A lesson in ETYMOLOGY
: the study of the origin and historical evolution of words.
C U S
C IRFrom Latin, meaning ‘ring’ or ‘circle’, which was borrowed from the Ancient Greek word, kirkos.
Alternatively, a circus can also mean a fun, chaotic cacophony of talents displayed to entertain. This publication takes the name CIRCUS to draw together both meanings: an iconic landmark of our city, and a celebration of the masterful skills and expertise of Royal High girls
a n a n t h o l o g y
The word anthology comes from the Greek word
anthologia which literally translates to ‘a gathering of flowers’.
It is a combination of two ancient roots:
Anthos:
Logia: meaning ‘flower’ or ‘blossom’. derived from legein, meaning ‘to gather’ or ‘to collect’.
there is nothing left to worry about the sun and her flowers are here.
-Rupi Kaur
Ruby McCourt, year 12
1st place art {years 11, 12 & 13} - georgie tanner
1st place literature {years 7 & 8} - the winter’s last call, by monroe gow
runner up literature {years 7 & 8} - seasons of love, by niamh evans
runner up art {years 11, 12 & 13} - eva turnbull
runner up literature {years 9 & 10} - a house through the seasons, by eva sempala-ntege
1st place art {years 7 & 8} - clara zhang
1st place literature {years 11, 12 & 13} - sweetheart, by tatyana gow
runner up literature {years 11, 12 & 13} - mrs claus, by cordelia mcdonald
runner up art {years 7 & 8} - georgina leins
1st place literature {years 9 & 10} - ivy, by eva benson
F R O M
T H E
E D I T O R
CIRCUS editor-in-chief
Georgie Tanner, year 12
THE WINTER’S LAST CALL by MONROE GOW, year 8
I lay in the barren forest, my nose rosy pink and numb from the cold. My hair slightly damp from melting ice. I closed my eyes. Suddenly a warm peachy colour surrounded me. I smelt the sharp air, tasted its cruelty, allowing its icy fingers to bleed into my lungs. Although it was below zero, all I could think about was that day, the day I was swallowed into his soft, vast eyes I lay there for a little longer, watching rose buds wait for their frosty chrysalis, caging them, to melt The pinecones wrapped in a glassy veil Branches cradled in a suffocating lens I watched the jewelled beads of cold water roll down the trunk’s bark Like broken tears
SEASONS OF LOVE
by NIAMH EVANS, year 8
you know what Jessica fine have it your way I don’t even care its not like I waited all of my life for this for you to just come along and grab it no I don’t care at all of course I’m happy for you and him of course you’re now the queen of the seasons and I’m what? just a silly princess nothing just a stupid princess and no before you ask I’m fine I don’t need any help from you I’ll make it on my own I always do, the only thing I can’t figure out is when did we go from best friends to this you were winter, I was summer no one believed we could do it but we beat the odds we turned the world upside down for each other and you know how hard I have been trying to cross the seasons to get to him for as long as I can remember I climbed high and low to get here and you and your magical snow powers just blow him further away like a blizzard in the middle of November you know what no no no no I can’t deal with this anymore your game is over, you, you, you witch!! and yes I really did say it I Hannah Heart just called Jessica Frost a witch I know how crazy am I calling one of the most powerful people in all of the seasons a name she never wanted I know how cruel that makes me but look what she did to me she stole the boy of my dreams away, the king of the seasons just to pull my leg, well you listen here Jessica I’m done this is the last you will ever hear from me wish you well
Sincerely, Miss Hannah Heart, princess of summer
Oh wait one last thing before you go I just wanted to say look look harder look what you’re making me do because of you the temperature is now 50 degrees and look, that little smirk on your face watch that drop as you see that water that water dripping from one of your precious little ice caps okay now I really am done just remember Jessica friends will come and go but when that ice melts it’s not coming back
Georgie Tanner, year 12
Syona Bhaumik, year 13
A HOUSE THROUGH THE SEASONS
by EVA SEMPALA-NTEGE, year 9
Winter A fire roars in the fireplace, licking the stone circling it, clawing at the grate. The soft form of an elderly woman snores gently in a velvet armchair, eyelids fluttering in a dream A dream of ages gone by, memories made murky by time Warmth spreads throughout the room, as the world outside the frosted windows remains cold, snowy, fantastical
Spring The garden is vibrant with new blooms, in the season of rebirth A bright white gazebo gleams in the sun, as the latter plays peekaboo behind the clouds Chatter bubbles out from the gazebo, where tables are set with elegant silverware and delicate lace napkins Friends and family alike share a meal, fervent with the hope of new beginnings
Summer A sweltering haze rises through the window, making the stifling air thicker But the girl on her bed is unbothered, lying amongst a pile of clothes, of varying degrees of cleanliness Clothes which ought to be in bags by then, but isn’t the fun of packing its last-minute nature? Summer is the season of rest, of recouperation, so there shall be no rushing
Autumn The scent of pumpkin and spice floats through the room, perfuming the air The sound of laughter is loud and comforting, as batter is mixed, dough is proved, butter is browned The toddler giggles, her legs swinging off the marble island There is flour in her hair, on her cheeks, down her strawberry-patterned apron; it tickles when mum tries to wipe it off.
These are the experiences which make a home. Through the generations, stories and emotions and sensations are passed down, and despite its differing atmospheres through the seasons, it is the same house. It is made up of the same bricks, mortar and wood, the walls infused with the seasons Winter is warmth; spring is hope; summer is rest; autumn is comfort
THE BRIGHT LIGHTS FROM AFAR
by
TRINITY LAM, year 10
Blackening fog rolled throughout the muddy terrain, like smoke from a foreign man’s land. What small vestiges of greener grass had been chipped away by artillery shells and bomb-loud mornings, and now suffered an even crueller fate, buried neath’ shrouds of bleak, alabaster snow He saw them, those listless gray figures, brown blurs that seemed to move about aimlessly Yet couldn’t tell age or race apart, for all were muddied, all were non-existent in the eyes of the public.
Christmas time had arrived, yet where was he now? Buried in a trench, half his leg entombed in thick, coarse dirt, as if he’d already joined the clinging dead He worried briefly about those back home, his mother, ever-buoyant and joyous, if she’d have seen him like this, would she scorn him? Scold him for the lives he’d taken? Or would she welcome him, with a warm roast and even warmer eyes? Well, either way, it didn’t quite matter anymore, for she’d seem far away, a thousand kilometres away, on a different continent, on a whole different planet She couldn’t understand, and to ask her to Well, that’d be far too cruel
What of his father? Stern and ever-so strong, the very man who’d encouraged him to enlist. Would he be proud? Or, more importantly, would it even matter? After all, the man was wrong about everything he’d said, and the distant days where he’d respected the old fellow had long been snuffed out, fluttered away like a wisp in the wind As the only thing his father knew of was fairytales, old stories about chivalry, the ‘Knightly Code’, heroism, Esprit de corps, that now, only seemed like a cruel joke. After all, fantasies could only go so far in the face of a bayonet’s edge.
The man didn’t think of his sweetheart, didn’t think of his sisters It’d be too painful, and after all, it was always far better to keep their hearts away from filth. They were too clean, too untainted. Yet, much to his misery, he remembered her, that lovely lass with swaying fields of wheat for hair, deep boscages of the forest Dean for eyes, and a crescent moon that glowed so serenely for a smile– Moonbeam, he called her But when he stared down at his hands, now forever enduring the aftershock of a hundred battles, now bloodied by the raw flesh of fellow man, how could he ever hold hers?
And to think, only a springtime ago, he thought of the future with a nascent hope in his eyes Now– he dreaded even asking how long ‘forever’ could be
Yet, far, far away, he heard something– a hallucination? Or just delirium?
For a moment he closed his eyes in prayer
Until the sound remained, remained and refused to exit Yes– he was sure, it was the sounds of carols from afar– were they fools who’d given up? Or– he paused, breathing a shaking puff of cotton out into the wintry skies
Or, were they something far more human than he’d thought possible now?
He couldn’t decipher the monstrous feeling that began to emerge from the depths of his stomach, like a heavy stone at the bottom of his belly Yet, the response to this was most evident and swift– he leaned closer to where the trench ended, and where no man’s land began.
“O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum”
A chorus of German voices rang like church-bells amidst the gloaming twilight.
Not a single man moved
“Wie treu sind deine Blätter!”
Voices he thought he’d loathe Yet, sang so truly, of faith, of compassion– of joy
He didn’t think it possible.
He wanted, more than anything else– to see
So, clambering atop lofty wooden boxes, he leaned just far enough to peek.
In a moment’s notice, he was blinded by the grand array of candles Lights that carved through the gloom like a blade, tearing it into pieces and opening up a new dawn Just like a lighthouse upon a precipice, a light he hadn’t seen in what felt like long, dragging years A homely orange, like nostalgia, like innocence A time where he wasn’t like this A time where the streets rang so merry with the bustling of people– he felt he was there now– standing in the town square, stalls lining the cobbled streets, the faint scent of hot chocolate that caught the air, the clinking of baubles, the rioting laughter of attendees Everything he once coveted, returned to him once more Reminding him of drunken nights with friends, of the warmth that emanated from human hand in hand
He breathed It seemed like nobody else dared to.
He turned around to the crowd that’d formed around him And feeling his lips curve up into a weakening smile– like a sun peeking out of clouds after a tempestuous storm, he announced:
“They’re hosting a– a party, that’s what they’re doing!”
Noises erupted through the gathering of men, faint whispers of confusion, small exclaims of disbelief. And slowly, but surely, like the welling of tides, or the wood that grew a bonfire In the midst of a trench, in the midst of a war, a choir had formed.
“The first Nowell the angel did say”
He was never a good singer, voice too hoarse, too nasally. Yet, for the first time, the man turned, and looking at the lights that seemed to paint the white back into his tunnel-dark eyes, with certainly more wetness than there once was in them, he sang, proudly and shamelessly
“Was to certain poor shepherds in fields they lay!”
Soon, the flickering dollops of light became a spectacle to behold The Germans nary did hesitate, and sang back with just as much passion and vehement fervency
So what did it matter if his family didn’t accept him?
For in this moment of a thousand glows, that illuminated the dusk til’ it was dawn, of a thousand voices that illuminated the din til’ it was song, he could live forever and ever.
Ines Coulter, year 7
Charlotte Padwick, year 13
Clara Zhang, year 8
Flora Steele, year 13
SWEETHEART
by
TATYANA GOW, year 11
Spring
I eat before the king. My tongue is the gate, my throat the guard
The wolf moon watches as I swallow what is not my own
Swan glazed in gold, thrush stuffed with figs, honey dripped like molten fire, Milk moon spilling across the table
Yet I remember cardboard grease, burgers gone limp, cola flat as rust
Sweetheart
apple bitten, seed split, to taste is to fall, to eat is to die
Summer
A golden spoon Of strawberry moon Cold coin on my lips, warm from his mouth
Metal still hummed
With a sweetness not mine
He drinks poison for power. I drown in sugar for nothing
His marrow is iron, my belly is ash
The harvest moon swells, fat as a wound.
Autumn
Still I dream of diners coffee burnt black, pies leaking syrup, Waxen apples, faintly bruised
The hunter’s moon cuts white through the dark
Once lunacy, prayer I kissed the lips of the king. His mouth was nightshade
His mouth was aconite
His mouth was wormwood
Arsenic ash.
Mercurial fate.
And honey
And blood
And fire
Sugar splintered
Wine burned.
Copper bit
The blue moon shone
The mouth was nothing. The mouth was all Penny- copper sang in my teeth
Winter
Sweetheart to touch is to fall, to kiss is to die
The blood moon rose, the mourning moon sank
He tasted sweetness. I tasted gall
Spring again
Sweetheart
Each half; pomegranate - red.
How else can you name a heart but by tasting it?
The long night moon shut its eye.
MRS. CLAUSE
by CORDELIA McDONALD, year 12
As fast as it starts it ends January is the worst
He mopes around the house with that post-holiday gloom he calls “seasonal fatigue ” I call it what it is: a grown man lost without applause
LEAVES FALL
by APRIL WEBSTER, year 7
Leaves fall every hour of every day, they may be crispy and burnt brown, amber and fiery red or on some occasions a bright summery green
They are always making room for others, forever growing and adjusting The fallen soldiers may no longer be clinging onto the moist and homely bark of a tree, blowing in the gusts of ice
But they are still there, still there sheltering the ants and other insects from heavy downpours. Still there to rake up in autumn so you can launch yourself into a huge pile of them. Falling, and being swept away in one second like it wasn't even there
Flora Steele, year 13
Grace Ashaye, year 13
Syona Bhaumik, year 13
Megan Brown, year 13
Georgie Tanner, year 12
Eva Turnbull, year 13
Flora Steele, year 13
Oliwia Chocha, year 8
Georgina Leins, year 7
MR. JEANNE D’ARC
by SOFIA KOVALEVA, year
12
Mr Jeanne d’Arc
Michael was the first spark that ignited me A flame that danced as though it long deserved He offered great stories, tales, the wine, the sex, the thrill Everything a boy could dream of Anything a girl would not First the cut.
It was a freeing feeling No longer weighing down to graze across my silver mailing Michael seemed to like it
by EVA BENSON, year
10
Through summers hot and winter rain
Ivy creeps over the windowpanes. The dappled sunshine, Sparkles like fairies
Crumpled leaves
And ivy berries
In the morning, I hear outside Singing coming from the ivy hide Nests are built,
Lives go on
Fledglings raised Amidst birdsong.
In quiet nights, when I'm alone, Ivy slowly engulf my home
The neighbours stare And tut and shout.
My new green curtains block them out.
Now they have all moved away, The night begins to shadow day Gold and green in all its glory, Not a sound
Can penetrate my ivy cloud
Georgie Tanner, year 12
Charlotte Padwick, year 13
Syona Bhaumik, year 13
MR. BRIGGS VOLUME 01
:
1 SARAH VAUGHAN – Sarah Vaughan featuring Clifford Brown (1955, EmArcy Records)
If you want to know where Amy Winehouse got her style, listen to this! Sarah Vaughan’s flexible contralto voice allows her to take enormous liberties with the rhythm, singing both ahead of and behind the beat, but always stretching the time to suit her expressive needs. Throughout the record you get to hear Clifford Brown, a remarkable trumpeter whose clear, bell-like tone marked him out as one of the great trumpet players of his generation before he was tragically killed in a car crash in 1956 Pretty much every note he played was worth listening to
2. The AHMAD JAMAL TRIO – The Awakening (1970, Impulse Records)
This pianist was one of the key influences on Miles Davis – he was a virtuoso, but he also knew when not to play. This record also shows how interplay between musicians is the key to a great jazz record: this trio really are listening to one another On these 7 tunes there are also many of the finest melodies from jazz in the 1960s (Herbie Hancock’s Dolphin Dance and Oliver Nelson’s Stolen Moments among them) and, if you like hip hop, you will recognise quite a bit of it, as it has been sampled a great deal.
3. WEATHER REPORT – Black Market (1976, CBS Records)
The 1970s were not the best time for jazz – for fear of losing their audience, many jazz musicians added electronics and rock to their sound to make fusion; usually this ended up with the worst of both worlds. Weather Report were an exception to this rule, as they added exotic keyboard sounds and funk bass to complex jazz rhythms with exciting results that only occasionally sounded cheesy This is one of their best records – stunning musicianship but, importantly, disciplined arrangements and memorable tunes.
Grace Ashaye, year 13
S
U M M E R
r e a d i n g
l i s t
y o u c a n ’ t e n j o y a r t o r b o o k s i n a h u r r y .
Grace Ashaye, year 13
Georgie Tanner, year 12
Syona Bhaumik, year 13
SALT RITUAL
by ESME COULTER, year
12
a plastic jar of salted marcona almonds resides on the lowest shelf, placed with a quiet intention, easy for our hands still plump and rich with youth to reach. the label is peeling in one corner, its clinging embrace slowly unfolding.
we never take this jar loudly. we have a ritual, a procession. the careful twist of the lid, the pause to listen, the passing out handfuls to cousins’ small hands waiting our laughter is swallowed and cloaked under our breath in secrecy, but never alone the warmth of rosemary and the electricity of salt ignite a flicker in the back of my throat and linger between us shared air, shared taste we sit close, knees grazing, and form a circle together on the floor our conspiracy
we anticipate the distant pad across wooden floors when we finally absorb it, we scatter we carry the circle with us
a quick brush of our laps, salt swept into palms, then pockets, we scramble to return the jar, our movements are thick and not fast enough, the lid twisted just barely.
the cabinet door closes softly, and it feels like growing up a little, but not apart. we are somewhere else, laughing salt lingering on our fingers, not yet apart
Cover art by Grace Ashaye