EDITORS NOTE
Our dear Peaches, Firstly, we would like to offer our gratitude to everyone who has joined us at our workshops, events, and socials. The support and love our little community has harboured so far has been truly heart-warming to experience. From the beginning of the first semester, when we held our first open mic night at the Word of the Water Book barge, to our most recent workshop, we have seen nothing but dedicated and talented creatives. Our team has been (positively!) overwhelmed with just how much our little magazine has grown, over such a short period of time. The level of engagement exceeded our expectations, and we could not be happier to belong here. For that reason, we are so grateful for our 70+ members. It has been incredible to see so many new faces after a time plagued by such uncertainty and isolation. Thank you to each and every single one of you, PEACH members, contributors and readers. Thank you for all the love, support, and creative collaboration. We appreciate you all <3 All our love, Maya Barter and Alexandra Craveiro PEACH Editor in Chief & Deputy Editor
TABLE OF CONTENTS Kings Cross Station Illustration - Lily Wiles Kings Cross Station - Esin Aynal Morning on Regent’s Canal - Lauren Jeffries Reflection & In Time - Sabrin (poetinahijab) Killing Time - Anwen Venn Hourglass - Jennifer Kurti Maze of Mind - Lama Garatly Lost Footing - Thomas Williams A Mother’s Plea - Lewis Taylor Eileen - Abbie Harrison sheila - Elizabeth Stringer sheila Illustration - Jennifer Kurti [elegy] passing - Giulia Pisano Lover’s Farewell - Laila Ali Unseen - Aditi Sigar ON CLOUD NINE - Ana Rosales Paving Passages - Muskaan Aleeza Admani Vines - Alexandra Craveiro Heirloom - Yanisha Luckhea what was left of ninety-three - Alisha Isherwood Green Route - Sofia Renzi Midnight Mayhem - Marco Rubial Moreno This Hole - Max Cunliffe The Tower & Walking - Yue Wang Near - Joya Choudhury Passages - Cerys Clark HAZE & floating mid-wisp - Mariam Yusuf Interlude I and Interlude II - Melisa Ela Ozer
Illustration by Lily Wiles (she/her)
K I N G S C R O S S S TAT I O N
by Esin Aynal (she/her)
watching a buzz of stranger souls dragging heavy suitcases on an unpolished gummy floor at kings cross station is my favourite hobby on sundays I eat my pret salad on a bench fork digging into the spleen of spinach overpriced and tasteless green my eyes burn into the tender vision of people’s warm, long goodbye-hugs sweet girl, pink lips are pecked hair stroked a single salty tear departs from mother’s eye the train is a tyrant, long and cold and metallic huffing around it’s great mechanical breath puffing out it’s big chest epitome of separation but also a friend to new beginnings I see palms kissing each other fingers locked in an embrace of their own swinging until they reach platform six and then abruptly let go hand instead grabs suitcase, one foot on platform other foot solidly on train fingers wave a dance of solitude, sadness but also excitement a farewell, but not forever just for now train takes them far away strangers come and go goodbye is a word recycled my pret salad is finished
M O R N I N G S O N R E G E N T S by Lauren Jeffries (she/her)
C A N A L
As the university slowly wakes to the alarm of the mechanical clicks of the moorhens I sit and read. It’s difficult to focus on my book with the scenery around me. The morning sun, a cold gold, floats on the surface of the canal, piecing through clear water and illuminating areas plagued with thick algae, a sickening and brilliant bright green. A single moorhen balances on a log, slow with sleep, waiting for the rays of the sun to lift it from its slumber. My coffee has turned cold, and the lack of milk makes it bitter to taste, but combined with the chill in the air and the slightest hint of warmth from the autumn sun it is the perfect concoction to separate me from last night’s heavy sleep. I’m not alone and the company eases me into the day. Bodies and faces emerge dazed from their barges, like me, coffee in hand they potter; watering a plant or two, painting a railing, knotting ropes. The cleaners break the comfortable silence as they clean up evidence of last night’s revelry; bottles of pink gin and plastic cups. They move to the water’s edge, brushing auburn leaves off the bank and into the water. The scraping hush of the brush against the stone, the clicking of the moorhens, the indistinct chatter, the occasional train, the lapping of the water, the whirring of a distant engine, all helps me slowly adjust to the world. I tend to do this every morning, and without it the thought of suddenly emerging to a fully formed and functioning London, after hours in my safe box room, feels far too overwhelming. The constant traffic, herds of people trudging, sirens sounding, faces staring. This way I can reclaim my London, and know I am part of it. My hands start to chill, and clouds begin to cover the morning blue of the sky, so I close my book and head back to my room, no longer intimidated by the prospect of the day to come.
R E F L E C T I O N by Sabrin (poetinahijab), (she/her)
at one point in my life, it was hard to form my own opinion because i was at the waypoint of how do i not offend others? when really i was offending myself i didn’t want to upset others and face confrontation that i avoided the confrontation with myself that absence of confrontation led me to having no opinion i cared so much of what others thought of me that i became them and reflected what they thought of themselves i wasn’t human i was a clone a mirror mi rr or mi or them and i chose which reflection had more words so i cannot be heard
Illustration by Ana Rosales (any pronouns)
IN TIME
by Sabrin (poetinahijab), (she/her) left me so lonely is how i felt at times wishing every breath i take you were closer to me instead of them scared to hear your last breath are we still good? i can’t think long but the memories are still running from me to you us in this time our time is this the right time? time is not here when we have to fight our time pushing me your time hurting me my time delaying you will we ever become true? even if i’m a lifetime away you are still here to save me to save us i am willing to do the same but will i ever be good for you? these walls write lyrics writing our future i want to be free with you in this lifetime in our lifetime will the hurting ever stop?
Illustration by Ana Rosales (any pronouns)
KILLING TIME by Anwen Venn (she/her)
Content warning: mention of death. Death was waiting for me at the bus stop, Their presence relaxed; their gaze averted, They’re fixated on cars that buzz like flies to fruits that rot, They seem nonchalant. I stand there, Stupidly. It’s not ever y day you see someone like Death. My hesitation remains, But I move to sit beside them as lights flash on windowpanes, Bare thighs pressed against gaudy red metal, And as I wait for the chill to settle, I cross my legs and stare at flashing lights, tr ying to decipher blurred code, Refusing to look away from the road. “Fucking traffic,” they mumble, And my resolve nearly crumbles, But I can’t help but think I imagined their voice more I don’t know, Harsh? I barely bring myself to smile politely, But somehow, I manage it, Counting down the seconds for my bus to arrive, Number 777. Arriving in 13 minutes. I can see them shaking their head, “ Wrong bus,” is said, And as their gloved nail taps against the screen, It’s enough to make me cause a scene. “ What are you tr ying to pull?” I hiss, I cannot decipher an expression, But I don’t miss, The tilt of their head, The lilt of their lisp.
“Couldn’t you see this one coming?” My body is numb as I sit there in a mini dress, Just wanting to get home, Get some rest, Rid myself of these god-awful heels, Devour grease and spew it later, Regret it tomorrow. Tomorrow. I want to see tomorrow. Delilah creeps into my skin and I wonder, Maybe I can get away with it too, Betray Death. But as I sit there and watch them play with daffodils growing in the cracks between stones, A fascination with life wrapped around bones, I realise I don’t have the strength. “ Why?” They’re focus is on the scent of floral as my fingers tremble, “ Why are you making a fool of me?” Finally, they seem to acknowledge my plea, But they blink , yellow encompassing as they think , I hear them whisper, “ You’ve never been a fool to me.” I must be insane, Because I should be cr ying , Feel an ounce of pain, But I don’t feel like tr ying. They wrap blossoms in my hair, Drape a cloak on skin that’s bare, Hum a tune I recognise on my dad’s old record, Tap their boot to the rhythm, And I watch them, Phalanges dancing in the air, Curious sockets mesmerised by the glare, Of life driving by, Raphael watching us in the sky.
We see it in a distance, Indicators flashing , Bodies intertwined. “It’s early,” they say, And I don’t have a clever retort. They force me to stand, And I don’t understand why I miss their coldness. “See you on the other side,” But I defy, Exemplifying the nuisance I’ve tried to hide, And beg , “Please, don’t leave me alone.” A silence passes us by, Like the planes that fly above us, Exploring destinations I cannot discover. I think I see a smile. “Okay, but only for a little while.” I cling to their hand, Flesh wrapped in nothingness, And begin the descent. I should say thank you, But I don’t think it’ll express how I truly felt in that moment as you held my palm, And joined me on a journey, Reminding me of the beauty of wilting petals. Sometimes I forget how fickle you can be.
MAZE OF MIND By Lama Garatly (she/her)
I stand before a maze. I stand with choices before me, but I am somehow frozen in place, Frozen in time, Unable to move with a thousand thoughts running through my mind. I stand before a maze and I want to cry and scream and I haven’t even stepped foot onto the journey ahead of me. It almost makes me wonder if there’s something wrong with me. That can’t be the case though because my mother’s always told me otherwise, That I was the perfect child she always wanted me to be. I stand before a maze, and as I lift my head up, I notice the red rose peeking behind a few bushes and think, Maybe it won’t be so bad, Maybe I’ll find my way, And maybe it’s all just in my head.
L O S T
F O O T I N G
by Thomas Williams (he/him)
Sometimes it feels like those scenes in movies where a character is in a dark room - either in a literal or metaphorical sense - and the floor opens up/caves in and you feel a descent that you were always dreading. Sometimes it feels like you lose footing. Sometimes it feel like you have to enter a tunnel to move forward, but the tunnel isn’t well lit and you’re unsure of how long it is. Sometimes it isn’t even arduous, just solemn. When it’s necessary however, the means justify the ends for everyone personal journey, in that as long as you manage to pass the darkness, or the fall, the process wasn’t pretty per se, but it wasn’t for naught.
A MOTHER’S PLEA by Lewis Taylor (he/him)
“What love could you possibly have for a man that is three times your age, with three wives that all died young, dumb and tragic? Is it because his family line dates back hundreds of years which could connect him as a relative of Victoria? What love could you have for a man that parades you around publicly like some prized property? You’re his new attraction at the Marquis’ circus, gifting you jewels that bruise your neck. How could you love a man that wants to rip a daughter away from their mother’s embrace? Only a monster could do that. Whisking you away to some old abandoned castle, where I am left alone once more. You won’t be some princess, but some trophy to add next to the head of his prized stags. I’d find you a good husband. Someone like your father. He would be kind, good and always have your interests and passions at heart. You’d be able to laugh, joke and enjoy each other’s company. The world was cruel enough to take that away from me. The world has tormented me once more, taking you away all for some pitiless pennies he’ll grant me. All the gold in the world would not be enough so I could see your smile again... ...Are you sure you love him?” “I’m sure I want to marry him.”
EI LEEN
by Abbie Harrison (she/her) It was approaching dusk on a mid-summer eve The crickets began to swarm the pastures that lay beneath their bare feet Their buzz rings definitively in the ears of any soul who crossed their paths They sing a lullaby to send the town to bed. Below the swirled hues of orange and blue A little lad stood, his mother too. They’d stayed up a little past his bedtime, But what’s a mother to do? The temperature was still sweltering The boy was giggling, High on ice-cream skies and candy floss clouds He watched in awe as little sparks lit up the sky, flying around as if charged by lightning Basking in that artificial moonlight. His plump, round cheeks forget the frost that threatened to swallow the concrete below his cold feet. Only a few months ago, Giving way to moss and daisies As spring bloomed, which gave way to summer Forgetting all about that cold, old, fading chill. Instead the memories of summers, then and now Overwhelm the mind The sun-baked skin lays above the sun-baked ground As sun-baked days give way to sun-baked nights And the sun-baked memories become slightly hazy An old lady inhabits the crooked bench To the left of the fir tree A faceless woman, lost to memories long gone Of grandchildren giggling Chasing their tails around a maze of clover and dandelions She still manages to crack a small smile A small twinkle invaded her faded eyes And yet, All the while, Gazing upon that little lad The unfamiliarity crept in
Sadness. A fleeting, melancholy, non-existence Using that warm glow to forget The pains and aches of the old rocking chair Or was it the left? The assortment of sweets that littered her bedroom Or was it medicine? The one in the right hand corner of her room, Or was it the left? The assortment of sweets that littered her bedroom Or was it medicine? Alas, A new day begins to dawn The hustle and bustle encroaches As the town sits down to read the morning newspaper, Accompanied by a cold glass of orange juice, and some underwhelming scrambled eggs on slightly burnt toast. Any semblance of those orange and blue hues at dusk has long gone The faceless woman starts to fade, Somehow, Her features became even less distinct An old woman with no name wakes in her bed She’s confused, But at least she’s cosy The little lad stood over her bedside Yet he didn’t look so little anymore “Since when did you get so big!” She cried It’s like time had stolen that little lad That little lad who now had a little lad of his own She crinkled her forehead, Clearly displaying a wrinkled frown “What’s wrong mum?” Said the little lad “Oh.” “I think I forgot.”
s h e l i a
by Elisabeth Stringer (she/her) summer breeze passes over me memories of you come flooding back to me the golden locket you always wore the golden hue you dyed your hair i can still smell the sweet peas you always gave me you may be gone but you’re alive in me photo albums in my drawer the gold in my hair you’ll never be gone because you’re alive in me autumn’s crisp comes back round again i’m still that little girl waiting down the field for your warm embrace i wish i had that golden locket i can almost feel it’s old weight in my pocket you may be gone but you’re alive in me photo albums in my drawer the gold in my hair you’ll never be gone you’ll never be dead to me i think of you when the sun loses its light i think of you whenever i face delight i think of you all the damn time
Illustration by Jennifer Kurti (she/her)
[elegy] passing by Giulia Pisano (she/her)
Content warning: self harm and suicide. You blew the candles out And wished to close your eyes Then took the last one burning And set yourself alight Happiness is a switch he said So you pressed every inch of skin Bruising and pinching Yet remaining just as dim Start meditating she said So you tried to learn to breathe But you inhaled water and spat out air While you waited for her to leave You tell me about the stillness How it tastes blue and sounds numb How you lose your visual focus And the feeling of your tongue I say it will get better That this is just a phase But we both know that winter lasts Years, months, and even days So I stuff stones into your pockets And walk you to the shore I kiss goodbye the water surface “We don’t need this anymore.”
LOVER’S FAREWELL by Laila Ali (she/her)
To what end does this passage through time, Allow these words and images to swirl in your mind, For you to express yourself through such horrors received, Leaving me to fall down to my knees My life is softened by the many memories, the dreams, The pictures of us in filters of the sunshine that beams, Will you begin to share in these deserved blessings, As you allow yourself to feel the love you are confessing To rest your life’s focus solely on her, Or to leave behind a heart so pure, to all but a blur, Now to step back from him with such bliss, Leaving her to ponder further into an abyss, His voice to no swifter, send her sight astray, Yet he allows for her to remain, blue and grey, I ask you, lover, if I were not such a dear friend, Would you speak from the heart by this sonnet’s end? To put an end to the cries from these bleeding veins, For this soul reached out to all but one name, Thus, we take our leave, as rose petals eclipse, For this love she shared will no further exist
UNSEEN
by Aditi Sigar (she/her) A faceless soul, whose wants and needs hold no value, whose life starts and ends by revolving around a vow, and whose identity fades - UNSEEN. Screaming whimpers woke me up, Felt a diminishing presence. Scared, still I went to see, The curious devil within me. Who are you? She gave an airy laugh Blood dries, bones heal, No gloss for my busted lip. Scared, still I wished to see, The curious devil within me. What happened? She gave a throaty laugh Blood dries, bones heal, No Terpsichore with a broken hip. Scared, still I just had to see The curious devil, now impatient, within me Show me your face, I had to order, Lift your head, was her answer. I did, and no wonder Saw her dying smile In the mirror.
ON CLOUD NINE
by Ana Rosales (any pronouns)
PAV I N G PA S S A G E S
By Muskaan Aleeza Admani (she/her) Believe me I know how to fix myself, I know how to: Dig past the graves Of antique wounds And mend My brokenness. I have endured: Loss. Pain. Heartbreak. And I know how to pave new passages And make something brave of myself. So do not pity me. Do not stay because I am fragile. Leave me broken Because out of fragility blooms strength And I will mend again With or Without you.
V I N E S
By Alexandra Craveiro (she/her)
Illustration by Ana Rosales (any pronouns)
I. A minuscule seed amidst the many towering trunks engulfing depleted land, reverberating dead words of things I’ll never possess. Languishing, II. my quest for inharmonious leaves began. Collecting them from the hostile earth and seam by seam sewing -trying to match them. They carelessly unravelled. III. Mournful skies cracked - dawn brought with her new hope. Golden vines blossomed and glided up my brittle stem - tattooing themselves, they rewrote my body in their pencraft. IV. Next day my stem split into two sturdy tree trunks, filled with gleaming stripes in place of the tattooed vines - gripping tightly to the sides of my generous hips. V. The stripes stretched past the crevice where the river in my veins cascades to meet the future provider - above it, two daisies bloom – one with fuller petals VI. than the other. They sit side by side – they too, striped faintly – elastic branches caressing each one. Like ropes they tie my expanding ecosystem together. VII. The sweetest serenity stems from seeds of self-love and the realisation of the untamed, divine forest within you. You have become all you could ever need.
H E I R L O O M
By Yanisha Luckhea (she/her) The creases on my hands are the remnants of my ancestors who were permitted passage onto my skin. They brought with them my nose, a gift from those before, And my hair, Its curls representing the helix which guaranteed their immigration to my body. They cross the bands and borders of my palm, Etching their reluctant movements to unknown islands, Their journey continues as they stamp their presence into the rotis which I mould in my hands, The family seal seared into the hot bread, They pass through my fingers, Which meet with gâteaux piment, appams, dhal puris and dosas. The nomadic reminders of my history Have never stopped moving, They are the precious heirloom that perpetually courses through my blood Wishing me safe passage on my travels.
Illustration by Amrita Venugopal Prabhoo (she/her)
w hat w as left of nine t y-t hre e by Alisha Isherwood (they/she)
I remember, but I’m not sure if you do too, how the broken glass felt between our toes; spiky and harsh, cold and unforgiving, and as you brought me home from school walking small, hands clammy, you told me not to look at the bricks as they fell or look at what was left, and I smiled, I think. I could see what we took from my bedroom window, and I never felt the fear you told me to expect, but like an itch, I felt the concrete under my skin and how could I fear what was a part of me? But there we were, cuddled in a bedsheet, feet touching, elbows ablaze, hot tea like honey down my throat, some old novel in your youthful hands, speaking in Liverpudlian whispers that I could never replicate, stories and passages I would try to recreate, scrawls from crayons that you gave me. I’m not sure if I ever thanked you, but I can thank you now, for planting those seeds in the palms of my hands and tangling stories through to the ends of my hair. I reimagine these nights as visions of hope and love; a promise of comfort and soft skin, it was the confirmation I needed that you will always be here.
GREEN ROUTE
by Sofia Renzi (she/her)
M I D N I G H T M AY H E M by Marco Rubial Moreno (he/him)
THIS HOLE by Max Cunliffe
Eyes of milky white land loosely lost look then watch. Whats tick ticking? This hole holds bones, this hole holds peace, this hold stands firm through it all, this hole twists then turns the comes up on a cold and frosty field. Up rises a body, then comes down again with the screeching of birds blown in a gale then down on the tail end feeling so frail and crashing down with a clip of the wing. Then the aloneness of this hole is coming to me again. Eyes of piercing black lock hard and lock fast, hear now the creaks and the cracks, don’t wait to waste away. This hole is hungry, this hole holds worms in the walls, this hole holds rage, this hole collapses in on itself. Cold and frosty soil comes down. Up rises a body. Birds stare silent amidst the gale. With tooth and nail and a frightening wail the wing holds fast upon a breeze. Then the freedom of this sky is coming to me for the first time.
THE TOWER
by Yue Wang (she/her) I saw that wood tower the clear structure of it It’s a tower I can seclude myself why only taking plane I can reach there? It is not in front of me but beyond the national borderline While I can see it I know there is a passage a narrow underground path climbing the steps can lead me to arrive It indeed is not so far I can see it and get to it
WALKING by Yue Wang (she/her)
The face soaked with soil Endless judgment Greedy eyes, mouth, and teeth Walking in the deep night The whole world is lightened
N E A R
by Joya Choudhury (she/her) Not far from home Not at all No need for fear But fear is what was brought When it becomes clear Even here you must beware
PASS AGES
by Cerys Clark (she/her) This year has been a journey, I think we can agree, We’re all just in a boat, rocking on the sea. 2019 was the last year of normal life And since then it’s felt like endless strife. From sitting with friends in lecture halls To being taught through zoom calls. 2021, we’re back in class again Wearing masks, completing tasks, armed with just a pen. The passage of this pandemic, put us to the test And now that life returns, maybe the anxiety can rest.
HA ZE
by Mariam Yusuf (she/her)
floating mid-wisp
by Mariam Yusuf (she/her)
I n t e r l u d e
By Melisa Ela Ozer (she/her)
I
We could find a cosy cottage in the countryside with a room big enough for a vast expanse of books. Space for him to have as many bikes as he liked. We could plant bonsai trees and peonies, in gorgeous greens and pinks. It would be as peaceful and balanced as an Ottoman Garden. And, in the winter, we could stargaze. I could pretend I can’t see the smudged ink of constellation names on your palm as you point out Cygnus and Pisces. I could never ruin that child-like innocence in your eyes, having spent two nights trying to unravel the stars for me. Then I will take your hand and trace a heart into the faded words. Maybe you’ll blush from embarrassment, but it wouldn’t matter if you got shy. Only our hands intertwined would matter. What would the passage of time matter here in this moment with you? If only I could preserve it like baby’s breath in a glass frame. But I felt a tugging deep in my stomach, something dark and desperate to get out; something all-consuming. I look at you, and you don’t blink, you don’t breathe. Even the Heavens above have paused. I open my mouth to say something - if I do, I cannot hear myself. I look up to the stars, and the lights cut out.
Interlude II By Melisa Ela Ozer (she/her)
Who was Endymion? A prince, a shepherd, an astronomer? Placed into an eternal sleep by the Gods until the p*ndemic is over. No, stay awake. For me. Someday the world shall heal, so promise to be with me when that day arrives. Who was Endymion? The first man to observe the movements of the waltzing moon. Her delicate crescent curves. Beloved Selene. Troubles will wane, someday, so let me be by your side. From stranger to my beloved. Mare Cognitum: you are the sea which has become known - to see your body flourish with your soul. A rose of sharon, roots replenished in soft soil. That is all I could ask for.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We want to say a huge thank you to all our incredible PEACH members. PEACH magazine’s thriving creative community would not be possible without all of you. We cannot express enough gratitude to the peachiest of teams: Editor in Chief Maya Barter Deputy Editor Alexandra Craveiro Assistant Editor Emma Inez MacPherson Event Producers Tali Stowell & Anthony Crittenden Workshop Leaders Alisha Isherwood & Abbie Harrison Social Media Managers Shwetha Mahendran & Laila Ali Welfare Officer Zo Sajjad Secretary Yanisha Luckhea We would also like to give a few special thank yous. Firstly, to the QMUL Art Society, for all their stunning contributions. Secondly, to QMUL’s Student Union, for their continued support. Last but not least, to WFM prints, for printing our magazine. Cover design and illustrations (unless otherwise credited) by Maya Barter.