Tennis 71

CREATIVE SECTION

NATURE'S CONFIRMATION

(Written on the School Ski Trip)

Tinsel sunlight sprinkles warmth on a morning rising above the depths of ice dipped mountain beauty. Fairytale awakening from a thousand and one chilled icicle kisses of dawn's first fresh breath of air. In vigilance I step out on to my balcony, into the sanctuary of the vast natural temple of the Alps. In full awe of creation's splendour I start to believe. The rays of warmth are like new bands of understanding as I start to comprehend Christ's martyrdom. My heart aches for I too can see how lost man has become in his metropolitan formations of gloom and despair.

Faith, like the sun, is strong and bright and casts light on the world... but it can also fade.

The sun rises this morning, along with my confidence in the Deity. As I realise the importance of nature and these precious places of untainted earth, innately it is my umbilical connection of doubt to humanity that I must sever and, in faith, send forth praise by saying: "Blessed be God Forever."

Jeremy Corner

FALL OF THOUGHT

The air cools. A few remaining flocks of leaves remain perched on sweet frosted branches having not yet migrated South for the winter; whilst others race each other across the grass.

Couples whisper footsteps of affection down the quiet, windy street as I ponder at how the soft chilled changing air of Winter is holding hands with the warmth of the Summer, reflected in the orange hue, and smile at the ironic simile. Because despite their incompatibility Autumn exists so beautifully... just like that season I spent with you.

Jeremy Corner

THE PLAYHOUSE OF LOVE

You are warm in my arms like a musical encore, yet I feel chilled as a winter's night, the stars sending twinkles down my spine.

We stand and watch choruses of affection recite shows of love in the theatres of our eyes; the tragedy of the future to be cherished with uncertainty.

I become jealous when the company performs at other venues. The play is mine. We thrive on those loving blue flames that dance our excitement across the platform of our gazing and make us return for yet another night.

The anger that will result in failure will only give the critics something to do. Aside from this, that loving feeling will always bring me back to watch that show we enact in those two studios of emotion in our faces. Jeremy Corner

A WAVE GOODBYE

(Written on departure from South Africa)

I know now why the gulls cry on departure from Durban's coast as the cold winter of separation crashes in like a wave slicing the sea from the sand. But as I cover myself in a snug blanket of fond memories and sit before the hearth of a new dawn, stoked with magical uncertainty, I am not afraid... For that familiar sound of the seaside is here too, Reminding me that true friendships ebb back and forth between shores for all eternity, as will yours with mine... and mine with you.

Jeremy Corner

Jeremy was awarded the John Crook Poetry Prize for this poem.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas lived in the old grey house at the end of our street. Their house was the only one which had a view of the sea which made them very important figures in my early life. My mother made frequent visits to the old house and I believe that they were some distant relations of hers. When I accompanied my mother it was with great excitement and as far as I can remember they were the only old people I actually enjoyed visiting. They had a huge garden, stretching right up to the edge of the cliff which my brother and I used to play in and watch the boats coming into the ports. When our parents went away we stayed with the Thomas's and helped Mr. Thomas with his study of the birds in his garden. I realised that the reason why we never saw any birds in our garden was that they all went straight to the birdtables and boxes in the Thomas's garden. The number of different species fascinated us and the Thomas's to us grew to be the Dickie Bird couple.

In the summer of my tenth birthday we moved away from the coast to a small village in the countryside. The house we bought had a garden, almost as large as the Dickie Bird couple's and at once, with the aid of my father, we built birdtables, perches and birdboxes determined not to forget our friends at the coast. Very soon the birds flocked in and soon our garden became our lives. Every week we sent letters to the Dickie Bird couple telling them of our new additions or asking their advice about foods we should put out for them and the replies were received with the same amount of enthusiasm.

Picture: Colin Tse.

This went on for two years, exchanging letters, excited phonecalls and short visits to the original bird garden where the seed had been planted. In all this time the thought that the Dickie Bird couple may cease to exist had never crossed my mind.

One evening when I returned from School I had been left a hastily written letter explaining that my mother had had to go away, not to worry and that dad would explain when he got home. Of course I was worried and that was the first time I thought the Thomas's could be ill. I heard nothing from my mother or the Dickie Bird couple for a week, only my father's serious voice talking to someone on the phone. It was exactly a week after mum had gone away that dad told us that Mrs. Thomas had died and Mr. Thomas seriously ill and not expected to live very much longer. At first I wasn't totally aware of what had happened and I only fully understood when I returned from School and went out to refill the birdnut holder. I looked around, heard a blue tit whistling above me and thought how boring it all seemed. When the eggs hatched we still watched the parent birds dashing in and out of the nests but this time we had no one to share it with, no one to enjoy it with us.

Now my brother races round the garden on his mountain bike and I know that the birds can look after themselves as they had been doing for many years before I and even the Dickie Bird couple existed, but something is still missing. I lost it the day the birds died. Julia Toms Julia was awarded the Fourth Form Essay Prize for this story.

The poems on these two pages are taken from "Burning the Old Boys", a collection of 100poems by Peterites. This varied and interesting anthology, edited by Antony Dunn, is priced at £3.00. If you wish to order a copy, hurry, hurry, while stocks last!

God damn this racking cough... no joke... I do remember York... recall my friends... Will you — Please — tell them (if you see them) I would write except I can't control my hands. Tonight the trembling's getting bad. It's cold... The best that I could scribble is my name. The rest... they made it up... I never did those things they've stretched me into owning to. I'll swing in any case — alive — until my heart is gutted from my chest. They wrote my part... I did my best... but in the end I'm stripped of dignity... identity... the script... betrayed my friends... and cause... I don't know why... scorching me from "Guido" down to "Guy". David Hughes

Picture: Philip Ravailhe. Picture: John Sutcliffe.

to an aspiring starlet

at night, sometimes, you walk in the garden and study the studded sky; i know you long to walk amongst that starry crowd that fill our screens and furnish your dreams, so, when you leave to find your constellations i won't shield your way; i will kiss you, and hold you and wish you good luck but, please, whatever you may find, don't leave my memory behind, for stars like those can drop and only mortal fools like me can catch their fall and help keep their shine.

Anshuman Mondal

So now, you miserable old bugger, you know if death is as blank and eternally long as the bits of you speeding away from us thought — or you will if you're wrong.

Did you break up? Did fragments of Philip fly out into void and the fear and the fighting prove vain as you taught? A plaque and some poems apart, what remains?

Nothing but words, unchangeable, ordered, fixed on the page, so permanent, true. I need you, toad, to cope with my passing, helping me down my cemetery road.

Ian Lowe I watched their dead eyes on the ocean, whales in stale vinegar.

Waves bit at my toes putting teethmarks of protest at my feet.

I swam in their empty kitchen sink, they floated in jars in our supermarkets.

My wife paints them on her fingernails in the morning.

Sometimes I smell the sea when she touches my face and I see Greys, and Blues and Whites before my eyes.

Miles Whittaker

The Last Supper.

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"In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions open the plot. We are betrayed by whc' is false within. '' George Meredith. 'Modern Love', xliii (1828-1909)

In a cave by a brook by a pool far away she sat, spinning sunlight into stone that she might build a wall round her heart, unscalable, and she dreamed as if time itself were her dominion; and she would make the still morning frozen as that same instant stood.

She sang as she span and prepared a paled and broken sacrifice to her goddess. She sang of her love, long away from her touch, who fled, chasing butterflies and rainbows, after beauty, wild and free, and happiness, lying sparkling in the grass. So she sang; and she span;

and she wept; whose tears frosted and fell to the ground as jewels: and quickly I stooped to pick them and hide them there by the pool so no-one else could see, but in my hand I saw them melt again. So now I offer you these drops of living water. Unknowing you stretch out your hands and I must move to annoint you: therefore do not ask why I wear such bitter tears: for I know you love me.

Chris Braganza Softly you leave as a shadow of June when pink pastel blossom saved us and sweet water appeared to bless with smiles too easy of days gone by.

But there you wait uncertain, as Love still lingers gently, the sun reflecting tenderness so real until reality seems to fracture the moment now shattered a billion times dancing and laughing and singing in victory. For now, dream dragons to slay stinging nights; if then

hushed and waking to doubt, with knowledge of us deepening, I will turn to the world's dying light and call; then softly leave with Love's bright song clear: and come to me in autumn when you look out from your window and see the leaves fall.

Chris Braganza

Chris was awarded the Skrentny Creative Writing Prize for these poems and other work.

Picture: Esther Williams.