from thelighthouse

issue two

Durham University English Society

2

Following the successes of our first issue and our secondannual competition, I have been excited to read the submissionson the theme of change for issue two. I was particularlyinterested in works in translation and the changes that occurthere. We're always open for submissions of translations, and thisfeature drew in some fascinating interpretations of Ovid, Sappho,Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Hugo and even the Chinese poet Li Bai.In most cases, original texts or links to them are providedalongside translations so you can see what has been altered in thesyntax, meaning, sound effects.

We've also had a huge number of other interpretations ofour theme, looking at coming of age narratives, lifestyle changes,and the way our landscapes, minds and bodies change over time.From Maira Bakenova's comical short story about a grumpy manwho can't stand interactions with others, to Isobel Crawley'suncanny examination of a mother­daughter relationship, toAlysia Wee's non­fictional reflections on her move to Durhamfrom Singapore, this issue is packed with variety and insight.

Thank you to the English Society, and our sponsors, KPMG,for enabling the continued existence of this publication. Thankstoo to Ram Gupta for the cover photo. I hope you enjoy Issue 2.

Helen Bowell (March 2016)

3CONTENTS

Cycnus by Katie Byford, inspired by Ovid 4­5Ceremonial by Nathaniel Spain 6In Bottisham by Suzi Shimwell 7Lyn's Poem by Suiz Shimwell 7

The Important Story of an Idle Man by Maira Bakenova 8­10Splitting the Stump by Nathaniel Spoon 11

Fragment 31 by Sappho,translated by Josh Degenhardt 12­13

Pink by Hana Kapetanovic 14Mother­Daughter by Isobel Crawley 15

Mono No Aware by Dion Dobrzynski 16From First to Second by Alysia Wee 17­19

Sensation by Arthur Rimbaud,translated by William Huntley 20­21

Amusing Myself, translated by William Huntley 20­21Gateshead Music by Syd Peck 22

Newcastle ­ Northumbrian City by Syd Peck 23Another City by Chris Vidler 24­28

Here's to a New Year by Susan Maginn 29Poems by Conor White 30­31

Au Bois by Victor Hugo, translated by Syd Peck 32­33The Message by Anna Marie Hypcejova 34­35

Untitled by Susan Maginn 36The Call by Amy Polglase 37

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You came to from your griefwith a stillness that felt cool

and soft: your bedded flesh, your snow­encrusted sleeves. Wings like palms

turned their cheeks against worldand like a paper crown

you drift on a milky loomof all the memories

of your baby brother,threaded together with your feet.

Not at all like fire.

You look up.iniuste missi. memor.

A swan. A greatmuscle, contracted,poised, bent inward from

the weight oftoo much death,

feathers spread like sparksor scattered ash,

you lift yourself to fire,lean in to kiss its hands,

the tired web of lifeignited,

the water, the blood

and feardissolved, shed

in all that heatand lightand oxygen.

CYCNUSby Katie Byford

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Ovid's Metamorphoses II.367-380The story of Cycnus in fact begins with the story of Phaethon, his brotherand the son of Helios, the god whose burning gold chariot dragged the sunacross the firmament each day. Phaethon asked his father to give him a giftto prove his patronage, and after vowing to give him anything he desired,Helios was forced to allow the boy to ride his chariot, for this was his onlywish and he could not persuade him out of it. Unable to command the reinsand leading the team of horses far from the sun’s normal course, the teenagePhaethon was close to ending the earth, forcing the hand of Zeus who endedhis life with a thunderbolt. Many relatives of Phaethon mourn him, includingCycnus, who abandons his seat as king of Liguria for the mountains andlakes of Northern Italy, mourning him so deeply as to provoke the pity ofthe gods, who turn him into a swan.

In my interpretation of this myth, I have chosen to ‘respond’ to Ovid’soriginal. Whereas in the Metamorphoses Cycnus shuns the fire whichconsumed his brother and instead haunts rivers and lakes, my version seeshim vengefully defying his brother’s murder and choosing an upward passageof fire and ultimately death, in a reflection of the earlier Ovidian passagedescribing Phaethon’s own fiery descent to earth. More than a literal changeof fate for the character, I wanted to reflect the kind of internal deathexperienced with a loved one lost, an equivalence of suffering born from thatcloseness.

Katie is a Classicist and poet who dabbles in other art forms with mixedsuccess. Growing up in London, she was there a member of the BarbicanYoung Poets and Burn After Reading collective and has performed at theBarbican Centre and South Bank University. She was prior to thiscommended in the Foyle Young Poets competition and the Young Poets onthe Underground initiative. Her work has most recently been published byMagma and in Bloodaxe's Raving Beauties anthology and is a member of thenortheast based Writing Squad.

THETRANSFORMATION

OF CYCNUS

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Maybe you were twelve; you cannot quite remember.Your father had your history in his pocket, and you sawthe ancestral farm, updated with a four­by­four,and now the old names, wearing down on cut stone:do not stand above them.

When you were in schoolyou went on trips to sit on pews, to draw crude copiesof the stained glass, the vaulted ceiling, avoiding standingon the floor slabs carved with strange names and ancient years:they lie below.

In the summer you saw them cutting turf,sweeping out trenches, exposing femurs, a yellowed dome –a person laid out thinly on a table, here thedeath­wound, there the fractures, all of iton a slope leading down toward the river:a farmer found a skull.

Another summer, sunlight poundingon holiday roads, several of you church­spottingfound a yard of quiet voices, photographs and candles,and names upon the buildings, shelved and held together,spaces waiting: they are resting in the walls.

Before, mist cavorting in an inner­city garden,brickwork bearing metal plaques of foreign royals there cremated,you sat on a cold bench and then spoke and then returned.The wooden casket seemed small beside a painting,some flowers.

Later, you hear obituariesover the phone.

Nathaniel is currently working on a research MA in English Studies atDurham University, being gradually consumed by the topic of wildernesswriting throughout history and postmodern critical theory. He previouslystudied English with Creative Writing at Lancaster University.

CEREMONIALby Nathaniel Spain

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In Bottishamthe noise from the A14roars over the flat fen fields.

Bill and Jeanin theirblue and whiteclad househave put aa model boat in the windowand a ‘gone fishing’ sign by the door.

And sothe waves from the seacrash over the flat fen fieldsin Bottisham.

In the so­called utility roomwhere housewives are supposed to put the washing machineLyn put a printing pressand cleanly pressed her letterpress books.

Suzi Shimwell is a Creative Writing PhD student at The University ofLeicester. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry. When notwriting poems or hanging out in the Attenborough Tower in Leicester sheteaches at Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge. In her spare time she editsThe New Luciad, an annual publication based at the University of Leicester.She runs a writing group in Cambridge called The Free Inkers.

IN BOTTISHAMby Suzi Shimwell

LYN'S POEMby Suzi Shimwell

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Hi.I am not a huge fan of long introductions. It just happens to be so that

there is a story I want to share with you – a curious incident that’s nearlyimpinged the permanence of my unchanging existence.

First, you need to have some idea of how I go about my day.I start it slowly getting out of bed, snail­style. Legs first – toes crawling, one

by one pulling my limbs behind them. I slide off, mumbling under my nosesomething about loving thy neighbour. The ones living above me arewonderful people. They turn on the music at 7:02. Exactly two minutes aftermy alarm goes off. They are extremely considerate. I have nothing but respectfor Mr and Mrs “Sweet Child of Mine”. The song, by the way, I enjoy singingalong to. The nice cat lady from the apartment 16 cannot stop complimentingme. ‘The X Factor groans for you,’ she says.

Breakfast. I don't eat in the morning. I only have enough energy to washup and put some decent clothes that have not yet been marked by Donny, mypet hamster. Donny doesn't like much the confinement of his cage, so I lethim roam around the apartment. Ah, whom am I kidding? I am a good­hearted person. I don’t even clean up breadcrumbs on the kitchen floor. Ileave them there, so Donny doesn’t need to climb all the way to the tabletop(can hamsters do that?). Not to brag, but that's at least fifty times my benignityhas saved Donny’s fat little butt.

Don't do much at work. I bestow upon them the gift of my presence ¬–isn’t that a lot already? They ought to be grateful to see me here: head andarms lying on the desk as I pretend to be fixing some wires behind thecomputer monitor.

How many emails have I sent today? You won't believe, but twice asmany as the day before. One to my dry cleaners. Finally, got myself to applyfor the membership. Those clothes and sheets won't wash themselves –wouldn’t hurt to show them some appreciation… and, naturally, get a gooddiscount. And the other one was RSVP­ing to a colleague’s party invitation.Don't remember her name… his name? Don't care. Free food, free booze –I’m in.

‘Do you like Groundhog Day?’It can’t be half past ten already, can it? I open one eye and glance at the

clock. Huh, look at that. It can.‘Sure, can’t wait,’ I mutter without raising my head to properly

acknowledge her presence. Every day at 10:30 she emerges out of nowhere(most likely, from the adjacent cubicle, but who knows?) and asks me arandom question. I reply, and she leaves me alone. Ah, the beauty ofcommunication.

‘I hope it’s cloudy on the second,’ I say, feeling like adding a sentence or

THE IMPORTANT STORYOF AN IDLE MAN

by Maira Bakenova

9two to my answer. After all, the day seems to be passing by swiftly. ‘Sick and tiredof hitting my coccyx on the ice.’ Now go away. I’ve exhausted my word limit forthe day.

‘I was actually talking about the movie.’‘And I actually don’t care,’ I mumble, but she doesn’t hear me and goes on:‘Do you like the movie?’I don’t say anything, so she repeats the question.‘Yes.’‘Why?’God… What is this? An interview for “A hundred and one ways to annoy

the hell out of people” article?‘I’m working, so–’‘Yes – yes, of course,’ she replies, and I can feel my muscles relax, but then

she goes again:‘I’ve noticed you tinkering with the wires for a while now. Let me help you.’She just won’t leave my poor, jaded soul in peace. This is why you should

never exceed your word limit. Look where it gets you.Fine. She wants details. So be it.But just this once.‘I don't like change, okay?’ I say sluggishly and (most ironically) change my

position to the one where I lean an elbow on the desk while my palm acts as arest for my head. I keep my eyes closed. Looking and talking? Please. ‘Change issaying, “Good morning, sir, how are you feeling at this lovely hour? You lookfresh and well rested. Did your son pass that test you told me about the otherday? Congratulations! I didn't doubt it for a second. He is your son after all.”And a fake smile in the end as a bonus. Maybe a handshake, too.’

‘So what is the problem?’‘Didn't you hear me?’ I sigh. This is exhausting. ‘My example was spot­on.’‘Please, do explain.’‘Changing one thing in my daily routine will lead to even more changes. It’s

a chain reaction! The butterfly effect! No, the “Good morning, sir” effect! Andsome dreadful day I won't have to shout my lungs out annoyed to the core by“Sweet Child of Mine” at seven AM. Hence, the cat lady will stop worrying aboutme damaging the sensitive ears of her furry friends and cursing at me like an oldsailor every time we happen to share an elevator. What else? I will eat breakfast!I’ll have waffles, for God’s sake! I love waffles. Don't you love waffles?’

She nods, ‘There is a great place outside Main Street.’‘Yeah, the best they say,’ I have to agree. ‘Liked their page and a couple of

posts yesterday before drifting off to sleep at three in the morning. Oh, the joy ofmindless browsing. I do that to fall asleep. Five hours later my eyelids closethemselves. Works every time.

‘If I made that change, I wouldn’t have this kind of luxury. I’d be deadasleep at ten. Donny would be snoring from his cage, but I wouldn’t give twocarrot slices. Why? Because I'd be seeing my third dream. Being nice to the bosswould get me a promotion, so I’d have no choice but to work my fingers to thebone every single day. Do I need that kind of stuff in my life? You ought to knowthe answer by now.’

I open the desk drawer and rummage for a pen. A special pen that I justcannot find. Not until I hear her stilettos clack the heck away.

‘But you love that song,’ she says all of a sudden. I even freeze and

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contemplate for a second or two…what does she mean? ‘Sweet Child of Mine,’she adds when I don't answer.

I open my eyes and look at her.‘How do you know that?’‘I­I know… I read your Facebook profile. I just…’ she lowers her gaze and

smiles shyly, ‘I think you’re an amazing… interesting person. So smart. I… wouldyou like to have coffee with me sometime? – Or a waffle maybe? she adds withanother cute smile.

I look at her closely and thoroughly. She is cute. More than that, she seemsto be a bright, intelligent young woman (she is wearing glasses, and she thinksthat I’m smart). But how dare she interrupt me from the thing I do best!

Do you see it now? Do you understand the reasoning behind myfrustration? I can no longer say that my life has always been a straight line. Thereis a curving section on it now.

Looks can be deceiving, can’t they?‘You haven’t heard a thing I said,’ I say, disappointed, and rest my head

back on the familiar surface, so comfy, so understanding.So solid and never changing.

Maira is a third­year Maths student with a great passion for writing, who believesin the power of words and creative thinking. She loves fantasy, science fiction,singing and solving sudoku puzzles.

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The apple treepicked clean bya stranger or

neighbor. Is thatthe rumble of dis­tant fireworks

or thunder? As thehummingbirdswallows | its throat

faintly pulses. Tome she carries abucket of stars.

Nathan Spoon's poems have appeared in Oxford Poetry, Reflections(YDS), the anthology What Have You Lost?, and limited editionchapbooks. He enjoys reading, hiking and painting, and is currently poet­in­residence at Parnassus Books in Nashville, TN.

SPLITTING A STUMPby Nathan Spoon

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Gods’ peer, seems to me whoever sits by you,the name of their bliss, faceto face in the lambency of your tones.Laughter.

This all. Teeth in my heart,and feathers. I think I see you,a hope, my voice submerged,my tongue permitting sighs alone,

and a fire stirs quick under skinalready transparent. Light does not touch me,surges through, my edges losti’m still a body

shaking at the drumming in my skull. coldwith sweat, and paler still, brittle grass on dunesso much is through me, the coast, you, waves hissi seem a ghost, or something near

a precipice, i reach­

Josh Degenhardt lives in Manchesterand studies English at the University ofCambridge. He is a graduate of TheWriting Squad, and author of the fictionblog Someone Else (jack­gander.blogspot.co.uk).

FRAGMENT 31translated by Josh Degenhardt

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Despite being very little known about her life, and most of her works beinglost or surviving only in fragments (which Josh's translation aptly indicates inits form and its syntax), Sappho is one of the most admired Ancient Greekpoets. She was born on the isle of Lesbos in the 600s BCE, and died around570 BCE. Her style is sharp and meticulous in her various treatments of loveand beauty.

Read more about Sappho here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sapphoRead more about Fragment 31 here:classicalanthology.theclassicslibrary.com/2013/03/05/sappho­fragment­31­contributed­by­mariangela­labate

FRAGMENT 31by Sappho

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Pink is what we expected to see when we first glanced downat our stains. Pink is soft, non­threatening , quiet,our childhood through rose­tinted glasses,the dreams we were told to have,

but I see red. Red says too much. Red is smearedon the girl who was first touched that year at 11.The Virgin Mary wears blue for a reason .No one seems to care about the boywith red on his hands,

but I see brown. If you mix the insides of an 11 year old girlyou get brown. Brown is irreversible – I am irreversiblya woman now. No amount of glitter can make brownpretty. No amount of stain remover can erasemy pants back to white.

Hana Kapetanovic studies Arabic and Politics but often finds the latterespecially a cold subject, so escapes to the warmth of writing. She has beenwriting throughout her life, mainly a transition from prose to poetry to someattempts at comedy. She has had some work published in variousanthologies and zines, but nothing major. All she really wants to do is writeoccasionally, and hopes that someone somewhere will enjoy the words thatspill out of her.

PINKby Hana Kapetanovic

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You have given birth to a monster.It came silently, hard helmetedAnd red.

Every cradle ends dismantled, scored and tornLimb from limb. You must trust it with your arms,Your rocking arms.

Scales do not scratch away, they fall offWith burping, so pick upyour little pack of porcupine, my love. Pick her up.

The teeth it was born with are sharp for wood and bone.Feed it on carrots, feed it on stew, fangs are not filedThrough use.

Claws are filed by kisses, kiss its fingers, kiss its toesAnd if it seems to choke that's the first giggle;Never mind the jabs ­ lips tickle.

And when it wails ­ as it will, each sound a dartTo thud into your sleep and perhaps into your heart ­Sing to her, sing her songs. You will not stop the criesBut maybe, in a few months, she’ll start to harmonize.

She will smile at last ­ if you teach by example,(Keep smiling, my dear)And when she smiles, though it’s through a mangled mouth,Teach her delight.

Take her small soft skull between your hands(She looks, she looks like you)And call her 'my lovely';Watch her eyes turn blue.

Isabel is a first year undergraduate studying English Literature at DurhamUniversity. She grew up in California, but moved to the UK a few years ago,and although she misses the sun her true allegiance is to London. If she’snot reading or tapping story ideas and poems into her phone, she’s probablybaking, chatting about God, or staring up at this changeable, lovely Britishsky. Approaching vehicles beware.

MOTHER-DAUGHTERby Isobel Crawley

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blood bloomsa beauty perpetualthe decay of the daylights a starry shoreof sperm and sporethat breaks on ripened skinfeeds on fruited brainlife pluckedlife gainedahh

Dion is a Nottinghamshire poet, now a second year English student atDurham University. He likes to open doors in the mind with poetry. Natureis important to him; poetry is a beautiful way to perceive it.

MONO NO AWAREby Dion Dobrzynski

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“The beginning is always the hardest” – Kemmy NolaMy first few weeks in Durham will go down in my personal history

as one of the most difficult experiences I have ever had. I had prepared forthis moment – leaving home, starting a new chapter of my young life afreshin a different country, immersing myself in an entirely new environment. Inmy mind, I conceived of the whole event as a beautiful experience ofpositive change, perhaps in the same way people made New Year’sresolutions despite vaguely knowing they probably wouldn’t change all thatmuch. Well, unsurprisingly then, the actual experience of starting a newjourney in a new place turned out to be less glorious than how I hadimagined.

First, I missed my parents. Terribly. I’ve always been a prettyindependent person, so I didn't expect to miss them all that much. In themonths leading up to my departure, I’d always staved off the thoughts – ofnot having them physically around, not being able to hug them as and whenI wanted, not being there at home for them and with them – with acharacteristically obstinate, “Oh well. You’ll just have to adapt because that’sthe only way there is. You’ll just have to be strong.” And I was strong. Butwhat I didn’t anticipate was just how much effort it took to be strong. I don'tthink I have ever experienced anything quite so intense as the swellingnostalgia and yearning I had felt in those first few weeks of my new life. AndI felt bad about leaving my parents alone back home, because they would befeeling the same clawing nostalgia I was feeling – and that was entirely myfault, because I wanted to be here.

Then, I felt like I would never adjust to life here. I missed home, Imissed the food, I missed my friends. I also take a very long time to makefriends (on average, it takes about two years of interaction for me to decidethat I like someone as a friend). It didn’t help that I felt like I couldn’tconnect with people here. In the dining hall, people would be talking aboutthings like British TV programmes – things that I found endlessly trivial,and didn't know about anyway. Even the humour was different – I couldn’tbe funny with the jokes I usually make (those needed understanding in localcontext), and I didn’t find others funny. In those moments, I doubted mydecision to leave my friends back home – and consequently miss out onbeing there for them through all the little things in their lives – to be here,trapped in trivial conversation with people I didn’t care about.

Many people have told me that they think I’m so brave for cominghere on my own, and that they would never be able to do what I did,uprooting and leaving the comfort and safety of home and country. This,however, does not comfort me. They think they would never have been ableto do it because they never wanted to. If I had come here and had had to

FROM FIRST TOSECOND

by Alysia Wee

18adapt without wanting to, perhaps I would be brave. But taking difficult steps topursue what one wants – is that bravery? I didn’t think so, and certainly didn’twant any undeserved credit. To me, I had made a decision, and I wasresponsible for following through with it, whether I liked it or not.

Caught up in all this negativity, I happened to confide in my college tutorthat things weren’t going great. I just wasn’t feeling it, you know? He simplyassured me that it was “normal” for me to feel this way, and that it would getbetter in second term. “After the Christmas break,” he said, “things will pick up.That’s usually the case.” But how? Why? How would things get better? I wasn’tgoing to make any proper friends between first and second term, I wasn’t goinghome, I wasn’t doing anything differently. So how could it get better? Whywould it?

“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” – Buddhist proverbAmazingly enough, however, things did get better. I don’t quite know

why, but I think managing my thoughts really helped. I’ve always believed thatthere is something to be learnt from every experience, whether good or bad. Andlearning is so important to me. One of my favourite literary quotes is from JulianBarnes’s The Sense of An Ending, when the protagonist asks himself, “Had mylife increased, or merely added to itself?” This isa very important question thatguides my decisions. The prospect of not learning or growing, of stasis andstagnation, is one I cannot bear. And so my experiences of learning about myself,and knowing that I was growing, gave me comfort. This has made all thedifference between first and second term. Here, I share a couple of my thoughts.

Changing my mindsetAt some point, I decided enough was enough. I was looking through

photos of my family one day, and thinking about how nice it would be to go backhome, when something just clicked within me. I did not leave my family andfriends, and travel 14000 miles to feel like this! I could have just stayedcomfortably at home, and saved myself the unhappiness. But where is thechallenge in that? Besides, I had always wanted to study overseas. I worked hardfor it, I achieved it, and now I was feeling this wallowing sense of melancholy?That didn’t make sense. So I started to change my perspective, and make fulleruse of the opportunity I have in being here. Why did I come? I came for adifferent cultural experience, I came to be independent, I came to experienceliving in a small city, I came to do a Combined Honours degree (which despiteeverything, did make me happy because I loved what I was studying). Focusingon these reasons kept me on track again, and I could ask myself – “Well? Areyou making good?”

Knowing I was wrongI used to be proud of saying “I am alone but not lonely”. I love the

feeling of being self­sufficient and independent, and not needing to be sensitiveto the needs and wants of others. To have myself to myself, to delve deep intomy inner regions, and draw strength from that. I have so much within me thatcould last me a lifetime, and I wouldn’t be bored just being on my own. Because

19of my affinity for solitude, then, I used to think human relations were endlesslycumbersome, and I could do without them. Coming here has shown me that Iwas wrong. I was comfortable with myself because I was feeding off the implicitlove that I knew I always enjoyed. I didn’t actively need people because theywere already there, patient figures in the background of my life. But beingthrown into a foreign environment, I had to manage these new social relationsand align them to myself, to set up a trusted network of people I could know todepend on for love. Since I lack this network, I have felt the confluence ofloneliness and olitude. And so I have learnt the truth of the age­old saying, “noman is an island”. Much as I didn’t like it, I needed people. And I knew toaccept that.

Living between dream and realityLiving and studying overseas beyond the limited shores of Singapore has

always been my dream. I wanted to be a global citizen, to experience differentcultures – not vicariously, as someone who reads about them might, but byimmersing myself, like an anthropologist who lives within an indigenouscommunity might. The prospect of living in a different physical environment,and staying in a small city with a slow pace of life (unlike Singapore) was deeplyappealing. To my friends, my going to university abroad was “cool” and“interesting”. But having come here, and having actually lived here for fivemonths now, I have had to disabuse myself of illusions. The idea of anexperience outweighs the actual experience, because there is so much freedomin the idea. The idea is not bound by reality, or actual lived experiences. It’s justlike looking at a captivating picture on Instagram. A meadow of flowers looksbeautiful and enticing, and you imagine yourself lying in the middle of themeadow, as your hair catches the sunlight. But when you actually do it, you getmud and bugs in your hair, it’s too hot… Things you never even had to considerwhen you were only looking at the image now matter. The point, then, is thatthings usually look and seem better than they are, because of this latent freedomin the image and in one’s imagination. Realizing this has grounded me again, andsmoothed over my feelings of not capitalising on my apparently wonderfulexperiences, and not having as great a time as some of my friends are apparentlyhaving.

Alas, I remain unable to say that I really enjoy it here. While I cantruthfully say that I wouldn’t trade my school experiences in Singapore foranything, or that if I had to choose again, I wouldn’t have changed anything, I amnot so sure about Durham. But perhaps I am being unfair. After all, it has onlybeen five months, and my lack of social connections is only to be expected, givenmy average of only making friends after two years. In this second term, I havebeen more able to make peace with myself. I cherish my experiences herebecause they are helping me to learn and grow, and for now, that is enough.

Alysia Wee is a first­year international undergraduate student from Singapore.She is studying Combined Honours in Social Sciences (Sociology, Geography,Philosophy, and Anthropology) at St Chad's College, Durham University. She isinterested in a wide variety of topics, most notably social­spatial relations,solitude, and the self.

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Through evenings blue of sky,I'll walk where my road leads,As wheat attacks my thigh,My foot flattens the weeds.I want that dreamy feeling,All around my toes.I'll let the wind go peelingAt my head exposed.

My tongue I will no more release,My thoughts I will control,As love that cannot ever ceaseRises in my soul.I'll have no destination,I'll travel through this world,Admiring God's creationAs I admire a girl.

You've drunk so much you didn't knowIt's getting dark outside!The flowers fell, your wine did flow,Your belly's getting wide!It's fine to fall into the bayAnd look up at the moon, onlyNow the bird has flown awayYou realize you're lonely.

William is a second year Modern Languages student, who likes divide hishours in Durham between studying Spanish, Russian, and Catalan,improvising comedy, sleeping, and writing novels about a fictitious peoplewho live underground, abduct innocent people from the surface, and say evilthings in a language that's so stupidly complicated that even I, its creator, can'tunderstand it. If you bump into him in Durham, you'll probably find himdaydreaming, rebuking himself in second person, or describing himself inthird person.

Sensationtranslated by William Huntley

Amusing Myselfinterpretatively translated by William Huntley

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Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,Par la nature, heureux comme avec une femme.

Rimbaud (1854­91) was a French teen prodigy, who wrote all his poemsbefore the age of 21. A continent­roaming libertine, he has been incrediblyinfluential in surrealist schools, and inspired artists as far­ranging as Picasso,Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, Vladimir Nabokov and Bob Dylan.

Face wine not aware get darkFall flower fill my clothesDrunk stand step stream moonBird far person also few

Original text can be found here: www.chinese­poems.com/lb14.html

Li Bai (701­762), also known as Li Po, was one of the most famous poets ofthe Tang Period, which itself is often termed the Golden Age of China. Helived through a period of peace and prosperity, which later changed to warand famine, and these themes entered his poetry. Just as a point ofcomparison with English poetry: Li Bai was around before or at the sametime as the Beowulf poet.

Sensationby Arthur Rimbaud

Amusing Myselfby Li Bai

(transliteration)

22

Not a storybook place of rhymes and chimes of bellsMy childhood England was dark and dirty,And instead of the skirl of bagpipes or the weeping fiddle,There were factory sirensAnd clashing steel loads on trucks to the docks.

Caught between black coal and brown ale,I searched the streets for music and found nothing.One day I never returned ­And note by note forgot their tuneless heritage,

Now in the silent moments of creeping age and grown children,The steep pitch of streets down at the waters of TyneDraws my mind and probes the wavesWhere the sound of coal dust still echoes ­And always will.

And I hear again the empty places, dark places, the places singingMy name in dialect I have long abandoned.Somehow their music is not off­key;And my inner melodySeems to merge into that blackened score.I hear its siren song and cannot shake freeIts bass notes from the balladry of my life.

Syd has roots in England and Ireland, but has lived and worked in manycountries. A schoolteacher for over thirty years, he has taught inkindergarten, primary school, and high school. Writing and editing poetryand short stories take up most of his leisure time, but he has other pastimes­ mostly musical. He sings and plays guitar, harmonica, flute and violin.Among his favourite things are cats and wildflowers.

GATESHEAD MUSICby Syd Peck

23

Half­English, half­Scot: martial roots in the past,Newcastle ­ once dark from its coaly drama ­A breathless place ever ready for change.

Shudder at the Keep and Black Gate’s near defeatBy the march of Victorian railway builders ;In narrow streets now widened,Shiver with winds from sea or moors.

Tyne, father of this townFamed for guns and ships,Is o’erleaped by a platoon of steel bridgesGrabbing the south bank, binding the city to England.

NEWCASTLE -NORTHUMBRIAN CITY

by Syd Peck

24

Standing on the rooftop, Steve Valko gazed out across the vastmetropolis that lay before him, breathing in the cool, crisp air of the earlymorning.

The viewpoint at the Central Tower was his favourite place in the entirecity, offering him a sense of power and prestige that no award or title couldever hope to match. Even miles above the ground, he felt as though he couldperceive everything that was going on down below, every action and intentionthat manifested itself behind the gleaming facades of the silver skyscrapers, indimly lit backrooms and darkened corridors. Boulevards lined with verdanttrees and canals of crystal blue, sparkling in the rising sun, carved their waythrough the rising pillars of concrete and glass, like veins supplying oxygen to acold, unnatural organism.

His phone was pressed tightly up against his ear, shutting out the sharpgusts of wind that came roaring past his ears and threatened to disrupt his trainof thought. Now and then he would nod in response to the words that camethrough on the other end of the line, or simply grunt in acknowledgement; yethis face remained fixed in a stony grimace that couldn’t have conveyed hisdispleasure any clearer.

At last, he bowed his head and gave a final, definitive nod in acceptanceof his fate.

‘I understand. Thank you for passing that on.’He ended the call and slipped the phone back into the pocket of his

jacket. With a heavy, drawn­out sigh, he took stock of the situation, surveyingall he could make out through the haziness and faint light of the dawn.

The city lay before him, alert but not quite awake. Car alarms and policesirens sounded sporadically against the constant, drone­like hum of a rooftopventilation system on the building just across from where he stood. In thedistance, he could see a ferry slowly advancing into port, declaring its arrivalwith a long, laboured blast of its horn.

He’d spent so many years surrounded by these noises that they’d beenconfined to his subconscious, barely scratching the surface of his thoughts.Only certain things in his vicinity could pierce his concentration, and at thatvery moment one such sound just happened to catch him off guard frombehind.

‘Steve? Thought I might find you up here...’He spun round, back towards the rooftop entrance from where the

familiar voice had come. Marcus Osborn, his colleague, collaborator and theclosest thing he could call to a friend in his line of work, was standing by thedoor, wielding two cups of steaming coffee.

‘Mark.’ Valko beckoned him over with a wave of his hand. ‘One of thosefor me?’

ANOTHER CITYby Chris Vidler

25‘You bet. Figured we could all use a pick­me­up at this hour.’ He headed

over to join the other man by the railings, handing him one of the brightly­coloured paper cups. ‘Milk and sugar, that okay?’

‘Always.’ He knocked back much as much of the beverage as he could in asingle sip, barely wincing as it scalded the insides of his mouth. ‘Thanks,’ heremarked, nodding to his accomplice in gratitude.

‘No problem, you look like you need it.’Osborne looked on curiously as Valko downed another large gulp of

coffee, trying to discern the man’s thoughts. Something definitely seemed to havetaken the wind out of his sails.

‘Hey, listen… when was the last time you took a break?’‘Honestly?’ Valko paused, making a fleeting attempt to search for an

answer, but his expression remained blank as he came up short. ‘I don’tremember. I’ve become so used to constantly working towards something that Ihaven’t had time to switch off.’

‘Well, nothing’s changed there then.’ Sensing no reaction to his comment,Osborn shot his companion a concerned look, trying to see past the jaded glazethat lay over the other man’s eyes. ‘Seriously, is everything okay? You look alittle… distracted.’

Realising the futility of holding back the truth from someone who, likehimself, dealt primarily in the authenticity and accuracy of information, Valko letout another sigh, set his coffee cup down on the ground beside him, and fixedhis colleague with a solemn gaze.

‘I got the call, Mark. It’s over. They fired me.’‘Shit.’ Osborn backed off, incredulous, his mouth agape. ‘I thought you

were always joking when you said they were trying to get rid of you.’‘And I meant it.’ He spun back and threw his arms onto the railings, leaning

out so far that he could see directly down onto the avenue below. ‘They’ve beenwaiting to do this for a long time, trust me. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming,anyway…’ He swallowed hesitantly, unwilling by nature to disclose anything morethan he had to, yet finding a sudden desire within himself to confess everythingto the man who now stood beside him. ‘I broke my number one rule.’

‘Which is…?’‘Don’t get cocky. Never feel entitled to anything, never believe that you’re

better than anyone else. You’re there to serve, nothing more.’ He repeated thisearnestly, like a mantra or creed he’d learnt as a child, one that even nowremained embedded in his psyche and imprinted word for word on his soul.

‘Do you really believe that?’‘I’m not sure. But it’s helped me a lot over all these years. The things I’ve

achieved – well, I wouldn’t have been able to achieve them without that idea inthe back of my mind.’ He leant back slightly, casting his gaze over the manystreets, train tracks and waterways that formed the infrastructure below. ‘It’s soeasy. You find a certain rhythm, align yourself to it… and everything just sort offalls into place, becomes structured, systematic – efficient.’

His voice started to quicken, his words emerging staccato and brisk. Eventhe slightest movements of his muscles became unnecessarily rapid and tense, asif his every action were being dictated by some invigorating yet constricting beatthat only he could hear.

‘I ended up constantly chasing the next objective, finding the quickest route

26to my goal. The satisfaction I got from solving people’s problems, relaying theircommunications, cutting through the bureaucracy just to get things done, it allkept me going. But it became more than just my work, my purpose… it became adrug for me, and damn it, I was hooked.’ In between his short, hysterical gasps ofbreath, he suddenly gave out a deranged cackle. ‘Can you understand that,Mark? Have you ever felt what that’s like, to know everything and everyone, beresponsible for everything and everyone, right at the centre of it all?’

He twisted round to face his companion, and Osborn could see that in spiteof his restless excitement and euphoric grin, Valko’s eyes were wild withdesperation, almost pleading for someone to come and release him from theshackles of obligation that he’d willingly imposed upon himself.

‘I don’t, no,’ he replied, cautiously, trying to conceal the mild terror he feltat the sight of the broken man before him. ‘But if this is what it’s done to you,you of all people, Steve – then perhaps it’s not the right place for anyone to be.’

Valko’s face fell, and his mood darkened as his excited tone rapidlytransformed into one of sheer irritation.

‘You’re right,’ he conceded bitterly. ‘I didn’t just feel it when I was doingmy job, it spilled over into my everyday life too. I became restless in crowds,impatient. Annoyed, even, just by the way people walked along the street. You’dhave to weave and duck and dive just to cut a line right through them, and all thewhile you’d wonder how they could be so blind to the most efficient path t– ’

27He stopped himself.‘There I go again. Breaking my number one rule…’He lapsed into silence, and the two men stood together a while, neither

really sure of what to say. Valko began to return to a state of calm, visibly relaxingas he slid his hands back into his pockets with a weary sigh. Osborn looked onsomewhat helplessly as he took a long sip of his coffee, unsure whether to regardhis colleague’s formidable energy with admiration or pity. At last, he found it inhimself to break the tension in the air.

‘Maybe this is good for you, Steve.’ He faltered, struggling to find the rightwords to get through to one of the city’s leading communications analysts. ‘Imean… it’ll be a shame to lose you, of course. The Department’s going to take awhile to find its feet again, for sure. But you always made a point of saying howmuch you longed to have time for something else. Am I right?’

Valko chuckled softly, and Osborn could see he was gradually returning tohis ordinary, easy­going, everyday self.

‘That’s true. All the wasted time spent waiting for my phone to ring, or amessage to come through… all that time I spent thinking, wishing I could bedoing something else. A pastime that was more physical, practical, something thatwas more – well, more me. And yet, in that rare moment when I actually had thetime, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’ He shook his head slowly in regret.

‘Well, there’s no time like the present,’ Osborn replied optimistically,trying to keep his colleague in high spirits. ‘I’ve gotta say, I’m envious of you, in away. Getting out of this place that just seems to keep throwing responsibilities atyou 24/7, no matter how on top of things you think you might be.’

‘Trust me, I know the feeling,’ Valko replied, gazing listlessly towards thehorizon, beginning to lose himself in his thoughts. ‘Sometimes I long forsomething simpler, you know. Something more basic – primitive, even, if thatdoesn’t sound stupid.’

He closed his eyes, and a wolfish grin slowly crept across his face asreassuring, remedying images flickered through his mind, like pictures on a silverscreen.

‘It’s funny… I always imagined myself on an island somewhere, far awayfrom anything else, where the only tests I’d have to face would be physical, andthe only authority I’d be subject to would be nature itself. The coarse sand belowmy feet, the wind and rain of a tropical storm battering against my skin…’ Heseemed almost entranced by the concept, completely oblivious to the worldaround him and the cacophony of the urban pandemonium below.

‘Not most people’s idea of a holiday,’ Osborn remarked with a chuckle ofhis own.

‘I’m not most people,’ Valko countered with a wry smile, opening his eyesto the chaos of rush hour that was beginning to unfold in the city streets. ‘See, theproblem is, I need all this as well,’ he continued, gesturing out towards thesprawling metropolitan mass. ‘The complexity of it all – the urbanisation, theinfrastructure, all these different systems that mankind has created. And this cityin particular… well, you know how much of a hold I had over it.’

‘Have,’ Osborn cut in, correcting him. ‘You’ve still got the contacts, even ifthey’ve taken away your job title. You could set up shop in the same buildingtomorrow and carry on again as normal. Hell, the Department would be tooafraid of your connections to even think about trying to shut you down.’

28

‘Perhaps.’ He nodded his head in acknowledgement. ‘I don’t know, Mark.I’m getting too old for this place now, and there’s always plenty of new bloodaround to fill the shoes of those who put a single step wrong.’ He nodded again,this time more resolutely. ‘No, I’ve done my time here. Time to move on, Ithink.’

‘Where are you going to go, then?’‘I’m not sure. Somewhere else, far away from here – another city, another

country, even. I can start from scratch once again, as a nobody. Spread myfeelers throughout the place, if you know what I mean... grow my network fromthe ground up, just as I did here. Or not.’ He shrugged ambivalently. ‘Whateverhappens, it’ll be a change. And maybe that’s just what I need right now.’

He fell silent once again, but this time it was a silence of contentment, andOsborn could see the satisfaction in his face as he looked out beyond the thrivingmetropolis, past the gleaming windows of office blocks and apartment buildings,towards the ocean, the horizon and the faraway lands that lay somewhere off inthe distance.

‘Well, you’re not going away just yet,’ Osborn said, placing a firm hand onhis shoulder. ‘I need someone to show me the ropes now that you won’t be thereto pick up the slack, you need to pack up your stuff, and after all this is over Ithink you and I could use a stiff drink.’

His companion’s words somehow seemed to bring him back to reality, andValko broke into a sudden grin.

‘I guess this place isn’t going to let me go just yet, is it?’‘Not with the state of affairs things are in. We’ve got an election campaign

coming up, after all, and I know I can’t do it alone. Not to mention the falloutfrom the Braun corporation takeover and the relocation project that’s rumouredfor the outskirts, that’s going to be hell to deal with if it ever gets off the ground…’

‘One thing at a time, my friend,’ Valko replied reassuringly, picking his cupoff the ground. ‘At least let me finish my coffee first. It’s only way I ever getthings done.’

And so, as he drank up the last of his beverage, he cast one last, wistfulglance towards the horizon, then set off with his colleague towards the rooftopdoor, readying himself to face another day in the chaotic network of streets,contacts and organisations that awaited him below.

Chris Vidler is a Master’s student in Translation Studies, now in his fifth year atDurham and getting a bit long in the tooth for the place. When he’s not up to hisneck in translations, presentations, meetings, martial arts, musical rehearsals,rowing outings and boat trailering administration, he enjoys more straightforwardpastimes like running, listening to music and attempting the odd bit of creativewriting.

29

I’m not the person I was a year agoI’ve heard our bodies change cells every seven yearsTo think I live in a house you’ve never visitedBut somehow your voice still lingers in the gaps of my teethBetween the lines in the powder room and the faint blushOf dimming light on the evening skinI felt you open like a flower and fold into meThe hours trickled away like a sigh escapingFrom a reluctant cigarette – too slowly to hold ontoI am left with just ash in this unfilled bedIt is so cold and I don’t know what to doThis year feels no different from the last

Susan is a second year student of English literature. Like Bukowski, shewants 'the whole world or nothing'. Unlike Bukowski, she was not drunkwhen she wrote this, though it might have helped.

HERE'S TO A NEWYEAR

by Susan Maginn

30

1)

At the endof the railway lineI saw –a sea of peopleunsureof where to begin.

2)

Walking along the western shoreThe footsteps faded with each kiss of the sea,Whistling lazily.A dry and hopeful sound,That clung to the breeze,Was washed away by the wandering wavesAfter whispering to the wilted leaves on the ground.More time to breathe. To breathe and to think. The air is cold for thistime of day. Dark early. Longer sleeps though, so they say. Still the seasideis… around Easter time one can hardly bare to leave. Music of the waves,there is something to it; nature and so on. It is all a very simple task, really.Everything glowed with a watery darkness,With a flame crouching, hidden,Below the surface,With the gentle and withdrawnBreath of the wind waking from beneath the waves.Well perhaps this time. When all is considered. When this all finallyseems familiar. Then. Then what to do. What to do then. Still, what a dayit has been. The colour of the sky, almost bleeding. The bleeding sky.Seemed so near. But of course it was far away. Ah, it is no wonder that Iend up here. This chanting swell that floods my ear. Perhaps it is here… Iam delivered.

POEMSby Conor White

313)

Do not stand too faraway,I need you to hear mesaythis, we can wait nolonger.As the traffic murmured by and many, many faces blurred into a sequence notunlike clouds in an open sky –I do not understandwhy,after all ofmycare, it has come tothis.The irregularity and timid eyes went unnoticed amidst the bustling band of timein a hurry, constant quantity –I suppose thatweshould wait a while…seeif there is anotherway.

Conor is notoriously bad at describing himself in the third person but thankfullyhe has assured us that his poems do mean something.

32

We were In the delightful herbed April springOf love which starts radiant and thrilling .Oh! Time and memory we cannot disturb or capture !With our hearts’ unimagined rapture,Walking hand in hand in the wood,We wanted to choose our own path, not the road ­And then we left the path, the grass to wear.The heavens shimmered from her beauteous air:She said, I love you! and I felt divine.

Sitting near a spring, her hand in mineHer bosom’s joy filled the branches of each tree !Blushing like a statued water fairyYou bathed your feet ­ milky, svelte .Then we two dreamers went on. I feltThat around us, each daisy flowerEach periwinkled mystery of the bower,Each fresh­watered twining bindweed,Each little blossom ­ was a kiss, a loving seed,That slipped our lips from mine to yours;As we strolled the grotto floorThe woodland mantle and the rocks envious,Murmured how the woodland goddess,Pristine Diana, would behold her bower herbedAnd ask why is my sylvan carpet all disturbed?

IN THE WOODtranslated by Syd Peck

33

Nous étions, elle et moi, dans cet avril charmantDe l'amour qui commence en éblouissement.Ô souvenirs ! ô temps ! heures évanouies !Nous allions, le coeur plein d'extases inouïes,Ensemble dans les bois, et la main dans la main.Pour prendre le sentier nous quittions le chemin,Nous quittions le sentier pour marcher dans les herbes.Le ciel resplendissait dans ses regards superbes ;Elle disait : Je t'aime ! et je me sentais dieu.

Parfois, près d'une source, on s'asseyait un peu.Que de fois j'ai montré sa gorge aux branches d'arbre !Rougissante et pareille aux naïades de marbre,Tu baignais tes pieds nus et blancs comme le lait.Puis nous nous en allions rêveurs. Il me semblait,En regardant autour de nous les pâquerettes,Les boutons­d'or joyeux, les pervenches secrètesEt les frais liserons d'une eau pure arrosés,Que ces petites fleurs étaient tous les baisersTombés dans le trajet de ma bouche à ta bouchePendant que nous marchions ; et la grotte faroucheEt la ronce sauvage et le roc chauve et noir,Envieux, murmuraient : Que va dire ce soirDiane aux chastes yeux, la déesse étoilée,En voyant toute l'herbe au fond du bois foulée ?

Yes, Victor Hugo (1802­85) wrote things other than Les Mis: indeed, he wasone of the most important poets, dramatists and novelists of the FrenchRomantic period, as well as member of the Académie Francaise. He lived ina time of upheaval, and himself turned from being a committed royalist anda Catholic to a Catholic­hating republican rationalist.

AU BOISby Victor Hugo

34

THE MESSAGEby Anna Marie Hupcejová

She had been waiting for five minutes already. Holding her phonefirmly in her hand, she wondered what was happening. He had been sodesperate to see her again, texting her for ages and now she was waitinghere for him! Suddenly, the phone vibrated:

‘My shoelaces broke into pieces. Be right there.’She frowned at the message, thinking: That’s such a strange excuse…

Still, she continued to stand there, waiting.

Buses around her dropped off old passengers and drove away with newones. In a crowd of people making their way onto the subway, she wasalone. The big clock above her head ticked away – ten minutes late. Shewatched people climb up the mount of stairs and disappear, then reappearat the metro platform. The ground trembled from the movement of trains.Passengers again appeared and disappeared. Soon again she was joined bya swarm of people heading for the buses. He still hadn’t arrived, but a newtext did.

‘Just remembered it’s my grandma’s birthday. Hang on, just gotta callher.’

She remembered how he hadn’t keep her waiting that long on their lastdate. This was to be their second. Is he making me wait this long onpurpose?, she thought anxiously. She then recalled the words of her bestfriend Charlene, who told her a few days back, almost threateningly:

‘Don’t see him again.’‘Why?’‘A guy who asks for your number in the subway is not someone you

should date.’‘Why?’‘What do you mean, ‘why’? He could be asking so many girls out on

dates if he has the courage to ask you so confidently! He’s just fronting.’‘But he gave me a flower.’ Charlene lifted her eyebrows and slowly

asked:‘What flower?’‘A white lily.’‘That is weird!’‘Why weird?’‘Because lilies are for funerals, not for dates. Nope, I’m not letting

white lily guy date you.’‘But he’s cute.’‘Even if he’s cute! You’re my super­cute friend and this guy is a poseur,

a douche. Let him go, you deserve better.’

35Her reverie was disrupted by the sudden vibration of the phone again. ‘I

have flowers for you. On my way, can’t wait’ She thought to herself, Should Iwait? She imagined their future: her waiting in the freezing cold before theconcert hall in a thin dress and coat; her waiting for him to come home fordinner; her waiting for an already belated birthday present. Her hand thendove into her pocket, where there was a white lily bud. She dropped it on thefloor and joined the crowd.

Only an hour later, the boy arrived, holding a sunflower – but she was nolonger there. He found the lily bud on the ground and on his phone themessage: I can’t wait.

Anna Marie Hupcejová is an English Literature Masters student from Praguewhose ambition is to publish her short stories. At the moment, she is enjoyingher Erasmus in Durham and writing blogs about her adventures abroad, linksto which can be found at fb.com/annaisabroad.

36

Nothing ever happens in first year. Time really flies by. You makefriends, and you lose some. You think you know what heartbreak is, butlove isn’t real, not even in your dreams. You go to bed crying for noreason, a child still, vulnerable, asleep, silent, still, like a corpse and whenthe sun rises as it always does, you wake up hardened, tough, an adult. Ididn’t notice until too late but I don’t think anyone does. You look at amap of the world and say, is that really all there is? and you want to travelthe world and see everything but you are stuck at home, and worse still youare stuck in your embarrassing body. You think you’ve seen it all and thatyou know everything but really you know nothing. You go to bed crying,but there’s no such thing as no reason and your bones are aching from thestrain of growing older. Time is a rollercoaster and you’re screaming to getoff but you are already on your way down. Shhh, baby, close your eyes, letthe fear shoot out from underneath your skin. There’s light at the end ofthe tunnel yet.

UNTITLEDby Susan Maginn

37

I step into this world, and it’s hard to explain,There is something that lingers, some kind of pain.Well hidden behind the smiles and the faces,The laughter and joy with all airs and graces.But if we look underneath, under that grin,We see we’re alike; we are all of one kin.If we love and we fall for the girl next door,And our heart beats much faster than ever before;Or the boy, who can run and can sing and can dance,And wants the boy with the smile but won’t take the chance.Because of the people who say that it’s wrongWho are they to decide who shouldn’t belong?Does it matter if I’m white or I’m gay or I’m straight?Or a girl or a boy: we all share one fate.So why do we let those who cry behind doors,Go unnoticed and fake for no good cause?Why does the child or grown man choose the knife?To solve all his problems and be done with his life.As the truth people find much harder to bearAnd difficult to tolerate the people who stareAt the one with the scars on their legs and their armsWhy not take their hand, and put palm in palm?Rather than judge and put on a mask to hideAll the suffering and hurt we might feel inside.Why do we accept our leg breaks but not the same for our mindIs what we’re looking for really that hard to find?An acceptance of the diversity that we bring to this earthFor what is our purpose, if it is not for mirth?It is now that we change these out­dated perceptions,And give warmth to those who lacked the reception.To pick up the ones who’d crashed to the floor,And draw out the ones who stand by the doorWho wait for the time when their moment is called,But it is now, it is here, do not be appalled:If the friend by your side has kept something hidden,It is now of all times, we must be forgivenFor the way that we judged and tried to fit to a mouldOr we hid under layers of society’s fold.

Amy studies Classics at Durham University and after six years has perfected anargument as to why things such as ancient love poems are extremely relevantto modern life. With a love of mythology, anthropology and all things inbetween, she uses writing as a platform on which to explore the human andthe fantastical; or indeed, the fantastic human

THE CALLby Amy Polglase