Winter 2018-2019
Editorial “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Sylvia Plath
I have always been fascinated by creativity. For me, the hastily scribbled notes in the back of a lost notebook continue to eclipse repeatedly-revised pieces in a published work. I can often be found sifting through copies of second-hand books in charity shops, searching for inscriptions from previous owners or notes jotted in the margins: little leaks of creativity, from a one-word record of rage over a plot twist to a tiny poem quickly penned in a moment of inspiration. Plath’s idea of subconscious self-censorship is one that I have always found to be true, and yet from the huge number of pieces submitted this year, it seems that across all the year groups this self-doubt is wearing away and creativity is starting to seep through the gaps. Writers and artists throughout the school are spilling themselves onto pages and the results have been unimaginably brilliant - there is something so raw and individual about all the pieces, be they paintings or poems, photographs or short stories. A diverse range of talent has emerged, through surrealist landscapes and short stories, pantoums and portraiture, coming from all ages and genders - I was amazed while editing to find out the ages of some of the writers. Even the subject matter has displayed the huge variety of ideas from emerging writers: from Lena Barton’s beautiful “Ophelia” to Freya Høgevold’s brilliantly delirious “Eve”, the work submitted has been stunningly original. Still, I think that the creativity needed to form these things is valuable in itself, which is why I enjoyed reading every piece that was submitted and not just the small number that ended up in the final edition. In his interview, the poet Michael Symmons Roberts says, ‘My belief is that poetry is about making something… and once you start to think about the act of making it’s quite liberating, because you don’t have to worry about whether your life is exciting enough or your ideas are powerful enough, you are just making something with words.’ What a way to express the intrinsic value in something you have constructed! Creativity has to be included as one of our human instincts: we all want to put our mark on the world in some way, be it infinitesimally or on a colossal scale, and in the little acts of self-expression that you will find between these pages, that desire is starting to be fulfilled. As you can see from this edition, the marks can be made with anything: a pen, a paintbrush, a pencil, a print, and what they result in is this great, eclectic patchwork of creative expression that I hope you enjoy as much as I do. Peps Haydn Taylor
Will Ackerley
Old Marlburian Writing
Amanda Jennings (née Bone: PR 1989-91) Amanda Jennings is the author of four novels. This is an extract from The Cliff House, published by HQ in May 2018; it is set in St Just, Cornwall, and shifts between 1986 and the present day. A local girl, Tamsyn, has been befriended by Edith (Edie), the daughter of Max (a writer) and Eleanor Davenport, wealthy Londoners who own The Cliff House, which they visit each summer. Tamsyn has been invited for dinner. Max began to cut vigorously into his steak. ‘I must say, it’s lovely to have to have you with us, Tamsyn. A real treat to have a proper local as our guest. Especially such a lovely one.’ Then he smiled at me and I smiled back because it was possibly the nicest thing he could have said. Eleanor reached for her champagne glass and drained it. ‘Be careful not to drink too much in this heat, darling,’ he said to her. Eleanor ignored him and took a mouthful of steak. She grimaced. ‘Christ, I can’t eat this,’ she opened her mouth and pulled out the piece of meat which she put on the side of her plate. ‘It’s tougher than leather.’ ‘Why don’t you have half of mine?’ Max said coolly as he took a sip of wine. ‘It’s incredibly tender.’ ‘I’m not hungry.’ I momentarily considered asking if I could take it home to my grandad, but decided against it. Eleanor rapidly tapped her perfectly painted fingernail against the table as if punching out Morse code, then she reached for the carton beside her plate. She opened the lid to reveal cigarettes inside which were unlike any I’d ever seen before. Each one a different colour with a filter of shiny gold foil. She selected a red one and lit it. Eleanor drew on her cigarette and then turned to look at me before leaning forward and jabbing my shoulder a couple of times. ‘If you sat up straight and pushed your shoulders back, you’d look much more elegant at the table.’ This drew a sharp glance from Edie. ‘For God’s sake,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m helping, that’s all.’ She smiled at me. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Tamsyn?’ I shook my head. I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I was grateful to Eleanor. Yes, her manner was a little brusque, but I was happy to have her point out the things I did wrong. I glanced at Edie who was looking fixedly out to sea, then sat up in my seat, straightening my back and pushing out my shoulders, aware of my chest rising. Eleanor smiled and sipped her drink. ‘You see, Edie? Now your friend doesn’t look completely like le Bossu de Notre Dame.’ Max cleared his throat. ‘So, Edith, tell me.’ He pressed his serviette to his mouth then placed it carefully on the table. ‘While I’m finishing this magnum opus of mine and your mother is enjoying our little piece of Cornish heaven, how are you planning to use your time while we’re here?’ ‘Well, Max.’ She drew out his name and leant towards him. ‘How about I shut myself in my room all day to avoid my family like you do and enjoy a triple vodka for breakfast like she does. That sound okay?’
1
Launderette Villanelle Fresh lavender fumes seep through pressed white sheets wafting around glossy silver machines, row on row. Round and round the looking glass spins; she breathes. The flicker of the bleach lights dims the room, then repeats. Swirling colours like irises around black pupils, aglow. Fresh lavender fumes seep through pressed white sheets, and she sighs. Crinkles heaved into the merry-go-round that defeats us. Clenching onto our wrists, wrapping over our arms also. Round and round the looking glass spins; she breathes. Restless waiting on glossy tiles; shuffling, we shriek like parakeets, dance to the croaking rumbling song, let the man bellow. Fresh lavender fumes seep through pressed white sheets folded into strange origami beasts, animated pleats. Tumbling, increased speed brings a thunderous tremolo. Round and round the looking glass spins; she breathes, Her hand grasps mine, leads me (a taste of the bittersweet), basket under arm, ruffling my hair. Her eyes fill with sorrow. Fresh lavender fumes seep through pressed white sheets; Round and round the looking glass spins; she breathes. Indigo Randolph Gray
Lily Martin-Jenkins
3
Eve ‘We hope you have enjoyed your flight with United Europe Airlines,’ Hostess200™ parroted cheerfully as I left the plane, her artificial voice smooth, monotone. Her owner, the airline presumably, had spent a hell of a lot of money installing that particular feature. If memory served, previous models had possessed an unpleasant grating tone that felt like scraping one of those vintage blackboards. I nodded tersely in return, the gesture not wholly necessary but given anyway, and made the short walk to the inter-sectional shuttle. The sky was dark with pollution clouds, their gloomy reaches snaking beyond Section A and into the suburbs, and concentrated wafts of petrol fumes assaulted my senses, a steady throbbing already building at my temples. Distantly, I heard the rattle of the shuttle approaching, the disagreeable noise working in pitiful harmony with the decrepit city skyline. Around me people sighed and tapped impatiently, a familiar feeling especially when curfew was hanging over one’s head. I actually remember when curfew was first introduced, about five years ago and just after the new Chancellor was elected; I believe the idea was put forward to combat nightly disappearances and macabre whisperings of black-market organ harvesters, rumours that were enough to send most people bolting home for 2100 hours, true or not. The shuttle shuddered to a halt in front of me, the dashboard flashing aggressively, like it too was in a hurry to get home. Dragging my luggage behind me, I made my way to an empty seat and plugged in my headphones. Various alerts flashed on my screen as I scrolled; Section G was to be quarantined for the next thirteen days – some awful new bio-illness was raging through the East Quarter at an alarming rate, the new Maid1001™ was being released, some tedious American Zone politician had been caught in a rather risqué scandal; the usual gossip that littered my screen daily. I was so absorbed that I barely registered the woman perching tensely on the seat beside me. She had her hands firmly clasped in her lap and wore an expression of faux nonchalance, an unnecessary measure if ever I saw one; anyone with an eye could tell that she was anything but. Quickly, I glanced down. I wouldn’t want to appear rude and the poor woman was clearly somewhat distressed – no point in worrying her further. But as I looked away, my eyes caught on a gleam of polished metal from where her ankle should have been. I bent over and pretended to tie my shoelace. Carefully I turned to peer at her leg and even
in the poorly lit shuttle I could discern the neatly intertwined wires running through the metal. Surely not? I wondered to myself as the blood began to drain from my face. Cyborgs were gone, United Europe purged of their abomination decades ago and there was absolutely no reason why one would want to come into the Sections anyway; if the authorities were to be alerted it’d be disposed of immediately. Heart leaping in my chest, I drew myself back up and as I did, I couldn’t help but remember the stories my grandmother had told me. Terrible tales of hordes of cyborgs hunting people down for their limbs and bones and skin. Whisperings of half-man, half-android creatures performing horrendous ‘procedures’ in an attempt to make themselves more human. I tried to avoid recoiling, from screaming at the top of my lungs and just as I opened my mouth to yell, she turned and looked me directly in the eyes. In that moment of mutual horror, the only things I knew were my thumping heartbeat and the soft whirr of the aircon above me. She kept eye contact, her gaze never breaking mine and the pure human emotion held in her face shocked me, the fear, the desperation, it was all there just as it would be on mine. Warily, I swallowed the scream that had moments ago threatened to spill out and the woman, with a suspicious glance in my direction, pressed a finger to her lips. I understood well enough that my silence was critical and although the stories still swirled around my mind, the panic that I had initially felt was quickly dissipating into what could only be curiosity. Before today I had never encountered a cyborg, you could ask any one of my friends and acquaintances the same question and every single one of them would say the same thing as me. Cyborgs don’t exist. And yet here she was, a live cyborg in the flesh, or more appropriately in the hardwiring, and it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to gawk at her slack-jawed. In my periphery I noted that we were fast approaching the Section, it wouldn’t be more than a minute before we arrived and then my chance would be gone. I had to say something to her. The shuttle slowed, almost to a stop, and the cyborg rose from her seat, still eyeing me with tangible mistrust. I stayed put, even as the doors decompressed and opened onto the street but when I saw her take the first step onto the pavement I leapt up and grabbed for her arm. I wouldn’t,
Amelia Heard
couldn’t just let her walk off and never see her again without saying anything. ‘Are the stories true?’ I asked, the words coming out nervously and without conviction. My fingers left red marks where I gripped her, and she regarded me with a certain amount of distaste as she wrenched herself free of me. ‘No.’ She spat the words through gritted teeth and turned on her heel to stalk away. I think she reminded me most of a cat; one of the real ones that you see in movies, not the fake ones that replaced them.
‘I-I was just curious,’ I replied weakly but the conviction in my voice steadily grew. ‘I didn’t mean to keep you.’ She sighed again and appeared to think for a second of a reply. ‘Look, I appreciate you not ratting me out but I’m going to have enough of a struggle avoiding the curfew patrollers tonight, so… I kind of need to go.’ I’d forgotten about curfew, my phone telling me it was already 2034 hours and, though I had no idea of the mess that this idea would get me in at the time, I decided to take a chance.
For a moment I just stood where she left me but, with the preliminary feeling of confusion still lingering, I hurried off after her. If she was telling the truth, which for no apparent reason I felt inclined to believe, then –
‘Do you need a place to stay?’ I asked. ‘I have a spare room and, well, the curfew patrollers are no joke.’
‘Why were your kind purged? They tell us it was because you were all evil but if not, then why?’ The question was blunt and not entirely kind but, obviously, I hadn’t the time to phrase it better.
To this I couldn’t reply so, I just nodded sheepishly. She seemed to realise that I was serious and with one final probing look she said, ‘Okay, fine.’ She stuck her hand out to me and I clasped it hesitantly, her wolfish smile a little intimidating. ‘I’m Eve.’
She shook her head tiredly before turning back to me. ‘What do you want from me?’ she retorted, the irritation etched into her features.
She laughed hollowly. ‘Really? You are asking me if I need a place to stay?’
Freya Høgevold ‘Eve’ was the winner of the Remove Short Story Competition in December 2018
5
Esther Lambert
7
Imagine Imagine an insignificant dot, set against a sea of deep. The water pulls at this tiny dot, drifting. But to where? After many days and many nights, with much content and much delight his goal is in sight‌ when‌ he lands. His home. His home. His wife. So this, I said, this is the reason for their strife. Luke Wimbush
Holly Smith
The Night Before/ The Morning After Pantoum I could not find you anywhere, I needed more than a drink And an empty chair; I wanted time to think. I needed more than a drink, The bartender kindly poured – I wanted time to think (He just looked bored). The bartender kindly poured, I spilled everything onto the table; He just looked bored. I suppose for that I was grateful. I spilled everything onto the table, He helped me clean up the mess – I suppose for that I was grateful. He didn’t offer me another glass. He helped me clean up the mess, You swept through the door. He didn’t offer me another glass, I wanted so much more. You swept through the door. Morning came, too fast, too much. I wanted so much more, You left only your touch. Morning came, too fast, too much. I could not find you anywhere; You left only your touch And an empty chair. Lena Barton
9
The Alchemist We approached the heavy wooden door through the raw winter mist of the tangled garden, my heart leaping in my chest. My father’s strong hand was heavy on mine, but all too soon he would be gone, leaving me to a new life as an apprentice in the home of the old man. Standing in the open doorway, he was a pale fragile figure, somewhat stooped, but his voice was strong and he spoke with a zealous energy which astounded me. I felt at once no shyness and allowed him to lead us inside without hesitation. It is not easy for me to find words to describe what my eyes were greeted with as I entered what I now know to be his study. The room was long and low, disappearing into cobwebbed darkness at its furthest point. There was a profusion of rough wooden tables and upon them were varying flasks in which gleamed liquids of colours of every shade and brightness, emerald, azure and crimson red. They were like glowing crystals and gems scattering drops of light around them. From some of the flasks rose a gentle mist which slowly ascended, became transparent and faded against the dark wood of the ceiling. As the days progressed, I slowly learned the names and functions of these liquids until they became entrenched in my mind. Some of the liquids were to be used as medicines, some harmful and to be treated with caution. Most had been prepared to please a member of one of the noble families from the King’s court; some perhaps were for the king himself. Hidden amongst the others, however, was the great secret, the prize towards which my teacher’s burning ambition and longing was oriented: to create pure gold. Only when he knew he had fully earned my trust did he share his secret with me, for we both knew the terrible cost of being accused of witchcraft. Together we would sit for quiet hours with our manuscripts in the flickering gloom of the study. I remember the mustiness of the damp stained pages, cold and heavy to touch and turn, the creak of the bindings but above all, the impatience and excitement about the secret to be unveiled.
We were friends now, fellow seekers united by our desperate longing. There were frenzies of hope and bitter disappointments which only served to deepen our friendship. One day, after weeks of laborious nights, after weeks of patience, we had a mixture of exactly calculated proportions, a mixture which, before our astonished eyes, slowly morphed to a glorious golden colour. Leaning over the rough iron bowl, still warm from the fire, my friend’s face was full of peace, at the end of a long journey. I remember with horror how, as we watched, a mould or some evil infection, dark green and grey strands began to move over and smother the gold until it had completely faded, and our hopes extinguished with it. Slowly, as the months went by, my friend grew blind and very frail, but his longing did not cease. We agreed to make one final experiment, into which he poured all his remaining strengths. Those were very precious hours as we sat, together endlessly weighing, stirring and waiting. I would have been content if that time could have gone on for ever in the peaceful old house, but one night the mixture was finally prepared. Carefully I ladled the dark liquid into the cooking pot and hung it over the fire before gently helping my friend to his bed. In the early dawn I left my own room after a wretched night of anxious anticipation. Together we made our way to the study. With a pounding heart I crossed the room and lifted the heavy iron lid. I turned to look at the taut, pale face of my dear old friend and very gently I began to speak. Joseph Oliver
Tom Williams
Rock Paper Scissors Feather flirting with autumn. The reds and browns of an October afternoon, rudely gathered like rubbish. Cracks whisper beneath. The leaves do their best to blanket, but still the stone splits itself in half. Translation: something still breaks in the most perfect of places Translation: not your fault, just too heavy Translation: we were made of stone and you were too much of nothing and nothing beats stone, except paper, so, actually, we were paper, we were ripping, we were just feathers falling, losing our gripping, we were just two people splitting. Sara Hirsch This poem was generously donated for first publication by Sara Hirsch, who was Poet-in-Residence at the College in October. The poem was written during her stay.
11
Interview
Sara Hirsch In early October, the internationally-renowned poet Sara Hirsch came to visit the College as poet in residence. UK Slam Champion, winner of the Madrid 2016 European Poetry Slam and third ranked in the World Slam Championships 2014, Sara has made her mark on the spoken word scene and her punchy and eloquent poems speak volumes of our society today. Peps Haydn Taylor was fascinated to ask her a few questions about her work and her views on slam: PHT: You are obviously a very successful spoken word poet - what has been your favourite moment of your career? SH: There have been lots of favourite moments. Getting my box of books delivered for the first time, that was a really important one, because I have wanted to publish a book since I was 10 years old. That’s the one which springs to mind but there have been loads. It’s interesting that publishing is what comes to mind: did you find it was hard to translate your poems from spoken word into something on a page, or did it come quite naturally? Well, originally it was really difficult and I had huge imposter syndrome – I still have huge imposter syndrome. I thought “My words do not belong on the page, I’m an actor that writes, I can’t publish my stuff…” But recently I was thinking, I don’t just think of the poem in my head, it gets written down. So actually, even though I say the poems out loud, I think that’s an extra thing. Writers are just writers - it doesn’t matter if you go and read it out later. Seeing as you are a spoken word poet, how do you feel about growing popularity of slam nowadays – has there been any opposition by others to introducing a new, more liberal audience to something which has historically been quite formal? I think the spoken word movement has existed for a really long time, but I think now with YouTube, Poetry Slam and with the power being handed back to the people a little bit, it’s suddenly become incredibly popularised. Poems are going viral,it’s really cool. I think it’s equally creating a discord within the poetry community, in that it’s creating lots of tensions between more traditional poetry values and the newer generation of poets, but I think that’s really good, I think there should always be tension, there should always be people coming up and doing something new and challenging those kinds of ideas.
As you spoke about YouTube, what do you think about the difference between the experience of spoken word on YouTube verses being at an actual Poetry Slam. Do you think it makes a difference? Yeah I really do actually. I think that at a properlyrun Poetry Slam, it’s about the event as a whole: it’s about getting a whole load of people in a room enjoying poetry, so for me the joy of a poetry night is kind of the whole thing, not necessarily one individual poem. Sometimes you see something amazing and you think “that’s the reason I came out tonight”, but normally it’s just the vibe in general, whereas when you’re taking these 3 minute little snippets, taken out of context, it certainly loses some of the magic of a poetry slam. A lot of slam poems explore very heavy topics do you ever feel pressured to only focus on these things and not to explore ideas that might be less serious? I think a lot of the poems that become very well known, especially online, are really perpetuating the idea that to do a Poetry Slam you need to write really heavy, emotionally fuelled, self-confessional poems. One of the first poems I wrote was really funny, and I did really well performing it at my first Poetry Slam. I think that showed me instantly that I could be funny and that was fine, so I luckily never fell into that trap. I definitely felt sometimes that maybe I should be mining my trauma, but then I realised that was ridiculous. I think again going to Drama school really helped because I have a big divide between what I perform and what I write: I was saying recently that writing for me is therapy but performing is never therapy, and so I write a lot of stuff which will never make it beyond my own notebook. But yeah, I think it’s a big problem, particularly for young poets coming up - they see this kind of mining of emotion and it just becomes a competition of pitting trauma against trauma and that’s a really dangerous one for the scene (and also for the individual poets and the people in the room), because it then just becomes really triggering, heavy and really unsafe. So yeah, that pressure is definitely an issue for poets but I luckily have never struggled too much with it personally. Just continuing on that subject, obviously a lot of the poems you do write contain personal emotions. Did you find it difficult to be able to stand up and perform to people you don’t know and reveal these things that may be quite hard to talk about?
Ian Leonard
Sara Hirsch teaching a class in North Block
Yes and no. For me, the stage is the safest place for me, and I have never hugely struggled with divulging stuff in a poem. I would find it very difficult to sit there with someone and have a very honest conversation about my feelings, but there is something for me that is very productive when I can construct what I feel about something in a really pretty way. I can make something I am proud of out of that experience and then get up and perform it. Like I said before that’s not therapy for me, that’s art, and I really enjoy that. Actually for me there’s only been one time when I have gone a bit too far: I was doing a performance and I was really proud of the thing that I made but I showed loads of pictures in the background, and I suddenly turned around and saw a really personal photo of a relative and realised that I was showing that to a room of a hundred strangers, and I was like “Oh, that was a bad idea”. So I think for me, I feel really comfortable talking about personal stuff and a lot of the time it feels a bit like fiction because I’m making it into something that isn’t me anymore. Going on from emotionally fuelled poetry, obviously Slam Poetry has huge connotations with speaking up about discrimination and oppression. I just wondered what your experience has been as a white poet in a community that contains a lot of poetry about racism and the struggles of racial oppression, to which you perhaps can’t relate so well?
I think for me it’s about knowing your privilege and then knowing where you sit within a scene. The spoken word scene is really diverse, but firstly as a white poet there is a whole amount of just knowing where you sit, knowing your privilege, knowing the spaces where you turn up to watch and you don’t turn up to speak. Having said that, as a woman it’s also important to take up as much space as possible in spaces where women might not be given loads of opportunities to speak, so I think it’s the same as existing in the world. It’s a balance between making sure you’re taking time to listen and give space and making sure you’re taking time to realise where you need to be heard. I’m also just going to mention the Slam I run is a really good example of this: it’s incredibly diverse and we get a majority of poets of colour coming to perform, which is awesome, but they are almost exclusively men. It was a real learning curve over the 3 years that I ran it to work hard to make sure we were both platforming all voices and still giving time and space to those voices, because they are really important. Now we get lots of male, female, non-binary poets coming of all races and backgrounds, and we also get all different ages. Thank you so much; that was fascinating, and we are all looking forward to your reading!
13
Tashi Moore
Ophelia after a line by Tracey Herd See her there: an exultant Ophelia, her hair willowed in weeping death-rich glory; relaxed and corrupted and somehow we are tearless. There is time for grief after, when gold is yellow is brown and her eyes exist only behind glass. Even in death she is dazzling. She is Ophelia undone; we are left to revel in our nonsense. She is not, never will be, and still she is. Floating even as they lay her down (face-up) there is something inside us that whispers, dangerous- seductive- and not unlike the call of the frothing water. Lena Barton
15 19
Born Again He was born in fire. A thick fluid filling his lungs and panic filling his brain. Whatever he was floating in was keeping him alive, he knew that, but he needed air! He banged on the glass surrounding him, and suddenly the blue fluid began to leech away from him slowly, until he was coughing the heavy gunk from his lungs and feeling cool air in his chest for the first time. When he finally recovered, and straightened out again, naked and shivering, he saw a man in a white lab coat tapping on the glass of his capsule. He stared back dully at the scientist, who had a rather uninspiring face and a bald patch. A speaker vent clicked open somewhere and the man’s voice filled the glass cylinder, ‘Mr. Ellis, can you tell where we are?’ The teen stared back dully back at the lab coat man and answered mechanically.
filled his lungs until his throat and his chest were burning, burning, and he was on fire again. Then the stillness returned, and his consciousness left him. He relaxed into helplessness and calm until he was just cold and floating. * Two months later, the second data transfer attempt is complete. The man opens his eyes, gasping in shock at first but then going still and calm. He watches the suspension fluid drain around him and then turns to the ForeverLabs employee in front of him. Hearing the click of the microphone, he relays the words of the agreed confirmation statement. ‘I am Mr. John Ellis, CEO and founder of Ellis Industries. I entered into the regeneration program at ForeverLabs and was subsequently euthanized and cloned. All data transfers are complete. I would now like to return to my life with my young and healthy body.’
‘A lab, clearly.’ The scientist marked something down on his clipboard. ‘And can you tell me your full name?’ The teen opened his mouth to answer but found that he couldn’t. He searched for it, languidly at first but getting more frantic when he couldn’t find it, his breath getting fast and short. He didn’t know his name, or his mother or father, or anything, but he had knowledge enough to know that this was not normal. It was all gone. He felt like he was drowning again, only this time in fear at how blank he was. The scientist took the boy’s widened eyes and panicked breath as an answer in itself and turned to a man sitting by a control board. ‘Primary data has transferred successfully but the secondary data seems to be missing. Put him back and we can give him a scan and try again.’ The fluid was rising again, reaching his ankles and then his knees. It was cold and welcoming in comparison to the harshness of the lab outside, but he was still terrified. He tried to bang on the walls of his capsule to try and get their attention and tell them how it was all a mistake, but the lights were off and they had left him. So he drowned, and gel
He hears the microphone click off and the door of his birth capsule is released. As he steps out of the cylinder the employee hands him a dressing gown. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can remember panic, and fear and drowning, and feeling like a helpless little boy again, but the memory is gone almost as soon as it arrived, so he brushes it off and continues on. He has been dead almost a year and had lots to catch up on. Fleur Halstead
Kit Speirs
17
Jessica Reeve
Actor
Origins
Stand, breathe, morph, spin into another one: a girl, perhaps a man.
I come from Chelsea Bridge, a taxi from Sloane Square, from uptight siblings and a silver spoon, from e-cigarettes, from books, from the army, from pacifists; from wires, mouses, keys and photographs. I come from bullying, farming, Country Life.
The lighting changes, heart rate races, every inch must tingle stand, breathe, morph breathe like this girl exhale and inhale fourteen and conceited, vain and self-obsessed: you must become her. Stand, breathe, morph – spend an hour inside her skin, my posture, voice and style have all changed to hers. I stand, accept applause, return to the changing room, stand, breathe, morph.
I come from a city, the hills and the sea, from laying the table, brushing my teeth, mowing the lawn; from restaurants, cigars and alcohol. I come from the light; I come from the dark. I come from my father’s stories. Charlie Northcott
Florence Shorthouse
19
Ben Mears
In a City Silver skyscrapers lined with black squares; a crowd below. Pop music playing from a room across the street where a girl in a raincoat turns, lank blonde hair covering her face. Later, in the street, car lights flash as crowds push past each other, and I stumble over myself to reach the square. Here it is even more crowded. A man in a black coat with a red hood smiles, speaks to his young son in a rich, difficult accent. The sky fills with dark clouds. Fizz Fitzgerald
Sleepwalking in the Metropolis Walk past midnight amongst the grey mass. Assemble in the men of black, choked collars and cheap pints. Step through the screaming women, red stiletto heels clutched like last wills and past the people with their hands in prayer, cupped together for a taste of life. David Poole
Theo Reid
21
Interview
Michael Symmons Roberts ‘My name is Michael Symmons Roberts and I’m a poet and write in various other forms as well. I write for broadcasts, I write drama, I work with composers, and I write non-fiction, but for me it all begins and ends with poetry. I knew that poetry was what I had to do or should be doing since I was about 5: everyone else grows out of it and poets don’t. I have kind of been doing it ever since, with various accompanying occupations - I worked as a documentary film maker for a while and in recent years I have been teaching poetry at Manchester Machete Primary University.’ Michael Symmons Roberts came to read at the college as part of the Marlborough LitFest, and Emily Pont was thrilled to interview him for Piccalilli: EP: My first question would be: has there been a constant underlying theme or message that characterises your works, or sort of brings them together? MSR: I think I haven’t consciously been working out a stream of subject matter, but I often think one of the big problems for writers is that we think poetry is fundamentally about self-expression, and I think it’s not about self-expression. My belief is that poetry is about making something. You happen to be making it with words, but it’s an act of making, and once you start to think about the act of making it’s quite liberating, because you don’t have to worry about whether your life is exciting enough or your ideas are powerful enough, you are just making something with words. Of course, what happens is, because you’re making it, it has your fingerprints all over it. The themes are the ones that well up from deep inside you and you can’t stop them from doing that. For me, it’s often been remarked that I keep circling around very theological and philosophical strands. I guess that’s always been the heart of my interests and passions, and because in making these poems you are essentially exploring, I think that you don’t know what the poem’s going to say until you’ve made it. Would you say there has been any pivotal moment within your life as a writer which has caused a shift in the way you write?
I mean I suppose any life, not just a writer’s life, has lots of minor pivotal moments. I think for poets there is often the sense of change between books of poems; I’ve published 8 books of poems now and between each of them, there is a sense of you evolving. I think the first pivotal moment I can remember was when I rediscovered poetry in my late teens: I had been writing since I was very young, occasionally short stories but always poetry at the heart of it, but just for myself. Then I abandoned it through most of my teens - I was in bands and things, and thought it was much more interesting to be in a band than to write poems. Then around the age of 19 I discovered Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas and John Berryman, and the sort of incendiary chemistry between those three poets made me rethink the whole thing. I loved different things from each of them: Dylan Thomas’ incredible, clashing musicality and surrealism, Sylvia Plath’s focus and intensity and formal rigour as well as John Berryman’s slangy, vernacular playfulness and bleak wit. Suddenly I was reading all three of those within the same year, and I just thought, ‘You can do anything with these poems.’ That felt like a lift off moment. This is more of a philosophical question, but I thought it would be interesting to bring it up. The poet Rilke said in one of his letters written to a young poet that ‘You shouldn’t write unless it becomes a necessity for your life, unless you can’t live without it.’ I wondered as a fellow poet what that would mean to you, or what you would take from that, and why? I think the reasons why people write are many and I’ve always liked to generalise that poets must be of a certain kind, but poets can be of all different sorts of temperaments and so on. I do think that poets are the people that keep writing poems, because everyone writes at some point: when you’re in love, when you have lost someone. Every night in Manchesterian News there are homespun elegies by people who have lost loved ones; they write this two-line poem even though they have never written a poem before. I think poetry has a place in everyone’s life, even if it’s only at very occasional points. You just become, whether it’s by habit or some sort of compulsion, or just a disposition of personality. You become dissatisfied and difficult to be with and not great company if you’re not
Ben Phillips, LitFest
Michael Symmons Roberts reading in the Adderley
doing it, so you learn that, actually, the path of least resistance is to be obedient to it and keep doing it because you function better. Life feels better. You could just call it something I know one of my contemporaries describes it as: a diagnosis. You can be diagnosed as a poet and you just have to submit to this thing and keep on writing them. I guess there is something in what Rilke says in that you don’t get rich writing poems. Famously it’s a marginal art form compared with being a rock star or big selling novelist, and so to persist in this slightly quiet art form means you really must at some level believe in it. So my last question, what do you think has been the greatest challenge to overcome in your writing, or essentially any challenge that has faced you while writing?
their poetic career. There is a quotation I once read in an interview with Colin Weldon where he said ‘my biggest challenge when I sit down to write a poem is how not to write another Colin Weldon poem.’ I think there are various strategies for overcoming it: have a circle of trusted friends, who you trust enough to tell you when something is really not working or it’s just the same as the last one you wrote. Also form, using various types of form can push you. If you’ve got to meet a rhyme scheme, then your first word choice might not be available to you because it doesn’t rhyme or it’s not the right syllable count so that can push you to your second, third or fourth word choice and that can apply a certain sort of pressure that gets you out of that selfparody. I guess that’s probably the biggest ongoing challenge for most writers: to keep it new.
That’s interesting. I think most poets would agree that it’s so difficult to write good poems, and none of the poets I know ever think they have written a good poem. That’s why you write the next one, because you keep not getting it right. When you’re starting out writing poems, probably the biggest challenge and the biggest threat to you as a poet is to keep repeating the same tricks, that you get a sense of what one of your poems sounds like and then you keep doing it. Your work never really develops; you’re not asking hard enough questions of your work, so it sort of stays in a holding pattern. I think everyone experiences that at every stage of
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Mother
The Clock
Water gurgles from our black kettle with its dimpled diamond pattern. Cupboards creak and a cloth-like tea bag emerges filled with the minuscule grains of former tea leaves.
The clock ticks. The world is opening its eyes, hesitant. There are patches of the sky in puddles. We are all wonder and newness.
The age-old emerald mug sits like an ancient war horse. Cracks in the porcelain go unnoticed as sugar lands gracefully. Through a background of sounds, disruptions, a dry hum of the radio drones, and consistent dogs whine at her feet with the simple message: wanting to be walked. Slow crescendo as boiled water fills the mug followed by the fusion of pure milk and tea, in a cacophony of shape and colour. James Watson This was the winning entry in the Remove Poetry Competition 2018
The clock ticks. Cats are lying in the sun drinking in the warmth on the windowsill. The air hazes above the tarmac; the days stretch on for years. The clock ticks: a leaf brushes against the pane. The world outside is set alight in fire colours. Sit by the hearth, laugh lines in the candlelight. The clock ticks: shaking, cold, all varicose veins. Ice is creeping up on everything. A bare tree creeps in the wind, glittering like jewels in a sun we have almost forgotten The clock stops. The door opens. Fleur Halstead
Tate Oliphant
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A Short Break The evening sun shone radiantly into the kitchen, despite the shutters’ best efforts to hinder it. The beams shone into the kitchen and sprawled across the big oak table as if they were exhausted. One beam fell from the table and caught Grandma’s eye neatly as she was sleeping. This jerked her from her sleep. She stood up and nonchalantly made her way to the kitchen and began to make supper. A sweet smell of coco bread and cassava wafted into the room, a smell that even now I associate with Grandma. I heard her softly humming a tune that I had heard in church that morning, and I started to hum along. She poked her head round the door and smiled at me. We weren’t always going to visit her in Jamaica. That decision came very last minute, when Daddy’s bank started to break. He got a lot of phone calls very late at night and spent more time in his office. Eventually he told Mummy to take Teddy and me to see Grandma. He didn’t tell us he was ill though. I overheard him talking to Mummy about it. I couldn’t remember the name of his illness. At first Mummy didn’t want to go. She said she ‘would rather die than go to a place without proper shops!’ Then Daddy found Mary, our au pair, to come with us and look after me and Teddy. So, we went on a big boat and it took ages, but we eventually got there.
At that moment Teddy burst into the room howling, half naked, followed by a wearied au pair. She looked at me, sitting on the floor playing with an antique elephant I had picked off the shelf, then to Mummy, lounging in a chair reading Vogue with a cigarette balanced in a lady-like way, between her fingers. ‘He won’t have a bath, Ma’am. I’ve tried and tried but he won’t!’ the au pair said desperately. Mummy looked at Teddy, now running around the room like a motor car, and said ‘Just leave it, Mary,’ in that casual, yet authoritative voice that I so admired and wanted. Teddy, hearing that the trauma of bath time had been averted once more, came and sat on my lap and tried to take the elephant away from me. ‘No Teddy,’ I told him firmly, ‘this is MY elephant.’ Grandma walked in carrying two plates, steaming hot and placed them on the big oak table. This signalled supper, so we ran to devour it. After supper had been eaten and plates cleared away, Mummy said she felt tired and so retired to her room. Teddy and I were playing hide and seek between Grandma’s strange and colourful furniture
Nell Hargrove
when she came in and sank herself into the chair I was hiding behind. This seemed to my mind to be asking for a fright, so I clambered up onto the head of the chair and shouted ‘BOO!’ She jumped, and the movement of this toppled me of my perch on the head of the chair, and I fell to her feet. ‘Oh, you cheeky monkey, you!’ she said in her thick accent that seemed so outlandish, and scooped me up in her arms. Teddy, fearing that this was to be his fate too, bolted for the stairs. I giggled then squirmed out of Grandma’s arms and approached a wall which was coated in pictures They showed, in photos and paintings, people working in hazy golden fields and sitting by sapphire streams, always smiling. A particular picture intrigued me. It showed about 50 women, all smiling, standing in a field of cotton, their work tools stowed to one side to capture this moment perfectly. They couldn’t look happier. Even though the monotone of the photo wasn’t able to capture the brilliance of the sky behind them or show the power of the heat pounding on their backs, I still saw it. My eyes began drifting to the picture above, which showed a younger version of Grandma, sitting on the beach we had been to the previous day. She was holding a glass that contained a colourful drink. She
looked so happy and young, almost as if she was unburdened unlike she was now. No wrinkles designed her face and she had brilliant green eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see those green eyes smiling kindly at me. ‘It’s time you be in your room little Missy,’ she said gently. I reluctantly tore myself away from the wall of photos and headed for the stairs. As I was about to go upstairs Mummy appeared at the top. She looked hollow for some reason that I couldn’t have known. She came silently down the stairs, like some sort of apparition. She stopped just in front of me. ‘It’s your father,’ she said. ‘He was ill. Really ill.’ A gasp came from behind me and I saw Grandma hold her hand to her mouth maybe to stop a scream, or a sob. I remember after the commotion running to my room and staring out at the endless navy sea, thinking about my Dad on the other side of it and praying I could be there with him. Maddy Smith
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Falmouth Music I’m walking along the pier. The masts of the yachts each play their own chords, Masts crashing, the taller ones playing loud solos. Seagulls add strong lead vocals. Thrumming engines of boats provide a steady backing beat. Jamie Walker
Francesco Faccini
Life Itself after a line by Sarah Corbett Hope is the morning; yet what that new delusion is would be an unfathomable wakeful pity. Broken by 8am, ravished by an uncherished youth and slaughtered by an illusion to be watchful. Hope is the morning, yet a fusion of a muddled mind is and ignorant bliss. A callow harmony here of an inconspicuous dawn where we are unaware of what and who we are, how far we still are. Nylon fingertips achingly close, a wail of desperation to savour the flash, relish in it. Jemima Stratton
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Lara Prideaux
Childhood Reflection. Who is this I see? A girl watching the rain pitter patter against the rooftop. Sunlight streams through the window behind her. She is not interested by it. Raindrops running down the glass are what catch her eye. Green. That’s what surrounds her, as far as the eye can see, stretching towards the horizon. It’s infinite and encompassing. She’s familiar with it. The intertwining roots are where she plays. When she trips and falls she picks herself up and continues to clamber around. What is there to fear while she is here? Laughter. Air rushes in and out of her lungs. Feet slam against the ground, kicking up dirt. Children swarm across the area. The tide of their movements pull her along. One of them scrambles after the rest, their hand outstretched to catch them. Free. Everything is limitless. Countless paths lay out before her. Which should she choose? There are so many options. Twists and turns lead her to dead ends. It’s a game to reach the end first. Entrapped. All of it is gone. Where did it all go? Packed cardboard boxes filled to the brim encircle her. Forlornly, her gaze moved up to the sky illuminated by warm colours. She whispers, “Wait for me. I’ll find a way back.” Subdued. She turns away. The light has dimmed. All she can see now are silhouettes, shadows of the people she knew. They’re drifting away from her, sinking into the darkness. She’s scrambling to say goodbye, her legs move to chase after them but she’s pulled back. It’s time to go. Alone. In an unfamiliar place. No one’s there. She abandoned them all. It wasn’t her fault. Natalia Howard
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Seasons Set in Stone Winds whisper lullabies brushing through the trees, giving petals to the air, a summer solstice breeze. Flowers twirl around me but all I do is stare. Sunlight shines on glassy white, songs don’t dance through my hair. The skies all tell me ‘Terpsichore! come join our chorus now!’ They tell me to get up and change but they never tell me how. Rainstorms come and downpours go. A sapling breaks the ground. My feet are set in blocks of stone as I watch the world go round. ‘Open up your hand,’ I hear, but I know my hand will break. ‘You are soft and I am brittle, I’m still for my own sake.’ Seasons flow and starlight spins: a year becomes a minute. The skies forever echo ‘grow,’ but they don’t know my limit. The seconds tick, the hours pass, eternity is mine. Until I notice something new, a crack, a growing line. One by one, my pieces fall, finger, my arm, my head. Something in me wishes that I had stayed the same instead. They all praised movement, song, and dance; it’s what they sought for me. I forgot that winter’s cold and bleak. This is not what I hoped it would be. Eilidh McCoig
Lottie Bagshaw
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Georgina Cowen
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Gary Doak
Review
Litfest 2018 The Marlborough Literary Festival is one of the town’s most eagerly anticipated events of the year, and 2018’s certainly did not disappoint. With talks from William Boyd, David Walliams, Leila Abouela and Michael Symmons Roberts to name only a few, the four days this year were crammed with fascinating talks from diverse range of talented writers. We were hurled into the LitFest headfirst with the Thursday afternoon workshop from Michael Symmons Roberts, reviewed by Indigo Randolph Gray: “It was a productive afternoon, and although quite reserved, Symmons Roberts held the room in a captivating manner. He shared his own methods of writing and how his work has developed over time, helping us to feel comfortable with the idea of not doing particularly well at first and editing a piece until we are truly satisfied with it. The environment was friendly and open and we were all encouraged to share work, questions and opinions. Though most of us were not poets in our spare time, nor avid poetry readers, Symmons Roberts was helped us evoke our poetic side and managed to maintain the group atmosphere while also giving us space to be personal, and the workshop has persuaded me to continue exploring poetry.” In the evening, Symmons Roberts took extracts from his most recent book Mancunia and read them aloud. He brought to life his dreamlike vision of a city, somewhere halfway between the real-life Manchester and the one that exists in his mind. The audience was transported to pavements worn by footsteps and rain, to fantasy museums within which the history of Manchester was laid out in long sentences and huge glass cases, and to the inner workings of the mind of a Mancunian through his expressive poems. The evening was both incredibly enjoyable and informative, and set a very high standard for the events to come. On Saturday I attended two brilliant talks, beginning in the afternoon with the wonderful Sarah Churchwell on the history of the “American Dream”. It was captivating to hear her speak - her depth of knowledge was unbelievable and her insight into the mutation of the “America First” slogan was fascinating. With the contemporary connections
Leila Aboulela
being made between Trump’s electoral campaign and the slogan, it was fascinating to be able to understand the history behind it and gain a broader understanding of its associations over time. Later that day was Kate Mosse’s talk “The Burning Chambers” - Mrs Ponsford gave us her thoughts: “She was absolutely compelling: a born story-teller, charismatic, and passionate. Her stories invariably come out of a sense of place - West Sussex, where she now lives, the Carcassonne region of France, and South Africa, which she discovered had links with Carcassonne. She spoke without notes, ranging freely in her conversation, and it was a hugely entertaining and engaging talk. Her books are always incredibly well researched: the picture she paints is always convincing, but there is never a sense of her showing off her learning. The novel shows the strong influence of the gothic tales her father told her when she was a child - stories, she says, that were completely inappropriate but memorable, and from them she creates completely believable worlds.” In the evening was Miranda Kaufmann’s “Black Tudors” talk, reviewed by Miss Marks:
“Miranda Kaufmann has just published her debut novel ‘Black Tudors’, which is based on her PhD research into this aspect of Renaissance life. It was very enjoyable to hear Kaufmann describing the trials and tribulations of finding fleeting references to these elusive figures. Of the 350 or so that she discovered, she selected ten as the focus of her historical account. Kaufmann is keen for the text to be used in schools and for teachers to rethink their homogenous approach to history of this period, as Renaissance England was more diverse than originally thought.” Later in the afternoon, Jon Stock gave a workshop on thriller writing, reviewed by Indigo Randolph Gray: “Jon Stock presented us with the basic story structure and explained the trick to creating an exciting storyline. It was interesting to hear him share his experiences as a writer with a pseudonym, which allowed him a different perspective, easier branding and distinct genres under the two names. The actual creative writing side of the workshop was also useful: the snippets of story ideas that we shared with each other were all creative and individual, and were a great insight into other people’s characters.” Later came Leila Aboulela’s talk “Elsewhere, Home”, which received a glowing review from Dr Ponsford:
“Leila Aboulela talked about the process by which she became a writer: arriving in the UK from Khartoum in Sudan with a toddler and a two-week old child to join her husband, who worked on the Scottish North Sea oil-rigs. She became a teacher of Statistics in Aberdeen, a job she hated, and gradually became a writer by joining a creative writing group and honing her craft through a supportive group. Many of her short stories are based on her own experiences of homesickness or a sense of not quite belonging. What I found most enjoyable about the talk was her explanation of how difficult she found the UK at first. Her mother-in-law was British, and had lived in Khartoum; Leila Aboulela assumed that everyone she met in the UK would be as well educated, liberal minded, welcoming to outsiders and resourceful. Her discovery that British people can show none of these traits was recounted in a humorous way, as was her discovery about how awful the weather could be in Scotland. She interspersed reminiscence with readings from several of her stories from her new collection, ‘Elsewhere, Home’. At one point she had to leave off reading because she had become so emotional at remembering the loneliness she had sometimes felt. The stories were powerful and delicate by turns. Enthralling.”
Ben Phillips, LitFest
William Boyd speaking in the Memorial Hall
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The evening brought with it a brilliant talk from William Boyd, who demonstrated his storytelling prowess with the tale of his hilarious 1990s creation: Nat Tate, abstract impressionist, and possibly one of the best art hoaxes of all time. His skill was evident as he lead the audience through this mad narrative journey, with appearances from Picasso, David Bowie and Georges Braques to name only a few. To finish the hilarious and surprisingly true story, Boyd arrived at one of his greatest literary mottos: the mark of a good author is to make the reader believe your story is real. Boyd really could not have been a better manifestation of this statement. Sunday brought the cold and a whole new lineup of literary talent. Midmorning, I listened to the riveting tale of the Alan Chappelow murder case in a talk by Thomas Harding, which proved more and more fascinating as Harding explained the unbelievable details of what seemed at first to be a relatively uncomplicated story. He spoke with the clarity that only comes with both passion and hours of research, and it was amazing to hear him speak about this real-life murder case. Later on there was the Translation Duel, and Hope Nicholson gave us her thoughts on the event: “To celebrate International Translation Day, Ros Schwartz and Frank Wynne, two awardwinning professional translators, discussed their interpretations of an extract of Marguerite Duras’ L’Amant. The word to word comparisons emphasised how subjective the skill of translation is, however as someone who studies Russian rather than French, I most enjoyed when the discussion lead to universal truths about translation, especially the comments on the tension between meaning and music in translation and achieving a balance between the two.
story and I guess my enthusiasm came across to the audience. It’s also always important to bend the rules to your advantage: each panellist was limited to just five minutes for their first presentation but were generously allowed to finish their sentence once the timer went off. My final sentence lasted about 45 seconds as I banged on about the protagonist!” The Litfest was rounded off with a brilliant talk from David Walliams, and I spoke to Mr Carroll to find out his thoughts on the event: “David Walliams’ talk about his new book was a great event for parents and children alike, and was presented by the media Paralympian Ade Adepitan MBE. The talk was peppered with jokes for both children and adults, which made it hilariously funny for all members of the audience. The talk was very interactive, with Walliams asking the children questions and offering up entire signed collections of his books as prizes, and he engaged the audience in a way that only a brilliant childrens’ author could, which that seemed to be the thing that made this talk so enjoyable for everyone listening.” After a massive number of brilliant events, LitFest was over for another year. It was a hugely enjoyable and packed week, and will be tough to beat with next year’s lineup of literary talent. Peps Haydn Taylor
David Walliams in the Memorial Hall
To finish, the speakers summed up the constant challenge of translation with a brilliant quote from David Mitchell: ‘As a writer I can be bad, but I can’t be wrong. A translator can be good, but can never be right’.” Then in the evening was the Marlborough Booker competition, and who better to review his road to victory than the winner himself, Mr Tilney:
Ben Phillips, LitFest
“The Marlborough Booker of Bookers debate was a friendly, informal gathering with fellow lovers of literature to debate and discuss some fantastic novels. To be honest it was the brilliance of Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel that won it, rather than myself. I’m a great admirer of this simple but beautifully crafted
Review
Jean Moorcroft Wilson: The Marlburian War Poets
A well-respected author and academic,Jean Moorcroft Wilson chose to concentrate a decent portion of her research into two of the most famous WWI era OMs, Charles Sorley and Siegfried Sassoon. Often when attending talks on such topics, one is bombarded with the same information, information that could all too easily be found on Wikipedia, but this particular talk was, in my opinion, a refreshing take on the subject. All too frequently, the fact that these men were young and rebellious is silenced, not because it isn’t mentioned in these sorts of lectures- it always is- but due to the fact that I repeatedly find that the presentation lacks the compassion to put the reality across in a way that one can straightforwardly put into context. The actuality is dulled by the constant stream of admittedly relevant but laborious facts, a quality that detracts from a topic that should be emotive and poignant to the point that, at least in my case, I cannot process the information. Jean Moorcroft Wilson, fortunately, succeeded in maintaining an empathetic narrative. I found that she capitalised on the interesting parts of Sassoon and Sorley’s lives and characters and showed them as the enigmatic personalities that they surely were.
Millie Burdett
The talent and tragedy of the OM war poets is spoken of a lot within the school and for good reason too. Sassoon and Sorley pioneered a new genre of wartime poems, pieces that spoke less of the glory in the sacrifice made for one’s country and more of the melancholy subjected to the young generation at the time. Borne from both bitterness and stark realism the works of these poets mark an important part of Marlborough’s history and it is infinitely brilliant that their lives and legacies are recognised by experts such as Jean Moorcroft Wilson.
Jean Moorcroft Wilson’s contrast of Sassoon and Sorley to Rupert Brooke, the poet credited with the idealistic ‘The Soldier” that spoke of England and the war with such unrelenting optimism and honour, was another interesting point posed. Sassoon and Sorley, on the other hand, produced poems that very much had the opposite effect. They spoke of death with a certain finality that was almost chilling, a jilting contrast to the idea of death in war as an honourable sacrifice that so regularly exists in poems of this era. The contrast between these opposing views added a depth to the information given that is not always achieved and I can honestly say that, thanks to the compassion offered in the account, I know more about the OM war poets than I did before. Freya Høgevold
In addition to this she exhibited the influence that these poets had on one another, mentioning that, after Sorley’s death in 1915 that Sassoon and another wartime poet, Robert Graves, were truly affected by his poetry and saddened that he died so soon.
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Pete Davies
Twelfth Night at the Bristol Old Vic Wils Wilson’s version of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was truly mesmerising. Down a cobbled lane to the charming Bristol Old Vic theatre, the 1960s psychedelic interpretation of the play captivated the audience. Expecting a more conventional approach to Shakespeare’s greatest comedy, the Marlborough College students were pleasantly surprised to witness a play of colour and uproarious humour. The multi-talented cast managed to simultaneously put on an engaging performance whilst playing a myriad of different instruments, going as far as incorporating actual panpipes into their songs. Gender fluidity, being a major theme, was explored in a lighthearted fashion through the use of flamboyant outfits and interchangeable male and female roles throughout the play. When the play was performed in the Elizabethan times, both male and female roles would have been played by men, which further added to the comedic value, and it was interesting to compare it to this production’s predominantly female cast. Wilson even went as far as switching some of the genders of the characters completely: Lord Toby became Lady Toby, and although rather ambiguously (the programme
settled this debate), Orsino was played by a woman. Despite being set in the 60s, this diversity reflects a lot of the characteristics of the 21st century. From start to finish, the play was one big laugh. The most memorable moment has to be the unforgettable Beyonce-esque letting down of Malvolio’s luscious blonde locks combined with his completely outrageous yellow stockings. The Fool also provided humorous commentary throughout and his purple feathered afro is one we will never forget. This comedy united with the company’s prodigious musical and theatrical talent was an amalgamation destined to produce a hugely enjoyable evening. Jazi Castleman and Rosie Pembroke
Review
The School Play: Arcadia The Drama department’s rendition of Tom Stoppard’s ‘Arcadia’ was a captivating production, showcasing the immense talent possessed by those involved. This dramatic comedy was a tale of two centuries, flitting between past and present, enthralling the audience through the shifts in time which merged seamlessly through the use of a single set.
Bella Bullen
Pete Davies
‘Arcadia’ focuses on the contrast between chaos and order, moving from a set social structure at the start, to the final scene where social order, and even the separation of eras, dissolve into chaos. It tells the story of a young girl named Thomasina (played by Talia Neat), a bright teenager with ideas on academics well ahead of her time, and her studies with her tutor, Septimus (played by Ijah Ofon). Whilst following their actions in the past, the play shows two modern scholars in the present, Hannah Jarvis (Claudia Vyvyan) and Bernard Nightingale (Finn Taylor), attempting to discover the truth about what occurred in Thomasina’s time. The dual casting of Harrison Locke as both Augustus, Thomasina’s younger brother in the past, and Gus, the silent young Coverly in the present, created a tangible link between the two eras.
It has been said that ‘Arcadia’ is the greatest play of our age, and this was perfectly displayed by the incredible actors that brought it to life. The small ensemble of only twelve cast members allowed the audience to connect with each character without losing understanding of the plot. The play was executed beautifully, containing extensive drama whilst still incorporating a comedic element. Each actor performed convincingly with every movement carefully judged, and watching, one got a sense that each of them were enjoying themselves immensely.
Whilst the ‘Arcadia’ is predominantly a dramatic comedy, there is also an element of tragedy as the audience is forewarned of Thomasina’s tragic death at the age of seventeen. The play ends just hours before her death is suggested to take place, therefore resulting in happiness with a sense of tragedy to it as the audience know what would have followed had it continued. The stunning set, magnificently designed and built by Paul Cox, was dominated by a large wooden table and three chairs, around which the theatrics took place. The table was used by characters from both the past and the present and throughout the play accumulated props from both time eras such as quills, laptops and coffee mugs, blurring the gap between past and present.
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The Piccalilli editorial team: Peps Haydn Taylor
Daisy Parker
Bella Bullen
Emily Pont
Jazi Castleman
Indigo Randolph Gray
Art School team: Harry Alexander Nicole Egorova, Joe Pigott
Piccalilli cover by Chloe Knight Piccalilli logo design by Joe Sykes