother’s farewell as I kissed him.

I remember the cold taste

of the stone as it flung itself

and pitched into

the back of all his memories. Now I see

the colours of his hand against hospital sheets,

my mother clutching at the validity of her tears.

He flickers loosely in our heads, humming


I keep jack-in-her-box in the corner,

tip-toe past her when I go

to the cupboard to fetch my other,

more appealing toys.

She sits like a malevolent ghost. I learn

to pile my books elsewhere, avoid looking

at the red lip that pouts

from beneath her lid.

My friends wind her up,

coax her handle as it spins

like a hooked fish rising. I cower,

the box spooning sugar into her smile

until my friends grow bored, vanish up the walls –

The door slams shut and Jack

leaps at me, her clown head

lunging from the bizarre trampoline

of her rage. Flames leap

from her grin, burning

bruises on the bare walls.

I stifle her gently, easing her back

into the claustrophobic box

with her face in my hands.

She scribbles swear words on the walls;

I go back

to tip-toeing.

J A S M I N AT K I N S


Roger sticks pins into maps,

ties the laces on his shoes

like they are important parcels.

Valerie licks photographs,

counts the roses on her bed sheets

until they lose their pinkness.

Roger guzzles books like energy bars,

writes long lists down his arms

and measures them.

Valerie takes perfumed baths, dreaming

the world is a soap bubble and she

is a god, daring it to burst.

Roger

cuts each day into precise shapes.

Valerie leaves empty yoghurt pots

on furniture, calls it art.

When she falls from the mantelpiece,

Rogers sews her wounds with words,

reminds her she can’t fly.


My next-door neighbour only

comes home for the holidays.

She moves stiffly,

her boots shining like black puddles.

Even her outstretched arms lull and snap

like broken windmills.

She kisses perfunctorily, scoops

up the small child and hunches

upstairs. She lines her desk,

picks her way round boxes,

strewn clothes, bent-backed books.

Her hangers cackle when she

drops them. When she sleeps,

her face slips behind itself.

I glimpse her hands

as she washes, arms soaped

like a love-rhyme, throwing

herself headlong, flicking fingers

against the basin like tiddlywinks.

At night, I watch her face

split open

as the sky sings thunder.

J A S M I N AT K I N S

C O M PA N I O N


A L A R M

D O L L S

C O M PA N I O N

You were my greatest childhood wonder

You brought the magic of the picture to life

Fuelled my love for flight and telekinesis

There was not a day where I could not wait

To come home and join you, to let my mind

Walk free among the stars,

Exploring ancient alien civilisations

And winning epic conflicts.

But new things cropped up, and I moved on

While you stayed here, gathering dust

Sitting in the same place for months.

Eventually, you were dismantled into bags

And left in the attic for years

Travelling nowhere, mingling with yourself.

Eventually, I found you

My interest piqued by your sleek design and awesome colours,

But I could find all the pieces to make you whole again.

Here you are, broken on the floor,

So àdieu, my Lego Jedi Starfighter!


I) The Cat is vicious.

It needs its tablets,

But I need my arms.

II) The Cat ignores my presence.

I ignore hers.

She falls asleep on my lap.

III) While playing with prey,

An accidental death occurs.

The Cat is unfazed.

IV) The Cat goes outside when it rains

And comes inside when it’s dry.

I think it’s broken.

V) A furry fluff ball of malcontent

Who scratches, murders and defecates

Who domesticated Cats?

J A S P E R M A R S H A L L

A L A R M

I want to be an alarm,

And not something predictable.

I want to use the power of noise to Scare the bejeezus out of all.

I want to be revered and feared.

People know they need me,

But hate my presence all the same.

I want to be a big red fire alarm

To really make people worry

To make them think it’s serious

When in reality, it’s not.

I don’t want to think about the whos and whats,

Fire alarms just need an excuse.

Don’t let me know about current affairs,

It’s nothing to do with me.

Stop heckling me with your problems and concerns

I don’t care, okay!?!

If you ask me something trivial,

I swear I’ll go off right now.

Right, don’t say I didn’t warn you,

Prepare for the audible pain.

D O L L S

My mother has become a doll

I don’t know what to do.

My father too is made of felt,

And now I have to help them.

I’ll sit them both in different chairs

Beside a fireplace

Give them each a different book

And turn the page each day.

I’ll tell my Dad I’m a physicist

Exploring quarks and leptons

I’ve gone to Cambridge, I’ll say

And discovered all new Jasper-waves.

I’ll give him miniature headphones

To listen the days away

Classical, Rock and Ambience

All fill his plastic brain.

For Mum, however, I’m a historian

Or geographer, or novelist

I’ll write a page of book a day for her

Give her a tiny pencil

And a tiny sketchpad to draw on.

Perhaps, when I come home from school

My parents will be back too.

J A S P E R M A R S H A L L


A P O E M F O R T H E WAY P E O P L E

O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N

L I T E R AT U R E




You Evening. July.

Pajero.

1, 2, 3, 4

3 and a half, 5, 6

5 and a half, bags.

Banana, banana, banana, chicken, Spot the White car.

Jinja – one hour down, five more to go.

It would be three but 1 is driving and he can’t see.

A chips, chicken and Fanta bathroom break later and

we’re in the

Pajero.

1, 2, 3, 4

3 and a half’s asleep, 5, 6

5 and a half will not sleep, bags.

Roadside market, “Water, Madame?

Grapes? Tomatoes, Madame!”

– two hours down, five more to go.

It would be three but 1 is driving and he can’t see.

2 to 6, go to sleep!

Pajero.

1, 2, 3, 4.

3 and a half. 5, 6.

5 and a half. bags,

tomatoes, snacks, grapes, Ribena bread, sugar, milk, banana, banana, banana,

chicken.

7 hours down, half hour to go.

Sleep, wake, sleep, wake

1,2,3,4,5,6

out.

Hi, granddad.

A P O E M F O R T H E WAY P E O P L E O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N L I T E R AT U R E

She stepped out of the shower,

her wet,

chocolate, mahogany, ebony, cappuccino,

mocha, frappe, coffee bean, oak, smoky,

cigarette ash, charcoal skin

glistening with ethnic feral jungle fever in the

light.

M A X I M E H I G E N Y Y


I want to be a wine glass.

A red wine wine glass used only

by the Ladies who Lunch.

A wine glass that screams

sophisticated, pompous, obsequious,

I hate my fourth husband but

my second one, him, he’s a keeper.

A wine glass that fascinators use to get shit faced – in a classy way.

A big round, no caring, dodge caring,

only taken out to show class wine glass.

I don’t care for the calibre of wine,

just not white.

White is Blanche

This wine glass only caters for Stanley bolds.

This wine glass only caters for those whose

Troubles make this wine glass’s problems

seem trivial.

Everybody, rise.


I’ll have you know that I, Maxine Higenyi,

took really good care of you because you

took really good care of my social life.

Yeah, sure, you died,

the first time because I didn’t clean your poo

and another time because of neglect

but I really did try!

I went online for you,

bought you plane tickets with the money that I

earned playing ridiculously tedious games.

No gratitude from you.

Yes, you died the seventh time because,

well, starvation, but

in one week you were in Hawaii, Paris,

you had state of the art headphones and

I even snuck you into my school bag!

Okay, fine, the twentieth time was my fault.

M A X I M E H I G E N Y I

W E H AV E

R I D G E S


W E H AV E

We have plenty of books in our house.

The stacked shelves

buckling under their weight

eavesdrop on many a conversation.

The whispering of paper-thin pages

the soft rustle of characters coming to life

can lull me to sleep, where I dream.

Alphabetical order- what else?

But books are by nature mischievous, sneaking around

and so, next to the Zepheniah

there lies a Christie

and Dickens uncomfortably rubs shoulders with Tolstoy

and the murmurs of the books

surprises guests

who have come to see hat stands

who walk in, and relaxed,

sit down

to read

R I D G E S

My mother is a Scrabble set.

The jumbled letters

rattle and spill around in the neat wooden box.

The board,

worn from years of children’s play

is fragile, delicate:

requiring gentle hands and soft words.

Years ago, chubby fingers plundered letters,

shrieking with laughter as we spelt out

‘poo’, ‘bum’ and ‘willy’

Now, the letters fall coherently into place:

Diaspora. Foreshadowing. Farcical. Triple letters,

double words, the Scrabble set

now requires scoring, rules, order.

But there is a twinkle in the smooth grooves of the tiles

still

and among all the

plutocracy’s

corset’s

oxymoron’s

I can just make out one smug ‘buttock’

M I L O T H U R S F I E L D


I knew from the moment I set eyes on you

that you were the one.

The twinkle in your eye

those voluptuous curves

your flamboyant personality

I spent as much time as I could with you.

Delicately, softly, placing you on my head

so you could stroke my hair

and whisper sweet nothings in my eager ears.

And I loved you, in return

sewing on new sparkles

running my hand up your brim.

The last day of school.

I take you with me,

Showing off my new love to jealous onlookers.

Alas, my love!

In the ruckus after that final bell

you tumble from my head

and are snatched,

never to be seen again.

Someone else will be loving you now.

and my head is freezing.

M I L O T H U R S F I E L D

L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4


I N D I A N C O W


L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4

In House 4: Talia McPherson, Franziska Lordick, Promise Joshua and I.

All so shattered that we collapse on the beds which are coated with notebooks, chargers,

pens and Great Gatsbys.


I woke up this morning in Mykonos

Amongst peroxide bleached houses with royal blue crowns

On rugged cliff droppings with pebbled alleys

I woke up this morning to the whisper of the ocean

Cradling crisp white sailboats, bathing deep blue fish

On the nurturing silt of the Mediterranean Sea

P I P PA B O LT Z E

I N D I A N C O W

I want to be an Indian cow

Unharmed and worshipped

Freely roaming dust ridden,

Barefoot trodden streets

Of a tiny, landlocked village

In the spicy land…

Untouched, I munch all day

On delicacies from

Side-street-merchants’ baskets

I sleep and lie and regurgitate

Savoring my four stomachs

I bathe in the hot summer sun

And roll in the coppered colored sand

I wade through the muddy waters of the Ganges

And no knowledge of human pettiness disrupts the flow of my day.


In the depths of the night

Our soft shells elope and

Crumble like wet tissue

We struggle and waddle

Our small fragile limbs

Pumping

We wiggle

Up the moist sand dunes

Stone shavings shivering

Beady eyes and

Baleful wings soar

Watching our every shove

Some will be shackled by the food chain

Others washed in by the frothy tide

But the fight isn’t over

P I P PA B O LT Z E

D I S G U S T

PA R A D I S E

D I S G U S T

I had an idea,

But never really knew who she was.

She invited herself into my life

Straight after I caught him in bed

With Mama Tuli,

My godmother.

Disgust was there to console me,

The shield that guarded

My brain from collapsing

From the thought of the abomination.

She gave me the audacity

To look him in the eyes,

Judge his soul

With my words

And yet

Feel culpable about nothing.

Disgust was my new Mama Tuli,

She empathized with me.

Signaling the delivery of hot,

Light yet reluctant sweat out

The pores of my skin.

“He deserves your hate,” she says,

“I know”, I replied.

Her words were solace to my soul

Yet they lacked remedy.

The one thing I needed

To break the chain

Which connected my heart to his,

Disgust could not offer it.

I couldn’t stop loving him.

P R O M I S E J O S H U A

PA R A D I S E

In the depths of the night

Our soft shells elope and

Crumble like wet tissue

We struggle and waddle

Our small fragile limbs

Pumping

We wiggle

Up the moist sand dunes

Stone shavings shivering

Beady eyes and

Baleful wings soar

Watching our every shove

Some will be shackled by the food chain

Others washed in by the frothy tide

But the fight isn’t over

P R O M I S E J O S H U A


N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2

A C K R I K

D O O R S


The car was in the water

I saw it happen slowly,

as if flying downwards

it was my fault.

I dragged the car out

took it apart

and squeezed the water free

I took the roof

and hung it up to dry

and sucked the water from the engine

with a straw

The boot held enough water

to fill a large paddling pool

I used metres of kitchen roll

to wipe the dashboard dry

When I pieced it together

it worked.

N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2

That night in November

the snow came as a spell

sent by a sorcerer in an attempt

to sabotage rush hour.

I was almost abandoned

but caught a lift from a

not-so-close friend.

The 10 minute journey took 3 hours

home from school play rehearsals.

My sister was stranded at ballet

but captured a life line to stay

at a friend’s house overnight.

The car skated sideways down the hill,

scraping other pieces of

frosted scrap metal.

I made it home after trudging

in my dainty school shoes

in 3 feet of instantly landing snow.

R E B E C C A S M I T H

A C K R I K

Where have you been?

I’ve not seen you in a while.

A while? It’s been forever!

What’s your new address?

Phone number?

Let’s meet up for coffee.

I’m sorry I left you behind

we used to be inseparable.

I had a seat at your dinner table

and next to you in the car.

I went to school and left you

You picked me up in year three.

True, but only for a week

Because you were new,

then you left me again

for your new friends.

I’m sorry I got your name wrong.

It’s ok, I prefer Ackrik to Eric anyway.

Let’s meet up for coffee.

Please once again be my imaginary

best friend.

D O O R S

Today, we mourn the loss

of another fallen soldier.

His wall tragically knocked

to join two rooms.

Our fight against open plan

must continue.

Spread the message of

the benefits of privacy.

The precious moments

in intimate spaces will be lost

if we don’t make our stand.

Long live the doors!

Long live the doors!

R E B E C C A S M I T H


H A R V E S T

3 3 P R I N C E S S T R E E T, O X F O R D

– O C T O B E R 1 9 8 9 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )


NEW from Mattel P.C.

This doll comes with her own battery-powered wheel-chair and East European helpers

She has a detachable catheter and fully absorbent diapers

With her ergonomically adapted bed

you can help her to sit up

Her mechanical hoist can lift her into her wheel-chair

Limbs below the neck guaranteed immoveable.

This is the first in our new range of

DISABLED BARBIE

Models to include:

Car-Crash Barbie (with numerous wound accessories and scar make-up possibilities)

and Amputee Barbie* (crutches included. Prosthetic limbs extra)

*This model is also available in our Ethnic doll range.

H A R V E S T

We gather in the barn

And share our harvest

Store it here

That later we may

Return

to feast on it.

R I C H A R D S AVA G E

33 PR INCES STREET, OXFORD – OCTOBER 1989 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )

You had a black and orange

Bandana in your hair.

Later I’d find out

That you wore it like this

Because you loathed

Your too straight hair.

It’s a vivid memory.

Your green and white polka-dotted

Two-piece cotton dress.

And there was no hallway

So I was standing on the doormat

And you were standing at the door.

We sat and chatted.

But I wasn’t really there

Ma was dying

And my mind was away with her.

So when I didn’t hear from you

For two weeks more

It didn’t occur to me

That it would matter.

The spare room stayed spare

And I wasn’t bothered that

It was empty then.

But I do remember you.

Standing there.

And I don’t remember what we talked about

And I didn’t know that really

You were still in Brixton

And hadn’t moved to Oxford yet..

One month later

The day after my mother died

You moved into my house

I didn’t know then

that one day

You would be my wife.

R I C H A R D S AVA G E





What do you mean I keep too many baby pictures?

See look, there’s one of you

When you decided to burn action man

And there! your sister before she could talk,

When go-go ga-ga could mean “please pass the salt”

Or “Die you insufferable human being”.

Why would you think that’s the worst one?

That’s you, trying to eat Mr Potato head after

You covered him in gravy.

But here’s my personal favourite.

You with your dummy,

Wearing that adorable hat.


I know you aren’t your father,

You are a very different man.

But your actions on the field of Bannockburn

Could’ve been on you’ve been framed.

All the papers said you’d win

With that massive army at your back.

But like Xerxes, you threw it all away,

And you weren’t even fighting the 300.

But the moment that doomed you:

“hey, let’s charge all my cavalry into

Spearmen, led by a Braveheart

Enthusiast!”

And then you moved the fighting,

To that insufferable swamp.

Who did you expect to find,

Shrek?

So I left you for someone else,

But one thing we both agree on.

That red hot poker,

What a pain in the arse.

S A M S H E R I D A N


I want to be a dragon,

Left undisturbed in my cave,

No one to bother me, I can do

Whatever I want. It would be easy to find

Food, and even easier to cook it.

No one would believe those who saw me,

I would be a myth, fit only for

Documentaries on the History Channel.

I would be top of the food chain, No-one

Could beat me in a fight.

Don’t bother looking for me.

Don’t send Saint George to kill me.

Don’t try and appease me.

S A M S H E R I D A N


W I N D O W

M A P

B E C A U S E


1. A mirror is you, me and them.

2. A reflection of the world.

3. Another universe that mimics ours.

4. It is a pair of eyes we can look into to see ourselves from another person’s point of view.

5. The portrayer of truths and at the same time a manipulator.

6. An illusion.

W I N D O W

I’m looked through not at.

Under appreciated however essential.

Like a photo frame I capture an image within me, but mine is ever,

Changing.

TA L I A M C P H E R S O N

M A P

I’m looking for a map,

A map where Dominican Republic is next to England,

And Africa is just below.

So close that I can drive from one

To another in a matter of hours.

B E C A U S E

I remember struggling to stay awake and falling asleep on New Years Eve in Ghana.

I remember the exciting, terrifying feeling of moving to a new continent.

I remember my dog George vomiting on my hands on the car journey home from the kennels.

I remember Miss Esoka teaching me how to spell Because.

I remember the darkness of the moment when the moon covered the sun.

TA L I A M C P H E R S O N

F R O G

F I R E A L A R M

T O R T O I S E

T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A

B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M

F R O G

It’s the first time I met the Frog,

He normally smiled through the pane of the glass,

On the sodden street of 1108 Pond Avenue.

He came bearing a bag of fruit,

His hand rested on the head of a small boy.

He walked forwards,

Stopped,

Put the bag on the floor,

Released the boy,

The boy knelt down,

Orange cupped in his hands,

Pale and White.

So, I took the orange and walked away,

In to the rain and the mist of the night.

F I R E A L A R M

You are a very nice quadrilateral,

You make me cool right down.

When everyone’s screaming,

You’re the light at the end of my tunnel,

I just want to touch you,

Right there,

In your centre, you see?

Come on… you know it’s for the best.

W I L L I A M WA R D

T O R T O I S E

I want to be a tortoise,

Sitting still,

In the dead of night,

While the men from the city,

Kneel down,

And pray,

To the stars,

For a new way out.

T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M

He drowned.

W I L L I A M WA R D


S S I K

D R I V E

Y O U A N D M E


I’d shut you in a box so

My father couldn’t reach you and

You wouldn’t learn about business and

Women from him.

I’d paint your toenails – you used to

Like that, and tell you stories

Because you just won’t read.

I’d take you out, a teddy bear on a leash,

So you could bring your other

Good-looking teddy bear friends

Home to flirt with me.

I’d make you live without

Mama bear for a while, so

You’d love her, despite everything,

As much as she loves you.

But you would pick the lock of

The cardboard box,

And steal a pack of fags from

Passing Lego men.

You’d smoke the tiny things

On roof-top nights,

Chase morbid thoughts and wait

Until I die.

I would grow tired of insolence

And place you in my piggy-bank

And plug the hole and

Slot in coins until it filled

And overspilled.

S S I K

They kissed abruptly, drew apart

Slowly, nervously, eyes flicking

Towards mouths. The bench had two.

His foot twitched, tapped the air.

She bit her lip,

Pulling her hair in front of her eyes.

He stood, on a puppet string,

Wiping mud on the back of his shirt.

His eyes were latched on hers as he

Walked away.

Her smile at seeing him faded.

Z A R A S H A M S

D R I V E

Night time didn’t fall –

It dripped from the sky until

The car and the road were covered.

The radio was static, full volume.

There were seconds when a pure note

Slipped through the twitches

And crackles, and we would cling to it

Until the next sang out.

We would not speak.

We hadn’t fought – not this time.

Though it had been over –

A few months back, when

Denial hummed on the stereo and

Kisses felt like zipper-teeth.

And that night, we suddenly understood.

So we let the speakers blare

And the sky darken and your hands

On the wheel were looser than ever before.

And you took the long route home

Because, as soon as the car door slammed,

My heels would beat a tattoo on the

Paving and that would be the last of it.

Y O U A N D M E

My heart is a mountain,

My soul shards of glass

I hide in the shadows and

Bite at the light

With my finger-tip knife.

You’re a hill, not a mountain,

Transparent as glass,

And shadows are myths.

Light touches your fist

Where you’ve stolen my knife.

We’re a hill on a mountain,

Our eyes melted glass.

We run from the shadows

And whittle the light

With our one blunt-tipped knife.

Z A R A S H A M S



S P E C I A L E D I T I O N

Haywards Heath, West Sussex RH17 6SQ EnglandTelephone: +44 1444 893000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ardingly.com

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1 wonderful bird 2015