A PAT T E R N O F C H A N G E
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KALEIDOSCOPE
Issue 1 / Autumn 2008 / An independent multi-lingual arts magazine
ANDREW MOTION
New work from the Poet Laureate
DIARIES FROM HARARE
The truth about life under Mugabe
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06 Gaustave Julien Mieral 07 Fox Rohinee Ghosh 08 From Higher Ground Wil Reidie 15 The Kite-Eaters Theresa Lee 16 Portraits Victoria Reed 19 Ode To Hungry Ghosts Bonnie Oeni 20 The Poet Shamik Chakravarty 21 The Way Men Hold Their Heads Anna McKerrow 21 The Fallen Prince Adam Matthew Bradbury 28 Art Glyn Pooley 29 Sticks and Stones Jenni Briscoe 30 Yoichi An ancient Japanese text 32 Edward Maufe: builder of history Adam D’Souza 34 Weekend in Barcelona Jenni Briscoe 35 Poetry Sean Miller and Diana Patient 36 Looking for Politics Clare Jones 37 Love is Suffering’s Reward Anna McKerrow 38 Review The Fast Heat of Beauty by Anna McKerrow 39 Sevenar Franziska Scholz
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KALEIDOSCOPE NO.1 AUTUMN 2008
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FIRST HAND Bev Reeler’s personal diary extracts paint a grim, but upliftingly human portrait of everyday life in Mugabe’s Zimbabwe // Page 16
THE LOOK OF THINGS Poet Laureate Andrew Motion’s new poem discovers a landscape of inviting possibility // Page 22
SONG OF KARAM
A personal journey with Pru Winter to Karam a women’s festival deep in the villages of West Bengal // Page 22
This issue is set in typeface family called Caslon, designed by William Caslon (1692–1766). Caslon’s earliest design dates to 1734. Caslon is cited as the first original English typeface, but some typographic historians point out the close similarity of Caslon’s design to the Dutch Fell types. The Caslon types were distributed to presses throughout the British Empire, including British North America, where the Declaration of Independence was printed in it, a motif later picked up in the livery design of Air Force 1 in the 1970s. After William Caslon’s death the use of his types diminished, but saw a revival between 1840–80 as a part of the British Arts and Crafts movement. The Caslon design is still widely used today. AD’S Typeset in Caslon and RM MidSerif Colour palette courtesy of Farrow & Ball
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FROZEN MEMORIES Our everyday lives pass by at an ever-increasing pace. But in these contemporary photographs by Diana Patient, memories and moments become frozen in time.
Clockwise from left: Shadow; Dress; Hand; Red Hair. All images created with digital camera.
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Editorial D
eciding to start a publication is a drastic way of sharing one’s own passions with the world. Kaleidoscope started as a small, albeit slightly crazy, idea of trying to reflect a slight essence of the world we now live in. We live alongside thousands who speak other languages and come from other cultures, and in that spirit Kaleidoscope wants to celebrate the diversity that we are lucky to have. In its humble way the magazine hopes to be a platform for creative exchange, across cultures and languages, and via different media. In this first issue, we have a wonderful mix of contributions ranging from the Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion’s poem, Nowhere (which has not been previously published), to a heartwrenching and razor-sharp piece by Bev Reeler (June 2008, Harare, Zimbabwe) on practical living in Zimbabwe. Reeler, who lives in Harare, paints a picture that is clearer and more moving than anything that I have personally encountered on the subject and I remain thankful to her for letting me share this with others. We also have a fresh, vivid story set in a future London by Wil Reidie (From Higher Ground), a French poem on Gaustave Eiffel by Julien Mieral (Gaustave), an ancient Japanese text (The Legend of Yoichi), and a piece on the Chinese Hungry Ghost Festival by Bonnie Oeni (Ode to
Hungry Ghosts). The thing about a kaleidoscope is that one does not have to go looking for patterns; they seem to simply appear, effortlessly. In this issue, quite unknowingly, there seems to be a pattern of the female. We have a collection of remarkable portraits of women by Victoria Reed, an article by myself on the tribal women’s festival of Karam that celebrates women and Nature in the villages of West Bengal, India (Song of Karam) and a review of a new poet’s debut poetry collection (The Fast Heat of Beauty by Anna McKerrow). Diana Patient’s collection of portraits in varying styles makes up a kaleidoscopic back cover and the front cover shot was chosen for its candid approach to stepping onto a new platform, its openness to receiving the world. Kaleidoscope hopes to encourage new writing and art and allow new ways of expression; it hopes to generate ideas and thoughts and discussion. We hope not to force but to help find a pattern of change. I hope you enjoy the magazine.
Pru Winter
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Publisher and Editor-in-Chief
Clare Jones
Assistant editor
Adam D’Souza Art Director
Iona Sugihara
Foreign Language Editor
Diana Patient Sub-Editor
Julien Mieral Sub-Editor
Roshni Ghedia Ejiro Ogburo
Marketing Directors
Pallavi Sengupta Secretary
Martin Popzyk Treasurer
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We would like to acknowledge the help and support we have received from: Ferielle Fellag Camilla Isaksson National Student Writing Festival at Warwick To comment on anything you’ve read in this magazine, visit our website at
www.kaleidoscopemagazine.co.uk Kaleidoscope Magazine 31 Greenacre Court Englefield Green Surrey TW20 0RF Email: kaleidoscope.mag@gmail.com Telephone: +44 (0)7515 888486
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poetry
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La masse à tes pieds, le regard hagard, Etonnée à ne s’y méprendre, par ton élégante silhouette. Arrogant, tu méprises quelques nuages blafards; Témoin de milliers d’échecs et d’autant de conquêtes. En enfilant la nuit tombée, ton reluisant manteau doré, Tu veilles sur nous tous, Ô protecteur nocturne. Abritant d’intrépides fêtards, couchés ivres à tes pieds, Tu dînes avec les astres en y invitant Saturne.
At nightfall you slip into your gilded coat Keeping a watchful eye on all, patron of the night Sheltering brave revellers, lying drunk at your feet You dine with the stars, inviting Saturn. Come the early hours when the souls stir They look in wonder for your bygone hat: This is the fruitless, ultimate quest On this November day, nobody has seen you Your head is in the clouds, after a night fully lived. kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
by Julien Mieral
The mass, below, watch you with wild eyes Marvelling no doubt, at your elegant silhouette Arrogant, you scorn the few pale clouds; The witness of a thousand failures and triumphs.
GAUSTAVE
Quand au petit matin, les âmes s’activent, Elles cherchent avec stupeur ton chapeau disparu : C’est l’infructueuse quête de la précieuse ogive, En ce jour de novembre, personne ne t’aperçut, La tête dans les nuages, après une nuit pleinement vécue.
FOX
by Rohinee Ghosh
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You slipped through the cavities of our house, Out of keyholes easing, out into the night, Under the gap in the front door, eluding my footfalls As I search through cupboards of musk and sand Regaling the ghouls that cackle at my misfortune – The loss of a masquerade. Young as I am, it is indeed a cost of solemnity. Banqueting before queens and changelings golden Is not commonplace in our country village, Truly a grave injustice that you do me, fox, Carrying in your sack my lips, my hair, my illusion, Hiding from me my perfect face.
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FROM
HIGHER
GROUND A spine-tingling short story set in a future London
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avin’ snuck out o’ Mama Pore’s “Ancients” class, I walk along what eight thousand years ago – accordin’ to The Great Scrolls – was known as the Souf Bank. Mama Pore’s words ring in my ears. I only know this ’cause it was what she was sayin’ as I left. I never listen in her borin’ classes, I only pay ’ttention to her as I’m escapin’. After a few steps I notice a change in the air I’m breathin’ now from what I was used to inside. It’s warmer now. As warm as my body at least. Diff ’rent from before; I can’t feel it enter my nose, my chest. I feel dead somehow. Or at least not alive. I pick up speed so as to push this strange feelin’ to the back o’ my mind, an’ the sensation of increasin’ warmth from the sun-hardened earth under my feet succeeds in doin’ so. It’s easy to feel like the world is yours, walkin’ along the river alone like this, so I do it all the time. One o’ the village healers, Mama Sandy, she always is tellin’ me not to. She makes up silly rhymes like, “Too much sun on the skin, causes lots o’ sufferin’ ”, to get it stuck in our minds, but I never listen. I don’t understand how people can hide under their tents the way they do all day, only comin’ out when the sun has gone down. An’ I’m a much darker colour than my other friends, an’, although I don’t really know why, I think it’s ’cause of all the sun an’ fresh air I get. When I told Mama Sandy this, she just said it was ’cause I don’t do what I’m told. That don’t make sense to me, maybe it does to her. My solitary walk along the river is ’terrupted by a figure crouched down by the edge o’ the riverbank. His clothes are darker than what people mostly wear, ’cause o’ the sun, you see. An’ he’s doin’ somethin’ I’ve never seen anyone do anythin’ like before. I kneel behind a rock so I can look at him without him realisin’. I begin to wonder whether I look as lonely an’ empty on my walks as he does to me now. Without realisin’ it, I become lost in the actions o’ the man. The elegant strokes he takes at the river with that strange long stick he holds in his hands are almost like he’s tryin’ to get rid of it, but can’t quite manage to let go. He throws his stick towards the river. Once ... he holds it, floatin’ above the water surface, hoverin’. He draws kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
by Wil Reidie
it back ... twice, it hovers again. He draws again. Thrice. Nothin’. No, for the first time the old man’s head lifts an’ without even touchin’ the water, his stick, his rod, pulls a great creature from the deep. I blink. The man brings his rod towards himself with the creature dancin’ in the air as it follows, its skin reflectin’ every colour I can imagine. The only thing such colours compare to becomes apparent in my mind: the precious jewels Grand Mama keeps in the shrine to Almighty Boi Ben. An’ even they don’t show as many so quickly as this. I run towards him, takin’ no notice o’ the sharp rocks that my feet are landin’ on. I stop just a few steps from the figure. He doesn’t move. “Quite somethin’, eh, boy?” The colours are even more intense now than before. I agree with the man. “Must have taken Boi Ben many an hour to paint this ’un, eh, boy?” I agree with him again. I ask him what it is. “This, boy, is a King Mackrel ... you want some?” I don’t understand “To eat, boy.” I look at him with what must look like disgust, ’cause it’s how I feel. Eat a livin’ thing? I look towards the strange creature the old man now holds in his hands. I pity it. I pity how much effort it seems to take in only breathin’; it must know it’s dyin’.
The call seems delicate, like the dyin’ mackrel, able to fall away from my ears just ’cause I’m aware of it. I stop just to be sure it’s still in the air. Eight diff ’rent sounds. No, two sets o’ four in diff ’rent orders, as though the wind learnt how to change its voice an’ could finally speak its many stories.
9 Somethin’ so beautiful, so unlike me, shouldn’t be allowed to die. Its eyes already begin to cloud. The old man turns to me. I wonder if he’s aware o’ my thoughts. I wonder if he understands them. He turns away again. “Don’t think this so strange, boy. Many suns ago – many suns – people like you, like me, would eat Mackrels like this, birdses. Yep. Some people even eat other people, they would!” He looks for my reaction. I try not to give one. He’s lyin’. He must be lyin’. I give away nothin’. “Don’t be so stubborn, boy. They say people did this even durin’ the time o’ the Almighty Boi Ben’s presence on Earth. He condoned it, they say, an’ made his ’proval heard throughout the day an’ night with the most thunderous cries an’ applauses imaginable. Cries that people could hear all ’round these parts.” I look at him ’stonished. My jaw unlocks. I ask him who “they” are, the people he says say this is all true, but he insists he doesn’t know. I begin to distrust him. How can he believe somethin’ when he doesn’t even know who says it? I don’t understand old’uns sometimes. He offers me some o’ his “Mackrel” again, but I quickly get the feelin’ he is enjoyin’ my company more than I am his, so I make my ’scuses an’ bid him a fary bye. To make my quickest getaway, an’ remedy the pain the sun
is beginnin’ to cause on my back, I dive straight into the river. Mama Pore tells us to call it the River Isis, but only ’cause she’s so picky ’bout the proper, ancient names o’ things. As I swim away the old man shouts somethin’ in my d’rection. Somethin’ ’bout me scarin’ his fishes. All I think ’bout is what a fish is. As I reach dry land again, I look towards the old man, an’ it seems as though I was never even there. He sits again, as he did before, throwin’ his magic rod over the water, waitin’ for some poor mackrel to be drawn in by its powerful charms. Even if Boi Ben thinks it’s all right, I still feel sorry for those little things, invisible but to that rod o’ his. I climb up the stone wall at the top o’ the river bank, towards what Mama Pore calls the ’bankment or the Mentbank. Maybe I should start listenin’ to her. It’s just I don’t care for people of old suns. Why should I? They never change, they’re long dead, an’, ’cordin to Mama Pore, it’s their fault that Boi Ben don’t talk to us no more. Somethin’ to do with ignorin’ him I think. I know a bit more ’bout this, see, ’cause Boi Ben int’rests me. He just seems more important than anythin’ else I can think of. More important than those “Ancients” lessons, old names o’ things or even brightly coloured mackrel. The cold water soaked into my clothes starts to make me feel too heavy for walkin’ so I lie down on a long block o’ stone to dry off. I look up to the sky. It’s like lookin’ at the mackrel
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10 seems alive somehow, given new life by my new appreciation of a thing from its time. I want to stay longer, but cruel timin’ bids me to move on. The moment passes as quickly as it came. I bend my back an’ run away from my hunter’s eye-line. I don’t try to hide very hard; she’s too lazy to bother followin’ me anyway. After a short time, I stand straight an’ look back towards the stone block I just left. From a distance I realise how I went so long without noticin’ it before, how lucky I was to ever have found myself so close to it at all. The past really is hard to make out amidst the present. I promise myself I’ll go back again sometime in the future. Walkin’ along the ’Bankment, my thoughts fall again to the old man I’d met not so long before. I look over to where he had been on the riverbank. Only a few scattered objects remain, no doubt left by him. I just hope they weren’t the remnants o’ the creature he had tricked in leavin’ the river; he’d prob’ly eaten it now anyway. I look at the sky again. The knives, once piercin’ with light, seem to turn an’ begin beatin’ the clouds, causin’ ’em to bruise. I’m not s’posed to be on my own in the dark so I get to thinkin’ I should head home. I start to make the first turn I can find to cross the river on land when I hear upon a strange birdcall. It seems a birdcall, but more ordered, more composed. I turn. I can’t see where it’s comin’ from. I look down the ’Bankment, towards the dEvil grounds, where I feel it must be comin’ from. I run towards it. It seems delicate, like the dyin’ mackrel, able to fall away from my ears just ’cause I’m aware o’ it. I stop just to be sure it’s still in the air. Eight diff ’rent sounds. No, two sets o’ four in diff ’rent orders, as though the wind learnt how to change its voice an’ could finally speak its many stories. It doesn’t take me long to reach where I’m sure the sound is comin’ from. The dEvil Grounds, an’ my lungs empty themselves through fear. I know I’m not supposed to be here; it’s the Grand Mama’s biggest rule. I disregard the thought. Tryin’ my hardest not to think ’bout anythin’ else, I run up to the wall that stands before me so I might climb it, an’ find out where this call is comin’ from. Somethin’ hits my head. again. The clouds are lit, pierced by rays o’ the sun like knives, dancin’ with each other to mask their pain. I wonder what can be so powerful as to make such things move this way. When I was little I used to say it might be the same thing that makes the leaves move along the ground in circles, the wind. The old’uns told me I was bein’ young an’ silly. You can’t even see the wind. So they said. Mama Pore tells us that it’s a sign that Boi Ben is on his way back to us; I wish I could be as sure as her. Mama Pore’s voice rings in my mind, another place-name, my name. Ben-be-graceful – it isn’t in my mind at all, she’s callin’ at me from the Souf Bank. I stumble off the stone block an’ hide behind it. Momentarily my eyes become fixed on the drawin’s carved into its surface, carvin’s like nothin’ I’ve seen before. Symbols, not written, like I’m used to, but drawn. Birdses, beetles an’ queer-lookin’ men. I think they’re dancin’. I wonder what stories these things might tell, what they mean, but most of all I wonder upon the people who have seen them before me, touched it with their hands as I do now. For a moment the past kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
I turn ’round; a clod o’ clay lies in pieces on the ground. I look up, ready for a punchin’. Before me: my “friend”, Lowri. I begin to get angry, but my ’ttention is taken back by the ever decreasin’ sound that lies just behind the stone barrier in front o’ me. Decreasin’ as though it’s gettin’ further away. I start to worry. I ask Lowri what he’s doin’ here, but he merely grunts an’ bounces a ball against the wall. For a moment I wish his ball might knock it completely down. I shake my head. I try an’ explain how we need to get across to find where the noise in the air is comin’ from. But as he asks after what noise I mean I realise it has already gone. Died down, disappeared. I feel like the gaspin’ mackrel takin’ its last breath, desperate. My final breath is climbin’ that wall. I jump up, my feet an’ hands in any hole that fits, an’ my eyes fixed on the top o’ it. My hands bleed. I reach for the top. I reach to pull myself up an’ over to victory. I do so too early. I slip. The step holdin’ my foot crumbles under its weight. I fall.
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I wake up before I open my eyes an’ call for Lowri. No reply. The coward must’ve run away. I sit up, brush off the dust from my hair an’ recollect a dream, the dream I just had. The call. It was in there, but diff ’rent still. It was more. The same, yet greater, more powerful as though it came ringin’ from the sky, from the clouds. If only I could remember where it had come from. I only remember faces. The faces o’ the people. But nobody even looked; they didn’t seem to care. Not ’bout the call, not who was callin’, nothin’. Boi Ben. Only he, surely, could make a call o’ such strength, an’ the people, still, were ignorin’ him. Is this why he left?
wall, consists o’ one o’ the biggest circles I’ve ever seen, surrounded by symbols at the edge o’ its face – nothin’ as ’markable as what I saw earlier though. Nothin’ that takes my ’ttention, an’ I turn ‘round an’ look towards home, my back towards the ruins I hoped might tell so much. As I sit, my thoughts fall upon the two worlds I experienced today. Unlike the world o’ my dream, the one I live in isn’t run by Boi Ben; it’s without, empty. But (though o’ the dream world I’m not so sure) it isn’t a place o’ the dEvil either.
I don’t let my failure rid me o’ the curiosity that’s taken me this far. Once more I jump upon the first foothold I can find. I scream. My hands, bleedin’ still, grate against the clay an’ rock until I reach the point where my arms can gain their first hold o’ the top o’ the wall, the view from higher ground. I’m secure. I laugh an’ pull myself over to sit, an’ look upon the world behind. The dyin’ beams o’ fallin’ sun illuminate ... nothin’. I wonder what it was I might have been lookin’ for, but, whatever it was, I haven’t found it. I look upon the ruins in front o’ me, the kind that lie all ‘round the city. The wall facin’ me, a crumblin’ kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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ART
VICTORIA
REED
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A
map of a face can tell many stories; Victoria Reed captured the stories by depicting them through female portraits in Africa and India. She says of them, ‘they were all women that befriended me during some travels abroad. As a white girl travelling alone in African countries, I took to drawing these welcoming women; I felt my face reflected theirs and theirs mine’. These visual impressions act as a semi-narrative of journeys not simply of a single young woman, but perhaps of women in general. kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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The Kite Eaters
by Theresa Lee
Dinner in a city of kites. The dwellers fly them in the breeze. Kites of great and beautiful colours – scrape upon the sky – and see – the world above skyscrapers. Kites of string and bright bright colors of fabric flapping to the breeze – adorn the skies of city streets – and are most lovely for all to see. Now’s dinnertime! It’s dinnertime! Bring out the kite-catching machine! We roll the vehicle out and fly – the kite-catcher in the breeze. Catch a kite! We caught a kite! It’s dinnertime – let’s feast! Before the owner passes by – Despair! – there is he! His old man’s head of snowy white looks up from his building garden. He looks for his beloved kite – his lie-detector seeks for me. I unfold a letter – this is no kite! But still, he sees through me. My companions in our green kite-catcher say – give back the man his kite! So despair! are we – for we shan’t eat – a dinner of kites tonight. kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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JUNE 2008:
HARARE by Bev Reeler
ZIMBABWE
Yesterday the first flush of crimson appeared on the lucky trees A promise of flowering yet to be Yesterday was a rough day We have been without cash for a week so I went foraging........... As I wait at a traffic light I see a man and woman make their way slowly across the road in front of me On the man’s back he carries a load a human reduced to nothing but bones the shaft of a shin bone hangs down at his side a human, ageless, of unknown gender reduced to this I am consumed by pain, and the need to do something try to get off the road to offer them a lift am pushed forwards by impatient traffic tears running ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ as I drive on I go to the ATM (no cash available) to try and establish what money there is in our account In my disarray, I manage to put in the wrong pin code and my card is taken (at least something still works!) I rush into the bank to try and regain my card It is crammed with about 200 customers queuing to cash the maximum cheque they can (5 billion – today this translates to US$ 5) I queue alongside 2 men in army uniform as an SMS comes through on my cell ‘the police and army are marching through the crowded street of Mbare Musika firing guns into the air.’ and find myself staring at their boots looking for blood Why do none of us say anything? we are so compelled to behave properly I am in the wrong queue, but am told that I will have to reapply for a card – it could take 2 Weeks (in which time my money will be worth nothing) into another queue (only 30 minutes) – and I persuade the wonderful, patient woman to try and get my card 20 minutes later it appears – with a big smile Back to the ATM – I have 28 billion there is an urgency to spend it before tomorrow with 28 individual swipes on the cash machine I can buy US$ 28 worth of floor polish and some potatoes BUT – the cash machines aren’t working today – and no one takes cheques I go home empty handed Mel has been out trying to sell onions and convert it to soap, oil, sugar and salt to pay workers kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
17 but there is no cash for the onions – only a cheque – a wait of 8 days (at which time it has halved and halved again) Yesterday he worked out that out $1 coins that used to be worth 1US $ would now build a 3 metre high wall around the equator to make an equivalent amount. The air above the vales and hillsides are filled with prayers I wonder if they are praying for deliverance or the strength and courage to endure? we hear of someone who is being pursued by the police the fear of death hangs over him a sudden urgency to find a safe place, food to survive news comes of Morgan being arrested for speaking to his electorate at Lupane these are the early mornings when the shadows lean long on the earth and at a slow shifting of the sun an unseen spider web is lit with rainbows invisible magic hidden in the shadows waiting for a shift in the light
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ART
Top: Break the Mould, by Murray Fraser Middle: Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars, by Coy Gu Bottom: Le Jardin, by Pru Winter; Stormsea, by Christie Leat Bowen
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19 This piece is dedicated to the traditional Chinese Hungry Ghost Festival, in which ghosts and spirits – including those of deceased ancestors – are released from the underworld. Heaven and Hell are opened and rites are performed to absolve the suffering of the deceased. Elaborate rituals throughout the month include burning offerings and making gifts for the spirits of ancestors. Meals are served with places set for the deceased as though they are still living. A sense of superstitious fear clouds the month and all its activities…
E
verywhere, lovers are parting underneath the flurry of grey snow. It falls gently on heads, ears, cheeks, tender lips and pale hands in the darkening dusk. Everything is covered in it; with the dawning of night, nothing is distinguishable any more. Everything has become a melancholy kind of beautiful, soft and sombre. Aside from the bright flames leaping incongruously from the roadside, the occasional irritable brushing off of flakes, or the giggling of young couples, everything else is still, pensive, caught in a moment. Only the grey snow spews into the air; it scatters and crumbles, dusty wisps of life catching the wind. It sighs a prayer: a prayer of longing and loss, a prayer lamenting love and tragedy, a prayer seeking renewal, hope, closure. Everywhere, lovers are parting underneath the flurry of grey snow. The other halves are holding candlelight vigils for the ones gone before them, sticking nine candles forcefully into the grass, arranged neatly in a square - perhaps one for each anniversary. The symmetry reflects the wholeness of the relationship - if they truly belong to each other, tearing them asunder has left them in two different levels of hell. One is simply time on Earth, where the loneliness is enough punishment, made doubly cruel by the passing of crowds with blank eyes, blank faces, closed hearts. The other serves his time in purgatory, greedily looking upon the world through a tiny pinhole at the gates. He is waiting, waiting for a love that will never come, that will help him ease the pain from the icy winds cutting him from behind in the Chamber of Wind and Thunder. He is punished for pining greedily, lustily after something he cannot have. Why go where I cannot follow, why leave me here with nobody who understands the completeness of me the way you
did? The candlelight flickers, sends their faces halfway into darkness and light. As for those without such a fate, they still understand the tragic power of love. They hold these vigils for lovers everywhere, from any time, for anyone who has ever loved before. For the ones who inspired song and poetry before us: for Zhu Yingtai and Liang Shanbo, Li Mochou and Lu Zhanyuan, all the Romeos and their Juliets, abandoning themselves to despair, suicide, irrevocable tragedy, irrevocable grief. And they watch the burning embers curl in on themselves, as do the relatives that surround the lone figure now, huddling around the fire, cutting the rest of the world out. They would not be out of place in a portrait of home, sharing comfort in grief. You’re not alone. The paper bills, hearts, cars, material things make the ache pass. They are for both beings in hell, dissolving into soot, erasing the line between life and death for a while; soon, they too will curl into themselves, crumple and dissolve. They will be carried away by the wind, become immaterial. Perhaps they will try to touch someone else, fleetingly, and then disappear. Today, there is a national movement to commemorate those who have gone before us, wracked with the pain, grief and suffering that doesn’t stop beyond life. Human to the very end, twisted and deformed, even in the afterlife. We are all a part of this history, this cycle of being hungry, wanting something we cannot have, abandoning ourselves to despair – only to hope, and lust, again, before dying incomplete. This is the cycle of life and death, of appearing and then disappearing, of being visible, and then sometimes, completely, sadly invisible. We are loved and then unloved, and then, not knowing what we’ve lost, driven to drift for eternity.
ODE TO HUNGRY GHOSTS for all who have gone before us, by Bonnie Oeni
Dark portents: watercolour illustration, The Raven, by Anna Lawrence
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20 Illustration: Rudhrathaandavam by Samyukhta
The Poet
A portrait of the man and the mindset by Shamik Chakravarty He thinks disconnected thoughts, Under a disconnected bower: A master of the poetic condition. Pristine rays of slanting sunlight engulf him, As he overcomes... Overcomes hesitations. The stark rendition Of overlapping glades, Harmonizes pastel shades And crayon colours, And the wilful pessimism of sounds engraved Upon his epitaph. “Here lieth the man Who hoped to transform An apple and a worm Into metrical verse.� He grips his pen and writes His own fate And ends A thousand misfortunes Abruptly.
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The Way Men Hold Their Heads The way men hold their heads slightly cocked, waiting for trees to fall, Or piles of lumber to construct themselves from the force of their own thrust. All rush and assurance in that kink, Saying “World, female: I am poised, deadly, the inevitable fist from the shoulder” Calling dull orange, brick-red energy, Hard light to swirl in eddies in a fast, compact discus – Atlas, ready to chuck.
BRIEF ENCOUNTERS Poetry by Anna McKerrow and Adam Matthew Bradbury Fallen Prince This is the end No longer will he ascend in the world Nor can he comprehend the fate that has befallen him His beloved kingdom now only dust and memory Torn from his grasp Relinquished into the hands of oblivion He searches for serenity In the foregone glory of the past Only to agonize the bitter reality His days of glory are concluded All passion in his heart worn away He solely exists No longer living Gazing to the sky he asks “why”? Setting himself on the sands of time he waits Trawling for resolution
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Sunk in the bottom right hand corner of the scene whichever way you look at it is a blistered hulk of plain red brick that could never be mistaken for a factory but only seen for what it is: a prison. The background is pure Middle of Nowhere – a slope of pine trees scribbled over by the gigantic wheels of logging trucks, and shadows swung between a white horizon. The same goes for the river, or could it be the mouth of an estuary? Either way, there are enough stripped tree-trunks penned at the edge of its slow current to make a world-class library, or a shelf for each household in the neighbourhood. Though to judge by the look of things, communication here is more a matter of masts and dishes than faces and pages. The wind has right of way on every street except in the same right hand corner where a man in a parka, a Native American, has found shelter to light his cigarette. Perhaps he is visiting his friend in prison, or finding a way home after his own release? That is another thing not to be sure about, along with the time of day, since such greyness could as well be drawn as midnight this far north. Easy enough, on the other hand, to imagine what crimes wait on that road into the distance, and what chances for love there might be under the shelter of this hammered sky, if someone patient were inclined to wait for the small door in the prison wall to open, so that later tonight two heads could lie together on the same pillow and hear, as if they were all the sounds existing on earth, the river grinding its wooden teeth, the wind raising its voice in the pylon wires, the sssh of snow on the picture window turning to rain.
kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
NOWHER
a specially written new piece by Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion
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POETRY
RE
n Above: A Hole to Heaven Below: Wing Sun Sky Black and white photography by Murray Fraser
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SONG OF KARAM Deep in the remote villages of West Bengal tribal women are celebrating in song and dance. Pru Winter experiences the colourful tribal women’s festival of Karam.
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he music of the dhaks sounds loud as the whole land awakes to welcome the goddess Durga, who comes here now as daughter, mother, wife, as strength and power, as goddess – as woman. But before the dhaks beat, there is another music that resounds in some far villages of Bengal in India; a music that is born of no Durga, but created out of the sun, rain and earth by the voices of women, who come together in song. This is the voice of Karam. When I received an offer to accompany the NGO DANA (Development and Awareness Need Art) on a trip to Purulia District, where it was working on the tribal festival of Karam, I could not resist. I had heard stories about how the women of the village fast on this day and celebrate Nature and the monsoon season in song and dance. Songs that they create in kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
memory, knitting together their own lives with those of generations before them and the ones still to come; dance that in its ‘one-step-to-the-front-two-steps-behind’, unfolds stories of all womanhood in some sense. Karam originates from the district of Chotanagpur, Maanbhum and Singhbhum, but is now celebrated amongst the tribes of Orau, Munda, Rajwar, Santal in Purulia and Bankura Districts. It is said that this tribal festival originally started as a practical means to examine seeds for the coming year – a task that was entrusted to women. This developed as women gave it artistic form, turning a basket of river soil and seeds of five kinds (a Karam jawa) into the focus of art – vibrant, colourful germination. But there was work to be done. DANA had arranged a
workshop in which 18 women from two villages – Kaluhar and Khudyiatar- were to participate. This workshop intended to discover a space for expression in women and the outlet would be through using traditional songs (that they had written) to create a play that carried something of the essence of their lives, hence appropriately named meyeder golpo, mayeder golpo (stories of daughters, stories of mothers). There is in India the severe social constraint that prevents women from talking, and it was no different here in Purulia. But somewhere in the rigid social web that encircles them, tribal women have found a space – just one day that allows them freedom of speech. I was amazed at what the songs contained; from joy in Nature to the hardship it sometimes brings, from family devotion to family torture, these songs crossed borders into issues that were not otherwise discussed. Koney toke maar dilo ho, koney tokey dilo bonobaas karamalagi? (Why did you get beaten, why did they banish you?) I realised that I had found a place where people did not talk – they sang – loud and clear in raw choruses that beat against the earth and sky begging them to listen. I had come here to Purulia with the notion of Karam as a new ‘woman’s day’; a day where she can leave her daily life behind and have the power to make the world listen and forget about consequence; a day celebrating women through art. But something of this idealism was jaded by what I saw around me. Of the 18 women who were at the workshop only 3 were literate. The deeper we searched the more dismal the picture became. Balika is not more than 16 years old and is married to a man she scarcely knows. She will not have the chance to get to know him. He deserted her one month after their wedding. She then learnt that he is already married and with a child. Now her in-laws have turned her out and Balika is living at her father’s. She hopes to recover the dowry that was paid. Her husband told her that he did not want a ‘dark bride’. China is 17. Her mother passed away at childbirth (hence the name, meaning ‘unwanted’). The father is an alcoholic who resides in another village with his second wife and children. Her sick grandmother brought up China. She is a seasonal labourer (a profession most girls in the region take to), working 8 hours for Rs25 (£0.31) a day in the field. Along with this she runs the household.
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26 She left school at class 6 because she could no longer afford the books. Sitting down to make songs, the women ask, ‘What new thing will we sing about?’ This new song we hope for is perhaps a myth. Looking back at generations of songs left behind by women just like them, we see the same story repeated again and again, written in history. Surely, there is progress in time – an inch more education than there used to be, cleaner clothes to wear perhaps, or long stretches of paved road. But this is merely the icing on the cake; the cake itself has not changed. The god of the house still tells his woman exactly where her place is. Yet she is unable to find that one place in herself that has not been already claimed by the world. She remains, like the silent majority, a member of the hushed-up lot, talking in whispers. Here I am a city girl, alien to the village life of Purulia. The women look at me knowing that I will never understand the life they lead. But inside I tell them they are wrong. True, I
The god of the house still tells his woman exactly where her place is. Yet she is unable to find that one place in herself that has not been already claimed by the world. She remains, like the silent majority, a member of the hushed-up lot, talking in whispers. will never know the feeling of bending over rice fields for hours on end, nor will I understand married life at 15, but I do have my own battle to fight just like every one of them. Times may change – and they will – and women may find themselves in a world that allows them their own two feet. The germs of this process have been sown in some parts of the world. But even now as the world changes for women, the means of exploitation takes new shapes. The performance of the play was remarkable. They seem hardly the women I had encountered a few days ago. As I hear someone on the grass stage cry, Hamar natun Karam bola hailo na! Hamar natun karam nache hailo na! (I have not sung my new Karam yet! I did not get the chance to dance my new Karam!), something in me refuses to let myself sink in pessimism. Then I danced the real Karam with the women of Khudyiatar in drizzling rain with feet soaked in mud and at that moment nothing else seemed to matter. Perhaps, as long as people have the ability to cherish art, there is something right with the world. Of course, there is always going to be a battle to fight, but that’s why women are warriors. Karam is a ‘woman’s day’, celebrating more than it realises. In tradition it celebrates Nature, in reality it celebrates Nature’s child. Woman.
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A map of British India from 1882
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GLYN POOLEY 28
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Glyn Pooley is a Welsh artist whose work is inspired by that which he finds around him in his immediate community. He continually searches for and hopes to reveal a thread of life that connects us all. This search for an underlying unified spiritual order has been the underpinning of all his work. More of Pooley’s work can be viewed on www.glynpooley.com. He will be exhibiting at The Gate Arts Centre, Cardiff from October- November 2008.
Nipping at my paragraphs, cutting them to the quick and filtering me from myself snake your analytical tongue round your language choices and bleed a bit of creativity from your hangover careful not to siphon a glimmer of sobbing cliché. Not knowing what I leave. electric taste of a mad thought written electricity doesn’t blend with tears But here’s to hoping my dribbled insanity is sufficient in its infusion of perfumed syntax.
Clockwise from above: Towards the Future; The Lost Carriage; Weight of the World; The Empty Chair
Grating expectation shreds the inside of my brain dig out the bits that will sound poignant but not sentimental put yourself in your expression but not too much because after all you’re quite young and not particularly interesting I put myself in my expression though I prefer the grandiose questions spiralling my thoughts in tangents of aching un-answerability. I question this slippery grip on words, I snake my analytical tongue round them till they burst like fruit and revelation seeps through gore.
STICKS AND STONES Jenni Briscoe
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Then I sit as the hours droop past my nose and type and erase and words and words and words listening to someone else’s better attempts slowly forgetting how to function as a human being. write, above all, write (but try not to forget to breathe) Through the crack in masked clichés I squint at the gables of decadent ink squint and focus and then in a tiny spot of blackness I glimpse a fleeting whiff of truth of meaning, of purpose, an incandescent hope of sticks and stones make skin and bones bones like sticks and stony skin makes skinning sticks and stone-shattered bones within empty skins rattles the brittle sticks of kindling.
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THE LEGEND OF
YOICHI
WORLD LITERATURE
an ancient Japanese text translated by Iona Sugihara
The Heishi and the Genji were rival warrior clans during the Kamakura period of Japan (1185-1333). Accounts of their clashes have been retold in many books and school texts. Here is a famous tale from Heike-Monogatari (Stories of the Heike). In a lull in battle, both sides are exhausted and no one is attacking anyone. A boat drifts silently forward from the Heishi out at sea. On the deck is a beautiful maiden, holding up a target placed atop a long pole. It is a friendly challenge. Yoshimori, the leader of the Genji, scans his assembled warriors on the shore. He chooses Yoichi, a young man with a good aim, to accept the challenge. Yoichi protests, but Yoshimori is adamant...
T
he time is around six o’clock in the evening; the wind from the north blowing with tremendous force, the waves from the sea crashing onto the beach. The target, a red dot painted on a fan, placed atop a long pole, is unsteady in the heaving wind. Out at sea float the Heishi, their battle-worn boats facing the shore in unity. On the shore stand the Genji, aligned stirrups of their tired horses facing out to the sea. Both parties are a fine sight. Yoichi closes his eyes and silently prays to the gods. “Gods of my hometown, Gongen of the sunlight, God of Utsunomiya, and Nasu god of hot springs, guide my arrow to the centre of that fan. If I should miss, I will split all my arrows and take my own life, saving my people the dishonour of seeing my face again. If you wish to welcome me back into your land, please guide my arrow.” As he opens his eyes, he notices how miraculously the wind has subsided and the fan is steady. He pulls out a kabura arrow from his back and placing it in his bow, tightens it with mighty strength. The arrow is a strong one, and it lets out a whistle as he sets it free. It plunges into the sea as the fan flies up into the sky, where it dances in the air for a while, teased by the spring breeze, before it too, flutters like a petal into the water. Out at sea float the Heishi, batting the side of their boats with joy. On the shore stand the Genji, rattling their arrow-holders with delight. Unable to contain his festive spirit, one old man from the Heishi clan comes dancing along on the deck of his boat. Yoshimori comes up behind Yoichi. “This is an order. Shoot that man.” Yoichi places yet another arrow in his bow and pulls it tight. The man falls to the sea, the arrow neatly embedded in his jaw. Out at sea float the Heishi, silent in their astonishment. On the shore stand the Genji, rattling their arrow holders in glee. “A good shot” remark some. “Heartless fool” murmur others. Image: The Great Wave, a woodblock print from the Tokugawa period (1600 to 1867) by Katsushika Hokusai
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ころは二月十八日の酉の刻ばかりのことなるに、 をりふし北風激 しくて、磯打つ波も高かりけり。舟は、揺り上げ揺りすゑ漂へば、扇もくしに定まらず ひらめいたり。沖には平家、舟を一面に並べて見物す。陸には源氏、 くつばみを並べ てこれを見る。いづれもいづれも晴れならずといふことぞなき。与一目をふさいで、 「南無八幡大菩薩、我が国の神明、 日光の権現、宇都宮、那須の湯泉大明神、願 はくは、 あの扇の真ん中射させてたばせたまへ。 これを射損ずるものならば、弓切り 折り自害して、人に二度面を向かふべからず。いま一度本国へ迎へんとおぼしめさ ば、 この矢はづせたまふな。 」 と心のうちに祈念して、目を見開いたれば、風も少し吹き弱り、扇も射よげにぞ なつたりける。 与一、かぶらを取つてつがひ、 よつぴいてひやうど放つ。小兵といふぢやう、十 二束三伏、弓は強し、浦響くほど長鳴りして、 あやまたず扇の要ぎは一寸ばかりおい て、ひいふつとぞ射切つたる。かぶらは海へ入りければ、扇は空へぞ上がりける。 し ばしは虚空にひらめきけるが、春風に一もみ二もみもまれて、海へさつとぞ散つた りける。 夕日のかかやいたるに、みな紅の扇の日出だしだるが、白波の上に漂ひ、浮 きぬ沈みぬ揺られければ、沖には平家、ふなばたをたたいて感じたり。陸には源氏、 えびらをたたいてどよめきけり。 あまりのおもしろさに、感に堪へざるにやとおぼしくて、舟のうちより、年五十ば かりなる男の、黒革をどしの鎧着て、白柄の長刀持つたるが、扇立てたりける所に立 つて舞ひしめたり。伊勢三郎義盛、与一が後ろへ歩ませ寄つて、 「御定ぞ、つかまつれ。 」 と言ひければ、今度は中差し取つてうちくはせ、 よつぴいて、 しや頸の骨をひや うふつと射て、舟底へ逆さまに射倒す。平家の方には音もせず、源氏の方にはまた えびらをたたいてどよめきけり。
「あ、射たり。 」 と言ふ人もあり、 また、 「情けなし。 」 と言ふ者もあり。 kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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H
e was without doubt one of the 20th century’s most influential architects. His buildings still stand testament to his ability. He designed and built not just buildings, but re-shaped the identities of his sites. Edward Maufe designed some of the south-east’s most important buildings, including the Oxford Playhouse, Kelling Hall in Norfolk, Guildford Cathedral and the Air Forces Memorial next to Royal Holloway’s Surrey campus. Using the last three as examples we shall charter the development of the man and his vision. Maufe was born in Ilkley, West Yorkshire, in 1883. His father was a wellto-do draper and the family soon moved from Yorkshire to London, settling at the Red House in Bexleyheath. This move was almost certainly a revelation for the young Edward. The house was designed especially for William Morris, the artist and designer who pioneered the Arts and Crafts Movement. Living in such august surroundings must have given Maufe a keen eye for detail, a passion for simplicity, for re-evaluating traditional styles with modern materials and techniques all features which appear later in his own architecture. In 1904 he was sent to study at St John’s College, Oxford. This imposing neo-Gothic college would have provided very different influences on the architect’s palette. Daily living among Gothic grandeur gives a taste for mass and magnificence. Maybe my own literary grandiloquence is inspired, in part, by William Henry Crossland’s architectural burlesque, Royal Holloway’s Founder’s Building. Maufe’s first major commission was in 1912 was from Sir Henry Deterding for a new property at Kelling in Norfolk. This impressive building is of considerable bulk and dominates the space. The grey, sandstone exterior is broken with few windows, the interest coming more from its unusual C-plan design and triple gables. Unfortunately Kelling Hall has now been converted into retirement flats and holiday homes; England has lost another house rooted in the aristocratic tradition. Where Kelling Hall is a traditionalist building looking back to a bygone era, Maufe’s next building is a new creation exploring new, 20th century ideals. Guildford Cathedral is Edward Maufe’s best known work by far. If you haven’t already been there, do visit, it’s kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
Right: Maufe’s commanding yet peaceful memorial to the Commonwealth airmen at Kingswood in Surrey, photography by Adam D’Souza
free and is worth the climb. (While you’re there explore Guildford itself, too a beautiful and historic town, alas not yet granted the city status it deserves from its cathedral.) The cathedral was constructed during the 1940s and 1950s using bricks formed from the clay of Stag Hill itself. It was finally consecrated and opened for daily use in 1961. Maufe stated his aims as, ‘To build anew on tradition, to rely on proportion of mass, volume and line rather than elaboration and ornament’. His austere creation certainly achieves this aim. The exterior is less like a cathedral and resembles more a Stalinist factory. Its dark bricks glower over Guildford, not triumphantly like its Gothic predecessors but more reluctantly. However, this surly exterior conceals a surprise within. The inside of the building is crafted from pale Somerset sandstone. Light and clean lines are the emphasis. The windows, liberated from stained glass, allow whiteness to pour into the building. The overwhelming feeling is of an open space, which is almost begging to be freed from its own walls. Columns weighing hundreds of tons appear weightless. The cathedral is very much a building for the Protestant Church of England rather than a relic of our Roman Catholic heritage. Gone is the hierarchical dominance of the altar found in earlier buildings; the focus is on the choir, lectern and congregation themselves. Everyone is equal. Arts and Crafts touches are still very evident, though. It is obvious that Maufe is still, at heart, a very English architect. Throughout the 1930s designers such as Le Corbusier had been experimenting with cubist forms on the continent. Yet Guildford Cathedral still displays some classic, well-worn ecclesiastical touches: pointed arches in a modern Gothic style lead the eye towards the ceiling; he stayed loyal to the traditional cross-shaped floorplan of earlier buildings despite his contemporary Basil Spence opting for a more daring design in his postwar cathedral at Coventry. Maufe’s final creation is the one closest to us, and closest to my heart: the
Air Forces Memorial next to the Royal Holloway campus at Kingswood. I have walked past it many times whilst visiting friends at Kingswood Hall. It never ceases to amaze me how one structure can be so commanding, yet so peaceful, all at the same time. The memorial illustrates how Maufe catapulted his style into the 20th century. It is very much a modern building. Straight clean lines are contrasted with curved surfaces. Stone, glass and metals are all subtly balanced with one another. The entrance gates are formed from zinc sculptures; copper clads the tower, which affords excellent views across to the Thames and Windsor. The main structure is formed from a pale limestone, suspiciously reminiscent of Guildford Cathedral. However, even by this late stage in his career, Edward Maufe still stayed close to the old English traditions - the windows of the memorial echo the archery slits of medieval castles. As I write, it so happens Jupiter from Holst’s Planets Suite, the tune to the hymn ‘I vow to thee my country’ is playing; all-in-all quite a moving experience. Perhaps England has gone downhill, but I think we still remember those fallen in war with simple and poignant dignity. Poet Paul Scott wrote the follow-
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ARCHITECTURE
EDWARD MAUFE
Adam D’Souza pays tribute to a man who built his own corner of English history ing words to be carved on the memorial, which eloquently capture the mood: The first rays of the dawning sun Shall touch its pillars, And as the day advances And the light grows stronger, You shall read the names Engraved on the stone of those who Sailed on the angry sky And saw harbour no more. No gravestone in yew-dark churchyard Shall mark their resting place; Their bones lie in the forgotten corners Of earth and sea. But, that we may not lose their memory With fading years, their monuments Stand here, Here, where the trees troop down to Runnymede. Meadow of Magna Carta, Field of freedom, Never saw you so fitting a memorial, Proof that the principles established here
Are still dear to the hearts of men. Here now they stand, Contrasted and alike, The field of freedom’s birth, And the memorial To freedom’s winning. And, as evening comes, And mists, like quiet ghosts, rise from The river bed, And climb the hill to wander through The cloisters, We shall not forget them. Above the mist We shall see the memorial still, And over it The crown and single star. And we shall pray As the mists rise up And the air grows dark That we may wear As brave a heart as they. Maufe’s work acknowledges those who remember their friends, families and
comrades from the war. For me, Edward Maufe was a truly great architect - a once in a generation crafstman whose medium was not paints or even sculpture, but space, line and functionality. He constantly changed and adopted new materials and techniques throughout his career, as his buildings clearly demonstrate. But he is marked out for finding his own architectural ‘voice’, an authoritative style which distinguishes all his buildings. There is no doubting a Maufe building. They are in control of their environments and give comfort and reassurance to those who enter them. Edward Maufe was knighted in 1954 for his services to English architecture and he died on his birthday in 1974. Yet still his work lives on. To paraphrase Scott’s poem, may future architects share his vision, his confidence, and ‘wear as brave a heart as he’. kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
34 The spontaneous click of peer pressure that found me wandering with them (the stoners second to the socialites and way cooler than the loners) Through the majesty of the archaic and design’s painstaking anatomy, to rest atop a cumulative mosaic catch up the diverse dichotomy (of my relapse to being no cleverer than the moose in my passport) Spires of Gaudi’s Fragmentary Spindles a disdainful hand aloof of metallic crutch, Jesus looms high in sedulous austerity I wonder how anyone could love God so much. Dooming spectre of culture dusts my perspective with colours of fade haplessly forsaken by an artist’s mortality. I search for a simile elective through the anchored gnaw of my insensible shoeslike a sculpture of sublimity or architecture’s deity superfluous tomb of a Gothic city or Poetic Possibility chained in pencilled mediocrity. A seizing market pushes tiny caged pulses swarming the flaccid stiff upper pride hands shiver delightfully over purses I am surprised by the guilt clamping mine to my side an old man bulges from plasticity a tepid alien in the sea of pockets we stop for a lucky strike the taste is old, a choking staleness of school days smoking is culture in Europe but locked in weakness I watch myself, the mimic in their sunglasses bleeding my lungs with rebellion inexplicably outgrown. Later in a waving cavern it’s still early at 4 a.m. the city sweats in dead belching beats boomboomboom leering beehives exclusive vodka and this little pill a spherical secrecy of quintessential wonderment should I should I should I should Fly A dirty insect with folded tendrils, a parasite embedded in the atmosphere that hosts my ignorance Cocooned in the inky vortex Homeward bound across the stars I box my memories of voyage into a compression that I bury until I can no longer taste the smoky whisper begging not to grow up.
Jenni Briscoe kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
WEEK BARCE
35 Books May Win You Room and Board (a qasida) Books may win you room and board, for fragile selves, may even strike a chord — giving semblance to war galleys moored, greedy to cast off from homeland fjords, dubious transit for the inner-Viking horde. In books, countless minotaurs have roared, many a word-soused bureaucrat snored as matadors, daydreaming, are gored. For annals of invention, books surpass the gourd — but the pen’s far weaker than the sword. While the mind on book-knowledge soars like Icarus, it ordains itself Lord, and so only by masturbation, scores. Delight in books? But there must be more. Sean Miller
Dust The dust has been brushed Under the carpet. Hushed. Ancient, from shoes stamping. Cuts and crapes are smoothed As dust fills every groove. Outside a bird sings, My eyes begin to sting. I reach for the windows, The dust sweeps round me I stumble blindly. I haven’t got far Yet the window’s ajar Putting this off today I descend the stair. When to clean the air? Diana Patient
KEND IN CELONA kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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or a couple of years before coming to university, I was convinced that I would be swamped with political activism as soon as I arrived. Everyone knows that university is a hotbed for debate, rebellion and protest. It is common knowledge that we are at our most liberal in our student years (we don’t have to pay tax, we hate tuition fees, and we all pride ourselves on our acceptance and openmindedness); I couldn’t wait to join my fellow ‘lefties’ and looked forward to the numerous protests I would attend. Arriving at Royal Holloway, then, was a slight shock to the system. A couple of times in Freshers’ Week, the usual what’s-your-name-where-doyou-live-what-do-you-study? conversation led to a discussion about politics. To me, this seemed perfectly natural – politics is so ingrained in everyday life that it would be strange to never talk about it. And yet my friends were astonished that I cared enough to ascertain people’s political beliefs when I’d only just met them. If I asked Americans if they were Democrat or Republican, people would look at me in surprise. So many times in my first year I have heard people say that they don’t know/care/want to know about politics. And the protests I was so excited about? Royal Holloway doesn’t want to know. I went with a few other students to the huge Climate Change rally in
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London in the first term. Posters had been up around campus for ages, and yet fewer than twenty students from RHUL showed up. Even this issue, reported almost daily in newspapers like The Independent, an issue that most definitely affects us all, failed to spark student interest. What I cannot understand is why. Why does nobody want to have a say in the way our country is run? During the recent elections, countless people
their opinion on drugs, and they can tell you. Ask them what they think of religion or tax or people from other cultures “taking our jobs”, and you can talk for hours. But include the word ‘politics’ and people back away. My faith in student activism was restored by a recent trip to Trinity College in Ireland just before they voted on the Lisbon Treaty. All over Dublin, and all over the College, political posters and graffiti adorned the walls. Students at Trinity gave a damn about what was happening to their country. Ireland’s resounding ‘no’ to the treaty at least showed that people cared. Other universities, too, seem to have political societies that actually survive above subsistence level. Maybe, then, it is just Holloway, where our ubiquitous drama societies outstrip the political ones by miles. I never thought I would find myself relieved to meet someone with strong Conservative convictions, but Royal Holloway has changed all that. As long as someone thinks something, I now feel a strange sort of gratitude to them. They remind me that there are some people out there who think about things. I would rather right-wing conviction than no conviction at all. And to be fair to the students at RHUL, there is some sort of right-wing student scene. It seems that for every four apathetic students I meet, I meet one Tory. But even then, people who can argue forcefully against immigration or in favour of lowering inheritance tax still sometimes claim that they
Everything is political. Except politics - which is PERSONAL. President John F. Kennedy
told me they weren’t voting because they didn’t know enough about politics. But the information is out there – even just two minutes on Wikipedia gives you an overview of the British political system. Other people said they didn’t care. This, I cannot understand. Politics is everything – it is drugs, sex, religion, money, immigration, jobs… Everyone is political, whether or not they know it. Ask anyone
don’t really care about politics. The fact of it is, there are political attitudes out there on campus. Our university – thank God – appears to be liberal about homosexuality and internationalism. People are open-minded enough to be friends with people regardless of their sexual orientation or cultural origins. People have liberal attitudes to drugs, to sex, to abortion. All of these things make
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Love is Suffering’s Reward Anna McKerrow
I want to write you a real cry, A lunge; I want to rip my heart open and let you lick the wound clean with a rough tongue Now we have healed enough from being young, Midpoint, midheaven, possessed of a wonderful jealous obsession; I, queenly, regal, with the power to kill, With the power of lustful evocation, And us with death and the lessons of death in both our hearts still: A young John F. Kennedy whilst serving in the United States Navy
them political, and yet they will not vote, they will not protest, and they refuse to talk about politics because it is “boring”. It seems incredible to me that societies such as the Labour Society and Amnesty International were only ratified this year. Nonetheless, they were ratified; along with the People and Planet Society (and that elusive non-SU-condoned Socialist Society), they give me some hope for the
future of RHUL activism. I gave up on my dream of a university full of like-minded socialists early on in first term. Now all I can wish for is that students will remember that they can make a difference in the world, and in the UK. Students have such loud voices when they are united, and I can only hope that one day we will realise it.
Knowing tears and loneliness, knowing decay, I want to love you hieroglyphically, indecipherable to others. I want to write you a screaming, rebel cry: Spread my evangelical heart under your scrupulous eye. But, beauty; harmony; care. I want also to write you that , to give you The soft satisfaction, the lips of the faithful… there…and there. I insist you reign from an impassive granite throne, Tended to, fed, watered, adored: never left alone; That your praise will be unwavering, The worshipful-like petals under your heel. My breath - idolatrous prayers on your shoulder at night, My eyes, my arms, my fiery attentions holding you tight.
kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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Review
Pru Winter reviews poet Anna McKerrow’s debut collection, The Fast Heat of Beauty Published by Flambard Press. Paperback £7 (www.flambardpress.co.uk)
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nna McKerrow’s first poetry collection, The Fast Heat of Beauty, is a becoming introduction to a new young female poet of considerable flair and gusto. The collection brings together a balanced mixture of poems of introspection and of looking out into the wide world; McKerrow allows insights into an inner world that is pertinently female, with a keen eye for detail that is accentuated by a tongue-in-cheek element. Poems like Narcissus Road, The Way Men Hold Their Heads, Nullity and Occasional Lover all carry a touch of an inside joke, a tone that seems to give a subtle nod to the reader, bringing us closer to the mind of the poet. Contrasted to the miniature subtleties, poems like This is a Fist, Outline, Sea Mysteries and the title poem The Fast Heat of Beauty open up to a wider world; McKerrow is unafraid to use the female voice to make statements or explore everyday mysteries; she writes unashamedly on love, loss, relationships, spirituality and the everyday. The reader is invited to almost befriend the poet’s mind and is able to witness the mind’s eye focussing in on the minute details and thought waves and then suddenly opening out to a wider more holistic view; we are allowed to see the poet’s mind at work and experience her delight in her surroundings and subjects.
McKerrow’s use of form is uncomplicated; this simplicity creates a sense of urgency and contributes an element of unselfconsciousness that underlines the courage present in the collection. The Fast Heat of Beauty as a collection is a brave debut that is full of moments that sparkle and is in its lyricism and humour a refreshing voice in modern poetry.
The Fast Heat of Beauty Build the temple. The thousands will come; they will break its walls with their singing.
Like glass that shatters at true pitch, they will vaporise the cloudiness that shrouds them. There will be nothing but air, held together with bright, far-reaching brilliance, permeating the true-hearted masses, where the only shrine is the fast heat of beauty, real and raw and uncorrupted. kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
Anna McKerrow
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SEVENAR
Unter einem Kirschbaum Liege ich im Gras Wie geht wohl das Leben weiter? Vögel ziehen vorüber Ich denke nach Unter einem Kirschbaum Liege ich im Gras
by Franziska Scholz Under a cherry tree I lie in the grass How is life going to be? Birds fly by I am lost in thought Under a cherry tree I lie in the grass
Back cover: ‘Thistle’, an original wallpaper design from the Arts and Crafts movement, by William Morris, with portrait photography by Diana Patient
kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008
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View it online at kaleidoscopemagazine.co.uk
kaleidoscope // Autumn 2008