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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Nottingham Workshop February 2013


Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe

The dovetail joint is noted for its resistance to being pulled apart. It probably predates written history, and the design used is an important method of distinguishing the origins of a piece of woodwork.

We all have stories to tell. Stories about ourselves, our lives, our cities, our history, our culture. The Dovetail project gives people in Nottingham, Karlsruhe and Budapest the opportunity to tell each other their stories using creative writing workshops, visits to local heritage sites, and a five-day meeting in each of the three cities. Everyone taking part will have the opportunity to travel to at least one other city to work with participants from the other project partners. As part of the European Union Lifelong Learning Programme, Dovetail has secured funding to help adult learners to acquire useful communication skills. Those taking part will be involved in as many aspects of the project as possible, so they will not only learn how to tell and write their stories, they may also help with running workshops, planning activities with the other partners, setting up and running events to perform their work, and producing printed anthologies of their writing.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 Contents 4 7 7 8 8 9 9 10 11 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 17 17 18 19 19 20 20 22 23 24 24 25 25 26 28 29 30 31 31 32 32 33 35

Story of a Workshop – Pippa Hennessy The Germans, the Hungarians and the English – Lila Randall Morning Coffee – Anna Mikula Mary – Anne Borchardt Travelling – Wolfgang Kohl Happy Christmas! – Ágnes Szomolya Twitching Noses – Ellen Storey Bricks – Anita Nagorny About Me in Metaphors – Katarina Kokstein A Subjective Travelogue – Melinda P. Szabó Master – Gyöngyi Solti Two Wheels on a Footpath – Ellen Storey A Traveller in Nottingham – Tammy Letters – Anne Borchardt On a Cold Winter’s Day – Raisa Mcleary Francis King Henry II – Ondine Dietz King Charles I – Wolfgang Kohl King Richard I – Martin Stehle King Richard’s Letters – Martin Stehle The Calm of Struggling – Erika Bondor Water – Wolfgang Kohl Snow – Viv Purkiss Everything Was the Way You Thought – Mária Németh What Awaits at the Border? – Ildikó Benkő Kő/Stone – Katalin Budai The Man Known As The Hood – Ahinee Mensah Saving – Juli Károlyi “Write About Anything that Comes Into Your Head” – Katarina Kokstein Glacier – Renate Schweizer Eine Feder – Anne & Heidemarie Schlösinger, Anne Borchardt & Martin Stehle Roundelay – Ildikó Benkő More Snow – Viv Purkiss Cigarette – Renate Schweizer I’m unable to write! – Apolka Frányó Scene in the underground train Evergreen Blankets – Ellen Storey Water – Ondine Dietz A Natural Existence – Serita Blake Dovetailing – Pippa Hennessy

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Story of a Workshop Pippa Hennessy The Nottingham Writers’ Studio hosted the first joint workshop for the Dovetail project, which was held in Nottingham from February 12th-17th 2013. We were delighted to welcome 13 project participants from GEDOK Karlsruhe, and 12 from 5K Központ, Budapest. 12 UK participants also joined in with the activities. Viv Purkiss and I waited nervously at the Igloo Hostel on Tuesday, occasionally taking calls from minibus drivers who didn’t seem to know how to collect groups of people from airports, and wondering if our guests would ever arrive. We’d done the last bit of preparation – stocked the kitchen with breakfast supplies – and all there was to do now was to hope everything would go well. Helen Durham had arranged a top-notch programme of visits and meals, Viv had organised the accommodation, and I’d devised some workshops and writing exercises to kick-start our creativity. We’d thought it would be clever to time the workshop to coincide with the Nottingham Festival of Words, which I came to regret in some ways as I was also involved in organising the Festival, so didn’t get a lot of sleep in the lead-up to the Our day at Nottingham Castle Dovetail workshop. Thankfully, contact was established between drivers and passengers, and the visitors arrived in good time to settle in before going for a meal at The Roebuck Inn in the town centre. It was wonderful walking through Nottingham with first-time visitors to the city – seeing the buildings they noticed and realising how interesting the city actually is. I guess you get used to a place if you live there long enough. We had a lovely meal, everyone chatting loudly and enjoying getting to know new friends. Wednesday brought SNOW! We met up at Nottingham Castle, some of us getting lost in the blizzard, others exclaiming at the glory of the city in the snow. We soon warmed up inside the galleries, looking around for pictures of people that interested us then doing some writing exercises based on those people (real or imaginary). At the same time we were gradually starting to get the hang of each others’ unfamiliarsounding names, and I for one was falling in love with the Hungarian language – it sounds beautiful. After lunch we had a cold and slippery trip down Mortimer’s Hole. Our guide gave us lots of information about the Castle and the caves. I was particularly interested in the hollows that the King’s men had carved out on the battlements when they were stationed there during the Civil War.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 Apparently they weren’t convinced they could rely on food supplies, so they hoped to entice pigeons to nest there as a backup larder. Or maybe they planned to use them for pigeon post – very appropriate, as that is what the Dovetail project is called in Hungarian. Not many people were in the mood for writing after that, so we repaired to various places (the Castle cafe, the Trip to Jerusalem, local bookshops…) to entertain ourselves. The Jam Cafe had very kindly put on an open mic night for us (actually, they have one every Wednesday) so we’d booked in for dinner there. By the time we got there the snow had turned to sulky rain, so the delicious two-course meal provided by Chris and the staff was most welcome. I had chicken and black pudding – a rare treat – and shared one of each type of dessert with Lila, as neither of us could decide which to choose. The German group had come prepared for the open mic, and Writing at Nottingham entertained Nottingham’s musical community very effectively. Sadly I missed it, as I had to prepare for a lecture the next day, but Contemporary I am assured they were brilliant! We gave our visitors some free time on Thursday morning, but dragged most of them to Nottingham Contemporary in the afternoon to have a look round the Piero Gilardi and John Newling exhibitions, and do some more writing around the theme of ‘value’ – what are things worth? what do we truly value? Most people wrote in their native language, and when some of the pieces were read aloud it was amazing to realise how much we could actually understand without knowing what was being said. It was clear to me that Joachim’s piece (in German) was meditative, and Gyöngyi was obviously arguing with herself. Maya wrote about shoes… we know where her priorities lie! After this everyone proceeded to the Market Square to make music and dance in honour of One Billion Rising’s day of action, which provoked some interest from the locals. Flashmob in front of A group of the Hungarians spent Thursday in London, and judging by the Council House their photos, managed to see just about everything there is to see. On Friday the sun shone gloriously. No sign of the snow and rain that had made us wet and cold on Wednesday, or the grey skies that hadn’t managed to dampen our spirits on Thursday. we all got the bus (the driver was a bit taken aback when I ordered 25 day tickets – he trusted me when I told him it came to £85!) to Nottingham University’s University Park campus, where we split into two groups and took it in turns to spend time in the University Museum of Archaeology with the brilliant and inspirational Keeper, Clare Pickersgill, and to walk around the campus and look at the exhibition on water in the Weston Gallery. For me, the museum holds so many inspirations for writing and thinking and wondering… passing round a pair of stone axes which would have been used by real actual people thousands of years ago to chop down trees or to chop down each other… looking at jewellery that had been worn by long-ago men or women… noticing how a samianware bowl was the exact same shape and size as the bowl Kati ate her breakfast from that morning… We managed to get the bus back into town without losing anyone, and had a delightful meal at Dolce on Broad Street. I spent the evening wearing Angela’s black hat with a pink ribbon, which I love and am definitely going to steal next time I see her (although, to be honest, it looks a lot better on her than it does on me).

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe At Nottingham University Museum with Clare Pickersgill

On Saturday we were all off to the Nottingham Festival of Words. Our visitors threw themselves into the event with great enthusiasm, writing lines for Rosie Garner’s woven poem, adding to Sue Bulmer’s love art, participating in workshops, going to talks, and even getting tarot reading poems from the Rainbow Writers. I think everyone bought too many books, but only the local Dovetailers didn’t have to worry about excess baggage charges.

After spending a day rushing around at Nottingham Trent University’s Newton Building, being a festival organiser as well as a Dovetailer, it was wonderful to spend a relaxing and heartwarming evening at Nottingham Writers’ Studio, drinking wine and eating fish and chips, and sharing our writing and our experiences. I was entranced by Julia and Gyöngyi’s presentation on some work the Hungarian group had done with schoolchildren Saturday night party! about the most beautiful words in Hungarian (which is in itself such a beautiful language that I’m determined to learn more than how to count to ten and how to say hello and goodbye). Renate’s poem “I want a cigarette” (not at all inspired by Ondine, honest!) had us all in tears of laughter, and several of the German group read their work. The Nottingham Dovetail group was represented by Ellen’s poem written at Nottingham Contemporary, a poem I’d written about the whole experience, and some of Ahinee’s poems written about Ghana. I was so sad to say goodbye to them all on Sunday morning. And I can’t wait to see them again, in Budapest in June, and in Karlsruhe next February.

the Hungarian group | the German group

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 The Germans, Hungarians and English Lila Randall Windows steamed from the damp coats slung across chair backs. Outside snow speckled ghosts passed by, our glasses, illuminated by the warmth of our candle light, silently chinked. A three course relay sunk all three nations’ bloated bellies into the cracks of the retro chairs. The Germans sat by the window with guitar strings patiently waiting to be accompanied. The Hungarians sat in the middle of the group; strands of hair fell from a long blonde plait and swayed in the gentle breeze of laughter. An English drew a face in the freshly steamed glass. Flick art portfolios passed around the tables, cameras were explored. A soft awkwardness of misunderstanding was broken by a topping up of well-balanced, soft, supple and ripe fruit flavours. The spicy notes tickled a German’s tonsils, so she chanted tribal African melodies into the mic – showing the Cafe how to Jam. After insights into home life they toasted to the next meeting, stepped into the February snow and waved goodbye until next time. Nächstes Mal! Legközelebb!

Morning Coffee Anna Mikula V. drank up the last gritty draught of her watery morning coffee with resignation and turned expressionless eyes to the gaping windows of the panel block opposite. The elderly woman from the fifth floor would ceremonially shake the blankets and eiderdowns heavy with the previous night’s sleep every morning. As she looked out at the street below she saw everything was in kilter: the children leaving for school were either squeaking or apathic as they appeared at the gate of the 10floor concrete monster of a block, trudging alongside their parents to meet their fate. V. turned away from the window and washed the mug with leisurely movements, having drunk the morning coffee, which, these days, was her only coffee per day. She had had brought the mug from her mother’s house, when her mother decided to move into a run-down nursing home in the suburbs a few years ago, despite her daughter’s protests. Her mother, already elderly,didn’t want to be a burden for her only daughter and her decision was final. The mug recalled V’s youth, perhaps the only pleasant memory of it, that of hot chocolate with whipped cream, which she would only be given on special occasions and would always drink from this same handle-less vessel. V. recalled the days when her morning coffee would be sickeningly sweet from fat cream, before her husband left them, when she would think it was her tiresome duty to see off all her family members in the morning each and every day. O, how she longed to climb back into bed on those mornings, being an exceptionally good sleeper – how hard she would find to dress up her two children, to prepare the sandwiches, brew tea and slip the lunchbox into his husband’s bag with a portion of the previous day’s warm meal for him to take to the factory where he worked like a dog for years and years. All the times she had to hear him complain that he would be far better off by now, were it not for his bad luck, weaving his fate with this disaster of a wife. But she never let the insults get to her and touch her heart.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe And now she was missing even this. She had been sitting around in the small, shabby flat, she hadn’t been out even to do the shopping in the little shop at the bottom of the block. True, it was the end of the month and she didn’t really have money to spend. She always made a point of not being late paying her bills, she had been brought up to believe it was a sin to owe money and she’d been unable to give up this conviction. Thus she was left with her one coffee a day, in the morning, made of chicory, with no milk and no sugar. She spent the day poring over the papers the old woman next door passed on to her, she read through the classifieds two or three times to make sure she hadn’t missed somehing really important, something especially for her and about her, something that would fix her life. Once a month she dropped in to the employment centre, where the indifferent clerk informed her in three minutes that they had still no job that would require her qualifications. This is what she kept hearing at the centre, that she was overqualified. On the way home she was wondering how many more days the insignificant-looking brown powder at the bottom of the plastic container would last. When it runs out, the world was going to end.

Mary Anne Borchardt Old and grey outside the world looking back to my childhood I’m protected from the world connected to nature strange people are coming round my hut deep in the dark forest where my husband’s been murdered some years ago I’m wearing a red cape.

Travelling Wolfgang Kohl Every now and then I have to travel. These journeys take me to some town or city, mostly of no importance. After the day’s work I end up arranging myself within a hotel room. What do you do when you have time left without knowing how to make use of it? I am not really bored. There is a specific tension. You smell the air of a new place but it is not new enough to go outside. Sometimes you are lucky to bring a book with you. Sometimes you are not so lucky and end up watching TV, seeing things you never wanted to know. Bad bad bad. What is behind the curtain? What is beneath the surface? Eventually, you fall asleep dreaming of the day to come.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 Happy Christmas! Ágnes Szomolya December, snow, cold. It’s been darkening, though it is less than three o’clock in the afternoon, everything is lit. I do like Christmas. Not the buying sort really, not the rushing, the hectic period, but the preparations, the waiting, the pondering what to give to someone, excusively. I often hurry myself, but this time was different. I had official journeys, with free hours to wander around in different towns, and see different lights, people, decorations. The stalls, the vendors. In Kecskemét I had only an hour to look around. I was sure to buy something, but I had never dreamt of buying a painting. In the whirl I caught a glimpse of a tall, brown, smiling young man with a dog, jumping up as he drew out a tennis-ball. The stall wasn’t upset as I’d imagined it would be, the dog jumped again and again precisely to the same place. The man was selling paintings of miniature size, mainly landscapes. One of them depicted a little cottage, sorrounded by poplars. I felt warm calmness to spread inside me. I began to filmsceening in my head. I am a teenager, at my grandma’s, riding my bicycle, to the horse-farm, making friends there. I was taught to ride and once it was late, almost dusk, we saw as the sun paint silver the poplars’ top . Sometimes in my dreams I see the silvery poplars, the purple of the sky, smell the horses’ fine pungent smell. And I feel calmness. And once more I was standing in front of the stall, and the young man was smiling as if he could see what I had seen. – How much is it? – I asked in a scrapy voice with the painting in my hand. He did not answer, just pointed at the written price. I handed it back to him, shaking my head sadly.It was more than I’d estimated. He shook his head, and looked at me questioningly. Now I realized that he could not speak. I showed him my price in sign-language. He was very surprised and asked: are you deaf yourself? No, I answered in the same silent way, but I have friends who are. He smiled and nodded. Without bargaining. I paid and put the picture into my bag, wishing him happy Christmas. This was a present for myself.

Twitching noses Ellen Storey a global nose twitch for this man with no designer labelling nothing to feed the bloated cats whose claws can’t pin him to the Earth he speaks a lonely currency that few are able to interpret mostly he’s talked at, requisitioned his house the formless air within fighting for space with selfish thoughts, toxic desires he’s the unseen life and soul but everyone knows when he leaves the room.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Bricks Anita Nagorny One red brick and another red brick And a lot of them make a wall And if I should tell you I couldn’t tell you Why I love you at all. One red wall and another red wall And four of them... make a room And if I think about it I don’t doubt it If I want I could leave you soon... And as a child you built up a universe And everything in it’s new I’m telling you that nonsense Just to say: I love you. One small room and another small room And... some of them give a house And... I need you; I need your loving I really can’t stay alone. A lot of rooms make a house A lot of houses make a town And you have to understand There are times... when I’m feeling down. And as a child you built up a universe... A lot of bricks... make a wall A lot of walls... make a house And all the houses... make a street And all the streets... make a town And all the countries... make a country And all the countries make a continent But then... there are still the oceans And all of them make the earth! But the earth is just a star And all of the stars make the universe But before I get lost in the universe I’m gonna stop to sing that song!

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 About Me in Metaphors Katarina Kokstein She thinks I am the song of sunshine breaking through the boarded windows. She thinks I am a giant, spinning the world on the tip of my finger. She thinks I am the breeze of freedom, the sword of justice, a swing-set of sugar, calling from the playground... while all I truly am is the echo of her reflection intent on just breathing while her song breaks through my boarded windows and she is the one spinning my world on the tip of her finger, my breeze of freedom, my sword of justice and the only swing-set in my playground.

A Subjective Travelogue Melinda P. Szabó Now to the airport. Luggage, check-in, boarding. Usual but still somewhat exciting events. The familiar sound of the plane, the weird, unlike-any-other sensation as we detach ourselves from the ground. Being above the clouds is inexplicable. We might know the laws of physics, yet for us, earthbound, flightless humans, it’s still a miracle. When I was a small child, I would stand in our courtyard waving to the planes. I imagined they could see me from above. Now I know they can’t. Maybe this is where my desire for travelling comes from. To go somewhere distant, to find out about new places and people. My destination now is Holland, the town of Delft. I’m visiting an acquaintance. I haven’t got very specific ideas and expectations about Holland. Some clichés: the country with no curtains on the windows, Protestantism, Puritans, a mountainless country, Dutch tulip, cheese, good beers. That’s all in the bundle I’m carrying with me. Our plane lands in Eindhoven. I have some time left until the train departure, so I do some sightseeing. Wow, there are no curtains indeed! I wonder why they still keep to this tradition. In old times its function was to show that while the head of the family, the husband as at sea, his wife was living a virtuous life, there was ‘nothing to hide from the neighbours’. Is it still about the same thing? A strange gesture that I find hard to decipher. I like it and find it repulsive at the same time. I have no right to privacy? I try to imagine what it must be like to live like this. Maybe it’s about our uniformity, our similarity? However hard we may stick to the idea that we are each of us unique and special, to an outsider, this is probably not so. What is it we see looking in through the windows? People reading the paper, watching telly, eating, talking. These situations are familiar from our own lives indeed – so in fact, what are we trying to hide when hanging up curtains? It would be nice to ask the Dutch about this, but now I don’t have the opportunity.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Master Gyöngyi Solti What she needs is a Master. Ivett said there are masters, who have seen the light, or something like that, and they can pass on what they know to the others. Next to one of these Masters it’s easier to meditate as well. Of course, she’s rather unlikely to find one here in the underground, so instead she’ll ask Ivett tomorrow where you can learn this Buddhism. This was Klaudia, once she set her mind on something, she would go on relentlessly until she’s tried all possibilities. When the train reached the terminal, she carefully put the Buddhism booklet in her handbag and went to the bus stop. While waiting for the bus, she was soon seized by the usual impatience. As a rule, she would froth with quiet rage, rage against her parents who wouldn’t hear of her getting a driving license before she was 17 and who had indeed moved this far from the city to get away from all the noise. Today, however, she stopped herself because a true Buddhist doesn’t rage, this much she felt. When she decided to kill time by scanning the people waiting at the opposite bus stop, her glance fell upon a young man. When she looked his way, he was in the act of ceremonially bowing, with his palms pressed together in front of his chest. Klaudia was astonished – why, this is the Buddhist greeting Ivett had told her about. She turned around, quickly trying to identify who the mysterious man’s greeting had been addressed to. She could see no likely candidate, so she turned back to take a closer look at the stranger. There was nothing special about him, his clothes were simple, obviously he didn’t consider appearances very important. His shoes were downright ugly, not that it matters, it’s his way of expressing what he thinks about vanity. He’s slightly plump, with a round face, but how peaceful and kindly! Wise, yes, that’s the word – his eyes cast off a calm wisdom. It’s simply incredible that you can just bump into a person like this at a bus stop! Ivett will be sorry she can’t have been here! It would be nice to get acquainted with him, but how could she just walk up to a master? Because he must be one, everything fits! Wow, he’s made a bow again, he greeted someone! Good heavens, are there this many Buddhists in Budapest? And she, Klaudia, had known nothing about it before. She decided to cross the street before the master could board the next bus. She approached him with a determined air and was just opening her mouth to speak, when the man took a step back and turned away, to show he had no intention of starting a conversation. Klaudia felt deeply ashamed. How dare she assume she could disturb the master, how untactful of her! She returned to the opposite side feeling cheap and didn’t dare raise her eyes again. ‘I’m not to make acquaintances in the street!’, Jocó mantra’d Jolika’s words with his heart pounding and it took him minutes to finally regain his calm. He wondered what that girl had wanted. She can have meant no harm, he would have felt if she had, but he can’t get it wrong today of all days, he must obey the instructions. After all, this is a great day, he can finally go home on his own! In other people’s lives this day might come when they are 8 or 10, but Jocó was feeling very happy about it even though he was 25. Because he’s not like other people. He’s special, as Mother keeps saying. Perhaps not very bright, but the Lord had put as much more into his heart, as much less he’d put into his head. Jolika, the social worker at the workshop said this. It was Jolika too who had taught him how to go home. She had seen him home countless times, always explaining everything carefully, instructing him where to look. She would awaken him from his revery whenever his thought began to wander, she would

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 mercilessly drag him back from the peaceful state he got into whenever he wasn’t strongly concentrating. Last time he made it all the way home without making any mistake or needing any help, so today the great day arrived when he can go home alone. Mother will be waiting for him at the gate and there will be much rejoicing when he arrives The bus will come soon, yes, here it is, turning the corner. So, one last time! He couldn’t help stealing one more glance before boarding the bus! He held his mobile phone dangling on a band around his neck between his two palms to stop it from blocking the view as he bent. Unfortunately his belly made it necessary to bend slightly ahead if he wanted to see the beautiful pair of new shoes Mother had got him for his birthday the day before.

Two wheels on a footpath Ellen Storey Just two wheels on a sun-dried path legs building speed before they rest fuelled by heart’s electric pulse. A heady meadow breeze fans pink glow of my heated skin Two wheels grant mercy time to dodge for roaming pheasant, deer or hare… two wheels allow our brief exchange of curious eyes and atmosphere Wrens chanting age-old litanies in buzzing high-rise hedges tyres grind the powdered stones no scurries drowned by engine growl no poison fog lingers behind Crickets pause – fatigue or fear? a fatted pony snorts his query the swishing of his pendulum tail is synchronised with remote chimes… …then blasted by a Honda’s advent which dictates a new heart rate and forces me onto the fringes our brutish age is reinstalled Two wheels enter the rustic jam more smoothly than those four wheels can!

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe A Traveller in Nottingham Tammy I am a traveller. I travelled from China, the birthplace of paper and the compass, A country with a history of around 5,000 years To the UK, the cradle of the industrial revolution, To Nottingham where Robin Hood shot, Where Lord Byron wrote poems, Where lace-making was a famous and dominant industry a hundred years ago. One day, when I saw the clock on the top of the railway station, I asked myself: “Where have you left your footprints in Nottingham?” The pictures unfolded in my head: On the stairs of Nottingham Castle, On the footpaths of the Lace Market, On the green fields of Wollaton Park, In the gardens of Newstead Abbey, By the River Trent, In front of the tomb of Lord Byron. I also asked myself: “What do you know about dwellers in Nottingham?” Faces kept flashing before my eyes: I met a Chinese girl who had been a graduate of the Nottingham Trent University and is now working as an artist. I met a lady who sold the fashionable lace products that she designed and made. I met a poet who read her poem to the guests at an event launch. I met an enthusiastic cyclist who teaches cycling. I met a man who was learning yoga. I met a woman who wanted to learn Tai Chi. I met an old man who plays football in his garden and goes to watch games regularly. I met a couple who like walking in the woods. I met a group of people who share ideas and stories by practising writing. I met more people volunteering in various places. Nottingham is an exciting place to live. You can find an artistic, poetic and dynamic world here.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 Letters Anne Borchardt

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe On a Cold Winters Day Raisa Mcleary Francis On a cold winters day, woken by the sunshine and the birds, ready for a writers session day with the Dovetail group. Creatively wake up in a crazily dizzily digested mood, ready to take on a whole day of creative writing and sightseeing. I jump out of my warm cosy bed, stare into the mirror, wipe my eyes. Give off a gigantic yawn and stretch, the more I stretch the more awake I feel. Legs shiver, arms waver, long nights and early mornings. Dreams shortened by nocturnal forces of sleepless nights. All awake, clothes picked out from my unorganised room. Full up to the maximum, my old flat which I left to come back home, still here in this small room.No wardrobes but boxes, PVC acrylic boxed heaven, not permanently staying so I’ll cope just fine for now. Clothes sorted, underwear sorted! Night robe tied ready for my shower. Towels sorted! Bubble bath sorted! Toothbrush sorted! Time? Like always: LATE! Rush rush rush... that shower so nicely touching all of my body pitter patter pitter patter... I could fall asleep whilst standing. A massage emerged dampened droplets of water on my back, on my shoulders, on my face. This is amazing. Shower? Finished! Clothes? On! I remind myself, as thoughts run loudly when I think or if I am late. Ready to step out of the front door, what a cold day. It’s started snowing. I thought the weatherman left that behind back in January. Well, not to worry. I walk ten minutes down the road to my bus stop. Right with my prettiness I stretch my neck out to look higher than the cars in front of my squinted eyes so I can put my hand out for the bus. 79? Right that’s my bus. I get onto the bus, hop on it, get ready for the bus journey that will take me to my destination. My mind always blocks out my surroundings if busy or late so I shan’t be describing my bus journey. Into the town centre, City of Nottingham, ready for the castle which looks amazing in the snow, wow, it makes me feel as though I’m looking at something, wow. Okay, thought I was in a whole different town, city, okay, country! My eyes love culture, nature, the lot. I can go on for miles. STOOD, BACK ARCHED, HEAD HELD HIGH, “SIGH.” What a beauty, with all that history locked up inside it.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 King Henry II Ondine Dietz it was snowing outside when King Henry opened his eyes on that morning after an sleep similar to agony, ennerved by immemorable dreams. And in that first moment nothing seemed to announce the terrible, mysterious episode which occured later on that day. Almost at the same time as he opened his eyes and felt himself flooded by the energies of life, and quite a minute before he registered the unusual fact, that it was snowing (unusual because of the season)he took a look in his Greek mirror of polished bronze which lay, as every morning, on the alabaster table by his bed, and spoke these words to the ephebic young man in the mirror: “I , me, King Henry, I am God’s incarnated will, I am the state, I am the kingdom with all its boroughs, in fact, I am God’s borough on earth... But much more than this, I am, am I? The sublime incarnation of all Greek gods, I, me, the Norman Adonis, or maybe even Apollo; i have studied all the Holy Scriptures of Christianity, and am I not somehow the most special person on earth: Greek god and magnificent fortress? And at the same time a brilliant philosopher , who has memorised every quote of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius – am I not nature’s masterpiece, and do I not represent the spirit of the polis that the Greeks have bequeathed to us? But what an uncanny snowfall outside! Let´s do some writing. I will put down my Magna Charta”

King Charles I Wolfgang Kohl As soon as Charles I arrived at Nottingham, heavy winds arose driving dark clouds across the sky. Everything, and besides: everyone, seemed to be prepared for a nightmare. But Charles’s black horse was grinning at the people, aware that its rider wanted to start a little revolution. But Charles came alone. He left almost alone, just having convinced some 300 fighters to fulfill his dreams of power and glory.

King Richard I Martin Stehle I am King Richard indeed, and I am resting with my attendants in Sherwood Forest. I remember one day. When I woke up this day it was snowing: large snowflakes that fell on the cold stones of my castle. Oh my God! “This time in which we live!” I thought, and it shook me like a cold storm wind. I went down again from the top of my castle complex into my splendid apartments – only wearing my cape and my shoes. My followers seem to have died out and I feel alone at the big table where I’m eating now. I heard about someone called Robin Hood.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe King Richard’s Letters Martin Stehle

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 The Calm of Struggling Erika Bondor Mondays were always an inferno of bustling activity at the hospital department. Most of the treatments are started on Mondays, the laboratory is always lagging behind with the tests, everything is on full capacity. As they say, patients are arriving on a conveyor belt. Of course everyone is impatient, the doctors, the nurses and the patients alike – the latter have probably more right to be so, but nobody really cares. A fragile blonde is sitting waiting for her turn, apparently she doesn’t mind if those behind her jump the queue. She was in no hurry. You must take your time. There was a plush teddy bear sticking out of her handbag, which was a rather anachronistic moment in an adult oncology department. Her child will cry when he realises it’s not there, she was now reprimanding herself – it was now in her bag because they had left for preschool too late and she had to rush if she was to get to the lab before closing time. She keeps forgetting everything these days. But at least she’s been through the blood test and the MRI scan, she only has to wait for the results. These hospital corridors are so bare. Strangely enough the attempts at decorating them only achieve a contrary effect – the pot plants in the corner are limp, the paintings on the wall mostly depict horribly orange, near-kitsch sunsets. Then it was finally her turn, she was so nervous she could hear just fragments of the sentences. I’m sorry but there’s an increased level of the tumor marker... might be recidival... we must wait for the MRI scan to know for sure... She felt outside time and space, she had no idea where she was. Her stomach lurched and a slow but relentless glacier of icy fear started its descent along her spine. One week went by. Her mailbox was full every day, the heaps of unwanted promo leaflets usually fluttered onto the floor around her feet. She would pick them up patiently day after day. Today there was a larger white envelope among them. She opened it slowly, her trembling hands tearing the paper. The words swam in front of her eyes, but at the same moment she was seized by certainty and infinite calm. She didn’t see the letter any more, she heard the slow thuds of a tennis ball rolling down the stairs... the dog of the old man upstairs... it’s his ball... Or is it not? It’s just the rhythm as it thudded on inside her ears. Calm.

Water Wolfgang Kohl Water is energy. Painters will love the scene. Everyone wants stableness. Stable like a lighthouse. Everone wants action. Action like a lighthouse surrounded by a sea of energy.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Snow Viv Purkiss Don’t you love the snow? Don’t you love the way it muffles the world and kills sound as it falls gently Drains away not just colour, but noise. You become deaf. Small in massive whiteness. You will be taken apart piece by tiny piece Snowflake by snowflake Lie now on the cool white blanket Body cradled Soft flakes floating down, gentle as feathers Each flake kissing flesh Taking a tiny piece of heat away Until you lie with snow underneath, and piled on top, and You know you will not wake up.

Everything Was the Way You Thought Mária Németh At least one of them should have succeeded... The man was more impressed by the much younger colleague’s attention than that of the woman, who, similarly to himself, had just been over a long and conflictful divorce procedure and who didn’t even give him much encouragement. (Maybe she didn’t even know how to do it, she was merely happy about the time they occasionally spent together, about their discussions becoming more and more intimate.) Then, when the two women were working on the same project, the older one was struck by the young one’s visible embarrassment and a few days later, when she meant to join her and the man at the table at a company event, the remaining ‘free’ seat turned out to be ‘occupied’. When one day looking out of the back window of the coach on her way to work she saw his and her car one straight after the other, she knew everything. She, the older woman, felt she lost something that had never been hers in the first place. Nobody had deceived her, maybe apart from herself. By and by she started to keep her fingers crossed for the two of them – she knew both had been through enough disappointments. The openness, intelligence and determination of the girl was less attractive for boys than the affluence of her family. When it turned out that her father, a well-off enterpreneur, exploits his daughter mercilessly so she has to go out of her way to perform at all costs, to do her best in her job as well as in the family business, and the high expectations concerning her boyfriends were also

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 articulated, they gave up their love. So did the man. He wanted a simpler life and he hadn’t quite put his grievance, his divorce (launched by his wife), the separation from his children, all behind him. Still, it took a few months for the uncertain advances, the desire to be liked, to be replaced first by acceptance, the ecstasy of fulfilled passion and, in turn, by the reproaches, the series of conflicts and eventually mutual rejection. The older woman noticed how the man gradually renewed his wardrobe, purchasing clothes more in line with what his love and her age group would wear instead of his wellworn pieces long out of fashion. Yet he caused more and more bitter moments for his young sweetheart, he behaved like a spoilt mother’s darling, in the heat of their arguments rudely criticising even his lover’s few extra kilos. How did the older woman know about all this? Of course, from the accidentally overheard gossip of an intimate ‘good friend’ of the young woman. She found it almost painful that the two people she held in equally high esteem still hadn’t made it as far as to make their relationship public in front of everyone. But she also felt some relief: it wasn’t her who had to experience selfishness yet again, she wasn’t the one to be left alone one more time. She realised that what she had felt wasn’t love at all, just the longing for love – again. In her dream, the natural gestures of the younger woman, the power of her soft voice and the simplicity of her words’ content was elevating and reassuring at the same time. She was filled with peace and a feeling of affection, beyond friendship and love. She had long ago given up seeing the younger woman as her competitor, yet after her dream, she was glad to have settled everything within themselves as well as with each other. It was a perfect moment, whose force she will remember all her life. Her dream was still on her mind when, an hour later, she left for the start-of-term teachers’ meeting. They had put the whole thing behind themselves, so why was she so elementally under the spell of the scene in her dream? It had been the first time she dreamed of her and they hadn’t seen one another all the summer... A colleague’s car pulled to a halt when passing her – a colleague who had never before offered her a lift to the school. The driver was surprised to find she hadn’t heard the sad news. The news about the younger woman, the visitor her in her dream, who turned out to be in hospital in a coma – due to exhaustion or the mistake of doctors. She was buried a few days later. The older woman never spoke about her dream to anyone, even though she often felt like sharing it, especially when she heard about the lawsuit the father had launched. He didn’t succeed in finding his mental peace... One of the dialogues from the streets: Two middle-aged women are in an animated discussion at the coach terminal, gesticulating excitedly. They put their substantial pile of luggage on a bench and put their heads together. I draw nearer because I can only hear shreds of the conversation, but they look at me suspiciously and stop talking. We take the same coach but I can only catch one single sentence from the dialogue, which is presumably about other people: ‘Everything was the way you thought.’

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe What Awaits at the Border? Ildikó Benkö Zoli became a cellist. And an excellent one, too – he’d given countless concerts, he’d won international competitions, he was given a scholarship to Geneva along with his diploma. And something else, something more important. His love, Kriszti, hadn’t come to the ceremony. Zoli was turning his head uneasily in search of the girl, with disheartening thought in his head. Has she forgotten about it? No, can’t be. She must be in trouble! Is she ill? He could hardly pay any attention to the ceremony and as soon as his top grade degree was in his hands, he was in a hurry to see his idol, his sweet little fiancée. He stopped dead at the entrance of the flat – he could make out unmistakeable sounds of pleasure through the door. Had she lent the flat to someone? He rang the doorbell. After a long while the door was opened... with Kriszti inside... and... Zoli’s best friend, Tibi! He went inside, his head swimming, and sat on the sofa that had seen quite different emotions a few minutes ago. As if a it was a voice recording in a payphone, he could hear the usual words, ‘I carefully considered our relationship and realised that it’s Tibi that I love, not you. We wouldn’t have been happy together anyway. ‘ Zoli stood up and left. He didn’t take his bag with him. They wouldn’t let him into the metro without his pass. He went back, rang the doorbell, through the haze saw the distant figure of a weeping girl, picked up his bag and went home. They had planned a journey to Transylvania for the next day. He went to bed and then took the early morning train. He was too dizzy with the events of the previous day to realise that the train was empty. His friends weren’t there, maybe they would board at some later station. The night before Zoli had left the domain of logic and went to meet his fate unresisting. Nobody boarded the train, not even the conductor came to check his ticket. At the border there was a huge shouting crowd. When they saw the single passenger, they turned into a many-headed monster, passed his body from hand to hand and beat him for an entire week. Until a group of Hungarians spotted him, fought desperately to get him back and gave him first aid, which involved no more than dressing his wounds and putting him to bed, due to the extreme situation. He spent several days lying unconsciously in his room and when he finally woke up, he couldn’t tell who he was. Everybody was talking about an execution but he couldn’t quite make out whose, there was a strange foreign word they kept saying, maybe chauchescu. He dropped back into unconsciousness. When he came to, everything seemed distant, as if he was walking on a thick layer of sponge, and the words, thoughts and images also seemed to be enveloped in sponge. There was another train rattling along with him, but the sponginess didn’t go away. His family was searching for him, that’s how the people caring for him found out where to send him back. His mother and brother met him at the station. They were wearing black, their eyes red with crying. A needle prick in his memory – he has something to do with these people. One word managed to reach his brain: FATHER. ‘Where’s father?’ No answer. ‘Where’s father?’

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 The silence became deeper. Zoli was a musician, he could feel even through all the layers of sponge that there was some trouble. He kept repeating the question, crying, heaving, screaming. Eventually his brother squeezed his arm with all his might. ‘He’s dead.’ ‘Dead? Dead!’, he repeated mechanically for minutes. He looked at his brother as if he was their father’s killer. They could hardly push him into the car. He wouldn’t calm down, finally he was taken to hospital and put to sleep. He was kept at the ward for two weeks but the doctors couldn’t save his mind. He is still unable to cope with basic everyday situations. He dimly recognises the characters in his life, he’s always very aggressive with his brother. He makes the odd visit to the Waldorf kindergarten, he speaks a little with the teacher and plays his cello to the children, if it’s one of his good days.

Kö / Stone Katalin Budai A nottinghami Egyetemi Múzeum látogatására / On visiting the University of Nottingham Museum Kő. Kézreálló. Kapartak vele.

Stone. Palpable. They cut with it.

Vágtak vele.

They skinned with it.

Nyúztak vele.

They maimed with it.

Éleztek vele. Csonkoltak vele. Hasítottak vele. Öltek vele. Tegnap. Ma.

They split with it. They scratched with it. They cleft with it. They killed with it. Yesterday. Today.

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe The Man Known As The Hood Ahinee Mensah The warrior’s outstretched hands with his bow spitting out his arrows. His band of men in a row following his every step. Watch their determined legs through the mud and sand holding up the flag fighting for those in rags as only he could. The man known as The Hood with his men through Sherwood battling through the woods with little food taking no bribe. Through the forest they ride leaving behind their brides who look on with tears of worry and pride.

Saving Juli Károlyi The child’s face was a bluish purple colour, with hues of green – except for his ears and the tip of his nose, which were white with the effort. He was screaming inarticulately. His canines were unusually pointed, or at least this is what crossed Tibor Midász’ mind as he was staring at the child. ‘The required amount can not be withdrawn from your account’, the cashier’s voice suddenly spoke straight by his ear and Midász turned his back to the woman and the child standing behind her in the queue with a start. Before he could reply, the cashier went on. ‘Don’t worry. For cases like this our chain has developed a credit policy with highly favourable conditions. If you are interested, please study the terms here at the bottom of this information leaflet and if you decide to join our policy, you won’t have to pay for the goods you are buying today. Kindly stand aside until you’re finished.’ In the meantime, the child had stopped screaming and now he was pounding his fist on the side of the trolley while yelling rhythmically, ‘Buyitbuyitbuyitbuyit!’ The information leaflet told customers in big friendly colourful letters that the credit they were offering was interest-free and the larger its amount, the more products you can buy for more and more reduction in price. Moreover, the amount to be paid back can be significantly reduced, see the terms and conditions after the asterisk at the bottom of the page.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 “Write about anything that comes into your head” Katarina Kokstein “Anything that comes into your head,” she said and stirred the cauldron one more time to give the potion a counter-clockwise swirl. “But what if I ask the wrong question?” The witch looked down at the cat in amusement. “You are not worried about the question. It is the wrong answer that scares you. The one you might not want to hear.” The cat lowered its gaze. She was right. What if he was not up to the challenge? What if the cauldron gave him the wrong destiny? One that he could not live up to because he was just a cat? “So what will it be?” the witch asked, scratching her beard with one long green finger. “I am not returning your fish-head anyway, so you might as well just waste the question on asking about the weather, if you are too much a mouse to pop a real one.” The cat gazed into the cauldron and took a deep breath. “All right...” He closed his eyes to steady his beating heart: “Cauldron, cauldron in the night, knower of shadow and knower of light, tell me the purpose of everyday strife, tell me the purpose please of my life.” Immediately the potion began to bubble and hiss and swirl and curl... and out of the hissing the cauldron’s words could be heard: “Kitty, oh kitty in the night, fearer of shadow and fearer of light, your purpose I know, your purpose I’ve seen, it’s the same as everyone’s in the stream. As everyone you have much trouble to see: your purpose in life is HAPPY to be.”

Glacier Renate Schweizer Ice icy easy ice baby bubble bubble ice icy spicy icy cold bubble struggle struggle old easy freezy water ice glacy blue land lagoon icy ocean blue sky blue so far away

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Eine Feder Anne & Heidemarie Schlösinger, Anne Borchardt & Martin Stehle

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Roundelay Ildikó Benkö Saturday afternoon, I don’t feel I exist, masks frozen to faces knocking against me, a reverse crying, space flowing in through my eyes, hopelessly fixed concerns and pleasures, vicious circles, self-surrogates floating along the street, a car, a cellphone, their owners on a leash, a pregnant bride posing proudly in front of the Town Hall, feeling her fate coming, she guffaws, baring black teeth, she’s photographed in mid-giggle, the kid bridegroom likewise, his forehead not wrinkled by gloomy prospects. The upper middle crust is busy shopping, the have-not emptiness of the caveman corresponding to the have-all emptiness of the mall-man, a date, the young meeting the old, discussing whose shopping bag bulges with what, before each of them returns to their one-person paradise, cut prices, nervous mothers hunting for pseudo-advantages, with the accompaniment of the ultrasounds of the little uns, a street fiddler is torturing his instrument in selfdestructive accords, cool guys are showing off their nude muscles in the freezing wind, swinging on their skateboards, spitting obscenities from splitting throats, the heated teenager is crawling on his belly, stealing the frivolous cap off a purple-haired girl’s head, the teasing is on, the tattered loitering folk are watching, humming peace in their wake like the stench of rotten meat, which mixes with the carcinogenic stir of the Double Cheese McRoyal McMenu deep inside the bodies. Vomit stains, the traces of solvents solidifying on the pavement, a drunken stranger giving a high five squinting loud and proud, his chest swelling up world-sized as he sighs,

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 the strength of youth is a black raven, a whole flock of them fluttering in an evil smirk. Drug-empty gazes. Through the deaf din there is so much solitude, so many shuffling hands reaching out who knows where, so much attention searching for something in the idle buzz, so many opportunities are being born and dying just now. Maybe at night. You shrug off your burden. Silence covering you. You can embrace it from the other side of the earth, you merge with every being.

More Snow Viv Purkiss When I wake up, it is snowing. The tip of my nose, peeping out from under the bedclothes, is numb with cold. I pull it back under the covers and rest it on my sister’s shoulder. We are all huddled under the covers, our breath mingling, making it nice and warm under there, though my brother Roderick makes nasty boy smells on purpose, forcing them out and giggling. He is quiet now, breathing gently in the dark, snuggled up against us. Usually, when the birds start singing, I know it is time to rise, but the snow kills the world. I hear no birds, no man, no wind, no animals. They take shelter in the barn below and any wild animal would do well to curl up in its burrow and not move until spring. My sister stirs; I am sure we must be near our usual time for rising, but there is no point. No work can be done outside. The animals in the barn will need to be tended but that is all. If we all stay in bed we will be warm without having to light a fire and if we stay asleep we will not have to drink or eat. Even going outside to do our business will freeze us so we hold it in. I am, anyway. I don’t want to receive winter’s bitter caress on my backside or my nonny. When the snow melts, I will see my friend Susan, who lives in the next village. We will laugh, and ask, “What news?” “Susan,” I will say, “There is no news. Everything is exactly the same. A lot of days, we stayed in bed. I listened to my brother Roderick fart and my sister Juliet snore gently. The sweet smell of hay rose from the barn below as the cow chewed her cud, exactly as always.”

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Cigarette Renate Schweizer Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. Oh, oh... I need a cigarette. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. Give me a fucking cigarette. Cigarette, cigarette. Give me a fucking cigarette. Cigarette, it’s all I need... a cigarette. breathe, breeeeathe, breeeeeeeeeeeathe. I am walking through the park, but all I want is a cigarette. The sun is shining, but I want a cigarette. The birds are flying, but I, I need a cigarette. The flowers are showing their great beauty, but I, I want a cigarette. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. In England, Germany or Hungary, Nottingham, Budapest or Karlsruhe, the world is singing, dancing, shouting, crying, laughing, talking, screaming, loving. I wanna get a cigarette. It’s the only thing I really need. I think.

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 I’m Unable To Write! Apolka Frányó I’m simply unable to write! I’ve tried to get down to it several times. What I do feel most is the pressure of the duty I’m neglecting. I’m listing my excuses. For instance, I work late hours, it’s 10 pm by the time I make it home, with my head full of all the troubles of work, I need some relaxing. So I switch on the telly, make dinner, look around on the internet, etc. This takes my mind off things for hours, I’ve quite got used to it, in fact. After all the tension of the workday it’s nice to feel my muscles and nerves relax if I find a good film to watch and stuff my stomach with some food. Next time I notice, it’s 2 or 3 am by the time my eyelids are heavy and I feel I can go to sleep wihout being woken up by worrying thoughts. It crosses my mind I haven’t written a thing today. I’m terrible. But what is there to do, I’m surely unable to do it now. Tomorrow morning, no later! I get up late, it’s already 10 am. As I stretch my muscles, I could just as well be content with a good night’s rest, but the terrible realisation comes down on me like a ton of bricks – I have but 2 hours before I have to leave for work. Coffee, shower, getting dressed, and there’s a documnet I have to print out. I won’t have time to ruminate over what to write. I’m tortured by terrible guilt because of the way I wasted all last night. It would have been so good to make some progress. Now anyway, I’m sure to get some fresh ideas while I’m working and I’ll jot them down. Then the day is over and of course I had no time at all to do anything about it. Fact is, I didn’t give it a single thought. It was only when I got into my car and went over my plans for the evening that the depressing thought came up that now I really must get down to it and write something. But I surely need to have a quick bite before I start. And it would be so nice to watch another film. But then again, I can’t, it would mean getting stuck to the screen for hours. Yet this is the sole pleasure in my whole day. What is there to do? The feeling that it’s a justifiable excuse almost made me smile. I can’t go and feel bad about not getting down to my duties straight after coming home!

Scene in the underground train GIRL (age 20) seated, reading book, WOMAN (age 40) seated, looking around, OLD LADY 1 (age about 70 but well preserved) energetically gets on train and takes seat nearest to door. At the next stop a really doddery old lady (OLD LADY 2) gets on, with a walking stick. No free seats. GIRL jumps up to offer her seat, train starts with a jolt, she loses her balance. GIRL: I’m sorry. WOMAN (nods, smiling) OLD LADY 1 (hostile): Can’t you be more careful? I need that foot! (Looks at WOMAN triumphantly – WOMAN raises her eyebrows and turns away) GIRL (looks surprised, leaves train at next stop) WOMAN: ... OLD LADY 1: These are young people today for you. Always so heedless. (Leaves train at next stop, still huffing and puffing)

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Evergreen Blankets Ellen Storey industrial settlements bully life into pots allotments and parks tapered oxygen chambers or motorway décor a wife cooking lunch for her guzzling husband who rejects her peace whose demands don’t sleep she knits green blankets with hands cuffed together bound by her vows and eager to deliver See buds swell under snow See, bees plant their magic As though all was well

water Ondine Dietz diving in the warm amniotic liquidity of selfforgotten selfishness i feel thirsty to become glacial solid translucent though amnesiac lost and birth given by the floods of shakespearean tempests

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 A natural existence Serita Blake Nottingham my home, my life even when I left the attachment an umbilical cord that was never severed and over time grew to silver, gold, and platinum then to titanium. Veins then spread‌ Grew A worldwide strenuous link carried through air streams Gracing the opulent to the underprivileged This is strength in unity from lands afar: Stir me Rattle me Sway me Shake me! An orchestral rhythm that swells in a beautiful wall of sound and fills the air with notes of delicacy and foreign tongue The vibe which takes the world through the night and surges the vibrations and energies higher and higher swirling them together like a witches cauldron making sweet potion and spellbinding words Unbreakable Spread this to whoever wishes to hear and devour the sweet, succulent vocabulary. Sweet music all day and night long can do so much so throw it! Share it! The lace fuses us THROW IT! Around the world Nottingham! Budapest! Karlsruhe! A reciprocated Love of words: Binds us! Unites us! We share a love A passion Shared vision a renewed energy. A connection practised for thousands of years Communication before we even knew how to form the word Writing Upon our lips So much feeling so much survival so much music so much rhythm Pulsating through the blood of the moment Savouring each line

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe Feeding of each other energy From Nottingham, Budapest to Karlsruhe Africa The Americas Europe Russia China Japan India Australasia to … The world has and always will be ALIVE so long as we are alive as long as we feel alive With the joy and the love of words, stories united and tied the thread that runs through each line each stanza Each paragraph A word blooms like a sweet flower seasonally, expectedly like the passing of time annually: Words Taken for granted Used Thrown away Abused Proud people exploring new lands exploring the unknown: Different languages Different streets Different currencies Different races Different faiths Different time zones Different roads Different architecture Different histories UNITED By Beauty and delight… WORDS. A natural unity An Unbroken Bond

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Dovetail Nottingham Workshop – February 2013 Dovetailing / Galambposta / Dovetalen Pippa Hennessy The blizzard drawing a snow curtain over Nottingham’s day-to-day concerns. One artist taking another’s arm as we all walk together down sandstone steps iced to provoke another tumble.

A hóvihar fehér függönnyel borítja Nottingham hétköznapi gondjait. Egy művész karon fog egy másikat, miközben leóvakodnak a homokkő lépcsőket borító jégrétegen, nehogy elessenek.

Warmth soaking through bones, hot chocolate with a shot of mint and histories of long-dead or never-lived people. Watching twenty-five people write hearing them speak words I don’t know but understanding all the same.

Csontig hatoló kellemes meleg, forró csoki, mentával ízesítve és rég halott vagy sohasem is élt emberek történetei. Huszonöt szorgalmasan író ember látványa, akik általam ismeretlen szavakat mondanak, amiket mégis értek.

I can’t frame these words in a photograph and that is precious in itself.

Ezeket a szavakat nem rögzíti fénykép és ez már maga értékes dolog.

Counting again and again to twenty-four to eleven to thirteen. Learning to count in Hungarian: egy, kettő, három, négy, öt, rounding my lips. The smile on a German face when I say elf, zwölf, for a change, on the bus. The blank look on the driver’s face when I ask for twenty-five day tickets. Writing friendly words on that blankness.

Újra meg újra elszámolok huszonnégyig, tizenegyig, tizenháromig. Tanulom a számokat magyarul: „egy, kettő, három, négy, öt”, kerekítem az ajkam. Mosolyra derülő német arc, amikor ezúttal „elf, zwölf...” a létszám. A buszsofőr értetlen, üres tekintete, amikor huszonöt napijegyet kérek. Barátságos szavakkal teleírni az ürességet.

Wearing a hat for an evening, a black hat with a pink ribbon. Reading broken English from the back of a Robin Hood postcard.

Egy estére kölcsönkapott kalap – fekete, széles rózsaszín szalaggal. Kerékbetört angol mondatok egy Robin Hood-os képeslap hátoldalán.

Saying goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra see you again, soon.

És végül goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra... nemsokára. (translated by Juli Károlyi)

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Dovetail Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe The blizzard drawing a snow curtain over Nottingham’s day-to-day concerns. One artist taking another’s arm as we all walk together down sandstone steps iced to provoke another tumble.

Der Sturm zieht einen Vorhang aus Schnee über Nottinghams Alltagsangelegenheiten. Ein Künstler reicht dem anderen den Arm, als wir gemeinsam die Sandsteinstufen hinabsteigen, welche eisig einen Fall herausfordern.

Warmth soaking through bones, hot chocolate with a shot of mint and histories of long-dead or never-lived people. Watching twenty-five people write hearing them speak words I don’t know but understanding all the same.

Wärme durchdringt die Knochen, heiße Schokolade mit einem Schuss Minze und Geschichten von lang verstorbenen oder niemals gewesenen Menschen. Fünfundzwanzig Leuten beim Schreiben zusehen, sie Worte sagen hören, die ich nicht kenne, und sie dennoch verstehen.

I can’t frame these words in a photograph and that is precious in itself.

Ich kann diese Worte nicht auf einem Foto festhalten und das ist in sich selbst schon kostbar.

Counting again and again to twenty-four to eleven to thirteen. Learning to count in Hungarian: egy, kettő, három, négy, öt, rounding my lips. The smile on a German face when I say elf, zwölf, for a change, on the bus. The blank look on the driver’s face when I ask for twenty-five day tickets. Writing friendly words on that blankness.

Immer wieder und wieder zählen bis vierundzwanzig bis elf bis dreizehn. Ungarisch zählen lernen: egy, kettő, három, négy, öt, meine Lippen rundend. Das Lachen auf einem deutschen Gesicht, wenn ich, zur Abwechslung elf, zwölf im Bus sage. Der verwirrte Gesichtsausdruck des Busfahrers, als ich ihn um fünfundzwanzig Tagestickets bitte. Ich schreibe freundliche Worte auf sein Starren.

Wearing a hat for an evening, a black hat with a pink ribbon. Reading broken English from the back of a Robin Hood postcard.

Einen Abend lang einen Hut tragen, einen schwarzen mit einer rosanen Schleife. Gebrochenes English lesen auf der Rückseite einer Robin Hood Postkarte.

Saying goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra see you again, soon.

Goodbye sagen, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra, wir sehen uns, bald. (translated by Katarina Kokstein)

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Dovetail UK joint workshop anthology  

Work from the Nottingham, Budapest and Karlsruhe Dovetail groups.

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