1 wonderful bird 2015
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Ardingly College 2015
Ardingly College 2015
S P E C I A L E D I T I O N
Haywards Heath, West Sussex RH17 6SQ EnglandTelephone: +44 1444 893000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ardingly.com
TH
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Ardingly C
ollege 2015
THE
I N O C T O B E R 2 0 1 4 , E I G H T E E N I N T R E P I D
C R E AT I V E W R I T E R S S E T O F F O N A M I S S I O N T O
L U M B B A N K , T E D H U G H E S ’ R E M O T E Y O R K S H I R E
FA R M H O U S E . T H E R E T H E Y S P E N T F I V E D AY S
W R I T I N G P O E T R Y, W I T H T H E E X P E R T H E L P
O F M A S T E R P O E T S C A R O L I N E B I R D A N D C L I F F
YAT E S . A M A G N I F I C E N T W E E K O F W R I T I N G ,
WA L K I N G , C H AT T I N G A N D T H I N K I N G L E D T O T H E
C R E AT I O N O F D O Z E N S O F P O E M S , T H E B E S T O F
W H I C H H AV E B E E N C A R E F U L LY C H O S E N F O R
I N C L U S I O N I N T H I S A N T H O L O G Y. W E H O P E Y O U
E N J O Y R E A D I N G T H E M A S M U C H A S W E E N J O Y E D
W R I T I N G T H E M .
T H E A R V O N C R E AT I V E W R I T E R S , 2 0 1 4 .
T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
I R E M E M B E R
6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
M E N TA L
I G R A N T E D C I N D E R S A W I S H …
A V E R Y S C I E N T I F I C S U R V E Y
T H E G I R L I N T H E P H O T O G R A P H
T H E D E F I N I T I O N O F O K AY
T H E P O E M F O R A P O E T
W E L L I E S A N D R A I N J A C K E T S
H O M E C O M I N G
H I P J O I N
A S L E E P
G U I TA R
I S AW
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A L I T T L E J C B
T H E L I T T L E B O Y U P S TA I R S
T H E P H O N E R A N G
M E M O R Y R E E L
J A C K - I N - H E R - B O X
R O G E R A N D VA L E R I E
H O M E - C O M I N G
C O M PA N I O N
F I V E O B S E R VAT I O N S O F A C AT
A L A R M
D O L L S
T O R O R O A N D H O I M A
A P O E M F O R T H E WAY
P E O P L E O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N L I T E R AT U R E
I ’ D L I K E T O P R O P O S E A T O A S T
T O M Y TA M A G O T C H I
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W E H AV E
R I D G E S
T O M Y P I N K S PA R K LY H AT
L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4
S E A S I D E S E T T L E M E N T
I N D I A N C O W
I T ’ S A T U R T L E L I F E
D I S G U S T
PA R A D I S E
H O W I S AV E D T H E C A R
N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2
A C K R I K
D O O R S
L I M I T E D E D I T I O N M O D E L
H A R V E S T
3 3 P R I N C E S S T R E E T, O X F O R D – O C T O B E R 1 9 8 9 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )
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B A B Y P I C T U R E S
E D WA R D I I ’ S G R E AT M I S TA K E
D R A G O N I N A C AV E
6 WAY S O F L O O K I N G AT A M I R R O R
W I N D O W
M A P
B E C A U S E
F R O G
F I R E A L A R M
T O R T O I S E
T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M
T I N Y B E A R B I G B R O T H E R
S S I K
D R I V E
Y O U A N D M E
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T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
I R E M E M B E R
6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E
H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
On Monday we shared an apple,
we were good friends,
the hungry caterpillar and I.
On Tuesday we upped the stakes.
We ate two pears, it was great
He made a joke about the pears being a pair
He said we were a pair of pears.
I laughed.
On Wednesday we ate three oranges
He was a very hungry caterpillar
He accidentally ate the second all by himself,
Not sharing. He apologised, I accepted
On Thursday, we shared four plums
He ate three and I ate one
There was no apology, no jokes
On Friday we fought over five strawberries
I ate two and a quarter,
I said we were in this together
He said I was holding him back.
On Saturday I watched as he gorged himself,
A lollipop stolen from a baby, a salami half
rotted
A piece of pie stolen from a windowsill
and a bar of chocolate
My stomach rumbled, empty. His gurgled, full.
The next day he disappeared
Into a cocoon of his own success
I shouted insults from afar
I told him I hoped he would suffocate
In that dark tomb
It was Monday again and I was old
I hadn’t seen him for what felt like a week
I went to tell him I was sorry, he could come out
We could share an apple again
The tomb was empty, the stone rolled away
And a beautiful pair of wings lay
untouched on a silver glistening net
My stomach rumbled empty
My heart followed suit.
A N D R E W T E L F O R D
I R E M E M B E R
I remember being the last one in the playground, just me and Mrs Atkins.
I remember the not very sincere apologies and the even less sincere “That’s all right”.
I remember the Volvo, a beast roaring smoke and fire, with AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’ carrying us through the night.
I remember the darkness, shrouding the verges of the road, a shadowy veil, perfectly concealing.
I remember tears, falling silently onto a dinosaur duvet, the ‘Doyouthinkhesaurus’ staring at me.
I remember the speed, the excitement, the thrill that came before,
I remember the eyes, the fear and the jolt.
6 WAY S T O L O O K AT T H E H U N G R Y C AT E R P I L L A R
1. An educational story about the natural process of a maturing caterpillar.
2. A tragic tale of a teenage caterpillar with a love for food, who becomes obsessed about her appearance, overeats when trying to lose weight, goes into depression and dies but ascends to heaven as an angel.
3. The insect world’s version of Man vs Food.
4. A thriller about a caterpillar and his race against time to become a butterfly within one week, breaking the previous world record.
5. A children’s story that I think about far too much for a seventeen year old.
6. A comedy about a grumpy, jealous little man who finds himself through his love for food and blossoms in later life.
A N D R E W T E L F O R D
M E N TA L
I G R A N T E D C I N D E R S A W I S H …
M E N TA L
There is a couple nattering away to each other
in the ‘St Elwin’s Mental Institute’.
One of them is sitting in sad acceptance,
the other slouching on her chair and scowling like an offended mushroom.
“I told you it’s not fair”
“just stop, life doesn’t even matter”
One, raging in her crispy white pyjamas
got up and threw a chicken out of the window,
Two slowly dropped her face into her bowl of porridge.
they sit still, as if waiting for retribution.
“Where’s Retribution”
“She should be here by now shouldn’t she…but honestly who cares” she adds hastily.
awkward silence.
One’s toadstool frown darkens and she hisses,
“I’m angry about something”
“What?...actually I don’t care”
the medicine green door swings open,
there stands Retribution, her white pyjamas glowing in self-satisfaction,
“You Two are so uncaring and nasty, you too One”
One strolls over, screeching like a reindeer.
Picks Retribution up,
Opens the window and drops her out,
To join the feathery mess below.
“irritating little bitch isn’t she”
Two smiles and then immediately wipes the offensive mark off her face with a whiteboard rubber.
A clattering comes from behind the tinted windows.
A hoard of Shes pile through the doorway.
It giggles and I cackles.
a box of polystyrene wanders in with them
I picks it up and dumps the dry, squeaky snow on her rag-tag-wig hair.
A grin stretches across her face.
Me sits in the corner like a muttering sewing machine and whispers,
“Me is confused.”
A N N A E LW I N
I G R A N T E D C I N D E R S A W I S H …
A letter landed on my doormat,
A gilded, sugar-sweet, custard-cream envelope.
I had been cordially invited,
The little brat’s gone and done it hasn’t she.
She had begged to go to that dance,
Well perhaps I offered,
But it was her- excited by sparkling glances, swinging cloth and singing champagne flutes.
The lure of sugar-sweet, silky-smooth ‘Romance’
She was never one for practicality.
I thought she’d end up with crystal splinters, not a rock on her finger.
But that envelope,
The silver letters swirled like pretentious house-plants.
Time to prepare for another ill-matched wedding.
She barely knew him,
She was a face in the glitter of night,
made up with a cement trowel I might add.
He didn’t even remember what she looked like,
But the little gold-digger didn’t care.
The cow ruined my best pumpkin.
No doubt she’ll reach forty, a miserable housewife,
Snot in on hand, vomit down her back,
With a husband who forgets her name
While she tries to forget his.
Not as bad as that floozy with the long hair though.
She let down her golden weave
and her lingerie too.
Her mother cast her out, I don’t blame her.
Twins before eighteen!
At least my protégée still has her figure.
I suppose I ought to go.
Get my regular dose of frosting and crocodile tears.
I’ll go to her wedding,
Her and her darling foot-fetishist.
A N N A E LW I N
A V E R Y S C I E N T I F I C S U R V E Y
T H E G I R L I N T H E P H O T O G R A P H
T H E D E F I N I T I O N O F O K AY
T H E P O E M F O R A P O E T
W E L L I E S A N D R A I N J A C K E T S
A V E R Y S C I E N T I F I C S U R V E Y
1. Why do people stop loving each other?
2. What is your favourite colour? Why?
3. Does yoga actually have any beneficial qualities?
4. Is the ‘resting bitch face’ genetic?
5. Why do they manufacture women’s clothing with such insufficient pockets?
6. Are birds afraid of heights? Are you?
7. Rain? Expand.
8. How many pieces are left when your heart breaks?
T H E G I R L I N T H E P H O T O G R A P H
I want to reach in and pull her from the polaroid
and scream, “What do you want from me?!”
I threw the frame across the room once,
it broke, but her gaze did not.
I grabbed the photo and shoved it
into the shoebox beneath my bed,
in a desperate attempt to avert her gaze.
Some nights, I smell cardboard burning.
T H E D E F I N I T I O N O F O K AY
Okay is a rubix cube,
with a jumble of faces,
swivel left, swivel down.
Okay is the bowed head of a nun
entering the church’s belly,
odd socks hidden by her habit.
Okay is a teenage girl,
clunking down the phone receiver,
preening into the mirror,
knowing she’ll never be
so beautiful again.
Okay is that strange stain on your coffee table,
a museum of moments,
with a gift store at the end.
A S H L E I G H J O H N
W E L L I E S A N D R A I N J A C K E T S
Sadness is twins,
wearing matching shades of grey.
The boy with his bowler hat,
to host the shrapnel of love gone sour.
The girl with her ribbons,
ends trailing the ground,
leading the way for the souls of lost loved ones.
When they walk they hold hands,
careful not to touch anything else.
They wear wellies and rainjackets in the house.
They don’t want to intrude.
When their presence is called upon they play
rock-paper-scissors to decide who must knock on the door.
They spend their days staring at windowpanes,
and cleaning up after their neighbour,
whose wheelie bins host whole rainbows,
and leak puddles of sunshine when put out on the curb.
They are experts at making the perfect cup of tea.
They drown in the mixtapes dedicated to them.
T H E P O E M F O R A P O E T
I want to write about how I feel
but I can’t find a good enough
metaphor to shroud it in.
Guess I’ll have to write some
nature poetry.
A S H L E I G H J O H N
H O M E C O M I N G
H I P J O I N
H O M E C O M I N G
The dead man was found in his dining room.
The drop leaf table’s leaf had dropped,
shattering calcified kneecaps,
and disturbing the dust on his clothes.
Dust motes gusted upwards, landing
along grey lashes and wiry eyebrows.
Finding new homes on the hairs in his ears
and settling up into his nose.
For a moment, the man’s face was covered,
features uncertain in the cloud of silver.
Dust clung to sockets and wrinkles and lines,
resting on lips and dried spit.
Sunshine glanced into the dining room,
lighting up the dust like a trick.
Sequins sparkled suddenly, ready for the show,
and the dead man’s grin stayed fixed.
B E C K Y A L L E N
H I P J O I N
Our hip join has started to hurt.
It used to work so beautifully.
Oiled, silent, discreet.
It began to ache weeks ago,
after your mother phoned.
I thought it was the cold.
It got frosty, but our hands were warm.
We rubbed its socket and bolts
and polished its hinges with our breath.
It was squeaking again last night.
When I was drinking with that man,
I thought I felt it tugging.
And last weekend, on the Sunday,
when you got back from the pub,
I swear you’d developed a limp.
I’ve bought some WD40:
I know Christmas means wear and tear.
We’ll be crippled if it gets any worse.
B E C K Y A L L E N
A S L E E P
G U I TA R
I S AW
A S L E E P
There is a single mountain in the village
made out of sugar and glass
that throws big shadows of
light around the corners of the
plain streets in early morning hours.
At night the shadows turn into ruling kings
trying to deaden all light and replace it with mist
but the silver moon above the mountain
shines on a plane
careful not to destroy the village made out of sugar and glass.
F R A N Z I S K A L O R D I C K
G U I TA R
I want to be a guitar
and not think about you.
I want to be free, happy and calm.
I want to be a guitar who is put into the corner of a boy’s room
and has time for itself and never knows when it is played again.
I want to be a guitar who travels around the world,
with stranger’s fingers put on its strings,
with unfamiliar melodies being introduced to it –
Romance Anonimo, Brushfire Fairytales, La Isla Bonita, Cupid.
I want to chill with hippies on a beach,
I want to sit around the Christmas tree with children taking no notice of me,
I want to see the smile of a girl who listens to a love song,
I want to be in the hands of superstars splitting one of my strings into two during a concert.
I want to be a guitar who never feels homesick
who only knows wanderlust.
I S AW
I saw a baboon dancing ballet with a baby.
I saw a banana vomiting in a church.
I saw a high school girl murdering her goldfish with a knife.
I saw a palm tree running a marathon in New York.
I saw a tomato turning red when flirting with a fork.
I saw a grandpa drinking Earl Grey in a sidewalk café.
I saw a lamp getting drunk from red wine.
I saw a violin farting in a bus.
I saw a cloud dancing tango with a robot.
I saw an elephant changing clothes for a candle light dinner.
I saw a pianist turning back in time on a winter evening.
F R A N Z I S K A L O R D I C K
A L I T T L E J C B
T H E L I T T L E B O Y U P S TA I R S
T H E P H O N E R A N G
A L I T T L E J C B
Behind the hills,
the valleys,
the trees,
Lies a little JCB,
It Dug,
It Dug,
It ripped into the ground,
It destroyed the forest ground,
It looks small,
insignificant when faced with its ten tonne older brother,
It is dragged to menial tasks by his family,
However its cracked windows tell of a fallen star.
Now it is sitting, South of the Dales,
East of Leeds,
It is a photo op,
It is a little JCB.
J A K E F R E E M A N
T H E L I T T L E B O Y U P S TA I R S
A creak, A crack, A yelp
Is this house haunted?
This banging is driving me to the edge,
closer and closer, further and further,
The echo cast over this house is my nightmare
Room 101 has been unlocked
Holes are appearing in the ceiling,
time leaking out.
T H E P H O N E R A N G
I remember, when the phone rang, and I was left staring at Iona,
Alone in the garden, alone in Stockwell.
I remember the feel of cold, stainless steel in my hand.
I remember the cry, the rushing of feet,
The sound of another’s rage.
I remember the plasters, the hatred, the silence…
J A K E F R E E M A N
M E M O R Y R E E L
J A C K - I N - H E R - B O X
R O G E R A N D VA L E R I E
H O M E - C O M I N G
M E M O R Y R E E L
I remember the violent grooves
in the glazed ceramic of my mother’s
baking bowl, the freckled egg curving
on its edge. I remember
scaling the sturdy staircase,
untottering forever. The sound of expectancy
rang in my brother’s farewell as I kissed him.
I remember the cold taste
of the stone as it flung itself
and pitched into
the back of all his memories. Now I see
the colours of his hand against hospital sheets,
my mother clutching at the validity of her tears.
He flickers loosely in our heads, humming
J A C K - I N - H E R - B O X
I keep jack-in-her-box in the corner,
tip-toe past her when I go
to the cupboard to fetch my other,
more appealing toys.
She sits like a malevolent ghost. I learn
to pile my books elsewhere, avoid looking
at the red lip that pouts
from beneath her lid.
My friends wind her up,
coax her handle as it spins
like a hooked fish rising. I cower,
the box spooning sugar into her smile
until my friends grow bored, vanish up the walls –
The door slams shut and Jack
leaps at me, her clown head
lunging from the bizarre trampoline
of her rage. Flames leap
from her grin, burning
bruises on the bare walls.
I stifle her gently, easing her back
into the claustrophobic box
with her face in my hands.
She scribbles swear words on the walls;
I go back
to tip-toeing.
J A S M I N AT K I N S
R O G E R A N D VA L E R I E
Roger sticks pins into maps,
ties the laces on his shoes
like they are important parcels.
Valerie licks photographs,
counts the roses on her bed sheets
until they lose their pinkness.
Roger guzzles books like energy bars,
writes long lists down his arms
and measures them.
Valerie takes perfumed baths, dreaming
the world is a soap bubble and she
is a god, daring it to burst.
Roger
cuts each day into precise shapes.
Valerie leaves empty yoghurt pots
on furniture, calls it art.
When she falls from the mantelpiece,
Rogers sews her wounds with words,
reminds her she can’t fly.
H O M E - C O M I N G
My next-door neighbour only
comes home for the holidays.
She moves stiffly,
her boots shining like black puddles.
Even her outstretched arms lull and snap
like broken windmills.
She kisses perfunctorily, scoops
up the small child and hunches
upstairs. She lines her desk,
picks her way round boxes,
strewn clothes, bent-backed books.
Her hangers cackle when she
drops them. When she sleeps,
her face slips behind itself.
I glimpse her hands
as she washes, arms soaped
like a love-rhyme, throwing
herself headlong, flicking fingers
against the basin like tiddlywinks.
At night, I watch her face
split open
as the sky sings thunder.
J A S M I N AT K I N S
C O M PA N I O N
F I V E O B S E R VAT I O N S O F A C AT
A L A R M
D O L L S
C O M PA N I O N
You were my greatest childhood wonder
You brought the magic of the picture to life
Fuelled my love for flight and telekinesis
There was not a day where I could not wait
To come home and join you, to let my mind
Walk free among the stars,
Exploring ancient alien civilisations
And winning epic conflicts.
But new things cropped up, and I moved on
While you stayed here, gathering dust
Sitting in the same place for months.
Eventually, you were dismantled into bags
And left in the attic for years
Travelling nowhere, mingling with yourself.
Eventually, I found you
My interest piqued by your sleek design and awesome colours,
But I could find all the pieces to make you whole again.
Here you are, broken on the floor,
So àdieu, my Lego Jedi Starfighter!
F I V E O B S E R VAT I O N S O F A C AT
I) The Cat is vicious.
It needs its tablets,
But I need my arms.
II) The Cat ignores my presence.
I ignore hers.
She falls asleep on my lap.
III) While playing with prey,
An accidental death occurs.
The Cat is unfazed.
IV) The Cat goes outside when it rains
And comes inside when it’s dry.
I think it’s broken.
V) A furry fluff ball of malcontent
Who scratches, murders and defecates
Who domesticated Cats?
J A S P E R M A R S H A L L
A L A R M
I want to be an alarm,
And not something predictable.
I want to use the power of noise to Scare the bejeezus out of all.
I want to be revered and feared.
People know they need me,
But hate my presence all the same.
I want to be a big red fire alarm
To really make people worry
To make them think it’s serious
When in reality, it’s not.
I don’t want to think about the whos and whats,
Fire alarms just need an excuse.
Don’t let me know about current affairs,
It’s nothing to do with me.
Stop heckling me with your problems and concerns
I don’t care, okay!?!
If you ask me something trivial,
I swear I’ll go off right now.
Right, don’t say I didn’t warn you,
Prepare for the audible pain.
D O L L S
My mother has become a doll
I don’t know what to do.
My father too is made of felt,
And now I have to help them.
I’ll sit them both in different chairs
Beside a fireplace
Give them each a different book
And turn the page each day.
I’ll tell my Dad I’m a physicist
Exploring quarks and leptons
I’ve gone to Cambridge, I’ll say
And discovered all new Jasper-waves.
I’ll give him miniature headphones
To listen the days away
Classical, Rock and Ambience
All fill his plastic brain.
For Mum, however, I’m a historian
Or geographer, or novelist
I’ll write a page of book a day for her
Give her a tiny pencil
And a tiny sketchpad to draw on.
Perhaps, when I come home from school
My parents will be back too.
J A S P E R M A R S H A L L
T O R O R O A N D H O I M A
A P O E M F O R T H E WAY P E O P L E
O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N
L I T E R AT U R E
I ’ D L I K E T O P R O P O S E A T O A S T
T O M Y TA M A G O T C H I
T O R O R O A N D H O I M A
You Evening. July.
Pajero.
1, 2, 3, 4
3 and a half, 5, 6
5 and a half, bags.
Banana, banana, banana, chicken, Spot the White car.
Jinja – one hour down, five more to go.
It would be three but 1 is driving and he can’t see.
A chips, chicken and Fanta bathroom break later and
we’re in the
Pajero.
1, 2, 3, 4
3 and a half’s asleep, 5, 6
5 and a half will not sleep, bags.
Roadside market, “Water, Madame?
Grapes? Tomatoes, Madame!”
– two hours down, five more to go.
It would be three but 1 is driving and he can’t see.
2 to 6, go to sleep!
Pajero.
1, 2, 3, 4.
3 and a half. 5, 6.
5 and a half. bags,
tomatoes, snacks, grapes, Ribena bread, sugar, milk, banana, banana, banana,
chicken.
7 hours down, half hour to go.
Sleep, wake, sleep, wake
1,2,3,4,5,6
out.
Hi, granddad.
A P O E M F O R T H E WAY P E O P L E O F C O L O U R A R E D E S C R I B E D I N L I T E R AT U R E
She stepped out of the shower,
her wet,
chocolate, mahogany, ebony, cappuccino,
mocha, frappe, coffee bean, oak, smoky,
cigarette ash, charcoal skin
glistening with ethnic feral jungle fever in the
light.
M A X I M E H I G E N Y Y
I ’ D L I K E T O P R O P O S E A T O A S T
I want to be a wine glass.
A red wine wine glass used only
by the Ladies who Lunch.
A wine glass that screams
sophisticated, pompous, obsequious,
I hate my fourth husband but
my second one, him, he’s a keeper.
A wine glass that fascinators use to get shit faced – in a classy way.
A big round, no caring, dodge caring,
only taken out to show class wine glass.
I don’t care for the calibre of wine,
just not white.
White is Blanche
This wine glass only caters for Stanley bolds.
This wine glass only caters for those whose
Troubles make this wine glass’s problems
seem trivial.
Everybody, rise.
T O M Y TA M A G O T C H I
I’ll have you know that I, Maxine Higenyi,
took really good care of you because you
took really good care of my social life.
Yeah, sure, you died,
the first time because I didn’t clean your poo
and another time because of neglect
but I really did try!
I went online for you,
bought you plane tickets with the money that I
earned playing ridiculously tedious games.
No gratitude from you.
Yes, you died the seventh time because,
well, starvation, but
in one week you were in Hawaii, Paris,
you had state of the art headphones and
I even snuck you into my school bag!
Okay, fine, the twentieth time was my fault.
M A X I M E H I G E N Y I
W E H AV E
R I D G E S
T O M Y P I N K S PA R K LY H AT
W E H AV E
We have plenty of books in our house.
The stacked shelves
buckling under their weight
eavesdrop on many a conversation.
The whispering of paper-thin pages
the soft rustle of characters coming to life
can lull me to sleep, where I dream.
Alphabetical order- what else?
But books are by nature mischievous, sneaking around
and so, next to the Zepheniah
there lies a Christie
and Dickens uncomfortably rubs shoulders with Tolstoy
and the murmurs of the books
surprises guests
who have come to see hat stands
who walk in, and relaxed,
sit down
to read
R I D G E S
My mother is a Scrabble set.
The jumbled letters
rattle and spill around in the neat wooden box.
The board,
worn from years of children’s play
is fragile, delicate:
requiring gentle hands and soft words.
Years ago, chubby fingers plundered letters,
shrieking with laughter as we spelt out
‘poo’, ‘bum’ and ‘willy’
Now, the letters fall coherently into place:
Diaspora. Foreshadowing. Farcical. Triple letters,
double words, the Scrabble set
now requires scoring, rules, order.
But there is a twinkle in the smooth grooves of the tiles
still
and among all the
plutocracy’s
corset’s
oxymoron’s
I can just make out one smug ‘buttock’
M I L O T H U R S F I E L D
T O M Y P I N K S PA R K LY H AT
I knew from the moment I set eyes on you
that you were the one.
The twinkle in your eye
those voluptuous curves
your flamboyant personality
I spent as much time as I could with you.
Delicately, softly, placing you on my head
so you could stroke my hair
and whisper sweet nothings in my eager ears.
And I loved you, in return
sewing on new sparkles
running my hand up your brim.
The last day of school.
I take you with me,
Showing off my new love to jealous onlookers.
Alas, my love!
In the ruckus after that final bell
you tumble from my head
and are snatched,
never to be seen again.
Someone else will be loving you now.
and my head is freezing.
M I L O T H U R S F I E L D
L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4
S E A S I D E S E T T L E M E N T
I N D I A N C O W
I T ’ S A T U R T L E L I F E
L U M B B A N K 2 0 1 4
In House 4: Talia McPherson, Franziska Lordick, Promise Joshua and I.
All so shattered that we collapse on the beds which are coated with notebooks, chargers,
pens and Great Gatsbys.
S E A S I D E S E T T L E M E N T
I woke up this morning in Mykonos
Amongst peroxide bleached houses with royal blue crowns
On rugged cliff droppings with pebbled alleys
I woke up this morning to the whisper of the ocean
Cradling crisp white sailboats, bathing deep blue fish
On the nurturing silt of the Mediterranean Sea
P I P PA B O LT Z E
I N D I A N C O W
I want to be an Indian cow
Unharmed and worshipped
Freely roaming dust ridden,
Barefoot trodden streets
Of a tiny, landlocked village
In the spicy land…
Untouched, I munch all day
On delicacies from
Side-street-merchants’ baskets
I sleep and lie and regurgitate
Savoring my four stomachs
I bathe in the hot summer sun
And roll in the coppered colored sand
I wade through the muddy waters of the Ganges
And no knowledge of human pettiness disrupts the flow of my day.
I T ’ S A T U R T L E L I F E
In the depths of the night
Our soft shells elope and
Crumble like wet tissue
We struggle and waddle
Our small fragile limbs
Pumping
We wiggle
Up the moist sand dunes
Stone shavings shivering
Beady eyes and
Baleful wings soar
Watching our every shove
Some will be shackled by the food chain
Others washed in by the frothy tide
But the fight isn’t over
P I P PA B O LT Z E
D I S G U S T
PA R A D I S E
D I S G U S T
I had an idea,
But never really knew who she was.
She invited herself into my life
Straight after I caught him in bed
With Mama Tuli,
My godmother.
Disgust was there to console me,
The shield that guarded
My brain from collapsing
From the thought of the abomination.
She gave me the audacity
To look him in the eyes,
Judge his soul
With my words
And yet
Feel culpable about nothing.
Disgust was my new Mama Tuli,
She empathized with me.
Signaling the delivery of hot,
Light yet reluctant sweat out
The pores of my skin.
“He deserves your hate,” she says,
“I know”, I replied.
Her words were solace to my soul
Yet they lacked remedy.
The one thing I needed
To break the chain
Which connected my heart to his,
Disgust could not offer it.
I couldn’t stop loving him.
P R O M I S E J O S H U A
PA R A D I S E
In the depths of the night
Our soft shells elope and
Crumble like wet tissue
We struggle and waddle
Our small fragile limbs
Pumping
We wiggle
Up the moist sand dunes
Stone shavings shivering
Beady eyes and
Baleful wings soar
Watching our every shove
Some will be shackled by the food chain
Others washed in by the frothy tide
But the fight isn’t over
P R O M I S E J O S H U A
H O W I S AV E D T H E C A R
N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2
A C K R I K
D O O R S
H O W I S AV E D T H E C A R
The car was in the water
I saw it happen slowly,
as if flying downwards
it was my fault.
I dragged the car out
took it apart
and squeezed the water free
I took the roof
and hung it up to dry
and sucked the water from the engine
with a straw
The boot held enough water
to fill a large paddling pool
I used metres of kitchen roll
to wipe the dashboard dry
When I pieced it together
it worked.
N O V E M B E R 2 0 1 2
That night in November
the snow came as a spell
sent by a sorcerer in an attempt
to sabotage rush hour.
I was almost abandoned
but caught a lift from a
not-so-close friend.
The 10 minute journey took 3 hours
home from school play rehearsals.
My sister was stranded at ballet
but captured a life line to stay
at a friend’s house overnight.
The car skated sideways down the hill,
scraping other pieces of
frosted scrap metal.
I made it home after trudging
in my dainty school shoes
in 3 feet of instantly landing snow.
R E B E C C A S M I T H
A C K R I K
Where have you been?
I’ve not seen you in a while.
A while? It’s been forever!
What’s your new address?
Phone number?
Let’s meet up for coffee.
I’m sorry I left you behind
we used to be inseparable.
I had a seat at your dinner table
and next to you in the car.
I went to school and left you
You picked me up in year three.
True, but only for a week
Because you were new,
then you left me again
for your new friends.
I’m sorry I got your name wrong.
It’s ok, I prefer Ackrik to Eric anyway.
Let’s meet up for coffee.
Please once again be my imaginary
best friend.
D O O R S
Today, we mourn the loss
of another fallen soldier.
His wall tragically knocked
to join two rooms.
Our fight against open plan
must continue.
Spread the message of
the benefits of privacy.
The precious moments
in intimate spaces will be lost
if we don’t make our stand.
Long live the doors!
Long live the doors!
R E B E C C A S M I T H
L I M I T E D E D I T I O N M O D E L
H A R V E S T
3 3 P R I N C E S S T R E E T, O X F O R D
– O C T O B E R 1 9 8 9 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )
L I M I T E D E D I T I O N M O D E L
NEW from Mattel P.C.
This doll comes with her own battery-powered wheel-chair and East European helpers
She has a detachable catheter and fully absorbent diapers
With her ergonomically adapted bed
you can help her to sit up
Her mechanical hoist can lift her into her wheel-chair
Limbs below the neck guaranteed immoveable.
This is the first in our new range of
DISABLED BARBIE
Models to include:
Car-Crash Barbie (with numerous wound accessories and scar make-up possibilities)
and Amputee Barbie* (crutches included. Prosthetic limbs extra)
*This model is also available in our Ethnic doll range.
H A R V E S T
We gather in the barn
And share our harvest
Store it here
That later we may
Return
to feast on it.
R I C H A R D S AVA G E
33 PR INCES STREET, OXFORD – OCTOBER 1989 ( F O R C A R O L I N E )
You had a black and orange
Bandana in your hair.
Later I’d find out
That you wore it like this
Because you loathed
Your too straight hair.
It’s a vivid memory.
Your green and white polka-dotted
Two-piece cotton dress.
And there was no hallway
So I was standing on the doormat
And you were standing at the door.
We sat and chatted.
But I wasn’t really there
Ma was dying
And my mind was away with her.
So when I didn’t hear from you
For two weeks more
It didn’t occur to me
That it would matter.
The spare room stayed spare
And I wasn’t bothered that
It was empty then.
But I do remember you.
Standing there.
And I don’t remember what we talked about
And I didn’t know that really
You were still in Brixton
And hadn’t moved to Oxford yet..
One month later
The day after my mother died
You moved into my house
I didn’t know then
that one day
You would be my wife.
R I C H A R D S AVA G E
B A B Y P I C T U R E S
E D WA R D I I ’ S G R E AT M I S TA K E
D R A G O N I N A C AV E
B A B Y P I C T U R E S
What do you mean I keep too many baby pictures?
See look, there’s one of you
When you decided to burn action man
And there! your sister before she could talk,
When go-go ga-ga could mean “please pass the salt”
Or “Die you insufferable human being”.
Why would you think that’s the worst one?
That’s you, trying to eat Mr Potato head after
You covered him in gravy.
But here’s my personal favourite.
You with your dummy,
Wearing that adorable hat.
E D WA R D I I ’ S G R E AT M I S TA K E
I know you aren’t your father,
You are a very different man.
But your actions on the field of Bannockburn
Could’ve been on you’ve been framed.
All the papers said you’d win
With that massive army at your back.
But like Xerxes, you threw it all away,
And you weren’t even fighting the 300.
But the moment that doomed you:
“hey, let’s charge all my cavalry into
Spearmen, led by a Braveheart
Enthusiast!”
And then you moved the fighting,
To that insufferable swamp.
Who did you expect to find,
Shrek?
So I left you for someone else,
But one thing we both agree on.
That red hot poker,
What a pain in the arse.
S A M S H E R I D A N
D R A G O N I N A C AV E
I want to be a dragon,
Left undisturbed in my cave,
No one to bother me, I can do
Whatever I want. It would be easy to find
Food, and even easier to cook it.
No one would believe those who saw me,
I would be a myth, fit only for
Documentaries on the History Channel.
I would be top of the food chain, No-one
Could beat me in a fight.
Don’t bother looking for me.
Don’t send Saint George to kill me.
Don’t try and appease me.
S A M S H E R I D A N
6 WAY S O F L O O K I N G AT A M I R R O R
W I N D O W
M A P
B E C A U S E
6 WAY S O F L O O K I N G AT A M I R R O R
1. A mirror is you, me and them.
2. A reflection of the world.
3. Another universe that mimics ours.
4. It is a pair of eyes we can look into to see ourselves from another person’s point of view.
5. The portrayer of truths and at the same time a manipulator.
6. An illusion.
W I N D O W
I’m looked through not at.
Under appreciated however essential.
Like a photo frame I capture an image within me, but mine is ever,
Changing.
TA L I A M C P H E R S O N
M A P
I’m looking for a map,
A map where Dominican Republic is next to England,
And Africa is just below.
So close that I can drive from one
To another in a matter of hours.
B E C A U S E
I remember struggling to stay awake and falling asleep on New Years Eve in Ghana.
I remember the exciting, terrifying feeling of moving to a new continent.
I remember my dog George vomiting on my hands on the car journey home from the kennels.
I remember Miss Esoka teaching me how to spell Because.
I remember the darkness of the moment when the moon covered the sun.
TA L I A M C P H E R S O N
F R O G
F I R E A L A R M
T O R T O I S E
T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A
B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M
F R O G
It’s the first time I met the Frog,
He normally smiled through the pane of the glass,
On the sodden street of 1108 Pond Avenue.
He came bearing a bag of fruit,
His hand rested on the head of a small boy.
He walked forwards,
Stopped,
Put the bag on the floor,
Released the boy,
The boy knelt down,
Orange cupped in his hands,
Pale and White.
So, I took the orange and walked away,
In to the rain and the mist of the night.
F I R E A L A R M
You are a very nice quadrilateral,
You make me cool right down.
When everyone’s screaming,
You’re the light at the end of my tunnel,
I just want to touch you,
Right there,
In your centre, you see?
Come on… you know it’s for the best.
W I L L I A M WA R D
T O R T O I S E
I want to be a tortoise,
Sitting still,
In the dead of night,
While the men from the city,
Kneel down,
And pray,
To the stars,
For a new way out.
T H I S I S T H E P O E M O F A B O Y W H O C O U L D N ’ T S W I M
He drowned.
W I L L I A M WA R D
T I N Y B E A R B I G B R O T H E R
S S I K
D R I V E
Y O U A N D M E
T I N Y B E A R B I G B R O T H E R
I’d shut you in a box so
My father couldn’t reach you and
You wouldn’t learn about business and
Women from him.
I’d paint your toenails – you used to
Like that, and tell you stories
Because you just won’t read.
I’d take you out, a teddy bear on a leash,
So you could bring your other
Good-looking teddy bear friends
Home to flirt with me.
I’d make you live without
Mama bear for a while, so
You’d love her, despite everything,
As much as she loves you.
But you would pick the lock of
The cardboard box,
And steal a pack of fags from
Passing Lego men.
You’d smoke the tiny things
On roof-top nights,
Chase morbid thoughts and wait
Until I die.
I would grow tired of insolence
And place you in my piggy-bank
And plug the hole and
Slot in coins until it filled
And overspilled.
S S I K
They kissed abruptly, drew apart
Slowly, nervously, eyes flicking
Towards mouths. The bench had two.
His foot twitched, tapped the air.
She bit her lip,
Pulling her hair in front of her eyes.
He stood, on a puppet string,
Wiping mud on the back of his shirt.
His eyes were latched on hers as he
Walked away.
Her smile at seeing him faded.
Z A R A S H A M S
D R I V E
Night time didn’t fall –
It dripped from the sky until
The car and the road were covered.
The radio was static, full volume.
There were seconds when a pure note
Slipped through the twitches
And crackles, and we would cling to it
Until the next sang out.
We would not speak.
We hadn’t fought – not this time.
Though it had been over –
A few months back, when
Denial hummed on the stereo and
Kisses felt like zipper-teeth.
And that night, we suddenly understood.
So we let the speakers blare
And the sky darken and your hands
On the wheel were looser than ever before.
And you took the long route home
Because, as soon as the car door slammed,
My heels would beat a tattoo on the
Paving and that would be the last of it.
Y O U A N D M E
My heart is a mountain,
My soul shards of glass
I hide in the shadows and
Bite at the light
With my finger-tip knife.
You’re a hill, not a mountain,
Transparent as glass,
And shadows are myths.
Light touches your fist
Where you’ve stolen my knife.
We’re a hill on a mountain,
Our eyes melted glass.
We run from the shadows
And whittle the light
With our one blunt-tipped knife.
Z A R A S H A M S
Ardingly College 2015
Ardingly College 2015
S P E C I A L E D I T I O N
Haywards Heath, West Sussex RH17 6SQ EnglandTelephone: +44 1444 893000 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ardingly.com
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Ardingly C
ollege 2015
THE