www.ex

eterreflections.co.u

kIssue

3Autumn

2009

REFLECTIONSPoetry - Art - Fiction

£4

Fred & MickaelParis

When you are born

I will lay me down

In a meadow, in clover

Still damp from last night's dew;

When you are born

I will contemplate arrows,

Kisses, never-silence and

The music of eyes;

When you are born

I will doubt, that you

Might be proud, some day

As three magpies fly;

When you are born

I will be glad

I survived, and hope

You will love me by and by;

When you are born

I will bless your beauty:

Sweet innocence prevails;

I will no longer need to write poetry

As to attempt would always fail.

I sat inside the Norman earthwork,

Called wrongly Dane's Castle

As it was King Stephen busy

Sieging in eleven and thirty-six

(Not Vikings, they were before,

Snaking longships up the Exe)

Who built the fort,

Part-pallisaded,

'Til it wasn't needed,

As the city capitulated

Sooner than he expected,

Trying to write a poem

As the sound of Sunday pm

Washing-up clattered to the left

As shouts of drunks in the nearby park to the right

Invaded.

I wasn't happy with the poem

But

I could never be.

It was about too precious

A thing to be so contained.

So I'll just cross my fingers

And hope to see

What I tried

To convey

Become reality.

William Blake

Didn't make a penny

From the work he drew,

And I don't make a penny

From my art;

I don't see angels like

He used to do,

But I see you

And feel your heart.

May you feel the hug of the summer sun,

And the kisses of a summer shower;

Kick through autumn's crisp and damp,

Smile at mist and a crackling fire;

Wonder with frost, at winter's chill

When storms out rage as you're warm inside;

Stroke the petals of roses,

Be tickled by bluebells,

Delighted in spring and the turn of the tide.

It is Autumn. An Indian Summer has come and gone. So we thinkit is a time to think of the ages, fairies and memories, the loved,the lost, the old and the new. It it time for firesides and stories.

Roast chestnuts and read this, the third issue of 'Reflections.'And don't forget the sparklers!

This one's for Coco with lots of love xxx

This months contributors are:

Please get in contact to let us know what your thoughts areabout this issue. Also, send us your own contributions,

whether you are previously unpublished or incredibly famous!

You can get in touch by emailing Steve at

exeterreflections@googlemail.com

Since the last issue, we have now developed the new Reflectionsmagazine website including archive.

www.exeterreflections.co.ukfeaturing news of the magazine, along with profiles and

contact details for all the contributors

Also check out and join our 'Reflections magazine'Facebook group

Remember: there are no themes, no restrictions, no generic orstylistic boundaries

In Totnes, they say that mental illness

Is just a perception,

It's a negative state of mind -

Chill out man - you'll be fine as soon as you've had your chakras

realigned!

I know you're hearing goblins laughing in your chimney stack,

But it's not a psycho episode -

No, your Kundalini's out of whack!

You've got holes in your aura,

Head up Glastonbury Tor - er.

Let the land absorb all of your stresses and woes.

'Cos when you get that feeling, you need

Ancestral healing,

And they say what you focus on, grows.

But I'm not a new-ager,

Or Dartington major,

So perhaps that transition town isn't for me.

'Cos they say I'm a headcase, in need of a brain-brace

But it's just too detached from reality.

ATIVAN

Eyes impenetrable - like a shark.

You know, us hysterics are polymorphs and mimics -

Under attack, we can become our surroundings

And I take hypnotics 'cause we are what we eat.

That night - my body drank up sleep,

Like the thin white roots that sip from the earth,

Like a child gorging on dreamless sweets

That rot more than her teeth.

Scrubs and bubbles and butters and creams,It's my topshelf bathroom pornography.As my razor slyly shivers aroundMy knobbly knee's topography.

Cos bathtime is me-time, it's peacetimea ceasefire.There's no crime in spending an hour or moreIn the tub with a loofah and fat Jilly cooper,Becoming a Body Shop whore.

My feet are the best,In that oiled embrace they become the slinkiestflippers,In that soapy cocoon scented jasmine and roseI'm ensconced in the kinkiest slippersBut I'm frightened one day that I'll get it screwedupAnd scrub down with the stinkiest kippers.So crack out your sea-salt, patchouli and fig leaves,Satsumas and blueberries and oatmeal.Have a good long soak in that elliptical wombBut get out when you start to congeal.

No one,

Not even the director,

Has any motivation for this scene.

We sit - heads hanging like puppets in vast ruined rooms,

Ingesting gram upon gram of saturated fat

And bitter benzodi-ecstasies.

Doctor - you know that those words are just

Notes on an Icon.

Like her, running through the wet grey streets,

I escaped in boys clothing.

TODAY.

The baby graves

Lie in unconsecrated ground.

Swift with the rattle of bright windmills,

And smiling playtime creatures.

Whenever I visit

There are always tiny rectangles of freshly-turned soil.

Fragile bones so well-beloved

Rotting quietly

In the deep silence of the earth.

I dropped fifty pence into the phone.

+ 353 - Dublin.

Pat? Are you there? The sadnessis coming

Can you hear me, Pat? Thesadness is coming. 

Yes, I am here. And I know, I know. 

Eden is a performancepoet and flamboyantwordsmith, foraging alyrical existence inthe ruins of a properjob. She spends a lotof time in paradoxicalponderings. Eden doesn't likenights out, her sense of humouris dreadful, she enjoys badweather and her specialinterests include earplugs,ready meals, Gnosticismand insomnia.

The Cistern Field, Long-Strip Field,eighty-two began to build, cholera-pit nearby somewhere he doesn't remember.Road a country lane. Rode a carthorse.The June air is warm and oaktrees on the horizon line leafed;cubist redbrick angles spread the hill, gables peak toward three types of cloud.Think now.Dream the old man in his wheelchair, poring piles of yellowed paper,antique globe of his bald pate shining, gaslight will-o-the-wisps shadow.I am stretched to the same moment that is time;the umbrella manufacturer at 43 listens to the students celebrate, and we smile.A letter from a lady, scented, lies on a welcome mat with last year's autumn leaves, a hairband and junk;the genteel pass through the stumbling, and are themselves past through.I look down on beauty and the clipping of hedges; I miss so much.Is it necessary to name names, music,or the evaporation of dewdrops on the pink petals of roses?The sheep graze, the cows gaze, vaguely, to the pony trap that that clatters northward.In time, sunglasses legs and arms are out for tanning;the laughter the tears the fears and disregard of youth melts centuries,bricks are laid as eggs are layed as boys and girls lay entwined and loving.Arguments and violence too, windows smash as she dies in calf;cans of cider discard; bees swarm; swifts scatter their flight.She is locked outside in her too-tight blue dress, smoking,as every more-than now and then the sun breaks through.The conqueror comes this way in sixty-nine to cross the brook to lay his siegeand gain his sway and build his castle. Just over there.The stream runs and quietly echoes to itself and rats, hidden, bridged contained and tarmacadamedAnd the girls they just get prettier and I have no sense of time.The shower wets the jogger, momentarily between the sailor's patches of blue sky, as a sort of change marks the cars, up and down;throw a stone to Lion's Holt and this newfangled engine to Brunel's station,and down the line Topsham where the Countess schemes and plotted, shoring up the river.We have travelled everywhere now.Right inside the furthest atom, and we find sheepshit and a vixen somewhere stealing shoes,for her cubs to be amused. Queuing for sweets and beer and barbeque stockthe water memory soft unlocks the farmers' banter, the business, the busy-ness, both restlessnessand the peacefulness where now I can, refracted with the earth, glimpse this sweeping meadow.Dickens wanders up this way, possibly fuelled by his champagne-pint for breakfast-time ;he wryly smiles as, with their bags and files, the students revise books in hand and bottled water.And energy drinks. The occasional stub of lager.Flicked sprayed bleached hair, breasts and thighs- Charles, his eye on his actress, is pleased.Give it a week and there won't be a queue to view,or ear the gossip scattered as far as another cycle of a year pretends to end, the calendar, the clock. Cuckoospit foams on the gorsebush by the station;it is evening now so the sun-released scents of coconut have, for whatever moment this is, stopped.This is not my recollection. These are not my ghosts. This is a sort of realisation.I know where.And I know when.

uthor, friend, poet, partner,father, former teacher,editor, publisher,collaborator, performer... andgrandad!'

Dave says I should learn my wordsFor when the lights are dim;

I reply that in my life I've neverLearned a thing;

O I can pretend to scan and rhymeSometimes and reflect upon:

A journey.

There are crows that fly to the westThrough clouds of misery;

And there are ravens that head to theeast

In air of mystery;While jackdaws tap at your window

When the frost comes,I've always liked magpies.

The bells they ring out bright forbirth

And youthfulness;They toll in the the end in spite

Or sometime honour.In between there was blood

And love and theft and kisses-sweet,Success and failure.

She sang a songOf emptiness and sorrow.

I picked the chords and madeA beautiful nest with you.

Then we ripped it apart andI fell down to the mud anew,

And dug deeper.

I lost a life and anotherThrough badly-dreaming;

But hospital-pipes and mourningWere not for me;

I wrote again and spoke againOf Springtime,

And the gorse-flower.

There is much outside your windowThat could save you;

Petticoats or bluebirdsMay enthrall you;

Oil paint or sacred textsMay tempt your soul-I'll go for singing.

The Muse doesn't choose yetYou can't use her needlessly;

The rocks don't wait for the rainTo channel your memory;

The owl doesn't pounceWithout her sudden silence-

Heart-piercing.

If truth be told if he'd waitedFor you I would be dead;

Celendines would lower theirSunshine-bright-lit heads;

The rolls and folds of fernsWouldn't give a damn-

They just bring the sheep in.

The angels play with sinAs naked truth is glimpsed;

The stag is ripped apart'Though he was innocent;

In the waterfall she sailsA pyred boat for me-

It's not sinking.

There are crows that fly to the westThrough clouds of misery;

And there are ravens that head to theeast

In air of mystery;While jackdaws tap at your window

When the frost comes,I've always liked magpies.

Part One: Street Corners and Broken Ribs

Admittedly, there are a few things that any traveller with a

modicum of common sense might consider to be "essentials". So,

arriving in Milan in the middle of the night with no map, no GPS, no

prior knowledge of the location or language, no real idea of where

we might stay, and a phrase book containing Italian translations

of such gems as "when are the ladies arriving from Paris?" and "I

have read more than four books", was probably not the most

"intelligent" thing any of us had ever done.

Getting to Milan was enough of a challenge; initially my driving

skills were of such a high quality that it took some time to remove

ourselves from the airport car park. It didn't help that, during

the previous week, the combined efforts of a bottle of Jack

Daniels and a friend with ADHD had conspired to land me with a

cracked rib, which made driving a somewhat uncomfortable

activity. But get out of the car park we did, and, rather

impressively, we even got on to the right road for the motorway;

for at least 3 minutes we drove along smoothly with me feeling

sufficiently smug to be - let's face it - asking for trouble. Oh yes,

we were in Italy (major excitement), we were almost on the motorway

(impressive stuff) and were heading for Milan (the first port of

call in what promised to be an awesome road trip) and then we were

hit by my complete incompetence with the toll road system. It's

fair to say that, on entering the toll booth area, driving into a

lane headed "telepass" was not a sensible plan; we clearly needed

to pay by cash and were anything but local thus unlikely to have

something that might be deemed a "pass". However, we all seemed to

be blinded by these "blindingly" obvious facts and pulled up in

the wrong lane with no means of appropriate payment. On

realising this, I proceeded to crunch the gears of the car in a most

horrific manner, continuously and completely failing to find

reverse whilst somehow opening all the windows without any

semblance of being able to close any of them again, despite

furious pressing of all available buttons and switches. So, we

eventually found ourselves half an hour into our Italian

experience driving down the motorway with a possibly damaged

gear-box, the front seat passenger having to change gear on

command, the driver (me) trying with great difficulty to get their

seat belt on, and a new and powerful variation on air conditioning

in full-force. I guess someone or something somewhere was trying to

tell us something about Milan.

Rather good-looking (although not very conversant in English)

Italian bar-man: "You have a map?"

Me: [with brazen attempt to hide minor suspicion of my own

stupidity] "No."

Him: [with look of slight incredulity]: "You have GPS?"

Me: [with growing embarrassment and growing desire to hide it; why

oh why do I have to look what is, to be fair, a touch ridiculous in

front of such an attractive man??] "No."

Him: [with look of significant incredulity] "You have booked a

hotel?"

Me: [with major discomfort and great feeling of monstrous stupidity,

probably obvious to the entire bar, if not most of the world, by now]

"No."

Him: [with look of someone dealing with an utter moron] "You're

stuffed."

At least, that's the essence of what he said. And he was right. We had

a drink and some food, felt much better and headed off with motions

of great thankfulness and a belief that we were finally "on the

right road". Two hours and many miles later, we had driven through

what probably amounted to the whole of both inner and outer Milan,

taking routes through industrial estates (in the mis-guided belief

that a small map we had found suggested a hotel was located there -

what were we thinking?) and narrowly missing out on being

flattened by an on-coming tram (to be honest, the right of way

wasn't exactly mine), and we had still found nowhere to sleep. The

thing about Milan, you see, is what I call the "lunatic signage". You

follow "centro" signs, thinking you're on the road to the centre then

all of a sudden the signs stop appearing and you find yourself in a

backwater area.

Continued......

Real ParisReal Paris

Dix jours passés à Paris pendant l'été. nousavons visité de nombreuses fois, et n'ont ja-mais été vraiment touristes .. Il est presquenotre deuxième maison .. J'ai pris plus de 400photographies, chacune cherchant à ap-préhender ce qui est de Paris, pas de l'Arc deTriomphe, la Tour Eiffel (à l'exception d'uncouple à distance des zones de discussion),nombreux panneaux de signalisation routière,la circulation, le balcon, les rues, de galets,des cafés, des restaurants, le vrai Paris ...

In The Shadow Of Technology

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Njinsky in Montemartre Cemetary, Montparnasse Tower, Cinematiere Des Chiens, Mary Clichy

Then you notice a sign facing the

other way that says "centro"; the

centre that was advertised as

being ahead of you is now somehow

lurking in your rear view mirror.

You question how that is possible

seeing as, logically (according to

the signage), you must have passed

through the centre to get here.

You turn the car around, you head

off back the way you came and, hey

presto, half an hour later a centro

sign appears once again in your

rear view mirror. It is amazing

how such a big city appeared to

offer no clear means of finding your way around and no

visible accommodation. Do many people, once there, find

themselves unable to drive anywhere but round and round

(which might explain the huge amount of traffic in Milan)?

Do the Milanese build their hotels underground? Or do they

not need to offer accommodation due to visitors constantly

being stuck in their cars headed for a seemingly non-

existent centre? I may never know.

And that is how I ended up sleeping in a car on a street

corner, in a decidedly rough area of the fashion capital of

the world, with a broken rib. Arguably not the greatest

start to a holiday and the reason why, although I'd love to

tell you about the wonders of Milan, I can only advise any

visitors to arm themselves with a variety of maps as I'm sure

Milan has much to offer; we (simpletons that we are) just

couldn't find it.

.

Jules Reed is a localfreelance writer and proof-reader. You may also catch herbehind one of Exeter's mostpopular bars, where she hasaccess to an infinite sourceof interesting characters,some of whom may one day turnup in her writing.

......Continued

This is the sound of love dying,shivering and squeaking,

mewling in terror and painat the feeling of its end

becoming nigh.

Look at the sight of love crying,becoming tears and flowing

into a river that leadsaway from us and into

our past.

Feel the ache of love waning,lost of its hope and starved

of its opposite in you,knowing it lives alone

and dying because.

All I feel is my love shredding,losing its grip, leaving despair

and a strange quiet, whereall before was noise,

the noise of your beauty.

This is the sight of love changing,becoming a shell where within

it withers, trims and growsto become a butterfly,

that hatches as friendship?

It's the difference between fighting or running away

When it's the odds you cheat to play a better game.

It is a letter "R" that makes me scarred instead of

scared,When in the end it feels they both are just the same.

It is the mountain that I climb to view the molehill,

It is the potter's wheel for me to work upon,

Forever moulding what I'd bake inside an oven

For us to gaze at and forever wonder on.

It is the making of a "Making Of..." short movie,

The way to tell me how to play the cards I hold,

It is the fear that keeps me back from ever trying

When in the end I know it's me who's in the cold.

It is the "once" I feel I've found in how you hold me,

It is too soon to know if this should ever be,

It is the only way I know that I'll be happy

When we kiss and hope you'd write these words for me.

A pint of Meadfoot Stiffy, please,

and one for the wife-to-be,

I think it s fair to say it s earned,

this peace beside the sea.

A Meadfoot Stiffy, landlord please,

for bride and groom this day,

so many smiley shaking hands

to see us on our way.

A pint of Meadfoot stiffy sir,

and one for the road, why not?

For four pints in, my heart s

aflamewith all this joy I ve got.

One Meadfoot Stiffy, finest ale,

and do have one yourself.

Generous? I think you ll find

I m drinking to our health.

A shot of Osborne Clench to end,

for time is called so fast,

For I m a husband, you re my wife,

and this night will always last.

Ian recently movedback to Exeter after

fifteen years ofaudience cultivation in

London's theatre scene. Hehas been writing for twentyyears, and is working on hisfourth collection of

poetry, entitled'So Much.' Never beforepublished, his returnto his home county ofDevon promises a new

creative periodwatch this space!bealay@gmail.com

I am emotionally hungover,in mourning after the night before,my ego feels like a dirty whoreso I might have one for lunch.

I am spiritually bedraggled,owing a pony to the holy ghost,seeking savings where I spend the mostof my pennies behind those bushes.

Intellectually aflame am I,embarrassed by this long IQI join for more than is my due,as my words are not enough.

How did I get in your head, you ask,

and I honestly do not know how.

I could say it’s unplanned,

as you’re far from unmanned,

but I feel we just fell into sync.

How did you get in my head, I reply,

for I need to know how this all works,

see the way you are choosing,

make damn sure I’m not losing

the sense to be reading your signals.

How did you get in my bed, could be postured,

with a startling need to embrace,

all the love I am moulding

when it’s you I am holding

builds a passionate web of desire.

The question remains, undeterred in it’s

coming,

breaking surface with merely a sigh,

and it stays far from spoken

for my need is awoken:

how do I get in your heart, my dear,

how do I get in your heart?

Her feathered cape was a little tattered in places, but still beautiful.What appeared at first to be a solid block ofsnowy white was actually alive with hints ofrainbow lights, threads of indigo and incandescentblue, shot through with murmers of pink andapricot hue. A slender neck supported a delicateface whose yellow eyes were alert to every beat ofthe butterfly's wings as it hovered over a nearbylily before chasing its fate past the cat stretchedout in worship to the sun. Its paws uncurled and ears pricked up before

deciding it was too much effort and rolled onto its side to dream of sugared mice and twists of string,putting off the moment until food time- when going home means having to face a precocious little girlwho, armed with a brush and a ribbon will attempt to untangle and beautify him.

Many come to this place of sanctuary: the young, the mad, the lost; those looking for salvation or just afew moments for a quick cigarette with a private phone call. She has seen much turmoil both below thewater and above, seen lovers kiss while sheltering from the rain, been witness to lost hearts andshattered souls discarded among rushes to feed the fish and nourish the plants, their diamond tears cradledamong the leaves for birds to sip.

Centuries pass quicker than the blink of an eye, so much so that her perception of time dissolved, thoughshe could not tell you when.

Today, pretty parasols float on the breeze, their struts straining in the occasional stronger gusts, and theirowners giggle whilst clutching even tighter to a stranger's arm. The hems of dresses flutter, revealingglimpses of polished shoes that only see the daylight at weekends, worn hands and even tireder facesdisguised by layers of cotton and face powder. A day at the races is exchanged for a day in the park, sipsof champagne become a lesser vintage from a plastic bottle with a resealable cork.

Charm is dictated by good breeding, always carry a clean handkerchief, you never know when it mightbe needed in wiping away lipstick and tears. Or even waved in surrender towards a gunner's sights.

She is always there in her disguise of frippery and bows, but not deceit for she is never anything buthonest.

Vicky is stillfollowing theyellow brickroad, not knowing whether

it turns back on itself orcarries on into infinity.Time is irrelevant, or atleast she hopes so.

Silence is golden, she was told once, many moons ago or was it hours? Look ahead, never make eye-

contact, concentrate on the job in hand lies the way to succeess. Don't forget this responsibility has been

in your family since the beginning, it's your reason for being and is the very air that you breathe.

They are just dolls- playthings- alive by the winding of a key kept in a rusty box dented and

scratched by age.Ladies and Gentlemen, the show is about to start so please take your seats. There is no main act,

just farces and skits that when put together may be coherent if the night air is blowing in the right

direction. The manager asks for no jeering for every player has a right to be heard, and we reserve

the right to drop the curtain at any moment. Sorry, sir, tickets are non-refundable. Best not to sit

too close to the stage, madam, the lights can be blinding. Certainly sweets are permitted, we can all do

with a little honey at times.

It is said that if you pick up one of her feathers and place it on the sundial that your dreams will

attain wings, fly away and become fulfilled.But without you.They are given their freedom,unencumbered by your leaden weight and allowed to achieve their

potential.What then becomes of the creator?Are these moments written in stone or quietly brushed to one side only to be taken out and unwrapped.

Something to pass the time during a rainy day when it appears impossible to occupy your restless

grandchildren.

That autumn morning of checking your hat was on straight, the apron tied, whilst hoping he wouldn't

be late. Many fine words came from a velvet mouth that concealed a serpent's tongue; scales became

sleek, hidden behind a smile and a whisper.Unknowing that many had stood here before in your place, the names whirlwinds of bitterness and

fury.Her yellow eyes had seen it all before; hands stroked the trampled grass and picked amongst the petals

and bones. Unable to sing out a warning but knowing that you would be back some day with your

flowers and your smile. Heart bandaged clumsily, no longer on your sleeve. Feathered cape sullied and

dirty, rendered blind by your own failings and lack of insight. Torn out by grasping hands that support

caged minds, photos burnt and curling on a bonfire made of mirrors and mirth.

Carpark 5

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I20 year old Matt is an

undergrad. atBirmingham Uni. studying

English Literature andCreative Writing. My goalin life is to be asked toplay a gig in Radio City

in New York, and then sell out thevenue, and get signed to Island. I have

played and play in lots of bands, sopoetry is my back up. Matt although not

being published has appeared inseveral student magazines.. His

favourite poet is Allen Ginsberg, “If Ihad to live on a desert island I would

eat Yorkshire puddings everydayof the week and read Ernest

Hemmingway until I naturallyfelt I had to end it all.”

I. (Spring)

First signs of heyday as shuttersrise in crinkles and council roadsweepers trundle. Travel agentsflooded for the last, quick getaways.Brochures left in tatters andchip-and-pin warm poundingfingernails. Sterling in freefall,fruit and veg rolling off theshelves of stores, bruised and bat-tered. Parade day packed in the towngardens, pawning Devon fudge andCornish pasties to those too famil-iar to take any notice. Unnaturallytoned geraniums and usurping Eng-lish rose, herald-ed in daffodils. Jumble sale jammed at the clock tower promenade,beach books two decades old (irrelevant topics - Diana insinuation,terrorist sub-plots), clocks missing hands and porcelain fairingsimilarly.

D: What is this, a mass exodus? [Oyez, Oyez]

S: More like a hibernation, a gestation. Living the summer in April is common practice round here, I’ve observed. There are two different towns, the low season and the high season.

D: And which do you prefer?

S: I don’t think I’ve decided yet. I haven’t the capacity to emotionalise quarters of the year, anyway even if I did I would have to live through all four. So making a sweeping remark about November wouldn’t make that passage of time any easier.

Final chance to hear the town crier, before drowned in caravan dust.Locals stocked up like Armageddon, bread turning hard at edges andmilk filled freezers - prepared for the fallout of ‘Northern’ schools.Alternate route to Exeter devised, family members telephoned anddebriefed, ‘We’ll see you on the other side’. Finally gardens potted,planted, sown and reaped all in four months, a life-cycle in miniature,condescended to days-off.

II. (Summer)

Slowly prizing the market to cleanliness, matte metal rubbishcollector, poking into the town’s crevices. Pinching chewed wafflecones and wooly candy-floss sticks, with an extendable arm whichretains the dignity of service industry. In a sea of athleticmerchandise and football shirts, a single frown in a torrent of

fluorescent jacket against the heat.

D: Y’ know, its just as well they ban dogs in the Summer, imaginethe havoc they'd cause amongst all these Grockles. It’d send all thoseboxes back up the M5!

S: You can’t look at it that simply, tourism is an industry, andlike all industries we must be aware of the market. We are a commodi-ty, and cannot expect our clientele to be wading around in waterwith animals.

D: Do you have the capacity for imagination?

Boys heads stuck from windows, they accelerate harsh and brake moreso, between the dunes where tombstoners flip off 4 metres to impresstanners. 100 watt speakers telling all the bathers what’s really ontheir minds. Toddlers drip dry from factor 50+, sand clinging to theirfingers and drawn to lollies, playing giants in rock poolcivilisations, ‘Mummy is this sea-horse dead?’/’No, because that’s not asea-horse. Its a hypodermic needle,’

Clink of amusement arcade, 20p’s titter on brass and mirrored cubicles,clumsy claws without grip let slip teddies just through their grasp.The intoxicating dark, drugs tourists with prize fixation and have-another-go, bright light of noon reawakens to foolishness.

III.(Autumn)

Sea fog submerges the estates, until we all feel isolated (therefore

guilt-free television watching on bad weather days), and dogs won’t

leave trellises. Lifting off; so each row, then road emerges from the

soup, remembering exactly its location in the complex. Cats lost in

cloned flap decisions again, forgotten owners ask ‘Wanted. Answers to

*Name*’.

Fireworks wow the crowds of teenagers, asking who the Guy on fire is.

Their first night out, flirting, getting numbers they’ll text but

never ring. A go on Twister, makes us all feel ill, can taste rock and

penny sweets at the back of our throats. Very original virgin

alcohol, Scrumpy Jack’s perhaps, White Lightening likely. Bit of al-

right here, wouldn’t say no there, dragged away at end by impatient

parents, embarrassing horn blowing.

D: I think its exciting, the autumn, like we all have nothing more

to look forward to but Christmas, so we put effort into escapism.

S: Really? All these lights and sounds are basically just a

distraction from the worst part of the year.

D: Ah so you have made an emotional attachment to a point in

time?

Row after row of muddy Winnebagos, robots in disguise with jutting

hatches and awnings. Travellers with dirtied names, famed for

siphoning petrol, dragging carnivals and fairgrounds on the backs

of trucks. Diesel engine fumes, whirs and shakes generating the night

sky, estuary like an inverted skyscraper, (red, blue, yellow bulbs)

lights all the way to Topsham. The sandy hair of petrified Kelp,

washed aground. Beginning to putrefy, so even the Avocets give up,

coast turns toxic - stench of rot.

IV. (Winter)

Dappled moon surface, when footprints sink cratered under trainers(rain turns the sand to slush). Those dogs are here again, shitting.Fitting in the shallows, chasing pebbles under water, coming upempty mouthed and disenchanted with the activity of stone throwing.So all the debris of last night, a curving brown-green mulch, threemiles stretched, is torn up for play. Seaweed nets crabs, nettingcatches mussels for the entire length of the bay, like a boundarybetween town (white grains, and coffee cups. Wooden stirrers andbicycle pumps) and sea.

D: Won’t you please just pick that shit up? No, fine leave it. I’m sure someone will - or you can always, yep, great idea - kick some sand over it.

S: It’ll be re-integrated, digested, recycled. Don’t get het up, at least its not some child being guided over to piss in the rock pools.

D: Out of sight, out of mind. Should people be warned about the hazards of floating raw sewage pollution?

A new storm front, backs up behind a former, careering up the A38. Allthe bar fronts - in for it, boarded, bleached and washed down. Out ofaction until June. Puddles merge into the estuary to convey canoesand kayaks, old ladies with trolleys hop mirky water all over town.Expect: splinters through doorways and doorways through rooftopsthis evening. [Easterly, southeasterly, rain or scrawly rain becomingcyclonic, 1006 rising.] Driving at night through villages, swervingghost stories and places of public execution. Radios become unbeara-ble and you can’t hear for the hammering on your bonnet, Kitescaught in wires - flag for the seafront, empty. You begin to love theplace where you were raised.

Love used to be an easy game called love,

An easy come and wave tomorrow gone

Till moment after wave, and sand and sun

(Declining sun) divide and conquer love.

There never has been want enough of want;

Enough of wait and hesitating need.

The hesitance of fancy over greed

Crawls underfoot, climbs overhead anon.

All words become more words and spoil the tongue:

Sweet mother-tongue, sweet innocence torn up;

Up sticks and out of hearing, out of luck:

The luckiest are sensitive or dumb.

Desire defines the blood, decides the day,

Disgraces sense, denies the things we say.

Steven Harris writesin varying styles anddifferent media. From

short fiction toacademic work; from

poetry to the novel he is current-ly working on; from song-writing

to journalism: words are thething. He has published two books

And Other Stories; Flotsam & Jet-sam – and plans to bring out a

collection of poetry later in theyear. Two of his short stories

have been included in thelong-list for the

Happenstance StoryCompetition 2009.

This life is dreams and vapours,Empty spaces filled with holes.

The only solid truthIs that there is no truth at all.

All men are mostly water,All the women shift like sand.They meet on moonlit shores,

Talk in whispers,Holding hands.

Building futures out of nothing,Turning vapours into love.Perhaps there's room for one more dream

If it proves pure enough.

I want to leave no footprints,Leave no traces of the muddy pain I feel.

My heart has been inflated,Been deflated till it’s thin

And stretches,Saggy,

Like an old balloonRefusing to give up and disappear.

I want to leave no footprints,Float about an inch above the ground instead.

More ghostlike still,Less likely to trip upAnd land face forward

In the dirt of all I’ve doneAnd all I’ve said.

I want to leave no footprints,Leave no trail of tear-stained hopes

In place of dew.I’d walk upon my hands

If sweaty fingers could disguiseThe blood,The rage,The bile.

My only soap and cleanliness is you.

I want to leave no footprintsTill I’ve scraped and scrubbed

The bottom of my feet,To make them newAnd wholesome.

Fit for planting on the ground,Once more belonging

And at peace.

Shad

ed

Pigeon

OccasionalPromoter (Nick

Harper, TheNight Before),sometime CD designer(Steve Smith, Rosie Eade),infrequent photographer,frustrated web designer,budding magazine designer,poster maker, flyer creatorand general good egg... Allthings dim are at dimspace.net,and the nightbefore.org.uk

The Wall

1. So this is how the end began.Strange how readily it crumbledWhen it took so long to build,And how at the most difficult stepPeople didn't falter - they ran.

But the barbed wire around the brainTakes longer to coil away.And the walls not only keep you inThey also keep you out.

Freedom is a two way streetWith one lane permanently under repair.So bar the door, liebchen, beforeThe barbarians descend.

2. That castle was built on the edge of the seaOut where the weather and the tide ran wild and free.Stout and tall, solid and plain, glorious and grim.A castle to last, oh a thousand years,For people to live within.But the tide turned and the wild wavesCame pounding in once more,Proud walls crumbled and the sand grain wallsBecame the beach again.

3. Vote, they said, you owe it to us, make your choice.Vote they said, you must be counted, use your voice.Vote they did, and to their surpriseTheir voice became the choice.

4. This was the place we went to prayTo get down on our knees and thankThe good Lord that the Russian tanksHad stopped where they did that day.This was the place we held up highTo show our young where ideas lead you

When the State demands a higher due

Than the rights of you or I.

5. Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

That they might not have died in vain.

Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

So that we might all try again.

Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

And their sacrifice we hold so dear.

Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

For the tide is turning and gone's the fear.

Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

Satisfy their one last plea.

Bring back the dead, bring back the dead,

So they'll know the Folk are free.

6. So this is how it ends.

Bold play begets bad friends.

Envy crawls crawls from behind the walls

And jealousy consumes good trust.

The walls we build that we might de-

fend,

Become barriers upon which we all

depend.

So there's you in your small corner

And I

In mine.

But did you ever dare to think that

so soon

They might combine.

December 19990

On the first anniversary of the

removal of the Berlin Wall.

1959 to 1989.

Jo trained in graphic design atBrighton College of Art in the 60’s& went on to work in advertising.He has always written and waspart of the Mersey Poets group inthe ‘70’s, and appeared on Poetsand Pints a program produced byGranada TV. In the late 80's inDevon he was a member of the PiedPoets group. These days poetry isonly a sporadic occupation. Jotook to computer basedillustration about six years agoand finds a lotof satisfaction in thediscipline of photorealisticillustration.

The Great Grief Swindler

In the fallacious engines of your brain,I espy a swindler of human pain.

Perhaps you are a bedlamite.

For such a cliched opprobrious approach makes medeem you less honourable than a cutthroat.

Only a fiend such as yourself could reclaim themost basal of philosophies and then print themaccredited to your ignominious name.

Another fucking dive!

Sweet salacious embrace syncopated to such acontemptuous pace makes of the fickle fun & folly.As your sanity slipped I kissed your lips so worn ofmelancholy o’er despoliation. Then voracities clawsscrawled a map to perditions great aphotic libation.Fettered but walking in deposit care. It is with fer-vent dolour that this robin must fly.

Tom Hutchinson has enjoyed 24years as a semi autonomous meatpopsicle of questionableneurology. His love of drink &making others laugh has alwaystaken precedence over any realwork ethic however he doeschurn out the odd bit of writinghere & there. Tom lives incentral Exeter with his deadhamster Yuki who’s not much ofa conversationalist & to bequite frank never was.

Laura Quigley's best writing isthe stuff she doesn't want herMum to read. After half a life-time of work and bringing upkids, you'd think that wouldn'tmatter anymore, but unspokentruths accumulate. Based in Ply-mouth, Laura loves writing forperformance, but she's also hadsome success with poetry andshort stories over many years. Her goal for this year is to make enough money to get the shower fixed. And a holiday would bewonderful.

QueenslandHer twisted hands tell stories

of mangrove mornings -mud-skipping, shrimping.

Our picnic ripening onthe Sun-baked park,

barren but for children.

Burning roads scorched plimsolls

beneath unrelenting skiesalive with women’s choir.

At our step, locusts swirledlike brittle echoes of those voices

rising to the unforgiving Sun.

We pedalled on until Oonoonba,pulled up short before the bridge.

That snaking river brought

fever nights and mosquitoes;by daybreak, washing lives away:

summer cyclones crashing

cross the railwaythat welded men’s hands

with fiery copper and flaming cane.

She’s moved now,high up on the hill.Deformities of mangrovescleared away toshimmer-blue-sea-view-horizons.

In church, she hides herknotted hands in gloves.She remembers us.Remembers sun-baked picnics.

Shaman awake to the ready,

Freeing another from their slavery,

Away from the emptiness and their need,

Toward enlightenment we shall walk.

And relationship of two,

When one becomes dependant,

If I do; warn me wise.

Step back; no back up,

If I fall, another’s problem I am not.

We do not live in absence of self-hood,

‘Cause we contravene the spirits way,

when each other mirrors,

Teachers we become.

Upon this we do,

A healthy relationship shall bloom.

Is a writer, artist and publisherof Independent Graphic Novels.

He have been drawing andpainting since he was very young.Adam also write and draws comicstrips, self-published under the

name ‘Clown Press’ as well asproducing work for Insomnia

Publications and Heske’s Horror.He is currently writing a series

of short stories based in aprison called HMP Temeraire,, andwill soon be working on a larger

graphic novel forInsomnia called

‘Conway’ written bySean Michael

Wilsonwww.adamgrose.com

carlylightfoot

.

Carly lives in Exeter. She hashad poems published inmagazines including Agenda,Broadsheet, Monkey Kettle andthe Rialto.

The suns silk nightgown is moth-eaten,

brazen flesh peeping through. I know it

outside-in; every stitch, every seam,

and hemline horizon viewed

until my eyes are sore, when it

finally drifts to the floor.

I lay like a stone on the seabed,

the duvets cold waves trying to hammer out

my imperfections as she, having endured

three movies to avoid looking at me, sleeps

soundly; snoring along flight paths that flame

through my ears and crash at my brain,

coughing as if possessed by some devilish dog

terrorising those who approach.

My body is like clay dug eagerly

then discarded by the sculptor,

even my malleable spine is ashamed

of the mouth that told her I love her.

Arranging the swollen stars in my mind,

I compose the dreams Ill never have.

Contributions to:exeterreflections@googlemail.com

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Cover photographs By Dim

All work is the copyrightof the authors and artists

Dave Marsdinat thenightbefore

www.dimspace.net

EditorSteve Smith

Sub-EditorVicky Franklin

Magazine-design

ReflectionsPublished by Steve Smith/Reflections Magazine

© 2009 Steve Smith

Website thenightbefore

www.thenightbefore.org.uk

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