Writer's Blot - March 2021

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March 2020 edition

Space

Writer’s Blot

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Editors’ Letter Dear all, Space is vast. Literally, and metaphorically: entire libraries could be filled on the subject. A lack of space, although a seemingly contradictory notion, has produced writing detailing the terrors of entrapment and claustrophobia.

Equally, humanity’s awe at the enormity of space has long been portrayed through writing, even prior to humanity’s (relative) understanding of the subject. Perhaps literature is used in this way to express the inexpressible; convey that which is hidden from us, that which we can only imagine and wonder at. Writing, like no other art, pays glorious testament to the spiralling galaxies and far-off cosmos, dizzyingly vast, and wreathed in vibrant hues.

From the 17th century metaphysical poets, whose work delves into the alcoves of human consciousness, to contemporary sci-fi novelists, encompassing seminal works like ‘Dune’ or ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, space has always been, and will continue to be, an unalterable expression of human curiosity.

This innate curiosity and wonder, we think, is subtly and beautifully expressed in our third edition of ‘Writer’s Blot’. Our writers have truly outdone themselves: from Rania Faraj’s hauntingly beautiful poem discussing the ephemeral nature of all things, to Emma Gower’s sensitive feminist criticism of the place of women in History, exemplified in the idea of the ‘Man in the Moon’, to Jodie Bloom’s metaphysical musings on the intersection of the body and the soul in her extraordinary poem, we have an astonishing array of poetry and creative writing on the theme of ‘Space’ to present to you. Elsewhere, Aggie Nyant and Grammar Girl have returned once more to entertain and enlighten their readers with universally acknowledged truths and searing wit.

We promise that you will not ever cease to wonder, nor lack curiosity while reading this edition of ‘Writer’s Blot’. We hope that you will allow the pieces to take you away to another world, perhaps in a space removed from our own.

Thank you, as ever, for reading our magazine.

Alex Morgan and Schuyler Daffey Editors in chief

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Contents: ¨ ‘Wondering Under the Stars’—page 4 ¨ ‘Im(material)’—page 5 ¨ ‘Shine’—page 6 ¨ ‘Moving’—page 8 ¨ ‘The Woman in the Moon’—page 10 ¨ ‘Dreams’—page 12 ¨ ‘Wouldn’t it look nice on a dress?’—page 13 ¨ ‘The Lack of It’—page 14 ¨ ‘Phases’—page 15 ¨ ‘Love Found’—page 17 ¨ What we’ve been reading—page 18 ¨ Agony Aunt, Literary edition—page 19 ¨ Xoxo Grammar Girl—page 20

Many thanks to Jo Hobsley for her captivating cover image.

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‘Wondering Under the Stars’ The grass is soft beneath me As I gaze up at the lights.

And I wonder what it’s like to be A star up there at night.

Nestled in around the worlds, Watching as we dream.

Like tiny sparkling angels, At least, that’s how they seem.

Did you know that if you travelled far, Light-years away, up there, You’d find not twinkling shards of light, But great hot balls of air.

And lying here, so far below It’s impossible to see The giant world that sits up there.

Out of reach of you and me.

But do we need to understand Everything so high?

Maybe it is just enough, To wonder what stars are like.

--Tammy Berman

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‘Im(material)’ Upon this bench is a material body, The oak trees and shrubbery mere voyeurs.

The welcoming embrace of hazy, Summer dusk air Inspires a sustained moment of reminiscence – The salty taste of a fleeting fling flutters Along the tastebuds as effortlessly As the Emperor butterfly. The molten sunlight peeks, Yet doesn’t dare disrupt the spectral play of colour That bounces between her forewing and upper wing.

Flickers of iridescence fool the eye, tease the mind.

One foot in front of the next, the body Follows her in aimless flight - no purpose to be fulfilled aside From an innate appreciation for the material.

But this appreciation is the threshold, Between the known and the unknown; Tread lightly. I warn you, tread lightly Like the eager explorer through primary forest – Attentive yet inquisitive.

The body is a puzzle unfinished with the Mind an end product, a final destination; the Destination unclear - leaving the soul Meandering through the mist of life.

--Jodie Bloom

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‘Shine’ ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars’ - Oscar Wilde The plants lie dormant, weighted by the blanket of old snow solid and not yet melted.

The houses lie silent and dim, Quietness is the new epidemic when night falls.

The stars fill the sky, And the moon shines down like a spotlight as if I’m the star.

They call it the dead of the night, But this is when I feel most alive It is as if I am one with the stars in the sky, who reveal their magic in the night like I. The moon is a lighthouse and I am the ship hoping to find a way home out of the dark: the moon is my beacon of hope and of light, guiding me with her unspoken words.

In the dark nights, be like the moon and Shine.

Or be like the stars; Who cast their paint brush on the canvas of the sky, Leaving behind the magical specks That leave me in effect, awed?

Those pinpricks fixed into the tapestry My window overlooks a gallery; it could pass for a jewellery store, with diamonds in the shop window.

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Priceless: an expense out-of-bounds, A space out-of-bounds: Unlimited.

It stretches on, the vast canvas; Reams upon reams of thread, Bottles upon bottles of paint, All intricately constructed to create for me a personal planetarium just to remind me to Shoot for the moon, Aim high, fly, and Shine.

--Prachi Saraf

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‘Moving’ Cardboard graveyards burying dust And mould-invaded sinks, The kettle whistling away Or the clanging up ahead, Pure rubble for a bedspread,

Umbrellas stood over sitting Shoes - mud no longer a visitor Spilling over the nice, clean, floors.

Is it a vacuum or a corpse in the cupboard?

Best to just leave it covered.

Faded windows try to hide The rainfall, if only to Protect the shell from life, Dehydrate the skeleton Wallpaper over all that is genuine,

And flickering bulbs on the verge

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Of collapse, praying for permission to wilt, The piano no longer the one Hammering away or busying hands, Evictions are the only notes that land,

There is no room in this house for joy, No space for emotional quiet; Only battered knick-knacks And chipped medals will do For somewhere as nothing as this.

--Rania Faraj

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‘The Woman in the Moon’ They tell tales of a face carved into the moon One that is seen as afternoon Turns to evening, then to night.

They wave to him, and see him they might.

They sing his song; they speak his name.

He has eternal fame.

The man in the moon. It’s a common phrase But as is often in modern days A simple error was his downfall As he is not really a man after all.

Told by a man, in a world of men It is expected then.

She fills with anger as she hears them speak Of the man they see seven nights a week.

He is strength, and he is might His greatness fills the sky each night.

Of course, he has to be a male For them to tell his tale.

One day she’ll show them her true self Reveal that the man in the moon is someone else They’ll learn that a female controls their skies She’ll see true horror in their eyes.

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A woman, that story would never do Even if it were true.

But in a future not so far away A new story is told at the end of the day The person in the moon has a brand-new tale One much more fe and a lot less male.

--Emma Gower

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‘Dreams’ See the soaring of the rocket ship, As it embraces on its round trip.

The milky way shimmers, As the baffled astronaut shivers.

He longs to escape from the distress of Earth, And enter this glorious place of mirth.

The stars were shining oh so bright, That at his great height, They caused such delight.

He ascended past the point of Mars, As he passed, he saw the glory of the stars.

Along his travels on the Milky way, He was reminded of his school days.

He always imagined what it would be like, Exploring at this great height seemed to be dreamlike.

The thoughts always crossed his tiny mind, What if one day he was able to leave behind, The place he once called home, And travel to the galaxies to roam.

Oh! What joy it brought to him, To see that his dreams that used to swim, Would one day be fulfilled, And he was ever so thrilled.

--Poppy Mann

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‘Wouldn’t it look nice on a dress?’

Parents’ evening. That day all children dread. The day Judgement will fall, whether they are good or not. Little Lilly sat in the classroom with her parents, biting her lips as she heard the clicks of her teacher’s high heels. She squeezed the arm of her teddy bear. Then, the lady said with an air of disdain: “Distracted, with falling grades.” She was in for a lot of advice that night“Focus on the work, try harder, aim for better…” but as she zoned out once more, she wanted to hear “Focus on your goals, do your best, aim for the shooting stars in your dreams”.

All Lily could think of was space, the colours and sparkles. Wouldn’t the universe look nice on a dress? A navy dress, near black, with streaks of pink and green, which glitters with the stars that adorn it, illuminated by suns and moons. Planets for earrings and supernovas in her glistening eyes. The universe, so vast, yet her grades seemed to be of top priority. No, that can’t be right… the universe is too large for that - where would she start to cut the fabric?

The radiant sun projects light and heat, while the dove-like moon keeps the time ticking, and yet no one thinks that’s important - the duo which cultivates humanity, let alone the world…

But Lily knew she was microscopic in relation to the cosmos, and that if she were to disappear, the beauty of the universe would still continue to shine, but what about those humans and animals on earth? A few acts of kindness surely would make a difference to their day, or even revolutionise the way they live a smile could make the world a better place, surely but slowly. She would make kindness and love the next global pandemic - a virus everyone hopes to receive. It won’t change the nature of space and time, but it will certainly make the world a better place, one step at a time…

--Anagha Sreeram

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‘The Lack of It’ I brush my fingers against the wall. I feel the cobbles. A rough, scaly texture that should only belong on long lost creatures existing in children’s minds, a sensation that haunts and follows, constantly threatening to break a promise of happiness. I reel my thoughts back in. It’s not good for me, to think that these large plaster pillars, brushed with unfinished paint scratches are anything but walls. I will do well to remind myself that I am safe.

But as the time creeps up to my skin like a cold, merciless, salty tide, the space around me diminishes along with any remnants of order. I force my parched tongue against the roof of my mouth and try to focus on the constant ticking of the clock, a piece of apparatus that appears to be from a distant dimension, a blurry one that did not confine you and squeeze you and wring you out like a towel that once swelled with water. I look at the steady rhythm of light flickers that harass this room, anything will do other than the space. The lack of it.

I want to go. The door is merely a shadow, a whisper of a reality that is not mine. A pinprick of salvation that echoes too far to be seen or fully comprehended, taunting me. I turn away and will my mind to venture in a new direction but it’s no good. While the wavering pace of time marches on, and the light continues on its dance across the room, these walls will always be crashing in on the scarce space and irately itching, leeching at my consciousness. Until there is no more mind. At least then, it will finally be over.

--S.P Ace

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‘Phases’ The moon and her stars are obscured.

Nothing but darkness and murky dreams are woven in the sky.

The sun rises again while dreams fade and reality bites with a gust of warm wind, but as nightfall hits, some of her reflection remains in the waxing crescent.

She begins to win the battle. Half of her reflection appears through the inky droplets that penetrate the orange clouds like the remnants of a half-finished poem stained with bitter coffee.

Yet with half a reflection only comes dreams that happen with half an eye still open, and the paradise of inner consciousness cannot be truly discovered.

And she has nearly won the battle.

An almost perfect circle leading to almost perfect nights and dreams.

The bliss of her full image is immanent, yet still not evident.

All we can do is wait for the rise and fall of the sun once more.

The full moon raises itself in the sky with the sleeping of the sun, dreaming of freshly mowed grass and sandy beaches with both eyes wide shut. Those who are awake can hear the crickets and laughter from midnight walks diffuse into the air, while those who sleep are able to experience the wonders when they shut both of their eyes.

They know the moon will protect them. but as the sun rises again this will soon be lost as darkness begins to win the battle again.

The phase is never permanent.

The only comfort is the knowledge that she will rise again.

And she begins to fade, entering the next phase of her existence.

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The sky is clearing, an army of stars have presented themselves by her damaged side.

She must fade like a distant memory.

And much like memories she will always be there, even when not visible.

We must enter the next phase as she continues to diminish.

Half of her pale reflection is gone.

And half continues to diminish until the sky reflects nothing but the hope that remains.

And the waning crescent cannot disturb that hope, even as the guiding light fades into dawn.

We call it a new moon because we know she will rise again.

The sky is clear and overflowing with stars.

--Alex Morgan

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‘Love Found’ In the beginning, we were young.

We relished the comforting weight of a hand held in our own Your warm breath on my neck…

Our feet made moons when we pressed them together, And we held all the stars in those distant, enduring galaxies cupped like water in flighty hands.

The vastness of the world was upon us in those days.

Rapt, We were swallowed by space.

Nothingness held us in thrall.

Thoughts flitted hazily through sun-soaked minds, but Caught in a hazy deluge of feeling We barely understood them.

It was a chaos of colour. It was epiphany.

--Schuyler Daffey

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What we’ve been reading For Two Thousand Years, Mihail Sebastian While an admittedly heavy book in a time when you might be looking for escapism, For Two Thousand Years unfortunately resonates powerfully in times of such hostility, and may offer some clarity and context from recent history. A semi-autobiographical diary written from the perspective of an unnamed Romanian-Jewish student in the interbellum period, facing the rise of antisemitic fascism, Sebastian's writing style is perfectly subtle, candid and concise enough to captivate you, while still maintaining that underlying sense of melancholy. I definitely recommend this book, as it offers a welcome insight into a perspective that is vastly underrepresented and disrespected in literature, but it is not the book to read when you just need something to cheer you up.

--Rania Faraj 'Two thousand years can't be overcome by leaving for somewhere [...] the truth is that there are too many years for us to be able to forget them. '

Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald Although eclipsed somewhat by the canonical Great Gatsby, this novel provides an insight, Fitzgerald-style, into the thrilling lives of the fabulously wealthy during the post war boom of the 1920s. Rosemary Hoyt, an inexperienced movie star, spends a transformative summer on the Riviera, where she quickly falls in with the Divers, a wealthy couple who seemingly live the idyllic life. Increasingly, however, the latent tensions and corruption within their marriage are exposed, with the novel facing a bleak denouement. The theme of disillusionment is rife within Tender is the Night, and is one that has been developed further, and is far more despairing than Gatsby ever was.

While much of the action has occurred prior to the beginning of the novel, Fitzgerald’s brilliant character nuances and witty dialogue, and philosophical questions posed make Tender is the Night a thoroughly compelling read.

--Schuyler Daffey “I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.

Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am to-night.”

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DEAR AGGIE

By Aggie Nyarnt

Dear Aggie, I have found my true love, yet he is from the family against whom we hold an ancient grudge. He’s everything a girl could dream of; he’s older, handsome, and oh so romantic. We may have only met 5 days ago, and I may be only 13, but he is the one for me. I know this is true.

My family wish to wed me to another man and so we have become desperate. We have a plot to escape by faking our deaths and running away together, free from the family feud that is destroying our love.

I just worry that this will go wrong. What would you do in our situation?

Yours, Juliet Dear Juliet, Have you considered talking to your family? This may seem daunting but the actions you have laid out in your letter are not only drastic but also riddled with opportunities for something to go awry. Your two families may be more alike than it seems at first glance, perhaps in dignity you will find common ground.

Your star-crossed lover may seem perfect but at 13 you have little experience of the world. Have you considered taking more time over this romance?

Suggest postponing your other wedding, seek a longer period in which to “prepare yourself to be a perfect bride” (this, of course, will allow more time to create a more concrete plan).

I wish you luck with your difficult situation. Remember, communication is always key From Aggie

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Xoxo, Grammar Girl This author cannot condone the licentious use of semicolons in modern English; in fact, it is positively repulsive! As with most matters, Woolf can provide some clarification: “every other man, it seemed, was capable of writing a song or sonnet”. If every man, therefore, is capable of manipulating the pen, evidently not every man possesses the grammatical talents of this esteemèd author. Women, as a rule, are far more competent. But Grammar Girl, you lament, if a slip of the pen is all it takes to perform a grievous crime of ink, how do I keep my wrist steady? Do not distress, dear reader; grammar girl has returned for her second installment of this illustrious magazine.

Semicolons, not to be mistaken with marriage, group projects, or Seneca Crane (Quelle tragédie!), serve to bring two independent clauses together. Just as a marriage must be built on something, (Elizabeth and Mr Darcy’s romantic connection wasn’t born in a day, even if he was in possession of 10,000 a year!), a semi colon can only connect two already closely related ideas. Equally, semicolons may act as a way in which to *spice* up one’s lists: between books in a particularly lengthy series; grammatically enhanced grocery lists; and in your ever-growing count of literary soulmates.

Yet I must warn my beloved readers of the perils that lie ahead. Beware of the dreadful danger of using a comma where a semicolon would suffice. Commas cannot be used to connect independent clauses if there is no conjunction.

This author would like to conclude in praise of the writers and editors of this august magazine (all of whom are prodigiously gifted) for providing her with the opportunity to contribute to this column; she is unutterably grateful.

Farewell for now, North Londoners. But don’t fret; you won’t be rid of me long.

I shall return next edition, pen blazing and wit as sharp as ever, to persevere in my quest to demystify the English language.

Who am I? That’s one (grammatical) secret I’ll never share.

Xoxo, Grammar Girl