Canvas II by canvaszinecambridge

CANVAS

I S S U E II

[Cover art by Caitlin van Bommel]

Foreward This collection of work is diverse in both theme and genre. Rich and impressionistic paintings by Caitlin van Bommel, our cover artist, jar brilliantly against perceptive – at times sombre – greyscale photography by Scarlett Ryan. Marta Wolny’s energetic Reaching Water combines senstive existentialism with pure, animalistic absurdity: Thomas Gilhooley and Nadya Mirynova construct episodes that offer and withdraw allusion and narrative clarity, whilst Alexandra Jarvis deftly distorts tonal boundaries between short story, journalism, and autobiography. It’s especailly exciting to have broadened the reach of the publication to the hill colleges neighbouring Fitzwilliam and beyond: indeed, our vision for future issues is to display and curate the widest possible range of art and writing, whilst remaining aware of the need to showcase the rich creative atmosphere around the hill colleges. We’d like to extend our gratitude to all of our contributors for allowing us to produce such a varied collection of high-quality art and literature. In order of appearance, our thanks to: Caitlin van Bommel, Jack Heath, Domi Pila, Scarlett Ryan, Alex Jarvis, Thomas Gilhooley, Szilvi Daczo, Ama Otuo, Claudia Vyvyan, Delilah Dennet, Marta Wolny, Robert Barker, Saul Barrett, Nadya Mirynova, Tabitha Awre, Thalia Witherford, Sasha Chown, Elisa Mahmood, and Anna O’Boyle. We’d also like to offer special thanks to the Fitzwilliam Literary Society – especially Hero Chalmers and Subha Mukurji–for their continual and invaluable support of the publication. We hope you enjoy reading the issue. Will Randell, Head of Editorial

Contents 24/11/63 ~ by Jack Heath ........................................................................... 1 Daughter ~by Domi Pila ......................................................................... 2 Are You Looking At Me? ~by Scarlett Ryan ........................................... 1-2 Foreign Familiarity ~ by Alexandra Jarvis ............................................... 3 Photograph by Scarlett Ryan ......................................................................6 Photograph by Scarlett Ryan ......................................................................7 Eating Art by ~ Thomas Gilhooley ........................................................... 7 Painting by Szilvi Daczo ............................................................................. 11 So Soon ~ by Ama Otuo ............................................................................. 12 Two Rooms ~ by Claudia Vyvan ............................................................... 13 Little Amal’s Big Walk ~ by Subha Mukherji ........................................... 15 Photograph by Alexandra Jarvis ................................................................21 Meditations #5 ~ by Delilah Dennet .........................................................22 Reaching Water ~ by Marta Wolny ........................................................... 23 Sponge ~ by Saul Barrett ............................................................................ 24 Photograph by Robert Barker .................................................................... 24 Dionysiac ~ by Delilah Dennet ................................................................. 25 Photograph by Szilvi Daczo ....................................................................... 26 Power and Paradox ~ by Nadya Mirynova .............................................. 27 Curves ~ by Scarlett Ryan .......................................................................... 27 The Rewrite ~ by Tabitha Awre ................................................................. 30 Painting by Caitlin van Bommel ............................................................... 31 Copper O ~ by Thalia Witherford .............................................................32 Painting by ~ Catlin van Bommel ............................................................. 33 “Untitled” ~ by Sasha Chown .................................................................... 34 Blue Light ~ by Delilah Dennet ................................................................. 35 The Mind in Watercolur ~ by Elisa Mahmood ........................................35 Fisherman ~ by Anna O’Boyle .................................................................. 36 Subjunction ~ by Jack Heath ......................................................................37 Photograph by Scarlett Ryan ......................................................................38 Agape ~ by Delilah Dennet ....................................................................... 38 Photograph ~ by Robert Barker ................................................................ 39 II

CANVAS II 2022

III

24/11/63 by Jack Heath Somewhere along the banks of the Lyme You can spot, beneath the trees, A little pile of dirt raised just above The water flowing past each side. It is small. It is barely an island, Carpeted with brown fuzz-moss And mushrooms, the occasional birch And every now and then, a tweeting creature Because no walking animal can cross the flow. It stands, leaning against the tide (An island of itself) Pushing past the current, Forgetting What goes behind.

Daughter by Domi Pila Today I grew old and sick of the world, I slept in late. She howled by the window like an insect, for God’s sake I had taught her to care, to see the hair light up on my wrist at dawn, to need me there and miss me when alone. I knew enough to take her slim finger in my own and send her to a darkness more like peace.

Foreign Familiarity by Alexandra Jarvis

Alexandra Jarvis

Complete and utter change – the kind that usually terrifies me. Every point of reference I once had to calm down and bring me back to myself having gone, I almost cry with relief when I realise Spotify can reach me in the pastel, wind-swept streets of St Petersburg. I have to seek out new music all the same, forcing new playlists from songs I skip through, forging memories from lyrics I don’t know, to avoid dwelling too much on this time last year, and how quickly time flies. After a while, I have to return to the earlier songs, overplaying them until I’m once again numb. Some are soft in how they remind me of a time before my current, harried reality, when I didn’t feel, some days, like I was holding onto my own body by a thin, fraying thread. Some lyrics take me back to that summer, those moments dropped in the wide expanse of being locked down, locked in. The surety of returning to a college and people that still knew who I was, the reams of diary paper I covered with the same circular thoughts. The trip was taken swiftly, abruptly, down to the sea to look after a house left alone too long. It was just my mother, my sister and I; when there, I rose early because of the thin curtains – this was back when such things annoyed me. I would make coffee for us all and then sit, feet tucked under a cushion against the chill of the sitting room in the early morning, trying to start the medieval French reading that would come to define the year ahead. I wrote in my diary, moments that I have yet to read over again, but I know they’re waiting for me, wrapped in the streaks of bleak Cornish morning sun, Florence and the Machine songs that I put on my mother’s phone, and the bitter taste of black coffee that I was trying to get used to. Feeling like I was still a child, readying myself for the big world that I didn’t yet understand, while simultaneously grappling with the very real realisation that I was moving my way swiftly through supposedly the best years of my life. Coming off the back of a relationship, again a failure, dealing with the bitter sting of regret and irritation, mingling with the sadness at finishing a long series with my mother, and the long evenings listening to songs like these on the sofa, the Shloer on the table the only remnant of my childhood – the bottles I would share with my sister at New Years’ now lying together, forgotten. I realise that it would have been worse to not have had these moments. Living through them, I felt like I was wasting my time trapped in one place, but now I have to hope I don’t soon forget those evenings and mornings and hushed conversations in the fickle lighting. Other songs are harsher in what they bring, punctuated by bright lights in the dark of the nights they define. My family and I, slipping out of the Brighton hotel to get a final look at the pier before we wake up tomorrow in the grim daylight 3

Foreign Familiarity

and have to leave the city one final time. The neon lights, the arcade, the teenagers slinking back and forth along the seafront; the whirring of the carnival in the night; us, standing on the rotting planks over the foaming water below. My father, ever terrified of heights, prefers it at night; for some reason when he can’t see the drop, he isn’t afraid. I remind him that the water is still there, but he replies that it’s different now, and asks me not to talk about it. Think of all the pennies, instead, suspended over the waves at the pier; the decades that they have been pushed back and forth amongst assorted plastic with MADE IN CHINA ©1989 inscribed in the bottom. The blistering lights push back the darkness, the screams from the pistons mingle with the looped sounds from the haunted house and melt into the night. We go on the Waltzer, a hangover from the fairs that populate the town of my father’s childhood. My siblings and mother refuse to go on; we have just eaten, to be fair to them, but I agree anyway, buzzing with excitement – both my own, and that of my father. We buy our overpriced tickets and go and sit in the compartment. I love it, the lurching in my stomach, the instant we begin to move. I feel like I might throw up from about half-way through. It keeps going, Boney M playing on the tinny, all-consuming speakers in the background. My father loves it; this is the happiest I’ve seen him in a while. He tells me that I can now say I’ve ridden a relic of the 80s, that this is exactly what the 80s were like. All cranking machinery and blaring music and lights and the teenage self of my father, riding over and over in a cycle that pushes me to dizziness. It makes me sad in ways I can’t actually pin down; my mother tells me I’m too sweet for my own good. I take lots of photos of the four of them as we walk back down the pier, new shoes chewing my ankles, the rising fear of returning home and the future to be dealt with seeping into my chest and throat. These new songs are just that – new. No impressions or traces except what I’m creating by currently listening to them as I’m curled on a torn leather sofa in a windowless Soviet kitchen, the creak of the flat above and the trundling washing machine in the corner my only other companions. I don’t know what I’ll think of when I hear them again. I’m not homesick, for the first time in my life. This is surprising. I tried to revel in it, but I didn’t notice the rising tide of petty annoyances and irritation that came instead. I feel like I’m back in freshers’ week, dealing with the constant socialising and strange sensation that I’m going to miss out, while simultaneously wanting nothing more than to make the most of my good blankets and double bed, though constructed uncomfortably of two singles. I did the thing I told myself I wouldn’t – that sickening moment of convincing yourself you’ve fallen for someone, the brief flashes of feeling enough to make up 4

Alexandra Jarvis

sensation of frustration, which is becoming second nature to me in this city that seems to be populated by uninterested people who have too many places to be. Maybe this is all that’s ever going to happen; I have to catch the brief moments before my attempt to be frank ruins the whole thing, running a finger over wet paint with unearned confidence and having to deal with the unintelligible mess that remains. I return to it again and again, having to talk myself out of my problems – I realise – just as much as I talk myself into them. I hope I remember this, too. That sweet taste left on my tongue and lips, before it began to sting and go sour; the burning lines left around my waist, the hand in my own; the anticipation of an evening going exactly as planned; brief concern at being able to see everything laid out chronologically, inevitably before me. All of these are still so foreign to me that, for a moment, my unintelligible mass of strange songs and the Russian I now speak feels normal.

Scarlett Ryan

Eating Art by Thomas Gilhooley

A rich man was just finishing off a rich dish of pigeon. He wore an exquisite, tapestry-textured suit which draped to reveal scenes of blooming roses, fresh pools of water, and deer in comfortable strides. Enthroned on his cool-leather couch his mind wandered to business. He had, over the years, amassed an empire of art galleries and marketing agencies – a profitable fusion of art and commerce. The names of these various companies were plucked from the realm of mythology. Goddesses and gods becoming synonymous with sweat shop produced trainers and faux-leather belts in the mind of the consumer. Behind him was a bookshelf. The bleach-white plastic held each book anxiously. All were of the same genre: self-help books. Their fun and electric covers, with their title and colours, was nauseatingly vibrant and positive. The rest of the room’s furniture was this same bleach-white colour. The dead skin which flaked from his body seemed to dissolve when they landed. It achieved that sought-after “modern style” look where it gave the illusion as if no one even lived there. Feeling drowsy after having devoured the pigeon, spare the bones, he slumbered on the sofa and thought about the meetings of the day ahead. A door swung open

Eating Art

which startled him. Reality broke in by the form of a maid. His eyes watched her aproned front. An odd uniform, yet one he insisted the harem of cleaners on wearing. Deciding to be generous, for he knew he was a generous man, he said ‘why don’t you take this splendid afternoon off ’. And with an awkwardness he finalized this proposition with a sickly ‘dear’. Oh how the maid scuttled in desperation to retrieve a few precious minutes. How splendidly “splendid” had rolled off his eloquent tongue! With such a power he could surely never be bored. Surely this is the bliss of the self-made man. Wielding in his frail hands time itself. To gift and snatch it at a whim. His most recent purchase was a portrait which hung majestically in this room. It depicted an arrogant looking woman carrying a subtle smirk. She was a lady who had seen thousands of faces in many places. Her eyes returned the gaze of all those in the gallery who confronted her. Therefore, she had that strange, curious half-smile, not presenting any sensuality, but instead something more powerful – knowledge. Their eyes locked – flesh met oil. An awful pang hit him in that moment. It was hunger. How tedious! Hunger had brought him back to life, back to his own revolting corporeality. Then, oddly, the lady seemed to have beckoned him. He had this urge to eat the painting, to tear it with his teeth and gulp down every piquant shred. Looking around in a daze he noticed they were alone, entombed in the central dining-room of his labyrinth-like mansion. The lady was also open. No glass protected her smirking visage or teasingly, slightly exposed breasts. No hideous hoard of photographers sapped her picture with snapping cameras. It was only him and her, life and art, consumer and consumed. Who would know? Who could prevent it? It was in his private collection after all. The painting could even be considered a healthy meal by modern dietary standards – a dose of learning, culture and calories in one. He shrewdly kept from vocalising these thoughts, concealing them from the lady’s nonchalant yet interrogative eyes just in case she was alive enough to hear. She had just spoken after all. The vermillion-haemoglobic pigment which tinted the cheeks and smirking lips was so tempting. He was drooling, stupidly, in front of this forbidden fruit. His cravings were overbearing, it would have to be devoured, digested, and enjoyed. Only that could end this madness. He ravished the painting. Clasping jaws fitted awkwardly around her cadaver. The painted flesh began to taste of moist meat in his mouth. Stubborn chucks of 8

Thomas Gilhooley

of ripped canvas rested between his gapped teeth. Strands of raven hair began to bind between each tooth – who knew hair could be so moreish? Hot blood began to percolate from his trembling lips, quivering because of his ravenous state. This blood seemed to be a regression back to the vermillion paints original state on the artist’s palate. His tongue’s palate seeped up those deliciously varied colours, which had combined in the painting so realistically, soothing each of his tongue’s scattered pores. His unkempt nails tore the lady’s dress apart, revealing more piquant flesh. Warm breasts protruded, unseen until his eyes. Gradually they were gnawed down to awful concave shapes of fatty tissue. The lady now looked like some mutilated anatomical doll. Her lips no longer smiled, for she had none left. Her eyes no longer gazed, for they had been swallowed whole. He knelt in front of the decimated canvas like some mad worshiper. All that was left of the painting was a few remnant shards at the edges. The taste of them were bitter, for they depicted the background, so he left them alone, like you would do with some left over bones. He looked mad. He felt mad. But he also felt a wave of triumph and satisfaction. The leer of the lady superimposed onto his own lips. Facial contours stretched, mechanically, like under the impression of some invisible artist’s brush, or palette-knife. The lips obeyed the image he had just delectably consumed. Panic set in. He had just eaten a Renaissance masterpiece. The original thing itself. Was it a crime? Would he be jailed. Surely there wasn’t a law against this? Anyway, the only evidence left – that of the woman’s body – had been cannibalistically devoured. Even her teeth were travelling down to his gullet right this moment and that would prevent tracking via dental records. He turned to the rest of his collection, scattered around the room and beyond. Hunger still pulsed through him. All his mind could focus on was art and devouring it. It’s all he could eat now. He was of a certain class after all, so he demanded specific meals. Unquenched, like Tantalus, he crawled to his other paintings and sculptures. They all looked so appealing, so relishing. But would he ever be satisfied? Could he really eat the whole of his collection? Would he just buy more and more at auction until he had eaten the whole history of Renaissance art? What then … pastoral landscapes? A wonderful idea crossed his mind – reproductions. Darting over to his desk he rummaged through scattered papers. Ah, he had found one, a wonderful, printed copy of the painting he had just eaten. Ha! She was still smirking! Just bringing it to his mouth, nausea washed over him. The thought of putting it in his mouth revolted him. It would be like swallowing an aborted foetus. He instantly knew 9

Eating Art

why. A man of his class could not debase himself to eating a reproduction! His dish would have to be of a higher, bespoke quality – an original. He screwed up the copy and tossed it in the bin. Returning to his main collection his eyes fell upon the hollowed-out, dilapidated portrait. Could he really eat the rest? Could there not be some mysterious poisonous pigment lurking in a depicted face or a waterlily? Could he really eat Jesus on the cross? In one way it was but a more spiritual transubstantiation. But the blasphemy! What utter iconoclasm that would be! He felt like St. Sebastian, pinned up to the tree with piercing arrows, held up on display to the voyeur with the same instrument of his torture. So the gift had turned to a curse. He had eaten the food of the gods and now could eat no others… With this realisation a laugh, or a shriek slipped from his paint-stained lips. It was so horrible it is surprising that the maid, just leaving the threshold of the back door of the mansion, did not hear it. * A scalpel lovingly cut open the stomach of a dead man lain down on a clinically clean table. Strange, mysterious objects had been salvaged from this wizened body. The autopsy had caused quite a sensation with many doctors forming a gazing ring around the dissection table. A tattered coat looking like a faded, moth-molested tapestry was all that was found on him. It was secured in a transparent plastic bag on the side table. With no clue to the his name, they called him Magpie. Cleaned down, they realised the objects were severed limbs of sculptures. The sharp fingers of one had ripped the body internally. The leading doctor searched the ancient body with gloved hands He noticed the paint caked around the inside of Magpie’s grotesquely over-grown nails. Pulling back the purple lips the veneered teeth were painted too. The doctor’s eyes darted back to the sculpted parts in knowing horror. Yet with this realisation a slow smirk began to work itself across his own lips. All the other doctors still attended the body, their hands and tools over it like flies and their maggots. Stood behind this crowd he spoke with pride: ‘Magpie has eaten a painting and a sculpture’. The rest of the doctors spun round with dumbfounded expressions, astonished like statues themselves. The doctor resounded, now with increased assuredness: ‘The man has eaten art’. 10

Thomas Gilhooley

All returned to the womb-like opening of the body which had birthed these artworks. A junior doctor mumbled: ‘Yet how many? How much art? These colours under his nails… They are the palette of Van Gogh! And this statue, this statue … I have seen it before in a gallery … This is utter insanity. This was heard but to no instant reply. All edged forward, clustering around the body again, like it was a centrepiece in an art gallery.

So soon by Ama Otuo And it all happened so soon: when we were hiding from tomorrow and whispering our wishes to the moon did we know that hello would be our sorrow? The tune of our parting melody hums then rings louder each time we meet and grow closer. I thought you would be my everlasting remedy. How I wish that this time was not over! Heart full of a new found joy and adulation for you who I stumbled upon in the darkness, in which we drowned but now calmly wade through; and our friendship and our love may She so bless. Now we are soon to be apart journeys start, new stories forming: they wait to be engraved on our hearts. I will share mine with you so they last forever; longing For each other. I know that it gets better. And it all happened so soon: One day wishing at the moon and the next day — You were a lifetime away. - a.k.o

Claudia Vyvyan

Two Rooms

by Claudia Vyvyan In a small house, up in the mountains, Where the air is thin and the ascent is traitorous, Stand two solitary rooms, one familiar and warm, The other only caught by reminiscing glimpses Through conspicuous cracks in the walls And the hollowed keyhole hovering below the handle of the door. An immaculate layout, with a hardwood floor, plus Space enough to walk around and experience the monuments, Laden with reminders on placards and various documents, Scattered beneath reinforced glass displaying Concise summaries and rationalised thoughts Of terrible occasions and loosened knots. On your right, an exit sign Having seen the first part, despite the calm, An opportunity is present to retreat unharmed, Without damaging the curated contents of this cultivated chamber With your amber tinged, mobile rage – the sign, It reads ‘no bulls allowed in this china cage’. But if you delay, warming to the why and the wherefore, Understand the significance and want to know more, Quite by accident, in a moment draped in wonderment, You might just end up in the adjoining corridor, Between the two rooms of mayhem and calm, Your curiosity may want to explore, pushing ajar the slightly open door. Muddled, tepid, sandy, and obscure, Disorganised china, cracked and deformed Gathers in corners ladened with hurt, Untouched by reason and on the alert. Gusts of dust wind through legs of tables and arms of chairs, Disturbing clandestine and quiescent thoughts. The tentacles of wind, denting the air, are Rakes of disgust clawing at the costumes 13

Two Rooms

That hang upon ghosts of personalities passed, Never suspected or recalled, only mentioned for contrast Against the pristine of the Sistine-like chapel next door, The masterpiece of sanity effortlessly performed. Once in the room, the temporary walls rise from the floor, Encasing optimism and drowning dreamy eyes As water whirls at the feet of the drawers, Corners of cardboard boxes bleed into black, and Shrieks and sobs can be heard from the back, Leading to quickened breath causing panic attacks. The retreat initiates, starting with a whack To the stomach and a smack To the heart, down your throat intrudes a twisted arm, Desperately reaching, separating your ribs Trying to find a safe space to live Burying vulnerability beneath heaps of heroism. In my small house, up in the mountains, Stand two solitary rooms. I live in one and the other haunts my love, Howling for attention, discussion, or a hug. The violent attack means but a plea, Urgently imploring, look after me.

Little Amal’s Big Walk

by Subha Murkherji

This piece is for little people everywhere, who are drawn to rhyme and to strangers. Amal is a big small person: a giant puppet of a Syrian girl aged 9 who fled Syria and walked through Europe, crossing many borders, looking for her mother, and a home. She has arrived in London this weekend. https://www.goodchance.org.uk/thewalk - 23 October, 2021 Little Amal’s big walk Meet little Amal. She is 9. She had to run away from her home in Syria because Syria was at war. She lost many things. She lost her mother. And her school. And her books. And her toy horse. And a city and a country and a river. She hopes to find her mum and go to school again. Little Amal started walking from Gaziantep and came to the Southbank in London-town today. There, she met War Horse, Joey, who was also lost and sold and trotted and gallopped for miles and miles and is tired from war. He is still looking for his friend Albert, whose horse he was. And she met many many little people like her, just much smaller. Amal needed big legs because she had to walk through many countries and cross many borders. She needed to be tall also because she is looking for her mother, and for a home. Sometimes she walks by night. She needs a long gaze. The world can’t see very far these days. It grew a little taller as it looked up to see all of Amal. Her small friends were bigger than the grown ups because they were sitting on the shoulders of their daddies or held up by their mummies. The grown ups saw her sad face and sang to welcome her. But when the children reached out 16

and touched her, she smiled. Her eyes grew bright. She even came inside. She has an amazing story to tell. It has no ending yet. Everywhere she goes, her story changes and grows. It started in Arabic but now it is braided like her hair: in many tongues and many colours. In words and songs and drums, in the rustle of the leaves and the whistle of the winds. In so many things too: straw, and wire, and woodchips, and paper, and cables. Amal travels light: for she has no things. But if you picked up her story, how much would it weigh? London is making her a little home. And a huge cake, because tomorrow is her birthday party. She is sleeping now. Some of her new friends are not: they are awake in bed, awake with wonder, thinking of her.

Well I never, Did you ever See a person Covered in leather, Steel and wood, With cloth and straw And locks of paper? Who’s so like us And yet so other? Will she play At break of day Or would she rather Wait for her mother? She danced with Joey Is Joey her brother? When rosy dawn Shines warm on the lawn And Joey is risen Out of his cot, Can he give her a ride And go for a trot Till Amal who was cold Can shake off her folds And look from high As the city spreads calm, All warm and bright, Unto the sky? Till hope returns And Amal yearns To make new friends, In English speak, And teach us too What ‘Amal’ means In Arabic. 18

As Joey too Is no more bleak: They whisper whatnots Cheek to cheek. Could he neigh his way Back all the way Till we are back On the river track When breakfast is over? Oh wouldn’t that be clever? We can all then play At break of day For ever and ever. Well, I never, Did you ever…?

Meditations #5 by Delilah Dennett Silver waters, catching beads, gems, Abundant galaxies of light, Bleeding into cut-off corners, Flowing like tresses of hair to meet the unblessed Hole in the ground, that edge Of the universe, the hemisphere, Where black holes, devoid and bald of The facets of meaning, are Struck and gouged by the pin of darkness.

Reaching Water by Marta Wolny Skskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskssksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksk Sksksk sk sk sk sksksksks sk sk sk sk sk sksksksksksksk sksk sk sk sk sk sksk sk Sideways, isn’t that onward, I was born too late to skat! skat! Spontaneous, slightly to the left, Here is my city cattle! Propertied! We landed! Landed! Sksk sk sksksksksksksksksksksksksksksks sk sk skssksksksksksksksksksksksksksk Sk sk sk sk sk sksksksksksksksksksksksksk sksksksksksksks sk sk sk sk sksksk sk Mum has no stomach for crabs nor prayers. Sksksksksksksk sk sk skskskskskskskkskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskskSksksksksksksksksksks sk sk sk sksksksksksksksksk sksk sk sk sk sk sk sksksksksk Because I may have been an arachnid

Sksksksksksks sk sksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksksk ((Whoosh))

Photo by Robert Barker

or an anchorite.

Sponge by Saul Barrett Arise to Clutter And it’s everyone else’s fault. Grab a crusty sponge: Make a fist.

Dionysiac by Delilah Dennett A rash broke upon the sky. The leak Poured out simmering orange pus Drenched with the raging red of blood That smothered the doomed cavity, set above the Pillars of lush land, In a bleached sunset, stitched by pain, Aborted by the beauty of its formation And the way it ripples across the land like waves, Ready to crush the earth. Simmering us in its gentle vengeance As we boil in its glorifying radiance A loveliness crippled by the sky baring its teeth Standing, ready to nourish itself with our awe. Blotches of pink rim the sky, Framing it in its picture-portrait clasp And a caressing blue underscores it with a snarling darkness Opposing the glooming light, sparring with the grounded earth The colours bashed against each other, Failing to untangle from the hues Too dormant, drowning shades in their wake The sky laps up the gorging shadows And spits them out as a jumble of blocked tinted pieces Intensity emerges in its various forms The rainbow loom of sky is now cracked by the whip of lightning bolts Traumatising the blend of colours, Burning, cooking us with the friction of switching To the relentless calm, overly still Traversing from high to low. Sky watching us with a cornfield-blue eye The iris flickering with instability Revealing the mind of a Bipolar Weather Wrecked by its own troubles. All we can do Is watch the sick sky

Szilvi Daczó

Power and Paradox by Nadya Miryanova

An artificial, blazing light illuminated the troops of the commander. They stood motionless, assembled in a precise formation, ready to take action in accordance with their leader’s close instruction. The commander surveyed them carefully from his vantage point, a pair of icy grey eyes scanning the army rows. A subtle sense of disquiet hid beneath his cold exterior, revealed by skittish hand movements, an agitated manner. The mechanical ticking of a clock nearby acted as an ominous reminder that time - that deceptive enigma yet most precious commodity - was running short. Each second brought the men closer to their deadline. Steadily, like each individual movement of the second hand, every man in his troops would be forced to meet his fate. But not the commander. If his task was executed correctly tonight, he would escape his own fate. He would be safe, at least for the time being. Very few had heard of the army the commander had built, even fewer had observed interior operations. His job remained under cover, a clandestine operation shrouded in obscurity. He was no doubt guilty of many crimes, blamed for attempted killings and driving innocent men to their demise. But no one could prove his exit from the zone of legality, not even his superiors. The commander was confident in his forces’ power, for he had previously held the unanimous and conspicuous support of each fighter. They obeyed every order 27

“one of those rare times where the Power and Paradox photo exceeeds the actual scene in beauty”

without hesitation: his wish was their command. These men represented the numbers in his formula for power, the pawns on his large-scale chess-board, ready to be used at his disposal whenever convenient. But for all his hard work and effort, his long nights of careful planning, he received nothing in return. A word of gratitude never passed the lips or minds of his men. They never called him selfish, never blamed him for the deaths that surrounded them; they remained indifferent. The commander knew them inside out - their dispositions, hopes, dreams, and fears. He even became attached to several of their number, but in vain. His troops were wired to obey, not connect. He was merely a booming voice giving them instruction, a manipulator of their words and desires, a leader that could transform them into instruments of power intended to clash in combat. He could only dream of forming any relationship with them. It was silly for anyone to think otherwise. Today, however, was different. His men not only did not notice him, but they stopped obeying him. His efforts to send through clear instructions were not processed. Anger and pain cloaked his troubled mind, as he looked upon them abstaining and refusing to take action. Had he not formed these men as individuals? Had he not brought them their livelihood with the power he assigned to them? Was he not the one who carved their identities from scratch? Everyone knew the answer to that question. Without him, their organiser and supporter, they were nothing. Yet the men continued to stand still. 28

Hassan Raja

Nadya Miryanova

Questions flickered like darts in the commander’s mind, aiming at a point that grew increasingly blurred the more he focused on it. What if he failed? Would his superiors be angry? Disappointed? Furious? He had to take back control. His men were due to reach their ends today. What should he tell them to do? How should he command them to fight? A jarring block had arrived in his creativity of command. His mind was a blank canvas, where all the ideas to paint a solution had washed away. The clock struck midnight, twelve painful strokes, each one reinforcing and mocking his failure. All hope was gone. His task was incomplete. And all the while, the men stood. Very, very still. After several moments of intense thought, the commander was forced to give in. The emotional toll of those who had died the previous night had become too much. It had stopped him from giving cohesive instruction. Now was not the time for anyone else to run to their finish line. The commander had grown exhausted by his efforts and the brightness of the light - once a source of comfort - had converted into an oppressive glare in the darkness of the night. For now, he could not continue. So he stopped ordering. He could not do this job any longer. He was not strong enough. Had his power lost its legitimacy? Had he not inflicted enough damage as it was? These people were indifferent to his existence anyway. So finally, after a long night of intense thought, the man put down his pen. Turned off the lamp. The author would have to finish this chapter of the book tomorrow, it was too painful and far too late to kill off the characters anyway. The literary battlefield would have to be abandoned, at least for the time being. Hopefully the writer’s block would disappear in time and his editor wouldn’t be too angry at him for missing the deadline.

The Rewrite by Tabitha Awre Maybe you can be my muse Grinning in that empty seat Magnified teeth in the end of the scotch glass you laughed and downed neat Foamed upper lip from a Guinness I’ve decided you are holding Instead Hazy in my moulding Perhaps it was all a ruse Perhaps it was all a ruse The words I translated from behind your glasses Black beetle eyes shouldn’t be attractive I wrote them in speech bubbles And added the occasional alack alas A lot of the time you were quiet Don’t worry I won’t try it Maybe you should be my muse Maybe you should be my muse Because I don’t know that solid form Anymore it isn’t breaking down my door To tell me I love me it’s ebbing a storm of something Its 3D anticlimax doesn’t fit Your outline No charcoal sweeps in it Perhaps you were all a ruse Perhaps I’ll let you choose Whether to keep the mustard tops Or have you forever in the tartan Sat in a bath or walking a dog you have now but don’t You are allowed props I think To show you’re not in the pillow side of my head But here and hurting with the bones in your elbows, the keyring in your leg Pocket or else you were all a ruse

Caitlin van Bommel

Copper O by Thalia Witherford Oh sinking Sun This copper O Bear me upon you To a place where things grow To a new light to run through These soot infused veins Let it bear me upwards To a place where things grow No Copper O Please tell this new world That I wanted to let go But I guess I knew That to let go is to give away And I want him to stay with me Till the end of all my days Its so unforgiveable So easily forgiven Let me steal his lyrics Use them to build my kingdom Maybe you can rule it And have all that he is If all that his memory is Was bricks under my feet I would tread carefully A feather dancers toe But then if I gave him to you I won’t remember I won’t know.

Caitlin van Bommel

Untitled by Sasha Chow isn’t it strange that half of us who walk this earth must feel it is our prison desperately we try to bloom towards the light only to shrivel back to the shadows trapped in a cage of glass i try to understand why it is that something so arbitrary can decide who is allowed to speak succeed want something better and walk home from the bus stop without fear once upon a time it must have been agreed that the half of the world who bear swords should be the winners while the rest seemingly hollowed out husks of humans must always lose at this game of life ladders falling short snakes biting

Blue light, You blaze too hard for summer’s wooden eye Screaming and scanning the horizons at high Depths, swigging the day’s cursed scarring sight Before falling to the floor in the settling dusk Blue light, Why should I pity drunks who imbibe the night Sawing the evensong with seething, tight Throbs of colour, sullying right From the yellow and pureness of wrong Blue light, There you stand on the evening rise Of shifting colours sifting dark from the bright Belonging to the good but settled and shy, For the sake of burning with a shine we can only squint at Blue light, Smoking in the canopy of sunset lies Blithe and hurting the pale skin of sky Whilst cold nipped lungs choke turquoise-rippled sighs Sheltering yourself from the good of your tilting breath – Upset, but barely biting the cold back spine That blue light shattered into glass stone night.

Blue Light by Delilah Dennett

Fisherman by Anna O’Boyle Gulls gliding screaming, Shrieks like wedding dress rags. It ticked over to 5:35 and the gulls screamed I had missed the moment. It was blue but too pale, too pale. The gulls told me I’d missed the moment. They dived right in, it splashed and upwards rose and the water went darker. Small stone in hand, cold like cubic zirconia in a ring, Throw it to fuck them off. Entry into it lined with ice you’d slip and you’d dive right deep, but it wouldn’t go dark for you. Return and all there is is every stone from which a ring could cut. Field of diamonds on the shore You see the gulls taste and they tell you how it feels and in familiarity it fucks you. It is always the way. Tomorrow. Ten years. It will always be the way.

Subjunction by Jack Heath "Twelfth night we go After something everyone should know Somewhere in the distance out of sight... Then I saw: gin mill rainfall What do you remember if at all Only pieces of the night..." Pieces of the Night, Gin Blossoms, 1992. I think about the boy in the sports hall Doing his GCSE exams in the rustling silence Of pens and paper and thoughts Streaming to the rafters And I think about his certain-uncertain future Of certain-uncertain certain destiny (looking back, I mean, and knowing it has to happen) And thinking of and through nostalgia Through and of being that young And that ignorant of the future And thinking of a certain-uncertain certain destiny That included his mother dying And certain songs from the 90s In their utter beauty, their utter nostalgia Helping him to sleep at night Or help him write his essays in the university That less than a handful of people Who ever sat in that sports hall Ever got into. What distance I have. I want to hold him, I want to tell him it’ll be okay Even when I’m still not now.

by Scarlett Ryan

Agape by Delilah Dennet And although we are now ended, now full stopped ~ Although my dear heart contends it, we throbbed With another kind of whistling love Instead of admiring one another from the cove Of secret looks and wishes Mimicking eyes and moonlit kisses, Flickering nows that in moments past composed us And will stay forever still even as we grace to dust, Instead of letting my arms feel your full weight and mind Embracing the loins of your kin and kind, I must treat you from afar with your portrait in my eye For me to remember you by.

Photo by Robert Barker

The Canvas Editorial Team

Currently writing and studying in St Petersburg – so excited about this edition, our superb team have been working hard on bringing it to life. –Alex Jarvis

Currently reading English, final year. Reading and discussing the published pieces this term has been so exciting, can’t wait for our readers to enjoy them!–Caterina Bregoli

I’m a second year studying English at Fitz. Love being apart of the Canvas team and excited to see the zine grow! –Scarlett Ryan

Being a book- and magazine-lover, I am thrilled to have now contributed some of my own readings as an editor. –Szilvi Daczo

I’m a finalist reading English at Fitzwilliam. This issue has had some amazing work; I’m pleased to have helped in its curation.

Currently working on a variety of poetry whilst reading English at Fitz. Selecting and editing the work in this issue has been a pleasure: I’m excited to see more unique submissions soon.

It has been a privilege to work on the poetry selections for Canvas II – a welcome distraction from term-work which I hope brings comfort and challenge alike!