The Scribe, March Issue (2014) by The Scribe

If you have enjoyed writing for us or flicking through the magazine, please consider getting involved in next yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s committee. Our AGM will take place on Tuesday 25th March. Come along; you may get biscuits. I may get emotional. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to say at this stage.

It will be spring soon Now that I know that spring will come again I’ve patience to last the year However it unfolds… However April showers scold me Or summer suns warm me Or winter winds beat blindly At windows and doors… Patience to go on with the business of living – Not so much a giving of thanks But a facing of facts – A tacit acceptance of what is – lack Of what was – in short, happiness. They say that spring is a season of birth: That moment when the earth Reaches up to bid welcome To existence – crocus fingers caught mid wave – Means renewal for some, For others, it means losing of a kind, save What is enshrined in routine; for these, It is like waiting for the leaves To fall in early September – An annual lesson in the rites of mortality That each new spring forces us to remember. Rik Baker

Sea-change I once caught your gaze by lighthouse glare as we walked at night over Strumble Head – knew your skin’s flush and the light in your hair glancing briefly before the darkness bled back. A coastal wind lifted the gorse-scent and between us all was stilled, temperate. Cetaceans dipped unseen to the gentle tick of your chronometer. Our hands met. Later in the Transit we argued ourselves aground as we drove on through the sea shroud, splintering each other like Calburga’s timber off Penbrush rock. In time I found my breath emptied, our conversation stale as waves heaved on over Abberiddy shale. Eleanor Ford [Winner of The Scribe’s Valentine Sonnet Competition]

Catherine Fleming 3

Tonight these bones are made of glass Tonight these bones are made of glass: chandelier souls of skeletons, this time I hope that they will last. I know they shimmer when they cast kaleidoscopes of days undone... This time I hope that they will last. Each vein splits slowly into cracks at least till stars birth back the dawn â&#x20AC;&#x201C; tonight these bones are made of glass. Diamond years have long since passed: I see them shatter, one by one, tonight these bones are made of glass. The shards forging each crystal mast â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Break them! And grind till I am none, this time I hope that they will last. But morning bares herself in brass. The dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flesh born. The damage done. Tonight these bones are made of glass. This time I hope that they will last. Jessica Jewell

Charles II We walked where he supposedly escaped – Charles II, I mean, my sister and I, with the dog. We didn’t circle the Devil’s Humps six times, but we ate chicken wraps on the burial mound of Bronze Age kings, us on their thrones, and we kept the cling film. We didn’t see witches in the largest yew forest in Europe. It was all yew, yew, you. I found a feather on the ground, free from flight and pretended to write long letters – you laughed like I was ten and you were eight and we were all at home – letters to His Royal Highness, written on the back of the map we were following, advising him on the best plan of escape: ‘Avoid the cows at all costs, Yours Sincerely,’ Letters from yew, and me, and Nell Gwynn. Serena Brett

A brief encounter with the future. “The future looks up at me from underneath his hat. His eyes heavy with disapproval smoke rolls across the bar, as he takes another drag of his cigar. Perched on the porch he sits. The wrinkles in his face like a map of all the decisions you’ll ever make. His gaze scans the street with wisened eyes the ghost town of your life he stubs out his cigar and sighs: ‘You better do something kid, or it ain’t gonna happen for ya.’ I nod, in half-hearted agreement head in hands his presence half calming half intimidating. He gestures pointing behind you. The sands of my life race by blown down the street by the oncoming storm.” John Richardson

Jacob Kelly 7

Sun in an Empty Room Well, they are gone, but I still remain. Alone in this empty room, I have lost the feelings of a warm afternoon in August, have lost forever the ache for this day which, perhaps, I would have felt in one of my few, last years. Meanwhile, they all are outside. Perhaps now they have reached the lighthouse by Brewster Arch, and walk along the meandering path crossed with furze and lilacs, with the rote of the sea loud in the air and salt in their hair. Or else they have taken their bicycles and ridden into town, past the lengthening shadows of fire hydrants and street lamps, to step into the air-conditioned darkness of the parlour. I rub sweat from my wrinkled forehead. I had to stay behind. As I sit in this vacant room, paralysed, a chill shakes my heart, as though the draught from the open window combed my flesh. I apprehend the yellow light on the wall before me, vivid as a pillar of sandstone, whilst, in the corner, shadows cool like lava into a glassy slab of obsidian. Here is no waste. I sculpt the darkness and the light. I carve and hew the space into figures of delight and sorrow, trace the contours of friends present and friends past, resurrect them with plenitude of rock and passion. A gust shakes the grass and the window-glass. My fancy drops its chisel; the statues fade in a wave of sunlight. The wall remains a wall, but my heart is woken to the stillness of this place, this nest in time. I shuffle my shoulders in the heat and empty silence. Wait for the rattle of keys in the door. Daniel Boon

Catherine Fleming

a touch of senility. Weeds grew about the glassware and bowls in the kitchen sink Old man, filling the big chair half an arm no hair. False fireplace potpourri nannas boiling tattie ash. Grandad, spread the dry black leaves under his glasses Lenses puddle the light there too, these small crucifixes focused on the red of cheek and yellow waiting. sleep unthorough. Apnea syncopated breathing closed eyes old jazz musician Jacob Kelly

Grantchester Meadows, Karya Imirzalioglu 10

Reflection, Karya Imirzalioglu 11

Travelling Light Philip Jackson entered the guesthouse on the occasion of his twentieth wedding anniversary. He remembered this because they had married on the first day of the grouse shooting season. There was more chance of him seeing a grouse on a rainy day in Bolton than seeing his wife, he reflected, especially now that the kids were grown. He peered into the kitchen where the radio was cheerfully announcing that the rain was in for the day. Typical summer, he thought. As he turned back into the hall, he almost collided with a young man looking far too happy at the foot of the stairs. Probably going home, thought Philip, as Mr Turner appeared from the room with the ‘private’ sign on the door. “Hello Philip, how are you? I’m just doing breakfast, if you fancy. Are you here for the week again?” “Just one night,” said Philip. “We’re winding up the contract, so…” he added, feeling it somehow necessary to justify himself. The smell of bacon frying suddenly made him feel sick. “I’ll just get my key if that’s alright? How are you anyway?” “I’m fine, fine,” said Mr Turner. “I’ll just be a moment,” he called to the breakfast room, where the cheerful man was probably sat writing poetry or something equally wonderful. Philip Jackson entered his room, number nine as usual, and took the vodka from his bag. It was his daughter’s birthday on the twentieth. Perhaps he should have got her something. It wouldn’t matter soon. He mostly forgot anyway. She always said it was alright, don’t worry dad. He put the television on and flicked through the channels twice before turning it off and deciding to make a cup of tea; ‘best not get too drunk,’ he thought. ‘It won’t make this any easier.’ Putting water into the kettle with the annoyingly tooshort lead he thought of his children; where had the time gone? Didn’t he try so hard to make it work with Elizabeth? There was nothing he could do now.

The kettle boiled. With a deep sigh, Philip Jackson picked up his phone. “Elizabeth, I can’t do this anymore, I’m calling to say goodbye,” he said to the answerphone. He knew it was cowardly, but she might try to talk him out of it. He reached for the vodka. It had been a long time coming. At seven thirty on the morning of the thirteenth of August, Mr Brian Turner, the proprietor of the Beechwood Bed and Breakfast, went to Room Nine as he always did when Mr Jackson was staying. After knocking several times, he went back down the stairs, thinking that Philip would rather have a lie-in than eat breakfast. It was just an ordinary day. Shortly afterwards, Philip Jackson entered the departure lounge of Manchester Airport. He did not look back. Gerard Crefin

My Beard and Your Hair So many times when we were close I found a piece of your hair in my beard. And often when we lay together your hair and my beard would tangle and become the same. Sometimes I would get lost in your hair and forget who I was and you were. ... Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry, forgetting you Leo Graham

Self-portrait, Patrick Stratton 15

Lady-Winter-Bug The first winter, it was snowing the second winter, it was melting and the third winter, it was gloaming It was grey, cold, miserable, and the demons rumbled in a deep voice The fourth winter, it was raining raining inside and outside it continued for weeks and weeks until a ladybug wandered in The ladybug told stories, adventurous stories that had never been told before then the rain stopped inside but the rain outside continued Usui Ellen

Ladybird The bedroom of 74 Holgate Road, Dagenham, RM10 8NA is tiny. The soupy air reeks of sweat and old tobacco. A bare bulb flickers above the bed. A pair of bluebottles circle the light and each other, their paths impossible to predict. A pillow, spattered with what looks like dried blood, lies on the threadbare blue carpet. The tulips decorating the filthy bedding have faded; all that remains are ghostly petals in a grey meadow, attended by grey bees. A low electrical thrum fills the room, punctuated by the occasional cough from Sam, the bedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s occupant. A long, scrawny leg, neither tanned nor toned, protrudes from under the quilt. A dense cluster of raised red pores, speckling the back of his calf, mars Samâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pallid skin. The fine covering of fuzzy black hair stretches from hip to ankle, broken by a smooth oval bald patch above the knee. The surface of the knee is concertinaed with wrinkles. There is no muscle; the meat hangs loosely. The skin of the large, flat foot is cracked, and the sole is encrusted with dirt and small lumps of grit. The flesh at the tip of the big toe is swollen and angry around an ingrown, yellow nail. A brown scar runs across the middle toe, bisecting it perfectly. The nail of the little toe has been painted. Unlike its dirty neighbours it is manicured and covered with a flawless coat of red varnish. Expertly painted lines and dots combine to form the image of a ladybird squatting on the end of the toe. This tiny detail dominates the room; the carpet and walls seem drearier compared to the ruby gleam of that one painted toenail. David Kenny

The Racers The starter fires the blank pistol And the children begin their race Olive branches gripped like batons Sprinting towards the red finishing line A shoe comes off, a trouser rips at the knee Seams of dresses slowly tear apart Sparks at their heels, fire in their hair Clothes begin to decorate the track Snipers fire from the rooftops Three go down at once As the figures sprint faster The skin starts to split and bones fragment And barrel bombs drop from above The track disappears under craters Tear-marked cheeks and burst eardrums No little runners emerge through the dust clouds Spectators have disappeared, no cheering ever started A boy in shock, his legs missing The cannula makes him dream of the dead Fluids run through his broken body His race, ending as his flat line echoes But the runner runs as his heart is shocked No shiny trophy to show heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a winner Cauterised stumps are the legacy of the racers The red finishing line three years long, still to be met The boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s golden smile and two finger victory salute resonates As he sits defiantly in his creaky wheelchair Hafsah Bashir

Join-the-dots It’s the rarest thing this side of a dead cow To see your nostrils flare, Feet stamping and raking the ground, Head bowed, to hear you growl. The row starts over in this private Pomplona, But my sanguine stilted stammerings Fall like felt over your eyes – It’s when you start I turn to run. They wobble - the cobbles – as I zig and zag Down the side-streets and alleys, Attempting to flee, But hooves fall at my heels and – My bones break when you and they meet, Your horns sharp enough by far To perforate my thin skin, And work their way in. Out of intensive care, And resting In the hospital – Recuperating In plaster casts, and stitches That dissolve into the body And leave a join-the-dots as evidence, Raw red and bruised blue, I’m forced to recognise That I never had to enter the race at all. James Grimshaw

Too Awake A droopy-eyed bus rolls slow through Woodhouse, warming the concrete cut by cold. It ambers the mist with its light, bright sign, and flavours the air as it rolls, As my roll does the air in my room: the hanging dregs of drags and dib-ends pungent stay around too long and pester the nose of my just-woken friend – A friend soon joined by the other three. Flatmates one-by-one open doors. Sleep comes so free and normally to them but I see the early morning alone and bored. The cold hits my eyes as I leave the block. Three hours out then refuge in sleep where I can’t see what I want but won’t get. Where the daylight hours can’t harm me. James Jennion

Brunswick Let’s pretend that it’s about anxiety and not identity when you leave me in the Starbucks in Brunswick with a fake name on my coffee and Atwood poised on my wintered thighs. Let’s pretend I’m not still thinking about this a whole month later in the shower, lathering away the sound of my angry voicemails and thinking of how mothers smell when they smoke regret. Let’s pretend my pelvis was never the wishbone; let’s pretend that you succeeded in snapping it apart. You’re a no-show. It’s nowhere near sleazy enough for us anyway. Who were we kidding? (I order a second coffee and simper half-sweetly into the phone.) A man with his own book doesn’t see the angry shine in my eye and asks me how my Latin is, if I know what “memento numquam mori” means. I struggle with numquam, trip over it, learn later I am forgetting “never”, sipping hot black liquid down my throat, absorbing, alone. Let’s pretend that it’s about maybe and not never when you leave me in the Starbucks in Brunswick with a scowl in my mouth and hatred rushing through my wintered thighs. Let’s pretend I wasn’t depending on this, a whole month earlier in bed, unpicking the sound of angry poems and thinking of how you sound when you’re scared reckless. Let’s pretend I’m too young for red wine and bloodshed; let’s pretend that I succeeded in understanding “never”. Summer Violet

Catherine Fleming 22

Four for Tea An afternoon at tea: rustic art-deco interior; painfully anachronistic. Perfumed sleeves brushing with hushed silk softness; squinting serpents’ eyes ’neath sagging brows: an eclectic mix of old and new, juxtaposed in fabulous relief, all yours for just a cool million a year. ‘Buy now!’ says First, tea cup clenched covetously ’twixt trembling talons. Second, decidedly composed and indecently compliant, agrees that they should buy before it’s too late. Third and Fourth stay silent, misconstrued confidence built on mistaken interpretations. They’ll wait it out, and so they’ll lose out. Argumentative natures come to the fore, driven by the force of responsibility pumping through contorted veins. The thrill of the chase: a killing made at last (‘and not in vain’, says Fourth). Third also breaks the vow of silence: ‘We should buy. We can sell it on for more!’ First and Second swap a glance, uncertain of the verdict now it’s cast. It seemed they were in business once again and, though their aim was true, their nerves were back at last. The hesitation passed. They were businessmen, after all, and had done the likes of this before. First went for the phone, another fix of confidence delivered to the group whose tea had long since soured, lost to the corpulence of corporate greed (if society might be likened to such). ‘It’s us,’ said First into the phone. Chatter from the aether in return; nervous looks all round whilst tension formed in knots about their hands. ‘We’re in.’ Some haggling; agreement over price. Leaking ceiling overhead forgotten, for a time. Finally the voices in the phone returned to rest. The deal was done and they had done their best, though only time would tell if they were truly blessed. ‘Worry not!’ said First, his hands held up in jest: ‘We’ll soon have what we need, and more!’ So to their tea they went again, and not one word was spoken by the Four. In time, their lounge resounded with five thuds; a visitor, it seemed, had pounded

on their door. A servant went at First’s behest to fetch and welcome in their guest. ‘This must be him,’ said Third with glee, a dimpled beard caressed with twitching hands. ‘Thank god, thank god!’ Indignant cuff from Second. ‘Control yourself, you sod!’ In come two, the servant and the New, though the servant quickly leaves. There is danger in the business of one’s betters. ‘That was faster than I’d hoped,’ says First, all smiles and charm. The New sits down, his clothes ill-matched to the palace of the Four. A smudge across the relief; no more does it remain unmarred. ‘I came as fast as payment would allow.’ Then he drew a package from his coats and placed it down with care. ‘I’ll have that now, if you don’t mind, plus fifty more. This stuff’s quite rare.’ ‘Of course, good sir, of course,’ speaks First. ‘Come now, let’s have this man his money.’ Out come crumpled notes from pockets until the fare is met. With some disdain, the New retrieves them all, and wipes away their debt. ‘Thank you, friends.’ He moves to leave with haste. ‘I hope the tea is to your taste.’ ‘It always is,’ they laugh, though mostly to themselves – out goes New, forgotten once again, his business done. The Four go to their spoils, sated once again with tea that only they can sup: riches much too strong for any real cup. Reeking sleeves brushing with sack-cloth roughness; squinting serpents’ eyes ’neath sagging brows: an eclectic mix of old and new, juxtaposed in abominable relief, all yours for absolutely nothing. An afternoon at tea: dilapidated art-deco interior; painfully anachronistic. John Craige

Shrapnel From the glib-spit phlegm Of the Prozac troll And the lumpish twang Of the nymph’s cross bow I flung…clung! An arrow in The Fiction Pond I float on the cusp of... Okay, okay, Let’s say, I’m water off a duck’s back. Left foot trapped in a shopping bag. Quack. Okay, yes. Lazarus rose like air. But not before Death clawed out from Sin, who was thrown From the gut-bone pelvis of hell. It was very en vogue, Being thrown and flung! First Athena leapt from Zeus’s shelves. Now we’re all throwing and flinging ourselves. Herr Magazine, n: Storehouse. God of manuals, home of repertoires We cracked open herr spine And slammed our fingers on page 6: How to sprout into existence! Well? It was spring season.

Her face promised that any of us could Float on mercury. So...we cashed in our pennies For the ride of our lives! It was a peculiar park: THE MIRACLE WHALE Funny how one minute we were the queue Yet, it gobbled us up. We grunted, unamused. Greedy and bruised. Jammed. In the great big gut of that whale. Sea salt Dripping on our heads. Local pond ducks Crammed sardines We were salmon Slop-slapping upstream. Turns out, Madame Prozac slammed her Goddamn sausage finger in The Miracle Blowhole. Would we suffocate, would we die? Trapped forever. Starved as gnats, and Fed up of Chomping the innards of these low walls â&#x20AC;&#x201C; We thumped on Miracleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s belly. Thump. Then. Beeeeelch. Wet and wonderful! Onto the garters of the frank Frau Corpus We ejaculated. We clung and we wailed, Suspended Over her pond of grief.

But like everyone, Frau Corpus was Wild as a catherine wheel common as Much: headlong and henceforth Into the present we Hurl. Like a filmy Membrane of Freudian Burps. Schlurp. It is as if she has Flattened our edges, Whalloped our flanks. Bookish and wormed. Behold. Absorbent as Gore-tex, novel as ducks. Quack. Aimee Mckay

Oil and Water, Ella Ford 29

Stage Streams of warmth pull up smoke and dust From the floorboard below, and you can Feel the heat wallowing in lazy swathes. The shuffle of feet sounds just the same As fingers threading together to touch Palms. And those clouds around you are Illuminated in every halo of burning light, Dust collecting like breath in your lungs. Tasting the sweat on your upper lip With the trace of your tongue, placing Your palms upwards in the silent air, Stare towards the weave of rigs above, And every bolt and wire becomes a Constellation, turning the lights to an Astrologer’s secret, making each bend Of your fingers ache like the ink-stained Digits of a tired writer’s hand. Your feet Settle on the oak like sand; steady but Shifting with the smallest gesture. And Each word curled dormant at the bottom Of your spine awakens at the flick of Your tongue, unfurls itself and climbs The ladder of your ribcage, rising up with The surge of your lungs. Beams above Make quarries of your collarbones and Rockpools of your dimpled shoulders. Your Shadow stands before you like a lake of Haunted water, so familiar that if you Should fall, you’d sink back into it. Laurah Furner

Bosom You were like a cinema to me. A warm bosom to nestle into, Decor an old, timeless Sense of comfort. Your hands are my red velvet curtains, Brushed the wrong way, Heavy, pressing, And consuming, Enveloping me in a soft descent That both warms me And sends ice across my vertebrae. Jessie Jones

Deutscher Pavillon, Alexander Bethencourt

-----------------------------------------------The Laramie Project By Moisés Kaufman and Tectonic Theatre Project stage@leeds company Stage One, stage@leeds, 13th – 15th February Directed by Steve Ansell Assistant Director – Jessica Hilton Produced by Steve Ansell Laramie, Wyoming, is the small town where, on the night of 6th October, 1998, a young

gay man was abducted, brutally beaten, and left to die, tied to a fence in the hills. His name was Matthew Shepard and, although found by a cyclist, he was to die six days later in hospital. However, The Laramie Project is not about reconstructing these horrific events: it is a play about those left behind, for whom it was a deeply personal affair. It is about the repercussions of hate. Collated from the hundreds of interviews carried out by Kaufman and his theatre group in the year following Matthew’s death, this is impressive writing. What we hear in this piece of verbatim theatre are the voices of middle America: the voices of the people from Laramie, Mathew’s friends, his father, the cyclist who found Matthew, fellow university students, tutors, the local police, the assortment of Baptist, Unitarian, Mormon and Catholic ministers and priests within the town, the local bar staff, the detective in charge of the investigation, the attackers...a multitude of voices, not to mention those of the Tectonic Theatre Project members who carried out the interviews. Amidst so many voices and really that’s all they are, the voices of real people, rather than fully developed characters – it was quite difficult to keep track. With already such a large cast – fourteen in total – there were some obvious imbalances between performances, and some of the cast struggled to project their voices beyond the middle row of Stage One. Equally though, there was some excellent acting, and I must mention in particular the energetic performance of Marcus Marsh, as well as Harry Duff Walker’s versatile handling of characters, including as one of Matthew Shepard’s attackers. Steve Ansell’s production stuck faithfully to the original by Tectonic Theatre Project, stripped bare of almost all props and stage design. The only exception was the set of twelve natural pine chairs that were moved around by the cast throughout the play to

convey a sense of changing locations. Against a bright blue background, the chairs were propped on each other to create what at first appeared to be mountains, but were in fact standing for the fence where Matthew was found beaten, tied up and dying, having spent the night alone, unable to do anything but look at the sky. This was the single most moving image of the play. Similarly powerful was the cyclist Aaron Kreiffels’s (Freddie Brook) description of how he found Matthew tied, his face bashed and covered in blood except where his tears run down. Produced quite quickly after the January exam period, there were some quality imbalances in terms of cast, but this did not stop this new production from being, on the whole, quite good. Put on as part of the celebrations for LGBT History Month last February, this was an emotional production that has lost none of its political relevance for today’s world. My congratulations to everyone involved on a successful first production for the stage@leeds company. Rodolfo Barradas --------------------------------------------Americana The Hungry Bitches Written by Graham Mercer and Catherine McDermott Music and Lyrics by Graham Mercer Stage One, stage@leeds, 19th– 22nd February Directed by Matthew Reynolds Produced by Rose Brown, Sarah Hyman, and Sophie George Moore Designed by Natalie Mcloughlin Choreographed by Megan Griffith Musical Director – Katy Richardson Sound Design by Liam Hennebry and Ed Rice Lighting Design by Matthew Baker The Hungry Bitches have built up quite a reputation on campus following their performance of Facehunters in stage@leeds

last year and so, naturally, my expectations for their new musical Americana were high, given the praise I’d heard regarding their ability to tackle topical issues in an entertaining way. The final Saturday performance was a sell-out, with audience members watching from the side balconies. The opening musical number firmly solidified the orchestra’s talent, with a poignant score that introduced us to stoner-punk David and his ally Peaches, but detracted slightly from the focus of the story given that the pair appeared to be a couple, when David’s homosexuality was later established as the focus of the plot. Rebel Peaches was then introduced through song – red lips and grungy appearance contrasting with the clean-cut jocks and cheerleaders – and I found myself wanting the story to be about her, but the songs quickly moved on to introduce the other principal characters. There were catchy, up-beat numbers from the high-energy ensemble, and the lyrics were often humorous...that is, when they were not drowned out by the music. Occasionally, bad language tried to emphasise a point within a song, but this sometimes felt like an all-too-easy way of playing for laughs. There were, however, some wellwritten jokes, and these were delivered with impeccable timing during scenes, especially from Ellie May Taylor as Mouse. During the interval, I felt excited to see the following act, after being thoroughly satisfied by half a dozen shiny musical numbers, and was intrigued by what had started out as an engaging storyline about jock Brody and stoner David becoming a couple. However, the second act fell flat for me, with the pace slowing and a lack of structure that meant certain key moments were lost. I was surprised when the comedic value and much needed release of the prom scene was not exploited, and the entertainment value and apparent plot point were skipped over. The subject matter just no longer seemed satirical, with an attempted rape serving only

to bring two characters to a confrontation that wasn’t set up very convincingly. The second act also saw a succession of soloists performing ballads and, whilst their widespread talent was evident, each number weighed in upon the next and detracted slightly from the previous individual’s performance. This was followed by scenes of homophobic preaching from the teacher, where dialogue was somewhat more overstated than was necessary, with no change to staging or underscore to compensate for this. As the performance drew to a close, the predictable plot lost its potential for tenderness due to an unclear ending: suicide pact or school shooting? The subject matter also felt dated: it would have felt groundbreaking ten years ago, but seemed to be attempting to push boundaries without exploring the reasons why. This lack of investigation into the piece’s subject matter meant that, on the whole, the plot lacked coherence. This view was not felt by many however, as the Bitches received a standing ovation. It must be said that all who participated did so with the energy and commitment you would expect in a West End production and, with a few tweaks, the story would be on a par with this too. Jess Macdonald --------------------------------------------The Infant By Oliver Lansley Workshop Theatre Workshop Theatre, 24th-26th February Directed by Elen Gibbons Produced by Malak El-Gonemy Designed by Elen Gibbons Lighting and Sound by Lily Pinto and Sarah Braithwaite The Infant is an absurdist play by Oliver Lansley. Bianca Van Oppell and Dylan Marsh

play Samedi and Castogon, whose hostages, Cooper and Lily, played by Mike Schenck and Amy Morgan, are being interrogated about a picture that poses a threat to national security. The surrealist nature of this play was, for the most part, achieved well. Lighting and sound effects were accurate and appropriate, and added visual interest without distracting from the storyline. The play starts with a strong image of a man, barefoot, tied to a chair with a bag over his head. Though the entrance of Samedi and Castogon was slightly off, as the play continued the energy strengthened, and the actors bounced off each other naturally, working well together to portray a pair of mentally unstable captors. Although all the actors performed well at certain points, I felt that the strength of the performances was somewhat inconsistent, with characterisation often slipping in between lines. As the play went on, however, all four cast members’ energy dramatically increased, and they responded well to audience reaction, such as when Samedi used the story of Humpty Dumpty as an example of anarchist literature. The use of humour, particularly during the trial scene, was very clever. The lines here were well delivered, and Van Oppell gave a particularly strong performance. All of the evidence was presented to the audience, breaking the fourth wall and forcing the audience to pick a side and support either Cooper or Lily. The last scene was poignant and brought closure, while leaving elements up to audience interpretation. The recording of the child’s voice played in the pitch black removed any humour from what was, in fact, a very dark situation. The audience were trapped in this surrealist world, with the final scene serving as a reminder of the reality that the play is based on. The space was used to interesting effect, and permitted various character

developments and changes in status, keeping the audience on its toes as the story developed. I also thought the swivel chair was employed well, giving the captors more opportunity to exert their power and mix things up a little so as to avoid a monotonous visual. Contrasting lighting reflected the surrealist elements of the play and emotional highs or moments of increase in tension. Throughout, this was timed accurately and never caused distraction. One thing that did distract, however, was Samedi’s make up: the bold colours reflected the lighting and were presumably supposed to echo the surrealist nature of her character, but I personally found it detracted from Van Oppel’s work with the character. The costumes, however, were completely appropriate, matching the monochrome set and reflecting the timelessness of the play. Although there was continuity between scenes, some changeovers were a little messy, and the production generally didn’t seem as tight as it needed to be to really build momentum with such a small cast and restricted set. There were a few weak points, for example when Castogon lights up a cigarette – it is evident he is not a smoker and it was all extremely unnatural. Despite these unpolished aspects of performance, it was enjoyable and, given that it was rehearsed and put on in only three weeks, it was very well done. Louisa Brimacomb-Wiard -----------------------------------------------Hedda Gabler By Henrik Ibsen, in a new version by Brian Friel Open Theatre Stage One, stage@leeds, 26th – 27th February Directed by Dave Reeson and Arron Gill Produced by Bryce Lianna Designed by Laura Dantas

The most performed of Ibsen’s plays, Hedda Gabler is an intensely psychological examination of European society at a turning point in history. Fastidiously furnished at great expense with drab upholstery and already wilting tulips, the set of the Tesmans’ drawing room provides the audience with glimpses of what lies behind the façade of domestic respectability. Having married ‘decent, trusting, credulous’ George Tesman (Alec Walker), and so trapped herself in a dull, provincial existence, Hedda Gabler (Madeleine Gray) is bored and so, by cruelly playing off everyone, she batters down the petit bourgeois world of the play. Yes, Gabler is manipulative and cruel, but does she really want the hedonistic existence of the softly spoken and haggard Eilert Loevborg (Guy Hodgkinson)? No, afraid of scandal, she thrives on living vicariously…how provincial and petit bourgeois the General’s daughter proves to be after all! Thea Elvsted (Lily Hall) might be often described as ‘a woman addicted to her anxieties’, but in this play everyone has their own personal addictions. However, it would be simplistic to see Hedda Gabler in this light alone, and there is plenty of scope in Ibsen’s writing for an all-out Freudian reading. Having completely collapsed under the sexual blackmail of the oleaginous Judge Brack (Rik Baker), Hedda’s character becomes increasingly hard to define: feminist empowerment? tragic victim of misogynistic society? In the anxious and convulsed society of fin-de-siécle Europe, it’s hard to say for certain. An exceptionally well cast production all round, it was Madeleine Gray and Rik Baker that stood out, particularly as they wittily flirted ‘a deux’ in Act 2. Hedda is considered one of the most challenging leading roles in theatre, and Gray gave an unflinching performance as the aristocratic enigma, seemingly in control of herself and others while letting this mask occasionally slip. As events came to a head in Act 4, Gray

ably handled her character’s muted ecstasy at thinking her plans had worked out, before everything crashed down around her, and the reality of domestic bliss enveloped and suffocated her. One scene played out in the background of George’s self-absorbed monologue about baby names, and his slippers nicely employed the rest of the cast to convey the expectations of society for a young married woman. Directors Arron Gill and Dave Reeson have created a very interesting production based on Brian Friel’s 2008 adaption of Ibsen’s play. The natural realism of Ibsen was maintained by the set, costumes, and especially the fine display of facial hair on the part of all three male actors. Ibsen purists might object to Friel’s comical heightening of the auntie-fixated, parochial academic of tenthcentury domestic crafts, George Tesman, who perhaps, obsessed as he was with his exquisitely embroidered slippers, had a tad too much of Henry Higgins in him. However, the comedy did lighten up what otherwise is a very dark play, and Walker handled delightfully the outlandish monologues of his character, jumping towards the audience to great comical effect. Layered on top of Ibsen’s original natural realism and Friel’s heightened comedy was the directors’ more technical additional touches, which had mixed results. The decision to project the stage directions and have them read out was good, as it introduced the characters, who froze momentarily on stage, and it really was an excellent idea to project the dictionary definitions of Judge Brack’s idiosyncratic Americanisms. However, projecting the occasional speech as the character uttered it, almost as if it should be some sort of catchphrase, was unnecessary and, at best, distracting for the audience. This was certainly not helped by some very slight timing mishaps in the projections that sometimes came late and lingered a bit too long, though on the whole it hardly mattered

all that much as it certainly did not get in the way of enjoying the rest of the play. Far more successful was the light play executed by Laura Dantas in Act 4 to convey the synchronicity of independent conversations. The decision to stage Gabler’s suicide through shadows offstage was also pulled off to great dramatic effect. If not flawless, Open Theatre’s Hedda Gabler was a very successful production of layered aesthetics and fine acting. It’s a pity that it was only on for two nights. Rodolfo Barradas ------------------------------------------------------------Tedtopia tg Written and directed by Joshua Ling Banham Theatre, 4th – 6th March Produced by Hannah Workman Designed by Bobby Bates Sound design by Kristin Amarandos Lighting design by Edward Soulsby Design Assistant – Pippa Haynes Stage managed by Joanna Pitman and Tiphani Fisher Inconveniently at times, we at The Scribe move in theatrical social circles, which means that it can be difficult, if we really hate something – really despise the very principles upon which it is based – to say so in our review, simply because it is likely we will bump into its director at a party, and have to avoid making eye contact with them because we thought that their interpretation of Much Ado About Nothing was flawed in a whole multitude of different ways. Therefore, the fact that Joshua Ling was both the director and writer of Tedtopia, brought a new set of worries in this department. I entered his production hoping and praying that it would be brilliant. And I’m pleased to say that it didn’t let me down. In a parallel universe, Josh has

deleted me from Facebook as a result of my remarks about how his post-apocalyptic farce was derivative, uninspired and depressing, but luckily in this one we remain Facebook friends, because I have to say that his debut comedy kept me laughing for its entirety, and was quite unlike anything I’ve seen on stage written by a young writer. That isn’t to say that it wasn’t in any way derivative, because it was, in several ways, not all of which were brilliant, but mostly its sources of inspiration were warranted and picked from with love. I’m reminded of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Fawlty Towers, and even The Young Ones. Tedtopia draws from a brand of absurd, runabout humour not widely seen since the 1970s and ’80s. Ling’s writing style isn’t fashionable these days, but when done well, the farce is a fantastic thing, and here there was no doubt that it was done well. Right from the start, I was struck by how sharp Joshua’s dialogue was. It was so snappy that, by the time you’ve worked out why you should be laughing at one line, another character’s line gave you an equally amusing slap in the face, and you find yourself almost hyperventilating with laughter. In fact, I was glad that the interval came so early, otherwise I fear I may have had an asthma attack. And I’m not even asthmatic. Tedtopia’s success was not only down to the dialogue, however, good as it may have been: the visual gags were just as thrilling – one scene, involving a game of swingball, was a particular highlight. Ling has proved himself to be a master of both ends of the comedic spectrum. However, I would argue that a couple of characters, specifically Kate and Jack, could have done with some more fleshing out. Kate in particular was a character whose story I was intrigued to learn more about, with Emily Ashcroft’s delicate acting teasing me each time I thought I may get a deeper insight into her past. The star of the show from an acting

perspective was undoubtedly Emily Clarke as Percy or Gerty, whose talent for hilarious facial expressions is unrivalled in the West Yorkshire area. Alongside Leanne Stenson as Betty, she received laugh after raucous laugh from the audience. Alex Hargreaves showed himself to be a fantastic character actor, having already displayed his directing ability in Titus Andronicus, and Jordan Brookes and Felix O’Leary offered more subtle performances alongside Alex Lucas as the erratic Tim. The ‘national anthem’ featured in the production was another great moment. However, I felt that the choir version recorded and played at the end of the performance could have done with being featured at some point during its scenes. Tedtopia was an absolutely, outrageously good production, and I’ll be damned if Josh Ling is not scribbling away right now trying to pen his difficult second play. Dylan Marsh --------------------------------------------But Then There Was Ella Open Theatre Written and directed by Jess Macdonald Stage@Leeds, 6th – 8th March Assistant Directors – Imogen Nield and Joe Thompson Produced by Hannah Donnelly and Rebecca Thomason Designed by Roz Chomacki Lighting and Sound by Matthew Harrup Stage managed by Sofia ‘Zosh’ Skowronska and Lauren Huxley Jess Macdonald’s But Then There Was Ella, an adaptation of her novel of the same name, is a psychological thriller. It tells the story of the troubled Rachel McArthur, and her pathological need to construct a perfect family life in the wake of a bereavement that leads her to ‘the UK’s most notorious high security

psychiatric unit’. The plot is highly complex, requiring numerous settings, encompassing various temporal spaces and, though the technical team must be commended for their efforts in meeting the demands that this poses, I felt that the play lacked a sense of unity. One way that the play tackled the difficulty of mediating between Rachel’s convoluted backstory and her present life situation was by splitting the character into two roles. As Rachel #1, Milly Dent performed the protagonist’s past, moving from one tragic life event to the next. Molly Sharpe, Rachel #2, agonised with her psychiatrist over these events in the present. This distinction was made clear from the start, and generally worked well to keep the audience up to speed in what could otherwise have been a very confusing play. Sitting down for her therapy session in the opening scene, Rachel #2 despairs at the monotony of life in a psychiatric hospital proclaiming “It’s nothing but continuity!” Ironically, what seemed to be most desperately needed in But Then There Was Ella was continuity, in the sense of the maintenance of continuous action, which cut constantly from one scene to the next, punctuated by full blackouts, meaning that the audience spent a great deal of time in the dark, waiting for the next scene and rarely having enough time to connect with what was happening on stage. Though it is clear that this is an inherent issue with the nature of the story being told, and that it would be difficult to find another way of staging it to circumvent this problem, it certainly detracted from the impact of the play. In one particularly memorable moment in the piece, we see Rachel and her husband Andrew argue about her drinking; a bottle is smashed and Rachel is left on the floor, her hand bleeding. Technically well executed, the effect of the smashed bottle was quite shocking, and both actors seemed genuinely emotionally invested. Producers Hannah

Donnelly and Rebecca Thomason also did an excellent job with props and set dressings, which were all appropriate and where they needed to be. The set was another strong element of this production: separated into three levels and covering at least eight different locations, it served well in creating believable spaces that minimised the disjointed feeling that came with the constant relocation. Furthermore, credit must go to stage manager Sofia ‘Zosh’ Skowronska for facilitating these technical aspects as, though the changes took a long time, this was largely unavoidable and there were few visible slip-ups. The lighting and sound effects were also generally good, though there was a moment at the end of the second act where a strobe light was used either accidentally, or without sufficient explanation. This play is very much a family drama and, as with many university productions, this poses a challenge with representing the respective ages of characters. At times, it was difficult to understand the family dynamics, especially since the children and the adults came across quite similarly. Jordan Larkin in the role of Rachel’s father was, however, impressively and believably senior, in what was one of the smallest roles in the play. It was a shame we did not see more of him. My main criticism of this play was its eagerness to build pathos teamed with its reluctance to lay the groundwork for this. But Then There Was Ella touches on numerous sensitive issues: mental illness, abortion, miscarriage, suicide, alcoholism, adultery, and bereavement to name a few, but perhaps without necessary tact. It seemed that the audience had little time to reflect on one catastrophe, such as the tragic loss of Rachel’s father, before the sudden revelation of another bombshell. We were overwhelmed with misery, and it is important with such delicate material not to seem flippant: it felt, at times, just a little insincere.

Faithfully adapting a piece of writing like Jess’s novel for the stage is an immense challenge, and this production was a bold and thought-provoking piece that showed evidence of a great deal of hard work. Ultimately, however, its downfall lay in an incompatibility of form and content. Though the story of Rachel McArthur may be gripping, it is very difficult to tell it in the theatre due to its complexity and technical demands. The material might have been better suited to cinema or television that would have accommodated these demands and allow for greater freedom of expression. Susannah Shane -----------------------------------------------Wit By Margaret Edson Workshop Theatre Workshop Theatre, 5th – 6th March Directed by Elizabeth Kennedy Produced by Catherine de Melllo Lighting by Jessica Hilton Margaret Edson’s Wit tells the story of Vivian Bearing, a professor of John Donne’s Holy Sonnets, who is diagnosed with ovarian cancer at the beginning of the play. The play is framed by her character, who acts as a sort of narrator, stepping out of the action to directly address the audience, and then back in again as the story progresses. As such, it provides an insight into the inner workings of her mind as she reflects on her life, work, and relationships, or lack thereof. Elizabeth Kennedy tackles the difficult subject matter with great sensitivity, bringing the nuances of Edson’s writing to life through her direction. With such a tricky topic, it is often tempting to shy away from the presentation of uncomfortable or painful scenes out of a lack of confidence in one’s ability to do them justice, something I was very conscious of when going to watch this.

However, Kennedy must be credited for the way she embraced the challenge, aided by a beautifully powerful performance from Tessa Davies as Vivian. Whilst the performance was slightly slow to begin with, taking time to get to the heart of the story, as the play progressed, it became apparent that this was necessary in building an emotional rapport between Vivian’s character and the audience. Tessa Davies wonderfully conveyed the conflict within Vivian in relation to her identity throughout the performance; she is desperate to remind everyone of the fact that she is a university professor, but at the same time is painfully aware of her loneliness and isolation. The use of flashback was done expertly, and Kennedy’s decision to have the other actors bringing on and off the various pieces of set was particularly effective in setting apart Vivian’s character as isolated. The scene between Vivian and her father stood out as being particularly poignant, with Tessa demonstrating the innocent naivety of a child in a charming manner alongside Scarlett Simkin, who delivered the role of the slightly disinterested and distant father very well. Catriona Burke brought some lighthearted comedy through her performance as the doctor, Jane. Her comic timing was on the mark, and the juxtaposition of the serious subject matter with her witty interjections added another layer to the play. It was particularly powerful to see her character crumble under the pressure of realising that all her scientific theories boiled down to the life of a real person. The technicians, played by Katelyn Edwards, Briony Puddepha, and Helen Clifford effectively added to this, ganging up on Jane’s character and highlighting the brutality of the medical world. Chloe Beddoes, who played the loveable Susie, delivered a charming performance, particularly in the portrayal of her caring and motherly relationship with

Vivian. However, it was the scene in which Vivian’s old professor, Evelyn, comes to visit her, that was both the most heart-warming and exceptionally sad moment of the play. Amelia Dunton delivered a beautifully touching performance as she sat calmly on the bed, reading a children’s book to a sobbing Tessa. Amelia managed to portray just how hard it is to watch someone you love leave you, whilst desperately attempting to stay strong. It is this image that stays with you, long after the show has ended. Generally speaking, the technical elements aided the piece: the set was cleverly designed, and Kennedy’s decisions in relation to the scene in which Jane examines Vivian was achieved skilfully. Stark, white light created the hospital setting, and allowed for a distinction to be made between flashbacks and moments in the present. However, there were a couple of instances where the use of coloured lighting seemed a little sporadic, which did detract slightly from the piece. Kennedy’s directorial decisions for the piece were highly commendable, and all the actors’ performances were unique and well executed. Tessa Davies must be congratulated for the exceptional standard of her acting: she had an incredibly dense amount of lines to learn, and she managed not only to rise to the challenge, but also to leave every member of the audience sobbing into their programmes as the house lights came up. Malak El-Gonemy ------------------------------------------------------------The Duchess of Malfi By John Webster tg Banham Theatre, 11th – 13th March Directed by Sammy Gooch Produced by Lucy Troy, Jocelyn Cheek and Rosa Dodd Badly in need of renovation and with all

the atmosphere of a school assembly room, the Banham Theatre is not an inspiring performance space at the best of times. I was therefore sceptical, to say the least, when I learned that Webster’s Jacobean Revenge tragedy, The Duchess of Malfi, was going to be staged there of all places. Although Sammy Gooch’s decision to cut the cast list from fifteen to eight went a long way to circumventing the problem of the limited space available, I still felt that the grandeur of Malfi would have been better served had it been performed in a bigger playing space, especially since the director’s decision to pack the stage full with a moveable set resulted in frequent and unnecessary scene changes during the first half of the performance. To my mind, the bare boards approach employed in the second half would have also served the production’s purposes in the first. That said the use of see-through drapes was extremely effective in articulating the espionage that runs through the play, and the shadow-play created by backlighting the actors perfectly encapsulated Gooch’s aim to bring out the light and dark elements that stand in stark contrast throughout. Though I felt more use could have been of this technique at specific points – such as in the final scene when Bosola (Stephen Rainbird) accidentally stabs Antonio (Nick Bechman) – using Bechman’s shadow as the noosed effigy that Ferdinand (Jack Baxter) presents to the Duchess (Tiara Katrina) as the likeness of her husband was an inspired directorial decision. There was light and dark in the delivery too, and the audience often seemed poised on the cusp of the absurd – finding humour in lines that, on paper, seem merely ridiculous. No tragedy by Shakespeare is without its comedic elements, and Webster is no different in this. Nowhere was this better executed than in Sophia Papadopoulous’ performances as Cariola and, later, the Doctor. She succeeded in achieving the hard task of making Early

Modern English not only accessible but also hilariously funny. A lot of this was down to her back-acting: her expression never once slipped out of character, which is quite something considering that, as Cariola is brutally murdered, she then had to re-emerge as the Doctor – an inconsistency that might have been avoided had the role of Julia been cut, freeing up Jodie Chun to play the Doctor after Cariola’s death. Papadopoulous coped remarkably well considering this. Nick Bechman also excelled at making the meaning of Webster’s blank verse plain to the audience, and his stillness in the second half was, at times, mesmerising. In his final, dying moments, a solitary tear trickled down Bechman’s cheek and his Antonio had me doing something I have not done in the theatre for a very long time – crying openly and without shame. However, Malfi is no exception to the general rule that the catalogue of deaths in a Jacobean tragedy can, for those in the stalls, sometimes be a bit like being slowly clubbed into a desensitised stupor yourself. I felt that the monotony of watching four actors stab each other, deliver a nicely-rounded closing speech for their character, and then die onstage might have been lessened by making more in the way of cuts, but it is understandable that Gooch did not want to stray too far from the text and the faithfulness of the production as a whole must be commended. T h e costumes alone bear witness to this: producers Lucy Troy, Jocelyn Cheek and Rosa Dodd have succeeded in assembling a convincing Jacobean wardrobe given the omnipresent constraints of time and budget on university productions. Dodd also took the opportunity to not only film the stage performances but created a promotional video that secured that thing every production team hankers after – a sell-out night. But beyond the set and the costumes, lies the text. There were certainly moments, whole scenes even, in which I was as engaged

as I have ever been in a theatre: that happy medium where every word is clear, and yet the language is, quite uncannily, at once strange and familiar – the Early Modern has, for that brief ‘two hour’s traffic of our stage’, become our modern idiom. Despite this though, the role of the Duchess’s brothers, Ferdinand and the Cardinal, and their relationship with the malcontent, Bosola, as well as the sense of camaraderie between Antonio and Delio (Damilola Adeyeye) did feel a little underdeveloped. This is not to say that any of the individual performances were amiss, but rather that the onstage chemistry lacked, at times, just that extra ounce of credibility. I was, however, particularly taken with Rainbird’s Bosola who, despite being seemingly engaged in some sort of dialogue with his finger (presumably a budding actor’s tic), reunited his role as malcontent at court with its dramatic predecessor of Vice in medieval morality plays. The closing credit, however, goes, of course, to Tiara Katrina for her performance as the Duchess. Once I had tuned into the American inflection of her accent, her performance had me hook, line and sinker. Although I felt at times that certain emotional peaks, such as the one before her death in 4.2, might have been made more understated and less hysterical, her stage presence was undeniable and, for the most part, her gestures were measured, her delivery articulate and her interaction with Bechman’s Antonio heartfelt. The Duchess of Malfi is by no means an easy play, but for once it was refreshing to see Jacobean drama done in a period style and with such loving attention to Webster’s text. Fingers crossed, we’ll see more in the way of Shakespeare’s contemporaries and not just the Bard himself in future productions at the University of Leeds. Rik Baker

Interview with Tom Chivers, Director of Penned in the Margins 24th January, 2014 As an independent publisher and literary arts producer, with a focus on new, experimental writing and spoken word, Penned in the Margins is one of the most exciting presses out there. Tom Chivers, the poet behind it all, talked to us about publishing spoken word, unconscious editorial poetics, and what lies in store for 2014. How did Penned in the Margins come about? The company was born out of a passion for experimenting with language, exploring ideas, and telling alternative stories for people who are not afraid of taking risks. Our first venue was a tiny converted railway arch in South London; that was ten years ago. A couple of years later, I quit my job to run Penned in the Margins full-time. Since then, we’ve published 40 books and worked with over one hundred poets, writers, musicians and performers on a wide range of events and projects. PITM goes beyond what a publishing press traditionally does, and you actively commission, produce, and tour live literature shows. Is this part of the ‘cultural democratisation’ of the ‘static roles of writer, reader, critic, academic, and consumer’ that you mention in your introduction to Stress Fractures: Essays on Poetry (2010)? The ‘cultural democratisation’ I was referring to in Stress Fractures is more to do with the breakdown of traditional publishing hierarchies. This is the result of changing economies and publishing technologies, as well as broader social movements. It’s not the reason I produce live literature shows, but perhaps it fits into that underlying trend. I don’t see Penned in the Margins as a press that happens to run events, nor as a performing arts company that happens to publish books. The two enjoy a symbiotic relationship – at least, they do in my head. I am drawn to all art forms and media, whether a text/poem/story becomes a printed book, or a piece of theatre, or an installation artwork – these are all potential vehicles.

Your list includes poets like Hannah Silva and Siddhartha Bose, whose work is very experimental, and originally meant to be performed. How does this translate onto the page? I’m very interested in the various configurations of writing and performance, ‘performance writing,’ and so on. The Modernist poet Basil Bunting said: “Poetry like music, is to be heard. It deals in sound – long sounds and short sounds, heavy beats and light beats, the tone relations of vowels, the relations of consonants to one another, which are like instrumental colour in music. Poetry lies dead on the page, until some voice brings it to life.” Of course, some performance works are difficult to translate to the page. Sometimes, the desire of the writer to have their work ‘fixed’ in print – with all the accompanying validation and tradition of that medium – can overwhelm the important aesthetic decision: is it good? does it work? what is the reader getting out of it? Sometimes, there are benefits [to] writing for the page. The reader can experience the work at their own pace, can return to it, bookmark it. Performance, for all its visceral immediacy, is wonderfully ephemeral. You’re a poet yourself with published work. How does your own work influence and, equally is influenced by, your editorial work? Aspiring poets are always told to read widely, so for a start I have that advantage: I read a lot of poetry for my job. Being an editor means that you’re deep inside that world. You become finely tuned to style, trends, influences, fashions. I can spot a cliché at forty yards. I edit on sight. But that can also be a trap. It’s hard to turn the editorial brain off and, without self-consciousness, just write. A lot of what PITM publishes explores the body and the urban/the city – Alan Cunningham’s experimental novella Count From Zero to One Hundred, I thought, explored both. Is this a self-conscious editorial choice? I’m glad you’ve picked up on that. It’s not a conscious theme that we’re exploring, but it does appear frequently in our books. I think of Heather Phillipson’s NOT AN ESSAY as a kind of companion book to Alan’s; they both bring us close to the bodily reality of living in close proximity to so many other people, the beautiful awkwardness of it all. As Hannah Silva says in one of her poems, ‘You have failed to die and are leaving behind an immensely human smell.’

So what do you look for in a manuscript? Any particular advice to young writers? It’s almost impossible to put my finger on what makes the right manuscript for Penned in the Margins; we have a diverse list. I am incredibly picky, but at the same time always open to new manuscripts and proposals for books and performance projects. I’m especially keen to read more submissions by women, and by writers from a Black/Asian background (the latter being under-represented in our list, and generally). I would advise young writers who are starting to put their work out there not to worry about publishing their magnus opus right away. Walk before you can run. Stumble before you can walk. Make mistakes, and then get better, or different. Experiment constantly. When you feel too comfortable, press delete, and write again. Snip off the first line of your poem and throw it into the middle. Translate your text into Klingon and then back again. Finally, as it’s the 10th anniversary of PITM, what are the plans for 2014? We’re holding a big party in September to celebrate our first ten years. There may be balloons. There will certainly be cake. Other than that, we’re producing new shows by Siddhartha Bose, sound poet Caroline Bergvall, and Guardian First Bookshortlistee Claire Trévien. We’re running a new night called Negative Capability with experimental musician Leafcutter John and a bunch of poets investigating the dark mysteries of the creative mind. We’re publishing a book about climbing urban mountains, another about searching for dead poets in London’s cemeteries, and an experimental history of Birmingham. It’s all on our website (or will be very soon). Rodolfo Barradas