Tŷ Celf

TŶ CELF 2017 Writing

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Photography

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Artwork

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TŶ CELF

EDITOR’S NOTE For the past six years Cardiff Student Media has produced Ty Celf, an annual anthology of artwork, photography and literature from the talented and creative students here at Cardiff University.

Over the past few years the ethos driving the anthology is that the creative works come first; the design should be as minimalistic as possible so that the key focus is upon the wonderful things that you make. Each image and piece of text is intended to have its own full page dedicated to it, ensuring nothing distracts from the carefully crafted works that the contributing students have devoted their time to perfecting.

Yet as is the way with many forms of artistic expression, this academic year, what was more or less a monthly magazine has been reduced down to only five ‘petite’ issues due to budget cuts affecting student media. Thus, this year’s Ty Celf is half the mag it used to be (but only in size we hope!). Regrettably this means that the notion behind Ty Celf of featuring one work per page has had to be abandoned along with our dreams of anything more than five issues of Quench a year. This certainly isn’t just a Cardiff Uni issue alone though. Last year a study from the Guardian showed us that not only are the arts not viewed on equal terms to other subjects, but in higher education, budget cuts disproportionately affect the arts. In a society that continually demands entertainment, it is essential that arts are given sufficient funding, but at present it’s barely getting what it needs, let alone what it deserves. We must fight to ensure that opportunities for creative students are not thrown away in coming years by further cuts to the arts, especially when it’s already so difficult to get your name in print.

It’s not all doom and gloom though; despite being a smaller magazine this year, we’ve still managed to pack in work from the same number of contributors as featured in previous years while still maintaining the Ty Celf mind-set as much as we can!

We would like to thank everyone who submitted pieces to be featured in this issue. The standard of work was incredible and choosing which entries would be included and which, unfortunately, had to be left out, was unbelievably difficult. We hope you enjoy the pieces selected to feature within this issue, and that this collection inspires you to create.

ELEANOR PARKYN, TY CELF EDITOR 2017

Diskit Monastery, Northern India - Elliott Wang

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Artwork by Lucy Aprahamian

Gunpowder and Flame In Liverpool murk And the wet mud-clay Of the moor, I breathed my first.

The birth of character, Dark and disagreeable, Formed with an old iron pain; A silent history - the history of cursed, black things.

The gentleman with his horse Looked to me like A fiend in the night, Old foe, biblical King, Come to vanquish And smite.

Nightmarish figure.

Horse and head reared and Descended on my chest.

I know, pale creature that you are, You did not live until you met me.

How could those white, thin arms have lifted with life?

Insipid, closed, small, fair How could you?

With a scream I breathed my soul Into you.

Something of the wildness of that night, The spark of the sky and the rain And the moor, Became your countenance.

The cold room by the window.

Snow had gotten in and frightened your touch, Your arms clawed at mine and I did not let you go.

Myself, biting into the flesh with savage fingertips.

Cathy, deathly-wild and inane.

Divine, prophetic, a force of pure love.

A nature to be reckoned with.

Oh dear, sweet animal, How your body weighs down mine.

It is as though we are both lost at once In the earth.

At the foot of your window my skin burns red hot with Sweetness for you.

I rough the bark against my head waiting, Despised by you, Loved by you, Hated. Hated so completely.

In my mind I mixed our skin.

Degrading marriage, perverse happiness produced A monstrous child.

No less loved but sooner Dead.

Dead as you will be, Dead as I know you are.

Isobel Roach

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TŶ CELF

Art by Jasper Wilkins

Bleach Can your soul need a cleanse?

Not like a pure spiritual moment But Barry Scott down the lens, Pouring bleach down my throat.

Asking for a friend who’s snapping, Holding little pieces of heart together and here’s the thing: It’s dirty and bloodied and bleached.

Hearing the words you knew, just knew were coming for you.

It’s altogether long before due, She can’t feel the way you do.

It might’ve been love, a few stops back, Before it mutated and corrupted in my lungs, Words became twisted in my breath and lack The shine they had in my head.

The bits of heart are slipping through My fingers. If bleach kills 99.5% of germs, I wonder if it can kill feelings too?

Or at least give them a clean.

Jacob MacKenzie

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PUSHING POINTS OF NO RETURN Jacob MacKenzie

To clarify, before I give you my full account of the truth, I never meant to hurt anybody. Not in the grand scheme of things at least – not on balance. You have heard, I assume, the words of Bentham – of doing the greatest good for the greatest number - https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Jeremy_Bentham. Well that is what I always strove for. Every time I got out of my bed, every time I spoke on my theories, every time I sat down to do my damned work. It was never to hurt those I couldn’t help. Those I couldn’t save… But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself; I will start, as is customary I believe, from the beginning. ....................................................................

I graduated from Edinburgh University, having studied Computational Biology, and utterly excelled in it. I try not to brag, but when you receive a high first class degree after several nights a week in ‘The Dragonfly Cocktail Bar’, it tends to be a mark of pride. My main interest, other than in Tokyo Iced Teas, lay in the physical implementation of the biological on the mechanical. I was utterly fascinated in creating working relations between mechanic prosthetic limbs and the muscles surrounding it. Sounds kind of nerdy, but I was inspired after watching Robocop (the original, not the God-awful Joel Kinnaman one). Actually scrap that, it’s still nerdy isn’t it. But I got so frustrated with the research – the connection to the muscles was never the issue; it was the communication with the brain. That was when I read the work of Satohiro Tajima, and it all changed. He wrote an article on the mechanisation of neurons in the control centre of the brain (http://journals.plos.org/ploscompbiol/article?id=10.1371/journal. pcbi.1004537). That was honestly the crux of my life, sat in my pyjamas reading an article on brain function. Fun, I know right. ........................................... BOOT.INI/TERMINATE.FALSE But anyway, fast forward twenty five years and my position within the field has expanded. My focus has shifted from the mechanical to the digital and from limbs to the control centre of the body. Over the years some stiff bastards made comments, argued against my papers, and boycotted my lab. They said I was ‘playing God’ and ‘certifiably insane’. But that court-mandated psychiatrist sure showed them.

You see, I had admittedly over-reached in some regards. I know that now in hindsight. But I was so wrapped up in what I could do, what I could create, who I could save. I just… I may have pushed too hard for trials. Moved from theoretical to practical usage too early. You almost certainly saw it in the news, read about the hateful lies spread about me in crappy tabloids. I won’t lie, because you probably know, but suffice to say people died. And for that I am… truly sorry. Each of those poor souls hangs on my heart every day. From a biological standpoint their cranial tissue burned up and their neurons fried.

The integration of a digital computer in a human brain apparently is not a viable match. From a human standpoint, I failed. In doing so eight hopeful people, with their own unique and beautiful essences, were cut short in their travels of the world. ................... DUMP-FILE-LOCATION.[DEFRAGMENTATION IN PROGRESS] I don’t want to justify my actions. What I did was whole-heartedly wrong. However I only did it because I could see what was to come. With a computer working alongside the brain, how could that not be the natural step in evolving past evolution itself. We would be artificially selecting humanity to meet the dawn of a new age, arms outstretched towards a suddenly forgiving and refulgent sun. Constant internet access with no interface required. The inbuilt precision to wipe out human error for good. Memories no longer lost, but Alzheimer’s and the diseases which demyelinate and decay the neurons would be eradicated. Every human connected in their thoughts. The magic concept of psychic connection would be a reality in our new digital age. Countless lives would be saved. Saved permanently. Literally countless. But in order to reach it, sacrifices had to be made. I now see that using others was wrong. So I made the simple decision. Me… I will be the first to survive the process. Another species will rise, and I will be the father of it. ..CMD.PRMPT \\\ - UPLOAD 87% ------ 9075186478943KB/10431248826400KB It was a simple error of programming that did it. I hadn’t created an aggressive enough installation file. The humanity in people, as it turns out, is quite violent in self-preservation. The brain actually attacked the computer as if it were an infection, breaking it down, which in turn fried the components and destroyed the brain. By creating this enforced software on the implanted computer, I should be able to balance the two in harmony. Theoretically at least. But there has been enough time for waiting. I installed the computer before I began telling you this. It has been installing ever since. I just wanted to tell my story fully human before I rise superior, from this feeble and corrupted mind… .....DUAL.BOOT/FATAL/ERROR. FORMAT? Y/N But in spite of all that is happening. .....INSTALLATION COMPLETED. CONFIGURATION\\DEFAULT Despite my errors and triumphs. ....OPEN [[ROOT TREE]-[C:DRIVE]].....

Despite my beautiful, bitter and fading life. ......*FILE.SOURCE.CORRUPT I am afraid that I may not resurface from a plunge into the unknown. ....MODE -------- POWER|ON I. .......LOADING Am. ......SOFTWARE.OPEN.SUCCESS -------------- DELETE ALL FILES? Afraid.

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TĹś CELF

HOME Claudia Rutherford

The intent of this project is to dismantle the stigma surrounding council estates. Using the aesthetics of minimal film photography, the photo story attempts to highlight the simplicity of home life. Along with this, Ialso wanted to capture the unique charisma of the council house environment. This is to show that life in low income areas is not always as gritty as newspapers like the Daily Mail depict them to be. The people who inhabit them, or those who have come from these areas (like myself), do not always fit the stereotype that is projected onto them. I wanted to provide an honest portrayal. Low income areas can as much of a home to somebody as suburban areas can be. It is not financial authority that is required to make a house, a home.

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Spellbound

Three Poems The distant moon was hanging above cemetery shores where lonesome ghosts ethereal saints with paper wings wandered with restless abandon and death watched with phantasmagorical eyes

I cannot breathe. I cannot act. I cannot scream. Yet, I cannot die. I must remain here, alone.

Completely alone.

I was abandoned on this cursed land where the forest animals do not approach. If a deer ventured near, it would be enveloped in smoke, and with a choke be left limp and cold. Even the birds care not to fly near, for fear that the song they sing shall be their last. The hare must also beware, for might he dare to hop too close… oh, the sound… that sound… Putrid yellow eyes lurk in the leaves of the black wood trees.

These eyes, one could not mistake them, are only possessed by the darkest of creatures. The lecherous nymphs are watching me from their brambled towers. Their flaming eyes penetrate my soul, altering my vision and my thoughts. They ensure that I may not care for any other being but their Mother - that wild temptress of the night.

Heart beats tangible threads Extending into the crevices Of effervescent senses A living hiraeth burns inside longing of post-war streets and the golden hope of shredded dreams among fiery planes and explosive grenades.

She came to me in the woodland. Exquisite golden tresses ripple down her back and soft plush whiskers flutter over her blue eyes - that resemble tiny lakes, in which one yearns to swim. Specks of green adorn these pools like lily pads. I was only a mere boy at the time, destined to become a knight of the round table. Neither dragons nor men had ever left a scratch, but I lost my head to a forest fairy. Every caress from her pixie fingers led me further under her dark spell. Captivated, she made me her captive. How I adored la belle dame sans merci.

The rook, he dreams of cadaverous trees whilst effulgent autumn smiles at the cacophony of black-feathered souls pining one for the other in a lifelong orchestra The rook mates for life.

When she left me she stole not just my heart, but also my soul. She drilled into my head with those piercing eyes, extracting my happiness. With her full lips, she removed my ability to smile. From her tongue, she cursed me so that I might never utter the words “I love you” to another. I must think of no other being, but her. Only her. Always. I cannot be without her!

Yet, she will never come.

From when the sun rises up until the stars take its place, I remain here, frozen on this hillside.

Forever cold.

Emily Murray

Sanja Dragojlov

17 We broke into the castle grounds that nighttumbling over the gate and landing in the cold, damp grass.

Did anyone look up at the hill that December evening and see usthe twinkling of our phone lightsguiding us around ditches and over fallen trees?

We all huddled around the crater, clouded by cigarette smoke, growing louder as each beer bottle emptied.

The maze of trees created a blanket of darkness.

And so we sat hidden, with icy faces, and warm winter coats, laughing and singing, with no concern for how our voices would travel.

Nobody could find us up there, so we raced through the trees- tripping over branches and crashing into nettle bushes, chasing no one, and running from nothing.

From the edge of the forest you could see part of the M6.

So there we all stood, our breath cutting through the icy air, staring silently as the cars streamed through the skythe red rear lights like shining rockets, growing smaller and smaller as they hurtled away from the town.

Louise Belcher Art by Lisa Doran

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TŶ CELF

Cardiff, shot using an old 35mm point and shoot camera- Rowan Lees

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Going Up In Smoke There is a man who sits in my square. I see him twice a day, once on my way to work, and once on my way home. He sits leaning against the war memorial like a soldier returned from the dead to spend one final day on Earth before becoming a name on cold, hard, unforgiving stone; no longer the full embodiment of a person instead a collection of letters that will be eroded by the rain and time. The man is dressed in a dark coat, so heavy with dirt that it is impossible to tell whether the colour was originally dark or if it has become this way through the years of ownership.

His hair is lank with grease, and the plastic bag next to him clinks when he knocks it with his legs. He keeps his hand deep in his pocket and if you look closely you can see that he is clutching something in there incredibly tightly; the way you might hold a child’s hand. He exudes such an aura of hopeless that it makes it difficult to look at him.

The first time I properly see him, it is raining. The rain falls in my eyes and the light reflects rainbows which I irritably brush away. My watch tells me that I am ten minutes late for work, and I run awkwardly, my shoes with their low heels sending waves of water up my tights. Dark stains like blood.

And he is there.

It isn’t me he’s looking at. Not me he’s talking to. There’s a young couple, the man with his arm wrapped around the girl protectively. Both are about three steps away from the man, he thrusts a picture at them.

“Have you seen this boy?” He asks, his voice so lacking in hope that it is as monotonous as a cold caller.

The boy leans back a little, away from the lank hair and dead eyes; but the woman leans forward and dutifully stares at the picture. She shakes her head and I see ‘sorry’ form on her lips as her boyfriend pulls her away wrapping his python like arm a bit tighter around her body; capturing her, shutting out the outside world that little bit quicker.

The man watches them walk away and after they are gone he looks around for another target. For a second he catches my eye and I drop my gaze immediately. He shuffles back to his spot at the memorial and closes his eyes. By the time he opens them again, I am gone.

I think about him often over the following weeks, I catch my attention wandering to his lonely vigil. I find myself longing to see the picture of the boy. I wonder about his age. The colour of his hair. His eyes. I wonder if there is any resemblance to the man in the square. I begin to grow distracted at work. Contracts and legal jargon blur behind my eyes and instead the words turn into a boy’s face. Every time his face is different; one time blonde and blue eyes like a cherub, another dark hair and eyes that stare at me. Daring me.

I fall behind a little at work, my boss calls me in. He tells me what I expected to hear.

“Not up to your usual standard. Expect much better of you. Must improve” The staccato sentences that break through to me are in a child’s voice. A voice that does not belong to the overweight, balding man in a white shirt with sweat patches in front of me. A voice that belongs to a little child, a lost innocent little child. I hear that voice all the time. Unlike his face, the voice at least remains the same. It’s smooth. Blameless. Helpless.

Then it’s lost, and instead a gruff voice, the result of multiple evenings spent in lubrication with alcohol. This voice is not innocent, it’s seen the world and life and it’s been corrupted as a result.

“You alright?” it says. I nod, one quick downward motion, then stumble from the office.

My next proper encounter with the man in the square is on a sunny day.

The man is walking around the square, in his sad coat and his photograph.

He thrusts it in the face of anyone who catches his eye, most of them practically throw themselves out of his path in order to avoid him. Then he sees me. And he begins to walk toward me, hand already deep in his pocket, pulling out the photograph.

“Have you seen this boy?” he asks. For a moment I think about refusing to look, I don’t want to let go of him. This imaginary child of mine. My little boy. I’m not ready to do that. But I do; of course I do. The little boy is about eight years old, he’s wearing a little red hat and clutching yellow rucksack. He’s smiling and his little cheeks are red, with cold or exhaustion I can’t tell. His hair is dark and he has blue eyes; I look up and the same eyes are reflected back at me.

“Have you seen him?” the man’s voice is more aggressive now, he shakes the photo in my face and I get the feeling that if he could he would push my head down so that my nose was right next to the paper; but he must make do with just shaking the photo. I can’t look him in the eye, and I shake my head at the picture instead. I begin to walk away, mutter sorry under my breath as I walk away but he steps in front of me.

“He’d be fifteen” he says, and I can’t bring myself to picture this baby as nearly a grown man. Can’t imagine the deep voice with occasional falsetto notes of childhood. Can’t imagine the baby becoming taller than me, the first girlfriend presented for my approval. I shrug and tell him I’m sorry again and walk away. He whispers behind me and I pretend not to hear, “his name was Daniel.”

I leave him behind, and he clutches the picture the way he would clutch his son. I go home. To my pretty little flat with its pretty, expensive things.

And I clutch a pillow to me and rock it to sleep.

When I wake up its dark outside, I wander from room to room, until there is only one room I haven’t gone into. The door taunts me and I know that if I open the door, I will be confronted by my failures. I push the door open because I know must. The door falls open and the room is just how I left it. The walls are a duck egg blue. There is a mobile on the ceiling. I sit down heavily on the chair next to the crib. The collection of teddies and soft toys still loll on the mattress. I reach out and take the soft dog that I christened Floppy Dog. “You were going to be his favourite”, I whisper to the dog, his stitched mouth smiles back at me, “He was going to moan at me for packing you when we went away, but he was going to love you so, so much” The image of my little boy clutching this dog waves at me behind my eyelashes.

I lay the soft body down gently. The dog appears to curl around the little box in the crib. I stroke the wood with one finger, as if it was the soft cheek of the little boy contained inside.

I still dream about my baby and I know that he’s waiting for me. He’s lost as much as Daniel.

Saoirse O’Connor

Artwork by Becca Moody

9 TŶ CELF

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The Reverie An account of Sherlock Holmes presented by Dr Watson Sat across on the chez lounge, Draped in profile by Silk and shadow, Is my companion.

Notice how the tips Of his fingers arch together Firmly, Like fleshy marble.

His eyes, I think, Are raptured with thought.

Psyche; after the mind And soul.

A needle glints ashamedly In his iris.

The cocaine-clarity is subtle In the parting and un-parting Of his lips.

The genius stroke of his speech Is lost in background noise, Forgotten in written word, But the lowness of his voice is Arresting.

I assure you.

His eye is nimble-quick and I have the pleasure of watching It deliver, Again and again, The mind's decree.

The body, Masculine, lean, quick, Darts from thought to thought.

I have seen men on the continent That move like panthers, Cutting across day old cadavers With no such languid Speed.

He stops To smoke a pipe.

English wood, Indian tobacco.

I observe, If I might be so bold, That he cuts a lonely figure in The London night.

His childhood is obscure and painful, I suppose.

I know, I know as well as any That a heart beats beneath the Wonderful genius, The serene yet terminal Socrates-Alive and not alive.

Isobel Roach

Willow like Wisteria The serrated curling ferns pulsate at their edges like convex turns in walls of glass Willow trees like wisteria hang like separate chandeliers their knotted branches bow like lit lanterns in ancient silver castles Their long thin leaves like bunched waves of golden auburn hair flames curling together in multitudinous coupled curves Purple peach flesh, bitter plums the suction bruising left after a kiss The colour of this exudes from within the green...

Beau William Beakhouse

art by Becca Moody

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS EDITOR

Eleanor Parkyn

DEPUTY EDITOR Sadia Pineda Hameed

DESIGN

Eleanor Parkyn

CONTRIBUTORS

Beau William Beakhouse Becca Moody Claudia Rutherford Emily Murray Isobel Roach Jacob MacKenzie Jasper Wilkins Louise Belcher Rowan Lees Sanja Dragojlov Saoirse O’Connor

WITH THANKS TO

All who sent in their work for consideration.