Remembering Places

Historical Irony in Jersey City

2011-02-28T13:36:00.000-08:00

This story shows both how small the world really is and just how ironic it can be.

Around the time of the Civil War, a student from Harvard was waiting to take a transfer train in Jersey City. Because of the people on the platform pushing and the area being crowded he was knocked into the gap. A man grabbed his collar and pulled him, saving him from injury.

What makes this story so interesting is who the two individuals were. The student was Robert Lincoln, the son of then President Abraham Lincoln. The man who pulled him up was a famous actor at the time: Edwin Booth.

(After this incident occured, Edwin's brother, John Wilkes Booth would assassinate Robert's father.)

Here's a link to some more information
http://www.historynet.com/edwin-booth-saved-robert-todd-lincolns-life.htm

I always thought that this was a fun little story that happened right in my backyard.

Jim Moretto

2011-02-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

Crazy Patchwork of a City

2011-02-13T15:07:00.000-08:00

Saint Peter's College is located in Jersey City, New Jersey--just a stone's throw across a thin section of the Hudson River from majestic Manhattan, the center of New York City. Jersey City has been known in recent decades as an economically-depressed area, but over the past ten years or so much of the city, especially the business center and 19th-century "brownstone" homes near the waterfront, have been significantly renovated. Close to the river and in the historical district of the city, new and interesting restaurants and shops continually open; Saint Peter's College itself is a notable cultural center which continues to grow and improve.

Other areas of the city, however, remain a run-down hodgepodge of buildings of various styles, in various states of disrepair. Streets are narrow, drivers are aggressive; now, in February, mounds of dirty snow make parking virtually impossible.

However, Jersey City is also vibrant: its population is extremely diverse, with residents from Egypt, India, the Caribbean, Eastern Europe, and many different states across the US. People who want to be near New York City can live in Jersey City when they cannot afford NYC prices--and it's a quick subway ride from JC into the heart of Manhattan. Our shops reflect our diversity, from hookah cafes to Indian jewelers to Halal butchers. This optimistic, bright-yellow meat market: "Lucky 4," which also purports to sell "coffee, chocolate, and vegetables," reflects to me the crazy patchwork which is Jersey City.

Rachel Wifall

St. Peter's College

Meeting in a familiar place

2011-02-08T23:59:00.000-08:00

I sit here
in the dark cafe,
lit up only
by the sunshine
from outside.
The smell of sugar
and tea tickles
my nose as I
see a young
lad attempting to
devour an ice cream.
I remember the
day the dolphins
put on a show
for us across the road,
nature’s performer.
I can feel the warmth
from the sandy beach
touch my skin as
the bell on the cafe
door sounds.

Alec?

Kat Howford, DMU

2011-02-08T10:13:00.001-08:00

Stoned Stroll

2011-02-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

Walk-write

meandering urban zones

death-butts clog drains,

nicotine cake, lip stick lychees.

'They hate us ennit?'

Smoking scrubbers stare

at scribbling quills.

Trainers dangling: crack house!

Wired, wrecked, whacked.

Class A economy pushed:

'Free entry, free drinks, it's free

at the Republic tonight.

Demo frenzy on Bath Lane.

Condom slung willy-nilly

rotting seed swaying

in Leicester's castle foilage.

Razor wire, imperial bricks

piles of disco, dancing army.

'Get down with the brethran,

banging tunes.'

Electrical harzard, max headroom.

'Crusaders slaughtering.'

Fraying St George flutters

fighting the invisible

the Great Game

ensnares once again.

Lauri Cusack.

Walk Poem - Leicester

2011-02-07T12:31:00.000-08:00

Probably.

Open closed Open closed.

Crawling Insects.

The hooks, spindles and Spine of Fletcher.

Good reception,

coins and cards.

Butterflies

clinging

sloped

skin.

SMELLY DRAIN.

Regimented buildings

Judgemental pigeons

SMELLY MUD.

Wet hands

and still water.

SMELLY RUNNER.

Lost World Demolition's new broadcast for today is:

'I like Ben and Jerry's'.

A metal bird peering through the

window, suspicious

of passers

by.

Some artificial voyeurism is afoot!

Grumpy trolls work on cars

under the bridge where

they belong. Grumpily

looking out to the light

of day, at me, grumpily holding

their tools.

A Honda with it's ears pulled back, growling silently.

'Can anybody else smell jam on toast?'

'Don't make no difference to me,

I'm retiring.'

Bamboo

2011-02-07T08:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve been here for a good few years, now. Every single night, numerous students walk past me, using the river-path as a shortcut to get back home. Sometimes, they must think I’m thirsty; men stand against me and urinate on my long neck. If I’m honest, I don’t really like it. I’d much rather be given a stick of bamboo to chew on. After all, I do watch after them as they stagger down the steps, clutching a bottle of half empty Sainsbury’s Basics Cider. I always make sure the swans don’t eat them, even if they do put their cigarettes out on my fur. That burns, you know.

Sometimes, the swans come and talk to me. They don’t like flying up the steps but its tough because I can’t move, can I? It’s not my fault some graffiti artist sprayed me on the wall and decided to give me a long neck. I’m not a bloody giraffe, you know. I can’t even go and talk to my brothers who live a bit further downstream. It’s okay, though; I send messages to them through ducks and they occasionally find the time to respond. However, they have each other and just share leaves between themselves. I don’t get any leaves, just the odd takeaway carton thrown at me from Pizza King. Sometimes there are some leftover vegetables in the carton, even if it is a bit of limp lettuce and not delicious bamboo. I miss bamboo. Sometimes, my mother sends me some for Christmas and its delivered mid-December, via a swan with a big, red bow tied around its neck.

Every Wednesday morning, at around ten o’ clock, an old lady comes to visit the ducks and brings a loaf of bread with her. When I watch her throw the bread into the river, some of its speckled with green and even that reminds me of bamboo. Ducks in Leicester are a little stupid so they gobble the bread right up and then wonder why they throw up three hours later. I suppose they blame it on a dodgy water-bug though and not the generous old lady whose hair is as white as swan feathers.

By Laura Jones, DMU, Leicester

Miss Fortune

2011-02-06T20:05:00.000-08:00

The market sellers called their unintelligible persuasions, trying to sell her things she didn’t want or need; old toys, used shoes, dodgy DVDs. In Winter, the early darkening of the sky causes the traders to call well into what feels like night, causing an odd sense of disorientation. The orange streetlights filled the wet gutters with gold that sparkled, shimmered and shattered as her boots broke the surface of the water. The few shoppers still around gave her curious, nervous glances; she rewarded them with a shark-like grin that caused an involuntary recoil.
A homeless man muttered to her from beneath the red brick archway leading to the town hall.
“Spare any change?”
She threw him a twenty and that smile and made to walk away.
“Well... th-thank you, Miss...?”
“Fortune.” She threw back over her shoulder, leaving the old man huddled under his worn red blanket to wonder, exactly what kind of little girl walks the streets alone at this time, handing out that kind of money?
She thought about crossing the paved road to the fountain that sat at the centre of town hall square. She remembered it being a different colour when it was installed. She turned left instead, taking another left at the Starbucks and stopping at the end of a long, wide, grey street lit with tall colour-changing lights the council had installed for no real reason. Gallowtree Gate? She chuckled, What a lovely image.
Now... where’s the nearest Chinese?

By: Aimi Jeffs, Dmu.

2011-02-06T04:17:00.001-08:00

Jack and the Tree

2011-02-04T07:46:00.001-08:00

Treading cautiously through the night,

up the hill and out of sight.

Through the graveyard, Jack did climb,

through the haunts and through the grime.

At the top, there stood a tree

high enough for all to see.

But while the people were asleep,

the tree would wake to take a peep.

People don't stay up at night

for fear the dark would come and bite.

By the time the sun has set

all were tucked up in their beds.

But one night, the tree did find

a little boy still out at nine.

Twisting his roots into the ground,

coiling his trunk, he turned around.

Poor little Jack, who was running away

was rooted on the spot and began to sway

as the mighty tree atop of the hill

began to dance and twist and twirl.

"Oh little boy, why are you awake?"

the tree said and Jack began to shake.

"Oh please, Mr. Tree, don't make me stay.

All I want to do is run far away!"

The tree took Jack's frightened hand

and led him back to his snoring land.

All night, they listened to the sleeping voices

and he taught Jack how to make scary noises.

And now every night, the villagers hear

another noise that tingles their fears;

because that is when Jack and the tree

come out for their nightly haunting spree!

By: Rosina Ellis, DMU.

A work in progress; feel free to leave feedback

The Bathroom.

2011-02-04T04:03:00.000-08:00

This is based on a rumour at my old primary school, Sherrier. It was said there was a ghost in the year 6 bathroom.

The bathroom. Well, this is a lovely place to be stuck! Of course I can glide around pretty much anywhere but this is my “haunt” This is the area where I rest and so I’m attracted to it, body and soul. I didn’t die locked in a cubicle, I was buried here way before this lump of bricks was built. 1983 they decided to move their primary school here to keep up with the modern era, and I ended up with the bathroom on top of me. Talk about disrespect for the dead!
I can hear the scraping of chairs. Here they come. Lunch time, and they’ll all be stamping around a meter above me. Well, the physical me. My presence hasn’t gone unnoticed. I haven’t actually appeared to any of them…yet, but kids can sense these other worlds where they bleed through, it’s why they get so exited at Halloween.
Some have claimed to have seen some kind of monster. I’ve been blue, green, had a tail and deep voice. Apparently I often hover over the washbasins along the front or lurk in the cubicle on the right which has the window.
Already I can here the first few who keep their eyes on the clock. They always feel the need to scream as though they were imprisoned for life. Sometimes I hear them playing “what’s the time Mister Wolf” on the opposite side of this wall. Occasionally they’ll play some kind of ghost hunting game, usually based around ideas which involve me having some kind of powers. It’s nice, becoming a celebrity in a way.
I watch as the 12:15 stampede rush in. I don’t peek, if you were wondering. It can sometimes be quite content to just hover in the corner and watch them. They grow up quicker than I thought. It’s mainly year 6’s who come in but that’s their final year here. Often I see them boast about their status, worry about SATS, and then prepare for the grand transfer. They mature so much, gain confidence. There are a few who I thought would never be able to get themselves together, but they always surprise me. I grow quite proud of them.
I notice a few don’t wash their hands and dodge aside. It feels dirty enough when they go through me anyway, I don’t want them plonking their germs inside me as well!
A few of course put chewing gum all over the place and stuff the toilets. It’s only 15 minutes into Lunch and already we’re one toilet down. I know who all the culprits are, smirking because they think they’re so smart for making the place stink even more. I sometimes hold the cubicle doors shut for a second on them or spray the tap water just enough to get the message across, keep the act up. These toilets are protected. Ghosts have noses you know!
The girl with the blond hair is doing her usual trick. Blocking the exit to targeted individuals, demanding that they say the password to be let out. Oh and look her sheep are here too. Spoilt b b b…..biiii….brat. This is my time to step in and live up to the legends given to me. It doesn’t take much to distract some. Tapping on the shoulder, throwing some paper, the expected ghostly stuff. Enough to get them to let their guard down, just long enough for the victim to escape. Today I couldn’t resist being heard. All I have to do is say “go” from the first cubicle, it echoes from there. They like to think they’re so big, trapping the timid students in a haunted toilet. It feels good to see them scamper off with petrified stares, serves them right. Ironic really.

Becky Butterwick.

the night before I saw Phil Dillon on the news

2011-02-04T01:33:00.000-08:00

We mark the paths that take us home

We look up at the Kaballah code

on bricks, those records,

the grimoire of the tribe.

We piss on fagends and heineken cans

We mark the places where you can see Cost;

every boz and spliff we contribute

to this legacy in Rizla.

Stood By The Riverbank

2011-02-03T11:34:00.000-08:00

(to be placed on the fence overlooking the river)

Watch the hungry ducks. There is no
bread left, just discarded packaging
blowing down the path. A shadow
on the river hiding a floating

forgotten football. Kicked, lost, goal?
Hear the carrier bag lightly rustling
up in the branches, a solitary soul
ensnared by the wind. Start noticing,

looking, you might see odd smiling faces
staring over at you. Gang symbols,
graffiti painted in impossible places
or elaborately printed cubist angels?

You stood here before, yet seldom
saw images so abstract and random.

Lester Easterbrook DMU

2011-02-02T12:36:00.000-08:00

The sand warm on my feet,
the sun burning my left cheek,
the water lapping along,
to the hum of the jet ski's.
The smell of coconut sun lotion,
and orange lingers in my nose.
I look across the sea,
as it stretches for miles.
Never ageing,
never changing.
But when I look back,
rotten pieces of wood,
where the boats once stood.
The chairs- no longer there,
and my skin no longer supple,
as it once was.
They can still be there to me, to us!
God bless your soul.

By Nicky Mason DMU.

My Birth Right

2011-02-02T10:20:00.000-08:00

I always knew I was special. It wasn’t just a childish illusion, I knew.
As if to prove the point my father said that there was a banner hanging outside the hospital where I was born which read ‘Louise Jack was born here’. So it wasn’t just me who knew, it was everyone who passed Stamford Hospital and saw those words as a dedication to my birth place.
It all seemed utterly reasonable. Plaques were erected to the likes of Dickens, Kings, Peter Pan. I’d seen a statue of a black horse in London with a warrior raising his sword.
It all made sense considering when my school needed someone to open the yearly fete one of my parents would be asked. We lived in the biggest house in the village, why couldn’t I be famous before I was even born.
It was with such delight (and silent excitement) when we went on a trip to Stamford. I would actually get to see my banner. I remember sitting in the back of the car, waving at people in the street, they would smile back.
We motored through winding lanes, passed churches with towering steeples. And then we turned a corner and my father said – proudly, ‘This is where you were born.’ My banner! My banner! There was a long stone wall and I looked and I looked and... It was just a wall, no banners, no words.
‘Where’s my banner?’ I asked.
My father didn’t miss a beat. ‘They took it down yesterday.’
How unreasonable. They took it down the day before I arrived!
Sadly I never got to see my banner, some would argue that it never existed, but for many years, I felt robbed that day and for many years to come!

Let's Drink To You

2011-02-02T03:54:00.000-08:00

The whiskey pouring hard and fast,
a hangover being built to last.
Uncle John takes me by the hand, and
within the hour I can barely stand.

He dances to his favourite tune,
and talks of friends gone too soon
When seven brothers sang as one, and
now so many of them gone.

A playful wink to a girl nearby, he's
never accused of being shy.
With a laugh to melt the coldest of hearts,
he fills the room as the music starts.

I sit and watch with bleary eyes,
this dear old man with his 'band o' guys'
I truly pray that when I leave,
I'm celebrated by men like these.

Daley James Francis

Naughty Ghost

2011-02-02T00:21:00.000-08:00

My auntie’s hair salon is just two streets down from me. I would often call in on the way home from school, giving it a quick clean up in exchange for some pocket money. On one such occasion I’d stayed late and so she offered to drive me home; I looked out of the window of the shop noting the dark sky and the dripping of rain. I accepted her offer.

Huddled against the wall outside as we tried to pull down the ancient shutter, passing customers shouted their greetings and a fair few ‘bet you’re glad you’re finished’ comments. Everyone however, kept on with their own purpose, all except one man.

He stood opposite the shop, leaning against the horrible wall just staring at us. I knew who he was but it was still unnerving to see him like that. He had nothing in his hands except his car keys, so I assumed he was just heading to work at the Chinese Takeout around the corner.

Eventually the shutter was down and we turned to head off. As we stepped out onto the path, he stepped forward.

“That place is haunted you know.” We stopped in our tracks, a little confused.

“The hairdressers?” My aunty asked.

“Yes.”

I shifted nervously. All of the staff there had long ago assumed that the shop was haunted. Many strange happenings had occurred there. One time, my aunty arrived early in the morning, being the last one out the night before and the first one in that morning, only to find all of the drawers were open and some were tipped over. Naturally her first thought had been a burglary but checking it all out, she found nothing. Case One.

Another time, a set of the staff’s hair scissors had gone missing. They were looked for all over the shop and she said she checked at home too. Weeks later, after she was forced to buy a new pair, her old pair were found. Inside the ancient microwave nobody ever used. Case Two.

All of these memories rose up in my mind, along with the fleeting images of a shadow I had once seen myself, where nobody should have been.

“Yes. It’s sitting on the old Manor’s private graveyard. You can check the maps if you like. Bet you have some trouble in there don’t you?” he chuckled as he walked off.

We stood there aghast. We had already heard that this strange man was a little bit psychic, now it seemed confirmed.

I never did check to see if he was right.

Rachel Melissa Robson. DMU.

Bus to Confidence

2011-01-31T10:29:00.000-08:00

Step, got it. Step, got it. Step, got two. Step, got two again. Whoo. This is amazing.
Johnny loved this town. He played this game at home all the time, but here it was just so much more fun, with all the chewing gum constellations on the pavement. Step - and another one. It was practically impossible to lose here. He kept on jumping from foot to foot.
“Wow.” He put both feet on the ground and ran to the grass. “Look at all these seeds here.” He picked up a Cadbury paper and smelled it. The stingy scent of chocolate and syrup. He took a deep breath and then tucked the paper neatly between three clusters of grass, putting a bit of soil on top of it. “Now you can blossom, sweety.”
He looked further ahead. He had never seen something like that before. Quickly he ran over to a bottle of cider. Yes, bottles he knew, even this size. But the name on it wasn’t anything like they had at home. “Cider.” Was that the brand?
A girl walked by. She was dressed really strangely. Jeans as big as his Mum’s, but the girl was skinny and pale. Not really pale with all the black in her face. The jacket also seemed to be three times too big for her. He sighed. She must be a very poor girl. It gave him some reassurance that not all the people in “Confidence” were rich and wealthy.
He took the bottle and moved on, playing his game down the street. A strange music caught his ear. He peered into the distance, where the sun was about to disappear behind the chimneys. The smoke that came out of the roofs was just like the one surrounding the dump in his backyard. A black car drove by with a dark man inside. The music became louder as it approached. The beat kept repeating constantly; what a stupid thing to do when there are so many different tunes.
Right behind the car was a bus just like the one he had arrived in. This was such a strange place the bus to Confidence had dropped him off.

By Nico Lehmann, DMU, Leicester

my home.

2011-01-30T12:03:00.000-08:00

Frayed fingers and caressing eyes

rove, never ending over me.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

A perfect circle. Much to shy

to open and let us be free,

of frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

Halfway around, it tries to hide.

High-pitched screams as we try to flee.

‘Don’t walk through there alone’ they cry

to me as I daringly try

to enter the beautifully

frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

A set of wheels and racing thighs,

hurtle me towards the queen bee.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

Brown bricks and branches block the sky,

as they begin to stare at my

frayed fingers and caressing eyes.

‘Don’t walk through there alone,’ they cry.

By Brittany Reid

Deaf to the world.

2011-01-30T08:15:00.000-08:00

Dan got up at 5:30 every morning to go for a run before work. Today was no exception; his radio alarm woke him on time with the daily celebrity scandal. He hit a button to silence it, and put on his training clothes. He grabbed his iPod on the way out the door, and unwound the cable as he walked to warm up. He put the earphones in and quickened to a jogging pace as he scrolled through his playlists. He pressed play and quickened his step again. He crossed the road, heading towards the park, and then realised no music was playing. He cranked the volume up but nothing happened. Dan pulled his iPod from his pocket and found the playlist empty of tracks.
“What the hell…”
He selected another playlist, but its pre-selected tracks weren’t there either. After checking two more playlists, Dan stopped running and clicked All Music. Nothing appeared; there was a blank screen. He grunted, shoved his iPod into his pocket, and continued his daily run without his usual upbeat music to keep rhythm.

Once he got home, Dan jumped in the shower, had breakfast and then got in the car to head to work across the city. The radio station he had pre-tuned in the car was spitting out static, so he switched to another, which was transmitting a news report. Every channel he tuned into was playing either news, weather or DJs talking rubbish. Dan hit the radio off with a thump and drove to work in silence. He passed the morning by drinking coffee after coffee as he waded his way through paperwork he had been hoping would disappear. His afternoon was one long, stressful meeting, and by the time he left the office and got into his car, he was more than ready to unwind with his girlfriend at the concert they booked tickets for months before. He flipped through the radio stations again and let it settle on a comedy act as he sat in traffic.

As soon as he got home, he took a shower to waken up, and made a quick microwave dinner. He had just finished getting ready when his phone buzzed with a text from Lucy: “Concert cancelled tonight, band gave no reason!”

Dan swore loudly and went straight to the fridge for a beer. Lucy phoned him ten minutes later and asked if he wanted to go to a wine bar instead. “They better have stocked up,” Dan replied.

“What’s up?” Lucy asked him as they sat on the bar’s balcony, overlooking part of the city. “Nothing, why?” he replied. “You seem tense. Bad day?” Lucy asked. “I guess… well, no… I don’t know, nothing bad happened, it’s just been a weird sort of day. Quiet, but busy, you know?” Dan answered. Lucy nodded.
“It’s nice here, but they could do with playing some music or something, soft jazz or that,” Dan said. “Yeah,” Lucy agreed.

On their walk back to Lucy’s apartment, they stopped to buy kebabs from a street vendor, and while they waited for their overpriced, cheap meat, Dan looked up and saw some words spray painted onto a disused bridge. He could just make out what it said from the flickering light of a street lamp: “Imagine waking tomorrow and all music has disappeared”.

-Naomi Marcus, DMU.

Unplugged in Leicester

2011-01-30T05:35:00.000-08:00

(Click the picture)

Brucie's in the Sky with Cupcakes

2011-01-29T13:32:00.000-08:00

Ay up, you seen them paintings,
on the 'oardings down Bath Lane, by the canal?
Cartoons, like Sergeant Pepper,
'ang on, I mean Yellow Submarine.
Slap bang across from Brucie's, y'know,
'im does tea and pastries, and a pretty spanking
jammy scone and cream.

You should see them paintings,
I ain't never seen oat like 'em,
all candy pink and full-on bubblegum,
mutant pear drops, cochineal and cherry plums.
Just like Woolies' Pik 'n' Mix, before they closed.

Fizzy pop and fondant fancies,
doughy doughnuts, buns and biscuits,
still warm.
Or just a cheese 'n' onion cob, I ain't fancy.
Hey, lets go Brucie's now, I'm hungry.

Could gerra tea to go,
'ead up West Wharf and see
his piece of history, tucked away.
A kaleidoscope of colours,
psychedelic cyanosis.
Oo ya beauty,
Luigi Brucciani

by Sally Jack, DMU

A Leicester Walk Poem

2011-01-27T07:12:00.000-08:00

Sirens are our birdsong

Sirens are our birdsong
as we break onto Bonner’s Lane
biro-beaks primed to gather,
hunt and scavenge.

Lear
left his name to the city
and here
on Gosling St

two half-gouged lychees
burst their rubber moulds.
Above, air miles are chalked
in spinal sky trails. Below,

tarmac deep, an ocean floor;
the predatory life of the streets
acted by an ensemble of discarded objects:
orange bottle top edges

away from the gaping mouth
of a sandwich-shell, mere inches
from the splayed fin of a fag-butt.
We swim for it in light

squeezed between buildings,
channelled past cruising subs
with black-out windows
and bass-bin sonar.

Breaking news is tidal, laps the curbs
wraps a tide-line round the gutters:
a translucent Pringle caught in the slipstream
of leaves and tissue polyps.

Our feathered constituents
scrabble for scraps on a mercury Soar.
The more we watch, the more
they choreograph our times;

liquorice-legged Coots
dart in from the margins
for crumbs
afraid to challenge geese and swans.

The future’s orange,
or agents thereof: a Doosan crane
picks at the brick-bones
of an ex-public house,

whilst men on Black Friar’s Lane
in garage arches, scrub in; massage
the internal organs of failing cars
hands slick with vital fluids

and in the sky top-right, mid-afternoon,
the pale coin of the moon:
phantom currency. We bag it all,
There’s no such thing as a Dog Pooh Fairy.

Simon Perril, DMU, England

http://www.simonperril.com

2011-01-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

Dear Writers in America and Hawaii and Leicester,

a belated Happy New Year 2011 to you all!

So let's turn our attention to the unique opportunity before us: the chance for students at four different universities in different parts of the world to share writings about place. These writings don't have to be polished stories, poems, memoirs; they can just as usefully be informal jottings, observations and photos that try to capture the texture of a place.

Places are so often magnets for stories, aren't they? You must all know a tale, folk legend, anecdote or urban myth about where you grew up? There must have been a place you were told not to go to, or a place that had become so wrapped in generations of telling that it has become an almost mythical focus of attention for its community? So, please introduce yourselves by posting something on the blog ASAP: either something related to where you grew up, or something about the immediate environment around you - even if it's just a photo of the view from your window ...

C'mon: participate!

Simon Perril

DMU, Leicester, England

http://www.simonperril.com/

The Tree

2011-01-24T11:19:00.000-08:00

There is a tree outside my window.

It's not a particularly special tree; just a tree.

It stands in the pub garden next door, reaching over four stories of student housing. Perhaps it's set aside in a special part of the garden, with grass and flowers and stones. It could have seating around it, a bench perhaps. You have to wonder if the smokers in the garden even notice the tree, or just walk right past it.

There is a tree outside my window.

It's not a particularly special tree; just a tree.

Four stories high and I can see all of its branches and the trunk as it disappears behind brick and metal buildings. Winter has stripped it of its leaves, and in the darkness it is just a silhouette against the bright lights of the buildings surrounding it. The trunk looks scraped and scarred, maybe to protect student drinkers from splinters.

There is a tree outside my window.

It looks like it is crying.

by Kelly Lawson, DMU

Leicester by GR Phillpott

2011-01-24T06:21:00.000-08:00

Welcome to everyone - and especially to our new friends in Hawai'i

2010-11-21T08:08:00.000-08:00

Welcome to everyone, whether you're returning to this blog, or visiting it for the first time. I'd just like to extend a particular welcome to Jaimie Gusman and our new friends in the University of Hawai'i at Manoa. The blog is now shared between Creative Writers at four different universities across the Atlantic: De Montfort University (UK), University of Indiana South Bend (US), St. Peter's College, New Jersey (US), and University of Hawai'i at Manoa. We look forward to sharing contributions, memories, poems and stories from all of these very different places.

We hope you enjoy the blog. If you have any questions about it, do contact me (Jonathan Taylor) at jtaylor@dmu.ac.uk.

Many thanks to all who contribute this year (2010-11) in advance.

That Quiet Time

2009-11-11T08:29:00.000-08:00

That quiet time.
Before dawn, barefooted, viewing as far as my eyes can reach,
A silver grey moon silently watches my every step,
Winking.

Half-buried homes of sea creatures, mixing silently with a carpet of blue and grey, moving endlessly,
Or so it seemed.

Scores of seagulls on the shore flapped their wings,
Starch white,
Some picking morsels from the sand.
I move, exploring, sodden sand oozing between my toes.
Overhead, a moan from an earlier storm that caused the Earth to cry out in relief.
I sigh. A pleasant one for no dust clogs up my throat.
Behind me, my wandering trail is blurred and indistinct,
Slowly eradicating the telltale signs of visitation.

By Rebecca Showell

Stroll

2009-11-10T18:34:00.000-08:00

Flats much cheaper than mine leer, mocking
As ninety four cameras watch over me
To keep me safe
To keep tabs
It’s not for me to know

And the wooden butterflies
That nest upon the art building
Taking flight in the night
Giving potentials award winning ideas
None for the average
Fuck the average
Doesn’t seem right to me
I suppose
It’s not for me to know

I just drew on my face
Chewing gum is everywhere
We never miss an inch
Do we?

By Matt Waterhouse

The walk

2009-11-10T03:24:00.000-08:00

...The blinding light.
Waking up and walking to a lesson
After a night of fun and frolics
Just isn’t fun and laughter.
Everything is everywhere.
The sun and the ground merge in my
Head causing a vortex of colours, meshing
With Blues, blacks, indigos and greys.
The dull colours of England shine through
The Immense headache which I’m trying to walk
Past as it corners me on the road.
The chewing gum constellations on the floor seem
More interesting then they have ever appeared before.
The cars whizz past me, as workers last minute teas and
Coffees are ordered...I should have joined them.
The headlights of passing cars stay in my focus even
After they have left. I stop for a second.
Staring at me on the floor was the aftermath of the night
Before.
I ponder on what drink THAT must have been...time was ticking...
Tick tick tick...late late late.
The graffiti monsters have been at it again
Tick Tick Tick.
Razor fences catch my eye subsequently causing me
To pause.
Tick Tick Tick.
The door of my lecture stares me down, and beckons me inside.
Im late.

Ameena Iqbal, DMU

Walking to the past

2009-11-08T10:25:00.001-08:00

Eyes everywhere. They’re always watching me. Wherever I go I can see them, and they can see me. I am never alone anymore. Not like it used to be. A man used to be able to walk where he wanted without fear of being constantly watched. But now, there is no privacy. Why do they need to watch me? What am I to them? I’m just an old man. I don’t mean any harm to anyone. Yet I’m being followed around as if I shot a man last week.
Everything moves so fast now. The world has grown up quicker than I can keep up with. But there is one place in this modern city that I can keep up with. I walk down to my piece of tranquillity and memories everyday. It gives me something to do. It takes me back to a better time, a time without as many cares. Just the sound makes me smile. Makes me remember what life used to be like.
As I walk down those nine sacred steps to tranquillity, out of sight of the eyes in the sky. I feel alive once again. I feel rejuvenated. Like the man I was before all this technology came along to rule and govern how we live our lives. I walk to this spot everyday, through the glaring eyes, past all the death machines and down to the past. The past that brought me so much happiness and joy.
When I arrive, I sit down on the same bench I always sit on. I think I’m the only one who uses this bench for what it was designed for. Everybody else uses it as a canvas for their graffiti. It looks like an eyesore to me. They call it “art”. Art used to be wanted, art used to be something people would pay hundreds and thousands of pounds to get their hands on. To my mind art is not something that is thrown into everybody’s face without their permission. Maybe that’s just another sign that the world is moving on without me.
Perhaps I’m too old for the new modern world of today. Even the place I call my own is not mine anymore. At least it is quiet down here and at least I’m not being watched. Soon this will change and change forever. I don’t think I could stand seeing my little piece of the past being modernised like the rest of my once beloved city. Once the noise and the eyes move down to where I love, I will end it all. Or maybe I should end it all before all that happens. Maybe I should end my life with a little bit of joy left in my heart.

Chris Thurmott, DMU

Castle Witch Hedge

2009-11-05T18:11:00.000-08:00

Here is a piece inspierd by this photo sent to me by my writing friend Alex. He is from the Netherlands and lives near this castle. I've never seen it in real but I decided to write this story based on the place

Hidden by bramble, ivy growing fast
The last reminder of a time long past
A time when kings ruled the land
And knights did save the maidens grand
A time of witches, goblins and ghouls,
Court jesters, those complete fools
A time of fairies, sprites and the good
Those who spent their time hiding in this wood
The woods at the castle of Witch Hedge
Where people do not far to edge
This time where mythical beasts roam
A land which I do call my home
In a time when the castle did stand tall
Its stone bricks, stronger than them all
One day I know it had die
And with it, a solumn goodbye
Yet I could not leave my one true home
So I do stay in each catacomb,
Each night, frightening away those who
try to take the old and make it new
I stay here and knock on walls,
Tapping out my calls,
Tap...tap...tap...tap...
The Castle Witch Hedge

Autumn Ghosts

2009-11-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

Through the breezy sauntering
Of Autumn, bronze leaves glide gently to earth,
Like tiny misled ghosts,
To greet their guests.
Solemnly descending,
They skim the wind and float
Gracefully to land on the heads
Of the season’s wanderers,
Or, unknown to them,
In their hoods,
To be discovered later,
With smiles.

By Samantha Lewis, DMU

Where I like to go....

2009-11-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

Without much thought I find myself wrapped in the ballooning folds of cloth,
Their warmth and protection enveloping me like a small child.
The smell of Surf, Narcisso and a few stale vodkas engulf me and I’m home;
Away from the madness and screened from the wild.

Two pillows; both lumpy and greying from wear and tear-
But nonetheless still the best two pillows I’ve ever had,
Travelled from city to city to be with me because I couldn’t bear to leave them behind
And the springs let me know that I’m away from others and I’m glad.

A dull light streams in through the window and lets me know there’s still day left,
And the cars driving passed so regularly are like a mother’s lullaby.
But there is a still silence in my room . Everything I own stands to attention
Waiting for me to use them... but here I still lie.

The creak of the frame as I turn over to block out the day
Tired and moody I’m met by a furry friend, proclaiming its Love for me
And with the bear’s fur gently stroking my face and tickling my nose
I fall asleep...slowly...and gradually.

Ellis Irwin, DMU

JELOUS JOURNEYS

2009-11-05T08:12:00.000-08:00

The Griffin promises us,

late nights and broken minds.

“House! House! You’ve got to have a house!”

we ignore the shouting of their wares but,

just past it, just

“Ring for ATTENTION!”

it’s only the rest of your life,

is that my life, or just a burnt out building?

The Sydney Opera House of limited knowledge,

“but beauty trumps knowledge... haha Fletcher, you sure are ugly!

your butterfly’s and books,

are the heavy makeup of an aging whore,

stop selling yourself, your out of the game,

Kimberlin’s got your corner... and look how many love me.”

PINKY! FILTHY! GORGEOUS!

“They love me most! Books or booze?”

Benjamin’s tower looks over the water,

shaken with echoes from Glo’s emptiness,

whilst Stonehenge bows to the Pizza King,

and the neon of Newarke begs for attention.

We walk round and round,

in and out,

for three long years they clamour to be

Ours.

On the last bridge,

far from Campus warfare,

five heads,

laugh

“A city without heritage is a man without memories.”

Alex Bliss.

The Wrong Stop, by Jack O'Sullivan (De Montfort University)

2009-11-05T05:53:00.000-08:00

Matthew rapped his knuckles tentatively on the bus window. He could hear Toby panting by his feet, and stretched out a hand to pat him gingerly on the neck.

“Almost there, boy.”

He assumed that they were, anyway. The couple behind definitely said that they were getting off at Spinny Woods. His legs were starting to hurt in any case, from being sat so paralytically still. There was hardly any legroom on buses at the best of times, let alone with a hulking great Alsation snoozing on your feet.

As he expected, the bus started to slow to a stop. He ruffled Toby's ears and felt him pull away as he got to his feet. After a quick probe around with his free hand, Matthew let himself be steered along to the front, and after a quick turn and a sharp step, he felt his shoes touch solid pavement and heard the timid voices of the bus fade away as it squealed off. He jerked his head as a heavy gust hit him, and tugged on Toby's leash. Toby seemed fairly certain that he knew the way, as usual.

As they made their way along, Matthew heard a low rumble overhead, followed by what felt like mild drizzle. He knew it wouldn't stay a drizzle for long, and scowled at the thought. The first few pangs of cold were starting to force their way through his multiple coats as well. Typical winter. He tugged hard on Toby's lead and came to a stop, stretching his back with a melodramatic groan. A sneaking suspicion was spreading in his mind that he may have ended up at the wrong stop. This place certainly didn't seem ... what's the word? Well, it just didn't seem right. It was far too quiet.

For one thing, Matthew hadn't heard a single voice since getting off that bus. It always put him at unease when there wasn't enough to listen to – he thought the term “deafening silence” was a little fanciful, in his opinion, but it seemed appropriate now. He grimaced and fumbled to zip up his coat, seeing as the heavens seemed to be opening up fully now. There was a strong rush of water somewhere beneath him, much stronger than one that would form at the side of a road.

“Is there a river, Toby? Is there a river?”

Toby's ears twitched in response, before he resumed his staring contest with a sour-looking cat sat on a nearby bridge. Matthew sighed and flared his nostrils. What was that smell? Chocolates? This place is absolutely bizarre, he thought.

“Toby? Shall we go back to the bus stop Toby? Back to the bus stop?”

Matthew had come to the conclusion that he was not where he thought he was. If not for the pavement, it wouldn't have seemed like civilisation at all. At least the bus stop would stop him getting soaked, even if the next bus wasn't scheduled this side of Tuesday. He tugged gingerly on Toby's lead, but Toby would not budge.

“Toby? What's the matter? Come on, Toby!”

Toby had got past phase one of staring at the tabby, and had entered phase two: the cut throat ear-twitching session. Matthew gasped in exasperation, and yanked the lead fervently. Finally, Toby got up, rounding off a finishing leer at his smug feline adversary. Relieved, Matthew felt Toby leading him back, retracing their steps back to the bus shelter.

“Good boy, Toby, good boy.”

In fact, Matthew did not think that Toby had been good in the slightest, but it was good to know that they were on the way out of this strange little village, or town, or whatever it was. Away from its peculiar confectionery smell (he sniffed his palms just to double-check it wasn't him), and away from the supposed river. He cocked his head to one side. It would be nice to get out of the rain, too. It's chucking it down.

CAPES

2009-11-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

Capes

Simmering sun, dipping down out of view,
Allowing the winter moon to debut.
Twelve travellers, each perched on a rain-sodden pew,
Some old and some young, a right motley crew.

Twelve succulent steaks of Kangaroo,
Sputter and sizzle on a barbecue.
A cold beer, ahhhhh!, that’s long overdue,
The haunting call of a didgeridoo.

Waves gentle and glimmering, seducing the sand,
The crisp winter breeze, boats bobbing unmanned.
A barefooted stranger, surveying the land,
Aboriginal art etched onto his hand.

Through silver smoke he enters without hesitation,
The travellers fall silent, not one exhalation.
Eyes out on their stalks, in awed fascination,
Hairs standing on end with tense expectation.

He chants in native tongue, for nature uprooted,
Longing for the past, the lands unpolluted.
Flowers in bloom, waters undiluted.
Weeps for his country, his people persecuted.

By Amy Wilson, DMU

The Statue's Secret Smile

2009-11-03T12:42:00.000-08:00

Nobody knows it, but you've got a secret smile,
and you use it only for me
Nobody knows it, but you've got a secret smile,
and you use it only for me

It may seem crazy, that im singing to a statue
The people around here throw dirty looks at you
But she's here all the time, I'm sure that you've seen
She's made out of metal, all lit up and green

She sits at the crossroads and watches the traffic
the brawls in the pub, now I wont get too graphic
The buildings tower over her, casting their shadows
But she's not moving anywhere what else does she know

But she can see, the soul of the city
She's watching me, with a smile with some pity

Nobody knows it, but shes got a secret smile,
and she'll use it only for me
They say the walls have ears but, what if this statue could speak
Oooh no...
But she can see, the soul of the city
She's watching me, with a smile with some pity
Nobody knows it, but shes got a secret smile,
and she'll use it only for me

(Written and performed by Morton Piercewright from DMU)
(Thanks to Semisonic for the "Secret Smile" Chorus)
Peace :)

I walk alone

2009-11-03T05:06:00.000-08:00

I don’t really know where I’m going; I don’t really know what I’m doing. All I do know is that if I have to go and do this. It’s so busy round here I feel the stares of peoples’ eyes, flushing colour into my cheeks. Everybody else walks in groups with their friends, not me, I walk alone.

I’m here now. I can’t do this, it’s not right. I run my fingers along the bar; it pierces through, injecting me with a shiver. Peering over, I wonder how many people have stood here, like me, and thought the same thoughts as me.

The rippling black treacle looks so enticing. Rusty autumn leaves infuse colour into the river. I feel my eyes widening as I taking in the details of my last surroundings I shall see. The willow trees hang over the river as I do, being drawn in and enticed, but resisting, like they’re trying to pull away. I pull back a bit. I don’t have to do it right now; I should take in my final surroundings a bit more. Hovering down the stairs, a lonely dandelion winks at me amongst the fallen leaves. It’s trying to escape from the shadows that surround it.

As my feet grind along the toe path I realise that I am alone. Not just away from the crowds of people, but I really am alone. A solitary swan floats beside me, as if drawn to my solitude. He’s floated away from his crowd; I can see them in the distance. They’re crowding round, fighting for scraps of bread being tossed in by a woman. It looks to be almost routinely to her. I wonder why he’s chose to come to me, I haven’t got anything.

It’s time. I somewhat slither back up the steps, as my legs tremble like jelly beneath me. Clasping onto the bar, this time I’m injected with heat. My fingers tremble as they tie the weight securely to my waist. I place it on the bar and wedge my feet into the diamond patterned bridge and I heave myself up. Here I squat like a frog; I can feel my knees vibrating near my ears. Eyes wide open, I clasp to the weight as I float into the darkness with the weight by my side.

Sharon, DMU

A Soar Life

2009-11-02T04:17:00.000-08:00

There are twelve steps leading down to our bench. Joe would count them often. He would take my arm and gently guide me through crunched leaves and spots of sunshine, then away from unfavourable youths and long since littered gum. He’d get to the final step and pretend to trip to make me laugh. I’d try desperately hard to hold the corners of my mouth shut each time he did so, though never successfully.

I always sat on the left, for Joe always preferred the other side. No, ‘preferred’ isn’t right. He made me sit on the left, for the right had an obscene word scrawled in spray paint or marker or something. I told him it made no difference: the graffiti was dry; there was no danger of it marking my coat. But Joe always insisted. He carried the bread too, as if the stale loaf would somehow weigh me down and be a burden in my hands.

Lily and George (after our own two babies, who, as they often remark, are now far too old to be labelled as such) would swim over immediately from the dense overgrowth on the opposing bank, through the darkness underneath the bridge on Mill Lane towards the smell of yesterdays unwanted wholemeal. Joe would insist on placing the bread straight into their beaks, saying that he didn’t have much faith for the purity of the thick green river. A soft whistle would escape his lips as he fed them, the same nameless tune he would sing to me as we cared for our garden, or hum gently into my neck after making love.

I often try to turn the clock back by the river. Attempt to shut out the student flats, the pubs with flashing signs and the endless stream of engine, horn and siren. I go back to our favourite time – a river not filled with cigarette butts or takeaway wrappings, but busy with the endless flow of barge and boat. A time when Joe and I would walk the cobbled lane through Castle Yard to work, (Joe would walk, I would stumble on the uneven slabs of stone – Joe was no better than me at restraining the corners of his mouth) and tease one another with stories telling of St Mary de Castro’s many lovers or the tiny priest who had the good fortune of his own custom-made entrance at the back of the church.

We’d bickered playfully about maintaining our weekend ritual of walking to our bench that Sunday, for the wind was high and a fierce storm on the horizon, Joe argued. I countered with the presentation of waterproof jackets, his golfing umbrella and a toothy smile – the latter resulting in his surrender, as always.

The rain began to fall as we began to descend twelve familiar steps and was thundering by the time we stepped off the final riser. The droplets hammered into the river causing the Soar to spray upward, passers-by started running for cover underneath the abandoned bus-stop on Western Boulevard as cars crawled by at a cautious speed. I finally admitted defeat when I saw the seat of our bench already immersed.

Turning to leave, my left hand searched for Joe’s right only to find nothing but air. I twisted back to find him still staring at our saturated bench, his head lolled forward, his hand grasping his left arm as if he were embracing himself. He drew a deep breath and then the world came to a stop as he began to fall.

I was suddenly unable to hear the howling wind; the rain seemed to slow down, the drops looking like diamonds, feeling like bricks. A shopping bag descended to the ground, a thin loaf escaped from the plastic and rolled into the Soar. The ripples spreading out into the river like passengers fleeing a sinking ship.

I don’t bring the bread anymore; Lily and George don’t come for it without him. Perhaps they’re aware I would find the memory of them eating painful on reflection. Maybe they don’t trust the old lady without the familiar whistle. Or perhaps they’ve simply forgotten the man who would bring their breakfast on a Sunday morning. I envy those hungry little ducks; sometimes I wish I could sit on our bench by the river and erase all memory – if only for a short while.

Rich Styles, DMU

The Summer House

2009-11-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

I spiral through the washing,

up the path towards the summit.

It hides behind the gazebo, caged by

the trellises and the wall of rockery.

Mrs Taylor’s Conifer creeps over too,

golden on our side

like a lighthouse.

I leave Mum’s beds at peace these days,

letting them prosper to flaming reds and purples.

The begonias I crushed as a kid

with the array flicks of the football.

I was Cantona then.

I’m into Kesey now.

It’s never silent, the persistent wasps

and issuing from next door fidgeting my thoughts.

Sometimes I can read eighty plus. Then it rains,

and I’m stolen.

The slow increasing patter on the roof,

and rattles of the plastic windows.

I rise from my cushioned seat

that would suit winter so well, and step outside

onto the deck. This is a nice place to stop, as I

narrate the scents of dampening wood and flowers.

Darren, DMU

Last Walk

2009-10-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

I turn the key in the lock for the last time. Birthed from the womb of inside to the harsh reality of outdoors once more, I decide to make one last effort to connect with this place. Maybe it will finally feel real if I know for sure that it won’t last. The insistent drizzle splatters my face, but I don’t feel cold. I feel the hardness of the paving slabs pushing at my feet, daring me to go on.

I turn a corner and try to blend into the crowd. Just another in a haphazard collage of hot, pressing bodies. I kick through yellow leaves, but they cling fast. Dead, brittle fingers massage my ankles: the teasing touch of a whore for necrophiliacs. I know I’m being watched. The empty eyes are everywhere, looking down from on high. It briefly strikes me that I should put on a show (dance!) for them. The ultimate in reality TV for some faceless man in front of his bank of screens.

Crossing the bridge, I dart down the steps to the river. The crowd carries on above me, marching its way to nowhere in particular. They’ve sent their scouts to keep an eye on me though. Cyclists buzz around me, herding and harrying. You can walk, but you can’t meander. Railing turns to no railing and the murky green seems to beckon me into its depths. I shun a lone swan and hurry along the bank.

Up steps again and I walk completely out of reality. As the soundtrack of blaring sirens and squealing tyres fades, I walk straight into a nightmare. Silence. Is it my nightmare? Razor wire gives way to rubble. Chunks of debris strewn (spewed?) across a bleak wasteland. The city is just behind me, but already it has gone. Is this where cities come to die? I walk on. The peace of this place is at odds with its stark ugliness. Perhaps that’s what death is.

Round another corner and dust catches in my throat. Construction. Rebirth? This isn’t a graveyard, it’s a reproductive cycle. An organic thing. Cities come here to be rejuvenated. Will I be reborn too? Right. Everybody’s spiritual nowadays. Past cars that will remain parked forever and graffiti nobody will ever read, I sense that my journey is coming to an end. I’m not tired. I’ve reached no destination. I feel satisfied though. I’m part of the city, part of its ebb and flow.

An old sofa sits in a railway arch: a park bench for the Ikea generation. I sit down and wait for the cycle to begin again.

Nick Jones (DMU)

Campaign: Save the Bowstring Bridge (a portable campaign poster)

2009-10-29T04:24:00.000-07:00

SAVE the Bowstring Bridge!
Save the Bowstring Bridge!

Ketterick and Willmott show us the plans,
you said Leicester’s heritage

would be safe in your hands.
Flat pack bastards
you’re only in it for the money

and you ignore your public well,
I’m not being funny but you’re wanton vandals,
members of a council riddled with scandals.
Yes it’s clear that you lied
and forced THE city into cultural suicide,
you made the wrong diagnosis.

Its purely cosmetic a touch of paint and a polish,

it would cost the same to restore as it would to demolish.
Together we must stop these absurdities,
a city without heritage
is like a man without memories.
To save the BOWSTRING BRIDGE from demolition
go to the Leicester Civic Society website and sign the petition.

The Bowstring Bridge viaduct at the junction of Western Boulevard and Braunstone Gate has been a Leicester landmark since the 1890s and is now under imminent threat of demolition.

By Liam Day (DMU)

Inside Our Heads: Collages (IUSB)

2009-10-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

Thanks for all the recent updates on the blog! Here are some images from class today. This is a class on Narrative Collage and Surrealism, so we used magazines to practice some Surrealist techniques of transforming place, shapes, proportions, and images. After our midterm next week, we'll post some "Exquisite Corpse" writings about South Bend, Indiana.

(posted by Kelcey Parker, IUSB)

Facebook site

2009-10-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

Dear All,

Just a quick note to say: remember that there's a related Facebook group for this blog. Please join it if you can at the following address:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/group.php?gid=63866066973&ref=ts

Thanks, Jonathan

Welcome from Jonathan at DMU

2009-10-11T03:20:00.001-07:00

Dear All,

I just want to echo Simon Perril's words below, and welcome everyone to this blog from both sides of the Atlantic. This is a great virtual space to publish and share work from and about places distant in geographical space (and even time).

Places are geographical spaces, but they're also memories, histories, moments, relationships, representations, texts - and this is what makes them so powerful as starting-points for poetry, fiction, memoir, scripts.

So I look forward to reading your work, and wish you all the best for the new academic year.

Jonathan Taylor (lecturer, DMU).

P.S. to help 'set the ball rolling' for the year, here is something I wrote on my Summer holiday in Cyprus this year:

CYPRIOT DIRECTIONS

... no, you go slow-slow long the road –
the big one that is going to Limassol –
and is few miles,
and then is turn left from roundabout
which does not have Church
of St. Nektarios on it,
and ....

... no, I not knowing number of exeet,
but it certainly no have church
or saint on it,
and you going left,
and some other turns also –
left-right and such –
and when you get to hospeetal,
ring up on thees number,
and ....

... no, I not knowing hospeetal name,
but ees not big one where
cousin Thekla having ankle broken –
it is near there,
but if you see the Orphanides,
or Father Stavro playing the backgammon,
you know you going too far,
and ....

... no, I not knowing street name,
but is right or left where
Uncle Vassou smoked last Cubans
he save from old farm,
when you were five
and when he still have old donkey
from village, and ....

... no, not his wife, donkey,
you remember?
It called Robinou,
and lived its last years looking sad,
tied in Limassol car park,
where people being kind
and feeding it the artichokes,
but Sotiroulla ate one of them,
and she had ache of stomach for two days,
and it was from that other Stavro –
not the backgammon one –
and he was trying to poison Robinou
to get the parking space,
and we so cross
we almost wish he one of the Lost,
and ...
and ...

... and no, endaxi,
I not very kala at maps –
seence I made to come south,
I forgetting the way everywhere –
seence I leave Athankou,
seence that 1974,
I no finding my way anywhere,
I no finding my way back.

Lifting Spirits

2009-10-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

By Morton Piercewright -

I very much doubt that the designers of this park envisioned this occurring, and I doubt even further that they saw the hundreds of possibilities for human movement its architecture and apparatus offered.

Darkness consumes the scene, observers from the neighbouring tower blocks and houses can only see obscurities – a flash of movement here, a shadow there. From the ground floor figures are barely visible through the thick gloom of the evening. Crisp night air hovers in a deathly silence over the soft tarmac and cool steel frames of the playground. Hooded youths fly gracefully and silently through the air over these obstacles, treating them as means to move, rather than means to guide them, or to slow them down. They have the utmost respect for the structures, but spare none for the values they represent.

Fingers wrap tightly around metal bars, pressing palms against icy contours as the body is forced skyward, pivoting from the wrist. Another hand joins the first, both now labouring to force the body forwards, keeping the incredible amount of momentum going through the night sky. Legs spin inwards, tucking in order to endure the force of the landing as the shock spreads from toe to thigh to shoulders. Coming out of the roll at incredible speed, eyes and teeth dart out from underneath the hood, a defiant grin sneaking out from its darkened face. The hooded creature spares a fleeting look behind him, a signal that is noticed by the others. Seemingly crawling and dropping from the black air itself, five more hoods creep into the light, their eyes the only thing visible in the dim saffron glow of on old streetlight. They are as spirits, gently floating over the structures society has presented before them - not as members of that society, but as outsiders.

The leader feels the grind of the harsh concrete under his feet, against the feeble rubber-soles of his trainers. His laces are frayed, ruined from constant movement and abrasion against every surface imaginable. Frozen wind gnaws through his clothes to feast upon the fragility inside. His muscles ache, they twitch at the adrenaline coursing through them with familiar distain, and they work harder than they should. Gravel grips to the soft flesh beneath his fingernails, and blood leaves a grim trail across sleeves, legs, and obstacles, a sign that he has been here before, and that he is not afraid.

Leeds Cockpit

2009-10-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

By Samantha Nicholson of DMU

The place I am about to describe to you is not exactly perfect. In fact if I am honest it is a dump. The floor is sticky, the toilets stink, and the beer is crap.

However, some of the best times of my life were spent here. I'm sure everyone has that place: their gig venue. This is mine. My first small gig near enough.

I don't remember the first gig I saw here. I can remember one of the most memorable though. It was The Army Of Freshman with my best friend at the time Elly.

That's me and Elly right there. We're sitting outside the venue against a wall thats rather wet. You can see the tell tale sign of music and it's rather funny. We're listening to The Rasmus on my Ipod. Funnily enough nearly exactly 12 months later, we'll be in the same position, listening to the same song, about to see another band.

Outside the venues not as nice as inside. The drains run close, and make the ground wet. You can't tell from my face, but my backside is wet and I'm not happy.

We were still in college, and it was one of the first gigs I saw without my Dad. Very odd really, that that place underneath a railway line can hold such a memory. Getting in and not being IDed, crushing our bodies against a stage that is reminiscent of a few old beer crates. The room is airey, and sound will echo everywhere, even in this room, the smaller one. We're squeezed down beside a little bit of the stage that extends into the audience, right infront of some speakers. You'd think our ears would blow.

We survived just.

On the left you can see part of the wall behind me, and a rather fetching man on my arm. He is the guitarist in Army Of Freshman, and both myself and Elly got to meet him, stood infront of the promo material for pringles and Jack Daniels. It makes me smile that we directly managed to block the huge Slam Dunk Poster. Apologies for the bad quality of the photograph, however it is the only photograph.

Still, when you have memories of one particular place, you don't care how bad the photograph is. Eventually, your memories will fade to even worse than any photograph. All you will have of each place, is the photograph.

In a sticky floored, urine smelling, dump like The Cockpit, all you can do is smile, as you know you are you and no one else. It will always be just you, the bar, your friends and the music.

Barcelona: The Beauty of The Under Belly

2009-10-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

By Samantha Nicholson of DMU

You may be wondering why I've chosen a picture of the Salvador Dali Museum to present Barcelona. That is very simple. I only have a few memories of Barcelona, and I care to forget most of them. During my trip in 2007, with a group of 25 girls from College, everything that could possibly have gone wrong happened. The worst being when we were mistaken as prostitutes in a resteraunt, and almost herded off by a group of men. It is terrifying to say that we were accompanied by five supervising college tutors.

While this does make me question the thoughts of said college tutors who chose the location, it does make me wonder how a place with such beauty, including La Sagrada Familia and Park Güell, can hold such dark and ugly secrets. Maybe it is just in built into society to have one part of their culture, that they should brush under the carpet? Maybe every country has one place where they would just rather not let tourists go.

La Sagrada Familia, Park Güell, Dali Museum, Piccasso's gallery, and The Magic Fountain of Montjuic...All of these areas are kept pristine and in perfect condition for the viewing public, with police on every corner, and someone there to protect you if you should get into difficulty.

Why is it they allow so many areas to fall into disrepair? Crime rates sour and tourists are afraid to turn their back, and feel they have to hide their money rather than risk taking it out to buy a souvineer. Maybe Barcelona is just one place that has scarred itself for me, as I will never feel safe going back.

Images: Centre: Dali Museum & Theatre, Top Left: Park Guell, Bottom Left: La Sagrada Familia

London - Theatreland

2009-10-06T07:25:00.001-07:00

By Samantha Nicholson of DMU

Recently I was in London for a three week period on work experience. I was for the first time able to experience the full walk of Shaftesbury Avenue, aptly named Theatreland.
Yes I have been there before, on one occassion while in year 9 at high school to see Blood Brothers. This time was very different. I was alone in the middle of a vast expansive world of adult bars, theatres and chinese food. This blog has inspired me to look back on the visit, and share this poem. See if you can name the shows that I have mentioned:

Streets lined left and right
with giant shoes,
statues,
golden pathways draped in song,
Bellowing music from every corner,
bathing the darkness with light
which slips from stage doors
cracked open just an inch.
A women stands under the wicked witches face,
and she smokes a cigarette in silence.
You stand beneath a French man's giant banner,
staring into the glittered hand of a man not yet dead,
and contemplate the ticket in your hand.
The naked beckon from a dark alley,
while the corsetted call from their theatre door;
"Come join us."

Welcome to the New Academic Year!

2009-10-03T01:56:00.001-07:00

Dear writers,

So we come to another academic year, and so also to another opportunity to extend our transatlantic dialogue over all things locational. Remember that this is a unique opportunity students at three different Universities, in England and America, to share writings about place. These writings don’t have to be polished short stories, poems, memoirs; they can just as usefully be informal jottings and photos that try and capture the texture of a place.

Places are so often magnets for stories aren’t they? You must all know a tale, folk legend, or urban myth, about where you grew up? There must have been a place you were told not to go to, or a place that had become so wrapped in generations of telling that it has become an almost mythical focus of attention for its community?

Or perhaps you could tell us something about the immediate environment around you? Our De Montfort University campus, England, is a microcosm of
Just how many Leicesters – very old and very new – coexist in bewildering proximity. Standing at a particularly point at the edge of the campus I can swivel round to see four different visions of the city. To my right is a brand new Law Faculty building, a wide pillar of glass reaching skyward, the building of which formed the abrasive soundtrack to many a workshop last year. To my left is a gateway into a very old Leicester; an arch heralding a cobbled street tumbling down to St Mary De Castro Church, where Chaucer was alleged to have been married in the fifteenth century. In front of me I see the ‘Magazine’, a mediaeval gateway added to Leicester Castle by the Third Earl of Leicester, around 1410. This Grade 1 Listed bulding (the subject of a poem on this very Blog many moons back by Charlotte Stevens) is marooned by the side of a road down which traffic snakes towards the brand-spanking new shopping Mecca Highcross, with its deliciously absurd motto ‘I have known Desire’.

The view behind me is of a red brick campus buildings on the left, and Trinity House on the right – which houses a beautiful old chapel in which our second year students are locked to write ghost stories. And the road trails down towards the River Soar.

If I walk a few yards to my right I come to a bronze plaque outside a University building that tells me about ‘The Whipping Toms’.

‘On this spot stood the Whipping Toms, who, on Shrove Tuesday, in accordance with the Ancient Custom, armed themselves with wagon whips and flogged anyone who entered the precincts of the Newarke. The sport was abolished by Act of Parliament in 1846’.

Hmm, a precursor of extreme sports perhaps. But what about a story in which this ancient custom is revived for modern times?

But enough from me, over to you: we all look forward to the mental travel of reading your various responses to place.

Have a good year folks! Write hard!

Simon Perril, De Montfort University, England

Studying abroad in America

2009-06-02T06:35:00.000-07:00

I just recently returned from a 5-month exchange trip to GA, here are some small pieces I wrote while I was out there (I've put them into one entry to save from spamming the blog)

------

On the differences between American-English (dubbed 'anglish' by my roomie) and English-English

Before coming to America we had been warned that there would be some language barriers between us and the American students. Staying in the International Dorm (i.e. the dormitory where students on exchange/study abroad programmes lived) and being part of the International Club meant that the first few weeks were spent getting used to accents I’d never heard before, and trying to both understand others and be understood. Amusingly, it was actually easier to understand someone from South Africa than someone from the U.S. at times – for example, when people greeted me with “s’up” I was just as stumped as to how I should answer as they were when I greeted them with “y’alright?”

The differences in spoken English were great sources of amusement throughout the five months I spent in Georgia. A week after we’d arrived, I was asked the question, “how do y’all say ‘goodbye’ in England? ‘Tally ho’?” My roommate and friends also found the way I pronounced words like “what” and “later” very entertaining – meaning that every time we parted and I said “see you later”, a chorus of “see you lat-ah!” followed.

As well as that, J.K. Rowling has a lot to answer for. It never occurred to me that Americans would think that every Brit is practically a character from Harry Potter. Being asked to say things like “we’re on the magic train to Hogwarts!” was funny, yes, but probably one of the strangest things about differing accents and how people felt about them.

---

Twister

“Er… we’ve got to go down to the basement.”

These words, and the explanation that followed, were not something I ever expected to hear. As I followed my roommate down the two flights of stairs, both of us clutching a pillow and our stuffed animals, all I could think about was “Twister”. The film had always interested me, but now that I was possibly about to experience my own tornado, I realised that it was actually a lot scarier than I first thought.

Opening the door to the basement, we found that most of the other dormitory residents were already down there. The mood wasn’t what I expected. Students lined the two walls, leaving a narrow pathway between their feet for others to pick their way down. They were talking, laughing, doing homework, surfing Facebook. The strong winds and heavy rain couldn’t even be heard. I pasted on a smile and tried to ignore the faint feeling of panic as we found a space to sit. Most people here had experienced tornado warnings like this before, but I had to explain several times that tornados are not really that common in the UK like they are here in Georgia.

As it turned out, I needn’t have been so scared. The tornado passed several miles North of us, headed West, so our area survived unscathed. And by the end of the semester, this evening basement visit had become such a common occurrence that eventually I reacted no differently to anyone else.

---

Spring Break

Within these glossy pages is the piercing ring of an alarm
set to sound at 5am but snoozed for another ten minutes.
There are yawns and half-closed eyes, feet stumbling towards
the bobcat grinning from the side of a bus.
A pot-hole filled gravel road is inside, tyres spitting stones,
the crack of my forehead against the window
as we bounce in our seats.
The blinding lights of China Town gleam,
reds, yellows, oranges merging with the white of
the Second World War’s memorial:
a fountain, water dancing under the black veil.
Over five hundred feet of marble, granite, sandstone
rises from the centre of these pages,
towering over the Capitol Building, the Air and Space Museum, the Pentagon.

------

Thanks for reading :)

Sam Pavely, DMU/GCSU

Distant City

2009-02-20T05:18:00.000-08:00

This is work I've written in a Writing Place workshop about futuristic cities.

---------------------------------

In the centre a clock tower stands, exhibiting time forever to the wandering souls below it, who give no care for time. But that is exactly what has happened to this city; time has affected it and still does. And with it has come many people; well-known or unnoticed, each having a role in shaping the city. Where the spaces that used to be empty, they are now taken by grand buildings; some very old, some very new; shiny or dull. But nobody notices, at least they don't seem to. Nobody sees the gargoyles and angels watching over them as they go about their businesses, how their eyes always transfix upon them.

What was famous, is now lost in the myriad of the ages. They slipped away when higher powers and latest inventions were born. God used to be with these people, but they have shunned Him away like the passing craze. What has happened to faith?

Nobody cares, not anymore; what has passed has passed. It cannot be retrieved. Like time, everyone moves forward.

-----------------------------------

By Po-Yee Pang of De Montfort University

Students at De Montfort

2009-01-06T03:07:00.001-08:00

Here are just a few of the students on the "Writing Place" module at De Montfort University - taken just before Christmas.

Front row (left to right): Dan, Scott, Claire, Becky; second row (behind): Chris, Hayley, Paul, Elena, John, Nick.

Front row: Hayley; second row (left to right): Hester, Sam, Louise, Po, Kimberly; back row: Jordan, Becki, Tom, Georgia.

Front row: Graeme; second row (left to right): Tom, Alexia, Lauren, George, Nathan

Smoky Mountains

2008-11-16T20:45:00.001-08:00

My parents took me to the Smoky Mountains when I was 9 years old. I remember getting out of the car and tipping my head back so far to look at the looming pyramids that I could feel the pockets of skin wrinkle on the back of my neck. Our cabin was dark and dusty and nestled at the foot of the mountains. Through our red fabric window-coverings we could see the small town laid out before us.

Of particular interest to me was the water slide located directly behind our little cabin. It was summer and the water slide was the only thing that seemed like fun in a little village such as this one. This slide was not your ordinary slide. It started at the top of one of the mountains and ended in a pool of chlorine close to the back door of our cabin.

As soon as my dad said I could go on ahead while he paid, I was out the door. I could hear the water rushing down the mountain and the voices of children and adults alike whooshed past me and ended with a splash. I watched excitedly as I climbed the steps to the top.

I looked down from the peak at the winding groove of concrete I was to descend upon. I was then handed a blue piece of spongy material, told to lie on my stomach and hold on. I did.

The first blast of water hit me from behind so hard it forced a scream from my throat and my sponge and me down the mountain. I was surprised when I came to a complete stop at the top third of my ride. Confused, I was suddenly and even more forcefully hit with a second burst of water that pushed me further down the slide. Unfortunately my sponge was taken out from under me and travelled solo all the way down to my waiting parents.

The third blast rocketed me on my bare hipbones toward the same destination as my formerly partnered sponge. The pain of my bones on rocky concrete sent chilling screams from my mouth to my parents ears. My toes, unprotected by shoes, bore down on the concrete in a futile attempt to brake my ever-increasing speed down the mountain. I could see my parents running to meet me where my horrific ride would end, terror written on their faces.

I hit the pool with a titanic force but it was like being baptized. Under the water, despite the sting of chemicals in my wounds, I had been cleansed, enlightened and there was no more horror, if only for a minute. I breathed out from my core into the thick, syrupy water all my pain and hung in mid-air until my lungs ached for oxygen.

When I emerged, I stood crying in the chest-deep water before my parents, my blue sponge floating peacefully next to me. I got out of the pool and saw the faces staring at my body. Two protruding, milky bones lay atop the bottom of my bikini while streaks of blood made their way down my legs to mingle with the blood spilling from the knuckles in my toes.

I had made my way down my first adult water slide and my dad said, “I ran as fast as I could and your mother still got to you before I did”. My eyes had been opened.

by Amy Irons, IUSB

Untitled Work In Progress.

2008-11-12T04:24:00.000-08:00

He opened his eyes and was greeted by the sky. A sky deeper and wider than any he had seen before. Impossibly vast and richly orange, streaked with crimson wounds, as if scarred by the claws of some colossal beast.
His hands clenched around the ground behind him, it shifted and flowed between his fingers. Sand? So he was lying on his back, that much was sure, although little else could be. Why was there sand? He listened for the sea, but it was either not there, or was holding its breath.
With great labour he tilted his head to the left, the movement causing his brain to swill inside his hollow skull like water. Once his mind had settled into its new position he reopened his eyes in order to survey the latest vista offered to him.
Mountains frowned at him from the horizon, their faces squinting to make out the solitary figure lying face up in the sand; an intruder in this, their realm. It was their shadow that covered the desert when the fat orange sun set behind them and their dominion went perpetually unchallenged. So who was this infiltrator? Who dares to come here and lounge in the sands with not a care in the world? Did he not know that this country was mountain kingdom? A place where such slovenly behaviour was held in the highest contempt.
From what he could see, the sun was in transit, the tangerine glow of the sky was evidence enough of that... But up or down? Was he gazing into the east or the west? Time will tell, he supposed, but he needed a new activity to pass said time. After much silent deliberation he decided to try and roll his head across to the right but after several moments of excruciating effort he was once again facing skywards and possessed not the energy to continue his rotation.
Instead he endeavoured upon a new quest, he decided to attempt to speak. Not with any intent to communicate (he was quite certain he was alone in this place) rather to ascertain whether his vocal chords had failed him as well as his muscles.
“Where am I?” Was all he could muster before bidding consciousness goodbye as it left him once more.

Jack McManus

God's Patio

2008-11-12T03:41:00.000-08:00

The city is ancient
This is but the newest layer.
Remnants of the archaic
Sprout up through cracks in the new.
Like weeds in God’s patio.

Trendy flats and
Yuppie bars fail to mask
The throbbing pulse of a living place steeped
in a history
That locals would rather hide.

But here and there,
It breaks through.
Redundant watchtowers survey
Whilst exhausted gargoyles stand guard
Against evil spirits long since retired.

Behind the tourist façade
You can count back the years
Like the rings of a tree.
Shells of industry, scraped empty and left
Hollow and daubed
With the anonymous signatures
Of those who are yet to forget.

I walk here; Not as a native,
But a denizen nonetheless.
This place of three years exile
Has become home.
And I feel as much a part of it
As the ancient walls that once defended it.

Jack McManus

Gus and Snow

2008-11-11T16:39:00.001-08:00

I remember walking down to the lake with Gus. The snow had fallen over night and was still gently swirling in the air around us. Gus was a big dog. He stood well over six feet on his hind legs, and his belly easily cleared three feet when he was on all fours. The snow was up above his belly, and he had to plow through it. He loved it.

As we made our way toward the lake’s edge, I gazed at the snow bedecked trees, their braches overfull and sagging heavily. This morning they had been spun of fine glass and were etched into the frosted air. It was as if they existed partly in my world and partly in a world of myth or fantasy. The word had become white and ice, and it was alive with a crystalline beauty.

Nothing moved except Gus and I as we wandered through a world that had transformed into something magic and fragile. He would occasionally bounce over a drift and fling the snow playfully at me with his hind feet, but mostly we walked and stopped to take in the fleeting beauty. Catching my breath and stealing it away to dance with the frost, the wind was our constant companion. It played with my hair and whispered of mysteries just out of reach.

As we cleared the trees, we were not greeted by the familiar sight of the water. It had been covered by a vast blanket of snow. This great plain of virgin snow had stolen the lake. Nothing stirred on that plain and the wind hurtled across it and howled a lonely wail.

by Ann Galvin, IUSB

Damage, Death, Sadness and Quiet in New Orleans, Louisiana

2008-11-03T21:13:00.000-08:00

In November of 2005 I took a horrifying walk through the devastated city of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina had hit. One of the first things that I noticed was that there were not as many people around when I last visited. The city used to be lively and full of happy people, but this time the few people I saw were just focused on getting through another difficult day. The streets lay quiet and full of the depreciation of businesses that once were bustling with customers. As I walked along, I saw that the water damage was definitely eminent in certain areas. There were water lines on the structures of buildings and on the exposed walls of residential housing. The air even smelt of mildew. Walking further, I became aware of all the garbage piled on corners and on the front lawns of houses. People were outside trying to pick through it all to see if anything of value had been thrown away.

I went down a street that I visited years ago that had gorgeous houses and a picturesque view of the ocean from their backyards. Kids used to play in the streets laughing and parents used to sit on the front porches chatting with neighbors. This time when I walked down the street I instead saw just the structures of these houses, furniture thrown on the front lawns, and FEMA trailers on some properties. The beautiful view of the ocean was overshadowed by the horrifying destruction that hit this street. On the walls or on the front doors of the houses there were spray painted numbers indicating the deaths of the people who lived there. One house read “3 dead and 1 dog”, which meant three people and one dog were found dead. It was hard to keep my composure and I began to hate the view of the ocean that lay before me. It was a constant reminder of why things were the way they were in New Orleans.

One of the last places I visited had to be in the car, so I went for a drive. The highway that leads right into the city was one of the ways that the water from the levees spread so fast. As I drove along I saw the water damage on the dividers and on the trees that surrounded the highway. When the first levy had given way for the water to invade the city of New Orleans, there were some cars on the road with people in them. I tried to imagine what these people were thinking of when they saw millions of gallons of water approaching them, but I did not want to picture it. It was unimaginable.

This city was full of sorrow and of destruction. Even in November of 2005, not much had been done to help the people of New Orleans. The area that once was full of happiness, music, culture, and life was now full of damage, death, sadness, and quiet. Hurricane Katrina had taken its power to the fullest extent on this city and it would be a long time before it would ever be the same.

By Victoria Ebbinghousen of SPC

Untitled

2008-11-03T19:11:00.000-08:00

142 Vroom St., Jersey City

2008-11-03T17:47:00.000-08:00

Photo by Carmin Aguiles

This is a local Egyptian place near campus. On any given day you can spot some of the English Club members, as well as other SPC students puffing away hookah or munching on pitas and hummus. Our goal is to get Dr. Wifall to come along with us. We have not figured out how to yet, but a plan is in the works.

Please feel free to add your stories here.

SPC English Club

2008-10-31T13:03:00.000-07:00

Here is the English Club of Saint Peter's College.

From left: Danielle, Victoria, Jonathan, Tristan H., April, Mike, Tristan M., Carmin--and, last but not least, Liz in front.

Sinclair was not present at this event, which was a baking party at my, Dr. Wifall's, apartment. Speaking of place, I think that everyone was interested to see where and how I live (the private side of someone whom they always see in a professional setting). The next day we had a Halloween party on campus, during which we had a creepy poetry/prose reading, and we wrote short stories in a "Mad Libs" fashion (each person around a table contributes a sentence). One of these was inspired by our party at my apartment, but perhaps it was too ridiculous to post here. To paraphrase from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Let's not go there; it's a silly place"...or should we?

Let's Get to Know Each Other!

2008-10-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

Questions from Indiana to England and New Jersey...Here's who we are:
Back: Ryan, Kerri, Jordan, Jennifer, John, Ben, and Mitch (two thumbs up!)
Front: Lorinda, Marian, Laura, Ann

Who are you?
Our class of fiction writers came up with a number of questions that we hope the DMU and St. Peter's students will answer. We'll ask just a few here for starters, and we hope you'll post your answers in the comments box (until we figure out a better way to do it). And we'll write in too.

Questions:
a. What are the differences between the perceptions and realities of your home city/state/country?

b. What do you like to read? And what do you have to read for literature/writing courses? (And do British students have to read as much American lit as we have to read British?)

c. How much and where have you traveled?

Please post responses in the comments box!

Under the Bridge

2008-10-26T22:12:00.000-07:00

I dont ever want to feel

Like I did that day

Take me to the place I love

Take me all the way

Under the bridge downtown

Is where I drew some blood

Under the bridge downtown

I could not get enough

Under the bridge downtown

Forgot about my love

Under the bridge downtown

I gave my life away

-"Under the Bridge" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

I love my family, most of the time. When battles occur within the walls of what is supposed to be my safe haven, I hate them. For over ten years I had to fight against parents, siblings, and emotions. That was until I became a capricious runaway, only sneaking into my house at two in the morning to eat something. I actually started to keep things there since I knew it would be a matter of days and sometimes even hours before I would return.

I always went to the same place, underneath a bridge less than a mile away. I had been driven across this bridge every school day for seven years, and never gave a second thought to it, never knowing it would be the most important place to me. I ran away one day and I went to that bridge, and since then it has been my favorite place.

My bridge crosses the railroad tracks that run parallel to my street. It breaks into three compartments, the middle being where the train tracks are, but I always stay on one side, I have gotten used to it.

I would sit on the ground, stare at the graffiti covered wall and cry. If it was a really intense fight that would drive me from my house, I would hit the walls untill my hands were numb, bloodied, and one time even broken. I always had problems coping, and being under the bridge gave me a place to express things anyway I wanted, be it scream, cry, or something worse.

No one ever knew where I was. People only went down there to spray paint the walls, but I was never there the same time someone else was. I loved the graffiti, well most of it. One picture, that still remains there, is imbedded in my memory. It is of a a man in a skirt with a big head, big feet, and big eyes. It always made me smile, no matter what had gone wrong.

I still go there anytime I am home, just to see the man. But when I go there, it isn't because something went wrong, it is because I want to be there. Now being under the Bridge allows me to see how much I have grown. I no longer runaway, I stand and face my fears.

(My favorite piece of work from under the bridge. Thanks to someone I wish I knew.)

-Saint Peters College

Lake Otsego

2008-10-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

Our cousins always knew the best places. An essentially flat lake with a light sandy bottom and only curious minnows to nibble at and swim between our toes, Lake Otsego was the perfect playground for seven cousins under 12 years old. The water was so perfectly crystalline that I loved to watch as I dug my toes into the sand to churn it up into mini under-water storms. Even the minnows didn’t mind this slight disturbance from the feet of a 10-year-old child. Instead, they quickly swam just out of arm’s reach beyond the swirling pellets of sand, and then slowly made their way back when the white grains slowly fell back to the bottom. Peace was once more restored to the calm surface of the lake.

Having grown up playing in the almost ocean-like enormity of Lake Michigan, I was used to water which was at times rough, and which always quickly rose over my head. Lake Otsego, though, was no more than 3 feet deep as far out from the shore as our mothers would allow us to bravely venture. Though northern summers were short, the flat pancake of lake warmed quickly, and as I sat in the water and felt the gentle lapping of the waves wash over me, I was soon lulled into a state of relaxation almost unheard-of for a spontaneous, rambunctious 10-year-old child.

Once our fingers became pruny and we tired of minnows slipping through our fingers as we tried to grasp one after another to take home with us, our mothers would wave us into shore with the promise of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ritz crackers, and soft, warm towels. Most of the glorious white sand was in the lake and the beach was but a brief thread, so pine needles and dry grass stuck to our feet and clung to the insides of our toes as we ran ashore. We would later spend hours trying to pick these needles out from between our toes. For the moment though, the immediacy of the warmth of our mothers’ arms as they wrapped us in great cotton towels that smelled of the outdoors was enough to sustain us until we were rested enough to make another venture into the clear, spring-like waters of Lake Otsego.

~ Laura Fox, IUSB

First impressions of KL

2008-10-24T12:30:00.000-07:00

Walking through the sprawling streets, through a bazaar of stalls and smells and women selling nuts and sitting cross-legged on the floor selling brightly coloured headscarves and it’s hot and cramped and there’s loud Bollywood music blaring out from a nearby shop and it makes you dizzy but it ‘all adds to the atmosphere’ and as you look up a train whizzes by in the air and there’s concrete, and there are lights up, up into the sky and it’s like you’re in the gutter, the people are in the gutter whilst this monster of a capital city peers down.

AP of DMU

Beehive Lane

2008-10-24T03:03:00.000-07:00

And when the blue sky finally rises
putting out the artifice of
amber lights,
illuminations
once powerful against
the black of night,
there will be a burst,
a furious hive
of life,
spurred on
by little more than instinct
and robotic necessity.

And when the white and blue,
appears at last,
there will be quiet,
stillness in the gardens
of worker bees,
flowers dancing
in a morning breeze,
to a music unheard,
played
with notes of love,
with the people gone
and the houses vacant,

And when the amber returns,
the sky blackens,
these glowing windows,
bear witness,
to flickering shadows,
honey light
behind thin cloth,
moving bodies
and casual gestures
of life,
tawdry curtains drawn
on the amateur theatre.

Maria Taylor, UK

Remembering A Place

2008-10-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

The tapping of the rain, trickles in my ears,
My mind slowly wakes and before me all appears
As it was when I drifted into peace the previous night,
But more vivid now
It's illuminated under a new day's winter light.

Outside the morning's grey and veiled with a mist,
Someone calls my name, but this comfort I can't resist.
This rectangle of rest: pillows, quilts and sheets,
My ever ready friend, my weariness it defeats.

The simple smell of fresh linen, another reason to not part
With this perfect nest, from which every morning must start.
Engulfed between these covers I hear the rain turn to hail
And smile to myself because I know now I will fail

To leave this protection against winter weather
And the cold.
This cocoon in which I hide,
Where I'll stay until I'm old.

A.Fearn of DMU

Rough, Kentucky

2008-10-22T06:57:00.000-07:00

About an hour’s drive southeast of the Fort Knox Military Reservation in Kentucky is the Rough River Dam State Resort. It is located in the town of Fall of Rough, Kentucky. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like the name of the town for which it was called was Rough, Kentucky. Someone had something to say about that area. What I remember was a picnic area strewn along the road on the way to a broad stream. The two-lane road made a broad sweep around the side of a mountain. The terrain between the road and the stream gently rolled downward. Redwood picnic tables on cement slabs and blackened brick grills dotted the area at intervals designed to give picnickers a bit of privacy even in the outdoors.

Whenever one of the twelve families in our apartment complex had the moving company in to pack up their belongings (and being in the military, we all moved every three years) some of the other families would take the children from the complex to Rough River Dam State Resort. The moves were planned to occur during the summer so that the children’s school year was not interrupted. That meant that Rough River Dam State Resort was always green and steamy when we visited. The boughs of huge trees gave some shade from the sun whose rays streamed through like a sieve. We were sent as a group to play in the stream while the parents cooked hot dogs and hamburgers and put out chips, mustard, catsup and cokes. We were warned to stay in the area as the river was rough up and downstream.

There were a few big boulders to be seen above water, but the river bottom was made up of many small smooth pebbles in innumerable shades of brown, grey and cream, and soft squishy sand. The water was always cold and clear. We started out in sneakers, wading into the water and standing around testing it out. Before long, the sneakers were thrown up onto the bank and we were barefoot, looking for pebbles to take home as mementos of the day. If the day was very, very warm a brave few sat down in the stream and let the cold water gently push past. On rare occasions very tiny fish could be seen nearer the banks. Experience had taught that they were also very fast.

I have never tried to find that spot again. I think it resides best in my memory.

~ Marian Zuehlke, IUSB

The lake

2008-10-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

I woke up fast, a passing between sleeping and being fully awake that wasn’t a passing, but happened more like the flick of a switch. One moment I was dreaming about what I wanted to do while I awake, and the next moment I was there, ready to go and do it. I hopped out of bed, already wearing the brown shorts that I wore all day yesterday and would wear all day today. The dirt and sand had hardened the cotton into pants that somehow seemed better than they would if they had just come out of the dryer. They knew what I went through, and they were ready for more. Just like me waking up, there was no break in period for my shorts, it was instant action. I ran past the bathroom, loving the fact that my mom hadn’t intercepted and made me brush my teeth. I opened the front door and breathed in the air that could only come off of a diamond lake bay. The sun, though it was scorching, did not phase my skin, which had become as bronze as a penny. Most of it was tan, but of course, some of it was dirt. I looked at the donut’s and hoped to God there was one with sprinkles, and thanks be to God, there was. I ate a donut and drank an ice cold coke while walking down to the sand to let my toes know where I was and what kind of day I was going to have.

The day would pass, full of ice cold cokes, more than enough candy, and all the swimming and sand bar football a human body can handle. When that would get boring, the jet ski was fired up, and I would run the hell out of it, throwing 360’s at top speed, doing everything in my power to get myself in a situation where I would fall. This however, hardly happened. If careers were built on jet ski skill I wouldn’t be in college today. My fiancé, though she hates swimming, would be right there with me, through it all, smiling as she mostly sat and watched as I ran around the lake with enough energy to power Chicago for a week.

Then, as it got dark, everyone there would tell me it’s time for a bonfire, and I would go around looking for magazines that no one will ever read, and I’d give them to my cousin to crumple up while I took my brother and fiancé to an undisclosed spot in the truck to go get a hidden stash of firewood back in the woods. The ice cold cokes were replaced by ice cold beer, and the bonfire would bring out conversations which had a depth that a philosophy class could only hope to match. I would be the last one to go to sleep when the fire and the conversation died down, because times like those are ones that I never want to end.

~Deric Poorman
IUSB

2008-10-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

i'm distressed
and i slip into a dream
in an alley by an auburn brick wall
and you lean up against me.

your fingers were mine,
and your eyes and your pain
and we were the same.

and i'm not quite sure
which one of us
was the intoxicated one.
i always felt drunk
but i never touched the stuff.

now i know why i cried back then.
that time, when nothing was wrong.
i cried then
the way that i can't now
because you froze me.

claire genevieve, dmu.

Vicksburg, Mississippi

2008-10-20T05:35:00.000-07:00

Twenty-four hours in a van saturated with the smell of puke. Nine changes of baby outfits and one stop at Wal-Mart for more clothes. Finally, we arrive in Vicksburg, Mississippi and take the first over-priced motel we find that is in walking distance of a restaurant. The baby is weak and pale, and I am worried beyond grief.

Mississippi – the place known to the rest of the United States as backwoods; the place I must now seek medical care for my infant daughter from an unknown doctor and unknown hospital. I have no idea which physician should be trusted with the care of my child, so I call the insurance company to get a reference. At least, it is better than playing Russian roulette with the phone book. Then, I arrive and there is an institutional feel to the multi-story building built in the late 70’s. I wait in a line surrounded by working-class people sitting in molded plastic institutional chairs. The baby in my arms does not move except for shallow breathing.

The doctor is warm and friendly. He lays the baby on the table. Her stomach sags skin. Is that normal? – he asks. No – I reply, shocked that I missed this new feature. Suddenly, undressed, she spews a puddle of diarrhea across the examining table. Sorry, sorry – I say embarrassed. Don’t worry about it – he says and calls the nurse in to take a sample. The diagnosis is dehydration from Rotavirus.

The hospital is warm and welcoming. A café surrounded by plants is located in its center. The food is delicious. My husband and I discuss what to do with our two boys. Why do our vacations always begin with someone getting sick? – he asks, vowing to never travel again.

They place my daughter in a jail-like crib and connect her to IVs. I am stationed on a fold out bed next to her. Nurses check frequently to see if I am comfortable. They allow me to hold my daughter as often as I want. My husband and boys visit the Civil War battlefield, a miniature museum, and an old mansion. I do not get to see all this history, but I find myself drawn to watching the local public access station on the television. Better than a reality show because it is real, Vicksburg city council records and airs its meetings. I watch captivated with the public complaints and the mayor’s attempts to deal with them. During the day, I learn tips on transplanting clippings and watch an exercise program at the senior center. I feel I am a part of local life.

Over the next two days, my daughter gains strength. She gains weight. The doctor visits and tells us he will keep her and extra day to make sure she does not start again further down the road. When we check out of the hospital, we visit the first Coke factory and another mansion with a cannonball still stuck in the wall. The boys are thrilled and fascinated, but I am relieved. I will always remember Vicksburg for the great medical care, kind hospital staff, and interesting city council meetings. More importantly, I will remember Vicksburg for healing my child despite the rest of the nation’s prejudice against Mississippi. What tourist attractions can compare with that?

~ Jennifer Reinoehl, IUSB

Fresher Person

2008-10-19T08:15:00.000-07:00

It was madness that had brought her here,
The kind that could not be defined by mere words and puzzles.
A place where earthquakes die.
Where fate vomits its contents onto the misery of life.

A place where hope is lost for some,
Yet found for others within the dreams of passed souls.
She found solace in the idea of love,
Ease in being held by the chains of passion.

Then she found love was a myth mimicking truth,
The journey she had taken was false,
She had been trapped within a labyrinth of emotions.
Now she could not retrace her steps.

It was madness that had brought her here,
The kind that consumes you until you are nothing,
Making you question your whole being,
Leaving you as nothing but an idea in the mind of others.

Kimberly Redway
DMU University

2008-10-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

ORCHARD

The boughs, twisted like caked with morning frost

Spiral overhead in snowflake mazes

A thousand piece jigsaw with no edges

Dead leaves whirl in forgotten corners

Knocked loose by the endless harvest

Left to rot in the Indian Summer

No sunset for the Orchard

Where fruit is always in season

PSG

POEM – GUILTY CONSCIOUS

2008-10-16T13:23:00.000-07:00

Now, I don’t know where to begin,
So starting at the end makes sense.
The light has departed without a goodbye and,
Within seconds, the night has arrived without an invitation.

My mind is blanker than a clean page.
Here I am, guilty without being charged,
Without one knowing what I have committed.
I didn’t have time to correct but I still made mistakes.

That dark place surrounds me like a claustrophobic surrounded by walls.
As the minutes pass I know what to be expecting,
But for now, during these hours that darkness talks to me,
The night’s silence is the loudest form of communication.

I am shadow of death.
I cannot accept innocence.
That guilty conscious won’t allow to me
I am liable for the murder of time.

POEM – GUILTY CONSCIOUS
BY RAMAIZE ATIQUE DMU UNIVERSITY,
LEICESTER
ENGLAND

Neglected

2008-10-16T13:11:00.000-07:00

Stone cold temple,
Voices long dead echo on the inside.
Enclosed and isolated
Screeching metal reverberates off the outside.
A place for tramps and stoners
Waiting for something to change or happen.

A sanctuary of old
Submerged in a city it does not know.
Decay takes time
But time takes eternity
Once you become obsolete.

C. Stevens DMU

Remembering Places

2008-10-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

Half cast the globe Rolls

Around its invisible polls,

Sweeping clouds build

They cloak the world.

Watching a flock of birds crowd the air for space-

As though there weren’t enough.

Old memories: shine on like the shimmering shoals shifting through

The water rolling gently over the stones,

Dappled in leaf shadow.

Star shine

Illuminates, Moon light glows and half the world rests

Whilst the other Flows.

With brisk wind brushing the grass,

The fields from the hills,

Sparrows swoop and drop

Depths unseen that no one knows.

It all reminds me

There is no certainty.

But there is Beauty.

Russ Staples DMU.

Shona's Snow

2008-10-16T10:58:00.000-07:00

‘Is it easy for someone to be trapped here?’ thought Shona.

For the past few moments Shona had taken several swirled looks at the houses, the trees and the ground that were collected together to form a crooked street.

Snow had fallen leaving a layer on the ground, fine and delicate. Any footstep that Shona made, her regulated print would appear, along with a crack that would run for several centimetres to the side.

Usually on the road that the street connects to would be full of hasten and panic that only traffic could create. Now there was nothing.

With tiny flecks of snow still falling at a quiet pace, Shona somehow didn’t feel alone.

This was strange. She had come to the street to be by herself.

She ran!!!

To get some measure of warm feeling running through her blood again Shona had to run. There was contentment for cold weather in her, but not today. Not in this street.

Sprinkling snow upwards from her kicking feet there was now a nightmarish appearance to her surroundings.

It was cut off...cutting off from any other part of the world. The street had two openings and now both of them had a large air-filled sheet of film, rising from the ground and blurring whatever was meant to be on the other side of it.

Around her the trees, although remaining still were growing longer and more twisted branches, some reaching into the sky, the others pointing to what Shona horrifyingly imagined as her chest.

The number of surrounding large houses gave barely any comfort. Each window in every one of them held a heavy white curtain. To Shona it was clear that no one was to so much as peek out. There was no one to do so.

Seeking some warmth Shona stepped up to the nearest tree. It was the closest thing that was alive.

Almost hugging it but coming to her senses, Shona then skipped a couple of steps around the tree. All of a sudden the roughed, bumped patterns of the dark white bark, sending scratched warmth to her fingers. It wasn’t complete reassurance, but it helped.

‘Why am I alone?’ thought Shona. ‘There’s nothing here to scare me and yet...

‘If only...’

Her thought ended as a clear ‘SQUAWK’ noise sounded above.

Shona’s head snapped up and her eyes saw what was against the white and grey fogged sky.

A quick flick of beats and Shona’s eyes swept immediately to the bird that had made the noise seconds before.

Trying to smile Shona looked at the bird, now gliding with ease across the high air.

‘And what am I to do?’ she asked out loud. She didn’t shout, but the snow’s conjured silence had pressed her voice to be expanded.

Dedicated to a girl who may not realise how magical she is. Her name's Shona.

Chris Gray

Incomplete

2008-10-16T08:21:00.001-07:00

Transparent, with no finger tips,
Man made you
Just to be
Dependent.
And so I wonder
When was I
Intoxicated
By this mechanical Eden?
Though scentless,
Shapeless,
Without a soul
And no door to walk inside,
I am sheltered
Within this paradise
Of artifice.

By Louise Holt, De Montfort University, Leicester

2008-10-16T07:58:00.000-07:00

Thiepval Memorial

I can almost smell the cold.
A light mist I can hide behind.

It is violating, probing
And yet...
And yet it belongs here

Here, where men and boys
Lived, slept, fought, died
All those years ago.

It's almost gone now -
The trenches overgrown;
The scarred ground long since scabbed over and healed.

It's beautiful, revered.
The haunting memorial towers over eveything;
Birdsong chirps as it did then
But other than that...

Silence.

Hushed voices whisper above
Rows of neat, white graves.
A sign of respect
All we can give now.

by Samantha Pavely, De Montfort University, Leicester, England

2008-10-16T06:28:00.001-07:00

The florist shop window full of

flowers so fresh they look fake

is one of the things that helps to make

this journey nice to take

and the sunlight in the morning

makes the city look quite pretty

but nobody ever really looks

and that is such a pity.

by hayley, de montfort university

I Should Really Introduce Myself...

2008-10-16T02:30:00.000-07:00

Oh by the way, the Poem "What Is It?" was written by me,
Hester Salt of De Montfort University, Leicester, UK.

Hi everyone! :D
xxx