PITH segment 8 Dear Green Place

AILSA DAVIES

COVERS: AILSA DAVIES CONTRIBUTORS PAGE: LAURA HUNTER GRAPHIC DESIGN: MATILDA EKER

AB

COOP BY

ER

a simple ode to my dear green place you have such an inviting face to show society normal propriety but we all know that’s not the case you are a refuge for the dregs a place to consume our vaunted kegs where we get our blaze in habit or in phase and to dump our plastic from Greggs from concrete shackles you are arisen a glorified acre of prison petty monoculture worthy of a vulture telling of your parental commission but where else can I feel embrace? inside of Moodle’s database? any port in a storm anything to feel warm the ode to my lovely green place.

DAMON BALLARD

TANVIR ALIM

AM NA Y IO

SK Y

EB ALL

ANC E

The City Under the Moon The moon wraps the sky around her like her favourite coat.

She uses the stars as buttons As she hangs over the city Clinging on to the last of its leaves.

Green turning to orange And orange will be brown, Soon to glow, fire-like Under overhanging lights.

I walk among its bricks and branches, Buttoned coat against me.

All green and gullible.

The city and I, Soon to settle into the company of each other, With its orange leaves and my brown coat.

I’ll know its bricks.

I’ll know its branches.

I’ll stumble down its streets At ungodly hours, Under overhanging lights, Watched by the moon.

MEGAN WALLACE

RO

AMY IONA

SA

GI

LD

ER

IM V TA N OPHELIA HAZZAN

IR

AL

T IL DA

KE

E

MA

R

The Elephants, Salvador Dali A trail so indistinct imprinted by shadows, formed by the gaunt legs that meander.

Across bleeding skies and desert meadows, where the colours are loud but the silence grander.

Ancient and extended creatures prowl this land, their journey unbeknown to all.

Their trace muffled by the movement of sand, but their perspective is evermost tall.

You may question the existence of these great souls, and as to why they move with no intention.

But to explain why the elephant continuously patrols, would be to disregard the simplistic beauty caught by our attention.

They have no reason nor rhyme for walking the streets of the Sahara, Other than to exist in harmony with what we call Dali’s greatest artistic era.

MELISSA TIPPING

TANVIR ALIM

Glasgow I love you Glasgow You Green Space You fucker You hatred I almost died And you’re still staring You bastard You deviant You’re an arsehole I’m still praying For a better day A chance to wash away

Glasgow I’m still praying For a chance for saving I’m still horrendously vacant I can’t take it anymore I’m worth tears I hate you more than A bad sibling I can’t breathe Your Concrete is suffocating I’ll see you on the other side I hate you In the greens of Kelvingrove park I’ll wait for you Glasgow I wish you stayed CALLUM PATERSON

UMA BERNARD

Dear Green Space, Whispers.

The webs of a wet dawn Hanging limp, like veins from the limbs Of branches.

Ribs that jut from their treen spine.

Unseen pulses of movement, And cells of dew.

Inky blots...

Dear green space, Write back, won’t you?

I’d like to know you’re breathing.

Beneath the papery sheets.

Beneath charts And diagrams That pulse, Pulse, with acres vanishing Every Second

R

E PARK MAYA

Guessing, Will you write back?

TIL DA EKER

A

You’re fine, you’re fine.

Write back soon, won’t you.

Dear green space, HOLLY GILDER

M

Silence Broken, as the skin of the earth breaks with helix twists, heads of flowers, Pulses. Can you feel them?

Were those for me?

[a love letter to glasgow] dear this wee green place, laid bare o’er hills, where queens ‘n’ thair husbands bult` castles tae fill, of bens ‘n’ men na difference denied, sloch fruit fae oor trees ‘n’ be watered fae clyde. dear this quaint green place, of auld ‘n’ th’ new, through th’ lens o’ polished buttons ‘n’ sunday shoes, in th’ shadow o’ cathedrals ‘n’ churches ‘n’ stalls, a’tween th’ back-alleys ‘n’ th’ wide shopping malls, pressed kisses against galleries staun lanky ‘n’ unknown, the soft shuffle o’ jumpers that yer nanny hud sewn.

ROSA GILDER

dear this great green place, with th’ roads running high, of subways ‘n’ dubs ‘n’ smog in th’ sky, music fae auld dance halls - it hums ‘n’ it sings, whaur makars ur nobles, th’ artists ur kings. och mah dear glasgow, loued ye hae been and loue wull continue, so lang as ye’r green KAYLA DOUGAN ANNICK WEINANDI

TANVIR ALIM

EL O PE

PE N FO U RE S

AIL

SA

DAVIE S

Fresher’s 2020 Stillness, sonder is my vacant bed.

A dull square room: four white walls, Big enough for just one idle desk And very little else.

The campus quarters rock busily With hollow boozer’s bottles lining windows ALLISON PALUM

-with nought atop their necksMade hot by the angelic fervent touch Of the city’s fertile sun.

The great green place Has not awakened yet But heading home after a flat’s late boozer I think. I wish I hadn’t left.

RACHEL SMITH

ALLISON PALUM

Renaissance Ghost Sighting Lie here, inhale heavy white force in order to clamp the earth tremor under, (of “becoming” awake, thrusting, and rationing).

Consume a heavy kilo of nut brown stuff, recognising over-slaking as instant expansion.

Reach to slip the glass inside.

There are many points at which some pleasing effort rips to seethe inside itself, carve a deep salty callous, though– only for a moment, abate back into a swell of hotness and curling around itself this way.

It is almost unbearable towards the end.

Your face pulls into a Renaissance ghost-sighting, all cold and deep with pools for eyes.

You pull your trousers up again.

None of this matters with a bit of mycelium.

EVIE SPICER

MO

CA NI

R DE

TE TA

A

S RO

L GI

AN EH AHITA SAL

drop here my head is filled with bees zipping around like cars on high street eyes glistening in the rain here the rain pools and floods the asphalt leaving shoes wet and socks sour yet the water, they say, tastes sweet here the water is sweet and the jam even sweeter curdling on my tongue like clothes in the dryer, red leaves in the gutter.

I leave my window open when it rains, to calm the bees, so they can make my thoughts sticky and sweet make them cling to memories and whether it is memories of mountains and fjords or memories of highlands and moors a drop of me will remain here forevermore MARIANNE EID

JU

D

E LE

E-A

LLE

N

ABE HOWELL

river letters, before I met you and so what do you say, Clyde?

It’s late August and the clouds are blown glass everywhere.

I feel breakable when I listen to music and strong when I fry food, which is most days.

Things have gone sapphire, and I’m sorry for that.

And I’m sorry for the distance too, for preemptive crying. It’s all a bit silly really.

Breathe deep, you say, the summer isn’t meant to last forever and that’s good luck. mark the warmest day before September in your calendar. wear things that cinch your waist and to bite into the new year like an apple, sharply with red conviction. lie in the road one more time. it’s the end of summer and I’m more than a body for love, AMY IONA

than a pink lilo inflatable with joy. the tarmac patterns pressed into my thighs tell you so ESME MADELINE

CHLOÉ CHETBOUN ANNIKA DAHLMAN