Creative & Cultural

Drama

AS YOU LIKE IT

Boy falls for girl. Girl falls for boy.

The characters are forced into exile in the forest of Arden and they find change.

It’s about usurpation, the freedom of the green world, and love.

The love is not simple, it’s unrequited, it’s mistaken, it’s messy, it’s a moment of madness - but it does prevail.

“All the world’s a stage And all the men and women merely players” Jaques, Act 2

“Whoever loved that loved not at first sight.” Phebe, Act 3

“We that are true lovers run into strange capers.” Touchstone, Act 2

“Love is merely a madness” Rosalind, Act 3

ROMEO AND JULIET

‘Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love’

Romeo and Juliet was performed by 25 cast and crew from fourth and fifth form as part of the Shakespeare Schools Festival. It was performed firstly in the studio theatre and then at The Carriageworks Theatre, Leeds, in November, alongside three other schools.

This was the appraisal from Festival Director Paul Jenkins:

I would like to offer sincere thanks and congratulations to St Peter’s School for your wonderful production of Romeo & Juliet as part of the 2017 Shakespeare Schools Festival. Students and teachers alike have put hard work, imagination, determination and passion into this production, and were a credit to the school.

The show was filled with passion, energy and at times, sheer rage. The rivalry and deep-seated hate between the Montagues and the Capulets was clear to see from all involved, showing an exceptional use of facial expression, posture and movement in their acting. There were moments where the audience were genuinely fearful for the characters as they descended slowly into the tragedy which was unfolding.

I was particularly impressed by the way that the actors managed to show the complex emotions of the story - which is a challenge for even the most experienced of performers. Showing an audience characters that are convincingly in love or later in the play, suffering intense grief is a great skill but each and every one of the actors from St Peter’s demonstrated that skill in fine style.

A special mention here should be given to the pupils involved with the technical side of this production, whether it be in the lighting box or to those actors responsible for moving set on stage.

An ambitious and engaging performance which was performed with great energy by the pupils at St Peter’s. Great work!

A LEVEL – Scripted

A2 pupils performed two hard hitting plays and six monologues for a visiting examiner and full audience in March.

FIVE KINDS OF SILENCE – Shelagh Stephenson

Cast - Maddie Day, Holly Drake, Charlotte Hollinrake This play tells the story of a family living under the power of the vicious Billy, who abuses his wife and two children.

HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY AND NEVER BE FOUND – Fin Kennedy

Cast – Amber Enoch, Flossy Grafton, Marcus Thomson This is a play about identity and the traces we leave on the world around us. Marcus Thomson performing a monologue as Buffo the Clown from Emma Rice’s adaptation of ‘Nights at the Circus’.

Flossie Grafton performing a monologue as Rosie Price from ‘Things I Know To Be True’ by Andrew Bovell.

A2 DEVISED - Hotel

Our A2 Drama pupils transformed the Memorial Hall into a hotel, complete with bar, office, bedroom and bathroom, for a piece of devised immersive theatre inspired by the work of renowned theatre company Guild of Misrule. The audience were involved in a participatory, multi-sensory experience in this piece of theatre, which dealt with themes of adultery, betrayal and loss.

GCSE

In February GCSE pupils devised their own original productions as part of their assessment. The umbrella topic was the concept of ‘Home’ and all pupils were initially provided with the same two stimuli: a graphic novel called The Arrival by Shaun Tan which is a migrant story told as a series of images over six chapters. The world in the novel is an imaginary one but it has many similarities to the real stories of millions of real people in the real world. The second stimulus was a song called ‘To Build a Home’ by ‘The Cinematic Orchestra’ including the lyrics ‘Cause I built a home/for you/ for me/ until it disappeared.’ Each group then explored their own final piece of stimuli which resulted in five completely different political pieces of theatre which were emotionally charged and relevant.

A WAR NEXT DOOR

Cast - Joe Bates, Milly Gray and Tom Harpin

In 2014 Save the Children made a video to mark three years since the conflict began in Syria, It intends to raise awareness of the lives that millions of Syrian children are living. The short film shows a young healthy, happy British girl and the way her life changes when civil war comes to the UK. The group used this as their third stimulus and presented conflict in a secure England, leaving the residents of a street without a home. MY HOME

Cast - Sonya Aleksandrova, Max Allard, Rachel Hartley

The group used children’s pictures of ‘home’ and ‘family’ as their third stimulus to create the story of a young family forced to live in separate countries due to the economic climate.

GLITCH

Cast - Ava Horner, Piyush Koorapaty, Flora McDonaldWilson, Benjie Wilson. Lighting Design - Matthew Shawcross

This group used computer games as their third stimulus; where lives are replaceable, war is for fun and characters get more opportunities depending on how much currency they have. A game master guided the audience on the three entirely different journeys made by three computer game characters.

FORGOTTEN

Cast - Jake Akyol, AJ Coates, Lilly Conroy

A photographer called Marco Pavan photographed objects left behind by the thousands of migrants on the shores of Lampedusa, stating that he hoped each one might tell a small piece of an individual migrants story. Three of these photographed objects became this group’s third stimulus juxtaposed against Western media which seemingly ignored the plight of the migrants.

FACELESS

Cast - James Connolly, Luke Race, Paddy Renwick

The Daily Mail and The Daily Express are both known as right wing

newspapers. For their third stimulus this group collected biased headlines relating to immigration. They particularly focused on the idea of ‘Migrant Invasion’ on the front of the Daily Express and told the individual, heartfelt stories behind the perceived mass of people.

GCSE pupils demonstrated their talent for a visiting examiner and full audience in March when they performed extracts from a range of contemporary plays written post 2000.

TINY DYNAMITE - Abi Morgan (2001)

Two childhood friends try to come to terms with an unhappy past.

THE PILLOWMAN - Martin McDonagh (2003)

A brutal dark comedy in which two brothers are interrogated.

ORPHANS - Dennis Kelly (2009)

The outside world of urban violence comes crashing into the living room.

PUNK ROCK - Simon Stephens (2009)

The story of violence in school.

GIRLS LIKE THAT - Evan Placey (2013) SWALLOW - Stef Smith (2015)

Rumours spread across smartphones, reputations are ruined and girls do not stand up for each other. Three strangers fight their demons head on, trying to overcome their urge to self-destruct.

THE WARDROBE - Sam Holcroft (2014)

Across five centuries of British history children seek refuge in a wardrobe.

Art

The Art Department continues to thrive at St. Peter’s, with pupils enjoying a wide variety of creative experiences and opportunities. We are teaching across multiple disciplines, with students able to access expertise in a number of media and materials. We strive to develop the traditional Fine Art skills of drawing and painting, but also include photography (both digital and analogue), printmaking, sculpture, and a whole wealth of different ‘mixed-media’ processes in between. Where possible we try to open the students’ eyes to the creative and expressive possibilities available to them, and to consider Art not as an opportunity for replication and parody, but one of personal expression and invention. Our programme of trips and excursions to Art in galleries and museums both locally and further afield helps justify this outward-facing approach and helps the students understand where their work fits within the creative world.

The Whitestone Gallery is at the heart of the department, providing a public face for the department, and allowing us to exhibit our own students work alongside the work of established artists. We feel that this serves to validate the students’ work and somehow makes sense of the whole process of making Art. As the artist Edgar Degas said, ‘Art is not what you see, but what you make others see…’

Upper Sixth - A Level

Lucy Dabbs Amalia Watkins

Rebecca Battles

Cookie Yang

Ellie Gath Izzy Crook

Holly Drake

Upper Sixth - A Level (continued)

Katherine Robinson Phoebe Hall

Grace Moody Amber Rose

Lucy Lovisetto Chloe Wong

India Reilly

Martha Horner Cecilia Zhang

GCSE Coursework and Exam

Sophie Adeley Charlotte Calvert

Beatrice Barker

GCSE Coursework and Exam (Continued)

Maisy O’Neil

Will Guyer Leah-Grace Gath

Joe Johnson

Megan Ford

Carly Jackson Curran Maguire

Abi Shaw

Rebecca Dowson

Francis Zhang Milly Sharpe

Music

Autumn Concert

There were some encouraging performances in this concert so early in the academic year. As is our custom the programme featured chamber music, solos from our senior musicians and performances by the Chapel and Chamber Choirs in the first half. Highlights included the Clarinet Choir playing Serenade by Dzon, with its complicated rhythmical elements, accomplished solo singing from Izzy Crook, Ben Parkes and Alex Leahy and lyrical solo piano playing from Carl Leighton and Felicity Edwards. In the second half we moved through to the Memorial Hall to hear the String Orchestra and Swing Band playing enjoyable repertoire ranging from Mozart’s evergreen Eine kleine Nachtmusik to the twelve-bar blues of Paul Clark’s Let’s keep a good thing goin’.

Evensong in York Minster

The Chapel Choir had a successful visit to York Minster on Monday 13 November to sing Evensong. The choir sang the well-known Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis in B minor by Noble, who was organist at the Minster from 1898 to 1913. This was followed by the anthem, Brahms’ How lovely are thy dwellings, which fitted well into the season of Remembrance and gave the choir a significant piece of repertoire to enjoy in the big acoustic of the building. The singing was, as always, well supported by Mr Wright’s expert organ playing.

Christmas Concerts

There was a great variety of music and groups involved in the Christmas Concerts this year and it was a lot of fun. The Wind Band started us off with two seasonal pieces by Derek Bourgeois and finished with a rousing performance of Christmas at the Movies arranged by John Moss. The Flute Group were on sparkling form with some lovely seasonal arrangements including Carol of the Bells. The Chamber Choir performed two enjoyable and challenging Christmas arrangements, including Mr Wright’s arrangement of Jingle Bells, which they sang with real confidence and a polished sound complete with jingle bells at appropriate points! The Little Big Band provided us with a nice change of gear with their version of Apache towards the end of the first half. The second half featured our Swing Band, which has been largely rebuilt following the departure of nine players last summer, and they did really well with many younger players involved, playing three Christmas swing charts. The Barbershop and Barbieshop are always a favourite with the audience and they did not disappoint with arrangements ranging from modern pop ballads through to traditional carols, sometimes performed with a twist to keep everyone guessing.

It was though a great joy to hear our School Choir of over 150 pupils performing at the end of each half, with their rendition of a medley from My Fair Lady being a real highlight to finish the show.

My thanks to all the pupils and staff involved.

Whole Foundation Concert

This was a highly enjoyable event bringing together pupils from Clifton School and Nursery, St Olave’s and St Peter’s Schools in a celebration of our music. With a wide range of repertoire from Palestrina to Coldplay, the ensembles included four choirs, close harmony groups for boys and girls, String Orchestra and String Quartet, Clarinet Choir, Flute Group and Swing Band. At the end of the concert the pupils joined to sing a massed choir item, America from West Side Story, marking the centenary of the birth of Leonard Bernstein this year.

Evensong at St Paul’s Cathedral

After three years, the Chapel Choir made their long- awaited return to sing Evensong at St Paul’s Cathedral on Monday 26 February. Following the success of their service in chapel the previous week, everyone felt ready to perform in one of the country’s great cathedrals. Despite the snow that greeted us on our arrival in the capital, our voices were quickly warmed up and rehearsals were followed by an invigorating climb up 257 steps to take in the breathtaking views from the Whispering Gallery. The service was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone with particular highlights being the solos in Dyson’s Canticles in F, sung by our head choristers Isabella Crook and Jack Hargrave. Overall it was a great team effort and it was wonderful to see so many family, friends and Old Peterites in the congregation. After Evensong, the now-customary trip to Pizza Express was greatly revelled in before returning home. Our thanks go to Mr Hall, Mr Edwards, Mrs Miles-Kingston, Miss Tomlinson, the Chaplain – and of course to Mr Wright and Mr Miles-Kingston.

Felicity Edwards UVI, Harriet Edwards LVI and Daniel Hicks LVI Orchestral and Choral Concert

This concert took place once again in the inspiring surroundings of York Minster and started with a fine performance from our Wind Band of Schubert’s Rosamunde Overture conducted by Dr Harrison. The band numbers over 60 players this year, right through the 13-18 age range, and this piece allowed for prominent parts for our senior players, as well as providing strong chorus moments for the whole band. This was followed by a dramatic performance by the Symphony Orchestra of the famous Hebrides Overture by Mendelssohn, conducted by Mr Wright. The descriptive orchestral writing was brought out well, with a wide dynamic range and wellshaped melodic playing. The choral items began with Mendelssohn’s Hear my prayer in the full orchestral version with soprano soloist Isabella Crook (Upper Sixth, Clifton house) supported by the Chapel Choir and Choral Society. Isabella’s solo singing was truly outstanding and it was a memorable performance conducted by Mr Wright. To finish the concert, our School Choir and Choral Society sang Schubert’s Mass in G. This well-known setting was performed with a warm, attractive choral sound and was a joy to conduct. All in all, it was a very enjoyable evening of music-making.

Junior Music Festival

This was an encouraging evening, with very promising performances. Our adjudicator Andrew Penny provided positive and constructive feedback, and it was a very valuable experience for the pupils who took part.

The winners of the categories were as follows: Percussion – Tom Storey Girls’ Singing – Abigail Brown Boys’ Singing – Oscar Hawes Piano – Charlotte Gee Harp – Iris Greaney Strings – Wilf La Valette Woodwind – Rachael Green Guitar – Ben Dunsmore Brass – John-Joseph Sykes

The winner of the Junior Music Festival prize for the outstanding performance of the evening went to Rachael Green for her stylish performance of Colin Crabb’s Sax in the City on the tenor saxophone.

Senior Music Festival

This was another enjoyable evening of music-making and my thanks to all the pupils who took part. Our adjudicator Andrew Penny provided interesting and knowledgeable feedback, suggesting areas to build on moving forward.

The winners of the categories were as follows: Girls’ Singing and Strings – Rosie McLeish Brass and Boys’ Singing – Jack Hargrave Woodwind – Siri Chen Bagpipe – Nick New Piano – Carl Leighton

The winner of the Senior Music Festival prize for the outstanding performance of the evening went to Carl Leighton for his dramatic playing in the piano round of Grieg’s Wedding Day at Troldhaugen.

Cabaret Concerts

It was such an enjoyable show this year, well supported by parents, staff, OPs and friends. There was a wide range of pop and jazz on offer, involving our Swing Band, Chamber Choir, Flute Group, Little Big Band and both Boys’ and Girls’ Barbershop groups, as well as solos from our leavers. The pupils sang atmospheric ballads with piano and played instrumental solos, as well as enjoying the fun and energy of standards such as New York, New York and Beyond the Sea with the full band. There were also smooth swing classics such as Blue Moon and Dream a little dream, and two powerful arrangements of Bond themes. We finished with a fine choral medley from Les Misérables, sung by our School Choir of over 150 pupils. My sincere thanks to all the pupils who were involved on another memorable Cabaret show, especially the Swing Band who as always provided the foundation for a number of items.

Mr Paul Miles-Kingston

Instrumental and Singing Examinations 2017-2018

The pupils have produced another excellent set of results in their instrumental and singing examinations over the course of this year. We congratulate the following on achieving the highest grade:

Grade 8 Elfreda Cowman-Sharpe Singing Harriet Edwards Singing

Daniel Hicks Cello

Daniel Hicks

Lily Kirkby Singing Harp

Lucy Lovisetto

Singing Eleanor Miles-Kingston Singing Amber Rose Singing

Sirui Chen Flute

Madeleine Day Grace Freshwater Singing Flute Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Distinction

Merit

Merit

Merit Alexander Leahy Kate Newmarch

Ben Parkes

Ben Parkes Singing Flute

Singing Viola Merit

Diplomas In addition to these Grade 8 results, Isabella Crook (U6, Clifton) achieved an ARSM diploma in singing with distinction, which is an outstanding achievement for a secondary school pupil. Two recent Old Peterites also achieved their diplomas. Sam Lightwing (Grove 2017) obtained his ARSM in saxophone performance with distinction and Fleur Booth (Temple 2017) her DipABRSM in singing performance.

Creative Writing

Meeting at Sunset

The inky, starless sky rained incessantly, the splattering of droplets on the window reminding you of angel’s tears. You turned away, shivering, desperately trying to stay warm, while the sterile fumes still danced around your nose. You never did like the smell of hospitals. I sit down watching you, the plastic chair not making a sound under my weight. Then again why should it?

You move, pulling the ribbed blankets closer to you, in vain, and give up all futile efforts to thaw out, resolving in the blood red help cord being tugged down and down and down.

A nurse enters. You have forgotten their name, and have forgotten why; maybe due to the amount of nurses you have seen in these last few months, or maybe because of your mind. I once heard you whisper to yourself, a few months ago, “I’m like an old clock. One day I’ll just stop ticking”.

After she closed the window and her footsteps faded into nothingness, you thought about what lay beyond the glass barrier, and of home. At first it was nothing, just like the night that drenched the sky, but soon fragments of memory came back to you and the clock started ticking again.

The sun was hot and the bugs sung along to the sticky air as we sat in our garden drinking tea even in the sweltering heat. You looked in admiration to the range of flowers and the cobbled stone wall, encasing us in our own little world, a blue picket gate the only connection to the outside world, and although you could no longer picture what lay beyond that, it didn’t matter. All you saw was us, the flowers and tea, and the sun shimmering on the milky water.

I jump when you suddenly wake back up, and move over you, as you grumble at the beeping monitors. They remind you of our dreaded alarm clock, they remind you of the absence of time. The same nurse is back, opening the curtains, showing a dim projection of your dream, of our memories, on a slate grey backdrop, the perpetual pipping of the rain still ringing in your ears. Rustling sheets cling to your decaying figure, a shadow of what you used to be. I hear your name. So do you. We both lean hesitantly toward the swinging door, the monotonous chiming of voices mingling with the antiseptic twang of cleaning products.

“Dr Hudson, her condition is deteriorating, the tumour has grown. It’s almost twice the size it was last week! I’m not sure how much longer her brain can handle....”

I grow bored of listening to the two doctors talk and turn back to you, now lightly tracing the bulbous blood veins along the back of your tired hands. I watch over you as you gently lull yourself to sleep, under your own soothing touch. Suddenly, you are back, mug of tea in hand, drops of sun drenching your hair and clothes as you laugh to the soundtrack of summer; the crash of waves and distant calling of men on the harbour. The picture becomes clearer now, as your sight finally makes sense of the looming fuzz at the end of the garden, as our garden wall becomes a border for a glinting boatyard, the sun low in the sky, soaking the flowers in gold and orange - turning the grass yellow as you turn and look to where I am sitting. I smile at you, but your face looks on in confusion. My grin falters, before realising that who I am is still a mystery to you, and the sound of sadness leaves my mouth as I sink further down into my deckchair, the fabric tensing underneath my weight while I sigh in disappointment.

The night has filled the sky again, the next time you wake up, black clouds crawling silently through the gloom, now the rain is over. The beep, beep, beep of the monitors pierce the deafening quiet as your eyes shine in the light of the moon, unmasked now that the clouds have skulked away. You sit up suddenly, your heart crashing around your head, your mind frantic with frenzy as you desperately try and clamber out of bed, tearing at smooth wires and tubes, swinging weathered legs over the side of the bed, filling the room to the brim with shouts of fear and confusion. You see strangers flood the room, cooing you back to bed as you struggle, as you give in, as you lie back down. I stay standing next to the window, watching you so brave as you sink away, looking on in a despondent silence, turning back to the night sky, now flooded with millions of stars, too many to count.

The waves are still crashing and your tea is still steaming, as you lap up the evening heat, wiggling your toes in the golden grass, the cup of tea reflecting the bands of sunset that slice through the sky, as the sun almost kisses the water, it’s so close to the surface. You take a sip of your drink, breathing in the malty taste before stroking the chipped mug. Smiling you remember the story behind the cracked surface. Dropped on its first use, when we moved into our first house, we laughed about how we should get it fixed before whoever bought it for us should see it. Your eyes surge with emotion as you remember the present; the wedding gift, and when you spin to me recognition fills your features and you stand up and rush into my warm embrace. After holding each other, we both reach for each other’s hand and walk out of our oasis, and through the powder blue gate, just as the sun reaches the sea, coating our world in an orange light, turning the ocean golden.

Alannah Thorne, IV

Fear

Long ago, in a period of history that never occurred, England was overrun with wolves but these wolves are not like the wolves we know today, these wolves lived on fear, they would draw it in, it was a necessity, a drug.

Snow slowly drifted down like feathers, lightly twirling thought the air, to settle on the ground, adding to the already thick blanket. Dr Maystrone was adjusting her tweed skirt; she hadn’t had time to sew the button that had fallen off two weeks ago. In this process her hair had collected snow, drawing it in like a magnet. She cursed under her breath; she had three patients to see in the morning and the snow was not going to make things easy. She, along with several other passengers, boarded the train and headed north following the snow. It seemed to be a part of the thickening darkness, the winter night itself, plunging onto the train layer by layer.

The wolves could smell it. It seeped through the cracks of the train, its essence curling through the darkness to find their nostrils and fill them with its luxurious taste. Fear. The wolves started to run.

One of the worst human emotions is fear. It can cause you to lose your senses, you forget how to breathe, how to see, how to think clearly. It’s like wearing a mask which covers your whole body from head to toe. You are wrapped in sticky sweat; no matter how much you tear at your skin, it will not come off. Everyone can be afraid. Everyone has fear. It is a switch that cannot be removed from our system. Fear.

Jennie Durham (IV)

A Wrong Note

He wasn’t there at breakfast. But, then again, that wasn’t unusual.

So why did she have this uneasy feeling every time she saw the empty chair; the chair her father should have been sitting in? She couldn’t help but wonder if he was ever coming back. Days had passed since he had left and with every one she felt more confused as to why her father was slipping further and further away from her. Until it seemed as if he had planned to slip away forever.

Lisa’s father was a busy man, always working. His job had taken him away for many weeks - even months – in the past. But she was only a small child back then. As long as her mother was there, everything was fine. And he was back before she knew it. Or so it had seemed.

She remembered now. The little concerts they put on for her; the lullabies every night. Now, the dusty grand piano stood unplayed, fading like an old friend, its keys worn from years of playing. The music room was silent now, the familiar tinkling of the keys no more. All that was left was a noisy silence.

A salty tear ran slowly down Lisa’s soft cheeks as she wished more than anything that they could break the rules, play the dusty piano that lay untouched and the music would start again.

Why did her mother not let her share the silence? She too was fading. With every passing hour she seemed heavy as if she were carrying a huge weight in her chest. Lisa watched closely - for a sign. But there was nothing. As the weeks turned into months, still the two of them waited. Still the silence wrapped around the house, dampening and smothering it all.

Lisa couldn’t sleep. Outside, the wind moaned and vast clouds tumbled over the horizon. Her bed was the only warmth she could get and the night was as still as a tomb in a desolated graveyard. It had been for a long time. Until, unexpectedly, the ghostly silence that had enclosed Lisa’s house for so long was broken...

Music. Music was playing. She was sure of it. But why? Why now, in the dead of night? There was only one way of finding out. She would have to go downstairs.

Lisa slipped out of bed, being careful to avoid the creaking floorboards. A single lamp glowed eerily in the hall but she shuffled on through the darkness.

Nervously, Lisa reached the bottom of the twisting stairs, her eyes drifting towards a thin strip of light coming from the room directly opposite. She took a final glance over her shoulder at the darkened staircase behind her before hesitantly pushing open the door.

Inside, the room was damp and dusty, the curtains torn and frayed. Lisa could smell the age in the peeling walls and taste the dampness in the air. There was a silhouette at the piano...

Lisa swallowed, ‘mother?’ she croaked. The music stopped as Lisa’s mother turned around. Her face was creased and wore a look of exhaustion all over. ‘Yes’ she whispered. ‘Come here my love’. Lisa walked steadily over. ‘There’s something wrong with this piano’ she said, sounding confused. Lifting the lid, she began rummaging around inside, leaving dusty finger prints. ‘This note is not quite right’ she mumbled, pointing to one of the keys in at the end of the piano. ‘I wonder what...’. Lisa’s mother gasped. From behind the piano she took out a crumpled letter and the two of them felt a small pang of hope. Lisa watched as her mother’s face fell. “It’s from your father”, she whispered.

Her heart stopped. Swallowing, she asked anxiously: “What does it say?”

Her mother took a shaky breath and read the words on the note.

I’m sorry. We’re out of tune.

Tabitha Winkley, III

Dandelions and Daisy Chains

When was a dandelion by you last blown? Or for a crown you plucked a daisy chain? I think I must try it now I’m grown.

Mum told me not to spread - “Once sown This weed becomes the gardener’s pain.” When was a dandelion by you last blown?

It’s not so daunting to be left alone When quests were sought in Forget-me-not Lane I think I must try it now I’m grown.

On enlightened thrones one can moan Sand slips through in an hourglass reign. When was a dandelion by you last blown?

Pour me white wine through the screen of my phone Wear my black suit to catch that early train I think I must try it now I’m grown.

I’m already so tired and I’ve hardly flown Perhaps it doesn’t matter what I will gain When was a dandelion by you last blown? I think I must try it now I’m grown.

Rosie McLeish, LVI

Haiku Competition

Depth

Deeper than the world, Craters in the universe Consumes all of us

Alex Try-Banton, IV

Christmas card winner

Wintry Wanders

Wintry, wanders The Christmas spirit warns me Crisp, fresh, dragon’s breath

Hope Simpson, IV National Poetry Day

Longing for that place

consumes my inner sanity.

Cool enough for sleep

views of ineffable

nature swamp my eyes,

filling my spirit with

awe and peace.

In this place, I feel as

free as a bird

Floating with the ideas of

truth and justice.

Ignoring the norms of

religion and sexuality.

Forgetting that insatiable desire

to speak of my Eden,

my safe haven.

Sharing the inspiring qualities

that my place provides.

Percy Hill, III

Truth

I am Alethia, fairy of truth. I live with the wind and fly with the swallows.

I am free. Without earthly tethers. But all the liberty in the world couldn’t grant my only wish.

A fairy needs a mate, a partner, a companion. Someone to soar with them.

But I am alone, cursed by my folly. This is my truth, so listen closely still.

Although I sail on the arms of the wind, And fly so freely with the birds.

True liberty is love, The one freedom I can never possess.

Charlotte Holliday, III

Blue art exhibition winner

Blue Laboratory

The copper sulphate Crystallising in the dish How mazarine blue

The blue eyes of you Like the crystal in the dish Dark, deep, like oceans

Kevin Xu, IV

Gothic

He remembered all of their moments together, all of the words she said to him and all of the words he said to her, their arguments and the ways they always found their way back to

each other. He knew he couldn’t possibly remember all of their lives together, but it felt like it. He imagined how it would feel if she were with him right there in that exact moment, what would she be doing? Would she be smiling, talking about another one of her insanely weird dreams, gesticulating wildly with her arms, as to help herself explain the unexplainable? Would her hair be in that adorably messy lopsided bun at the top of her head, the dark curls threatening to spill over and around her face? Would she be wearing one of his jumpers, apologising for borrowing it without asking, but not being sorry at all, knowing fully well that he didn’t mind in the slightest? Would she…? He let out a shaky breath as he asked himself all of those questions and, not having the answer to any of them, closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks. He let the remains of the cigarette fall into the snow below him, gripped the railing with a strong grip, knuckles turning white, and forced his breathing to return to its normal rhythm. After what felt like forever, he opened his eyes and took the mug in both his hands, sighing at the warmth it provided to his shaky fingers. He took a sip, feeling the warm liquid make its way down his throat, spreading the heat through his body.

His eyes made their way around the space in front of him, taking in all of the white, almost shiny and too pure, covering everything with a veil of an unnatural cleanness. It seemed sterile and foreign. Standing there, on the porch of the cottage, and looking out into the emptiness, he felt too big and too small at the same time.

He didn’t dare walk down the few steps, didn’t dare disturb the nature’s creation, it was like he was trapped in the cabin. His own little prison in the middle of the woods, nature keeping him prisoner, he thought, letting out a laugh. Though it sounded weak and pathetic, more like a plea for help than a sound of happiness.

His real prison was his mind, the bars made out of memories and words. He was trapped in his mind with her, or, more realistically, with the memory of her. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about her. She became a part of him, and he hoped that he became a part of her too, whether she knew it or not. Her constant presence made him feel simultaneously alive and dying, happy and sad, heaven and hell.

Her slightly raspy voice followed him everywhere he went, whispering in his ear, laughing, sometimes singing. He could almost feel the touch of her fingers on his skin, remembering how she traced patterns onto his forearms when she was nervous, and when he closed his eyes, he could see her standing right there in front of him, reaching out her hand, for him to join her. He reached out, but caught nothing, his fingers slipping against the cold air, desperately trying to catch something that wasn’t there.

A shiver ran down his spine, from fear or the cold, he didn’t know and didn’t want to think about it. He left the half empty mug - he was the kind of person to think that a glass is half empty, she was the kind of person to think that it was half full - on the railing and stepped inside the cottage, closing the door behind him so the cold air wouldn’t get in.

Ester Cajthamlova, LVI

Perfection

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the prettiest of them all?”

Again the computer mirror automatically responds, “Zara, female 201 is ranked 1st in the top ten list from institute Z. Would you like me to tell you the ranking of the 25 other institutions across the world?” The mirror automatically responds, changing my reflection into the faultless hologram of Zara. This then transitions into the leader board for institute Z, and there’s my name, right after the number 3: WILLOW no. 205. I’ve been 3rd for 2 years now, my name seems to be glued to the number three, painfully still.

I clap and the leader board shifts back to the mirrored image of me standing in my cube, my bed to the left and the dresser behind me; the mirrored walls and ceilings make it look like my cube goes on forever, expanding this small room into something bigger and greater. Momentarily blinding me of the realisation that we are trapped here, no one realises but we are trapped in this institution like caged animals only leaving when we are 18 and are married off. Or else…no one ever wants to think about what would happen if you don’t get chosen. Many possibilities have buzzed around my mind ever since I was little. But no one knows… The girls here don’t care about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘buts’ they are blinded by the perfect reflection of themselves: all they care about is being beautiful. There are mirrors everywhere for a reason.

A notification flashes in the corner of the mirror, it’s breakfast. Time to get ready. I step into the dresser and am immediately greeted by the same droning female voice that I have grown up listening to: “Good morning Willow, today’s trend is a skirt, a blouse and heels.”

That must be what Zara chose this morning… The cabinet to my left slides open and out slides two pieces of clothing and one pair of shoes. The dazzling white walls are harsh against my tired eyes and I unwillingly get dressed. The blouse is a muted sunshine yellow and has frills around the upper part of the buttons and flared frilly sleeves; the skirt is a pleated mini skirt with a floral design. There are three kinds of flowers covering the skirt: a baby blue, a pastel green and a similar colour to my blouse. I’m not surprised to see heels, always heels… “They make your legs look longer” the matrons always say. The heels are high and have three thick straps across, they are baby pink. In front of me another smaller cabinet slides open and lying there is a gold pair of earrings in the shape of a daisy and a gold necklace with a daisy pendant on it. Matching, always matching… Now for makeup. I look at myself in the mirror. My green eyes stare back at me, I hate my eyes. Why can’t they be blue? Zara’s eyes are blue. I look up at my chestnut hair, mid length and wavy, I hate my hair. Why can’t my hair be long blond and straight? Zara’s hair is long, blonde and straight. My hair gets pulled back into a high ponytail with a baby pink ribbon keeping it in place. The robotic arms reach forward with many products grasped between their robotic fingers. It takes five minutes but I’m finally ready. I stare at the reflection of the girl in the mirror. I can’t do this every day for two more years. I want to run.

We file out of our cubes like robots, the buzz of excited morning chatter fills the halls, secrets are shared and gossip stirred: these halls have heard so many stories.

No wonder there are cameras everywhere.

Beth Wheelhouse, IV Openings

The early morning sun hugs the earth with warming arms, creating a glowering light. It reveals where wildlife thrives in nature’s vulnerability and what was stillness in the night, becomes a restless energy prompted by daylight. The undetectable moon controls the tide. The gentle breaths of wind roll the waves towards the shore and the seawater gently laps at my feet. My feet sink into the sand and I am anchored into the earth; I feel a part of it. Refreshing and wonderful fruits sprout from the earth’s soil and water from the deepest oceans are swept into our hands to drink. Creatures of all sizes can roam the earth freely and undisturbed. Every drop of heavenly rain that falls from the sky is welcomed back into the earth’s body with open arms, whilst light of billions of stars are engraved into a blanket of deep blue which conforms the sky. The wonders of the earth are unfathomable.

Emily Barker, IV

GCSE

One of the set texts for English Literature IGCSE is John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. This is set in an American school during the Second World War and the novel opens with the protagonist re-visiting the school after years have elapsed. The Fourth Form imagined what it might be like going back to St. Peter’s and with the help of Miss Hamilton, were able to see what Old Peterites who came back to school felt about their time here. Their memories go first; the creative responses follow.

Openings

An open door says, ‘Come in.’ the rusted hinges creaked gently as the ancient oak door was nudged open by a gust of wind. The door had a story to tell I thought; there were faint scars on the wood and the timeworn brass doorknob was shabby with over use. In front of me was a seemingly endless hallway with the end shrouded in shadows. The cracked stone walls had odd green moss that concealed the fissures. It spread like a spider web from me to surely the end of the passage. Inside my head I wanted to know what was on the other side of the deadly darkness. So me being me I stepped recklessly across the threshold and into the infinite void that is the black.

As soon as I entered a forceful rush of wind shoved me forward and the door closed promptly behind me. I stood there for a minute helplessly in complete and utter darkness. All I could hear was the sound of my rapid breathing.

Ed Jackson, IV ‘One of the consequences of starting in the fourth form was that I had finished my O levels shortly after I became 15 years old. I was not sporty, something which obviously provides a cachet for a pupil as much these days as it did then. Curiously, I have no memories of being unhappy at St. Peter’s because of that. I soon found a niche in boats on the river. Looking back, I think I just fitted in. A contemporary, who came into School House from Temple at around the time I arrived, remarked to me recently that I was very good at helping others with their maths prep. Everyone has some use! So does returning after a period of over 50 years provide any more insights? What I have picked up is that St Peter’s in the 1950s must have been a remarkably humane sort of place when compared with more renowned public schools in the south at the time.’

‘I was a day boarder at St Olave`s in Alcuin House 1953 – 1958 entering St Peter`s in Temple House 1958 – 1962. I enjoyed St Olave`s except the one time the whole class of J1 got one stroke of the cane for `rioting` before the start of Miss Mason`s lesson! I did not distinguish myself in St Olave`s although I played on the wing at rugby, very rarely getting the ball and managing to side step any oncoming opposition. I was quite good at running short distances but was excused cross

country with a sick note for asthma. I managed to pass my width swimming test with one foot on the bottom because the water was so green you could not see the bottom of the pool! In St Peter`s I did not fare much better, I joined the CCF band as a drummer to get out of square bashing and riffle drill. I enjoyed rowing and have since been a member of York City Rowing Club. In hindsight, I think that St Peter`s was and is a very good school if you are good academically or at sport or preferably both, but if you are not then they will try to encourage you up to a point and be grateful for your fees. I used to dread my end of term school reports coming through the letter box in the holidays and having to show my grandparents who were paying the school fees, for the money. I think it is important to decide as soon as possible what you enjoy and what career you want to aim for, in my case I had no idea and was floundering when I left school with so few qualifications and I have not had a career I can boast about and so I felt too ashamed to return to school. When you do return the main topics of conversation are: how are you? what years were you there? what House were you in? what career did you take, implying how successful you were, where do you live? what car do you drive? have you worked abroad and where do you go on holiday and do you play golf?’ I stand. My feet are firm against the steps now and I feel safe and secure. As my eyes observe the paint to the left of the door frame, I think how bizarre it is. I can’t really tell whether it’s the black or cream of the original brick colouring. The brick is rough and feels like lots of sand stuck together. It smells like an injured whale washed up on the shore.

Megan Lloyd, IV

I make my way through the doorway, admiring the craftsmanship of a door that has stood for a hundred years. The marble floor pushes back against my heel with every step I take, showing no signs of submission. As I turn my head to the right, I notice a glass cabinet filled with artefacts. I’m instantly drawn to a golden object, now tainted by dust and age. The dust hangs loosely and could so easily blow away if it weren’t for the glass case trapping it in time. There are more modern touches here and there. A paper white radiator clings to the wall; the pipework is camouflaged, tucked cleanly into the ground like a snake entering a burrow.

Tom Jacques, IV

‘I left St Peter’s in the summer of 1976, and I must have been back maybe four times since then. Since leaving I suppose I’ve come to realise that there’s probably a pattern to Old Pupils returning (I’ve also just had to correct myself here, as I originally typed ‘Old Boys’, which, of course, in 1976, was correct, but, thankfully, is no longer so): it strikes me that Old Peterites’ visits to the school fall, unlike Jacques’s man, into two ages rather than seven. They’ll drop in during their first few years away, partly because they miss the old place, and there’s a sense of needing to be in touch – at least briefly – with the familiar, amidst all the challenges of a university education (and, possibly, life away from home for the first time); but also because they can have the pleasure of demonstrating to themselves and others, some sort of new autonomy – life as a ‘grown-up’. They can wander around the school, showing off their new-found freedom to people they know, and, with a touch of a guilty swagger, refer to staff by their first names. There’s probably a long break, then, of several decades – the new life and friends at university take over, followed by a career and the usual life-choices – until the ‘second age’, when, well past the halfway stage, nostalgia takes a grip, and it’s time for a dose of autumnal (or, possibly, latesummer) wistfulness. I always vowed to myself I’d never conform to this stereotype, but, looking back, I see that I’ve broken my vow, as I recently spent a couple of hours touring the school and wallowing in memories at the start of the year in which I turn 60.’ As I was putting the code on the lock, I noticed the walls were lined with wooden plaques with dates and names: ‘1939: H.C.Belchamber’. Lists of boys who went to St. Peter’s, who had died in wars: they were covered with scratched plastic. A grey carpet covered the other half of the floor where people had wiped their feet, leaving it soggy and stained from the rain. A bright red fire extinguisher sat in the corner of the porch. It looked out of place as everything else was dull and wooden. The wood covering the rest of the wall had beautiful flowers and interesting shapes carved into it. As I twisted the lock and opened the new door, I felt like St. Peter’s had moved on, but then I realised: I was home.

Mary McNair, IV

‘For me, returning to St Peter’s is like returning to my home. For better or worse St Peter’s made me into what I am today. I have many good memories of the school and the staff, however, I do feel that there were many opportunities at St Peter’s and life in general that I missed, either through laziness or lack of effort. I still come back when able. I love it.’