Summer 2019
Editorial Is there such thing as an abstract book? I wondered this for a long time, having finished reading Janet Frame’s Faces in the Water and subsequently picking up Italo Calvino’s Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore (If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller). Why these two books, you ask? Well, the books have a lot in common; a brilliant writing style, direct conversation between the reader and the author, and above all, a plot that is very difficult to follow.
that I have just read was not, in fact, a part of Calvino’s novel but a part of a Polish novel that was included in a misprint of the book which is currently describing its own misprint. (Or something along those lines; my Italian comprehension skills are yet to be perfected.)
To give you a flavour of my bittersweet literary pain; within the first thirty pages of Se una notte, I have been told every way in which I must relax before beginning the book, and every possible situation in which one may read a book (including on horseback and upside down). I have been given a life philosophy, had described to me every category of book you may find at your local libreria (such as “Books You Have Already Read Without Even Needing To Open Them”, “Books You Intend To Read But Before Them You Need To Read Others”, and “Books That If You Had More Lives To Live Certainly You Would Also Willingly Read These But Unfortunately The Days That You Have Left To Live Are What They Are”), and finally I have been introduced to the old steam-train station where the story of a man with a mysterious suitcase begins.
Safe to say, it got me thinking - what are these seemingly impenetrable books trying to tell us? – and I came to the conclusion that they are comparable to abstract art. The blurb of Se Una Notte described it perfectly: “the protagonist is the reader.” We are not necessarily confined to following a plot and reacting according to the whims of the author – from this kind of literature, we can search tirelessly for a deeper meaning, or we can appreciate it simply as an attractive piece of literature, enjoying the writing just because it is nice to read (which of course, can be applied when reading anything.) However, to Piccalilli, as a collection of art and writing from different creators from across the school, it seems easy to apply this sense of ownership as a reader, there being no particular plot or idea that carries on through every piece. Therefore, I encourage you to read through exactly as you wish, whether that be a simple appreciation of the quality of the work, or a profound investigation into the hidden meaning - the only prerequisite is that you thoroughly enjoy it.
Then I am told that the last part of the book
Peps Haydn Taylor
Tatiana Metcalfe
Remembering Les Murray The first page of Piccalilli is usually given over to a piece by an Old Marlburian writer, whether recent or from the more distant past. For this issue we have decided to dispense with that tradition in order to remember Les Murray, the great Australian poet who became a friend to the College, and who passed away on April 29th this year. Murray’s association with Marlborough began as long ago as 1992, when – having heard that he was to give a reading at the National Poetry Society in London – I took a minibus full of members of our own Poetry Soc down the M4 to the reading in Earl’s Court. As it turned out, we formed a fair proportion of the audience (perhaps Murray was only just beginning to become a household name here) and at the end of his reading and the obligatory q&a session, Les turned to us, ‘I have a question,’ he drawled in his rural Bunyah accent; ‘Who are all these young people here?’ On being told, he broke into his huge, amiable smile. ‘Well, next time I’ll save you the journey; I’ll come to you instead,’ he promised. It was a promise he kept, and for the next couple of decades, Les made a point of including us whenever he visited the UK. On one of these visits, in 1999, he spent a few hours in an armchair in Barton Hill to work at his ‘Preamble’ to the new Australian Constitution; on another occasion he telephoned home to tell his family about the beauty of the bluebells in West Woods. Meanwhile, as his international reputation grew, he remained modest, likeable, sensitive to his audience and able to remember what it was like to be to be so young and vulnerable: All my names were fat-names, at my new town school. Between classes, kids did erocide: destruction of sexual morale. (‘Burning Want,’ 1996).
And he challenged our expectations of language, of decorum. He embraced what he called ‘the quality of sprawl,’ and we became accustomed to his vigorous nonconformity in his attitudes just as in his dress – his massive baggy striped sweaters and his voluminous trousers. His final visit to the College was in October 2015. A couple of days after his reading in Adderley, when he was just as mischievous and ebullient as ever, he became unwell, and decided to cut short his literary tour and return home. This was his last reading in the UK. MJP
The Mitchells I am seeing this: two men are sitting on a pole they have dug a hole for and will, after dinner, raise I think for wires. Water boils in a prune tin. Bees hum their shift in unthinning mists of white bursaria blossom, under the noon of wattles. The men eat big meat sandwiches out of a styrofoam box with a handle. One is overheard saying: Drought that year. Yes. Like trying to farm the road. The first man, if asked, would say ‘I’m one of the Mitchells’. The other would gaze for a while, dried leaves in his palm, and looking up, with pain and subtle amusement, say ‘I’m one of the Mitchells’. Of the pair, one has been rich but never stopped wearing his oil-stained felt hat. Nearly everything they say is ritual. Sometimes the scene is an avenue.
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Archie Koe
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Daisy Mitford Slade
Perfume It is fitting that red arsenic and perfume are the same words in Sanskrit; Nefertem wore a water-lily headdress when the Egyptians prayed for light. They knew the divinity of scent, the might wielded with oil and flowers. Myrrh adorned the Pharaohs’ heads long before it anointed Jesus with holy recognition: God understood. He did not tell Herod to calm himself and think. Think of all the violet tiaras, braided rosebuds, and dill and crocus, twined around your young neck. Thus Sappho wrote, before setting down her stylus, reclining into the freshness of her lady, who hid behind false Kerkylas and left us nothing but empty sheets, no matter how she-who-exalted-Aphrodite begged the gods to add them to the flower-bedded sky. Time is cruel and all too quick to kill. Nothing hides the spiced bitterness of a trail; dogs follow furtive eyes to a reeking body. In mine, warm agony blossoms heart-wide when I catch your signature on the wind. And, once, in Italy, Guiliana gave that perfume her name: ‘Aqua Tofana’, which freed the trapped wives (but stole, as payment, the breath of their husbands from somewhere between lungs and nose). Now, I understand the irony in the roses you gave me. If only I had realized in that moment when I held you, that the warm vanilla braided carefully into your hair, and marigold misted lightly over your chest would suffocate me slowly with its gentle sweetness, and that each thorn of your flower-tinged memory would be embedded in my side. Even today I thought of you; someone brushed past me on the street, wearing your stolen perfume; I stopped and looked- but you are dead. I laid sagging lilies, I poured pungent earth, and I scrubbed the scent of us raw in careless grief. I keep the remnants of you in a bottle on my shelf and on a pillow I hold at night, when the white of your hand and the curve of your cheek are hole-ridden in my eye, and I must conjure you so I can believe in tomorrow. Lena Barton
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Engagements When the woman entered the bathroom, she carefully removed her heels and her dress. She looked into the mirror and pressed her fingers against her cheeks and pulled downwards gently, looking at the laugh lines and the shallow wrinkles that had started to appear on her forehead. ‘You’re looking more like your mother every day, Sarah,’ her father had told her at the reception. She felt warm when he had told her that, but now she wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s never too late, you know,’ her sister advised her, ‘plenty of woman your age do it.’ She was only thirty two. Her boyfriend was sat up in the bed. They both read before they went to sleep. It was nearing midnight. ‘Did you enjoy today?’ Her boyfriend asked. ‘Yeah. Of course I did,’ she replied. ‘I hope my family didn’t needle you too hard.’ ‘I thought I’d need to buy a new suit just to get to the end of the party,’ he laughed, and turned to her. ‘I’m only kidding. They were lovely.’ Five minutes later the woman asked, ‘Have you thought about what I said?’ ‘I have,’ he replied, not taking his eyes off his book. ‘And?’ John looked up, and lowered his book. ‘I thought we had already talked about this. I don’t think it will work.’ He went back to reading his book. The woman continued looking at him. She turned towards the window, and stared at the field where the reception was being held. The party goers were returning to their hotel rooms, and members of staff were beginning to clear up the spilt bottles of beer and litter throughout the marquee and field. There was an oak tree in the middle of the field. It had lanterns of various colours hanging from its branches, with colourful decorations strewn between them. Some of the hotel staff began to take down the lanterns one by one. ‘Beautiful decorations,’ the woman said softly. Her boyfriend glanced towards her, ‘What did you say?’ ‘Nothing,’ she replied. She gazed at the field. The woman returned her focus to the bedroom, and she stared at the wall. The soft snoring emanating from her partner broke her trance. His head was tilted on the pillow; his glasses were slipping down his nose. She pulled the duvet over herself and went to sleep.
‘Lots of people say it sounds awful,’ the woman’s sister had told her, ‘but you can’t knock it until you try it, Sarah.’ They woke up, and the woman packed her suitcase, while John did the same. ‘Are you feeling OK?’ He asked. ‘You’ve been awfully quiet.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Well if you’re not up to it then I’d be happy to drive.’ ‘We agreed that you were driving anyway.’ ‘Did we?’ ‘Yes. I drove from the airport to the hotel, and you would do the return trip.’ ‘Fine, fine. Didn’t mean to upset you.’ Sarah shot a glare at him. ‘I’m not upset about it. You promised that you’d drive so I expected you keep that promise.’ ‘Listen, I said I’m happy to drive. It’s not an issue. Can we give it a break?’ She didn’t reply. The woman turned away. Sarah couldn’t sit comfortably in the car journey. She flicked between radio channels, and would receive a grunt from John each time a song played that he didn’t like. She’d begun to ignore him after a while. They drove on a road in the hills, and the forest cleared to their left, briefly, allowing Sarah to look at the fog hug the patchwork farmland. They parked the car, so her boyfriend could relieve himself in the trees. She stood by the car, and saw copses dotting the land, dark green islands in a sea of yellow, brown and light green. Sarah’s stomach cramped. When they were waiting in the airport she alternated between reading her Kindle and listening to music. Sometimes she would look up and read the advertisement posters dotted across the room. The woman looked at one travel poster which showed a family playing on a beach; the husband and wife held their child by her arms and swung her gently forwards and backwards. Sarah thought about her sister and her parents, and a holiday when she was a child to Italy. She recalled the image of her parents smiling as their children made sandcastles and did cartwheels on the sand. She tried to picture herself and her boyfriend on the beach, but it wouldn’t materialise. Her boyfriend saw her looking at the poster, and said, ‘We haven’t been to Italy yet.’ ‘No,’ Sarah replied.
Lily Martin Jenkins
‘Why don’t we go someday?’ ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in it.’ ‘I’ve never said that I wasn’t interested. That offer on the poster seems good. Thirty per cent off?’ Sarah looked at the poster, and beneath the offer, written in small print, were the words “for families with at least one child”. She rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the headache that had crept up on her. She left him to watch the bags while she wandered around. He almost protested, but quickly brought himself back down again. ‘Why don’t we go someday?’ ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in it.’ ‘I’ve never said that I wasn’t interested. That offer on the poster seems good. Thirty per cent off?’ Sarah looked at the poster, and beneath the offer, written in small print, were the words “for families with at least one child”. She rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the headache that had crept up on her. She left him to watch the bags while she wandered
around. He almost protested, but quickly brought himself back down again. Days passed. Now at home, Sarah woke up in her bed, and looked at the empty space next to her. She got up and dressed herself. She glanced at herself in the mirror; there was a small spot on her chin, but she left it. The walls of the bedroom were covered in photos, a few pictures of her boyfriend and herself, but there were more images of her family and her childhood. The woman picked up a photo from a chest of drawers. It showed her and her sister playing in a rock pool. The picture arrived after she had returned home with a message from her sister written on a note in the frame. ‘Found this at home, after the wedding,’ the note said. ‘We look so young!” Sarah walked downstairs. A gentle snore emanated from the living room. It came from a lumpy mass under a blanket covered with tissues, with the blanket slowly expanding and falling in time. There were tissues on the floor. She pulled back the curtains, and warmth filled the room. ‘I’m going into town,’ she told the lump. ‘I’ll be back sometime after two.’
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The lump raised his arm and wiped the sleep from his eyes. ‘Have fun,’ John groaned. ‘I’ll get up soon.’ ‘Lie down,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll buy you some soup while I’m out.’ He thanked her, collapsed his head back on to the pillow, and curled the duvet over his shoulders. Sarah left the house. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the coffee shop, and as she approached the shop she saw her sister waiting for her.
Her boyfriend was still up when she got home, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, watching TV. A mound of tissues had formed on the floor. She’d tidy them up tomorrow. ‘How was your night?’ He asked. ‘It was an exciting night.’ ‘You seem paler. How are you feeling?’ ‘Faint. I only had one drink. It’s not an issue.’
Sarah sat down at their table, opposite her sister.
‘If you’re sure.’ Some time passed, and he said ‘we haven’t gone walking for a while. Let’s go out tomorrow.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Her sister asked.
‘Are you sure? You still look ill.’
‘Still not well,’ Sarah replied. ‘I can’t describe it.’ She paused, and took a breath. ‘I don’t know, Alice.’
‘I’ll be fine. Staying inside all day isn’t going to help me.’
‘Has your period come yet?’
‘Well, OK,’ she said. ‘I’m going to get changed. Check the weather for tomorrow.’ They smiled at each other.
‘No. Only a week late, though.’ Alice nodded. The sisters drank their coffee in silence for a few minutes, then Alice asked, ‘When was the last time you went out?’ ‘Last year, when I was on holiday with Dan.’ ‘Maybe you’re feeling a bit trapped. You’re a teacher. You’ve got a long holiday; it’s only right that you’d want to get out a bit more.’ ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah answered. ‘I only get to see you during the holidays! And you’re not going to want to go out during term time, so…’ Sarah looked her sister in the eyes and smiled. ‘Fine. I’ll come out.’ Sarah and her sister sat at the bar, and listened to the crooning of singers in the open-mic night. The singer skulked off “stage”, and shrunk to the back room. Sarah sipped her drink, and fought the desire to keep up with Alice. ‘Why are we here?’ Sarah asked. ‘You know why we’re here,’ her sister replied. ‘Maybe for you. I’m in a relationship.’ Alice rolled her eyes. The jangle of a guitar being tuned cascaded through the bar. The bar was now full; people jostled at the bar, knocking elbows with elbows to try and get some dominance at the bar. Sarah finished her drink, and her sister said, ‘finally. Same again?’ Sarah nodded.
Sarah went upstairs and washed in the shower. She looked in the mirror on the bathroom wall. I do look paler, she thought. Her head felt lighter, too. Sarah rushed to the toilet, her chest contracting, and at first only bile came up, but then the vomit spewed out of her. Sarah didn’t know when it would stop. It’s not an issue, she thought. Maybe I should call Alice. She tried to recall if there was any time when she didn’t watch her drink. The only person to touch her drink besides her was the bartender. Sarah slumped against the wall. What do I tell John? ‘You OK?’ He asked when she appeared in the living room. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Should be clear skies from ten in the morning. Fifteen degrees by midday.’ Sarah wondered if her boyfriend heard her throwing up. It was only a bit of sick, she thought. It was probably because I haven’t been drinking in a while. ‘Sounds nice,’ she replied curtly. John glanced at her, and shaped his mouth as if he was about to speak, but then stopped himself. Sarah wondered if she should call Alice. Would she understand? It still hadn’t come; now it’s over two weeks late. ‘You don’t seem well,’ Dan stated. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK for tomorrow? I hope it’s not an issue.’ ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Timothy Finn
Nell Hargrove
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Insomniac Midnight. Sky hung like ink in a jar of water. Moon smooth as a glacier mint on its way to dissolution. Walking the towpath cheeks pale I am dissolving But not in the way I seek; not as the mind’s fingers reach out and fuse with the fingers of sleep To cradle eight hours of dreams; more as the line between solid and liquid might be rubbed out, As path tree grass bench bin everything blurs. Amid the vagaries of unsleep The spirit of the old city is rising like damp, feeling its blind way back to the fens, groping at my face and lungs. Here River has taken to air, let go of silt, shrugged off houseboats and swans To hover over its essence: to kiss me. When all I want Is everything to slot into its proper place: flat sky, round moon, straight path, dark river. To lie down still as a woman between new sheets: eyes closing effortlessly, mind empty as a jar of water Rebecca Watts
This poem was very generously given for publication in Piccalilli by Rebecca Watts after her reading in February. Two years ago, Richie McCaffery opened a review for The Poetry School with this comment: “Reading Rebecca Watts’ first collection, I’m reminded of a phrase by D. M. Black who, talking about the Scottish poet Robert Garioch, advised readers to be careful in approaching his work, because beneath the quiet exterior ‘passions burn’. The same can be said of Watts’ initially disarming and unassuming poems that soon give way to wider and more thought-provoking vistas and harsher weather. We get a strong sense of the frenetic creative mind underneath the lyrical exterior in the poem ‘Insomniac’, which filters poetic descriptions of the many things surging through the speaker’s head, only to reach a desperate conclusion.” https://poetryschool.com/reviews/review-met-office-advises-caution-rebecca-watts/
Valerie Poulden
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Daisy Mitford-Slade
At Work A pitter-patter of mechanical rain from her laptop, her eyes fixed to the screen full of endless emails: she watches the glowing poison As if she is unconcerned: her hands sweep across the keyboard: it’s taken care of. The commotion coming from all angles is disregarded by her Busy mind in action. Demands are thrown at her by her children: she acknowledges each one and turns back to her work. There’s an earthy warm aroma from the coffee mug beside her: she gulps her steaming coconut cappuccino but her eyes stay fixated on the unforgiving screen Allie Kirkwood
Rain After rain, she used to go outside onto the wet tarmac and splash around with her younger brother in shimmering puddles. I watched her from my window. It’s one of the things I miss about home. Ceci Warburton
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Alfie Fisher
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I Swim for You One breath. To float on coral reefs until I reach you. Submerge myself, my memories; baptise my past into my future. Let them swallow me, the whirlpools of rich carmine, canary and cerulean. Etched onto my cornea with the tenderness of watery kisses. It’s like being tossed between a flurry, a crowd, dancing in circles past each other. Being pulled in under them. Into blackness. Cold caress: a grasp of the ankles. The loss of balance. Stones buried in the belly, weight that yanks the body. An outward reach. A hopefulness. Currents, lapping tongues that press against our cheeks. Familiar warmth of your embrace, like the cradle of water holding me. Swallow me whole into the chasms. Or let my touch reek over you. Drift into your embrace. You will just leave me here, Won’t you? I ndigo Randolph Gray
Nell Hargrove
The Whale Through the blue of the gloom, let the whale-song ring; Silver-struck tiger-stripe Moony sliver in the view, Dancer under shifting sheets Arch circles under wing. Sea-snake wanderers, who move under ten thousand tonnes of tomb; a flourished flick of water-tight flight, a moan, a melancholy waste, a twisted dwindle into nothing. Lena Barton
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Interview
Rebecca Watts Indigo Randolph Gray had the opportunity to talk to the poet Rebecca Watts when she read at the College in February. IRG: Good afternoon, Rebecca. Could we start with this question: what do you think is the place of poetry in the modern day? RW: Well, I think it’s the same as it’s always been, which is to speak to people and enable people to speak in ways that we don’t use when we’re just talking face to face with each other. I suppose in the broadest sense it’s for making sense and finding new ways to articulate old truths, deep truths and new truths, and to question what we think is true as well. Saying more than we would generally say. Yes, saying more and speaking differently and speaking in voices that aren’t maybe our own. That’s really beautiful. From that kind of idea, you were talking about how you would want to play with the language to make it be more meaningful. Do you generally use any form or do you generally use free verse? Well I do write a lot of stuff in free verse, so not using specific traditional received forms, every now and then I attempt some but I think my poems tend to find their own form and then they stick to it. So it might be that sometimes I find that I am writing and the way it is coming out is kind of grouping into couplets or into three lines’. I think maybe how stanzas work in free verse is to do with how long. Who are the poets who have most influenced your work? Louis MacNeice is probably number one because he is the first poet that I properly studied. He is the first person whose work I encountered when I was really actually listening. He sort of switched on my attention; there is something about his
rhythms, and within the forms he adopts he’s so relaxed and it all just sounds so natural and I think I just tuned in to that. Sometimes I write a line and write a sentence spread over a number of lines then I realise it has the same rhythm as something from a MacNeice poem that has kind of lodged in my ear or whatever. I also really like some of the 17th Century poets like George Herbert who again has a very musical language. When I was an undergraduate I tuned in to that even though I didn’t really understand the religious references in the poems and I didn’t really know what they were getting at on the spiritual level but I could hear the poem working like a little machine and I really liked that. I love Sylvia Plath, too, though I know she’s a divisive figure I suppose. I think her images and metaphors are brilliant, and she’s also excellent at verbs. Do you know the poem ‘Daddy’? That kind of concentration, like packing loads of action into one word – I think she’s fantastic at that, and Ted Hughes is as well: have a look at his book Crow. Do you try and do that in your own poetry, kind of packing dark imagery into the words? That seems to be what is happening in your poem ‘The Hare’. It’s the kind of thing I have come more alert to over the years. I started writing about 10 years ago so I didn’t write at all when I was studying poetry, so all the time I was a student I didn’t write creatively. It was when I stopped studying I realised I really missed it; so then I started writing and getting feedback -- and this sort of intense imagery is the kind of thing that other people can point out that you can’t see. For example there is a poem called ‘Hawk Eye’ which is just from a hawk’s perspectives sort of looking at its prey and I think originally (it’s one of the early poems I wrote) it said ‘the wind is heavy but I see straight through’ and then the poet Jacob Polley gave me some feedback on the manuscript and he said rather than saying ‘heavy’ which is an adjective can you not give us something to show us it’s heavy or that it’s somehow an obstacle rather than telling us. So now it says ‘the wind is a wall’.
Rebecca Watts. Credit Paul Stephenson.
Do you think Poetry is closer to music or visual art? Or do you think it’s entirely separate? I think its connected to music in that even when we’re reading silently from a page there is a voice in our head pronouncing syllables and so on, so it is an auditory experience. It’s tricky, but then I am very keen on poems that work visually which make shapes on the page. If you think about it as marks or black on white or if its printed poetry, you know the way the poem is laid out forces your eyes to move just like when you look at a painting or photograph that has been composed the creator has made certain shapes to force your eyes to travel around it in a specific way. They have told you what the focal point is and they kind of lead you up to it and that sort of thing. So in that sense poetry can be similar to visual art, but I think my favourite thing about poetry is when it’s musical.
Do you think having it visually presented rather than having it completely spoken makes it more special and personal? It’s a completely different experience hearing something in your head. The poet Ken Maxwell says the opposite of poetry is silence which is to say you either have a white space or an absence of sound in your head and on to that the poem imposes itself, either as sound as you kind of voice it to yourself, as you read it, or visually as it encroaches on the blankness of the space. Poetry that comes in a book is working against silence predominantly, whereas poetry that always is being designed to be foremost spoken or experienced is really working against noise, like noise of a crowd in an auditorium.
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Lottie Bagshaw
Christ and the Soldier An extract from a response to Siegfried Sassoon The evening drew close as the zombified and straggled soldier came to a halt – I stared at him, he fell to his knees, dumped like a sack of rationed potatoes. He cried, ‘O Blessed Crucifix, I am beat!’ And so Christ under the close watch of the seraphim had arisen to view, halting between two mown-down trees, splintered as if they were pencils snapped in two. He said to the boy, ‘My son, behold these hands and feet.’ The soldier stared, slowly glancing upward - searching for reality to his dismay. He stopped and stared. Seconds had passed since he muttered: ‘Wounds like these would shift a bloke to Blighty just a treat!’ And so Christ, glancing downward in the slowly setting sunlight, in grieving He whispered, ‘I made for you the mysteries, beyond and past all battles move the paraclete.’ The soldier uncertain with the response, hurled his rifle to the ground, pressing the dust into the air. He slid his muddy pack onto the floor and soon after rubbed his handkerchief along the back of his neck and exclaimed, ‘O Christ almighty, end this relentless fight!’ Above the outcrop the dying sunlight stained the sky as if a rusty tin can amongst the smoke. The night faded in as the light faded out, soon followed by the crisp bombardment of the enemy’s rifles, soon followed by the return fire in the relentless thunder of war. ‘I was born with lust imbedded in my veins, hunger and thirst coursed through my body! Who would care if I were to do right or wrong?’ Christ saw through the soldier’s fear and asked him, ‘Can you put no trust in my known word that shrives each faithful head? Am I not resurrection, life and light?’ The guns mounted trench-side blasted; they flung and whistled through the smoke into the burning leaves; flames arose from the landed shells, a maroon hue amongst the dull of the war, such a beauty concealed in such a horror. Christ spoke out: ‘Believe; and I can cleanse your ill. I have not died in vain between two thieves; Nor made a fruitless gift of miracles.’ The soldier responded, “Heal me if you will; maybe there’s comfort when a soul believes in mercy, and we need it in these hells. But be you for both sides? I’m paid to kill. And if I shoot a man his mother grieves. Is that what you meant to say?’ Jack Harper-Hill
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Diminuendo A poem about Chet Baker Square-jawed, smooth-fingered, with a gentle wave of brown hair. Born to be blue; the taste of brass kissed upon his lips. Tinged with alcohol and the deep grey sleep of the world. The roll of his tongue, the pensive rumble of his fugel leaving a sweet scent on the air. A gentle swing: twisting the room and pulling all bodies into motion. Like the sea, a tide pulled in and out; a tug and a tango with the waves. Tenderly, his breath spun the air into the melody of quiet. The dance of a still night, spinning under a haze of blue. Eyes slipped into a world of clouds. A tumbling sound, beckoning him to the orange glowing streets. Daring him to fly. Indigo Randolph Gray
Aylin Koc
Listening If I listen carefully I can hear the hum of the city: the whirr of an elevator, the ships slipping into harbour; cars negotiating the streets below; I can hear the chatter and laughter of children off the school bus, the foreign languages surrounding us; the radio blasting, and my mother on the phone in her broken Chinese. Iona Gladstone
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Lovers It starts with a hello, with a full moon sitting in a coffee shop staring through the blue paned windows looking at the pretty shining people. Silver doused in light and intrepid glow made from stardust and imperfection myriad glass hearts that beat as one in disjointed harmony. Every so often cold striking a luminescent pulse that’s barely there, but shines despite the overwhelming oblivion which suffocates it. Crevices coated in amber, like whiskey in a crystal tumbler drunk by those who have something to fix or someone to forget. They start with the end. With a king, overlooking a golden kingdom from an azure palace somewhere in the clouds. A soft yellow dipped in royal dust so bright it could burn whatever else into pieces and call it magnificent. One rises and the other falls, an alluring combination of beautiful destruction and masterful creation when two commodities can’t live without each other. Time fades to grey. And so it happens, a tragic love which shakes galaxies doomed from the very beginning by every darkness and every light there ever was. It ends with a goodbye, a crescent moon, dull yellow dipped in dust doused in inevitability. Fizz Fitzgerald This poem was written in response to ‘Meeting Point’ by Louis MacNeice, who attended Marlborough 1921-1926.
The 80s, Baby Made of cigarettes and popcorn, pink powder and breakfast clubs and our all-American boys. We’re all born in the movies, sweetness flowing through our veins as candy pops and lips smash together as if gasping for air, one last time. Crop-tops and kick flares, made of shallow breaths and pretty eyes, smoking outside the diner, but I think you’re cute so it doesn’t matter. So we’ll paint our hands in rainbows and place flower crowns atop our heads because there is no other way to feel like kids. Stay at the Moon Motel until dawn comes up and we’re back on the road, but I can’t remember your name. We’ll sit in our water filled with roses, good as gold. But we’re drowning in the smoke in our lungs and the sticky sweet smell of perfect. All dreams come cheap here, 99 cents a piece. We’ll dance on their tables and throw our graces to the air. Golden lies. All of it. Meanwhile, we’re choking on Nirvana and the roses are growing thorns. The cassette is gathering dust, the love song isn’t playing any more. The boy didn’t get the girl, and the tape stops, the boom box runs out. We’re all bleeding gold. Fizz Fitzgerald
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Millie Burdett
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Interview
Siobhán Humston Walking into Siobhán Humston’s studio space is like walking into a tiny private forest - every surface is adorned with poppy seed heads or pots of dried yellow mulberries, twigs with interesting lichen or reused containers filled to the brim with different types of seeds. On the table, sketching pencils share a space with a box full of dried tulip petals salvaged from the gardeners’ compost wagon, and a prodigious, flowing pencil drawing incorporating elements of her nature collections is clipped over the balcony rail. Siobhán sits against the backdrop of her studio wall, pinned with a patchwork of clear pouches filled with pressed flowers, and we talk about childhood, circles, getting frozen pigeons to London, and her upcoming exhibition. Peps: Would you like to tell us a bit about your exhibition? Siobhán: So, the upcoming exhibition is like a streamline of work that goes with this idea of interconnectedness. The exhibition is called Akin and Uncountable, which means the uncountable ways that we are alike, both in our biochemistry and our appearances, and also the connectivity between the man made and the natural elements. There are four of these large scale drawings, five of the helmet sculptures, five of the globes, a large installation in the middle of the room, and in the smaller room in the back there will be an installation with film, and then there will be some smaller drawings from the beginning of the year and also some ceramics like when you look at a painting or photograph that has been composed the creator has made certain shapes to force your eyes to travel around it in a specific way. They have told you what the focal point is and they kind of lead you up to it and that sort of thing. So in that sense poetry can be similar to visual art, but I think my favourite thing about poetry is when it’s musical. P: Your exhibition displays so many different media! Are there any that you really don’t enjoy using? S: Oil and canvas, actually. I tried in secondary school and in foundation of art school and I just didn’t enjoy it - I haven’t gone back to it since. I’ve painted occasionally on linen that’s really fine, but I don’t like the texture of canvas and I don’t like the push of it. I know you can actually adhere canvas to wood so that it’s very solid, and it’s strange because I sew and I use similar
fabrics to sew with but for painting, no, I don’t like it. That’s interesting because that’s one of the most common materials… It was just never really something I liked. P: Is there any particular work that you like best in the show or enjoyed making the most? S: the installation, which involves a taxidermied birdIs that the one that flew into the window? No, but one of the helmet sculptures is covered in the feathers from that bird. No, I did get another bird that flew into the school, and it was a pigeon, and it was my intent to taxidermy that, but it ended up being a little bit difficult to get the frozen pigeon to the taxidermist in London, so I looked around for what’s called a vegetarian taxidermist, and they commit to not using animals that have been murdered - I found one, but then getting that pigeon to the taxidermy place was going to be a little bit tricky, so in the end I asked him to choose one. That piece is suspended, and I made close to three hundred ceramic branches that are all kind of suspended as well, so I think that is my favourite, just because it was something in my head and I really wasn’t sure how whether it was going to work at all. In fact all last week I was thinking “OK this is not going to work, I’m going to have to find something else to do with it…” P: The exhibition is, I guess, the culmination of your year of work here - would you say you’ve preferred the satisfaction of finishing the pieces or the process of making them? S: I think they’re equal. I think there’s a certain satisfaction upon finishing it, but it actually doesn’t finish there either, because finishing [a piece] in the studio is not its natural end, the natural end for me in my mind is the white space of the gallery, and then that’s not the end because [there’s] the interaction with the people, and that doesn’t really end because often it shows somewhere else, so I wouldn’t say it’s all equal, the making of the pieces is probably the most satisfactory, but I do get excited about putting a piece in the gallery, like ridiculously excited. I think it’s because, though, I’ve enjoyed the process and then it’s like this finale of finishing a composition. P: How have you found having a studio in the college?
Akin and Uncountable Exhibition
S: Working at Marlborough has been great, because every time you guys go away there’s so much space I spread out all over the place! Every holiday I’ve stayed here - I’ve worked over New Year and over Christmas and over Easter and over [half term], and I use the drawing room and the ceramics room and I think twice, or three times, in between exhibitions in the Mount House I’ve just brought things in and put them up on the wall and taken photographs and taken them down. In particular this last week was great because I was able to take photographs of the installations for a catalogue which I’m producing for the show. P: I’ve noticed a theme of circles in your work, in your drawings, in the globes, - has that always been a part of your work? S: (laughs) It’s so ridiculous - it has been, in fact, in Vancouver for a while, they used to say, “That’s the girl that just does circles…” I think it started when I did my undergrad in Ireland and I was interested in the cairns and the standing stones and the symbolism of the circle, and planetary movements and the idea of infinity, something that starts and doesn’t finish… It’s been something I’ve been interested in since then. I think it’s really good to have that tool that as an artist can move you through your work, so as I move through printmaking to painting I can still use those symbols, and then it moved from planets into coral and other things, it’s something that was present in all of it. Now, it’s not as ridiculous because it’s not in all of my work, but it is almost like a comfort, it’s almost like how you know how to use a pencil - it’s like my go-to symbol.
P: What draws you to working with natural materials - is it the fragility, the colours, or perhaps something else that you find so intriguing? S: I think it’s actually something beyond that which goes to childhood, of just spending time in nature. I was raised in the suburbs of a city and had to take the city bus to a school, I went to a special music and theatre school, so when I was able to be outside that was kind of important, and I was given a lot of freedom at a really young age to ride my bike to a woods that was probably two of three city blocks away, and there was this massive woods that just led outside of the city, and I could just go for hours and there was no problem!. And I think that, you know, at that young age when you’re pondering everything and everything is new it just really impacted on me and my parents just letting me do those kind of things, you know, and I was also sick a lot, so there was days of being home from school, so I could just sit out on the grass or read, you know was another thing, so I think it really impacted and made it really quite precious to me as well, things like actually touching it, so it’s not just the beauty, it is interacting with it. My mum planted a lot of flowers, so there was that interaction, and being on the grass, you know, you’re touching it feeling it sensing it and in the woods it’s this whole thing, and then you’re building a narrative around it. Does that answer your question? Yes, definitely. Thank you so much Siobhán.
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Imogen Koe
Look Around Here come the waving lorry men, chipper neighbours and swaddling mothers. Look into their prams; see the wailing children. Wrought iron gates protecting their fears like barricading boulevards, they sit amongst the stone. Sticky-sweet sunlight drenches the street with smiling faces, screening out the darkness that lurks beyond the stars. Pooling-puddles of lank compliments thrive though fibbing faces strive within this ignorant world. Blunt. Like that swift, short crack-snapping of the iron bleached pencil of light flickering between the nights of loss, and the days full of cheery postmen, merry teachers and chirping dogs, weeping winds, late buses and faded-ashen buildings that sob as the traffic drones on and on. The stoplights gleam a glorious emerald. On purr the phoneys within the wireless “The weather is sunny and bright,” they claim, “not a cloud in the bright blue sky.” But the jade of the lights soon dims to a dizzying murk, like a whisper turned stale. Sharp pains seize within your fingers, The car pulls up. The world around you hums its clashing tunes. Now look around. What do you see? Helvetica Haydn Taylor Inspired by Amanda Jennings- The Judas Scar.
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Veronica Remembering The surface of the pearl button soothes my fingers. Each dip caresses them. It looks like a sea bed. The sea-blue dress has on it this button, Right in the middle of the belly. The dress flows like waves and has soft silk pleats. The straps are sturdy, but it’s beautiful. It’s hung up in the old wardrobe in this lost cottage. Moths are attracted to it, but even they are wary about digging in, it seems to me. Its beauty stops them. I’m eighty-four years of age now, and once this dress was my pride. Now I prepare my meal alone, Usually in the microwave, and eat it by myself at our kitchen table. At my kitchen table, I should say. He’s been gone for over two years. I was in a bar, forty-eight years of age, and I was offered a drink. I know I shouldn’t have, but I accepted, I took a sip, or more than one. Now I dream about him, how we walked together, before we had to flee. We used to sit under a pomegranate tree, I remember its blossom. And we talked. At night I listen to Beethoven or Bach, and my dark memories are soothed. The music is sometimes like that light Iranian breeze that I recall so clearly. Charlotte Greenham
Sam Spark
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Sophie Smith
Adrift [This is an extract from a much longer story]
Two days after the ship went down, our raft was finally blown ashore. Exhausted, hungry and thirsty, we waded through the shallows pulling the raft behind us, and collapsed on the sand. A wave of nausea rolled over me, and a needling headache began to pound against my skull. Even through the pain, I couldn’t stop wondering how I had managed to arrive at this strange, dark place where nothing seemed familiar. The electric pain in my head had become familiar over these past two days on the raft. A noise escaped from the boy, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I was too consumed by the pain, it was begging to pull me under, and I obeyed. The truth hit me before I opened my eyes – we were all alone – and no one knew where we were. With a hand pressed against my head, it took all the strength I had to sit up and open my eyes. The sun was blinding. I cautiously looked around me. It was breath-taking. The sun hit the water giving it a transparent aquamarine glow. The white sand beach caved inwards towards the lush, verdant land spotted with all sorts of beautiful trees, radiating a tropical green brilliance that could not be found anywhere else. Mangroves crept into the water and surrounded a small stream leading down from the mountain. I looked out into the horizon and realized that we were in an enclosed archipelago. The island’s allure was distracting, and I almost didn’t notice the shambling feeling of panic creep back into me. But the feeling held my body in a cage of despair that was this island. The boy was gone too. The only trace of his presence was his shirt hanging from a nearby tree, and the marks on the sand that showed sign of a struggle. He had moved me of the beach and rested me against this tree. Perhaps he had a heart big enough to think of me as more than just a tagalbas. He probably hadn’t seen many white people before. My father was one of the first to come to this area to study the underwater volcano that triggered the devastating tsunami just over a year ago. This boy might not even have a home. My father’s colleague was on the ferry travelling from El Nido with me. Father was going to follow two short weeks later. When the ship went down, I saw him get onto the life raft with many others, but after the explosion, I cannot be sure he was safe. Which means no one could know where I was. My father did not know where I was. I had to control my breathing and slow down. That didn’t matter. My survival on this island did. I was famished and I was so thirsty nothing could quench it. That was my current priority. With a groan I stood up and faced the jungle. It was almost silent. All I could hear was the crashing of the waves and the calls of the birds from far out. My body ached and trembled as I wandered aimlessly. I followed the path of the mangroves. My feet drove my body forward leaving defined footprints in the sand. I brushed the branches out of my way and followed a small stream. My instinct was to stop and drink, but I kept moving on. A small pond with a waterfall streaming onto it appeared through the dense thickness of the trees. I dropped to my knees and cupped the water in my hands. The burning sensation in my throat grew stronger for every second more I had to wait. I pressed the cool water against my dry, cracked lips. A drop of water traced its way inside my mouth, and I savoured it. I drank and drank until I felt like I was going to be sick. The hunger inside me was chained. Iona Gladstone
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This Is Not About Ophelia See her there: an exultant Ophelia, even as they lay her face-up, White and White and White again: bouquet: dress: skin. Her hair willowed in weeping death-rich glory; Mouth gaping in a desperate search for more water to force down into failing lungs. She screamed, that afternoon, screamed as she couldn’t on land. Her penance is she doesn’t get the dignity of a death onstage, frown lines and knives smoothed away by the water. It’s a poet’s death. Her madness a pretty one. Yes: Pretty maiden meets pretty end. Ignore psychedelic flashes of nonsense in her words; expect only purity purity purity. Somehow we are tearless. There is time for grief later, when gold is yellow is brown and her eyes exist only on paper. Cry for a ‘young life cut short,’ Cry over her mother’s canapés. We are left to revel in our nonsense. Even in death she is dazzling and not unlike the call of the frothing water. [The service was too long, they said Did she deserve it, they said, smiling always smiling] We are left to revel in our nonsense. Even in death she is dazzling and not unlike the call of the frothing water. Translation: Lay a single sprig of rosemary. For remembrance. Lena Barton
Daisy Mitford Slade
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Where others Come from Others come from broken communities, landscapes
Others come from a city, a city of hope and patience,
wrecked by too many homes, from all the work
waiting for the perfect job, hoping for a pay rise.
they can get, and shops with the best deals,
From overcrowded schools, from detentions and exams,
from violence, negligence, TV and old magazines;
from second hand clothes, and headphones with wires.
from ready meals, take-aways and hunger.
They come from lack of authority. They come from their parents’ divorce.
They come from playground fights, drugs and dependence.
They come from doubt. Darcy Atkinson
Theo Cadier
The Wanderer He wanders through the sandy abyss, his hooves sinking into the ground, with his back swaying, heavily side to side, as he sticks out his dry tongue and expelling spit out in to the dust. Groaning in displeasure, the quibbling creature of the desert. He is filled with this tiresome anger, the scourge in the sands of the sea. Moaning in boredom and restlessness, lowering his big head to the drinking bowl, and lapping up the last few droplets of water. The greedy brute of the parched lands. He slumps through the dusty earth, the King of the barren world. The master of preservation, the Camel. Lola Cracknell
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Never to Come Back She lies weak, vulnerable, untouchable. Gone. And yet it feels as if she’s still here. I can hear her laughter ringing in the evening breeze as it fights to be heard through the window. She stands vividly on the staircase, shouting up at me, as she’d done many times before, “Hurry up or we will be late!” And we always were. The scent of her much-loved cooking still hangs in the air, I can almost taste it lingering on my tongue. I see her, wild hair tied up, face fixed with concentration, apron wrapped around her waist. I remember all those times when she was there to embrace me when I needed a shoulder to cry on, and she made things better. She filled the house with light and happiness and now it is dark, darker than ever. The howling wind rattling the window feels unwelcoming, and the warmth of the fireplace now feels untrue, as if it was a lie. In some ways it was. She promised to be here always and now she isn’t. She has gone. Amelia Surtees Inspired by Amanda Jennings
Archie Koe
The Creature An extract from a response to Bruce Chatwin My father’s study was decorated with chairs, scattered around the room, and expansive wooden bookshelves. The walls were covered in posters celebrating the conquer of Mount Everest and annotated maps. When I was little, I used to sit in a red velvet armchair in the corner of the room and stare at the white peaks until I fell asleep. My father seldom talked about his work but, as I grew older, my curiosity got the better of me. I started to study the mountain range, hoping to find something, a little something that might show him that I was interested in his work. Over the years, I learnt much, maybe even to rival my father’s knowledge. But, one morning I found what appeared to be a white hairy little piece of something that looked like cattle hide nailed roughly to a piece of cardboard with a rusty pin. Upon asking my father, I discovered it was believed to be the fur of a creature by the name ‘Yeti’. It was a folk tale about an ‘abominable snowman’ who roamed the Himalayas. There were even reports about it having been seen at night. I asked him about it, how he came to have it in his possession and where it was found. His reply was that he had found it on an ancient trail on an expedition to the Himalayas. This was news to me: I had not known my father had actual experience in his work. However, I could not say that it surprised me, for he has never told me about any of his books. He even showed me a yellowing photograph that was taken of him and his friends, where he was dressed in a heavy fur coat, thick black boots and a woollen hat that covered his ears, looking very pleased as he held the piece. Later in my life, I brought it up in university as a piece of research proof, but nobody took any notice. They laughed behind my back at my madness in thinking that this ‘fake painted fur’ was the fur of a folktale monster. My interests, however, survived this mocking and I later resorted to finding more about the skin. I, frustratingly, found that there was no proof, no real recorded photos and nothing that could prove the existence of the creature. I could think of absolutely nothing, nothing that would confirm my beliefs, ideas or anything to do with it. In my rage, I did an illogical thing. I put it in the fire and burnt it completely. I wanted it out of my mind, out of my life. I didn’t care what happen after my life-long research topic was destroyed. I was in such a temper that I couldn’t bear to take day after day of disappointment, whispers of ‘mad’ and ‘the research can’t be done’. Chicha Nimitpornsuko
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The Voice of the Porter I stand outside the darkened gate facing out into the gloom. The college grounds are safe for now. I tell myself I’m needed now. A crow lands restless by my feet, cawing and crying. Perhaps he’s looking for his mate or a morsel on this greying night. I hear the voices. Whispers, shouts. Moans. Gasps. On and on they seem to last. Artie calls from the gatekeeper’s lodge, asking when my shift is over. I say that I can last a little while. Standing outside this darkened gate, for company a solitary crow, I know that I am needed now. Saffron Rowell
The Musician Standing, stunned, staring into a crowd of faceless mannequins, robotic in their movements from side to side. The sky darkens, floating above us, falling down on us, cloudless yet cluttered, standing, stunned, staring. Left-handed old guitar tied to my body, attached to my writs, melting into my chest, straining, screaming, searching: hour up on stage hidden behind the rest like a cold shadow, hearing but not feeling the applause, accepting it silently behind curtains like a faceless mannequin, standing, stunned, staring. Louis Cotterell
Beatrice Middleton
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Sam Spark
Up against the Wall you stood in silence, up against the wall (my lips were cracked) you said, “you were mine, once,” and you looked restless. my lips were cracked open, only to embrace you, and you looked restless, since you did not want to stay. open only to embrace, you were not to be loved. since you did not want to stay, i told you i loved you. i was hurting, you were not. (to be loved!) “you said you were mine, once! i told you i loved you!” “i was hurting, you… you stood in!” silence. up against the wall. Peps Haydn Taylor
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Review
Why the show must go on Thoughts on the Nuffield Theatre production of Rotterdam. Entering Southampton’s Nuffield Theatre, our second-row seats were vibrating with the slightly jarring sound of loud Dutch techno music, and I have to confess that within the first two minutes of cringe-worthy dancing I had moved my expectations bar from an optimistic “high” to a “pretty low”. However, over the course of the production all my judgements were proved entirely wrong, and after several bouts of tears in the second half, it ended up being the most genuine and emotional play I have ever watched. The play tells the story of a girl, Alice, and the series of events that follows after her girlfriend (Fiona) comes out as transgender and decides to transition, becoming his true self, Adrian. The play starts with Alice about to send an email to her parents, coming out as gay, but Adrian tells her he is trans just before she sends it. She doesn’t know where she stands with her identity any more, and it is clear that Adrian is too wrapped up in his own identity to understand. Obviously this leads to a dilemma: can Alice, a lesbian, love a man? Should gender really play a role in love? Is it even an option for her to admit that she really could never love a man? The play mostly centres around Alice and her being able to find security in herself, with both comic and utterly heartbreaking moments along the way from all the characters. Considering the premise of the play, it seems difficult to avoid producing what would essentially be a dramatisation of the NHS gender dysphoria webpage, but Jon Brittain did well. In my opinion, this play was a leap forward for modern theatre, and as far as I may make judgement it was almost perfect in its representation of the difficulties of transitioning. Apart from a slightly forced conversation explaining the practicalities of binders and so on (after Adrian had been able to find one in a high street shop, and on sale no less!?), the script was so well written that the story flowed seamlessly, weaving in information where needed, so the play was accessible to everyone, regardless of previous knowledge, sexual orientation, age, or indeed, gender.
There is so much that can be said for this play, in terms of artistic merit, tact, representation, acting, script… I could go on. However, I think I have to focus on its treatment of the subject matter as something that really set it apart. Firstly, and most importantly, it focused on the importance of empathy in understanding. In this case, drama really was the best medium to argue in favour of the trans community. Some people like to insist that “trans people don’t actually exist”, that they are “making things up” or they are “confused” (a point of view represented by Lelani, a character in the play). However, on seeing Adrian, struggling across the stage in tears, half-zipped-up dress and high heels haphazardly shoved on in an attempt to convince Alice to come back, even the most determined cynics would understand. It was just so wrong. Everything about it was wrong. Secondly, the play emphasised the fact that there really is no right way to treat transitioning, and that even includes the way in which a transgender person deals with it. Trans people are fallible, as Adrian displays, because they are just people and we all flawed. This, I think, leads to one of the play’s most important messages: that everyday people who may not associate themselves with the LGBT community can talk to and meet trans people and not worry about not knowing about or experiencing the same things as them. They are just people and are learning just as we are. The most heartbreaking part of the play, however, didn’t actually take place in the theatre. Just one day after we had been to see the production, which was a great celebration of LGBT representation and normalisation, the performance had to be cancelled because Lucy Jane Parkinson (Adrian), and Rebecca Banatvala (Alice) had been victims of a homophobic hate crime. Rocks were thrown at the couple while they were embracing in the street, hitting one of the actors in the face. Unfortunately, the violence doesn’t stop there: only a few days earlier, a lesbian couple was viciously attacked on a London bus, leaving their shirts bloodied and their faces bruised; in fact over the last five years, the annual number of LGBT hate crimes committed in London has risen by 50%. It is now, more than ever, that we need representation of queer people in mass media, and empathetic, moving productions like Rotterdam are paving the way. The Southampton performances may have been cancelled, but the show must go on. Peps Haydn Taylor
Helen Maybanks
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Review
As You Like It On 14th May the lower sixth English students went to see As You Like It, performed by the RSC. It is often considered one of Shakespeare’s most complete plays, as it combines the best aspects of all his comedies. It is the play where he explores not only societal themes, but linguistic ones as well, and it was fascinating to watch English prose written almost four hundred years ago connect with the audience today. Overall, it was a polished production and certainly the best version of As You Like It that I had seen. One of the play’s particular strengths was its casting choice. For the role of Audrey, a peasant with whom the fool, Touchstone, falls in love, they chose a deaf actress. One of the RSC’s clear goals is to ‘increase diversity in acting’ and in this regard, As You Like It was a triumph. Audrey signed all of her lines and a peasant companion was her “interpreter”. It never became distracting or annoying, and indeed the moments in silence were often the most powerful. Her disability was never the focus of the comedy (a trap that directors often fall into) but the comedy instead stemmed from the ways Touchstone tried to navigate their language barrier. It was also interesting to see the difference in acting techniques; the actress who played Audrey had far more vivid facial expressions than her counterparts. In line with the play’s theme of gender identity and fluidity, Silvius became Silvia which provided another interesting dynamic. While I always
approve of representation in the arts, I don’t think this particular choice worked. Any other same-sex couple would have been completely appropriate, but in As You Like It, the reason Phoebe (the peasant with whom Silvius is completely besotted) cannot marry Ganymede (Rosalind in disguise, and who Phoebe fell in love with at first sight) is because Ganymede is a girl and in Shakespeare’s world, girls could not marry girls. It is confusing therefore, that in this production, Phoebe can’t marry Rosalind, but can marry Silvia. It’s the only pairing in which for it to actually work, Silvius must be a man, and Phoebe must be straight. As you can see from my convoluted explanation above, the play is not an easy one to follow. There are at least three sub plots, two different people called Jacques, and an inordinate number of siblings. This production did a wonderful job of keeping each storyline straight and every character unique. The costumes were wonderful, and the god Hymen- although perhaps confusing in its entrancewas a masterpiece of machinery. Perhaps the stage could have been more decorated as it was often difficult to stay engaged when characters were delivering their monologues, but theatre in the round is immensely difficult to stage so it’s not really a complaint. All in all, the entire trip was very enjoyable and this production was the cherry on top. I would certainly recommend it to anyone finding themselves near Stratford-Upon-Avon in the near future. Lena Barton
Review
Solitude A metal bed with white covers is centre stage. Around it are four chairs; seated, four people, facing the walls of the room. A single, harsh light reveals their uncontrollable shaking, blindfolds, or vacant expressions; they are sitting as if they were completely alone.
Tate Oliphant’s Solitude is a spine-chilling representation of solitary confinement, told through a mixture of movement, interrogatory monologues and spasmodic, uncontrollable outbursts of frustration. Her use of sound and silence is exceptional, letting the layering of ticking clocks and compulsive, repeated phrases produce the crushing feeling of confinement inside one’s own head. As the audience, we watch the characters become more and more overwhelmed by their
loneliness, seated in the round like a cage to trap them. Convincing portrayals of hysteria are given by the actors themselves, and although they share a stage, the four remain utterly separate in their personal struggles with isolation. Throughout the piece, intermittent passages of an interview with a true subject of solitary confinement remind the audience of the realism of what they are watching, and hearing the chill in his voice is unsettling to even the most hardened of listeners. The play is an utterly convincing and moving portrayal of solitary confinement and its disturbing effects; a brilliant piece of drama, emotive and well-performed. Peps Haydn Taylor
Review
A Pearl of Great Price The short play, A Pearl of Great Price by Helena Barton, was mesmerising in both presentation and performance. The storyline was interestingly structured, in a similar way to Arcadia (also performed in Marlborough earlier in the year), with its use of overlapping time and jumps between present and future. Almost all the characters were on stage at once. The storyline was also lifted from historical fact and was presented, very smartly, so that all the characters within the play would provide a different viewpoint on the lives of Count Nikolai Sheremetev and Praskovia Kovalyova.
It was particularly moving to have this distant reminiscence and link between a very modern generation and the 18th Century, both to make it easier for the audience to empathise as well as reflective of history’s timelessness. It was also quite interesting to see the playwright amongst the actors, doing justice to a role she perhaps wrote in the model of herself; a girl interested in her heritage looking back on the stories of long lost Russia. Despite its short length and concise performance the audience was left with just enough questions to make them excited about the characters’ stories, and a good number of the audience were still sat in their seats at the end hoping for more. Indigo Randolph Gray
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The Piccalilli editorial team: Indigo Randolph Gray Bella Bullen Peps Haydn Taylor
Piccalilli cover by Valerie Poulden