Winter 2019-2020
Editorial Unique, thought-provoking, intriguing: these would be the words I would use to describe this winter’s issue of Piccalilli. It covers a variety of genres and topics which are relevant to our current chaotic world. This year we focused on the importance of the environment, political situations, and prejudice to portray the opinions of the younger generation towards these matters. Piccalilli is a platform for young writers and artists to showcase their talent and express their views to emphasise the need for change using their freedom of speech. The Michaelmas play is always a highlight of the school year, and last term’s production of Othello highlighted the fact that racism and prejudice, Shakespeare’s themes in that play, are still occurring in our own time. The performances in the Ellis Theatre had an impact on an audience from a range of backgrounds and ages; it showed that this young generation is aware of social issues and has the energy and commitment to address these. I hope that this edition of Piccalilli does the same thing, whilst expressing a variety of perspectives on our current world. Liv Jordan-Willis
Mimi Ashmead Bartlett
Farrokh Bulsara If you believe that the world fell on that fateful day in London town – the static down, our smile slipped, the music faded to abyss. If you believe that the monarch died, though he held out through the final lines, turned and left us teary eyed, calling to the crowd in pride. If you believe in his immortal soul, then you see God has no control; he’s lost beyond the starry pole, lost in a world of rock and roll. Then you’ll believe in the wild nights, dancing under the fairy lights, jeering at some God above, the day the music came alive. Jemima Stratton
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Indigo Randolph Gray
The Truth of the Pineapple A wooden fruit bowl on the table/ vibrant colours bursting from the dull brown bucket/ the pineapple stands out/ they treat it as an idol/ then I should worship it/ what is the truth
I Stand out from the crowd. The world walks past the colourful and bustling fruit market/ the fiery oranges and yellows and reds blend together in the cracked crates/ but the pineapple stands out. They treat it like an idol. What is the truth?
II Wear your own crown. The pineapple wears his crown/ he owns it/ yours may be invisible/ like the stars/ they are still there even if you can’t see them/ the crown is still there/ you can feel the precious weight of it/ keep your head held high/ that’s what they say They treat it like an idol. What is the truth?
III Be sweet on the inside. We all have our wall of thorns/ they protect us from the evil/ but the juice from the pineapple dances out in colourful swirls when revealing its secrets/ like the nectar of the flower/ like the hope of the rainbow They treat it as an idol. What is the truth? but I’ve learnt the truth is changed when it has to be for good is what we hope don’t blend in. the burning colours of the sunset are holding onto each other together tightly. but they still Stand Out. Hannah Keighley This poem was the winner in the Remove Poetry Festival
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November Perhaps it was the cold. The November draught and icy chill that seemed to permeate through jacket or scarf or glove. Perhaps it was the curdled mist, every day for a week at six thirty a.m., that seeped snake-like along the pavement coiling at his trouser cuffs. It hadn’t been premeditated or even considered; the thought was as unformulaic as the wisps of half-notes he had become attuned to in his wooden solitude. He wasn’t impulsive: Theresa had told him so once, like it was disdainful; like it was a disease. Yet now it seemed as if he had encountered such bleakness that it ought not have been real – in the mind of others at least. He was stimulated by nothing but the thick odour of varnish and course rubbings of rosin and horsehair; the prickling of the nape of his neck whilst wiping strings with yellow cloth, and their crass rasping. He ought to react in some way; to laugh, to cry or to gasp, for surely to emote was to feel?
He didn’t notice her immediately; she wasn’t one of those girls who flaunted their good looks, whose movements were tailed by gazes of other women out of spite, or men who brazenly conspired with the whites of their eyes. He could have walked past her quite ordinarily, a slight brush of shoulders – for the narrowing of the street – then the faint, cool rush of air left in her wake. It was her shoes that made him look twice. Thick-soled black boots, chunky and high-topped with rubber heels. They looked wrong adorning such slight legs, it was almost laughable, like she was one of those characters from the French comic books he used to read – Androit or Asterix – something like that, he couldn’t remember. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, all willowy and pale, a long neck rising from narrow-framed shoulders. She kept her head down as she walked, and her arms were closely wrapped around her thin frame like a cage.
Living alone had forced him to reckon with the melancholy that usurped the thought of sleeping in late, not when he had nothing to keep him there. He had also had to reckon with cooking for himself, but after so many years, time had blurred nebulously into two single blocks – the time before and the time after – so he supposed he had become rather good at being solitary. He enjoyed the daily walk down by the river, cutting across the edge of
the estate, past the local athletics track with its frangible grandstands, along Luxton Way until he reached the Solent Convenience Store. The Tuesday was a day like any other; six thirtyfive a.m., the sky overcast and a dull grey. The dawn was not yet fully fledged, and the surrounding light was a washed cobalt blue and hazy in its cover. It was an unusual occurrence for someone other than himself to be out on the street at this time of day. He watched her warily, not because he felt unnerved, but perhaps because the interruption of such a routine of seclusion had left him suddenly reeling, like a punch to the stomach. It was as if in the twenty-odd years that he had passed alone, only now for the first time did he truly feel the chasm of that time weathered upon his skin. The thought made him pause for a moment, but then he remembered the 1714 Parker violin which he needed to attend to in adding another coat of varnish and re-laying its scratched purfling, and with weary contemplation he went on to the store to buy Atkinson’s cat food and the vegetables for lunch. He would see her in this way every day from that point onwards. It became a kind of strange ritual; him, treading heavily, awkward in the anticipation of their meeting, and her, indifferent, or at least unaware of his presence whilst she – eyes fixed upon the tarmac in front of her – would step hurriedly past, always hunched with her head down. He often wondered where she was heading and where she was coming from. Looking over his shoulder he would see her moving quickly away, until she disappeared around the corner of the road. Once, he thought he saw her crying but even then, he wasn’t completely sure. The sight was disquieting, yet to say something to her would be to acknowledge her – and he couldn’t do that. Reaching the store, he saw Ronnie slouched outside against the wall, smoking. He gave him nod, but Ronnie waved him over. “Got some something for yer ears, Earl,” he said. “I know you haven’t been down these parts an’ all much recently, what with Theresa moving back an’ her kid – “ “Been busy up at the house, you know how it is – same old – got five new Gilberts being delivered tomorrow, and knowing what Jim usually finds, they’ll be in pretty rough shape.”
Mimi Ashmead-Bartlett
“Of course, of course. Well, thought you should know anyway – didn’t want you finding out through other means – “ Ronnie paused, which was odd; Earl always pegged him as blunt but direct. “Well, look here Earl, I don’t know how to put this easy,” he said, “but the kid – Theresa’s kid – you know, after coming back an’ they been living down in the estate. People have been talking, an’, well, there’s been word that its yours – the kid I mean, which I know is crazy an’ all. I said that to them, it’s been so many years, but then I spoke to her Theresa I mean, an’ she didn’t say no. So what I’m saying is, I think it’s your kid, Earl. She’s your kid.” “Your cigarette – you have to flick the ash – it’s been burning too long,” said Earl. “What. Oh, right.” Ronnie took one last drag then snubbed it out on the pavement. “Earl it’ll be alright. I’ll talk to Theresa. You can meet her – the kid I mean an’ –
“I don’t want to meet her, Ronnie,” he said. “C’mon, Earl. I know it’s been hard an’ this is, well, this is horrible. But something good can come out o’ this.” “No, Ronnie. I can’t. I won’t, I mean, Theresa and I – we never – she’s not mine,” he said. Earl began to walk away. He heard Ronnie cursing and shouting after him, but something drowned out his words. He could taste blood in his mouth. He had understood Ronnie perfectly. He had to get back to his house. His Gilberts – his Dukes; sand, polish, varnish, wax, re-wax, carve, cut and glue. Sand, polish, varnish, wax, re-wax, carve, cut and glue. Sand, polish, varnish, wax, re-wax, carve, cut and glue. Four strings to sound notes. Too many notes to hear. The frequency is too high. Our ears cannot hear. Rose Olver
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Ripples If you believe that we watched elephants saunter on the main road, letting cars haze by the water-vapoured windows, lifting cappuccinos to our lips, kissing the silky white as the foam poked at your nose, a bubbly cream stain; I watched him droop, his arms spread over the table, hood up, dark hair fuzzed. And the rings on his fingers clasped to my arm, cold pale marks and the foam in my mouth and in his. I imagine those days when we sat on pier ends, legs swinging and sloshing in the green; feeding ducks with dry bread, ‘arched bow’ boats floating past; he ate his -the compass round my neck pointing to him. Then you may as well believe that we danced on tilted rooves, soaked under the curtain of rain, me in my converse black shoes, worn from watered age, my hair long and dripping and his eyelashes sprinkled with drops. It wasn’t cold back then, when the youths wandered the smoke-filled, cockroach streets, watching flood water rise and drain away, the sea tide of the city. He, Zak, Zakaria, now just a censored name, recited his many tongues as I skipped in the pools at my ankles and was king of ‘Foursquares’. Ball battering his crinkled hands -- I’d win every time, against him, or the others, but they didn’t matter.
I love most the vision of cleaning the art room, stacking paint pots and compiling brushes, his fingers reaching for mine and the rubber. Erased lines of his figure, under the large hug of his hoodie, glasses tinted with a wisp of green and the skyline of boxes; I’d watch him then, most of all, when his face sank, melted like wax and he looked, with those dark eyes sinking into the white, hollowed out, scared of the light. Even back then I would feel it, the breeze of his absence, unable to speak the lullaby he’d whisper to me. I guess it was his lie, even then. Under streetlights he was seen, just across the road, just out of reach. Indigo Randolph Gray
Athena Pugh
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Blood The feeling non-existent, not feeling happy or sad. Feeling is one of the first things it destroys inside of you. It swirls inside of you, its current pulling back and forth, growing and shirking. A piece missing in a heart, but I do not look for it. No lustre or action is taking place. I watch the piece float away in the blood. No scientist can diagnose this. His head was limp, heavy on my lap. Eyes closed, breathing heavy, blood thick. The clogs in my mind, are broken, disoriented. How? What? Why? His eyes rolling underneath their blankets. His heart pumping liquid around his body, only for it to spill out on the floor, like a milk carton. Staining the carpet red, along with the stain we had made as kids, the spaghetti stain, the ink. Scents reaching into my nose. Damp and fierce, attacking my brain. Intensifying the fear, I grasped for fresh, clean air but only smelt his pain more. Holding my breath, made me choke. Tasting each ounce of life, tongue speak less. My eyes blurred as the panic kicked in, trying to comprehend what was happening. I was watching him drift in-between the line of life and death. My heart was pounding out of my chest. Racing the blood around my body, as his was streaming out of the wound. Holding the gash, caused my hands to stain like the carpet. The juice flowed through the lines in my hands, dripping onto the floor along with my tears. Death was waiting at his door, knocking, growing louder by the minute. All I wanted was for it to end but not in this way. I wanted all the pain to vanish, but it arrived and jumped in my face. I couldn’t see him fall into the pit of doom and the forgotten, I was reaching for him, he was too heavy, too deep. I knew as the flow of the blood slowed it was the end. He was grasping for air, only there was no room in his lung for air, only blood was there. I remained on the floor in silence, pending on my life to be swapped for his. Moments passed, the world spinning the same. My world was tilted, with a bullet through the middle. The weight of his deserted body was bare. Tremoring, I placed my hands onto my face, wiping red. I was a statue, while the magnitude of loss walked all over me. Laying my eyes, on his pale face, that was not him. He didn’t have his dimples, that indented his face which always make him look so innocent. His eyes dull not peaceful, he was not sleeping, his was gone. Tears no longer left my face, my eyes dry, empty. The carpet laying on the floor, blackened. The stitches formed around the wool, as quickly one appeared from the patterns, it folded. Joining the walls, the lilac paper spreading across the room constructing a tranquilizing region. Flowers dancing between the lines, showing their faces every five metres. Blood grabbing the curtains, a new impression of the apothecary fabrics. Figures glared in, their figures entwined, stretching towards the sky. Feet planted into the ground, watching, listening. I looked like a porcelain doll, fractured and broken. Deserted by its owner, looking upon her friend. A Chinese doll chiselled and shaped into perfection. My hand slumped into my knees, blood dying my skin and staining my clothes. Exhausted and crumbled, I stared at the mess I was, the mess he was. Blood had spread across the room like water. It escaped his body and infected the room. Kitty Agnew
Blind Belief Blasting through the radio, their voices start to thin. Lost among the ceaseless drabble of her splutter come unquestioning glances from the innocent blind. Endless “surely it’s trues” and “the fact of the matters” beat through the ignorant stares, as twisted stories unfold, losing their sense. As the violent calls to action, riddled with deceit, pierce through the truth, people fail to query the myriad of wily façades. A bleating nation. Followers with supple souls confused in a cloud of desperate optimism, fall victim to the succour of false hope. A relentless search for that elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow called truth. Helvetica Haydn-Taylor
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Freddie Smith
Almost Ghostly: a Photographer Speaks Keep your head low but camera high; only capture people within your frame if you’re prepared for the consequences; press the button when your surroundings are how you want them; don’t disturb other people for your own benefit – unless they give you your consent; keep things looking how they are; your job is to record series of events the way you found them; you are not in the photo, so don’t act like you are in the photo; be safe; hundreds of bullets fly around you, and one could make a base in your body; be attentive; your safety is above your job and passion; don’t make easy friends with strangers; you will meet many people in your journey, some of whom will be false friends, evil maniacs; keep your wits about you, both when taking a photo and when manoeuvring yourself in and out of unfamiliar areas; people will curse you, tell you that you are insensitive, but that is just part of the package that you have signed up for; block out the sounds that make you feel weak; don’t block out those from vulnerable people who don’t want their photo taken; be respectful; don’t abuse the power that has been brought upon you when your camera is up against your eye; you have the ability to destroy someone’s life along with making someone’s life; use the power wisely; don’t be that person who you sometimes are; you know what I am talking about; give people your trust; make the camera feel welcome in the situation, you don’t want people to fear the camera; be discreet in what you are doing; don’t make any rash decisions that could impact the people around you; be quiet, almost ghostly in your actions; always travel with a camera loaded, in case that shot you’ve been waiting for suddenly appears; make sure your eagle-eyes are ready to pounce on any prey that may leap in front of you; don’t show your emotions for the scenes that you may come across during your journey; keep yourself contained both inside and out; know who to trust; fall back on people you trust and believe in, not those you half-think you do; be assertive; don’t let what I’ve told you go to waste; and most importantly do your job; it’s a brave and unique one; it requires a particular type of person to take this role, and you are just the right person for it. Charlie Trigg
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Interview
Carol Ann Duffy Liv Jordan-Willis and Claudia Campbell were invited to talk to the retiring Poet Laureate when she visited the College in September. This is the interview that took place in The Marlborough just before her reading in the Memorial Hall. How did you get into poetry? Most times through school, I was very lucky from the age of about ten to have fantastic teachers, so when I was what you would call now Year 5, I had a teacher called Mrs. Tilscher, who I have written about in some poems, and she encouraged us to do Creative Writing in her classroom, so that really excited me. Before that, I had always been a big reader, so I had written a little bit at home based on my reading and imitating those things that I loved, but she really encouraged me. And when I went to Secondary School -- initially I went to a Convent School then subsequent to a girls’ grammar school -- again I was really lucky with my English teachers who were passionate about poetry, so I think school was very important to me as a young writer. How did it feel when your work one of your poems was deemed inappropriate for the GCSE syllabus? Did it affect you in any way? I didn’t know about it. This was ‘Education for Leisure’ which was removed from the AQA GCSE syllabus, and I only found out about it when I was phoned up by the Guardian and asked to comment. And what was most surprising and shocking to me was, that the poem had been written twenty years earlier, so it eventually found its way on to a syllabus, again without my knowledge. Then it had been misinterpreted by an invigilator who thought I had written it for a kind of insane agenda, so my response was to write a sonnet in response called ‘Mrs Schofield’s GCSE’ which I might read this evening, but no, I knew nothing about it. So one of those instances where you are innocently at home and then this chaos is going on outside. Do you direct your poetry to particular audiences, if so which ones? My adult poetry I write for myself and that’s me exploring what my ideas are, about myself and the world we are in, so that’s just a very private literary exploration. I have written probably as much for
children, I started doing that when my daughter was born, who is 24 now, and that was deliberately written for a child, so I had a sense of who I was writing for in my children’s poetry. But my adult poetry is very much for me, and then if people want to read it when it’s published that’s good. How does your feminist stance reflect on your poetry, for example The Worlds Wife collection? I think when we write we write with all of ourselves, so our physical senses, our memory, our imagination, our bodies, where we live, our language, our landscape, and who we are, kind of evolve attitudes about the world. In my case, obviously I presume everyone who is civilized in this country is feminist, so that’s informing my poetry just as much as my sense of smell is, but it is not the reason I write; it is part of a whole palette that’s informing the bones. What made you reference mythology and the bible in a lot of your poetry? Yes, I think particularly The Worlds Wife does. I think one of things that interests writers, as Shakespeare demonstrates, is to retell the old, to take old stories and make new work out of them, and my education was very much mythology, fairy-tale, history, the bible, Shakespeare, so all of that is there to be drawn on retold and made new and naturally resurface. Do you have a favourite out of your collections? Well I always like the last poem I wrote so I am grateful that I am still able to write one! so in that sense my favourite would be Sincerity which has just been published. I am also very fond of the volume The Bees which is before that, because I was writing a lot about bees which I love, and the environment, placing myself in the frame of that predicament, so I suppose those two, but only because they are the most recent. Are there any poems now that you look back on from the early part of your career and think I couldn’t write that now? Well obviously, because some of the poems in my first collection I wrote was in my twenties so now I am a different person. But when I published
my collection of poems I did put everything in, because its useful, particularly for young poets, to see a journey a poets made and also, obviously not all poems are going to be wonderful and there can be weaknesses in places, but I think it is important to own up to that and to stand on the journey and see a development of a poet. Do you still feel now that men are more dominant in writing/poetry industry or do you think it’s more balanced now? Well there are a lot more poets that are women than when I was first publishing, and scores and scores of new wonderful women writers, so I think that has changed in my lifetime, but I think in terms of publishing there should be more women poetry editors and a lot more women poetry reviewers. Do you think it’s still quite biased towards men? Yes, I think everything is, men get paid more for doing the same job so there is a long way to go in terms of jobs and jobs in publishing. What are you reading at the moment? I am currently reading an anthology called “Empty Nest” which is based on one of my own poems, which is the experience of parents when their children selfishly go to university -- I obviously use “selfishly” in a jokey way! So I have been looking for poems about being a parent, and a child, for whatever reason, leaving, so a huge amount of poetry reading. I have been reading a book on the history of the fourteenth century, and the plague and all the ensuing things that happened: it’s called The Calamitous Fourteenth Century. I read a lot of reference books, and dictionaries as well, but at the moment it’s poetry for an anthology. Do you have any advice or tips for young aspiring writers? Well I think the most important advice for a young poet is to read, as much as you can, read poems every day, and read critically, so that you see what the poet is doing in the poem and you can learn from that, you can learn techniques to put in your poetry toolkit if you like. If you dislike a poem try to ask yourself why you don’t like it, if you love
a poem think what you love about it. Look at the language, look at the form of the poem and by doing that it will feed into your own work, because I think as you grow as a poet you need to become more self-critical and not love everything you write. When you were appointed the first female Poet Laureate, did you find it difficult or daunting as the first woman or did you easily take on the role? Well, I was delighted that at last there was a woman after hundreds of years. I was very lucky because at the time I was Poet Laureate all the national laureates were women, so Liz Lochhead was the National Poet of Scotland, Gillian Clarke was the National Poet of Wales, and then in Ireland we had Paula Meehan in the South, and Sinead Morrissey in the North, so there were five women laureates at the time I was appointed, so it was very exciting and interesting and fun. Yes, so that was joyful that there was so many women in those roles. Do you analyse your own poems or do you ask for feedback from others? I still have people that I share my poems with and get feedback from, and that’s very important; all feedback and criticism is incredibly useful, so I suppose what I mean is, though one might adore what one has written themselves, do find a way of stepping out of that and face your own work and look at it. Just as you would if you made a chair, you might think it’s perfect but someone needs to sit on it and they might fall off. It’s got to be tested. Do you have any current poetry recommendations? Well my current favourite poet is Alice Oswald. Andrew McMillan is a great new poet: he’s written two collections about growing up gay and the body and he’s very good. Obviously the greats like Seamus Heaney, whom I would always suggest people read, and Fiona Benson is a very interesting poet. I love the work of Shaun Borrowdale, who also writes about bees, and he kind of writes in situ. If he writes about going underground or being in a cave, he will actually go there and write while he is in a cave so his work is very interesting and challenging so those would do to start.
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A Tree I’m planting a tree: it’s going to be an oak. I’ve got a bare patch in my garden, sitting not too far from where my old neighbour smokes. It’s enclosed by concrete on three of four sides like a sandcastle that’s been bleached by the tide. My grass is no ocean, stretching far and wide: it’s a cage that barren land has been slammed inside. My tree is a sapling, young and naive like I once was before I’d seen what I’ve seen. I am no longer a child creeping closer to the flames, the fire is hot and I’m no stranger to pain. My plant is tall, arms stretching wide but my arms are aching and breaking under the weight of the load. I’m cashing it in, it’s time. I’ve bought an allotment down the street, for my poor old tree is dead on its feet. My garden is grassy and there are flowers galore, booming and blooming from the ocean and reaching the shore. And in my ocean I shall plant the seeds of self love until each one is swept away in the tide. Fizz Fitzgerald
The Serpent If you can believe that I was in the Garden of Eden when God created man, then I can tell you the story of when I was a serpent. I heard God bellow from his throne in the constellations that shone above my tree, “Let there be light!” But I was already there in the darkness, waiting for my time. I slithered and sneaked between the leaves, watching Adam and Eve in disgust and the Devil’s tongue whispered in my ear so I crept back from my lair to wait at my tree. To wait for Eve. She came. She ate. God’s eyes bore down on me full of fire but the Devil’s hands stroked my scales and I slept on in the Garden of Eden. Charlotte Greenham
Gabriella Withers
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Holly Smith
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Perpetua Haydn Taylor
Translations
Marina Bokhari translates lines from the Urdu of Faiz Ahmad Faiz’s best known poem:
Subh-e-Azaadi Ye daagh daagh ujala ye shab- gazida sahar Vo intizar tha jis ka ye vo sahar to nahin
ये दाग़ दाग़ उजाला, ये शब-गज ़ ीदा सहर वो इन ् तज ा़ र था जिस का, ये वो सहर तो नही ं This stained, pitted first-light This day-break, battered by night This dawn that we all ached for This is not the one
Saira Chowdhry translates of Robert Frost’s ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’ into Hindi.
Nothing Gold Can Stay Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
मासूमियत नश ् वर ह ै प ् रक ृ ति का पहला हरा सोना सबसे मुश ् किल रंग को पकड़ना उसकी शुरुआती पत ् ती ह ै फूल पर सिर ् फ़ एक घंटा के लिए पत ् ती समाप ् त जाती ह ै और ईडन दुखी मे ं डूब गयी सवेर े हो गयी दिन मासूमियत नश ् वर ह ै
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Jemima Turner
In Crimea A fizz, a crack as he pulled that hammer back and sent the steel monsters tearing towards their target,and when they hit that poor unsuspecting soul, no-one cared, it’s just another man dying for the common goal So, cover him over with care and pride for at least you helped one man when he died As you take that letter home like so many the same the same you can’t help but feel a touch of shame that so many boys all so young died for a man who’s probably never held a gun; He’s never heard death’s call in the form of a whistle and faced that lead wall to then feel death’s tickle; He’s never seen the hardship of those lives. For him it’s which hat he likes. They say it’s the truth that we are brave and fearless but we’re not. We walk up those mountains then down again. We’re like the Grand Duke of York’s 10,000 men Then I heard death’s call one last time as the Light Brigade rode into that valley. Freddie Covill
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Handshake I shake his rough hand. Our hands lock and we grip hard. His hand is like stone. His palm is cold like the sea, weathered like a rock on a coast. His hand mirrors the life he has lived, A life of hardship and sorrow. It knows no peace. The end of the road is close for my dear friend; He returns his old, weathered hand into its pocket. Cal Middleton
Nomad What is it you seek in this emerald oasis? Encircled by an asphalt moat and observed by pale spirits. Open your eye, there’s so much more. See the lost gems scattered around, Portals into new worlds. There are other wanderers, much like yourself. Allow them to accompany you. Natalia Howard
Dear Ignorant Poets You talk only of a weak, drunken moment; Where the breeze caught the feathered tips of his fingers. The howling, lashing, caressing winds were futile. A soul too far from salvation. The metallic taste of a flugel between his lips, He was content. Swept up in a haze of grey smoke; A funny kind of blue. The Dream dragged through the puddles beneath his window. Corrupted by a half-glance, A glimpse of what was to come, It felt as if the world was there for him to grasp, In your eyes he was the world. You talk only of his elegant tune, Yet, the melody became lost to his own ears, Damaged by what had already been before him; Only, you hadn’t heard that yet. It was all balanced on the tip of his swollen tongue; Too sweet to be forgotten, Yet stale of the buried grace and desire. Stolen, by gluttonous fools. Jemima Stratton
Puppet Limply, you stand there. A puppet with its strings cut. Porcelain face somewhat grasping at emotion. Express yourself, they say. Stiffly, you move forward. Fissures appear left and right. Cacophonous laughter, jarring to the bone. Free me, you whisper. Natalia Howard
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Mia Vosgimorukian
The Earth: A Recipe Grease the pan with single-celled organisms, dinosaurs, primates and all your stock of other prehistoric animals. Chop up some early civilization, the stone age, bronze age, Put them in and stir slowly. Time to add some continents. Dice each one finely into countries, Algeria, Australia, Azerbaijan, Argentina. England, Finland, New Zealand, Poland. Add all these 195 ingredients and wait for them to soften. Add two huge wars in, one at a time. Add hate, turmoil and greed. To cool the taste down, add love, hope and kindness. These last additions will really let the dish sing out and taste great. If the there is too much hate, and not enough love, the food will go hard and dry. Add a dash of land animals of all kinds, Mammals, reptiles, the whole lot, Predators and prey, pets and farm animals. But make sure there are lots, Because if you run out, the other ingredients don’t work well together. Once all the ingredients are mixed, add some water, It should contain all the diverse creatures of the sea. Things with gills and flippers, fins and tails. From huge sharks to sea-snails. (TIP: People are prone to adding too much plastic in the water. For a healthier meal, you should probably leave it out altogether.) For a good finish, season with culture, cuisine and creed, All the parts that make each country very special. Make sure to add equal amounts, or the food may explode in the oven. (Chef’s note: WARNING! If some ingredients lack quantity, the dish will probably descend into chaos. Make sure your slice of Britain doesn’t try and leave the plate and fend for itself, as its death will be drawn out. Enjoy) Magnus Taggart
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Sunflowers, Amsterdam The Red-Light District was known for many things, none of them good. Neon lights flashed, illuminating the street in a mix of bright colours. The amber-coloured street lamps blazed a Tuscany yellow in the hazy November evening. A couple was strolling down the pathway that led towards the pretty canal, framed by withering pink flowers. The woman was deep in thought, contemplating the events of earlier that evening.
“Wasn’t that an incredible painting?”
They had gone to the Van Gogh Museum for their anniversary. As usual, it was packed with tourists. The blank mindless chatter of people overwhelmed the bored guides who were pointlessly gesturing at the paintings in disinterest. They had gone along with one such group; the tour started with an unenthusiastic lady leading them through room after room of paintings.
She stopped. A young man on the opposite side of the pavement walked past them and stepped into one of the brightly lit jungle green cafés. The unpleasant smell of cannabis hung in the air around them, enveloping them in a cloud of sickly trout-grey smoke.
As the guide had droned on, the woman had stopped in front of one of the paintings; she had stared. A vase of sunflowers. Golden petals protruded from the tawny stalks. The cyber yellow vase – it somehow reminded her of her sister, the bright blonde frizzy hair and the yellow bubbly personality. This struck her then, how he, her husband, reminded her of her own sister. Was it a coincidence or was it just sheer luck? He came now and stood beside her. They remained speechless. There were so many unsaid things that was passing through her head. His hand found hers and they stood there motionless just looking at the painting. Shades of colours filled her mind; the yellows of the sunflowers, of course, but there were also reds, and maybe just a splash of blue. Maybe the colours he saw were not so innocent. Greys, violets and reds. Dark dark Egyptian blue. Now, walking down the street in late evening, a tendency to talk overcame her.
“What, the flower one?” “Yeah, the Sunflowers. Those lovely golden yellow petals.” “I think it was just a painting,” he said. “It’s overrated, if you ask me.”
“Mierda, you always thought that it was all a game to you, wasn’t it?” “What?” She was tired, tired of all the lies. The lies he told her and more importantly the lie that she told herself. The lie that she loved him. She stopped walking. “You know why I liked that painting so much? It reminded me of us. That was us. When we were happy, when we didn’t care about other people’s opinions. There was a stillness about us. When you actually loved me. Now, you go around gawking at those”—she paused, looking for the right word – “at those sluts in the windows, like nothing’s ever happened between us in the first place. Did you even care that sunflowers are my favourite flower?” He said nothing. The butter-coloured lights shone down on them with sarcastic sympathy. “I hoped we weren’t going to do this, go on this path but I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.”
She stood up taller and looked at him. He looked down at his feet, not making eye contact with her. She started walking again, down the path and towards the pretty bridge that connected the banks of the small river. He lifted up his head and yelled after her, “Where are you going?” She didn’t turn around to look at him. She just kept walking, the sound of her heels clicking on the paved taupe coloured pathway. A few seconds later, her voice rang out. “‘It’s so hard to leave-until you leave. Then it’s the easiest goddamn thing in the world.’ John Green, remember?” He sighed, wearily. His Aegean blue eyes reflected tiredness and he looked back in her direction. She had just crossed the bridge and was now strolling down the street. He took out a cigarette from inside his blazer pocket and a lighter from his trouser pocket. He took his time lighting his cigarette; he hadn’t smoked in over three months. Now, he welcomed the freedom. Out of spite for her, he muttered, “’Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.’ Alfred Hitchcock.” He spun on his heels and casually walked into one of the kiwi green shops. There was a pretty girl there, and she grabbed onto his arm. He knew that he would make up with his wife. Later. Chicha Nimitpornsuko
This story was the winner of the Remove Short Story competition, December 2019
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President Orange Imagine if an orange ruled the states? Oh yeah, that’s actually the case. To tell the truth, our politicians are truth-less and in some cases, a bit ruthless. In the leader area we have not lucked out; I to be honest, I very much doubt that this will end well for all. I know that one of these buffoons will slip up and have a great fall. Well, all I have to say is a fruit rules the United States but in all fairness Trump has some great traits. For example, he has the ability to lie although there are some things, he says that I can’t buy. Maybe, just maybe it’s the fact that he says all Muslims are part of ISIS or that he claims America aren’t in a physical and climate crisis. It’s a bit ironic. Don’t you agree? He’s that type of guy who’d put milk in first when making tea. Trump also says everything he doesn’t agree with is fake especially the claims about his fake tans when he retreats to his lake. I don’t understand how he can deny the laws of science It could be when an expert tells him something, he develops a trait of noncompliance. The likelihood is he’s just a muppet and the oil and gas industries’ puppet. “Vote for Trump and it will make America great again!” they proclaim. That will be true once he’s finished and the president has a new name. The reason for Trump becoming president is because of his best friend, the one who can get anything to bend, the man who has no truth and hundreds of hacks Mr President Putin, the one who likes to make some impact. He has a great team of killers and some of the greatest vodka distillers. He has an incredible team of druggies and junkies also known as athletes, those cheeky monkeys. Then there is a dictator who’s had multiple affairs with a nuke and I’m pretty sure only became Korean dictator because of fluke. People call Kim Jong Un a great and powerful man. Well, that’s sort of true but it’s surprising because he’s bigger than Japan. He says if he feels threatened, he’ll press the red button next to his shelf, when I think he really means he’ll fire out himself. He also loves to parade his great nuclear weapon stock which is pretty much his imaginary ________ . I don’t know much else about Kim and North Korea, as it’s quite well hidden. Let me just search up Korean traditions up… oh it says, “Korean site: access forbidden!” The meaning of all this is that Politicians are liars And many have evil desires. We all know Hugh Grant could be a greater prime minister And if possible, he would be immediately administered. What I’m trying to say is most of them are complete gits Or look like oranges and act like total twits! Ned Woolfe
Veronika Ko
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The Universe’s Paintbrush Katrina Metcalf was born in the city of London on a Thursday. She stumbled formlessly through her early years: a lingering shadow hovered just behind her everywhere she went, almost like a long-lost relative who turned to tap her on the shoulder every time she reached to do something she should not. The first word Katrina Metcalf ever spoke was ‘blue’ in the gurgling voice of a twelve-month old baby girl, sitting on the carpeted floor of her parents’ stuffy flat. Elizabeth Metcalf had never been prouder and shed a few tears in honour of the monumental moment. The next time Elizabeth Metcalf cried for her baby girl was three years later, when her child insisted on a neon pink jacket paired with bright yellow jeans. Elizabeth had laughed and murmured, “Darling, the colours don’t go.” Katrina responded, “They same, they go,” with an inflection of childish innocence which did nothing more than break Elizabeth’s heart. In the whitewashed walls of the doctor’s office in the centre of Battersea, Martin held her hand so tightly, it threatened to fall off. But Elizabeth would have given all the hands in the world to give her first-born the one thing that she couldn’t have. Colour. Because in the city of London on a Thursday, Katrina Metcalf had been born totally and completely colour-blind, cursed with the affliction of seeing the world wholly in shades of black and white. Katrina Metcalf grew up to be a vibrant spark of a girl, an adamant old soul and self-proclaimed oddball. Her eyes didn’t bother her. She had many acquaintances, but almost no close companions; she was loud and confident, vivacious. The girl grew up to be the very personification of life itself. She couldn’t see in colour? So what if she would never know the green of her own eyes or the hazel of her mother’s hair: she knew herself better than anyone else her age. She knew what she wanted, who she was, who she was going to be; Katrina knew all things important about the universe, even as a teenager. At least that is what she told her acquaintances and what she told herself. She was noticeable, everywhere she went. She walked the streets with a swagger, an unrehearsed and earthy confidence which demanded attention. She wore clothes brightly coloured and clashing, purchased from the retro charity-shop two streets down and advised by the young-adult hipsters and moody, androgynous teenagers who worked there. The girl was magnetic. People idolised her, wanted to be like her, act like her, dress like her. None succeeded. Katrina was different, had been her whole life and had grown up knowing it, she had come to accept a teenager’s worst fear and took it for herself with both hands as an opportunity and an
advantage. She embodied every young woman’s dream as she was so often told by the grabbing hands of smothering aunts and the envious whispers of her peers. Everything they said about Katrina Metcalf was completely true, except for the fact that she lacked an eyesight which grasped colour. For if such a thing became common knowledge, this could no longer be the case. Katrina Metcalf did not desire to see colour. She did not want to be anything that she was not already, until she met Aaron Taylor. Aaron Taylor, like Katrina Metcalf had many acquaintances, but almost no close companions and was an enigma. The two met at a coffee shop not too far from where Katrina went to school. He wore sunglasses inside and the counter staff seemed to know him. She flashed him a smile and he did not return the expression, but instead continued to stare broodingly into his coffee. This was an event in itself. Katrina Metcalf had met someone who was not electrified by her star-studded smile or quietly confident strut. So she returned. So did he. She was electrified by the strange boy in the corner who did not smile at her, nor once get up from his seat. She wondered. He was handsome, but never seemed to share company with companions or people of any sort. He was not surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls like the other boys she so often watched outside the school gates. He was always completely and utterly alone. This intrigued her because people like herself, who were always alone, had the most secrets to tell and the best stories to share. It didn’t take long for her discover his secret, not that it was much of one. He was blind. He was drawn to her listless confidence and excited movement and shocked at the casual ease by which she dismissed his affliction as though it was no more important than the weather. She described it, the world, to him in such an unsensitised, but knowing and excited manner, unafraid of the condescending way she came across or of making him yearn desperately for something he could not have. She spoke whispered words into the darkness of his eyes and the whispers turned to shouts and the shouts to roars. Roars echoing around every corner of his mind, of freedom, of dreams which he had never dared to have before. Katrina Metcalf offered Aaron Taylor a hope of completely foreign nature, an imagination, an inkling of how things existed outside the stars of his own mind. And Aaron painted the grey skies of Katrina’s world with the universe’s paintbrush. Fizz Fitzgerald
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Nicole Egorova
Pride and Prejudice Revisited When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, Jane, who had been careful about sharing her opinion of Bingley before, was gossiping with her sister about how much she fancied him. “He is just what a guy should be like,” said she; “cool, funny, popular; and I never saw a guy with such good dress sense! —so much mystery, with such dreamy looks!” “Yeah, he is pretty fit to be fair,” replied Elizabeth, “which a guy ought to look, if he has been blessed with the right genes of course. His style is so sexy.” “I was really happy when he danced with me for the second time tonight. I didn’t know that he liked me.” “Didn’t you? I did. But then I guess that’s the difference between us. Guys fancying you always take you by surprise, and me never. Of course he was going to dance with you again! He could see that you were the fittest girl in the room. You looked banging in that dress! Well, he certainly is very cute, and I give you my permission to go out with him. You have gone out with guys much more stupid than him.” “Oh Lizzy!” “Oh! you have a tendency, you know, to like people in general. You never see anything wrong with anybody. Everyone is nice and kind in your eyes. I have never heard you bitch about anyone in your life.” “I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions about anyone; but I think I’m pretty straight up with my views.” “Oh I know; and it is that which makes the wonder. With your brains, to be so blind to the crap of others! Pretending to be honest is pretty common;—you can find it everywhere. But to be truthful without being pretentious—to take the good of every body’s character and make it still better, and say nothing bad—well that’s what you’re like.—And do you like this Bingley’s sisters too? They seem a bit mean to me.” “Well, yes, at first. But they are very sweet girls when you have a chat with them. One of them is living with Bingley at the moment; and I am sure that she’ll be quite a friendly neighbour.” Elizabeth took it all in, but was not convinced; their behaviour at the party seemed rude; and being more judgemental and quick tempered
than her sister, she decided that she didn’t like them much. They were pretty popular at school; had quite a good sense of humour, but were arrogant. They were stunning, had been to a posh private school in Beverley Hills, were loaded, spent all their allowance on shopping, didn’t mix with people who they thought were lower than them; and were therefore thought that they were entitled to think highly of themselves, and meanly of others. They came from a very wealthy family, and grew up in LA. Bingley inherited property worth nearly 10 million dollars from his dad, who wanted to buy a massive estate in Bel Air, but died before he could. Bingley also wanted to, but as he now had a mansion, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew him, whether he might not stay at the mansion he had inherited, and leave the money for the next generation to buy something else. Bingley and Darcy were best mates, in spite of them being complete opposites. Darcy liked Bingley because he was humorous, light-hearted, straight forward, and calm. Bingley thought that Darcy was reliable, and thought his judgement was pretty good. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was not less popular, but Darcy was smart. He was at the same time stony-faced, quiet, and hard-working , and his manners, although he was from a wealthy family, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had the advantage. While Bingley was always the most popular guy in the room, and everyone liked him, Darcy always offended everyone he met. The manner in which they spoke of the party was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never seen fitter girls in his life, let alone dance with them; everybody had been grateful for him hosting the party; it was quite chill, no-one was bored; he had chatted to everyone at the party and they all seemed nice; and, as for Jane, he had never seen a girl so stunning before. Darcy, on the other hand, thought he was above all these people, he didn’t think they had much to offer, and he didn’t find any of the girls attractive. Jane, he agreed, was gorgeous, but in his opinion she smiled too much. Bingley’s sisters liked her, said that she was a sweet girl, and someone whom they hadn’t ruled out for their brother yet. Jane was therefore thought of as a nice girl, and Bingley was happy with his selection for a possible romance. Ella Beardmore-Gray
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Review
Photo: Mihaela Bodlovic
Pride and Prejudice (Sort of) When Jane Austen published Pride and Prejudice’ in 1813, we don’t think she could have imagined that such an innovative and humorous adaptation would eventually find its way to a theatrical stage. On 17th September, the English department took the Lower Sixth students to see ‘Pride and Prejudice* (*Sort Of)’ at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre. The cast of six women provided an unforgettable performance filled with karaoke, dancing and laughs but without losing Austen’s original narrative. The play, written by Isobel McArthur (who also performed in it) was introduced by servants of the Bennett household. These servants slowly morphed into the characters we can recognise in the original novel. The play then moved at lightning speed, with the actors switching roles between characters frequently, but with the audience still being able to follow the plot easily. Sprinkled throughout the Austin classic were boisterous karaoke performances, where the cast would haul on a 90s boombox, to perform pop classics with their own twist. The humour was easily accessible and
simple, but was still sure to make you laugh (all I could hear behind me throughout the play was Mr. Gordon’s intense howling). Leaving the jokes aside though, the performance still had the suspense, heartbreak and romance that any Austen novel should have, and neither the plot nor the respect for Austen’s writing were lost with this flourishing modern adaptation. Pride and Prejudice* (*Sort Of) was a refreshing curve on the classic English novel, allowing the audience to enjoy every second. Six women on stage singing, drinking, arguing, dancing and talking to an inanimate chair with a newspaper on – representing the taciturn Mr Bennett – what’s not to love? Sophie Harris / Conrad Peck
Much Ado About Nothing In the cosy theatre at the Tobacco Factory in Bristol a modern ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ has the audience captivated in a turbulent relationship with just the right amount of energy. The truly intriguing thing about Shakespearean performances today is how they manage to integrate them with modern culture just to ‘get the message across’ more clearly. In ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, the alleged unfaithfulness of Hero, the bride, and the nightwatch’s capture of Borachio’s confession are all recorded on phones as evidence. Even Margaret fetching Beatrice is done through text message. There is, of course, a great element of humour in these modernised moments because there is a greater relevance for them today. This is understandable in the same way that Shakespeare adapted historical stories to suit the Elizabethan area, with period costumes and even the mention of clocks in Ancient Rome. However, one might ask how far can we really go with these modernisations before we lose the Shakespearian experience? In the Royal Shakespeare Company’s ‘Titus Andronicus’ the outfits are all modern, they’re using guns and they set the Roman Empire to be much like a parliamentary building. But it makes the Stone Age brutality somehow more laughable as if part of a prank show. This seems less effective to some degree in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, because the modernisation is taken so far that it gets confusing. For one, why is there always a construction worker walking about? It might take it too far away from the original play when the audience starts to become confused about why things are presented the way they are. Of course,
Review
the comedy is also much more effective when we see Banana Man going around tossing wit at a Ninja Turtle. But there is a fine line where it becomes too much, to the point that drinking weird red mushy juice and munching on a celery stick is meant to comment on the pompous nature of women in their mid-life crises, or something to that effect, might not really be comedy anymore. Despite this, the performance, directed by Elizabeth Freestone, was greatly effective, with the tight atmosphere and close interaction between the audience and cast members. We were so drawn into the spectacular relationship between Beatrice and Benedick, the connection between them so strong and clear in their snappy and witty arguments and the subtle suggestive gestures and words. The control of the actors was impressive, particularly for Beatrice (played by Dorothea Myer-Bennett) who managed to pull of the sloppy, uninterested, youthful character, both with the modernised actions, costumes and passive tone that made her the easiest to sympathise. To the point that many audience members might have found themselves close to tears watching her holding her cousin Hero after she faints in shock, and the power of her performance when she asks Benedick to prove his love by killing Claudio in payback. For a small spaced theatre it was very well presented and organised to the point that the performance came to life around us. A trip well spent. Indigo Randolph Gray
Photo: Mark Douet
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Review
Othello Othello (1603) begins in Venice where Iago (a soldier) is discussing with Roderigo (a nobleman) how much of a disappointment a Venetian gentlewoman Desdemona’s marriage to Othello (a Moorish general) is to her father, Brabantio (a Venetian senator). They deliberate shame Othello by making racist comments and Iago reveals to the audience his dislike of his commanding officer, Othello. The men then tell Brabantio of this secret arrangement and he then orders that Othello and Desdemona are brought to court to see the Duke. Desdemona assures her father of her love for Othello, so Brabantio disowns her, and she asks to leave Venice and join Othello for his latest assignment to Cyprus. When in Cyprus, Desdemona and Cassio greet each other coquettishly, which initiates Iago’s suspicion that Cassio is in love with Desdemona and she with him. His suspicion develops into a sly plan to make even Othello believe of this affair and turn against who was once the love of his life. Iago does this by tricking Othello into believing that Desdemona has given Cassio a handkerchief which was a special gift given to her by Othello. He torments Othello by telling harmful lies about Cassio and Desdemona, to his face. Othello’s doubts rapidly escalate into anger and jealousy, so much that he physically hurts Desdemona. As a result of Iago’s deceits, the play ends in chaos with most of the main characters dead. This play is controversial as the main character is black, which would have been especially unusual in Shakespearean times, as society was not very multicultural. For many centuries, productions would not want to hire someone black to play the lead role, so white actors would blacken their face for the part. Today, it is seen as discriminative if someone white disguises themselves as black to play Othello. The very fact that the character Othello has a very high status in the army proves that there must have been some integration. However, we can see from many racist references to his skin colour made by characters such as Iago, Roderigo or Brabantio in the first few scenes that there was certainly still a sufficient amount of
discrimination among Elizabethan and Jacobean society. We can simply see from Brabantio’s reaction to his daughter’s marriage to Othello, that this was a shameful act of humiliation. As Venice was traditionally a patriarchal and ordered society, marrying any man without your father’s permission was seen as an act of rebellion, but the prejudice against the colour of Othello’s skin indicates deeper prejudice to outsiders infiltrating the social stratum of Renaissance Venice. There are many ways that a production can interpret the controversial play, but the College production (under Ms Darby’s excellent direction) decided to stage their version in a dystopian military setting with an ingenious stage multilevelled design. In Act 1, which is set in Venice, a parachute canopy hung above the stage to evoke the world of Venice: enclosed and formal. To symbolise the journey from civilised Venice to the wilds of Cyprus, the parachute was released to signify the start of Act 2. The chess board on stage was a useful reminder of Iago’s developing plan to destroy his master’s happiness. The use of props was crucial to the production and the military environment was cleverly evoked by battle plans, oil drums and patrolling soldiers in a watch tower. Some of our Form thought the binoculars were designed to draw attention to whether they were paying attention or not! All of the performances were remarkable and Luca Cooke’s interpretation of Iago was very compelling, as it was hard not to like him despite his dastardly deeds. Ijah Ofon as the eponymous Othello was very powerful in his delivery of the role and Othello’s descent into madness was conveyed very convincingly. The talented Talia Neat, cast as Desdemona, kindly came to visit our Form before we saw the production and her she explained her the plot and her character’s dramatic function which was very helpful, as it solidified our understanding beforehand. Her final death scene was especially poignant, as she lay surrounded by candles. Nina Blakey & Poppy Greville-Collins
Photo: Pete Davies
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The Piccalilli editorial team: Editor: Liv Jordan-Willis
Amber Phillips
Marina Bokhari
Taba Reed
Saira Chowdhry
Xanthe Smith
Sophie Harris
Charlotte Southgate
Piccalilli cover by Lydia Hunt