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Dear Scribblers, The Scribe team’s revels now are ended. We hope you have been entertained. Fear not, a committee has assembled for next year; you are in capable hands, and we wish the new team all the best. Love, The Scribe Team 2013-2014
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Summer like a pretty girl All year long your name was like a rumour In my head – the seasons’ colours Flashed between the various ranks of blue and green, rivers Went under bridges, water Froze, thawed, and flowed – but no manna Fell from heaven’s hot eye… only the usual weather For the time of year – The January slump and February thaw, the slur Of March moving, sluggishly, towards spring, those damned April showers… I longed for the half-caught bur Of dragonflies in heat – for the whisper Of cicada in the grass under Bare feet – and your hair kissing your lips like the lover I’m not, and your name like the promise of summer. Rik Baker
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Up in the Air Flight attendants punch tickets And a man clicks his belt seven times. In Bruges, Madonna towers her brick spire, Lovers are seated in Pietje Pek – Nous prenons la dame blanche – The waiter returns with one fork. In Guatemala, A woman buries her son. Salt slaps the shore And everywhere time moves forward. In the first warm smack of spring Under the arena of a softball pitch Beatniks share their last smoke; A commencement speech is being missed. In Taiwan, a father drives his rickshaw, Fire ants collect for their queen And a drone collides with the sky. Up from the plates of the earth sound reverberates. Air particles shift into the lungs of everyone – Then they leave, And nowhere is anybody you. Aimee McKay
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Catherine Fleming
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TBD I left the city to the sight and sound of struggle: Public bodies heaving in Headrow, Manbag-slinging bicyclists weaving in between, cleaving Clusters of lunch-rush traffic-light waiters And impatient outside-queuing thirst-saters. Their collective cacophony breaking into foam Over earphones, drowning out George Gershwin’s ‘Do It Again’ as performed by Sue Allen. I used to circumvent the rush With before-dawn morning exercises, Sunrise train travel in empty carriages: The act of living on a schedule Tantamount to being nowhere at all. But here, let’s substitute the dawn For cattle-grid clatter under-wheel, Town hall roofs and suburban skylines For treetops and cloud fronts, The silence prior to morning rush hour For the perfect place to not be found. I entered the countryside To comical cow-moos Tentatively tapping for attention Behind the quiet croon Of lullaby trumpeters. James Grimshaw
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Birthday I remembered the careful reconfiguration Of a dance routine, re-blocked from quintet To quartet to fit a cramped stage, its intent Translated. Without space to move, motion Is like the arm of the Atlantic Ocean Thrown up to the north to touch the strait Between Ireland and Scotland, separate From the currents, gyres, storms and depressions Turning and turning in the main. It was not for the drills, Or clank of excavators, or pivoting crane, Or relentless clatter of scaffolding. In truth, Without a familiar route, I had to stand still, Forced to think of a middle way through the rain, Past the thundering construction site and youth. Daniel Boon
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De danser De danser danst. Het is een leven. Hij weet niets anders; hij leeft er naar En ziet er naar uit. Hij is zo vulg, zo licht en snel. Hij moet snel zijn. De tijd is kort. Nog eens een sprong, een draai Het doek dat sluit. Een laatste draai Hij draait nu ook het licht uit. The dancer The dancer dances. It is a life. He knows nothing else; he lives for it And it is evident. He is so quick, so light and fast. He must be fast. The time is short. Once more a jump, a turn The curtain shuts. A final turn He now turns out the light. Erik Seedorf (English translation by Daniel Boon)
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Улыбки Войны
Я не знаю, как долго я буду Быть далеко от дома и от вас. Мой слова не Пушкин, я признаю, Но читаете их несколько раз. Почему мы воюем, не знаю, Я знаю только то, что мы должны. Мои заказы бороться, делаю, Однако я борюсь без улыбки. И именно эти улыбки, Я долго, чтобы раскрыть. Я скучаю по ним, наши души, Улыбкa задание дополнить. The Smiles of War I do not know how long it’s been, Or that I’ll be away from you. My simple words are no Pushkin, But, please, read them through. Why we fight, I do not know, I only know we must. My orders are to fight, I do, My struggle minus smile or trust. And it is those very smiles That I so long to unmask. I miss them through the trials, For here a smile is a task. B J Sledge
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The Mad Gasser That’s it, lock yourselves in. Good little mice. I got this Agent Orange kinda juice and it smells so good when your lungs corrode under its leaden snog. My simple M.O.: block the exit and let blow. Stay long enough for the coughs but short enough for the sirens. Come night time, this hamlet’s mine. We don’t have an arcade and we don’t have a gym so sniff up you gardeners and hicks. You live by the miracle grow so why can’t you just ssssuck it up? Mustard grows on bushes, no? You should thank me anyway; I’m sure this is a type of pesticide. I mean what else can a man do when he finds the driver dead and his haul of gas abandoned in the back? (I don’t think I killed the driver) I stumble the quiet streets with my backpack and launcher and the smoke garhlglgles out and fucks the air hard. It glides through your AC and it’s in your mouth and down and down and down.
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Man your inhalers, asthmatics. Hold your breath if your lungs have the girth. Come meet me if your stones have the mirth. Or better yet let me in. I have just enough left for the five of us to sleep the night through. James Jennion
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Dave Scourse 10
On St. Valentine’s Day, a man searches for a place to sleep in Leeds city centre In search, the city’s fractures scoured, contrite, He stalks the winter in a waste of steps. The bray of pallid bells bid him Good-Night, With loveless, fuckless cold he is caressed. Ahead, the caterwaul of nestled twos Amok - to him they quietly drop their pout. Behind, the merge and blur of neon rouge Before him casts a shadow of without. Yet lacking love for him is scarcely loss: Such thoughts he culls to cultivate his peace. To deign to delve and toil amongst the dross He vows; to feed, sleep, dream without release. In sonnet trapped, a man amid his throes, Though of his life its writer nothing knows. Daniel Seddon
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Sin There are no words to worship this glorious burst of fast calories God Of Greed! Messiah Of Gluttony! made mortal in this greasy bliss this Judas’ kiss of chicken nugget. Hot And heavenly oozing energy the Usain of victuals Bolts to the finish line teeth spear sacrificial flesh; anonymous unassuming divine. Why is there only one time I can stomach this faith an exultant disciple to taste? Wasted Sober, it sticks in the throat like sin. Beth Calverley
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and then the sets night in and then the sets night in, deathly silence drones on and on. your problems set like the sun. just a dull thump in the back of your mind. ready to be birthed again, kicking and screaming in the morning. the bed calls, but you’re not ready. this little bubble of time, all you really have. thoughts heave and squabble in the dim glow of the monitor. beneath tides of troubles solace is found hidden, in a crevice of the night. John Richardson
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Jenny Wright 14
Morning The moss and the aching bud Aged leaves of winter cling in coils To whittled, stretching branches Air sparks through bared teeth Catching at the back of peppermint throats. Burning flames of orange flicker Umber surges like pressed palms Bracken rusts the rails and crumbles Into wisps, carried off in the sweep Of each kicked sole against the brittle pavement. The shades of morning climb in weaves Along the rafters and stretch their arms Call upwards into the clouds of cold mist And hang in the gaps of begging trees overhead. Laurah Furner
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Jacob Kelly 16
Vespers With these late eclipses in the weather, And the days lengthening their shadows in the east, I feel myself a stranger in the midst of faces grown familiar With such proverbial use – ‘As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly’ – Or so the proverb tells me at least… The half-dead cyclamens in our garden Grow down towards their roots – Their lips loll and droop – Like drunkards listing towards tulip girls in the blossom of their youth – Who toss back their heads, laugh, and harden smiles in mock reproof. The late night Leeds sky bleeds from orange into black – Its edges blur and blister – leaving only vespers With their whispers in the dark. Rik Baker
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GLEEDS We are a microcosm of the whole: this is a secret, word-of-mouth type cult you wish you knew about - Leeds division, someone’s house one Wednesday night round the inner-city bonfires with buses passing in the distance rumbling rectangles, gridded light on Cardigan Road not so far away we sing lifeless – like this is the voice of the whole, the tongue of the community - tongues of the soul following the Drinking Gourd and there are some stars to see by. In between the houses, street-level, low, there’s a troupe with the blues in their throats shaking their heads into the rhythm humming their harmonies into the rhythm heads down low. Come back to the identikit student accommodation where I live two hundred forty flats the same and I smell of wood smoke. And I’d rather be muddy-kneed than clean this Wednesday night rather have a sore throat and weeping eyes than be dressed to the nines at Hifi all slap-dash make-up and stick-thin, toes squeezed, gurning that five-pound-foundation grin for the constant photographer I’d rather be sat on the floor, eyes fixed to the fire feeling the two-hundred year old melody of the work songs rocking through me -
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I’d rather be muddy-kneed than clean this Wednesday night. Emma Ward
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250512 Fireflies dance in your eyes And I trace a smile across your lips; Join the summer freckles: Orion’s belt, And Ursa Major. Finn Dobson
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Perfusionist Speaking of the wax and wane Of your chest pressed to mine I climb the ladder of your spine And look for all the shifting gold In the dunes of your cheekbones I can see my fingers picking seams Red-crescent impressions on hips The freckles on your shoulder fusing To the butterfly’s wing of my eyelashes To spark light in the wells of your irises Speaking of the tremor of your lips I kiss you open-mouthed, just enough To keep your tongue from drowning Whispering soft sibilance through teeth To quell the ocean’s roaring in your ear My ramshackle skin, shaded skeleton The tide that makes my fingers skitter The murmured palsy that sighs poetry Against my neck in harmless stresses Speaking of hearts, I sleep on yours. Laurah Furner
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Path in Tynningรถ, Karya Imirzalioglu 22
Tuscan Hills, Karya Imirzalioglu 23
Modern Times in Old Debenhams When night falls on this department store We will be its ghosts: Me, the little tramp of a nightwatchman; You, the girl without a home. We’ll drift from floor to floor, A world within these walls Away from flags and placards, Gunshots in busy streets And the closing of factory doors. We’ll find the roller skates And mark the floor with tracks That criss and cross - the ground A canvas for our clumsy dance, A waltz to silent corridors Occasionally disturbed By echoes and staccato sounds, Stamps from feet and giddy laughs. We’ll flick the switch to level 4, Illuminate the cuddly bears, The cosy chairs, The train sets spectrally imbued With twilight life by circuit breakers, Miniature headlights roving the room Accompanied by a steady chk-chk-chk That reaches up to our hushed voices, Intricate whispers So as not to wake the sleeping things. And when we’ve had our fun, We’ll let them sleep in peace And head upstairs to Home Essentials: All the beds, made neatly in rows Expecting guests to come and look. We’ll dance and skate our way Between the towels and the downy duvets, We’ll discard our wheels And bounce on all the mattresses, Daring to wake the things with every squeak. Needless to say, we’d have plumbed the stores 24
For wine and rum, Drunk our fill, grown up kids In this multi-storey paradise A world away from wooden shacks. With a contented tipsy sigh We’d collapse into the second-best bed, Snatch some sleep and steal away Before the morning rush. And in the morning they would wonder why All the toys’ batteries were worn down And all the beds worn in, And just how the roller skates made their way From one to the other (in pairs of pairs). Wolfish bites taken from the sandwiches, Untidy trails of dressing gowns and rum Left in the witching hour By two unruly poltergeists, A phantasmagorical heist Of all the alcohol; They, never suspecting the two vagrants, So comfortably out cold, In a wooden shack, In each other’s arms. James Grimshaw
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Bylet Island The Severn burst its banks this spring but I was not at home, could be no witness to the algae creeping over Bylet Bridge and the water biting away at the footpath. I imagined the bowlers, crying for their green as the water level rose against the staff gauge. Sandbags grew heavier, local headlines blazed: ‘Is this the year the island sinks?’ I remembered a spring evening, the light fading and a pack of us climbing the white gates, spurred on by small town fever. The padlocked island beckoned us. We left a gift of lager cans, empty fag packets and fag ends, and I left something of me that time, as you slid your cold, neat hands along the black iron fence towards mine. Eleanor Ford
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The Thousand Lovers’ Cakewalk. When leaves soft-fall from hollow trees, Beneath a hue of purple-grey, And calm breath from the violin Draws seas, mid-passion, from their bay. When warblers end their even-song, And lovers’ lips stain, dark as ink, When seasons shift like ruffled plumes; And bees reduce sweet sap to drink; When darling buds unfurl their smile Replenished by the spring’s soft reign, Then kneel beneath her crown of heirs And bow like half stooped stalks of shame. When time collapses in and hides Your supernova; vast and dull. At such a loss, too late I’ll try To love this life, too beautiful. Aimee McKay
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A Kerouac Narrative And summer whines, sweats roads into the dust of her skin. The sun sulks sullenly low, ice cream and honey sandwiches squelch between her fingers. The canal that birthed her dries under the Mediterranean summer. It’s romantic, isn’t it? Isn’t this romantic? This nomad life, this nomad game, the one you printed out and pinned wistfully to your bedroom door while professing, with grandiose philanthropy and naïve ideals, I adore travel. Tell me again how you’re in love with travel and trespass and the fat pout of the sun-browned child, not yet ten years of age, who breaks her bread with the stray dog in the new town. A village for each finger, a town for each toe, unhomes slamming one into another into another into another. It’s just past strawberry season but the fruit is sweet as ever, succulent and celestial as the sky shatters into a thick and heavy thunderstorm. Anger screams out in bright streaks of light, threatens violence in the booming voices of before time. Some of the strawberries’ skins are sinking in on themselves but they are ripe for theft. Mould is thick around the outdated radiators in the abandoned house they found, spotting the ceiling like it’s a map and the population is: too many per kilometre squared. A ragged stuffed-toy cat is folded over the bars at the window, a familiar, dripping warm soapy water like soul. The curtains flutter, aroused by the rain’s persistent beatings, excited after years of silence and spiders scurrying in their creases sans consent. You love abandoned spaces, don’t you? The stories of the dead, half burnt? No, don’t romanticise this. Put the pen down. Bury the notebook. Everything is collapsed in disarray. A lamp is still plugged in although lying on its side like a zapped prisoner mid-flee. The dead flies swarm and line the hallways, breathing back decay. The scene is post-apocalyptic but for the suitcases that insist transience. They lie open, guts spilled, overflowing, unbelonging. Not yet ten, she scribbles a fantasy tale on the notepaper torn from a journal passed between relations. She, the free child who can run barefoot on command, soles of her feet dirtied. Her story will be rewritten by those whose homes run hot water and light up in winter. Transience begs her approval, parts like the red sea for her presence. And you, you try to force its unforgiving nature into neat rhyme and metre, into Polaroid 28
picture. You’re just starved for culture, aren’t you? The child is bundled into a sauna tin can car and moved on; she is just starved. You’d love this life, suitcase meets sunset, a Kerouac narrative. Keep writing poems about how you’d wear the equator through your belt loops and bathe in streams of nature’s consciousness. Forget about the kid with the cat and the growling belly. Summer Violet
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Flat 61 Blackout blinds, light escaping. Cracked mirrors distort reflections and two eyes stare out of the wall. His eyes are your eyes, all eyes are glazed blue. Silvery sea, washed sky. Too many cushions and flaking pastel pink paint. You lay me down, crumpled. My corners bend and my edges fold, my insides have turned inside out. You hold me up, a grotesque trophy. Grow and expand, concentrate and concentrate more, my bones crack and both breaths shake. Nobody celebrates. There is no clap on the back or congratulations or feel good moment. I am just about alive and you are satisfied. Naomi Todd
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I look at you and I can’t think straight I look at you and I can’t think straight, A harlequin pulling the strings of my life And I like it, I let you, My appetite whet now. By your smile, all the while I’m caught in your net now. I’m in debt of your beauty, Beset by your charms, Somehow we’re a duet now, We stand arm in arm. B J Sledge
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She When she woke she woke from uneasy dreams to bright white light, the sun flooding through the fabric of the white curtains, illuming the room. A revivification after the night’s slumbers. The morning sprawled through the window and she in bed, wakeful, taking it in. The room was light and clear and she lay a while. Enjoying the way the light reflected off the many colourful posters on the white walls. She brushed the hair from her eyes, ripped back the white covers and rolled off the double bed, walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains to look at the beautiful sunshine and the day, the rich blue sky spreading over the city. An enormous hand was descending from far above, rupturing the quotidian morning. With definite purpose it moved steadily toward the window. Its shades and contours were conspicuous and stylized, as of a drawing or animation. Framed within the limits of the window, she could not move her feet. Gaining speed, the hand shot towards her. She crashed to the floor beneath the window as the hand smashed through the glass. Shards and splinters, plaster and dust, fell atop her along with pieces of brick. The groping thing just above her sprawled and turned. Grabbing and grasping. Her room wreckage. She coughed and scrambled, bruised and halfcrawling, and gasped along the edge of the wall away from the window towards a corner. She crouched there trying to make herself as small as possible, shrinking into the corner, cringing from the hand. Violence. The hand juddered and flopped and jumped, snatching. The mirror was cast into the corridor where it exploded. The desk was shattered next to the window, the bed skewed and broken-looking against the far wall. Papers and posters swirled and flew chaotically in the dust frenzied by the hand’s convulsions, the walls naked now. The hand turned ranging to the corners, flailed ever wider. Trying to grab her. She inched toward the window, keeping down. The hand pulled back suddenly and she leapt into the corner to avoid it. It pulled out to the now jagged opening, liminal, and then plunged again into the room with renewed violence. Gasping and with tears in her eyes she looked imploringly around. She had no idea what to do: how does one deal with the absurd?
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She flattened herself to the floor under the window. And almost cut her hand on a pair of scissors. Debris from the shattered desk, they lay half-open. She ripped them shut, rolled over face up and brushed the hair from her eyes, then plunged the point hard into the soft palm of the hand coming down on top of her. It screamed a silent pain. Terror. Frozen, blood spattered her face as the hand thrashed manically. She retreated, half-crawling, to slump into the corner once more. She still wielded the scissors defiantly, but hope was draining. She waved them wildly when the hand neared her. But the thrashings were losing force, strength draining like blood. The hand began to slump, and then dragged itself defiantly out the broken window of her chamber. And all the while I, sat in my corner (my position of enunciation), not helping. Scribbling in my notebook, weaving her into my story. She stood up. She cast her eyes over the chaos of the chamber and moved over to the gaping window and looked out. At the beautiful sunshine and the day. At the stitched blue sky stretching over the city. Oliver Goodall
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Her New Nose Even with the tape, bandage and splint obscuring the majority of her face, she could still see the bruises creeping out from underneath. An incongruous, lurid yellow along her cheekbones and a dirty purple beneath her eyes. Despite countless calls to the aftercare nurse and numerous Google searches, the healing process had been slow. She trapped the dog-eared corner of the tape between thumb and forefinger, and gently began to peel it back. It was like removing a facemask really — that same bizarre realisation of every fine hair on your face, the anticipation of greater things beneath. The second half of the tape peeled off with a slick, brief ripping of adhesive from skin. She opened her eyes. “Oh God.” It looked better, she supposed, but the bruising was much worse than what she’d been expecting. She could hear Andrew’s Jeep pulling up the drive, and with a start, she began to paint some makeup over the bruise. He had rung the tri-tone doorbell by the time she was finished, and the dogs were yapping away at the door, their claws clacking on the polished terracotta tiles. The bell rang once again, this time a little longer. She pulled on a dressing gown, descended the stairs, and opened the door. “Andrew.” “Hi.” He didn’t smile. She didn’t smile. The dogs pushed past her to sniff at his legs. He looked well, had lost weight, got a tan. She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly cripplingly self-conscious. She should’ve got up earlier and washed it. It fell limp through her bony fingers. “I suppose you better come inside.” She took a half step backwards, pulling the door further ajar, clicking her fingers to summon the dogs back inside. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. “I can’t for long.” The words were a sigh. In he stepped. She led him through the hall, making sure to look back over her shoulder on her best side. Had he noticed yet? Did it look better? She’d barely had a time to look at it herself. She’d asked the surgeon for a Jessica Biel. “I really can’t stay for long,” he reiterated. That was okay. She refastened the rope of her gown, cinching what little waist remained. She didn’t eat much these days. Into the kitchen now, where placed on top of that sprawling granite work surface lay the papers. He cast an eye over them, checking for mistakes, then, satisfied, turned to leave.
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“Can’t I get you a drink before you leave?” She leant against one of the chrome stools, popping a hip, feigning nonchalance and fighting back tears. “No, I’m fine without.” “What do you think of my nose?” She followed after him. The sun bounced off the papers in his hand and made them dazzle. He glanced back at her. “Look at yourself. Look at who— what you’ve become.” “You noticed?” A hand rose to hover over her face. “Christ, it’s not just that. It’s everything. The lifestyle, the friends…” He looked at the dogs. “What are these, anyway?” -“They’re for security.” “Chihuahuas?” “I like my nose now,” she said. “And your teeth? What about your eyebrows? Your tits? The list goes—” “Andrew, you know I’ve always wanted this.” He left the house and the dogs followed him on his way. She stroked her nose, accustoming herself to its new form. The dogs began to yap again as the Jeep’s engine came to life, and she turned to climb the stairs. Her personal trainer would be here soon, and she needed to wash her hair. Daisy Fernandez
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Amy Shade
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--------------------------------------------------------Jam Jars Written and directed by Sian Hughes Little Leeds Fringe Co-directed and produced by Lauren Scrivens Lighting Design by Lois Taviner 19th March 2014 Jam Jars was a surreal yet thoroughly entertaining tale, written by MA Writing for Performance Publication student Sian Hughes. The drama portrays an ordinary family
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situation faced with bizarre and unfortunate circumstances. Witnessing a writer’s first play never fails to amaze me, especially when the writer was also the director: the journey from finding inspirations (in this case Plath’s The Bell Jar), creating ideas and endless drafts, to producing a full live performance of the work on stage is something to be extremely proud of, especially because of the quality of this performance. Upon entering the theatre, the audience were met by an actor frozen in an intriguing set, heightened by atmospheric lighting and music. The music throughout was modern and mood-enhancing without detracting from the overall plot. Although for me, introducing the theme of suicide in the very first sequence of a play seems slightly unorthodox and dangerous, on a whole the dynamic first scene was just enough to introduce the characters whose journeys we were about to follow, but not too much that we lost our sense of intrigue. The actors themselves were strong performers, and enhanced a well-structured script. Although at times the fast-paced speech led to some lines being lost through pronunciation, the protagonists did a great job of handling a script which included many monologues. Similarly, in places, the characterisation felt younger than the age the characters were at in their lives. That aside, the actors’ overall portrayal of real life was extremely effective. Particularly memorable points were Kayla Feldman’s poignant monologue towards the end of the piece, which displayed her obvious ability, as well as contrasting well with her realistic and contagious laughter earlier on. Job Kabama’s overall portrayal of a man with a lot of ambition and love, faced with a series of confusing set-backs, was executed with passion and ingenuousness, not to mention the secret dancing in the living room. The characters were likeable, which helped to make moments when they addressed the audience directly somehow more natural than some attempts to bring down the fourth wall can be.
The protagonists’ personalities were juxtaposed nicely with the third character Melissa, played effectively by actress Alice O’Connor. Melissa had the audience in fits of laughter constantly with her eccentric and stereotypical portrayal of a social worker. If anything though, the eccentricity of this character could have been exaggerated to further enhance the humour and stereotype. That said, Melissa presented a wonderful addition to the existing character dynamic The set was well designed, with just enough to allow our imaginations to create a couple’s living area, aided by the use of lighting. Transitions between scenes were smooth and pleasant to watch. Miming the use of props is a personal pet hate of mine though –something Hectoria did in both the opening and penultimate scenes. Her line about the shirt being the one Sam had worn yesterday might have been more poignant had the shirt actually been in her hand – but perhaps this was a directorial decision made to accentuate the speech. Other than this, props were appropriately made and well thought out, such as Melissa’s pink paper, which was a subtle yet effective touch, and many items added to the humour of the performance, like as Sam’s marketing sign, and the beautiful use of food later on in the piece. The script itself was incredibly well written, including the ‘false ending’. The penultimate scene mirrored the opening scene, creating a framing device which left the audience feeling mournful, only for the lights to come back up on the scene and the actors to carry on performing to reveal the comic resolution of the piece. At first I felt anxious that a good play had been over-done, but as the scene ended my sense of understanding of the play grew stronger, as well as my admiration for the writing. If anything, the comical ending helped the audience consider the issues raised in the play by detracting from the alternative, darker ending, and reminding us that no matter what, there can be a happy ending in real life.
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Milly Dent --------------------------------------------------------------Motherland By Steve Gilroy Open Theatre Little Leeds Fringe Alec Clegg Studio, stage@leeds, Thursday 20th March Directed by Alice Boulton-Breeze Produced by Gemma Cowan Casting Assistant – Aimee Belchak Lighting design by Sam Chase Sound design by Sophie Lea Video design by Daisy Porter There are not a great deal of popular theatre shows that are geared towards solely female protagonists, let alone shows that utilise all female casts, which was one of the reasons for director Alice Boulton-Breeze choosing to direct the show Motherland. It was certainly a risky choice – to have an all gender cast you need an extremely colourful variation of actors in terms of performance, characterisation and tone in order to engage, entertain, and do justice to a piece of writing, especially when the content of the piece is so poignant and personal. I’m delighted to say that this particular production of Motherland did exactly those things and more. Upon entering the set of Motherland in the Alec Clegg theatre, we emerged into a world of atmosphere and proximity. With a beautifully choreographed opening accompanied by a well-rehearsed soundscape, I was instantly intrigued and drawn in to the piece. Visually, the stage had just the right amount of set to allow the audience to create each character’s ‘home’ in their minds. The slick transitions, aided by well-spotted lighting throughout the show, helped move the piece along as each person’s story was revealed in a style reminiscent of a TV documentary. For me, the video in the background which introduced the characters names risked being reminiscent of a school presentation, using text that could
easily detract from the performance. However, bearing in mind the amount of characters in the piece, it was possibly a necessary reminder of each character and their individuality in the show, as well as the verbatim manner of the piece. The performers themselves were extremely well-cast, each presenting believable and emotive performances which left the audience both in tears of sadness and laughter throughout. Although at times delivery could have been slowed down, on the whole I felt invested in the majority of the performances. It’s hard to pinpoint specific actors in such a strong cast but there were a few characters that deserve a special mention. The heartbreaking performance by Kirsty Pennycook playing Janice was particularly memorable, and the emotions she invoked were infectious. Her tale was told alongside a brilliant characterisation of Nikki by Edie Marsh. For me, the two characters didn’t do each other justice; no sooner were you lost in the story of one actor’s life you were taken back to another. This however is no discredit to the amazing characterisations or the direction of the piece - if anything a compliment - as I feel we were left wanting more of each character separately. With strong performers, it is easy to forget the difficulty of keeping an audience engaged throughout long monologues such as that of Susie (played by Kate Barkley). Amy Sutton’s portrayal of Elsie – an older lady – was also extremely realistic. The part was executed with brilliant timing that added to both her characterisation and the humour of her attitude. This worked well alongside the lovely dynamic played between the characters of Liz and Debbie (Sarah Nathanson and Flora Tiley). Their likeability and realism made their stories have a larger impact on the audience, especially as their relationship was a just and natural representation of mother and daughter. These actresses were all fully invested in their characters, which heightened both the poignant and humorous points of the piece as the emotions became easy to relate to; at points, for
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example when hearing Pat’s story, I felt drawn in to the characters as though in the middle of a real conversation. I had to hold myself back from consoling actress Lauren Huxley as she explained how she found out about the loss of her son whilst on a public bus. The fact that the mother of a soldier had to find out through a phone call on a bus that her son had died was heart-breaking, because only the next of kin are informed personally. Her genuine disbelief channelled through to the audience making us question how that can be. The music throughout the piece was at times quite clichéd, yet it worked in that it was suited to the emotions being portrayed. It was unfortunate that for the performance I saw there were technical difficulties, meaning that the well-constructed video for the end of the piece was not able to be shown. For me though, the performers and show itself was enough without, and the general consensus was that it did not feel like anything was missing from the piece. The overall piece was an extremely difficult subject to tackle but was presented tastefully. The themes were relatable to anyone that has lost a loved one, but it was especially poignant for families of fallen soldiers. There were certainly subtle questions that were enhanced through the acting and direction of the piece such as ‘how far are we misinformed?’ and ‘who is to blame?’ The ultimate ending of the piece weaved the stories back together showing unity in the ‘motherland’, which did not detract from the emotion of the piece, but gave a feeling of hope to the audience. The stage – left with boxes of memories of the soldiers’ lives – was also a beautiful static image which hit home that this was not just one person’s story. That will stick in my head alongside the stories I heard whilst watching this piece. For me this piece was performed beautifully; truly pulling on my heartstrings in a non-didactic manner. It takes a lot for me to lose myself emotionally when watching theatre but I certainly needed a few moments to compose myself after this!
Hats off to everyone involved. Milly Dent -------------------------------------------------------High School Musical Adapted for stage from the film by David Simpatico SMS Riley Smith Hall, 18th – 22nd March Directed by Olly McCauley Produced by Josie Leadbetter Musical Director – Katy Richardson Assistant Director – Lucie Turner Choreography by Verity Blyth and Samantha Hopkins Despite SMS’s stellar reputation at Leeds and the great success of their first production this year, Beauty and the Beast, I was doubtful that anyone could make High School Musical into an enjoyable experience. However, to my pleasant surprise, director Olly McCauley succeeded in creating a colourful and hilarious revival of the original Disney movie. It is certainly not a musical that can be taken too seriously, and all of the actors clearly enjoyed playing to its satirical nature in rapport with one another, resulting in what was altogether a fun and entertaining show. Unfortunately, Wednesday’s performance got off to a very shaky start. The first ensemble number, ‘Start of Something New’, seemed uncoordinated and messy, and with such an ambitiously large cast, it was difficult to make sense of any of it. The band, though brilliant in their own right, drowned out much of the vocal solos and spoken lines, and the many technical failures with the microphones only made matters worse. Nevertheless, the cast were not deterred, and managed to pull themselves together very quickly and pull off what was altogether a great performance. With every SMS production, I continue to be amazed by just how versatile the actors are. Having seen Verity Blyth in a number of serious, intense roles, there is no denying her talent and strength as an actor. However, when I heard that she would be playing the role of Sharpay Evans in High School Musical, I simply couldn’t picture it. Yet Verity commanded the stage with flair and sass, evoking tumultuous
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laughter at every turn. Playing opposite her was Adam Westley, who has now performed the part of Ryan Evans four times, which was made abundantly clear by how easily he slipped back into the role. Sam McCagherty, the spitting image of a young Zac Efron, struggled greatly with the American accent, but more than made up for this with attention to detail in his character’s body language and behaviour, as well as his exceptional vocal range, making for a very well-rounded portrayal of Troy Bolton. Chloe Houghton was the clear choice for Gabriella Montez, the sweet and lovable brainiac with a hidden love for musical theatre. Her powerful voice and sensational acting skills were destined for much greater things than a Disney Channel caricature. Her duets with Sam McCagherty were positively magical, and their chemistry onstage was far more enchanting than the awkward teenage cliché that was Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens. What really brought this production together was the depth and enthusiasm contributed by the smaller ensemble roles, particularly Piers Cottee-Jones as the radio announcer Jack Scott, the ‘velvet fog of East High’, and Callum Holt, who managed to stand out in what was an exceptionally large and talented cast and deliver a spectacular performance, despite the fact that he had no lines. Costume was cleverly used to give each of these minor characters and ensemble roles their own personal style, so that not one of them blended into the crowd. As with every SMS show, the energy and polish of the principle dancers showed the kind of quality I would expect on a West End stage. Though the acting was sometimes a little weak, the physical and vocal ability of the cast left me dancing in my seat. Thank you SMS, for a surprisingly enjoyable evening! Kayla Feldman --------------------------------------------------------------The Penelopiad By Margaret Atwood tg Stage One, Stage@Leeds, 26th-29th March Directed by Alice Rafter Produced by Lily Hall
Musical direction by Bianca von Oppell Lighting and sound by Catherine De Mello It might perhaps seem odd at first that tg should have chosen to stage a relatively small cast show such as The Penelopiad in such a big playing space as Stage One, especially since their previous production of The Duchess of Malfi had been shoehorned into the intimate (but perhaps not entirely appropriate in that case) interior of the Banham Theatre. But Alice Rafter’s cast rose to the challenge of filling such a huge – and indeed empty – space. On entering the theatre, we were presented with a bare proscenium, littered with stage blocks and featuring only one fixed item of set which consisted of a mezzanine level upstage similar to the one used in tg’s Titus Andronicus last October, though on a smaller scale. The problem with this was two-fold: in the first instance, the mezzanine was so far away from even the front row members of the audience that the facial expressions, and occasionally volume, of the actors was partially obscured. Though the production would have worked just as well without the gallery function of the mezzanine, and could equally have been performed in a smaller playing space such as the Alec Clegg Studio, it is understandable that Rafter wanted to make the most of the flying facilities in Stage One for the pièce de résistance of this production – Penelope’s loom. Long bluish drapes hung from the sides of the space, serving not only as transparent wings for the actors which suggested the underworld setting of Penelope’s retrospective narrative, but also coming into play in the second half as the tapestry she has her maids weave in a desperate attempt to keep her vulgar suitors at bay. Personally, I would have liked to have seen these drapes used more in the first half, where they hung redundant. When they did come into play, I expected some sort of concrete image to be created onstage by the Maids, which could then be destroyed by the ambush of the suitors in a subsequent scene. Contrary to popular myth, Atwood’s play is not a ‘feminist play’ – at least not in the sense that we might consider Caryl Churchill a ‘feminist playwright’. In retelling Homer’s Odyssey from the perspective of its epic protagonist’s wife, it seeks to redress a
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balance in mythic interpretation by raising questions about the ownership of personal stories. Whilst in Homer Odysseus is a fantastic storyteller, back on the remote Ionian island of Ithaca Penelope’s voice goes largely unheard. In giving her back her voice, Atwood not only counterpoints a modern dramatic monologue against the historic weight of Homer’s myth, but provides her audience with a new insight into the character of Odysseus. Bea Lawrence’s delivery, especially during her solo monologues, was both measured and arresting, and the chemistry between her modest but assured Penelope and the incorrigible charm of Bradley Hackett’s Odysseus during the honeymoon scene was spot on. One reason why Lawrence is so watchable in this production, as indeed she was in tg’s phenomenal production of Shoot/Get Treasure/ Repeat last December, is that her delivery is so natural that you almost forget that you’re watching a performance – you just watch. Despite this, a friend of mine sat next me – who knows far more about Atwood than myself – was insistent that the star performance was that given by Sophie Strickland-Clark as the nurse, Eurycleia. And certainly in a relatively small role, her comic timing shone through amid some of the more slapstick humour of the suitors, many of whom were played by women, with mixed results. Whilst Atwood’s script calls for an allfemale cast, Rafter had chosen to sub in several male parts. However, once the impetus to do this was there, having only 3 male actors did create inconsistencies, especially since only one of the suitors (Joe Featonby) was in fact biologically credible as a misogynistic brute. Rafter had also cut the text – understandable enough given the average running time of a student production – seemingly in order to focus upon the narrative aspects of Atwood’s script. Atwood is, however, primarily known as a novelist rather than a dramatist, and the overall shape of the play would seem to tend towards rendering it as a sustained dramatic monologue. Which is, of course, what Rafter set out to do: her director’s note stresses the significance of storytelling in this production, and of the unreliability of such narratives. Despite having its comic touches however, the play is far from being light entertainment.
The Maids, who are central to Atwood’s conception of her piece as both a story about modern women faced with domestic male aggression, and a rewriting of classical drama, function throughout as a chorus. This requires some tight ensemble work which, whilst evident in choral sections when the Maids were all speaking at once or in canon, tended to disintegrate during scenes which demanded acute emotional response from the actors. The exception to this, however, was their death scene, in which, as a line of nooses dropped from the flies, their necks simultaneously snapped down with the lights, cutting dead their hysterical sobbing. I feel like Atwood would approve. In an unprecedented sweep for a Leeds University production, she even retweeted the team’s publicity posts on Twitter. Rik Baker ------------------------------------------------The Rover By Aphra Behn tg Alec Clegg Studio, stage@leeds, 30th April – 2nd May Directed by Adam Button and Lily Pinto Produced by Louise Jackson-Rogers Designed by Sarah Buller There is just cause for updating a Restoration comedy like The Rover – the language is staid, the humour anachronistic, and the style too lofty to appeal to our modern sensibilities in the twenty-first century. Whilst not the ‘modern re-telling’ the programme promises – the script is cut but is left largely intact, and there has been no attempt to modernize the language in keeping with the setting of lads on tour – Adam Button’ and Lily Pinto’s production succeeds with chutzpa in transplanting the likely lads of Belvile, Willmore, Frederick and Blunt from the carnival world of 17th century Naples to a holiday destination that has more in common with Ibiza, Majorca or Minorca. This is due largely to the location suggested by Sarah Buller’s impressive set which, with
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its brash assemblage of sleazy, deliberately dilapidated signs – ‘Peach Haus’, ‘Babes’ (with slipped ‘s’), ‘We Never Close’ – greets the entering audience with the promise of a good night on the town, conducted from the safety of the theatre stalls. Add to this the charivari of a banging club soundtrack, and a cavalcade of scantily-clad masked beauties – both of which served to break up the otherwisemonotonously frequent scene changes – and you can imagine the sense of raucous excitement in the Alec Clegg on opening night. Arriving in Naples in 2014, decked out in self-proclaimed tour T-shirts bearing the play’s subtitle, The Banished Cavaliers, with the ‘A’ of Naples as a slut-dropping pole-dancer, the four young hopefuls resembled the characters from The Inbetweeners. Yet the world they entered was no schoolboy sitcom; for the play resists such a straightforward and reductive interpretative slant. Instead, the directors gave us a curiously other locale that, for all its modernity, at times seemed at a loss as to how to translate certain aspects of Behn’s exotic vision of the carnivalesque and the system of commodity exchange where women are concerned that are so central to the play’s overall structure. As such, I felt that some of the actors were caught between playing their character type in a Restoration comedy, and adapting to the demands placed upon them by the contemporary setting. Oli Conte as Willmore gave a fine performance, but his delivery and gestures were closer to those of the Restoration stage than ours, and he seemed to struggle to marry the Rake with the drunken lout who had let his friend down one too many times. The notable exception to this, however, was the scene in which, Willmore having scuppered Belvile’s plans regarding Florinda yet again, their street-scene brawl was relocated to a nightclub, where Willmore picked a fight with an unsuspecting Don Antonio (Kieran Boddington), resulting in the highly effective smashing of a sugar-glass bottle over the latter’s head. Alex Light as Don Pedro also went for stock type over naturalism, and
yet somehow, perhaps because the humour generated by the character revolves around his being a dupe where Florinda and Hellena are concerned – a sort of Restoration incarnation of the medieval cuckold figure – his performance sat well with the incongruous world the directors had created for the play. But the actors who really succeeded in giving us credible Restoration characters in this contemporary setting of booze, brawls and girls, were first and foremost Josh Ling as Blunt, Elliott Brough as Belvile, Jannelle Thorpe as Hellena, and Flora Tiley as Luccetta. Ling’s Blunt was quite frankly phenomenal, striking exactly the right balance between humour and pathos. He knew when to play up the bulge in his boxers for laughs, when to belie his boasts with pusillanimity, and when to slap the audience in the face with his admission that ‘Fool was writ upon my forehead’. Moreover, his execution had such a naturalistic flair that I wondered whether Ling wasn’t making much of it up on the spot – the moment when, finding he has nowhere to store Florinda’s ring, he went to put in his boxers, thought better of it, contemplated putting up his arse, and then decided to just fumble it sheepishly was a case in point in this respect. His exchanges with Tiley’s Luccetta, who herself mingled to exactly the right degree forward flirtation with coy disappointment at the pimp Sancho’s (Joe Featonby) injunction that Blunt must be mugged but not loved-up, was perhaps the highlight of the show. Thorpe and Brough did well in managing the difficult task of making their respective love scenes credible in this context, especially since the pervasive air of misogynistic panhandling for pussy, already a motif in Behn’s discourse on the commodification of sex, seemed to have seeped into the lad culture of the directors’ conceptual vision for the play, meaning that the zeal of getting laid carried more weight than that of getting married. I feel, however, that, in the attempted rape scenes, both Willmore’s and Blunt’s assaults on Florinda could be made more visceral and less comic.
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After all, there’s nothing particularly funny about rape, attempted or actual, and these scenes, particularly Blunt’s, seem to show a darker side of the holiday world that the play inhabits. The suggestion that, given a free licence in a foreign country, and deprived of their expected pleasure, Brits abroad will do anything to have their fun – drink, fight, fuck – is latent in Pinto and Button’s vision of The Rover, but the production tends to err on the side of caution which, if anything, undercuts the enormous purchase for any social comment on lad culture in these scenes. Ultimately though, this production is decidedly apolitical precisely because it has gone for the comedy jugular. And I must say, it was bloody funny, as I’m sure the cast could tell from the seal-like sound emanating from the middle of the stalls. Rik Baker ------------------------------------------------The Bacchae PCI Stage One, stage@leeds, 8th – 10th May Written by George Howard Collaboratively Devised Piece Produced by Emma Cook and Ellie Taylor Designed by Sam Chase Music by Laurence Schuman, Kymberley Cochrane, and Danielle Le Quesne Choreography by Courtney Lewis, Samantha Hopkins, and Verity Blyth It is extremely rare to see a student production that is of a professional standard, but PCI’s adaptation of Euripides’ Bacchae is just one such rarity. Devised by final year Theatre and Performance students as part of their course, this show is a million miles away from that lingering epithet, ‘student drama’. Each cast member has been assigned a role in addition to their participation as actors, but the process has nonetheless been a collaborative and highly organic one. Last week at the preview, George
Howard explained to me how, in writing as part of a devising process, they had started with a Greek myth, gradually weaving others in, getting the ideas on their feet and letting the actors invent, and only then had he gone away and written a script to feed back into the evolving narrative. Meanwhile, Laurence Schuman, Kymberley Cochrane and Danielle Le Quesne were busy writing the music, constructing exquisite choral harmonies which break down into an avant-garde explosion of soul and jazz inspired drum-backed beats, over which soars the voice of Schuman as Dionysus. In keeping with this mythic descent into the libidinal, the choreography devised by Courtney Lewis, Samantha Hopkins and Verity Blyth moves from stately court dances verging on the symbolic, to feral trances in which the Theban women claw at each other’s clothes in orgiastic fury. The result, like the Greek tragedy on which it is partially based, fuses speech, song and dance into a highly wrought classical medium that is unlike anything I have seen in a theatre until now. On entering Stage One via the side door, the set announced itself to us as a vast space in the round with seemingly blank decking forming a cross-thrust stage in the shape of an X. In the central podium, a red light shines from beneath a Perspex box, upon which Kymberley Cochrane as Agave paces contentedly in heels and a red velvet dress, whilst nursing the swaddling clothes of a new-born child in her arms. And when she opens her mouth to sing, and the ghostly voices of the court of Cadmus join her from the wings, something uncanny is triggered in Stage One, which hovers above the performance throughout, and leaves me feeling simultaneously trapped and transfixed by the sheer power of such theatre to tap unfathomed depths of being. The world of PCI’s The Bacchae is both ours and Euripides’, inasmuch as the harmony of the Theban state at once depends on ritual and technology. More specifically, it seems to draw upon Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World in its vision of a society sedated with Sweet – a
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drug which resembles Huxley’s soma – and in its rigid imposition of the strictures of birthcontrol. In a series of vignettes reminiscent of Caryl Churchill’s Bacchic adaptation, A Mouthful of Birds, the men of Thebes bicker with their wives, take their kids to school, have trouble with their girlfriends, and rejoice in their wives’ pregnancies. By contrast, the women attend birthing classes to prepare for Caesarian section. Against this world, where Ben Parsons’ Pentheus ‘protects’ his mother, Agave (Cochrane), in a more nuanced version of Oedipus’ relationship with Jocasta in Sophocles’ Theban plays, comes the east wind of Dionysus and his Maenads. Schuman gives us a woozy, narcotically-weary anti-hero, more Jim Morrison than god, whose desire to corrupt Thebes is born out of self-mythologising personality cult rather than vengeance against Pentheus for his refusal to worship his bastard cousin (Dionysus was the result of one of Zeus’ many infelicitous encounters with mortal women). The ministers (George Howard, Matt Baker, Sam Newton) and ‘the new man’ (Olly McCauley) are not elders but civil servants to the state. But once Dionysus, a mad pied piper, has led Agave and her women out of Thebes, the sterile stage is transformed into the forest near Plateia – UV-painted leaves illuming the blacked-out set – where the women sing, and dance, and hunt according to Dionysus’s whim. The temptation of Thebes is complete, and it is irrevocable. The ‘old ways’ of sex and natural birth have triumphed. Modernity has fallen to Freud. There’s a new Pill on the market and this time, it really is sweet. Rik Baker
Reading for pleasure ‘An intellectual is a person who’s found one thing more interesting than sex.’ –Aldous Huxley With Pope’s iambic teasing tickle touching up my mind I turn an unaccustomed hand to ancient coupled rhyme: Dear readers, whom in metred anarchy pure joy can find, Leave all polite imagination waltzing far behind! For you, a sudden simile is like a lacy glimpse Of sleek linguistic lingerie that leaves a mental print, And stores it in a secret place to never be forgot: A figurative fetish, in your literary spot. For you, a wink of metaphor is bedroom-eyes desire To turn Freud’s fierce cadaver, and set all your soul on fire! You know your self-discovery is no mere click away – The little man inside the boat is tuned to Hemingway. Between the secret sheets you slip, and sensuously recline. First, run a tingling fingertip along a waiting spine And loose the lettered longing from its aching leather bind… * The pages spread their poems from each margin to each edge And with relish you oblige their deep desire to be read! Read long, in all positions, ‘til you’ve fallen off the bed And still you read as plot lines flow and thicken in your head. And then, fini! You sigh and puff the post-book high of greed, For more, and more, and more, and more, and more, and more to read! Dear readers, rhythmic addicts, let’s thank all this grim creation – For that delicious, dreamy rush called literary masturbation! Beth Calverley
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