‘[W]hether the leaves of our MISCELLANY fall prematurely or in due course, there is the consoling thought that deciduous trees are not the least fruitful’, ends the foreword to the 1920 edition of A Queen’s College Miscellany. We don’t have any flowery metaphors in this edition, but we do have frogs, God, revolvers and marshmallows. Enjoy. From your editors, Emma, Poppy and Laurie
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Contents from Museum (1920)-‐ Alan Porter 3 Has anybody seen Florence? – Poppy Middleton 4 IKONA – Joshua Claxton 5 a frog. – Elaine Joseph 6 This is where you jump-‐ Evie Kitt 7 Riddles (from the Old English Exeter Book)-‐ Laurie Churchman 8 7 (Amiens)-‐ Merryn Davies-‐Deacon 9 Perpetually sad…-‐ Anonymous 10 B.C.-‐ Jack Straker 11 To the Man on the Street-‐ Mary Maschio 12 À gens nus…-‐ Jack Straker 13 Drawing -‐ Emily Motto 14 Croquet is a-‐playing…Anonymous 15 Yet in this modern day and age…Kitty Ho 17 Marry sounds-‐ Emma Papworth 18 The Dissolution of the Wall -‐ Emma Papworth 19 Marshmallow Drift-‐ Evangeline Atkinson 20 Closing note 21
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from Museum ‘That,’ said a girl in a flat voice, ‘is God.’ She turned and slid the table-‐cover straight. Her mother could not answer, but she thought ‘It must be Beggar Joe, gone lately mad.’ He lumbered along the read and turned a corner. His tapping faded and the day was death; till a few, leaden-‐heavy globes of rain fell swift and meteor-‐straight, pocking the road. Alan Porter (1920) A Queen’s College Miscellany
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Has anybody seen Florence? Robbing hours in broad midnight, Champagne Charlie’s black and blue, Who Knows Driver, turn out the light just a few questions for me and you. We see purple Can you find us Sir? We rocked your boats and shamed your camera, We’re the two you thought you knew. We’re always running past the space in your curtains Chasing through tunnels And doughnut holes, We’ve got your squirrels. Take the name we left you with, Has anybody seen Florence. Poppy Middleton
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I K O N A
He’s been sitting in the living room for a few hours now, occupying the majority of the coffee table. He must have appeared overnight, this would be the only explanation, but I don’t know where from, and I don’t know what for. He just stares back at me and I feel guilt. His eyes don’t follow you around the room, though, not like the masterpieces of Rome and London, or even Jan Matejko. His chains are gilt-‐ edged, or more likely just painted gold, for in some of the crevices the gold has begun to crack, revealing something black underneath. I’d heard He spent the night next door, and the night before that, the door before that, but I never thought He’d come to ours, but it all makes sense. We must all host Him at some point. I wonder what the appropriate greeting would be. How does one address God? Or is he God? On the specifics I’d always been unsure, especially in their version. He shows me His palms and, as expected, the scars are there. Light erupts from a distant source behind His head, blurring his edges. I’m not sure what to make of that. I realise I’ve still not said a word, or can He hear my thoughts? In which case, I’ve said plenty of words. But He’s still said none. But if you are the word, perhaps you need never say any. It’s all too awkward, this confrontation with the Almighty, so I walk to bathroom and grab the nearest towel, re-‐enter the living room, and gingerly place it over His head, out of sight. Nonetheless, the living room is now a no-‐go zone, at least until He decides to leave again and go next door. Joshua Claxton
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a frog. you are so tiny in his hands. as he scoops you up and pops you over the threshold. from playground to grass. it doesnt help that the rain has made me giddy and while we peer down with childish anticipation, you fail to move, you gaze into the green, a defeated gaze, then wordlessly, without even a nod of gratitude, hop into the darkness. we think weve rescued you. that some kid wouldve found you belly up on the tarmac the next morning, feet bubbling from the heat of the sun. or maybe a pram wheel wouldve squished your head into your neck, like sleeping swans. can you forgive us? or dont you know that you, between us, beneath us, lit up one soggy June, dragging yourself onwards nowhere specific, will always be remembered? you wouldve gone unseen, untouched that night. and doesnt everyone need to be seen sometimes and touched, moved even, lifted up, albeit momentarily, into the void. rescued from the tarmac and the gravel and the metallic. held in his hands on the brink of falling and loving it. Elaine Joseph
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Evie Kitt ‘This is where you jump’ Acrylic and coloured pigment on paper
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Riddles from the Old English Exeter Book Birds The air suspends bright little beasts Obscure over the hills, bold choristers In dark robes. They rove in flocks Calling at headlands, sometimes houses, Charing Cross, Embankment, Waterloo – At your door, they name themselves for you. Oyster The sea fed me – the helmet of the water Cradled me in waves as I rested on the ground. I often opened my mouth to the tide. Now people will glut on my footless flesh – They don’t care for my skin, my shell – They rip it with a knife’s point And eat me uncooked. Laurie Churchman
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7 (Amiens) I have been apart from you so long that I have almost forgotten your likeness— enough, at least, to mistake countless strangers for you: this man, in the park, or that, in the metro, of a city I shall leave on the first train tomorrow. Enough for my travels to come to a momentary standstill, while I let myself believe that the distance between us is effaced, and imagine that one, just one, of these unknown men will turn to me and recognise me, and I him. I am transfixed by the promise of joy, the sureness of our next meeting, which will be all the sweeter for its delay: I anticipate in the sight of each near-‐doppelgänger the half-‐walk half-‐run that will lead to our next embrace. In art galleries, I see you in this or that painting, and feel ashamed of my shallowness, my overwhelming distraction. Ars gratia artis, no more: there is always this lingering undercurrent, the search for you that lies behind my cultural aspirations. How long until I can again view a painting for what it is, and not search it for connections it can never have known? When will I retrieve the rational eye of the critic, unhindered by the lover’s distorting lens? -‐Merryn Davies-‐Deacon
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Perpetually sad and ill at ease Delicate one Do you not see beauty when you look Down from above? Perched with a song trapped in your throat Delightful one Did some heartless creature steal your joy During a carefree flight? Perfectly shaken and ruffled eternally Deep-‐thinking one Does silence keep calling to Deaden the pain? Pulling at wisps that float through the wind Determined one Does hope hold you back from Drowning completely? Profoundly loved, little streamtail-‐oh Disillusioned one Do you dare to see how love Divine can set you free? Anonymous
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B.C. Our castle’s not smoke It’s our only hope It’s culture we’ve borne To even it out We’re such different folk Equality’s scope We’ll always be torn Is fair shake without But since it ain’t broke All mankind’s false
trope.
Why so full of scorn; And Darwin in doubt. But
so
says
Inherited Will
fortune
exile
And
so
Up
to
Both
I
my a
a
his them
do
whose
virile
of
undermine
And
And
one
every
to
kingdom,
pathetic cowardly
gender’s
shrug
pledge
patriarchy’s that castle
lack
game,
dreamt-‐up
to run
privilege,
passive in
of of
frame.
the human a
wraith? sky faith goodbye.
Jack Straker
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To the Man on the Street In all the noise, you had nothing to do. But sit and watch, a splendid bloated farce, As I went by, your eyes fixed on my arse. A bit of skirt swaying as it passed through And crossed your marbled legs, ready to rise. I saw myself shrink and wanted to hide, My core clenched and my limbs liquified, Looking back into your slavering eyes. An eclipse of fear… gone. I ran away Before your staring dismembered me. Must I go through this every single day? Is there nowhere safe? Nowhere I can flee? They’ll say I’m overreacting, although What you might’ve done, I just couldn’t know. Mary Maschio
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À gens nus Enjoy all this whilst you still can, It’s spoiled and shifting sand. A nibble condemned us to wander the earth Enlightened souls could make some sense of our birth Now only on screens do we find our lives’ worth The sands will rub off our veneer Joy and love are still here. Jack Straker
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Emily Motto Pastel on paper
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Croquet is a-‐playing As you punt away your June And the silver summer mornings warm To golden afternoon And your love is always carefree, And your love is always young, And you feed ducks on the Isis While Christchurch bells are run And you wear your gown to dinner In your stained-‐glass-‐windowed hall And you kiss her in the cloister, Up against the chapel wall And you kiss her on your staircase, And on the library floor And you murmur in her ear that you’ll Be hers for evermore And you have your little spats And pretend that they are real For only an imperfect union Can ever be ideal – And she gives you space for finals Because you must go far For your two-‐and-‐a-‐half children And your shiny Rover car You’ll drink away the summer And visit through the vac And both be oh, ever-‐so-‐glad You won’t be coming back – And you’ll get your First in Classics And then convert to Law, And suddenly you’ll feel the world Is not yours anymore, And your love will shrink and wither As the grey comes to your hair And then you’ll find remembering Is more than you can bear And you’ll find that bitterness
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Tears you quite in two or three And you’ll wish with all your aging heart We were how we used to be Anonymous
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Yet in this modern day and age When streetlamps make the starlight fade, How can we trust ourselves to know That the stars above us continue to glow? Blind faith belongs in a different century, A time far off, which exists outside of me. When people had the confidence to say That an empty sky should be okay. Perhaps I lack the kindness to be sure That should you neglect me, I could still love you more. But when uncertainty and doubt holds true, Please let the more loving one be you. Kitty Ho
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marry sounds in a deep web gauze of stolen sounds, fluidity talks in tumbling dispositions, she always said they swallow god without thinking and allow time to pass unspent Emma Papworth
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Emma Papworth ‘The Dissolution of the Wall’ Canvas, acrylic, plaster
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Marshmallow Drift Standing in the middle of a marshmallow drift Trying to keep everything dead cold So I can stay fixed in the middle Just me And the mallows just bump off and round and over me But then the storm hots up And the marshmallows start sticking and stretching And pummelling me thick and fast Till I’m bound in a goozing cast Soft but so constricting So I tightly squeeze my eyes shut (Till the lights pop in the dark) And waddle on Pretending I’m free from this bloody show business. Evangeline Atkinson
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Thank you to all of this edition’s contributors; please feel free to email your submissions for the Michaelmas 2014 edition to our new editors: stephanie.carey@queens.ox.ac.uk and laurie.churchman@queens.ox.ac.uk
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