issue 11 by Rebecca Sheppard

Issue 11, June 2010

www.dur.ac.uk/grove

ENGLISH WRITING • EVENTS COVERAGE RELIGIOUS TEXTS SPECIAL • STUDENT WRITING

THE TEAM’S PAGE Welcome to the eleventh issue of The Grove! Exams are now over, the summer is here and what better way to enjoy your freedom than with a selection of creative writing from Durham’s foremost literary journal. This issue includes the usual sections of English Language, Translations and Student Writing, and our Events feature covers the recent success of the Durham Mystery plays, with special extracts from the medieval dramas. We also have the special theme of ‘religious texts’ for the Centrefold section this issue with extracts and commentaries on major and minor religious scripture. If you are interested in writing for either the student section or the Centrefold contact us at grove@dur.ac.uk. Our website will be completely redesigned later this month so be sure to visit www.dur.ac.uk/grove, where you can sign up to our mailing list and remain informed on current developments regarding the journal. Finally, this issue of The Grove sees the departure of several members of the team and the exciting prospect of new leadership! Those departing members would like to say a big thank you for the interest and support that the journal has received since its creation. We’ve certainly come a long way since day one and we hope that such support continues for the new team into next year. So why not come down and celebrate this issue, and all the change, ‘at our launch party on Tuesday 22nd June at Cellar Door from 8pm in conjunction with Mostly Harmless, Clarinet (with added Snake) and Critique. The event takes place at the Cellar Door and includes live readings, music and a DJ set. Be sure to join us for another memorable night and in the meantime enjoy the content. All the best for the summer! The (Old and New) Grove Team! An Editor’s Thanks It barely seems like a month since Max and I were running around Durham trying to staple four pieces of paper together and vaguely pass it off as a literary journal, but in reality it was over two years ago! Now I like to think that The Grove has progressed to a more professional method of production and this owes a lot to the interest and support we have received along the way. I would like to say a big thank you to everyone who has been involved with our efforts and especially the readers, who have received The Grove so well. It’s sad to say goodbye to our little journal but I know we’re leaving it in capable hands and I wish the new team all the best for the future. I’m sure they’ll continue bringing you a great read. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay... Thanks once again, Chris.

CONTENTS ENGLISH WRITING

EVENTS

Excerpt from Summer by Edith Wharton “Gooseberry Season” by Simon Armitage “Sally’s Hair” by John Koethe Excerpt from That Time by Samuel Beckett

page 4 5 6 7

“Durham Mysteries 2010” by Denise Kinsinger “The Ressurection” “swansea bay openin scene” by Sean Burn “Sunken Treasure” by Kathleen Kenny “asylum seeker” by Gillian Allnut Gillian Allnutt Interview “Snow” by Mohamed Bade Mohamoud

TRANSLATIONS “The Old People” by Jacques Brel “Our brothers’ graves” by Vladimr Vysotsky “The Paper Soldier” by Bulat Okudzhava “Sonar” by Judith Holofernes “Piazza dei 500” by Boika Esteban

9 11 12 12 13

STUDENT WRITING “Ashton Lane” by Alison Boyd “Poetry Corner” by Hannah Juby “Dining Table” by Josh Turner “Sharer No 9” by Joel Kelly “Meditations on Audrey Hepburn” by Joshua Dixon “Lumiere” by Kate Hutchings “The Widow MacKay” by Matthew Griffiths “Tre Righe” or “Three Lines” by Michele F. Fontefrancesco “Watching” by Reeta Humalajoki “Glacier” by Sarah Trotter “Symbols” by Sophie Clarke

CENTREFOLD Excerpt from Twentieth Surah Two Zen kōans from The Gateless Gate A Sumerian exorcism incantation Excerpt from The Cloud of Unknowing “Invitation to the Thirsty “ “Vivo” by Leo Sokolov

27 28 28 29 30 31 33

16 18 19 21 22 24

THE GROVE TEAM ARE Editors-in-Chief: Maxime Dargaud-Fons and Emily Chester; Senior Editor: Chris Hogg; Deputy Editor: Lyndsey Fineran; Acting Editor: Steve Hopkinson; Deputy Acting Editors: Ettie Holland and Sasha Magill; Section Editors: Chris Wright, Sophie Caldecott, John Clegg, Becca Sheppard, Kate Hutchings and Alexis Grigorieff Sub-Editors: Jamie Baxter, Kate Broderick, Emma Charles, Denise Kinsinger, Alex Mason, Astha Sharma-Pokharel, Jess Sorah, Louis Stievenard and Lorna Urwin.

34 34 35 35 36 37 37 38 38 39 40

ENGLISH WRITING This issue of The Grove brings you an English section with a distinctly summery feel. Recommendation for reading: find a sunshiney nook in the Botanical Gardens or other appropriate green space, kick off your shoes, and treat yourself to an ice-cream. Enjoy! EDITH WHARTON

Excerpt from Summer The hours of the Hatchard Memorial librarian were from three to five; and Charity Royall’s sense of duty usually kept her at her desk until nearly half-past four. But she had never perceived that any practical advantage thereby accrued either to North Dormer or to herself; and she had no scruple in decreeing, when it suited her, that the library should close an hour earlier. A few minutes after Mr. Harney’s departure she formed this decision, put away her lace, fastened the shutters, and turned the key in the door of the temple of knowledge. The street upon which she emerged was still empty: and after glancing up and down it she began to walk toward her house. But instead of entering she passed on, turned into a field-path and mounted to a pasture on the hillside. She let down the bars of the gate, followed a trail along the crumbling wall of the pasture, and walked on till she reached a knoll where a clump of larches shook out their fresh tassels to the wind. There she lay down on the slope, tossed off her hat and hid her face in the grass. She was blind and insensible to many things, and dimly knew it; but to all that was light and air, perfume and colour, every drop of blood in her responded. She loved the roughness of the dry mountain grass under her palms, the smell of the thyme into which she crushed her face, the fingering of the wind in her hair and through her cotton blouse, and the creak of the larches as they swayed to it. She often climbed up the hill and lay there alone for the mere pleasure of feeling the wind and of rubbing her cheeks in the grass. Generally at such times she did not think of anything, but lay immersed in an inarticulate well-being. Today the sense of well-being was intensified by her joy at escaping from the library. She liked well enough to have a friend drop in and talk to her when she was on duty, but she hated to be bothered about books. How could she remember where they were, when they were so seldom asked for? Orma Fry occasionally took out a novel, and her brother Ben was fond of what he called “jography”, and of books relating to trade and bookkeeping; but no one else asked for anything except, at intervals, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”, or “Opening of a Chestnut Burr”, or Longfellow. She had these under her hand, and could have found them in the dark; but unexpected demands came so 4

ENGLISH WRITING

Simon Armitage

rarely that they exasperated her like an injustice... She had liked the young man’s looks, and his short-sighted eyes, and his odd way of speaking, that was abrupt yet soft, just as his hands were sun-burnt and sinewy, yet with smooth nails like a woman’s. His hair was sunburnt-looking too, or rather the colour of bracken after frost; his eyes grey, with the appealing look of the shortsighted, his smile shy yet confident, as if he knew lots of things she had never dreamed of, and yet wouldn’t for the world have had her feel his superiority. But she did feel it, and liked the feeling; for it was new to her. Poor and ignorant as she was, and knew herself to be–humblest of the humble even in North Dormer, where to come from the Mountain was the worst disgrace–yet in her narrow world she had always ruled. It was partly, of course, owing to the fact that lawyer Royall was “the biggest man in North Dormer”; so much too big for it, in fact, that outsiders, who didn’t know, always wondered how it held him. In spite of everything–and in spite even of Miss Hatchard–lawyer Royall ruled in North Dormer; and Charity ruled in lawyer Royall’s house. She had never put it to herself in those terms; but she knew her power, knew what it was made of, and hated it. Confusedly, the young man in the library had made her feel for the first time what might be the sweetness of dependence. She sat up, brushed the bits of grass from her hair, and looked down on the house where she held sway. It stood just below her, cheerless and untended, its faded red front divided from the road by a “yard” with a path bordered by gooseberry bushes, a stone well overgrown with traveller’s joy, and a sickly Crimson Rambler tied to a fanshaped support, which Mr. Royall had once brought up from Hepburn to please her. Behind the house a bit of uneven ground with clothes-lines strung across it stretched up to a dry wall, and beyond the wall a patch of corn and a few rows of potatoes strayed vaguely into the adjoining wilderness of rock and fern... SIMON ARMITAGE

Gooseberry Season Which reminds me. He appeared at noon, asking for water. He’d walked from town after losing his job, leaving me a note for his wife and his brother and locking his dog in the coal bunker. We made him a bed and he slept till Monday. A week went by and he hung up his coat. Then a month, and not a stroke of work, a word of thanks, a farthing of rent or a sign of him leaving. One evening he mentioned a recipe 5

Simon Armitage

ENGLISH WRITING

for smooth, seedless gooseberry sorbet but by then I was tired of him: taking pocket money from my boy at cards, sucking up to my wife and on his last night sizing up my daughter. He was smoking my pipe as we stirred his supper. Where does the hand become the wrist? Where does the neck become the shoulder? The watershed and then the weight, whatever turns up and tips us over that razor’s edge between something and nothing, between one and the other. I could have told him this but didn’t bother. We ran him a bath and held him under, dried him off and dressed him and loaded him into the back of the pick-up. Then we drove without headlights to the county boundary, dropped the tailgate, and after my boy had been through his pockets we dragged him like a mattress across the meadow and on the count of four threw him over the border. This is not general knowledge, except in gooseberry season, which reminds me, and at the table I have been known to raise an eyebrow, or scoop the sorbet into five equal portions, for the hell of it. I mention this for a good reason. JOHN KOETHE

Sally’s Hair It’s like living in a light bulb, with the leaves Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin, transparent glass Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day, a canopy Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass.

ENGLISH WRITING

Samuel Beckett

I took the train back from Poughkeepsie to New York And in the Port Authority, there at the Suburban Transit window, She asked, “Is this the bus to Princeton?”—which it was. “Do you know Geoffrey Love?” I said I did. She had the blondest hair, Which fell across her shoulders, and a dress of almost phosphorescent blue. She liked Ayn Rand. We went down to the Village for a drink, Where I contrived to miss the last bus to New Jersey, and at 3 a.m. we Walked around and found a cheap hotel I hadn’t enough money for And fooled around on its dilapidated couch. An early morning bus (She’d come to see her brother), dinner plans and missed connections And a message on his door about the Jersey shore. Next day A summer dormitory room, my roommates gone: “Are you,” she asked, “A hedonist?” I guessed so. Then she had to catch her plane. Sally—Sally Roche. She called that night from Florida, And then I never heard from her again. I wonder where she is now, Who she is now. That was thirty-seven years ago. And I’m too old to be surprised again. The days are open, Life conceals no depths, no mysteries, the sky is everywhere, The leaves are all ablaze with light, the blond light Of a summer afternoon that made me think again of Sally’s hair. SAMUEL BECKETT

Excerpt from That Time Curtain. Stage in darkness. Fade up to LISTENER’S FACE about 10 feet above stage level midstage off centre. Old white face, long flaring white hair as if seen from above outspread. Voices A B C are his own coming to him from both sides and above. They modulate back and forth without any break in general flow except where silence indicated. See note. Silence 7 seconds. LISTENER’S EYES are open. His breath audible, slow and regular. A: that time you went back that last time to look was the ruin still there where you hid as a child when was that [Eyes close.] grey day took the eleven to the end of the line and on from there no no trams then all gone long ago that time you went back to look was the ruin still there where you hid as a child that last time not a 7

Samuel Beckett

ENGLISH WRITING

tram left in the place only the old rails when was that C: when you went in out of the rain always winter then always raining that time in the Portrait Gallery in off the street out of the cold and rain slipped in when no one was looking and through the rooms shivering and dripping till you found a seat marble slab and sat down to rest and dry off and on to hell out of there when was that B: on the stone together in the sun on the stone at the edge of the little wood and as far as eye could see the wheat turning yellow vowing every now and then you loved each other just a murmur not touching or anything of that nature you one end of the stone she the other long low stone like millstone no looks just there on the stone in the sun with the little wood behind gazing at the wheat or eyes closed all still no sign of life not a soul abroad no sound A: straight off the ferry and up with the nightbag to the high street neither right nor left not a curse for the old scenes the old names straight up the rise from the wharf to the high street and there not a wire to be seen only the old rails all rust when was that was your mother ah for Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sake all gone long ago that time you went back that last time to look was the ruin still there where you hid as a child someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s folly C: was your mother ah for Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sake all gone long ago all dust the lot you the last huddled up on the slab in the old green greatcoat with your arms round you whose else hugging you for a bit of warmth to dry off and on to hell out of there and on to the next not a living soul in the place only yourself and the odd attendant drowsing around in his felt shufflers not a sound to be heard only every now and then a shuffle of felt drawing near then dying away B: all still just the leaves and ears and you too still on the stone in a daze no sound not a word only every now and then to vow you loved each other just a murmur one thing could ever bring tears till they dried up altogether that thought when it came up among the others floated up that scene

TRANSLATIONS Happy holidays! Fittingly, this section is, as always abroad (at least in spirit), and we’ve got the music for you. Fair enough, Alexis was only abroad as in Scotland and most of this shouldn’t be danced to. All the same, it is interesting to see these without the music - though you should also check out the songs on our playlist at www.youtube.com/thegrovetunes. There are different ways of translating represented here, and for the first time ever all of these translations are the work of Durham students! Building on this, the section will be offering more contents around a similar theme with maximum student involvement... next year! JACQUES BREL (Translated by Alexis Grigorieff from French)

The Old People Old people no longer talk, Or when they do, it’s only with the corner of their eyes. Even rich, they are poor, They don’t have any illusions left And only have one heart for two. Their homes smell of thyme, of clean, Of lavender and quaint phrases. Though you may live in Paris, You always live in the sticks When you live for too long. Is it from having laughed too much That you can hear their voices crack When they talk about yesterday? And from having cried too much That tears keep pearling from their eyes? And if they somewhat tremble, Is it because they see The silver clock growing old, Purring in the parlour Saying yes, saying no, Saying, I’m waiting for you.

Jacques Brel

TRANSLATIONS

Old people no longer dream, Their books fall asleep, They keep their pianos closed, The little cat is dead, And the Sunday wine will never Make them sing again. Old people no longer move, Their gestures are too wrinkled, Their whole world is too small From the bed to the window, Then, from the bed to the armchair, And then, from the bed to the bed. And if they still go out, Arm in arm, dressed in stiffness, It’s only to follow In the sun, the funeral Of some older man, Of some uglier woman. And for the time of a sob, Forget just for one hour That silver clock which keeps Purring in the parlour, Saying yes, saying no, And waiting for them. Old people do not die. They fall asleep one day And just sleep for too long. They hold each other’s hand, They fear to lose one another And yet, can’t help it. And the other one stays there, The better or the worse, The meek or the mean, It doesn’t matter: The one who stays behind Will find himself in hell. 10

TRANSLATIONS Maybe you’ll see him, Or even see her, In rain and in sorrow, Walking through the present, Already apologizing For not being farther gone. And flee before you, One last time, the silver clock Purring in the parlour, Saying yes, saying no, Telling them, I’m waiting for you. Purring in the parlour Saying yes, saying no, While waiting for us all. VLADIMR VYSOTSKY (Translated by Alexis Grigorieff from Russian)

Our brothers’ graves There are no crosses on the graves of our brothers, over which their mourning widows could cry. To honour their memory, strangers bring flowers; for them, we will light an eternal fire. Here, the land which used to be wounded and bleeding is now covered with stelas of granite. Here, individual fates don’t mean anything: to form one common fate, they all unite. In the eternal flame, we see the burning tank, Russian houses that are still smouldering, the smouldering Smolensk, the Reichstag caught in flames, and the soldier’s heart forever burning. You won’t see grieving widows on our brothers’ graves. No! The people who come here are tougher. There aren’t any crosses on our brothers’ graves, but does that make it any easier? 11

Vladimr Vysotsky

Bulat Okudzhava

TRANSLATIONS

BULAT OKUDZHAVA (Translated by Aliocha L from Russian)

The Paper Soldier There once was a soldier, handsome and bravebut he was just some child’s toy, a paper soldier. He wanted to change the world, make everyone happybut he himself is a puppet on string, a paper soldier. He’d be glad to rush into fire, smoke and death for youbut you make fun of him, the paper soldier. You wouldn’t trust him with your precious secretsbut why? but why! because he’s just... a paper soldier. He cursed his fate, his uneventful lifeand begged ‘the fire, the fire’, forgetting... the paper soldier. To the fire? What? Off you go then! He’s gone, steps forward suddenly burns into ashes, just there. He was just a paper soldier. JUDITH HOLOFERNES (Translated by Ann-Marie Einhaus from German)

Sonar Keep still The bed is a raft and I want to be out at sea come cut it loose and see liquid lead below grey 12

TRANSLATIONS shadows float past so slowly Stars and water And in between, we Come let us swim with the big fishes I see you heart Your sonar Beats waves in the sea I see you heart A little red won’t hurt long I see your heart Don’t stop yet I hang on your every word I see your heart I know we go Deeper below Down here Dust swirls dances glittering We sink blissful and dumb waiting and quietly circle the shadows narrowing BOIKA ESTEBAN (Translated by Emile Fanon from Italian)

Piazza dei 500 Chorus: But don’t you understand, oh gangs of idiots That the patriots are the Abyssinians? But don’t you understand, oh gangs of idiots That the patriots are the Abyssinians? But don’t you understand, don’t you understand But don’t you understand, oh gangs of idiots That the patriots, that the patriots That the patriots are the Abyssinians? Rebellion The quote with which I intend to bring to your attention 13

Boika Esteban

Bokia Esteban

TRANSLATIONS

My way of rethinking the Nation These are verses written on the occasion Of the negation of self-determination When even Italy claimed its place under the sun Given that Berlin decreed the Great Scramble. By mantling it as a mission of civilization It sustained projects of tough and real colonization Rebellion Against the plan of martyrization Which not only made the killed become heroes but it almost proposed to raise among The founding fathers The 500 of the royal soldiers Defeated by the Habeshia It was needed to build the Italians And Dogali was the solution A trait in common for the next generations But thanks to you, Mr Barbieri, we can today break off their plans Chorus Before of the anonymous soldier, of any Rhetoric The rhetoric of the government was the same of the coster-monger The usual strategy aimed at hiding the putrid, the unsellable With these words Andrea Costa from the Parliament proposed The first motion against the re-funding of the mission Neither one man nor a penny Neither even our sustainment For any time you will be asking for our slap against the efforts Of the people who fought with the dream of unifying us in their pockets In 1887 and then again a couple of times Among the few if not the only he has clearly been the most powerful voice In seeing Ras Alula and Menelik as others But similar to people like Garibaldi and that kind of generation Along the way there will be a lot of massacres After De Pretis and Crispi there will be a lot of massacres Whom the fascists will make because of that principle Which since Dogali onwards, alas, were kept firm, oh gangs of idiots Chorus 14

TRANSLATIONS

Boika Esteban

As the jump of the tiger in the past History it is as the archive To make raising the untold, the forgotten, What it is happened Left tracks in you, it explains partially the why You are like this now As the jump of the tiger in the Past History it as the archive To make raising the untold, the forgotten, What it is happened Left tracks in you, it explains partially the why You are like this now Piazza dei 500 I am proposing a change Costa and Barbieri for a new feeling of the Nation with the new peoples black skin but Italians in the new millennium Piazza dei 500 that moment has come give a new sense to the renewal not only by connecting places and times but re-writing the Risorgimento Note: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Piazza dei 500â&#x20AC;? is a project of redefinition of a national identity, based on the myth of its colonial history. In his song, the author reconsiders the Italian attempt to conquer Abyssinia - the former African kingdom that ruled over the actual Ethiopia and Eritrea - at the end of XIXth century in the light of the works and words by a politician, Andrea Costa, and a poet, Ulisse Barbieri, who actively oppose to the military campaign at that time. The recognition of the Abyssiniansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; right of self-determination serves to extend to them with the same form of human right that the colonizers claim for themselves. - Michele F. Fontefrancesco

CENTREFOLD The reason people care about religious texts is nothing to do with their value as literature, but that’s as good a reason as any to read them. In these eight extracts from religious traditions past and present, you’ll find acres of the same qualities that make anything worth reading: strong images, good stories, ancient wisdom, tall tales and unbelievable lies. Some religious texts are more difficult to read than others, so each of the ones we’ve excerpted and presented here comes with a commentary helping the modern reader get over potential difficulties. I hope you enjoy this whirlwind tour through some fine religious institutions past and present. ISLAM

Excerpt from Twentieth Surah 020.002 We have not sent down the Qur’an to thee to be an occasion for thy distress, 020.003 But only as an admonition to those who fear God,020.004 A revelation from Him Who created the earth and the heavens on high. 020.005 God Most Gracious is firmly established on the throne of authority. 020.006 To Him belongs what is in the heavens and on earth, and all between them, and all beneath the soil. 020.007 If thou pronounce the word aloud, it is no matter: for verily He knoweth what is secret and what is yet more hidden. 020.008 God! there is no god but He! To Him belong the most Beautiful Names. 020.009 Has the story of Moses reached thee? 020.010 Behold, he saw a fire: So he said to his family, “Tarry ye; I perceive a fire; perhaps I can bring you from there some burning brand, or find some guidance at the fire.” 020.011 But when he came to the fire, a voice was heard: “O Moses! 020.012 “Verily I am thy Lord! therefore (in My presence) put off thy shoes: thou art in the sacred valley Tuwa. 020.013 “I have chosen thee: listen, then, to the inspiration (sent to thee). 020.014 “Verily, I am God: There is no god but I: So serve thou Me (only), and establish regular prayer for celebrating My praise. 020.015 “Verily the Hour is coming - My design is to keep it hidden - for every soul to receive its reward by the measure of its Endeavour. 020.016 “Therefore let not such as believe not therein but follow their own lusts, divert thee therefrom, lest thou perish!” 020.017 “And what is that in thy right hand, O Moses?” 020.018 He said, “It is my rod: on it I lean; with it I beat down fodder for my flocks; and in it I find other uses.” 020.019 (God) said, “Throw it, O Moses!” 16

CENTREFOLD

Islam Commentary

020.020 He threw it, and behold! It was a snake, active in motion. 020.021 (God) said, “Seize it, and fear not: We shall return it at once to its former condition.” COMMENTARY (By Mohammed Ilyas) ‘Quran’ means ‘recitation’, because Allah (God) recited the whole of the Quran to the Prophet Muhammad, and he copied it down. This means that a translation of the Quran is not the Quran itself, and most Muslims try to read it in the original Arabic at some point in their lives to experience the poetry of its language and not simply its ‘message’. The chapters of the Quran are called the Surahs, and there are 114 of them in total. They are divided into verses called ‘ayat’, which means ‘signs’, because as I have said Muslims believe that each verse was revealed to the Holy Prophet as a sign from Allah. This extract from the Quran is from Surah 20, named Ta Ha because these are the two Arabic letters it begins with. The Surah opens, like many Surahs, with some verses about the magnificence of Allah, and goes on to tell the story of Moses, which may surprise people who thought that Moses was only a character in the Bible! I chose this extract to illustrate the fact that the Bible and the Quran have in common many characters and stories. For example, we also believe in Jesus, although in the Islamic tradition he was a very important prophet and not the son of God. The other reason I chose this Surah is because it makes very clear that Muslims and other cultures can live in harmony: Allah says that his plan is hidden, and that Muslims should not be worried about unbelievers. A lot of Surahs come with another story about how they were revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. Here is a story for this one, from Syed Maududi’s commentary: when Hadrat Umar set out to kill the Holy Prophet, he met a certain person, who said, “Before you do anything else, you should know that your own sister and brother-inlaw have embraced Islam.” Hearing this, he directly went to the house of his sister. There he found his sister, Fatimah, and his brother-in-law, Said bin Zaid, learning the contents of a scroll from Khabbab bin Art. When Fatimah saw him coming she hid the scroll at once, but Hadrat Umar had heard the recital, so he began to interrogate them about it. Then he began to thrash his brother-in-law, and wounded his sister, who tried to protect him. At last both of them confessed, “We have become Muslims; you may do whatever you like.” As Hadrat Umar was moved to see blood running down from her head, he said, “Show me the thing you were reading.” The sister asked him to promise on oath that he would not tear it, and added, “You cannot touch it unless you have a bath.” And Hadrat Umar was so impressed by the scroll that he converted to Islam on that same day. 17

Zen Buddhism

CENTREFOLD

ZEN BUDDHISM

Two Zen kōans from The Gateless Gate Tokusan Holds His Bowl Tokusan went to the dining room from the meditation hall holding his bowl. Seppo was on duty cooking. When he met Tokusan he said: “The dinner drum is not yet beaten. Where are you going with your bowl?” So Tokusan returned to his room. Seppo told Ganto about this. Ganto said: “Old Tokusan did not understand the ultimate truth.” Tokusan heard of this remark and asked Ganto to come to him. “I have heard,” he said, “you are not approving my Zen.” Ganto admitted this indirectly. Tokusan said nothing. The next day Tokusan delivered an entirely different kind of lecture to the monks. Ganto laughed and clapped his hands, saying: “I see our old man understands the ultimate truth indeed. None in China can surpass him.” Mumon’s Comment: Speaking about ultimate truth, both Ganto and Tokusan did not even dream it. After all, they are dummies. Whoever understands the first truth Should understand the ultimate truth. The last and first, Are they not the same?

Not the Wind, Not the Flag Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said: “The flag is moving.” The other said: “The wind is moving.” The sixth patriach happened to be passing by. He told them: “Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving.’” Mumon’s Comment: The sixth patriach said: “The wind is not moving, the flag is not moving. Mind is moving.” What did he mean? If you understand this intimately, you will see the two monks there trying to buy iron and gaining gold. The sixth patriach could not bear to see those two dull heads, so he made such a bargain. Wind, flag, mind moves. The same understanding. When the mouth opens All are wrong. 18

CENTREFOLD

Sumerian Mythology

COMMENTARY (By Daniel Hearing) Zen kōans might sound very alien and unfamiliar, but in fact one of them has almost proverbial status in English: ‘what is the sound of one hand clapping?’ A lot of them at first seem to be unanswerable questions of this sort, but in fact they can be answered, just not in a rational manner. The story is designed to shock those who hear it into a different way of thinking more in line with Zen precepts of intuition and emptying. A kōan can be used as a focal point for meditation; because it resists rational categorisation it is possible to concentrate very intently on it for a long period of time. Many collections of kōans come with additional commentary on the stories. The two presented here are from a kōan collection called The Gateless Gate, compiled in the thirteenth century by a Chinese Zen master called Wumen or Mumon. (Mumon is his Japanese name.) Mumon has added his own commentaries to all the stories he collects: sometimes, as in the first example, sarcastic or disparaging, other times (as in the second example) admiring. Each kōan is also accompanied by a four-line poem which offers additional insight into the story, or sometimes subverts it completely. Zen teaching originates with Bodidharma, who wanted to create a tradition which would ‘stand outside words’. Kōans achieve this; not by standing outside words themselves, but by gesturing towards something outside of them. If this can be grasped, in Zen tradition it is the beginning of enlightenment (many kōans end with the set phrase ‘in that moment he became enlightened’). Finally, if the second kōan presented here sounds familiar, it is because a very similar teaching is offered to Neo by that creepy kid in The Matrix. Zen Buddhism may seem unfamiliar, but it is tied much more closely to our heritage than we necessarily realise. SUMERIAN MYTHOLOGY

A Sumerian exorcism incantation (4000-3000 BC) They are let loose, they screech above, they twitter below. They are the poisonous gall of the gods. They are a great storm released in heaven. They are the owl which hoots in the city. They are spawned in heaven, they are children born of earth. On high roofs and broad roofs, they whirl like a flood. They are not held back either by door or bolt, but they slither through the door like a snake. They carry off the wife from the husband’s lap, 19

Sumerian Mythology

CENTREFOLD

they remove the son from the father’s knee, they take the bridegroom from the father-in-law’s house. The watchmen (demons) pursue anything created in the Netherworld, the seed of An. The form is that which, like heavens, the hand cannot approach, and to obliterate their form is to destroy the likes of a mountain. Whatever demon of the highway, whatever demon of the crossroad, when you go towards him alone, as you go towards him [on your own], may [Ninurta, man] of the weapon, confront (?)... They are the Seven, they are the Seven, they are the Seven (in) the source of the Abzu, the seven are his adornments. They came out of the [source] of Abzu, from the sanctuary. [Neither] male nor female, they flit about. They have [no spouse], they bear no child. They do not know [the result] of what they do, nor do they listen to [prayer or supplication]. They are [the horses] who came out of the mountain. Causing disturbance, they stir up a storm in the street, as they go around in the thoroughfare. They...are crawling around like a snake, and they sniff at the base of the wall like a mongoose. Together with a murderous dog, they observe (every)thing. COMMENTARY (By John Clegg) Greek and Roman mythology is very familiar to us: as well as films like (the godawful) Clash of the Titans, it is bound up in everyday expressions: “between a rock and a hard place”, for instance. Ancient Near Eastern mythology is much less well known: the only text at all familiar to anyone in the West is Gilgamesh, and even that is much less popular than the Iliad or the Aeneid. The fragment presented above is a translation of an exorcist’s tablet describing seven rather sinister demons known as the Udug-Hul. It is one of the earliest religious texts because it is one of the earliest texts full stop; the Sumerians, who lived in what is now Iraq, are generally agreed to have been the first civilisation to develop writing. Their mythology involves vast pantheons of gods and demons, each with their own 20

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Negative Theology

rites and rituals to either invoke or control them. Obviously, these texts have not survived in perfect condition. They were written on clay tablets which survived only by chance and are now extremely fragmented, and much of the text presented above (especially the bits in square brackets) are educated guesses rather than faithful transcriptions. Still, what impresses me about passages like this – and why I enjoy reading them – is how literary they are, how concerned with vivid images (‘a great storm released in heaven’, ‘horses which came out of the mountain’). As far as I’m concerned they are beautiful pieces of literature which deserve to be read aloud; if there’s no such thing as an Udug-Hul, you’ll hear a piece of great poetry, and if they actually exist then reading this will swiftly dispatch them back to the Netherworld. It’s better to be safe than sorry. NEGATIVE THEOLOGY

Excerpt from The Crowd of Unknowing Look up now, weike wreche, and see what thou arte. What arte thou, and what hast thou deserved thus to be clepid of oure Lorde? What veri wrechid herte and sleping in sleuthe is that, the whiche is not waknid with the drawght of this love and the voise of this cleping? Bewar now, wreche, in this while with thin enemye; and holde thee never the holier ne the beter for the worthines of this cleping and for the singuler fourme of levyng that thou art in; bot the more wrechid and cursid, bot yif thou do that in thee is goodly, bi grace and bi counsel, to lyve after thi cleping. And insomochel thou schuldest be more meek and lovyng to thi goostly spouse, that He, that is the Almighty God, King of kynges and Lorde of lordes, wolde meek Hym so lowe unto thee, and amonges alle the flok of scheep, so graciously wolde chese thee to be one of His speciales, and sithen set thee in the stede of pasture, where thou maist be fed with the swetnes of His love, in erles of thin heritage, the kingdome of heven. Do on than, I preie thee, fast. Look now forwardes, and lat be bacwardes. And see what thee faileth, and not what thou haste: for that is the rediest getyng and keping of meeknes. Alle thi liif now behoveth algates to stonde in desire, yif thou schalt profite in degré of perfeccion. This desire behoveth algates be wrought in thi wille bi the honde of Almighti God and thi consent. Bot oo thing I telle thee: He is a gelous lover and suffreth no felawschip, and Him list not worche in thi wille bot yif He be only with thee bi Hymself. He asketh none helpe, bot only thiself. He wil thou do bot loke on Hym and late Him alone. And kepe thou the windowes and the dore for flies and enemies assailyng. And yif thou be willy to do this, thee thar bot meekly put apon Him with preier, and sone wil He help thee. Put on than: lat see how thou berest thee. He is ful redy, and doth bot abideth thee. Bot what schalt thou do, and how schalt thou put? 21

Negative Theology Commentary

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COMMENTARY (By Angela Foligno) The Cloud of Unknowing does not look like an easy read – medieval or ‘middle’ English looks so different to modern English that it might be another language. But this disappears when the words are read aloud, simply as they’re spelt on the page: ‘weike wreche’ becomes ‘weak wretch’ straightaway, and the rest of the passage falls into place almost as quickly. But why is it worth the trouble in the first place to read a complicated work of medieval theology, not even in English, especially on such a beautiful day when the sun is shining, exams have finished and the beer garden in the Elm Tree is beckoning? The answer is that, far more than many modern books, it has something new and important to tell us about God: in fact, it offers a system of belief far closer to what many people believe today than more conventional interpretations of Christianity or other religions. Most of the population of the UK believes in God while having a rather vague notion of what ‘God’ actually consists of: certainly they do not follow all the complicated (and contradictory) moral codes set down in the Bible. Negative theology attempts to describe God, as the name suggests, in negative terms: not negative in the sense of insulting, like ‘dickhead’, but in terms of what cannot be said about him. God is so entirely ‘other’ we cannot hope to describe Her; all we can try for is a description of what She isn’t. God, if she exists, is beyond the limits of human reason, and all we can do is stand back in awe. This is the message of The Cloud of Unknowing: in a world of fundamentalism and terror (and all fundamentalisms amount to a series of strong positive claims about God), it is a message which is worth taking seriously. Angela Foligno is studying for a PhD in medieval theology. CHRISTIANITY

Invitation to the Thirsty (Isaiah 55:1-13) 1. “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. 2. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. 3. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live. I will make an everlasting covenant with you, my faithful love promised to David. 4. See, I have made him a witness to the peoples, a leader and commander of the peoples. 22

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Christianity Commentary

5. Surely you will summon nations you know not, and nations that do not know you will hasten to you, because of the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, for he has endowed you with splendor.” 6. Seek the LORD while he may be found;  call on him while he is near. 7. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts.  Let him turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on him, and to our God, for he will freely pardon. 8. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. 9. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways   and my thoughts than your thoughts. 10. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it   without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, 11. So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. 12. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. 13. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.   This will be for the LORD’s renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed.”

COMMENTARY (By Jocie Slepyan) The passage above comes from the book of Isaiah, found in the Old Testament. It can be daunting to read the prophets of the Bible: they are full of warnings and usually have a good bit to say about sin and restoration. But at a closer glance, the prophets have a lot to say to us today. There are 16 books of the prophets in the Bible, and they all generally follow the same model, to call Israel to repentence for her sins and injustice, and to speak God’s redemption. The cyclical theme of all the prophets throughout Israel’s history was that God called the people to live apart and for him and he would bless them. In response, the people would be fine for a while and then fall away into their own greed and oppression, and God would send a prophet to call them back. Isaiah is considered the foremost prophet; with the longest of the prophetic books in Bible, he was of aristocratic lineage but focused on how Israel was oppressing her poor and falling away from God. The second half of the book has beautiful passages of restoration and most explicitly describes the person and 23

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actions of the coming redeemer or christ who would atone for the people. It would seem, then, that Isaiah was writing specifically for the people of Israel in about 750 B.C. But as we look at the wording, there is a timeless invitation to all to come to God. But let’s look at the passage we have in front of us. The opening lines tell us that whoever is thirsty may come; all that is required is an awareness of need, no other effort or money is required. Isaiah is leveling the ground; this isn’t an exclusive invite for the nation of Israel, but rather an open offer to any man with a sense of need. Need of what? Isaiah spends his first 30 chapters discussing Israel’s injustices and sins, and he has stressed that being God’s covenant people won’t get them off the hook. But it’s not in turning to redemptive good deeds that Isaiah invites his audience, but invites them back into relationship with God and into His “faithful love.” This is the ‘need’, the bread that satisfies, the rest from labour. Having spoken of their actions, Isaiah turns to appeal to their hearts and deeper longings. We all have felt the frustration of expecting food or entertainment to satisfy and the maddening realization that it’s not enough. Under the physical hunger lies a soul hunger that we can only distract ourselves from for so long. Isaiah asks his listeners to turn to what is effective in God’s mercy and word and to experience restoration and the peace that comes with it. Isaiah used the imagery of bread and wine to satisfy spiritual hunger, a theme that Jesus picks up and makes concrete in the New Testament. Their messages coincide as an invitation to turn to a deeper nourishment in relationship with God. BRAZILIAN SPIRITUALISM

Vivo If we love life, then let us spark With vitality, like embers of a living forge. But, If we indulge in thoughts of death, Shame on us, for we have died before. Wherever it exists, life affects the universe: Stars shimmer; flowers smell fragrant; Worms slither through the soil; The wind blows; Rocks harden with pride; Water percolates into chasms; Thunder roars; Lightning flashes through the night; 24

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Brazilian Spiritualism Commentary

And the dawn greets the waking earth, Ready to work and furrow the fields. How can you just go to sleep, give up on life and Harbour dark thoughts of annihilation? Would you want it to be your foolish brother? To be nothing would be terrible. Look around at the Earth, at infinite Space. Instead of being meek, you could be better. You could be great in Creation’s vast majesty. Great like everything divine! You are a son of the highest Father, There is no need for misery at all. If you love the Father, Life lies ahead. You are a human; live as one. Death is nowhere: Everywhere is life. COMMENTARY (By Jake Pentland) I chose to translate this poem, titled Vivo (life) in Esperanto, because its background and the very language it is written in overlap with the section’s theme. Originally written by Leo Sokolov, a Brazilian Spiritualist, during an Esperantospiritualist séance in 1960, the poem was allegedly ‘received’ in Esperanto during this séance and was published as an original piece of Esperanto-language poetry in an anthology called ‘la mediuma poemaro’ (the medium’s poetry anthology). Esperanto itself was created in 1887 by Zamenhof, a Jew living in Tsarist Russia, who proposed, as an antidote to the racial hatred, ethnic divisions and anti-semitism, which he experienced every day, a neutral, relatively simple and logical language, which could be used to allow people from different backgrounds to speak as people and not as Russians, Brazilians, Germans etc, without having to compromise or replace any existing cultures. Although lacking in support, this language captured the imaginations of several idealists and idealistic movements, in this case the Brazilian Spiritualist movement. Indeed both Brazilian Spiritualism and Esperanto as a movement aim for world peace and want to escape the limits set by ‘nationalism and egoistic collectivism’ 25

Brazilian Spiritualism Commentary

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to unite the world in global fraternity without losing its rich diversity. Brazilian Spiritualism has a deterministic belief in karma and reincarnation, a moralistic code based on Jesus Christ and the Ten Commandments as well as a very intimate notion of contacting the spiritual world, this unusual marriage of language and faith could occur. The poem itself is fairly simplistic in that there is no great opposition here, no great struggle, no powerful imagery (It may be worth noting that the original poem, which I am unfortunately not skillful enough to translate very well and had to structurally reincarnate, had a standard format of iambic pentameters with perhaps coincidental rhymes) and that it perhaps would not be considered great. All the same, it might be considered representative of individual and collective attempts to come to terms with religious concepts which do not necessarily satisfy themselves with a given orthodoxy but reach out for their own path. Maybe I like this poem because I have been inspired by certain Brazilians, maybe because of the eccentricity: a random penfriend, a transexual american wiccan sent me this book to celebrate Zamenhof ’s birthday; the author of this poem may or may not have written it in a spiritual setting, and seems completely incognito, or maybe it’s a primal urge to nature: he basically tells us to stop worrying and love God, the universe and everything that’s in it. ...aŭ eble mi tro simplas por kompreni!

EVENTS This term, Durham’s cultural scene has been fighting a sustained battle against the onslaught of examinations, and, yes, its rewards were reaped in exhilarating style. This issue brings you an exclusive interview with renowned poet Gillian Allnutt, whose recent publication, The Galloping Stone, offers collaboration with clients, staff and volunteers at the Medical Foundation for the Care of the Victims of Torture. We also have a selection of poetry from Sean Burn and Kathleen Kenny, who recently read at the Colpitts Poetry evening, as well as coverage of the Durham Mystery Plays. Enjoy! DENISE KINSINGER

Durham Mysteries 2010: Mingling the Modern and the Medieval From Thursday 27 May to Saturday 29 May 2010, Durham City hosted a modern recreation of a medieval mystery play cycle. Durham Gala Theatre’s Simon Stallworthy was creative director for the project. With the help of ten of the best theatrical producers in the United Kingdom—among them David Almond and Ian McMillan —Stallworthy set out to create a feast of light and sound centred around ten mystery plays that are believed to have been part of the Durham cycle. These ten plays (some with modern re-titling) included The Fall of Lucifer, The Fall of Creation, God’s Day Off, Cain & Abel, Noah and the Fludd, Abraham and Isaac, The Nativity, The Miracle of Lazarus, The Crucifixion, and The Harrowing of Hell. While remaining true to the original storylines of the medieval storylines, Stallworthy chose to give the 2010 mysteries a vigorous modern twist to increase the plays’ relevance to contemporary audiences. For example, for the play The Fall of Creation which was performed in Durham Cathedral, resembled a modern day musical with its singing actors and elaborate light show. Similarly, Cain and Abel (performed at The Sands) appealed to modern audiences through spectacle, incorporating rap, street poetry, dance, and graffiti. The directors of Durham Mysteries did an excellent job of appealing to the sensibilities of both medieval scholars and modern audiences. The plays were both educational and entertaining. And if you missed the Durham Mysteries this time around, never fear. They will return to Durham in 2013.

The Durham Mystery Plays

EVENTS

THE DURHAM MYSTERY PLAYS

“The Resurrection”: Townley Play 26 (465-488) The soldiers appointed to guard Jesus’s tomb discover that he is gone. 1st Soldier 2nd Soldier 4th Soldier 2nd Soldier 1st Soldier 4th Soldier 3rd Soldier 4th Soldier 1st Soldier 2nd Soldier 3rd Soldier

Alas, what shall I do this day, Since this traitor is won away? And safely, sirs, I dare well say He rose alone. Wits Sir Pilate of this affray We mon be slain. Wot ye well he rose indeed? I saw myself when that he yede. When that he stirred out of the stead None could it ken. Alas! Hard hap was on my head Among all men. Yea, but wit Sir Pilate of this deed, That we were sleeping when he yede, We mon forfeit, withouten dread, All that we have. We must make lies, for that is need Ourselves to save. That rede I well, so might I go. And I assent thereto also. A thousand shall I say and mo, Well armed each one, Came and took his corpse us fro, Had us near slain.

SEAN BURN

“swansea bay openin scene” from Cutter granda swansea bay, ma wee bright star, swansea bay. wat do we see ma angel? cutter cartwheels on. ribbons in hair. a child. cutter a butterfly dancin on autumn sand

EVENTS

Kathleen Kenny

granda 2 halves a cockleshell kissin cutter ... look a cowrie. a cowrie granda, a cowrie granda in the caribbean wen i was a lad – cowries the size ov yr hand. here, coldwater make ‘em small so small ma wee star cutter & another cowrie, granda. & another & another! granda wee miracles like yu ... wat else? cutter the feel ov sand between ma toes its like ... a song! granda smell the sea! taste its beauty, little ’un. cutter the song ov stars & shingle & surf & gulls. granda music ov this, our kingdom ov the invisible. look: a watch with no batteries. the tickin ov waves. soon we’ll need to find out the time cutter & coal granda. coal. see? wat yu dug 4 granda wat we dug 4 aye ... till the wheels stopped. mountains black with the seam. & men: their faces black as yu as me cutter grit & grime / & granda / remember this: they say coal is dirty, but it burns, burns bright, burns with a fierce fierce flame. crushed 4 millions ov years but still it remembers; see here cutter leaves! trunk! roots! granda dreamin from where it came. remember that child - no matter wat others say, no matter wat they call yu - coal is beautiful, precious, black. contains the memory ov its beginnins. & crushed, it contains power unimagined cutter diamonds granda aye ma bright star. diamonds. a perfect splittin ov light; its brilliant blade has a cuttin power beyond imaginin. never forget child. never forget cutter never granda. i wont ever forget

KATHLEEN KENNY

Sunken Treasure When they find it years from now it will still be leaking effervescent spew. 29

Kathleen Kenny

EVENTS

Nuclear green will still be flashing under curious fish, seaweed and algae; two gangrened hearts throbbing embattled and fused into one writhing energy. A spume of old magnificence, nothing will kill it, this love glowing still within the metal casket contained within the trunk that waves and grunts under the sea. And in the murk a love knot calved in walnut that will never rot. And under that a warning: Atomic! And then a faded word, and then: End of the World. Do not touch. GILLIAN ALLNUTT

asylum seeker awkward, bare as gold as a child for Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sake for the sake of the world 30

EVENTS

Gillian Allnutt Interview

BECCA SHEPPARD INTERVIEWS GILLIAN ALLNUTT What inspired you to become involved with the project at the Medical Foundation? Well, I saw it advertised as a writing residency. It was New Writing North who got the funding for it and created the project with the Medical Foundation. I applied for it because I’m a bit tired of the world that we live in and the fact that we’ve all had it easy for rather a long time. I wanted to go and work with people without that mindset. So did you present the scheme to the clients didactically, or merely as a viable option in terms of recovery…? I didn’t really present it in any way at all. In Stockton, I just started having conversations with people who were waiting for a session with their counsellor, and seeing in my own mind how it might go writing-wise if they were interested. I mean, it’s very difficult to explain to anybody really why on earth they would want to do some writing when they’d come from the Congo and they’re a hairdresser or a car mechanic. I think the fact that anybody did any writing at all I would count as a success, because I simply didn’t know what was going to happen. Did you ever feel though, that something so aesthetic, and arguably artificial, as creative writing, was unsympathetic to the horrifying nature of torture? I decided not to ask people about their terrible experiences, which were usually of war and torture, and of the journeys that they’d made here. If they decided to talk about it I was very happy to listen, and sometimes their counsellor would tell me something about their story. But I certainly didn’t ask people to write about that. For me, all my life, writing has been the one space where I’m not afraid. When I’m writing I am so absorbed in it that I forget that there’s anything to be fearful of. The project, then, was hopefully to provide them with a little space in their lives, a sort of time out of time, or space outside space, outside of their appalling situation. I can think of three or four examples in the book that are based upon people pretending to be a shard of glass or an ornament, and they use this as a metaphor to describe how what they were originally a part of has been broken. They are, after all, just being broken, bashed about. I think they have put some of their experiences into their writing without realising that that’s what they were doing, and perhaps that’s the value of it. I mean, I know that when I write I have to suspend my disbelief, and then I will write things about myself that I didn’t even know.

Gillian Allnutt Interview

EVENTS

So do you think that the act of writing poetry is a process of externalisation? I think that when you’ve been through a traumatic experience, it gets buried in the unconscious, and you don’t have access to it because it will overwhelm you again. Instead, you can have indirect access to it through writing or painting or music. In this way, it’s not completely locked away from you but it’s a safe way of accessing it if you need to access it, which you do in the end. In your reading, you stated that “The opposite of torture is listening.” On the other hand, though, I was struck by the highly imagistic nature of your poetry. Do you feel that poetry is more integral to the act of listening or perceiving? I think both. I didn’t actually realise how visual my poetry is until I was a client to a therapist myself. I believe in the ‘wounded healer’ theory - in that you can only be a healer in some sense if you’ve been wounded yourself. When I was doing therapy I started drawing pictures from my dreams, and one thing this did was to make me aware of just how visual my poems are – I was amazed! Do you think, then, that one has to have experienced pain to write good poetry? Yes, because pain is an unavoidable part of life, and you can’t write good poetry unless you live deeply and to the full as far as you can. I remember I was doing a residential writing course at a centre in Wales about ten years ago, and the students seemed to be so confident, and articulate, and generally good at everything, and I thought, “I’ve got nothing to give this lot.” But gradually it dawned on me that what was difficult for them was that their parents’ marriages had broken up etc. Yes, I suppose everyone experiences pain, it’s just experienced relatively. But we also don’t value suffering, and that’s absolutely central to my criticism of the world we live in, and why I decided to apply for the Asylum Seeker’s Residency. It’s the lack of spirituality that drives me bonkers, and a spiritual way of life values suffering.

EVENTS MOHAMED BADE MOHAMOUD

Snow Sing for the snow all day and night! Now the snowball fight is the game. Outside the weather is freezing cold. Windows steam up so you can write your name.

Mohamed Bade Mohamoud

STUDENT WRITING Am I flying The Grove’s nest, or is The Grove flying my nest? Who knows; anyway, the sad moment of my fond farewell to The Grove is upon me, and I must leave the Student Pages to the capable hands of Lyndsey and her team. Keep healthy and happy (though a good bit of misery can be useful sometimes too), and keep making art that comes from your heart. Oh, but you don’t need me to tell you that… I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to! Reading your work has always been a privilege, so thank you. See you around the bend… ALISON BOYD

Ashton Lane If I could, I would lie down on our street and cry, there, winded on the road and kicking the cobbles. Because we know that somewhere, beneath the fag-ends and the grit, I miss you. JOSH TURNER

Dining Table I. A pirate patchwork scarred by scraps with the butter knife stained with vintage wine, bearded black by the figure of a cat creeping peg-legged from port to starboard to catch the passing sun. II. Come evening we feast like Vikings. We smugglers celebrating golden hoards 34

STUDENT WRITING

Joel Kelly

we lock them in timeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fluid chambers, in our laughter echoing those men of the West Hill caves our rings in marriage to this long dead wood. III. Cast your sound between the thin veil of here and there. There I might catch it, preserve it - a ship in a bottle, corked. Something too grand caught in something too real.

HANNAH JUBY

Poetry Corner I am giving in to the ghosts within. This is what makes me a writer (perhaps). The voices, the paranoia. I will be a drama queen professionally. JOEL KELLY

Sharer No. 9 The boy, always imagining to have come from his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side perhaps because of the abundance of male role models in the form of his grandfather, father and three uncles, had set his heart on going home. To his own home. The concept of home itself was peculiar to him, as it was somewhere he had never been until now. The boy packed up all of his friendships, ties, and routines and made a conscious effort to move forwards. He had gone to find his roots, but discovered a forest. And with as 35

Joel Kelly

STUDENT WRITING

much optimism as ignorance, put one foot in front of the other and let the world roll beneath his feet. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Home is not where I was born, not where I was bought up. Home is an exclusively, idealistic place that correlates exactly with the five lined address on the front of the enveloped Christmas card sent every year to my oldest relatives,â&#x20AC;? thought the boy as he, prevented from a direct journey by other family trees, was made to walk in a fashion that shaped him more than his path. Finally, optimism prevailed! It was downhill, it was always going to prevail and he was always going to make it. However once there, never did he set out to find the relics of his surname. Neither did he visit the places that had shaped the nameâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sharers, or even bother to consider any place had shaped them at all, because until now the relatives and they alone had formed the very image of home. The blackboard was wiped clean, the erasers dusted, (the electronic whiteboards installed) and through the clouds of chalk wandered a boy with as much optimism as ignorance. He later discovered that the envelope was as much an imposter as himself, and deserved to be torn open and discarded by his loved ones. But even days after he was still seen holding that ideal, that address. Meanwhile, the addressless card took its place on the window sill for all to see, inside and out. The envelope could not help feel pride for the pedestaled, viper of its womb. The metal clips that joined the leather straps to his bag creaked with movement, like the iron framing of an active bed. No permanent home was conceived. But then again nobody wanted one. The bed creaked. JOSHUA DIXON

Meditations on Audrey Hepburn Do not go lightly into that good day Into the rain-filled streets Or step into the crescent, shining river Do not attempt to grasp that eternal tune Chords that, like cold, make veterbrae shiver And the voicebox howl impatiently At the long-lost song of the Moon Or pull it close towards you, (As close as it will go)Hearing it sing simultaneously Of life that has been, and yet life still to be So that, whenever her face 36

STUDENT WRITING Appears the opposite of shadow On the magic, silver screen My patron saint of unrequited love There is nothing in this material realm Or in the dotted bits of black above That reaches this same place KATE HUTCHINGS

Lumiere God is on wires, tonight. He hangs, pendulous and music-mouthed in the belly of a whale. He is ten street organs, heaving lung songs. He is vibrating along cetacean bone. And he is filled with glow-worms, bright and brilliant, streaming discs of stellar shine. God is on wires, tonight. He dances, within a quarried crinoline, his limbs kissing Saint Cuthbert. REETA HUMALAJOKI

Watching I wish one day to see you undetected, To see if there are traces of me when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re unaware. 37

Reeta Humalajoki

STUDENT WRITING

Perhaps my morning scent can leave a translucent trail. Or maybe I become an extra beat of your eyelids, the last image you took in the night before. I wish one day to see you undetected. I’d like to know if I surround you when I’m not there. MATTHEW GRIFFITHS

The Widow MacKay “the hey-day in the blood” – Hamlet Here I am, thinks the widow MacKay – her gloved fingertips about to brush time that settles unseemly on her lieutenant’s lapel, but held to reflect – here I am in strange clothes, she thinks. They rest on my skin between him and us, and are new though I wore them two decades ago. I am old-fashioned, suddenly younger than then; where my skin meets the world the world buzzes. Somewhere at the end of my arm, his fingers collect my fingers. His watch-tick echoes. His wry patience wants an untimed, orderly life. He has asked me to dance from, 38

STUDENT WRITING

Sarah Trotter

she thinks, myself – from inside my costume, so it stands there in the past. But I shan’t feel him hold me. Without moving, the widow MacKay traces her skin, her nerves, her blood MICHELE F. FONTEFRANCESCO

Tre Righe or Three Lines All’estremo del molo v’è una figura d’uomo che guarda il lago che sfugge nella nebbia. Si vive di emozioni rapaci, strappate con le unghie e con i denti ad un fiato di vento che non è ancora che già e passato, sognando all’orizzonte una stella da chiamar “Domani”. Lascio il mio fantasma ai suoi pensieri e mi dirigo ciondolante a casa, cercando in un lampione la mia stella cometa. At the end of the pier there is a figure of a man that looks the lake, slipping into the mist. Dreaming a star to be named “Tomorrow”, we live with predacious emotions rived off from a breath of wind that is not yet that is already gone. I leave my phantasm in his thoughts and I turn to home, searching among the street lamps my star in the East. SARAH TROTTER

Glacier The stretched sky swung above like a slow thought, Blues marbling outwards from this dark dark room, Star midwifery, white staples that have caught The stirring scene of a past cosmic boom, Contained, as applause in a champagne glass; The stars – tiny hot stings – prickle for more. Something pours beyond the window-pane, fast, A something of purpose with moving maw … Behold its fin, steadying the slug-trail That hoovers up our landscape’s tidy prints, 39

Sarah Trotter

STUDENT WRITING

Blind belligerent greed, prepares to sail On a wet earth of swallowed human hints; A sinking face of glass, in whose image? Perish cloaked thoughts that steer to the finish. SOPHIE CLARKE

Symbols With jackets zipped to our throats we picnicked on a checked blanket regardless, beneath a tree bearing under-ripe fruit. .......I felt Chekhov could have made something .......of this; the fruit a symbol for the child .......conceived twelve days ago, perhaps. It was cold, but still, I laughed as you licked cream cheese from my finger and a wasp appeared behind your head. .......You were speaking of love, I think .......when it stung; the allergic reaction, maybe, .......something to do with the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Baby, babyâ&#x20AC;? I hushed you while children played on the swings, and you were filled with a sense of impending doom. .......I felt this juxtaposition between .......the happy children and your suffering .......must mean something.

LISTINGS REGULAR EVENTS Tuesdays, 7.30pm: Creative Writing Society. Whether it’s overcoming writer’s block or getting feedback on your work, CW can help. Contact creative.writing@dur.ac.uk to find out more. ER157. Wednesdays, 7.30pm: Poetry Society. Alternate sessions discussing poems brought by established poets and poems written by members. Free. Venue: a living room near you. Contact them at poetry.society@durham.ac.uk. Thursdays, 6.30pm - 8.30pm: Poetry Lab, Fisher House Meeting Room, Ustinov College. Open to anyone interested in writing poetry. Thursdays, 5.30pm - 6.30pm: Postgraduate Theory Reading Group, Seminar Room, Hallgarth House. Discuss seminal texts, from Zizek to Badiou. Contact maebh.long@durham.ac.uk. Leonard’s café book group meets 2nd Monday of the month, 6-7.30pm. All welcome, free. durhambookgroup@newwritingnorth.

UPCOMING EVENTS Tuesday 15th June, 8am till midnight: Bloomsday at Durham – A marathon, all-day reading of James Joyce’s Ulysses. Fisher House, Ustinov College. Thursday 17th June, 5.15pm till 7.15pm: Public Lecture – Constructing a ‘PostSecular’ Public Theology – Prof. Elaine Graham. Room 102, Al-Qasimi Building. Sunday 20th June, 2.30pm till 4pm: Durham Opera Ensemble present: ‘Acis and Galatea.’ A summer outdoor production of Handel’s pastoral opera sung in English. Fellows Garden, Durham Castle. Contact a.k.marsland@durham.ac.uk for more information about this event. Friday 25th June, 8pm: Colpitts Poetry evening with S.J. Litherland, who is launching her sixth collection of poems, The Absolute Bonus of Rain. Alington House: £5/£3 concessions. More events at www.dur.ac.uk/whatson For regular events and societies, see our website at www.dur.ac.uk/grove

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS COVER IMAGE

Ropes (The Barnyard)’ came third in the 2009 Tweddle Poetry Competition.

“Winter Scene” by Thomas Brumby

John Clegg comes from Cambridge, Massachusetts, and is in his first year of a PhD in English.

ENGLISH WRITING

Reetta Humalajoki is half Italian, half Finnish and has completed her BA in English and History at Cuth’s.

Edith Wharton, from Summer (reproduced by kind permission of Penguin, 1993)

Boika Esteban is a poet and songwriter.

Simon Armitage, “Gooseberry Season.” From Kid (reproduced by kind permission of Faber, 2002)

Emile Fanon is an Italian rapper and performer.

John Koethe, “Sally’s Hair.” From Sally’s Hair: Poems (reproduced by kind permission of HarperCollins, 2006)

Angela Foligno, winner of Palatinate’s Fittest Fresher award in 2002, is now at Bath working on medieval history.

Samuel Beckett, from That Time. From The Complete Dramatic Works (reproduced by kind permission of Faber, 2006)

Jocie Slepyan is finishing her MA in the English department.

TRANSLATIONS

Ann-Marie Einhaus, originally from Germany, is currently in the process of finishing a PhD in the Department of English Studies

Alexis Grigorieff is a St Mary’s student and he is often outwitted by inanimate objects.

Intellectual copyright of all material in the Translations section is held by translators.

Aliocha L is known for outwitting (small) inanimate objects, if not Alexis Grigorieff.

EVENTS

Jake Pentland is in his first year of Modern Languages at Butler.

Gillian Allnutt, “asylum seeker.” From The Galloping Stone (reproduced by kind permission of New Writing North, 2010)

Alison Boyd, fresher studying English at Castle.

Mohamed Bade Mohamoud, “Snow.” From The Galloping Stone (reproduced by kind permission of New Writing North, 2010)

Matthew Griffiths is new in town but old in body, or to put it another way, in the first year of a PhD in English at Ustinov College.

Sean Burn, from Cutter (reproduced by kind permission of Half Moon Theatre, 2004)

Sophie Clarke is a second year English student at St Chad’s College, rarely seen before noon.

Kathleen Kenny, “Sunken Treasure.” From Sex and Death (reproduced by kind permission of Diamond Twig, 2000)

Sarah Trotter is a Masters student studying English at St. Johns. Michele F. Fontefrancesco is a second year PhD student in Anthropology and member of Ustinov College.

STUDENT WRITING

Joshua Dixon is a first year studying Theology at Hatfield College.

Intellectual copyright of all material in the Student Writing section is held by the authors.

Josh Turner is a second year Combined Arts student (English Literature and Philosophy) at Grey College.

CONTRIBUTORS

Thomas Brumby has completed a degree in English and Philosophy at Chad’s, but closes his eyes when singing.

Hannah Juby writes, proofreads and teaches English and French as a part of Express Language. Mohammed Ilyas has just finished his BSc in Geology and is starting work with Allen and Overy this summer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Grove would like to thank Ben Robertson for his continued support, and outstanding contribution, as the Societies Officer for Durham Student Union.

Daniel Hearing is at Ustinov College, and studying for a PhD on the early poetry of Ted Hughes. His poem ‘Anonymous

Contact: grove@dur.ac.uk without whose express permission no part may be reproduced.