Reflections a 5

8/3/2019 Reflections a 5

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REFLECTIONSPoetry-Art-Fiction

Issue2Summer2009

4


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Hum - The Trip


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Welcome to the second issue of the magazine, with thanks to allthose who bought our first, and so made this possible. We're

bigger and brighter this time around, with a stunning range ofpoetry, fiction, art and non-fiction. There's work here that maymake you cry, smile, rejoice and think- so head out into the

Summer sunshine with a copy and enjoy.

This months contributors are:

Please get in contact to let us know what your thoughts areabout this issue. Also, send us your own contributions,

whether you are previously unpublished or incredibly famous!

( I'm still waiting Nick... xx)

You can get in touch by emailing Steve at

[email protected]

Contact details for all this issue's contributors can be found

with their work.

Also check out and join our 'Reflections magazine' Facebookgroup: Ian did and now he's been published!

Remember: there are no themes, no restrictions, no generic orstylistic boundaries

just work that the artist believes in.


4/44

I'm listening to Van the

Man,He's singing about a high-

er plan,What it is exactlyHe's not saying.

We're taking a walkFrom the church of St.JohnTo Cumbria via AvalonTo smoke sometime

With Romantic poets

And feel the uplift of thesoulAs memories of NatureEntwine us.Through gorseflowers

Shining mysteriesuncoveredAs the clouds that fleeFrom winds that reveal

Sun in warmth andSplendour.I take the valley-Path again,The dry bare-branchesLeaf again,

The nettles and the bram-blesBurn in rapture.

There is peace here.

Despite the ice ofRecollection.

There is stillness

In movementIn corners of eyes,

A moment of carelessnessStroking the sky,

Give me Constable brood-ingA gathering stormIn the sunlight.I saw the mist

In the morning damp,

The dew that clichedSpikes of grassAs rabbits fled frombrightHeadlights at dawning.

The adder nearMy childhood haunt,The lizard on the Bretonwall,

The anthill burntIn pyre of foolishKnowledge makes a pieceOf my own dreaming.

There is peace here,


He played to the crowdsOf mud and dust,

He sang to the trees

And the air that brushes

Every cheek to be turnedAnd kissed

And bloodied.She slipped insideA shroud of thorns,

Screamed for waterPouring scorn onAnybody falsely whowouldJudge her.

They crashed against

The Cornish rocks,They masqueradedStanding megalithsThe shards of whichIn poppy-dappled

Postcard beautyLife engenders.

There is peace here,


I kiss farewellTo the pregnant dawn,The midnight light,

The fallow faun I sawMake tracks andStartled flew to shadow.

In dewdrop, meander.

In sand, quake.In sap, awaken.

Summer For Van Morrison


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I am not so much nowPlagued with ghosts;

Exorcised with written wordThey pale now,In cracks,Only in the intersticesOf space betweenThe full stop.

And the next sentence.

JustbeyondthefourthestateWhereCromwell'stroopsdugdownTowaitfororderslongagoandnow

JustinsightofthecitywallAndmodernsprawl,

TheairportglimpsedAsjetplanesglint

Andwirescross,Communicating,theold-fashionedwayWithcannnonandsword,

QuickswitchedallegianceandBetrayal,

Wesawthebuzzard,Thentwo,thenthree, thenfour:

KitesunstrungonupdraftsSlowlywheeling,oncehere

Thenfurther, farawaythenBack,above,hunting,

NotglovedbyaristocracyTrainedformorselsofservice

ZooedandclippedWithyelloweyeofsometimeAnger,dispersedbychainsofdemocracy,

UnruffledbythedivesofravensOrthejealoussparrowhawk,

Heorshecamelow:Wesawthemottledtawny-browns,

Thebeigeandgrey,theTor

nfeathersontheleftwing,Andheardthecry,Thecall,thevoice,

Andsurrendered.

LastnightwetouredRussia,

Mespeakingpoetry

Andyousinging,tooth-chipped

Andcontemplatingdivorce.

Thedrunkswereeverywhere

Overthehotelcourtyard,

Theiraveragesixteenyears

Andsixteenyearsofconflict

Co-inciding,

Butweplayedonbehindpillars

Andlockeddoorways,

Lanternlit,

Sometimeonalowwoode

nstage

Oroncobbles.


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Ifyouweretolookthemupinthephonebookthelettertosearch

underwouldhavetobe'I'forincompetence.ManycenturiesagoThe

Hit-Munkshadbeenabraveandnoblebandofwarriorswhoknew

right from wrong, sorting out disputes between neighbouring

villages.Sadlyalltheseadmirabletraitshavebeenlostinthe

mistsoftime.

Thesedaysanybodycanjoinaslongastheylookgoodinthe

uniformandcanfindtheirwaybacktobase.Theirlastfewjobshad

notbeensuccessful,resultinginsomearrestsandanunnamedHit-

Munkbecomingwedgedinsideachimney.

Butlet'srejoinourherowhohasbeennegotiatingthesewers

and

hassomehowmanagedtolocatethesecretentrancehiddenbehind

someloosepipes.

Bobbydraggedhimselfontothenarrowwalkwaypullingstrandsof

packingstrawandleaves fromhisscales.

Therewasadoorbellstucktothetoplefthandcornerwhichon

beingpressedemittedanoutoftunewailthatslowlydiedtoa

cracklinghiss.Justtomakesurehehadbeenheardherapped

smartlywiththehandleofhistorch,dislodgingafewtilesinthe

process. For several seconds all he could hear was a steady

dripping coming from overhead before a faraway voice was

accompaniedbyslowfootsteps.

"Alright,keepyourhairon, I'veonlygotonepairoffeetyouknow.

Asmallsectionofwallopenedoutwardsandanelderlychipmunk

stoodtherewearingtatteredslippersandholdingachippedmug.

"Whatdoyouwant?Whateveryou'resellingwe'veseenitall, hada

blokehereafewdaysago flogginghealthinsurance.Isaidtohim,

'We'refartoomuchofariskforyourcompany.'Buthewouldn'ttake

thehintandjustkeptonsayingthatwhateverwe'dpreviouslybeen

quotedhiscompanycoulddobetter.Isoonsenthimawaywithaflea

inhisear.Thewatchmanfinallypausedforbreath.

VickyFranklin-jemmimamai@googlemail.comVickyenjoyslivinginafantasyworldbutkeeps findingreallifeintrusive, and isratherdisturbedbyherdreamsespeciallywhenshedreamedshewas'Face'intheA

Team and DickVanDyke in 'DiagnosisMurder.


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I'm here to see the chief Hit-Munk. Bobby advanced upon him in whathe hoped was a friendly and non-threatening manner. I just need tohave a quick word withhim.You'rebehind the times mate.There followed a heavy smoker's coughthat sounded like his lungs were about to explode. The last fellaleft monthsago, we've got a woman in charge now. Think there's a bitmissing up here though, - he tapped his forehead- But for a girl,she's alright.Bobby took outa cigarette and lit it. So can I see her?"Well I don't know. Got an appointment? You needone of those; we can'tjust have anyone swanning up here making demands.Of course I have.Hemade a pretence of conducting a detailed searchpatting down his suit and checking his wallet. It must be heresomewhere.

Take your time squire I'm in no hurry. The doorman leant against thewall and took a swig of tea.Tell you what, how about you let me in and then I'll call back roundand show you the letter. It doesn't matter if you don't see it today,after all what's a piece of paper between friends?Well I don't know what the boss would say.She'd congratulate you on your quick thinking and probably evenreward you for it.

Well I suppose there's no harm in it, you look like an honest fish. Ican usually tell the good from thebad. He stepped aside. I'massuming you know the way and don't need an escort?Don't trouble yourself. Bobby flicked on his torch and stepped overthe threshold.Just follow those pink arrows on the floor, you can't get lost. Heclosed the front door. Oh..and remember what I said, she's a bit funnyin the head.

On the way through the dripping passages Bobby passed severalgroups of chipmunks who didn't seem in the slightest bit suspiciousas to his presence there. One even paused to ask him the time.The tunnel seemed tobe endless, with the deep pink lines foreverpointing on. There were signs markingthe entrances to adjoiningpipes reading ' Laundry,' 'Canteen,' and lastly 'Boss's Quarters.'


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He stepped into a high-ceilinged room with white tiles covering thewalls causing the candlelight to bounce back from all directions. Arickety chandelier swung overhead, making him step out fromunderneath it wa

rily.It was while stumbling between two stone pillars that two Hit-Munksstepped out, brandishing swords that they crossed over his chest."State your business, squeaked the one on his left. They were dressedin the formal uniform of the Hit-Munk protectors: white ninjasuitsthat looked suspiciously like pyjamas that had been adapted to thejob, with matching bands of cloth wrapped around their heads.

"I'm here to speak to the leader of your great tribe. Bobby's eye wascaught by a bar pushed against the far wall, decorated with fake

palm trees in pots and empty cocktail glasses still containingtheir paper umbrellas. The remains of a penate littered the floor.He'd obviously missed Happy Hour, but surely this woman wouldn'tallow a guest to go thirsty?"Her Magnificence will be most angry at this intrusion. Theyuncrossed swords then began using them to prod him past a metalgong to where a throne sat, some paces beyond.

Whatever picture had been in his mind I doubt it would havecorresponded to the sight that met his eyes.A small rag dollwas sat there, her bright pink hair held up in twohigh bunches with diamante clips either side to keep any straystrands in place. Her black ninja suit provided a startling contrast,whilst her feet were snugly encased in piglet shaped slippers.Across her lap lay a magazine that looked tobe about ponies.They stared ateach other, both surprised. Bobby was aware of his

muddied suit."Well, what do you want?To speak to the chief Hit-Munk.She sniffed daintily. You already are. I am Jemmima-Mai the braveand resourceful one, the light that will lead my companions back totheir former glory. She flicked a page over and glanced at it; byher side was a table littered with scraps of paper and a platecontaining the remnants of a cake.

Bobby fought the urge to laugh at her. Iam here because my clientsare the victims of intimidation. He produced his business card. Ihave heard that the Hit-Munks are the perpetrators.


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"Is that so? Jemmima-Mai tore the free stickers from the magazinescover and held them towards a candle for a better look , wobblingthem from side to side so the glitter would sparkle. Am I supposed tobe scared by your visit?Well it would help me tremendously if you were.Bobby despaired of ever being offered a refreshment so saunteredover to the bar to help himself to a glass of wine from an openbottle he had spied. She flung her reading material onto the ground,hopped from her throne and snapped her fingers at the twochipmunks loitering by the door. One of them ran past Bobby andreached for a cocktail shaker, while the other dusted down a barstool with a tea towel.Jemmima-Mai tugged at Bobby's bottom fin."Would you be kind enough to lift me up?

He was tempted to shove her in a cupboard, but saw her little handresting on the hilt of the sword buckled around her waist."I'd be honoured.The pair of them sat in silence while she fished the fruit out of herPimm's and selected the pieces she liked best, discarding the rest ina nearby ashtray.

"I'm still not sure what you're doing here Mr. Angel. I don't need aprivate detective.Bobby produced the letter received by Augustus and held it out forher to read."I have information that it's down to you, and I intend to put a stopto it. He stood up, and elbowing the guards aside crossed the roomand began delving in the junk surrounding her throne. Underneathsome ribbons he discovered a pot of glue and a pair of safety

scissors that had scraps of newspaper stuck to the blades.So, how much of a cut do you want?It would be nice to think that Bobby was affronted by her offer,being the gentleman that he was. But back to reality. The agency wasquiet and he hadn't paid Theresa for several weeks, telling her he'dlost his bank card, and his tailor's bill was well into three figures.So, what's your decision?


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.

IanTaylor [email protected] recentlymovedbacktoExeterafter fifteen years ofaudiencecultivationin

London'stheatre scene. Hehasbeen writingfortwentyyears, andis working onhisfourth collection ofpoetry,entitled 'So Much.' Never beforepublished, his return to his homecounty of Devon promises a new creative period- watch thisspace!

Ibracedmyselfagainst

theimpactofthekiss

thatwouldsurelykillme,

butitnevercame, soIsattherewithmyeyesclosedallevening,

infearofopeningthem

andseeingyourface.

WhileIsatthere,

Isawmyselfwithyou

andwewerewalking

alongawindybeach,whenmyheartblewaway,

andwespentabreathlesseternity

chasingafterit.

Iwoulddreamsolong

ofbeingonthewind,

andofbeingswept

upanddownandaway,

sofastintothefuture,

withthewindwhisperingthateverything

wouldbeallrightintheend.

Ineverdiedthatnight

andnoteversince,

becauseyourkissnevercame,

andIneveropenedmyeyes,

andstillIhearthewindwhispertomethatyou're

chasingmealongthebeach.


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OnthedaythatIended

WhenIceasedtobe,

youlookedformeandfoundmehidingunderatable,weepingsoftlytomyself.

WhenIstopped,nomorecircles

inthesand,nomorefootprintsleft,followingsoclosewasyouandyoureyes.

OnthedaythatIended,youshoutedat

thespacethatIhadbeen,demandedtoknowwhyIhadgone.

WhenIbecameanothing,spiralleddownfromlifeintoplacessotaboo,

youfoundawaytolookintomyabyss.

ThenIreachedout,youtookmyhandtoyourbreast,youtoldmeofyourloveandlikeakissoflif

e,Ibeganagain.


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WhoisthisBillPosters,andwhyishewanted?

Coulditbehehaddemonshestoodandconfronted?

Willtherealmanstandup,lifthisheadandbecounted,

Lethisridersofanguishstandstillanddismounted.

AsIwonderaloudathisbravebitterstand

Thatleaveshimsolonelyandsoindemand,

Iwalkthroughastormoftearswetonmyhead

DrowningallIhavelovedinariverofdread.

IknowImuststandupandfearjustlikehim,

Inthechurchofmylonging,thisismyonlyhymn.

Iwouldriseandbecounted,buttofallfromhergaze

IsfarworsethanafutureofBillPosterdays.

Justtolovewithoutfearingthatnolovereturns,

Tofeelandnotrunfromthehottestofburns.

WillItrustwhatIfeel,letmydeepestrunfree,

JustforhertofindallofBillPostersinme?

I'm limping along because it's youWho took my feet away,You took my eyes as well soI can never see the day.My hands were stolen from meSo I'll never, ever touch,No nose to smell the perfumeThat I want so very much.The arms made to caress youAre now burning in the fire,My loins are now an empty spaceWith no more taut desire.You've taken all of me that was,

My heart is surely next,But you missed this slightly vital penWith which I write this text.


13/44

OneDay,MyQueen

OnedayIwillfindthatI'mlookingforyou,I'vebeenfoundandbeenlostbutI'veneverbeentrue,OnedayIwillfindthatI'mlookingtooclosely,WhenIammilesaway,butit'syouImissmostly.

OnedayIwilltrustthatourfriendshipisgrowingWhenit'shardtoignorethatourlovesignsareshowing,Onedaywe'llawakewhenourarmsareembracingThetruththatourheartsarefinallyfacing.

Oneday, itmakessense,alltheyearsthatIwasted,

Shouldhaveknownthatmypathhadforeverbeenfated,Onedayinthefutureyou'lllookinmyeyesAndyoutoowillthenseewhereyourdestinylies.

Onedaywe'llsharebreakfastoffruitandofbread,ThroughasunrisewhereIhavebeensleeplesslyled,OnedayIwillseewhenmyeyesarerevealing,

You'retheQueenofmyheartatwhosefeetIamkneeling.


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15/44

Ishakerattle

andstrollawayfromwhereIlayonthegreengrassybankacrossthewaterfromthequayIleftthesunintheleavesoftheweepingwillowtreescoollyshakinginthebreezeonthislatesummerdayAndtheMoonisabowforcupid'sarrowsfarfarabovemycloud.

Tom Matthews - [email protected]

Tom writes I was born in Exeter. I like rock n roll. Sometimes I go to thepub.Actuallyhe is omnipresent at all groovy happenings in town. If you

want to go to a good gig, find Tom and followhim. Or if you want to find

Tom, go to a good gig. You mayeven hear him sing and playguitar.


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December21st

Livinginfearkeepsyousilent.Andsilencemeansyoukeepyourownsecrets.

Andthisturnsyou,eventually,intoaliar.Smallliesarejustasdangerous

asprofoundones.Becausetolieisnotjusttocontradictthetruth,itistodefy

reality.Andonceyouseetruthaspermeable-aspenetrable,thereisnotellingwhatdestructionyoucaninflictonyour

selfortheunfortunateonesin

yourpath.FornearlyayearnowIhavelivedinfear-

heldinutterstasisbyit.Fear

ofadmittingwhathappenedtoKatey.Fearofhavinganotherpersontaken

fromme.Fearofmyatheism.Fearofgoingoutside.Fearofliving.AndI

haveconfidedinno-one.Andtocombatthefearonestartstolie.Thatlifeis

tolerablewhenitisnot.Thatyoudon'tneedcompanionshipwhenyouare

desperateforit.Thatyoublameyourdespaironaconspiracyoffate,when

no-oneistoblameatall.Andallthesethingskeepyouinside.Insideyour

house.Insideyourhead.Insideyourself.Andtheseselfperpetuatedlieswill

continueuntilthereisnotasingletruththatyoucan'tdeflect,ignoreorbreak.

Fearhasmadealiarofme.

ButIneverdidchangethetruth.Imerelylivedoutsideofit.Anditisdestroy-

ingme.Andmyfamily.Andherfamily.IammyMother'ssonandher

parents'soninlaw.Thatisthetruth.AndImustgotothem.TheliesItell

myselfhavereachedsuchheightsthatIcanconvincemyse

lfofnearlyany-

thing.


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December24thIsometimeswonderwhyIdidn'tblamethedevilforKatey'sdeath.Iwonder

whyIblamedgodandplayedthedevil.IfIhadheldtothislogic- andstill

believedinthesefigures,whydidn'tIlooktothedevilforblameandrecom-pense?Heis,ifthebibleistobebelieved, responsiblefortheevilintheworld-oratleast,heistheonewhoorchestratesman'sevil. Heshouldberesponsi-

bleforthehellI'min.Notgod.Butthe n,ouranger- ormorespecifically, theblame, isalwaysmisdirected.Wedon'tblametheeviloftheperpetrator, weblamethelethargyofthegate-

keeper.Man'sblameisneverdirectedatthewrongfulone, becausetheyareusuallyendowedwithstre ngth-orrather,theyhaveharde nedintoignoranceorhavebeenfortifiedbytheirownhatred.Andhowwefearthisstrength.Thisindestructabilitywhichtheamorale njoy.Andthegatekeeper?The

protector?Apologetic.Guiltridde n.Aneasyscapegoatforthehurt, andtheirfuryandrage,orphanedfrom themind, anddesperateforahome.Andwealwaysdischargeourangeratthesleepingguardandnotthethief. Becauseafteralloftheangerandloss,confrontationwiththeculpableisunthinkable.

Anotherwarisinconceivable. Andsotheperpetratorgoesunpunished, andsoimmunetojusticebecomesinvincible.Andthegoodarelashedfortheirlackofdiligence ;fortheirweakness. Andsobecometheperpetratorthemselves.

February6thIhavelearntsomanytruthsinthelastyear.Buttheyhavecomea

tthecost

ofmypeaceofmind.Itseemsthattruthandhappinessarenot,asIonce

thought,andasIoncepreached, inextricablylinked.Infacttheyaresometimes

opposites.Forsometruthsarethosethingswhichareevident,andsometruths

arethethingswehavetosimplyadmitratherthanobserve.


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Clown Dude


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www.myspace.com/humdingerdooBestknownasasublimesinge

r-songwriter,MCforacousticnightsandthemanwhoturneddownaVirginRecordscontract,Humheregivesusararelookatsomeofhisvisualartwork.

IandEye


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Ankh Hawk - Hum


21/44

Sh

ado

ws

Of

AP

ro

jecti

on


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23/44

.

PhillipWyatt- [email protected] is an artist, designer and musician, playing in thepsych/funk/blues/jamband 'Bearfoot'. He is also one ofthe organisers ofthe Umbrella Factory, an eclecticperformance event in Exeter.

Thesetwoimagescameaboutafterpurelywantingtoexperimentwith

slidesinthesenseofhowsaidimagesareobservedwhentheimagehas

becomephysicallyalteredthroughthemeansofcollage.AndImean

collageinallitsvariedforms.Iwantedtoseehowmeltingtheslidefilmandcuttingintoit,paintingoverit,scratchingawayatit,

stickingotherfilmorslidesontoitetcwouldlookwhenprojected.

Asitisreallydifficulttoimaginethefinaloutcomeofsuchan

experimentwhenfacedwithworkingonsuchasmallscale,sayaround

3cmsquared,it'sonlyuntilcuriousitygetsthebetterofyouandyousneak-ilycheckyourprogressbyinsertingthemanipulatedslideintothepro-

jectorandturnthelightsoffthatyougetasenseofhowitlooks.

It'samazinghowthesmallestandsometimesmoreaccidentalscratches

canlookwhenprojected.It'sthesamewhendustgetsstucktotheimage.I

foundusingsellotapeproducedagreateffect.RegardlessofhowhardItriedIcouldneverkeeptheimagesdust-free,butinallhonestyIthought

thatwhateverwasstucktothefinaldesignwasonlyevergoingtoadd

toit.

AnywayIwouldhighlyrecommendtryingthisout.Youcanpickupold

slideprojectorsatdumpsorcharityshopsfordirtcheap.Thesamewith

slides.It'sgood,almostwholesome,entertainmentforarainy

Sunday.

ShadowsOfAProjection


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Katey'sdeathshowedmetruth.Ilearntthatgodwon'tprotectmeorreward

meformyfaith.IlearntthatIcannotaffectevilwithgood.Ilearntthat

evilisstrongerthangood,onlyrarer,whichiswhytheworlddoesn'tfall

apartwhenitseemslikeitshould.IlearntthatmyMother'sloveisutterly

conditional.AndIhavelearntthatdespairiscontagiousifitisnotcontained.

Allthesetruthsareacompromise.Becausetolivealifeofworshiptoagodis,

ultimately,tolivealifewithoutabsolutetruth.Thatisnottosaythata

religiouslifeisalie.Itmerelymeansthatfaithisarisk;faithisthe

gamblethattruthandrighteousnesswillemerge.Ihavenogod.Butitmeans

thatIhavetruth.BecauseIhavereality.

Faithisoptimism.Itisthehopethatsomethingwillbarefruitifwenurture

it.Faithis thehopethatsomeoneweloveorcherishwillrewardourlovefor

thembyreturningit.Orperhapsbyredeemingthemselves. Itisalottery. It

isalifeofcomfortableanticipation-untilyouareremovedfromit.Weallgambledthatgodwouldrewardourgooddeedsonearthwithprotectioninlife

andaplaceinheavenafterdeath-buttherewasnocertainty.Orrather,

therewasnoevidence.Wewerecertainbecausewefeltit.Wedidn'tstopto

wonderifweknewit.Andinhavingnofaith,theworldseemsdarker.Smaller.Louder.Butmore

real.Iwillnotbegrudgeotherstheirfaith,butIwillkeeptothesafetyofreality, andletthosewithmorecouragethanIwadeintothosedeepwatersI

usedtocallhope.Theoutsidelooksblank.Butnothopeless.Andatleastitdoesnotlookdeceptive.

Icantrustthisworld,simplybecauseIdonottrustit.AndIcannothelpbut

feelthis,theliberationofsocalleddisaster.

...Continued


25/44

March 22ndSomedays I see her everywhere. I see her in the queue outside Lloyds bank. Isee her waiting for the no. 55 on the high street. I see her walking up thestreet away from me wearing a long green coat. I see her smoking in the

doorway of Cooke's record store. Even though Katey never banked withLloyds or trave lled on a bus, and never wore a long green coat. Or smoked.My reflection in the window of the cafe is faint. It is made translusce nt bythe slowly vanishing day light. I only see a full reflection of myself when

someone walks past the cafe, briefly replenishing my features with theirbodies. How am I to interpret this? Should I take this to mean that I need

some other individual to rejuve nate my tired soul? Is this a sign that theonly way to become whole again is to seek the solace and completion thatbeing with another human brings? Will I dege nerate further if I don't

make a connection with someone else? Or is it a sign at all?

It is tempting to try to see god in these trivialities. Like the pull of an oldaddiction. People of re ligion are not just the worshippers of a god; they are

followers of a leader - and they will seek him and find him. Everywhere.There is nothing more tempting to a person who follows god to incarnatehim in the domesticities of life. To personify him. To actualise him. To turntriviality into a cru sade. Domesticity into a pilgrimage. To incarnate himin the minutiae of existence.

But now that I have left god, what shall I read into these little occurenceswhich used to be the word of the lord? The church roof falling in on thefirst anniversary of her death. Her last words being, "I wish it would snow,"and it snowing on the first day I went to her grave. These incidents still

shimmer with the immortality of god. I cannot help but notice them. But

these are not div ine instructions or answers to our prayers. Solutions fallupon our hopelessness like artless rain falls upon a grateful desert, quenching


26/44

quite accidentally, our various and desperate thirsts. And being human -gracious as well as brutal - we thank god. For who else can we thank?

But I need to distil these so called miracles; to extract the godliness and hold inmy palm what they really are ; the world turning, the sun rising, life beinglived. And the slow and sometimes cruel breath of fate.

January13th.Standingbyhergravetoday, andhavingwalkedpastourtwooldhousesonthe

waytothechurch,Irealisedthatshelivesinmymemoryintwodifferent

ways.Thatis,griefhastwofaces.Itispossibleforthehearttogrievequietly;togrievephilosophically.Infact,youcanevenrelishit.Likewhenyouwalk

pasttheentrancetothelibraryandrememberitwasthereyoufledfrom

thepoundingrainoneafternoon,holdingeachotherandshaking.Laughinglike

incredulouschildren.Orwhenyouremembersomethingyousaidtoher

whichmadeherlaughsothathereyessquintedclosedandthetopofhernose

creased, anditwastoobeautifultoexplain,eventoyourself.Sometimeswhentheseabreaksontherocksatthefarendofourbeach, Irememberherbody

belowmine.Rhythmic.Blissful.Impossiblyreal.

Andyetrememberingherbringssuchhateitfrightensme.Itcanfillmy

bloodwiththedesireforrevengeandIbecomedrunkonthesheer

indiscriminationofmyloss.Sometimeseverywhereyoulookisamonument

ofherabsence.Ofherabortionfromyourarms.Youbecomeaprisonerinhermausoleum.

Butthisisn'treallyanger.Itismemorycollidingwithyoursenseofjustice.It

iswhathappenswhenwetransposethedeadintoourlivingworld,becausewe

thinkthatwouldbejust.Itiswhenweaskwhyourlovedonesarenothere

withus.Now.Memoryisthepast.Griefisthepastconvergingwiththe


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present.AndifIamgoingtosurvivewithouther,Ineedtorememberher,notmournher.

February4thIwastalkingtoaunionrepresentativeonceaboutwhatmotivatedpeopletodotheirparticularlineofwork.Onaskinghimwhyhechosetodowhathedid,hesaid,"Becausethingscangoverywrongforveryinnocentpeople."Ithinkwhathewassayingisthatthereisahell.Thatthereisaveryrealhell,andoneonearth.AndnotthehellthatIwasbroughtuptofear.

OrthehellthatIspentsomanyyearswarningpeopleof.Ican'tbelievethatthisworldleadstoaplacewhichpunishestheevilwhentheydie.Aplacewherethepeoplewhohavesinnedarefinallyheldculpableandcorrected.Thereisnosuchprescriptionjustice-Ihavelivedlongenoughtoknow that.Longenough toknow that this imaginingofhell is tooconspiratorial. Too devised. Tooeasy.Hell ismerely acrescendoofmisfortune,andwhenalltheselinesofdespairconvergetheycreatealivinghell,becauseasstrongaswearetocreateourownempires,wearestillunabletosurvivewhentheycollapseandfallonus.Andwhentheyfall,thisisstillnothell.Itismisfortune.Itiswhentheydon'tstopfallingthatwefindourselvesintruehell.Andtosupposethathellwillendistosupposethatfatehasaconscience.Butitdoesnot.HeavenIsupposeisthegapsinbetween.

.

MattRoberts- [email protected] is ateacher who hastaken a year off from school life to write

his first book; he hashad a couple of poems published in the pastyear. He is alsoa singer-songwriter. This is the cleaned-upversion ofhis biog bythe way...


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and there is no God,but today Id like to think there is.

He is drunk and clumsy;after a glass of wine too many at lunch

has knocked over the salt shaker,which rolls precariously along the tables edge

showering white rocks on all below.But, no, there is no God.

The hail is caused by thunderstorms,updrafts, or something.

There is an air of romanceabout frozen snowflakes

fragility encased in ice,performing a tragic ballet

before their descent.

You never told me if you were a believer;we waltzed around the subject

like strangers brought togetherjust to fill a dance card.

You said that religious discussionscause epic arguments.Politics, also; avoiding these topics

with the diplomatic verveof an embassy official.

We sheltered from stormsin silence, waiting for the sky to clear

I, longing to taste the snowflakeson my tongue, and you stood still,

smoke swirling from your lips.The meek glow of embers fading;

each passing day a long dragon a cheap cigarette

MaybeDeath

islikewalkingupahill

towardsthesunsetagainstableedingsky.

Maybeitisthecrashofcymbals,oramandolin

lullaby.Thewayfiresare

putout;bybreath,bystampingfeet,byblastsofwater.

Feelingthatyouhaveforgottensomething;thatforgetting

willcauseirreparabledamage

andeverythingwillgowrong

andeveryonewillshout.

Maybedeathisdoubt.

Orwordsthatcannotbetakenback,

swimmingsofarouttosea

thatlandcannotbeseen;

panicking,paddling,

submittingtothetide,

contentfinallytodriftandwaitfortheinevitable.


29/44

Flood ReliefSystem

Years agoSt. Thomasdrowned, oratleastwaded,

everywinter whentheExewouldbreakitsbanks.

People paddledin dinghiesalongCowick Street

andclambered throughtheirfrontroomwindow

as doorwayswereblocked by sandbag barricades

ifyou think it anexaggerationthereisalways

a markonsome wallthatprovesthe

waterrosethishigh

orthe sludge invadedthatfar.

SecondonlytotheBlitzinthe list

ofpopularaccounts of collective history,

but the storieshavedriedupsincethe floodrelief was

built.

TimestheExeshowedupondoorstepsandspilt

areforgottenasoldfolks die, inevitably

of akindofcancer,

and theyoungwerentthere andhavelittlereason

tocare. Theworldhasgrownup around theriver,

whichnow swells in theshadows

to bedrained in totheconcretehalf-pipe;stiflingascream. Itseemsbarefeet nolonger

wanderon grass banks, sinking for amillisecond

in soil that feelsthe wildflowand knows

thiswaterwillone day flood our town.

Now cycle paths and broken glass andbins forthemess

of dogs that havegrowntoresemble theirowners,

or theother wayround. Atopthe slope

all thepigeonsshut upshop, bracedagainstthewind people flee past fearful

they will fly over them again, walkingalongside

abodyof waterthat moveslikea man

whohaslosthiswillto live.

.

CarlyLightfoot - [email protected] currently24 and lives in Exeter. She has hadpoems published in magazines includingAgenda,Broadsheet, MonkeyKettle and the Rialto.


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There'salwaysone,

Thatgirlwhoeveryoneeitherlongsfororlongstobe.

Duringhellishsecondaryschooldaysoruniversity.

Youknowthetype,

Theshininghair,sparklingeyes

You'veheardthehype,Flimsyfashiontrendsathindisguise

Forblushingalabasterlimbs,

Sweetlyrounded,spot-freeskin,

Theperfectweight; averitableplaygroundswan

Preeningfeathersatthecollegegate.

Perkiertits,peachierarse,

Favouritedebutanteofeachbiologyclass.

Flashingbitchilyherbone-whiteteethateverysocialfaux-pas,

Whichyoudoalot, bespectacledgeekthatyouare.

Hervoiceamedleyofmelodictrills,

Ienviedhercommunicationskills

(forwhichIread:follicle-flicking, flirting,fawningandfellatio)

Iwantedtoburyherbeneathapatio.

Forbeing'perfect,' thismodelgirl,

Thisdizzyingheight,

InevercaughtherlookinglikeaHammmerHorrorfrightnight.

Yetfast-forwardtothispresentday,Ifoundshedoesn'thavealottosay,

ToobusycheckingthewhereaboutsofDave,

Hercheeky-chappy,sleazy-geezer,

Lager-drinking, cocaine-sneezer,

Itemisedphone-billdeceiver.

Itturnsout,thatbeautyisnotskin,butfathomsdeep,

Thatpopulargirl, whooncesoviciouslyputyoudown,

Andmadeyourmyopiceyeballsweep,Mightnotbeonetocutoutandkeep.

Shetakeslastplaceinthepersonalityrace.

Anuglytrophytomatchhersecondface,

Theoneshespeakswithifyou'renotafootballer.

Andso,myfreakish,social-failurefriends,

Fansofsci-fi, fantasy, fantasticswordandsorcery,

Tardis-trippers,alienstrippers,goldenverginiafilter-tippers,

Seethefallofgloossy,shop-boughtself-belief,

Andbreatheahuge, heartfelt,nerdysighofrelief.

Allinall,

Attheendofanotherbaggy-trousered, glasses-wearing,limited-editionDVD,

DoctorWho,DiscworldandDragonlanceday,

I'msohappytohaveturnedoutthisway.


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BakerlooLine

Upanddowntheescalators,Diesel-dykeemasculators,Socialisteja

culators,LeonardCohenimitators,One-nightstandinitiators,Sleazy,covertmasturbators,Psychedelicrecreators,Terroristco-ordinators,Toddlerpacificators,Psychomotoragitators,

Flu-likesymptomincubators,LEDannunciators,Pestcontrolexterminators,

Thatincludesthefumigators,BornAgainamalgamators,Missionarypenetrators.

OnememorableKling-onnarrator.

Mixitupintoonebig-cityparanoiaperpetrator:Atripping,rat-infested, sciencefiction,Fundamental,wanking,whining,politician,Schizophrenicmusicalinfection,Sexualandgender-variedcontra-indication.

Divide,multiply,slice,diceandcube.Suckyourhumanitysoup,

Throughatube.


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.

EdenDart - [email protected](or thelesser-spotted scandal addict andbachelorofliguistic

wizardry) is aperformance poet and flamboyant wordsmith, foraging alyrical existencein the ruinsofa proper job. Shespendsa lot oftimein

paradoxical ponderings. Edendoesn't like nights out, her sense of

humourisdreadful, she enjoys bad weather andher special interests

includeear lu s read meals Gnosticism and insomnia.

GoneFishing

Thesurfacebreaks,Ahundredsunlitthoughts-mylittlefish,Shatterthestilldark.Theyleap,thrash,Chaseawaytheflurryofbest-forgottenthings.

Deepbeneath,Thedemoninthedreampond.Ghastly,long-jawedpikeHangshateful,glaringglassily.Waitingforthetidetoturn,Towake,Intherollingdark.

Listen,getoutyouranorak,TurntoRadio4.Loadupyourhookwithworms,Mindfulnessandwhol

emealbread.Landthatbastard.


33/44

Somewherejust outside of Okehampton, onthe edge of themoors, thereis

allegedly astone placedin memoryof the late poet Ted Hughes. On a windy

but warmday in late July, myselfand a fellowwriter Oli - embarked upona questto find the stone and,perhaps, find a little piece ofthepoet

himself.

We somewhatunwisely arrivewithoutthe recommended OS map, and withonly

a vagueideaof wherethe stoneactually was. Our onlyforms of guidance

are acompassand some hand-written notesof mine, which are so badly

scrawled as to be almost illegible; the fact that Oliat one point deciphers

Cranmere Pool as Chamomile pot saysit all. We hadalso failed to check

the local military camps firingtimes, but decide what the hell welltakeourchances. Clearly neither of us were inthe scouts / brownies, as we did

not seem to be familiar with the adagebe prepared.

After numerous wrongturns and accidentallydrivinginto a militarycamp,

we eventually find what we agree isthe rough path wemight be looking

for, and start driving up it, only to be met with a sign saying No

Unauthorised Vehicles. At this pointIreverse - rather too quickly - back

downthe track, crushinga gate-post to within aninch of its life (woops)

and causing minor damage to my bumper. I decide tohave a fagbeforeventuring out of the car; Oli struggles toput on the hugest walking boots

Ive ever seenbefore deciding its too much hassle: Thesebootsweremade

for walking, and thats justwhat theyll do but not today.

Walkinguppast Cranmere Pool,I am struckbyhow barren, harsh and

unforgiving themooris in this area. There is asense ofunrelenting

wilderness; simplyacres of sun-roasted grasses with the odd smatteringof

gorse bush. Its open, rugged expanse stretches for miles around. The

landscape has probablychanged little since Hughestime, maybe someofthe

foliagehas come and gone,andtheroad behind me and the military camp

aresurely new features, butapart from that I feel that whatIm looking at

must significantly resemble what Hughes saw. I wonder if perhaps he was

inspired bythe powerinherent in such a stark butstrikingly beautiful

landscape whenhewrote thewords: The trickle cuttingfrom the hill-crown

/ whorls to a pure pool here / with awhisp trout like a spirit / thewater

is wild as alcohol (from Sugar Loaf).

Sugar Loaf appears inHughes Wodwo collectionandis aclassic example of

his nature poetry. The variegated language in the above extract

perfectlycapturesmany facetsof the water. Thechoice of the verb whorl

followed by severalsuccinct, monosyllabic wordsgenerates a rapidpace,


34/44

neatly complementing thelater suggestionthat the wateris wild.The repeatedw soundshere addtotheimpression of power andfrenzy. Natureis also presented as mysterious through the selectionofthe softer words whisp and spirit. Thereis something eerieyetbeautiful about the water; the attr

action of themysterious and un-tamed is conveyedalmost effortlessly.

We stumble across atuft of fur and humorously(or sowe think)specu-late as to whether weve discovered theremnantsof Hughes beardclippings; so caughtuparewe in out little joke that almost dontseetheEast Dart river until were practically onitsbanks. Justthe sound ofthewater falling down through the valley isawesome.As I siton arock looking East, it seems as ifahuge waterfallispoweringdown the hillside behindme, but the ri

veris onlymaybe2ftwideat this point, falling no more than80ft. It exemplifies thesheer forceofunbridled nature, themajestythat Hughesfeltsotouched by; as I sit thereitshard not tostart engaging withhispossiblemindset whenwritingsuchpoems as Fern: the fern/ danc-es gravely, like the plume / of a warriorreturning, underthe lowhills/ intohis own kingdom. The simileof the warriorworksbeauti-fully toconvey thestrengthand nobility ofnature as I seeit now,satamongst the low hills of north Dartmoor. It seems almost oxy-moronicto suggest that anything might dancegravely yet w

hatHughes achieveswith his choice of adverb is to clothe the fernin amajestybefitting his other images. Yes, theferndances, butnotwithgayabandon; it danceswithregalsplendour.

I try tostammer out afewlines ofpoetrymyself, feeling that if Imgoing to be creatively inspired, this isthe place butI can onlycome upwith such horrors as Kingdom of sun-ripenedears / Withlush and abundant wealth/ In yourpresence Iamnothing. Hardlylyrical. Onre-readingmypathetic poetry I spot the horrible ambi-guityof the wordears, andwonder whetherIve actuallybeen writingaweird science-fantasyextract The kingdom ofthesun-ripenedears. Ohdear. Stick to what you do best. I sitandread Barley, inwhichHughes opening linesuggests barley grainislikeseeds ofgold bullion. My own sun-ripened ears are frankly awful standingnext to this. The comparisonto goldbulliongivesa verypowerfulimage of colour, strengthand richnessallencapsulated in onesmall phrase. Its an expert lesson inhowtouse thesimile. Pure genius. Humbledas Iam by the surroundings, mylame attempts tocapture them


35/44

lyrically evoke an equally magnificent sense of humility towards Hughes.To powerfully and succinctly capture this splendour in words is a truly

remarkable achievement, which I am in great awe of.

Having walked for a good hour and having followed our (admittedly dubi-ous) hand-written instructions as best we could, we determine that the stoneMUST be somewhere in the vicinity. We stumble across rocks and rivers, up

hills and down dales, avidly seeking a glimpse of it, to no avail. Apparent-ly, the stone had to be air-lifted onto the moor, which implies its of a sizethat would make it noticeable from some distance, and which begs the ques-tion of why we just cannot see the remotest hint of it. Frustrated, we an-noy some local sheep by joining in with their bleats; their glaring faces

show visible distaste and I suggest we shouldnt aggravate them in case

they are guarding the secret location of the Ted Hughes Memorial Stone andwe need to pass through their flock in order to access it, lol.

We leave the sheep alone and, as another half hour passes, debate whether

we might still be here at 3am tomorrow morning, exhaustedly inspectingevery stone in the near vicinity for inscriptions: Does yours say in memo-ry of Ted Hughes, No, Mine neither. We spot an odd shaped stone a littleway above us and, filled with hope, clamber up in its general direction. Atired Oli says, This better be the damn stone, but its not. An hour later

we give up and wander back to the car.

Reflecting back on our adventure, I feel somehow glad that we didnt actual-ly find the memorial stone. An old university lecturer of mine once talkedabout something called the biographical fallacy a belief that the mean-ing of a poets work can be found by reading his / her poems in light of

events in their life. Of course, finding meaning in poetry is really notthat easy, just as finding the stone turned out to be something of a chal-lenge. I went to the moor and felt at one with nature, I felt inspired by

its majesty, and I felt some appreciation for what inspired Hughes. But Illnever find the true meaning of his work, or the essence of the man himself.

One day I might even find the stone, but its only going to connect me to avery small part of Hughes. Hes there somewhere, but hes also highly elu-sive; its like the stone is a metaphor for the man. Now THATS poetry foryou.

.

JulesReed-jules-reed-writes@hotma

il.co.uk

Julesisalocalfreelancewriter,proof-readerandeditor,whose

writingisablendofbiographyandtravelwriting.


36/44

Oli Nejad - [email protected]'sfirst poetry collection, 'Coffee and Cigarettes,' was published in2008 and he was one of Foyles Young Poets of the Year. He alsoshakes and stirs the best cocktailsin Exeter.


37/44


38/44

Today I am a work of art, and you

Parade the public gallery awhile;You mutter about red rather than blue:

The light, the price, the label make you smile.I wish I were a camera instead,

A frame by frame by halogen in truth;Wrapped up and cut and rushing to my head:Its something for an eye, not for a tooth.

The cheek of it, we turn and turn again,We call and we interpret to the bone;Its either head to head or friend to friend,

Why stand against the wall to see whos grown?No art, no sign can signify the soul;

You see a work in progress, not the whole.

I am not sure of the daylightBut have no need of the rain;

You told me once while I still slept:Forget me not.

The time is bulky and brazen

And skin slips off at the edge;The lustrous street adores my feet:

Perfectly lost.

I rub my stomach for comfortThen ball up into your curls;

We shake, we smoke the final words:Everything stops.


39/44

There are cracks between loving and leaving,Where slithers of heartache

Touch splinters of joy.Here the impact of needingIs cushioned by wanting

If the glass remains clear.So the girl reflects boy,

Refracts yearnings and sighs;Mirror images lie side by side

Through their looking-glass eyes.

Make the most of these timesFor they fragment and fracture,

They shatter,They fall,

Leaving lovers in piecesAnd blood on the walls.

Therearecracksbetweenlovingandleaving,

Whereslithersofheartache

Touchsplintersofjoy.

Heretheimpactofneeding

Iscushionedbywanting

Iftheglassremainsclear.

Sothegirlreflectsboy,Refractsyearningsandsighs;

Mirrorimagesliesidebyside

Throughtheirlooking-glasseyes.

Makethemostofthesetimes

Fortheyfragmentandfracture,

Theyshatter,

Theyfall,

Leavingloversinpieces

Andbloodonthewalls.


40/44

Mythreewords

Arenotyourwords,

Nothis,nothers,noranyone's,

They'reminealone.

Andwhattheymean

Orwhattheysay(Likeskiesongolden

autumndays)

Canchange.

Mythreewords,

Aresecretthings

I'vesoftlywritteninthesand.

Theyhidebeneathincomingwaves,

Arenoterased

Butlostinthetranslation

Intorain.

Mythreewords

Maysoundthesame

Asthosethatfallfromotherlips,

Butkissmeonce:

Whatcanyoutaste?

Kissmeagain

Tillyourthreewordsandmine

Amalgamate.

I'mafriend,

I'mastranger,

Analwaysbeenherekindofface

Youremember

Fromlatenightsandlaughter

Orsadsongsandsunrise

Andhalfsaidgoodbyes.

You'reacall,

Notananswer;

Anoffbeatheart

Jump-startingnew-tastingmysteries.

Iknowbutdon'tknowthisstep

One-two-three

-stumble

-standup

-repeat:

Smile.


41/44

Spike: [email protected] is a man of indeterminate age who has spent most of hislife writing in one form or another. Beween his late teens andearly 30s he performed with bands and solo, writing some 400songs along the way. More recently he gained an MAin Englishat Exeter University, and an incomplete Doctorate. His poetryexamines the distance between language and meaning, and theeffects of culture and socialstructures uponthe individual. Oh,and relationships, since that is why we turn topoetry in the first

lace...

Icurlintoaball-gown,

Idancetheerrantnight;

Imnotsologo-centric

ThatIhopethesword/penmightBeeverythingorover,

Thoughwishesonceweredreams;

Likedrowningdream-likedrowners

Wavingsoftly,soitseems.

Youflickerinthestillhere,

Stillmagnet,pullingteeth:YoureallandthusIhateyo

u,

Loveyou,hatemeunderneath

Themirrorshadeoflaughter,

Andcrumbleattheeyes.

Icantperfectthisdancing

Didntknowthebeatcoulddi

e.

Dontknowtheworldisbeasties,Donotcaretolearntheru

les;

IcurtseyasIfalter

Withtheshippingforecastfools.

Ay-ayandcurlingtongue-kiss;

Youreeugenicafterall,

ThereforeIamanonsense

AndIshantgototheball.


42/44

spike

Contributionsto:

[email protected]


43/44

Additional Graphics Used Under Free Licence From

www.sxc.huFonts Used Under Free Licence From

www.fontspace.comAdditional Scrapbook Background From

freescrapbookinginfo.blogspot.com

Front cover photographs By

Dim: Focus/Unfocus

Back cover illustration byHum: 'Geometrical Life'

All work is the copyright

of the authors and artists

DaveMarsdinatthenightbefore

www.dimspace.net

EditorSteveSmith

Sub-EditorVickyFranklin

Design

ReflectionsPublishedbySteveSmith/ReflectionsMagazine

2009SteveSmith


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