Issue 8- The Unconventional Courier

LIT FOR HEAVY HEARTS AND HEAVIER MINDS

ALI ASHHAR

SHAMIK BANERJEE

PETER DONNELLY

ASHWINI GANGAL

BENJAMIN JELKMANN

NANCY JORGENSEN

STEVEN DAVID LAMPLEY NANDAN

ADESOKAN TUNDE (TOONDAY)

IAN C. SMITH

SHAWN SCOTT SMITH RS

Acknowledgment:

We at The Unconventional Courier wish to thank the writer/artist/photographer Tetè DePunk for her thoughtful photograph of The Hart House (University of Toronto at St. George, Ontario, Canada) for this month's cover.

You can follow Tetè on Instagram:

@tete.depunk and Twitter:

@punk tete

About the Photographer

Teté is an unconventional writer, artist and podcaster, whose passions run gamut from comics to literature, to 80's Synth music to Pol-Sci to chess to tarot-deck collecting.

Teté is currently working on "Fragments of Identity," (a video game script, based on her story collection featuring her private eye character, Ethan Kantz) as well as nonfiction works, including the essays, "The Pervasive Anatomy of Fascism" and "The 40-day Eulogy."

Teté is the creator and host of her own podcast, "The Real Stuff," available on Spotify and Spotify for Podcasters.

Keep up with Teté:

@ Instagram: tete.depunk

@Twitter: @punk tete

Abaka and the Intruder

By Ashwini Gangal

Abaka, a woman living in reflective solitude, contemplates her own existence in a not-so-empty house.

Correlations

By Ian C. Smith

The impact of 18th century mutineer Bligh are explored in this thoughtprovoking story.

Bridge

By Nandan

Author & Filmmaker Nandan recounts the risk-taking venture of architect Albert Henry building his most challenging bridge yet.

A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh

By Nancy Jorgensen

A woman recounts a visionary conversation about her passion of music with legendary artist Vincent Van Gogh.

Poetry

"Quest to Self"

By Ali Ashhar

"Adrift" and other poems

By Benjamin Jelkmann

By Adesokan Tunde (Toonday)

By Shawn Scott Smith

to Despondence" & Other Poems

By Shamik Banerjee

By Peter Donnelly

"Life Goes on" & Other Poems

By R.S.

"Just Me"

By Steven David Lampley

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Abaka & the Intruder by

Ashwini Gangal

Abaka and the Intruder

Written by Ashwini Gangal

(Twitter: @writerashwini)

It's alive. Ghost-free, but alive.

As alive as its solitary inhabitant, Abaka. Just one night in this leaky marvel, an illegally constructed four-storey penthouse in the heart of Mumbai’s G-South Ward area, is enough to make the lore easy to believe, but this house is not haunted. Horror mongers insist it is, but it’s not. Alive, it is.

For Abaka, the house stirred to life for the first time after she spent 27 consecutive months indoors, hiding from the plague of her century. Though she had lived here and loved here and learned here for 43 years, she met this house, an entity in itself, only now.

Like Abaka, Kumbasa Manor – that’s what this rickety structure was named in 1950 – breathes.

With a past documented in legal files, it has more secrets than a pharaoh's tomb and is eager to speak to her, as a reward for living within its concrete embrace for so long. And the last two years were extra special, for this house became her dusty cocoon, protecting her from the viral miasmas that shrouded her city.

"The role of any person in this world is to be themselves without damaging the rest. We are important as long as the rest is."

Rossana Condoleo

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

The house has four bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, three bathrooms, and three terraces. Two arterial corridors connect all these chambers.

The design of the place is circular – you can start walking at one point and reach the exact spot without ever retracing your steps. Visitors always left this house with a sense of awe, envy, pity and fear… and a feeling of having stepped out of a museum trapped in a time capsule.

Abaka knows the house intimately. She knows when a bucket in the bathroom is almost brimming, just by the way the sound of the tap water reverberates off the corridor walls.

Blindfold her at 3:00 pm and she'll know which room she’s in based on its temperature, because the sun doesn't touch all the rooms in quite the same way at that hour – the slum-facing room is much hotter than the breezier, street-facing one.

She knows she can trick the camera into making her unremarkable face look operatic if she stands by the living room window an hour shy of sundown. She even knows exactly how long it takes for foul smell to escape the toilet vents, before it's fresh again.

She, the Minotaur of this labyrinth, knows which tile a visitor will slip on, which knob a friend will struggle with and how many seconds it will take for the stopper on the kitchen door to come to a halt, when swung. Knowing the moods, intricacies, and crevices of a house this well is almost spousal, she once thought, fleetingly, while bathing.

Over the years, Abaka and Kumbasa Manor had merged into one another to form one large organism; skin cells, cigarette ash and dust mites swirled around freely, like they were all particles that belonged to a single giant.

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Her bodily emissions, the humidity that hangs in the air around her, the fungal growth on the moist wall by her desk and the rust on the ladder she uses to clean it, are all part of the same large animal – part brick, part human.

The sighs of the furniture, the hum of the microwave, feline mating calls from the neighbourhood, the overflowing water in the tank upstairs, Abaka’s pre-dawn snores, the volume of her television set… are all sounds of the house, with no boundary to demarcate human from chemical, electronic from animal.

Cologne, perspiration, paint, liquor, sink water, soda, roof leakage… they’re all fluids native to this house. There are antique bottles of other kinds of liquid, well past their expiry date, lying around like wandering spleens.

Contraptions like rat traps, mosquito nets and fly flaps are symbols that, if you pay attention, whisper tragic tales of insects, who’re as much a part of this house as the woman they live off.

After living there for so long, Abaka’s physiology, her entire being, was now a sum of the familiar visual, auditory, tactile and bacterial elements in and around 4th floor, Kumbasa Manor – yeast from the bakery across the street, germs under her cook’s fingernails, mildly contaminated water from the tank in the loft, carbon drifting up from the vehicles on the street, and the unfailing sound of the azaan that came from the local mosque and floated around the house five times a day.

So, had someone told Abaka that the malnourished thief, desperately trying to climb the bamboo scaffolding erected by the landlord of the structure, fell to his fate that day, she would not have been surprised, for it was simply the house purging itself of intruders.

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

The nameless dark brown intruder survived the fall, though.

He lost half a leg, but crippling as it was, that did little to deter him from trying to climb the scaffolding again, for he had five more, some longer than others.

And in any case, this cold-blooded creature would start regenerating the lost limb in a matter of weeks, something he had done twice already in the past. For most of his family, it took a few months for a limb to regrow completely, albeit with one joint less.

His disproportionately long antennae guided him through any kind of terrain, dry or swampy.

On most days, his strength and abilities made him feel invincible, as did his ancestry. He was the descendant of a frighteningly resilient tribe that had survived all manner of hardship and trauma and was unafraid of any kind of extreme – thermal or nuclear.

The first of his kind inhabited the planet well before the tectonic plates began shifting to form the continents. Knowledge of this sort of lineage made him confident to the point of arrogance. The only time this young scion felt vulnerable was when he was made to, by some cruel twist of fate, lie on his winged back.

But even in that state, he could traumatise onlookers.

Actually, he didn’t even need those bamboos to reach Abaka’s grills. Usually, he simply crawled up mortar walls as easily as he walked on flat ground.

But that day, as he crossed the air-conditioner outside the window on the second floor of Kumbasa Manor, the draft of hot air released by the machine, or gravity, or perhaps the invisible magnetic field around the

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

building, pushed him down, in what was becoming a frustrating pattern.

The make-shift ladder certainly made his trek slightly easier. His broken leg slowed him down considerably, though. Besides, he needed some nourishment. He would have to rest before trying again in earnest.

Unaware of this otherworldly struggle two floors below, Abaka was preoccupied. She wasn’t really alone that evening, like she wasn’t alone on most evenings.

Her room was crowded and noisy.

Panting gladiators leaned against the dressing table nearly knocking down her lipsticks, a Mongol soldier prepared for a long ride ahead by drinking few ounces of his mare’s blood by the door, a group of bearded Ottoman miniaturists bent over their colourful artwork in 16th century Istanbul next to the cupboard. Right next to her, two slaves who managed to escape the cotton plantations of their trader, made passionate, celebratory love in a writhing mass of black.

Characters from the stories she read in her solitude sprang to life at will, bringing with them their own colours, moods and climes.

A modern American story of a little boy, fixated on a painting of a chained bird – an obsession that follows him well into adulthood – turned Abaka’s world yellow for some reason.

An old Russian novel, written by an author long gone, about the killing of a rag picker in St. Petersburg, put her in a dull, drugged stupor. An Irishman’s stylised account of Genghis Khan’s conquests put her on horseback, galloping through time.

By some force of will, the intruder, angry and starved, made it to her floor. He was clinging to the grills with all his might, his slimy body beautifully camouflaged against the dirty ledge, and the turmeric sky beyond.

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

He was visible from where she lay, but she didn’t notice.

He gathered himself and plunged into the room, landing noiselessly, but painfully, on the floor, triumphant at last, but exhausted by his colossal climb.

Abaka read many novels at once; halfway into the first, she started the second, and after a few chapters, whimsically opened a third, then went back to the first, before impulsively starting a fourth, and so on, till her actual life in Kumbasa Manor was but the ninth or tenth story playing itself out with her as its central character, a myopic loner who hadn’t taken a lover in a long time.

That sultry August day, while the rest of Mumbai was being roasted, she read about a journalist’s misadventures in the Turkish city of Kars in the dead of winter.

It snowed in Abaka’s world. A slight vibration startled her for a second, melting the snowflakes instantly, pulling her back into the real world.

But she decided it was just the family downstairs moving things around, and continued reading, absentmindedly putting her fingers under her beige cotton kurta and rubbing her soft belly.

Suddenly reacting to the heat, she sat up and peeled it off. Now clad in jeans and a white brassiere, she continued reading, sprawled comfortably, unaware of the intrusion. Strangely, even Kumbasa Manor did nothing to caution her.

By then, the famished intruder had desperately begun looking for edible scraps. His injury made it difficult, but he managed to drag himself towards a rotting fruit of some kind, groaning in pain as he moved.

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

The tiled floor felt cold against his squishy, naked belly. As he savoured his meal, a denimed limb dangled in front of his face, lightly brushing the tip of one of his antennae.

Day was turning into night and the soft dusk light, that came in from the west, touched her gorgeous wheat-like skin, momentarily turning it to marble.

She caught her reflection in the mirror, one she had stared at for hours on end over the years, perfecting different expressions – angry, worried, scared, shocked… in an instant, she could rearrange her features and melt one expression into another by slackening and gathering up her facial muscles.

Now ogling herself, she sat up and waved a fat book across her face like a hand-fan, changing her expression with each sweeping motion. An onlooker to her own histrionics, Abaka was amused.

Done with his moist meal, the intruder felt his strength return. He stretched his limbs and crawled around the room, staying out of Abaka’s field of vision. He dragged himself across the floor, exploring the area; it was amazing what a few morsels could do for one’s mood and morale, he mused.

Still safe in her ignorance, Abaka arched a bushy eyebrow at herself. She hadn’t been to the salon, or ‘beauty parlour’ as it’s called in India, in over two years.

Despite the flattering sunlight, the delicate moustache that laced the skin above her lip showed clearly. She looked like an androgynous Ajanta Painting; her beauty was frank, real and full.

When she gained weight, she felt she moved like a gajgamini – literally translated, that’s Sanskrit for ‘the graceful walk of a female elephant’.

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

The Unconventional Courier June

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

2023

Now, looking at herself in the mirror from that angle, she was beginning to feel aroused. It was a moment to be milked.

She sighed and looked towards the sill, placing the book down. Evening prayers from three different places of worship wafted in with the salty sea breeze that brought the smell of dried fish with it. Miserable voices from the slum, an open wound with which Kumbasa Manor shared a wall, poured into the room as well.

The voices quickly became loud, as they did on most days, until a glass bottle crashed or a slap resounded or some other thud or bang put an end to the family’s high-pitched cacophony, so physically close to Abaka, yet lifetimes away.

The fight for that day had begun. The shrieks and profanity permeated the atmosphere in the room but she hardly registered it, because by then she had pulled down her bra cups and was pinching her nipples lazily, her mind conjuring up a familiar fantasy. Her plump breasts were beginning to show some signs of age; they sagged a little and had a few stretch marks on the sides.

But she found charm in these changes and didn’t particularly mind them. She unzipped and slid a palm inside her jeans, arousing herself with deft movements.

As her fingers worked up their own practiced rhythm, the intruder heard her moans… and panicked.

It was getting too loud for him. The warring family next door had reached its crescendo too.

He decided to leave and made his way towards the door. He would camp in the bathroom until morning, then make his next move. He hoped to find more food there. Or a mate, perhaps.

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

Sweaty and satisfied, Abaka finally got off the bed and turned a bright light on.

This was the intruder’s undoing; photosensitivity was a crippling weakness that ran in the species. He tried to focus.

Determined to get away from there undetected, he quickened his pace – to the extent possible, given his injury – his fleshy form pulsating with fear.

He didn’t know which direction to take and just ran blindly, accidentally tripping on the leftovers from his meal, but quickly changing course.

Abaka, breasts still hanging out, went towards the door, gasping as she stepped on a big, brown roach who was racing away from the apple core she forgot to throw out the previous night.

The End

About the Author

Ashwini Gangal is a media journalist from Mumbai, India, who now lives in California.

On most days she's a bumbling migrant desperately looking for her literary voice, her sanity and her own brand of genius.

She recently quit her full-time job as managing editor of a business daily to pursue her passion words, rhymes, stories, poetry, make believe.

She’s also passionate about mental health, gender-power dynamics and all animals except humans. She’s an insatiable reader. Empathy is her superpower.

Abaka & the Intruder by Ashwini Gangal

Correlations by Ian C. Smith

Correlations

Written by Ian C. Smith

“It is the set of the sails, not the direction of the wind that determines which way we will go.”

– Jim Rohn

In March 1790 Bligh reaches England the same day as his letters describing the Bounty mutiny written five months earlier, Bligh aboard a Dutch vessel from the East Indies.

His cannon shot news via France which seethes with its own uprising as does he with his need for vindication.

A new luminary deriving from his account of the miraculous feat of seamanship in the open launch, Bligh both seethes and basks at first.

But questions soon arise suggesting all is not quite right with this talk of the town exploit, and Fletcher Christian is better connected than many in England, including Bligh.

His clan numbers bishops, MPs, and university alumni, one brother a lawyer, another, a doctor.

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Correlations by Ian C. Smith

Unable to defend himself, Fletcher of the tattooed arse constructs huts of vegetation and yard, cultivating his semi-tropical garden in a mutineers’ allotment on a little known and maddeningly more difficult to find island of the remote Pacific in residence with one of several native women and various scoundrels.

Even from that distance he has allies with clout.

Rumour, gossip, abounds.

We all love a mystery, each with an opinion. Nobody knows where Fletcher and his makeshift mob are, nor has heard from Bligh’s launch crew.

Some scoff at the idea of so many ordered into an open boat, armed and provisioned, allowed to make their way home, however hazardous, without putting up a fight, the shame of this.

Several survivors of the incident-riddled launch odyssey are silenced, dead in the East Indies where tropical diseases scythe Europeans.

Others stranded there by Bligh who couldn’t wait to be disencumbered of them are now debauched, drunken, threatening, even mutinous.

Bligh writes to families of some of the original crew, expressing his feelings towards these shocked innocent people’s loved ones, whether calumnious or praiseworthy.

Fletcher’s fame, or infamy, puts Cockermouth on the map. Bounty’s voyage was financed to cultivate breadfruit as a profit-skimming basic slave diet.

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Correlations by Ian C. Smith

Political radicals sympathise with the French revolutionaries, among these the young Wordsworths in this time of a burgeoning anti-slavery movement. William attended the same school as Fletcher whose brother, Edward, shall later help the Wordsworths receive their rightful inheritance.

By 1808 when news of the discovery of the isolated Pitcairners – a tribe now with their own language – spreads, the South Pacific is well-charted.

Illegally deposed as Governor of New South Wales during the Rum Rebellion after rubbing rogues the wrong way again, Bligh has nine years of life left.

In the heat of the mutiny, he reminded Fletcher that he had dandled the Bligh children on his knee.

His wife remaining in Lambeth where their twin sons are buried, Bligh’s married daughter deputised as his first lady in Australia.

Did she captivate Sydney’s fledgling society with her childhood memory of Fletcher Christian?

Theatrical extravaganzas, prequels to future film flimflam, made much of Bligh’s dramatic days during his extraordinary life.

Today, some still believe Fletcher found his way home to England, or vanished into America’s melting pot.

In Hobart, anxious to clear his name again, did Bligh learn of the mutineers’ island descendants? Were these days of regret, of trembling sorrow?

About the Author

'Ian C Smith's work has been widely published.

He writes in the Gippsland Lakes region of Victoria, and on Flinders Island, Australia.'

Correlations by Ian C. Smith

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

Bridge by Nandan

Bridge

Written by Nandan

(Twitter: @NDdreamFactory

Instagram: @nandansdreamfactory)

He stood on the bridge watching the ferocious flow of the river. Alone. A flock of birds flew eastward across the red sky.

The sun is about to sink into the edge of the horizon. He could feel the cold slowly creeping into the iron chain. He felt that every link of it was too weak to support the weight of his heart.

It was in 1872, on the occasion of Madras Governor's visit to Travancore, that a suggestion was put before Diwan Madhava Rao and Ayilyam Thirunal Maharaja; "Build a bridge across Kallada River".

The Maharaja was also assured that it would be good for both the states to have cargo movement between Kollam and Shenkottai.

Subsequently the head of public works department W. C. Barton began planning the construction of the bridge and selected a Scottish engineer named Albert Henry to build the bridge.

“A man is ethical only when life, such, is sacred to him."

Albert Schweitzer

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Bridge by Nandan

Albert Henry, who came to Punalur, observed the site and said that due to the strong current in Kallada River, a suspension bridge with only one pillar close to both banks would be preferable.

Care had to be taken to prevent wild animals from coming to the town from the wild areas on the other side and causing harm to the people. The engineer confidently declared that suspension bridges had been built over the bay in St. Petersburg, Russia and over a river in Scotland, so the same could be built here.

Then, the works for constructing the bridge started. After a detailed study, the sketch and plan were prepared and handed over to the Travancore authorities.

Albert Henry also assured that there will be no disturbance of wild animals. Without much delay, the Maharaja issued an order to build the bridge. And so the work on the bridge began under the direction of Chief Engineer Albert Henry. Meanwhile, his wife Emilia and two children had come and settled in Punalur.

The materials needed for the bridge were made in Scotland itself. The heavy nuts, bolts, wires and rods for the bridge were separated into several parts and transported to the Kollam Thangassery port by sail.

Very heavy iron and other materials were brought to Punalur in elephant carts. At this time the southern districts of Madras, especially the Madurai district, were hit by a terrible famine.

This famine helped the construction of the bridge, just like a curse turning into a blessing. Many poor stone masons sought refuge in Vanchinad due to famine.

Along with them, other workers were brought from Shenkottai and Tenkasi. The Maharaja sanctioned Rupees 1 lakh for the first phase and Rupees 2 lakh for the second phase.

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Bridge by Nandan

The total length of the bridge is four hundred feet. Two hundred feet between the arches and one hundred feet on either side of the arches.

The bridge is suspended on two chains of fifty-three links each. Four wells of about twenty feet depth are installed on both sides of the bridge. The links of the bridge's chains are attached to the clips in these wells. Nothing was easy. But despite all the difficulties, he continued the work.

He also got along with the customs of that land. Well, he didn't have any other option, did he?

The third child, William, was also born here.

People here are naturally afraid of anything they have not seen or heard before. And that's understandable.

But the workers and locals who showed great fear and respect when the work started, began speaking of the bridge with disdain by the time the work was about to finish. Though they came to work because they were paid exactly for the work they did, when they left after a day's work, no one hesitated to mock the engineer as crazy.

Once the construction of the bridge is completed, they will have no benefit either.

The bridge's work was almost completed with the laying of Kambakom wood planks on the iron frame.

The entire work was completed with the three lakh Rupees mentioned earlier. With about 250 people working for 2122 days. Even the stone masons who built the granite stupas on both sides of the bridge with the conch seal on them cursed his austerity and vehemence. He didn't respond to anything.

Bridge by Nandan

There are two paths before the helm of a storm-tossed ship; pay attention to the storm and take the fall, or look at the light in the faraway lighthouse and move on.

He did the latter.

It's not over yet. The suspension bridge was also meant to prevent animals from entering this side from the forest on the other side. Because of that if you step on the bridge, the bridge will shake. Wild animals will get scared of this shaking and will not cross the bridge. Those who know about this can enter at will.

But some have been hysterically propagating that the shake-up is extreme. That this bridge is Sayipp's trap to fell the common people.

Due to all this, even though the Maharaja himself came and inaugurated the bridge on the first of August, the people did not bother to climb on it.

Some people at the market openly declared that they were not ready to drown in the river with their children.

And Albert Henry, who was generally unshakable by any means, often came to stand alone on that bridge in the evenings being disheartened. No doubt it will bring more happiness to others if he jumps down from there.

A bullock cart rumbled in the distance. He tried to organise his thoughts. As the days pass, he has begun to doubt the reliability of the bridge. Now all that doubt comes onto him. Such a situation has never appeared before.

Whatever it is, all the hard work taken with such faith must not go in vain. Do the same.

The bridge is aimed for bullock carts and horse carts carrying goods and passengers, right?

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Bridge by Nandan

Call all the people together and show them elephants walking across the same bridge.

Are three elephants enough?

No. There must be six elephants.

Let the accusers see and understand.

If the bridge is not strong, it will collapse immediately.

Nevertheless it is better to collapse than to stand here like this without people using it. If it is not damaged, then the bridge will definitely remain here strong for a hundred years. If it is failure that comes, it is mine. If it is success, it is for others. This principle does not change anywhere in the world.

He walked back.

Emilia is busy with household chores.

Having lived here for five years, she has also learned a little about Indian ways. In any case, we cannot stay here permanently; As soon as the task assigned is done, we have to move to another place. Now it is not even known whether it is back to Scotland or somewhere else in India itself.

After dinner, Albert told his wife what he had thought earlier. Getting six elephants on the bridge in front of all the locals.

Emilia thought for a moment and said it was a good decision.

"That's not enough," continued Albert. "We both must get into a boat with the children and stand under the bridge at the same time."

Emilia hadn't expected this at all.

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Bridge by Nandan

But knowing her husband better than anyone else made sure it was no joke.

She had also witnessed up close the near-insane passion and effort he's been putting in for so long.

If it had to end like this, so be it, Emilia thought. Fine, agree with that too.

The Diwan was informed the very next day. Arrangements were made to bring elephants from Pathanapuram.

A notice showing the day and time was also stuck in every place where people gathered. For the people it was as if a festival had come.

A certain section became very excited. Some of them wanted to see the bridge collapse while others wanted to see the man behind the bridge collapse.

Some started to bet.

Regardless, the chiefs and commoners alike decided that they would not go for anything else that day.

While playing with his children at home, Albert was aware that the news was spreading outside. He continued to distract himself as he had done for so long.

The workers tried to convince Emilia that they should back off from this adventure. Although they had never commented on anything before, each of them felt that when such a big mistake was made, they should not stand by and do nothing.

Bridge by Nandan

Emilia went to her husband and presented the matter once again. Albert said nothing. Needless to say, he is not ready to go back. Emilia gazed at him for a moment. She consoled herself that at least the children were spending their days in peace because they didn't know anything about this.

And so the day came. The way many drops combine and flow as a river, people flowed towards the bridge as another river.

As instructed earlier, the mahouts led the elephants to the bridge. The gaze of the group consisting of scholars and illiterate turned towards it.

As the first elephant slowly stepped onto the bridge, the bridge shook. After some hesitation, the elephant went ahead with the mahout. Behind that elephant, the other elephants too were led onto the bridge one after the other.

Some of those who had been watching the scene carefully feared that the bridge would now collapse. Albert Henry, who had been watching on shore, boarded the ready boat. The two older children followed.

Needless to say, they were very excited!

Then holding the third child, Emilia also stepped in and the boatman rowed the boat forward. As the boat moved forward, each moment felt longer to Emilia. William, the youngest child, began to cry as the crowd continued their ruckus. Emilia remembered that she had not yet asked her husband about the strength of the bridge as she struggled to hold back the baby's sobs.

She asked, "Nothing will happen, right?" Albert said nothing. The time for that question was over.

Bridge by Nandan

Their boat has reached under the bridge. And the boatman stopped in the middle of it. The scene awaited by those gathered around.

Six elephants lined up above the bridge and a family in a boat below. Moments passed.

The bridge did not collapse.

The fear in the eyes gave way to wonder and shock.

The crowd burst into applause. It slowly became a single tone in rhythm. Instead of the many voices heard earlier now we hear music. The child's crying stopped.

Albert Henry knew he had won. He bowed his head slightly and folded his hands.

If it is failure that comes, it is mine. If it is success, it is for others.

Bridge by Nandan

About the Author

Nandan is a filmmaker and writer from India, born in 1991.

He worked as a civil engineer in Bengaluru before moving to Mumbai to follow his passion in filmmaking.

He is known for directing ‘Breath’ and ‘Dreaming of Words’ . He has also showcased his writing talent with the publication of three books, ‘Akashappanth’ , ‘Manam: The Chronicle of a Masturbator’ and ‘Puthiya Marubhoomikal’.

He has received numerous accolades including a National Film Award.

Visit www.nandan.in

The Unconventional Courier

A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh by

Nancy Jorgensen

A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh

Written by Nancy Jorgensen

(@Facebook: nancy.jorgensen.7

Twitter: @NancyJorgensen

Instagram: @Nancjoe

Website: NancyJorgensen.weebly.com)

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

L.M. Montgomery

Me: I want to play Prussian blue notes. Chartreuse scales. Ochre arpeggios. Cadmium chords. Can you teach me? Even though I’m old?

VVG: There is no such thing as an old woman! This isn’t to say that there are no old women, but that a woman doesn’t grow old as long as she loves and is loved.

Me: There are those who should love me but don’t. Should I try to understand? Forgive? Or focus on one man for forty-five years, a daughter, another daughter, and friends who play their trumpets, flutes, cornamuses, violins, clarinets, and psalterys in my home?

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A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh by Nancy Jorgensen

VVG: There’s a lot more to love than people usually think. Find things beautiful as much as you can, most people find too little beautiful.

Me: Yes, love is beautiful. But is art always pretty? Is music always lovely? Or are dissonances those quarreling notes that grate against each other beautiful too? I don’t understand art at all.

VVG: Always continue walking a lot and loving nature, for that’s the real way to learn to understand art better and better.

Me: I walk in spring, when the trilliums bloom, and in those months, my piano streams a symphony of sounds. But, in winter, when I avoid the snow, a gauze drape muffles the tones, and my songs are muted.

VVG: Success is sometimes the outcome of a whole string of failures.

Me: Are skipped practices a failure? Is the inability to memorize a failure? Is a bad performance a failure? My string of failures is now a ball of yarn, wound tight and humongous. I practice until the notes are precise, rhythms align, phrases rise, and each one is pianissimo, forte or fortissimo. But where do I find the emotions?

VVG: Ah, well, if we made the colour very correct or the drawing very correct, we wouldn’t create those emotions.

Me: At the best concerts, I float above the red cushioned theater. I see old loves. I relive my father’s death. Is it an hour? Or a minute? I have no idea. Did the performers miss a note? Forget a word? It doesn’t matter. Will I ever create that experience?

VVG: Be in no doubt, though the way to succeed is to keep courage and patience, and to carry on working hard.

The Unconventional Courier

A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh by Nancy Jorgensen

Me: I have been playing for decades since the year I learned to read. My fingers refuse to stretch. My eyes take time to focus. My memory is slow.

VVG: A victory achieved after lifelong work and effort is better than one achieved more quickly.

Me: What if there is no victory?

VVG: Enjoy yourself too much rather than too little, and don’t take art or love too seriously either one can do little about it oneself, it’s mostly a matter of temperament.

Me: When your own family is ill, you have no money, your friends have left, and your paintings won’t sell, what brings you back to your art?

VVG: Then I make a point of telling myself, yes I am something, I can do something.

Me: Is this an approach I can learn?

VVG: Keep thinking about it, and let me think about it again too.

Author’s Note: All Van Gogh quotes are transcripted from his letters: Letter 27, 1874; Letter 77, 1874; Letter 270, 1882; Letter 676, 1888; Letter 557, 1886; Letter 143, 1878; Letter 574, 1887; Letter 801, 1889.

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

A Piano Lesson with Van Gogh by Nancy Jorgensen

About the Author

Nancy Jorgensen is a Wisconsin writer, teacher, and musician.

Her most recent book, a middle-grade/young adult sports biography, was released in October 2022, "Gwen Jorgensen: USA’s First Olympic Gold Medal Triathlete" (Meyer & Meyer).

Her essays on music, equality, family, aging, and education appear in Ms. Magazine, Ruminate, River Teeth, Wisconsin Public Radio, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere.

Find out more at NancyJorgensen.weebly.com

Quest to Self

By Ali Ashhar

(Twitter: @AliAshhar11

Instagram: @ali_ashhar1)

You are not the rattle of 1K likes or 10K followers

You are the serene voice that lies beneath the layers of soul

You are not the clutter of stereotypes

You are the melody designed by the divine

You are not the vessel that’s bound

You are the water that flows abound.

You are not what your body hears around

You are what your soul speaks from within

You are not the fickling waves of time

Quest

Self by Ali Ashhar

You are the persistent shore of the era. Travel far enough, escape the ordinary of this world On

About the Author

Ali Ashhar is a poet, short story writer and columnist. He is the author of poetry collection, Mirror of Emotions. His works appear in Indian Review, The Raven Review, Bosphorus Review of Books, among others.

You can follow Ali on Twitter: @AliAshhar11

Quest to Self by Ali Ashhar

"Adrift" & Other Poems

By Benjamin Jelkmann

(FaceBook: @benjaminjelkmannwriter)

"Adrift"

Waves of rum crash behind his eyes, Rhythmic with the gentle swell in front.

Soft wind strums the palm leavesIt is music of the tropics, it is just for him; For his mind to dance on empty sands.

She drifts near the shore, Stirring her body in the morning calm. Adrift,

Stealing glances from the fishing boats.

She has eyes for him only; And him for her.

The Unconventional Courier

She turns her head, Hears the music of the tropics. Through his sea of rum she is a silhouette, Finely shaped and floating in the glare. A rising sun.

The big ball of fire, come again.

Come to warm the cloudless day into humid submission.

A morning who’s memory fades with the stars, A morning that starts and fades with the years of rum fiestas and sunrises. He washes his revelation down; The palm leaves sing their music.

The bruised sky is alive and moving.

The storm is nearing the town, Entering the wide bay.

Little droplets hit the salty mangroves first,

"Sea Kisses"

"Adrift" & Other Poems by Benjamin Jelkmann

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

The tall vines next, The strain on the heavy air breaks over Bluefields. Thunders down onto tin roofs, Lights the sky. Turns the sea to inky blue.

I bob like a buoy, And then I grow smaller; A cork in the waves. Then I am gone.

"Spain My Home"

On arrival from across the Med –Whirls and slaps onto flat worn rocks. A moving carpet; dancing light, Energy expired, soaked onto sandy slopes. What familiar sight is that? What feelings are these?

A Brandenburg night; a stripe of stars; Humid Sky, sweaty skin, mercy brings a cooling air.

"Adrift" & Other Poems by Benjamin Jelkmann

The Unconventional Courier June 2023

"Adrift" & Other Poems by Benjamin Jelkmann

In morning dew, I wake to find a longing thought is in my mind Her moist fingers sift my skin, And I know she wants to smile. But so long as waters move to shores, So shall my eyes be facing south.

It’s an aching thought, This ailment of mine. The cure is home, Home is Spain.

""Adrift" & Other Poems by Benjamin Jelkmann

About the Author

Benjamin Jelkmann is an English writer.

His latest novella is titled A Caution for the Doe Eyed and is available everywhere.

He currently lives in Berlin.

"Whoreship I" & "Whoreship II"

By Adesokan Tunde (Toonday)

(Twitter: @tunde_adesokan

Instagram: @toondayatkins

Facebook: tunde.w.adesokan)

Abeni,

Are your eyes the sparkle in the night stars?

Are you the peaceful ripples in the homeward river?

The distance cloaks in the coming dawn? Listen.

My water cannot choke your fish

My breeze cannot stumble your bird

"Whoreship I"

"Whoreship I & II" by By

Adesokan Tunde (Toonday)

Let my words fly you home

Let my rhythms riddle your body

Let me spill you to gods this night

Before the dusk invades the rafter of our panting chests.

Abeni, I will dress you in the eve of apple leaves –in the edges of knowledge unsettling our world

A stone ripples unwanted waves in a hidden pond

An axe sharpened by many years

Beetles beating a dead branch to breathe

Eyes moon-wide opened

"Whoreship II"

"Whoreship I & II" by By

Adesokan Tunde (Toonday)

I can now plough the topography Of thy body

The apple red of thy lips

The inciting rays of your eyes

I espy mountains at the back Of a midland meadow –I seek knowledge from The Valley betwixt.

If Adam eyes never eat the veil of its innocence How will poetry be this good How will you be this full?

"Whoreship I & II" by Adesokan Tunde (Toonday)

About the Author

Adesokan Tunde (Toonday) writes from Oyo State, Nigeria. He works with Firstbank.

He is a lover of poetry; a lover of everything that breathes poetry. His works appeared / forthcoming in Pangolin Review, Wales Haiku, Ethel-Zine, Shallowtales Review, Stillwater Review, RoadRunnerReview, Lucent Dreaming etc.

Twitter:@tunde adesokan

Instagram: @toondayatkins

Facebook: tunde.w.adesokan

"The Railing"

By Shawn Scott Smith

(Twitter: @ luckycreature

Website: @ luckycreature.com )

"TheRailing"

Smoothmetalwiththeoccasionalimperfection, Fingerslongandslendertracingthereway across, Theguardinredstaresatthepassing,silent, alone.

Herhaircoversoneeye,hidinggrit, determination,

Footsteps,hurried,butsteadytopreventalarm, Overheadbirdsspeakinanger,orisitsorrow?

Attheendofthelineawinesellerbreaksaglass,

"The Railing" by Shawn Scott Smith

Thesoundacalamityinitsownright,

Theguardinbluestartstowardsher,calling, crowded.

Themetalhasbecomerough,abrasive,agedwith depth.

Smokeandheatcomefrombelow,earthwarmth. Theonlyanimalsleftarethebugs,andnocturnal varmints.

Shehaswalkedsofardownnow,feetmaybe bloodied.

Butthelineisallsheknowstoberight,andat theend…

Theguardinyellowscreams,STOP,aloss.

Themetalfadesawayandherhandgoeslimp, Nothingtoguide,darknessengulfs, Asmell,likeadistantmemoryburns,anda feelingofflight.

"The Railing" by Shawn Scott Smith

About the Author

Shawn Scott Smith is a writer, and enthusiast.

He lives in Asheville, NC with his wife, Jessica C. White and son Milo.

All of his adventures are documented on his website at luckycreature.com

"The Railing" by Shawn Scott Smith

Banerjee

"Ode to Despondence" and Other Poems

By Shamik Banerjee

(Instagram: @where tales end)

"The Aim is Not Like a Bulk Cedar Tree"

The aim is not like a bulk Cedar tree, to have wide branches of whole-fledged empire; which look leafy and bright from where'er we see, that tempt the shorter bushes to admire.

It is not who contests between the leaves, of other copses and proves the better of two; but, to a stroller, shade who gives 'gainst heavy sun with fruits and its shelter.

It's not in bearing the sweetest of seed, that germinates in one season only;

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

but, in sprouting throughout, so one can feed, e'en when draught takes away his grains fully. As wealth defined is what it does to meet, so not just one but hundred more can eat.

Synopsis of 'The Aim is Not Like a Bulk Cedar Tree': The purpose of wealth is to do collective good to humanity. It isn't for one to accrue and use it for his own elegance and purpose.

Also, it does no good if wealth is shared once and then kept aside. It should be utilised to create something that will keep providing people with what they need.

Ode to Despondence

Angels, in their placement with God, took pride, wherein few aimed higher supremity; like blessed voices that melody provide, yet examine which the most marvellous be.

All qualities live side by side with growth; and tied with this are hope and strength of mind. Heart's expectancies and contentments, both when fulfilled, are food served for humankind.

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik

Banerjee

Therefore, the blankly staring eyes despair seeing the half-marred rungs 'twixt his ladder's rails; which still can find resurgence through repair and through a mind where firm patience prevails.

But what be of the eyes with no rungs to glance but blankness 'tween the siderails' resting slope; or, two rungs fixed above the mid his void chance to step e'en on the first rung- a lost scope?

Synopsis of 'Ode to Despondence': Every human struggles for betterment and growth.

To compete is his nature and when his expectations are met, he finds contentment. But, when an individual is deprived of growth and advancement, his becomes despondent or low in spirits.

This feeling can be compared to a person who wants to climb a ladder but that ladder's steps (rungs) are partly broken and distorted. Initially he is sad but if with a patient mind he repairs the steps, he will be able to climb.

Now let's say all the steps of the ladder are broken, or two steps are there above the middle portion of the ladder, neither of these situations will help the person to climb. The first situation has no rungs at all and the second situation doesn't have the very beginning or the bottommost rung for the person to even start climbing.

Counsel for a Young Future Poet

Young vates, when thou shalt, my lines be reading, and learn I was amongst the yestertime; then take my prayers for thou'lt be leading, Poetry's syndicate to aftertime.

The path thou art on, now, is wider madeit accepts every will and heart's purport; but when I walked, 'twas a covered arcadeit occupied no rails for one's support.

Hoping, I think, with guidance, thou art blest, talent's fur is robed by thee as progression.

For me, 'twas then, a hardly won conquest-I wore it secretly for transgression. I saw the many smarting bards to doom.

Their curtsey- shamed by men of little care; the door that led their skills to a shrunken room; as rearing it, was held a vain affair.

O' bard, O' young, I send my grace to thee: 'tis futile not to be self-possessive as false norm lures thee to its cavity; be stoutly for thy passion- decisive!

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

Counsel for a Young Future Poet

Young vates, when thou shalt, my lines be reading, and learn I was amongst the yestertime; then take my prayers for thou'lt be leading, Poetry's syndicate to aftertime.

The path thou art on, now, is wider madeit accepts every will and heart's purport; but when I walked, 'twas a covered arcadeit occupied no rails for one's support.

Hoping, I think, with guidance, thou art blest, talent's fur is robed by thee as progression.

For me, 'twas then, a hardly won conquest-I wore it secretly for transgression. I saw the many smarting bards to doom.

Their curtsey- shamed by men of little care; the door that led their skills to a shrunken room; as rearing it, was held a vain affair.

O' bard, O' young, I send my grace to thee: 'tis futile not to be self-possessive as false norm lures thee to its cavity; be stoutly for thy passion- decisive!

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik

Banerjee

So now, I tell thee, forn my eyes do shut: people will shend thy pen, thine adroit art, yet, thou shalt firmly, to thy verse abut which'll promise thee eternity when thou'lt depart.

Synopsis of 'Counsel for a Young Future Poet': This poem is an advise to a future poet to never give up on his skill and passion for poetry. The world may see it as something unimportant, oe something he shouldn't get support for, yet, he shouldn't heed to them and keep advancing because he has privileges and opportunities by and through which he can keep his passion alive. Such opportunities were not their before. This poem urges the young poet to remain steadfast to poetry because poetry alone will immortalize him and not even death can kill him.

Elegy for a Daughter

For the daughter in heaven's grace, who left this earth at childhood's face; to ports afar from mother's eyes, in treasured form of infancy, is freed from holds of woes and cries

I sit to write her elegy.

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

Six years lived she and taken thence by the Lord to his orchard, dense: with flowers and shade- lapping trees and huge, rundle- like stars of gold, where brushes the light, tidal breeze in kingdom of her newcome bold.

In womb's care, her spirit was sent, so together, her joy be spentthrough years of beauty, smiles and growth, in concerned heart of mother's boon; but welkin's choice, did make the oath to take her presence very soon.

The Lord did think, "Such holy birth, is made not for this mortal girth but for the state that lies here,

on land eternal, free of age with beatific fays poising near, from transitory days and stage."

She made was not for nature's laws, nor brevity of bliss and loss; but regally, to make her tread in true bearing and elation, with deference from genteel stead send blessings to whole creation.

An angel so, when she was bornas lightsome as a dawning morn, now sits beside a guggling brook, with radiance of love does stare, which chunters to her lovely look "You art within my love and care".

Now she is near a verdured dene and friended by a lough serene; now she is merry by a rill, where ireful combers do not wave; now she is peaceful on a hill, where fearsome tremors do not stave.

Her grandparents, despair and feel the trenches of her death's ordeal; her kindreds too now sorrow make, yet, one warm cause their ruth console: from this forken world, she did brake than being on its soreness to condole.

And though her mother's iris weeps to weet how far her daughter sleeps; does finds her in Lilies of peace, and ken in other maiden's smile; and with these thoughts, light succour ease; and with these thoughts, to breathe awhile.

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

Whose posterity could not bring, the dewdrops of a newer spring; sweet maiden at inceptive years, could eldern days, not touch or goam, but with her cheeks of fledgling tears, in palace of clouds, made her home.

Now when through window, comes a draft, inkles the mother to her craft; she sets to her verses inditeamong odes, dirges and proses, against the day or falling night and to adorn her with roses.

To Christ, when anthem, she does pray, she wishes coming of the day, to hie where dwells her daughter's soul and embrace her in bosom then, their tie, where will, rewake as whole and joy in them, rehome again.

Synopsis of 'Elegy for a Daughter': This is an elegiac account on the daughter of a friend of mine. She was six years old when she passed away. This poem is an attempt to provide consolation to her mother's soul and to pay a tribute to the daughter. May she rest in peace.

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

On Reading an Old Master's Poem

A wonder, great! it is, for me to read the lines written in yearhundreds ago; by a Poet, novel then, and young indeed! whose works, yet fresh, in modern times we know.

For then, his folio was binded white: the new-lain ink on pages took the birth; the same vellums– although now yellow bright, to me but seem a treasure found in Earth.

The relicts of his craft, more wond'rous be, whose rich wordings now fade as men advance; yet, by a touch, they rewaken in me; come forthwith to the heart with just a glance!

This wealth of parlance, nowhere one can gain! Such pre-eminent lect; such work of mind, like abbots who enlightenment attain; whom, only in seclusion you will find.

When profoundly, it legends me the rhymes: the lineal form of metrical bliss, alike perfection that God alone primes; then I state: naught is God but only this! When each word is earnestly considered, I realize that they, to me convey:

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

the very emotion, in me, is heard whose melody, I've always willed to play!

More wond'rous: he, an erudite appears consigns the book as keepsake for my shelf as if he's alive; passed not age, nor years; as if, of his craft, tutors me himself!

And it seems, his feeling which o'erflow'd then, with each reading, does project from the verse. They resurrect and freshly form again through me, in my spirit; when I rehearse!

There is no greater sensation of sight; than auditory of Poetry's age, when I, these lyrical numbers recite and touch to leaf the verses of each page.

But, most stupendous is: this work, dates old; and though new theories man did conceive; yet, this work, more outstanding thoughts unfold as if writ by a future mind at yester-eve!

Synopsis of 'On Reading an Old Master's Poem': In this poem, the poet reads a poem from a classical poet and talks about the splendour of this experience. He says that such a work of art is peerless compared to today's and that it is heavenly. He says that although this poem was written many years ago, the concept in it is so startling and brilliant that it occurs that someone from the future has written it .

"Ode to Despondence" & Other Poems by Shamik Banerjee

About the Author

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the NorthEastern belt of India.

He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family.

His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.

He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute to the future of poetry.

Connect with him on Instagram: @where_tales_end

"The Soul of Wine" by Peter

Donnelly

The Soul of Wine

By Peter Donnelly (Twitter:@Peatstweet)

After the French of Charles Baudelaire.

One night, the soul was wine warbling in its bottles:

"Dejected man, to you I now turn my gaze From my jail of vermilion wax and glass And extend good will to you in a light-blaze!

“Incepted from the sweat and heat beating

At the sun-scorched and -baked hill -It set my soul and being germinating --

I’ll never be ungrateful or effect any ill.

“I

with joy when

Down the throat of those drained by labour. Like a gentle tomb to me, the human chest -I realize myself in there, as if back in the cellar!

rush over

released

"The Soul of Wine" by Peter Donnelly

“Can you recall the Sunday-mass chants, And the hope singing through my body?

Sleeves rolled, elbows on table, you’re content;

It delivers to me a kind of glory.

“I’ll imbue your wife’s eyes with light, instill Life-force and -colour in your son;

To the bruised athlete of life, I’ll be the oil That soothes the muscle it’s rubbed on.

“Into you I fall, vegetal ambrosial –

Precious grain scattered by the eternal Sower!

And poetry germinating out of this love will Manifest and bloom like a rare flower!”

(2016)

About the Author

Peter Donnelly’s first collection, Photons, was published by Appello Press in 2014.

His second collection, Money Is a Kind of Poetry, was published by Smokestack Books in 2019, and he is (slowly) working on a third collection.

He occasionally tweets @Peatstweets.

"The Soul of Wine" by Peter Donnelly

"Life Goes On" and Other Poems

By R.S.

(IG:@thepoetrywindmill)

Life Goes On

I've learned about life: it goes on: In restless breaths is time inhaled, Right after dark, a shimmering morn, On sleeping earth is then impaled.

So when night sleeps, the day is born.

Synopsis: This poem speaks on the restless and fast-pacing lives of humankind. It is only during the quiet hours that light (literally, calmness) enters the mind.

"Life Goes on" & Other Poems by R.S.

As The Clouds That Are So Light

A heart so steeped in sorrow, As if suffering from a blight.

Had it wings, it would fly As the clouds that are so light; For a million suns, could not Dismantle it's night.

Synopsis: This poem directly speaks about sorrow and freedom. Freedom from sorrow leads one to eternity and nothing then can taint it.

For He, The Artist, Beauty Sees

From hills and vales, He steals the hues. His heart prevails, In distant views. He sees not dirt Impart a gloom. His eyes just see, The lotus bloom.

"Life Goes on" & Other Poems by R.S.

When grey skies, Keep the clouds in tow, His eyes seek out, The lone rainbow. In storm struck seas, When seagulls cry, He dreams of love, And paints the sky.

A smile from sorrow, He does lease For he, the artist, beauty sees.

Synopsis: An artist's lens has been described here. He sees beauty everywhere and carves something out from it.

In my mind, I'm free

I am chained, I am bound; Enslaved by life, not to be found;

In shackles my hands are tied; The air to breathe I am denied;

"Life Goes on" & Other Poems by R.S.

But in my mind I am free--

I am the breeze, I am the sea; I am the bird, I am the song;

I am the brook that flows along; I am the rain, I am the tree--

For in my mind I am free.

Synopsis: This poem speaks about the state of freedom. Freedom is a state of the mind and is unaltered by the external conditions of life.

"Life Goes on" & Other Poems by R.S.

About the Author

R.S. is a denizen of Delhi, India who writes Poetry to find harmony in life.

She had fallen in love with versing during her days as a student of literature.

She rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.

Connect with R.S. on IG: @thepoetrywindmill

Just Me by Steven David Lampley

Just Me

By Steven David Lampley

(Facebook: @stevendavidlampley)

JUST ME

They've gone on before

Like the places I used to go.

It's all changed, it's all changing.

Nothing like I used to know.

I'm getting older And just memories I now have left.

It's just me, yes, all just me

Until my life, put adrift.

Just Me by Steven David Lampley

About the Author

Steven's life has been a plethora of varied life's experiences and he brings these experiences to paper.

In addition to real-life poetry, Steven has written for publications such as Psychology Today and Death Investigator Magazine.

His public speaking events are standing-room-only.

Interview with Peter Devonald

Interview with Peter Devonald

Interviewed by the editors

In Issue 8, the editors interviewed award-winning scriptwriter, novelist, and poet Peter Devonald. He has previously submitted three electrifying poems to Issue 2 of The Unconventional Courier, which you can check out here.

Peter Devonald's Bio

Stockport, Manchester based poet/ screenwriter, forward prize nominee, one of the winners of FofHCS Poetry Award 2023, winner Waltham Forest Poetry Competition 2022 and Heart Of Heatons Poetry Award 2021. Poet in residence at Haus-a-rest. 100+ poems published including London Grip, Artists Responding To…, Forget-Me-Not Press and Greenhouse. Featured in Poetic Map of Reading, 6 group poetry gallery shows, 50+ film awards (Gold Remi WorldFest), former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated.

www.scriptfirst.com

https://www.instagram.com/peterdevonald/ https://www.facebook.com/pdevonald

The Unconventional Courier

Interview with Peter Devonald

To get to know Peter more, we’ve decided to ask him several questions.

You are a novelist, poet, and screenwriter — how do these different mediums connect from your perspective?

It’s strange because for many years I adapted books for screen; I always tried to be faithful to the original material, but the demands of TV/ film mean changes tend to be so important, the structure and pacing are so completely different.

Poetry is hard to use in film. I tried: The Journey was a poetic film, but despite having a director/ co-writer who has gone on to amazing things (Katina Medina Mora) and being so beautiful and poignant, it barely played in festivals.

Very short poetic green films worked better and showed extensively. I think there are just so many preconceptions with film that restrict it as an artform, though always a joy when people manage to push the envelope such as Lost/ Sense8/ The OA.

Interview with Peter Devonald

How do these mediums differ?

Screenwriting is all about strong striking visual storytelling and this plays perfectly in poetry and novels.

With novels you have more words and can be more creative, floral, enjoy the love of language. I am big fan of Jeanette Winterson who writes such beautiful prose.

TV and film are surprisingly very rigid in many ways. For instance, the action lines generally should be direct and to the point so everyone on set work towards the same blueprint. So many rules with screenwriting and format, budget restrictions and editorial changes.

With poetry every word counts but at least we have freedom within the restrictions. The joy of poetry is getting published a week after writing; films take years to write, rewrite, then I’ve had options for a decade and never got made. Poetry can be very now, dynamic and raw.

Do you consider yourself a writer first, poet or screenwriter first?

I always was a writer first, but screenwriting really took over my life for 20 years. I did theatre tours before that.

Interview with Peter Devonald

Poetry/ stories was my first love, and it has been great to return to it. I published literary magazines at college and university.

From an early age I was forever writing stories and short novels, had my first theatre play on aged 16, and won a couple of awards.

I now consider myself a poet or as my local radio dub me, “the bard of Stockport”! Been called worse :-). But who knows what the future will hold? Enjoying the experience so far.

Which movie are you the proudest of?

It’s rather like comparing your children! .357 was so important in the gun crime debate in London and was the highest rated show on MTV that year. Also starred Matthew Marsh, Alexandra Moen and David Gyasi.

Picture Perfect had a huge run worldwide winning best film at WorldFest Houston Gold Remi, Peleponnesian Corinthian, Kharkov Lilac, Mestre and Cyprus Film Festivals. And Those Scurvy Rascals won Best Children's Series & Children's Choice at the British Animation Awards, and Bafta nominated Best Animated Cartoon Series.

The Unconventional Courier

Interview with Peter Devonald

But really, I am proudest of Girl Like Me it was amazing working with Robbie Ryan (DOP on so many huge films including The Favourite, Philomena etc.), fantastic actors such as Steven Elder and a director who respected the script completely in Rowland Jobson.

About the one time the script wasn’t rewritten at all: no notes, no changes. My vision was followed so clearly.

The film won so many awards worldwide including Branchage "Cutting Hedge" award, Best Film Wood Green, Jury Special Mention Batumi and Winner Kyiv.

I produced it as well so was so deeply involved. I still remember exactly where I was when the idea came to me; the voice of the lead stayed with me for years, meant so much that this film had such an amazing run.

On IMDB, it says you’ve appeared in many of your films. How did it feel to appear in a film you created?

Always a very strange experience to be on screen. I acted a lot in my early days, but it is that change from writer to observer to performance that is the oddest. I only ever had

The Unconventional Courier

Interview with Peter Devonald

small roles the largest actually got cut from the final edit! I never really got over the surreal sensation to it.

In End Of The World I had to repeatedly walk with the sign when filmed, you rather forget how to walk! The film also included my rabbit a housemate had left her with us! Such fond memories.

Beggars Belief was a such a long shot that I am barely seen so much on screen; The Calling I am walking repeatedly past the end of the alleyway with different clothes!

I always found it very strange being on set seeing my words spoken by others.

I learned so much from the process, if anyone is a screenwriter, I highly recommend it, even if it is an ultrashort film. You realise very quickly that every small change on the page, such as changing night to day, can have major repercussions to cost and ease of filming.

What was your favourite film or creative project to work on? And which one was the most difficult?

The most difficult was probably Girl Like Me.

The Unconventional Courier

Interview with Peter Devonald

I was the producer for a long time getting funding and doing so much of the work alone. I remember finding all the locations, some in very rough parts of London (Broadwater Farm). I learned a lot from all of it.

Eventually we got two amazing producers involved who did a fantastic job with myself and Rowland. Victoria Barrell has since produced so many features.

The film premiered in competition at the Venice film festival – which was awesome but was such hard work, the paperwork was extraordinary. Incredible journey.

All the films mean a lot to me, but particularly fond memories of two of the first films Beggars Belief and The Calling.

Beggars Belief had many of my friends as extras, a very fun happy experience. The Calling so professional with an amazing crew and no budget whatsoever, everyone there for the love of it. Basic Instinct 2 filmed down the road with all their trucks speeding through our shoot!

The film ended up Virgin Media Shorts runner up, played for a year in 212 Virgin cinemas, and won Microfilm of the Month and Super Shorts finalist. Fun times.

Interview with Peter Devonald

What themes inspire you the most?

Comprehending the past to find a future. Finding hope where there seems to be absence. Realising hidden resilience in the face of adversity. Understanding that there but for the grace of God go us.

That US are more similar to THEM than we ever realise. Life can be hard but together we are stronger. In unity there’s strength.

If you’re going through hell, keep going. Whatever happens we will survive, trust me.

How long have you been writing prose?

I’ve always written prose, but really focussed on it and poetry since Covid 19 pandemic hit. At the time I had three film options in development and things were really positive then pretty much overnight everything stopped.

Suddenly dark thoughtful pieces weren’t the flavour of the month, and production money became very tight.

It was very hard to get films off the ground, so my focus shifted. I didn’t want my headspace to be on features during

The Unconventional Courier

Interview with Peter Devonald

the pandemic, I needed lighter work I could flit between, and found writing prose/ poetry so much more freeing and enjoyable.

It has been wonderful to explore issues without boundaries of cost, format or budget. Film is hugely collaborative which is great but hard to have a singular vision.

The last year and a half I have focused on poetry – and building towards publishing books, but in the meantime won 3 awards and had over 100 poems published.

Poetry is freedom to explore the world and ideas, to understand what I really believe and hope.

It has been so wonderful being part of The Unconventional Courier and other fantastic literary magazines. You provide such a vital counterculture, it is deeply inspiring. Thanks for your time and all you do.

Talking Heads

Talking Heads

Walking Away

How do you know when to walk away from a work?

Ashwini Gangal:

Oh it’s simple. I know it’s time to walk away from a work when my physical or mental health is being compromised. That’s the only yardstick for me.

The Unconventional Courier

Talking Heads

Imelda Wei Ding Lo/Fortunus Games (Editor):

I walk away from a work when it's getting repetitive and isn't giving me the joy it was supposed to give. I have no obligation to continue developing a work not to myself or others.

Teté DePunk (Editor):

I'll admit I'm a writer obsessed. Throughout my writing experience, I've never known when to walk away. It was until a month, on this very year, I finally learned to walk away from several works that were going nowhere.

One work was a story that suffered from too much selfprojection about a dissatisfied, depressed woman. It was mostly an escapist trap of aesthetic window dressing and not much else.

The other was harder to let go of. This particular work was my magnum opus (too epic-sounding, I know), but the singular fixation on one single aspect prevented the work (and the character) from actually maturing. It became 500+ page drag of repetition. I finally walked away from it. Maybe I'll return to it.

One thing I've learned if it drags you down, it won't produce the vision and impact you want work to create. You need to walk away and let go.

R. N. Roveleh (Editor):

I've never walked away for good.

Maybe it's my pride, maybe my obsession with adjusting and perfecting, maybe my conviction that there is no such thing as a bad idea, only poor execution. Or maybe "walking away" sounds too much like giving up, and the very thought triggers my masochistic pleasure for a challenge.

But I have taken breaks. Long breaks. When I tweak and tweak, and the story committed to paper isn't nearly as good as the one in my head, I realise that I'm, perhaps, not mature or experienced enough for it, so I need to set it aside and let it simmer.

I have several such stories still leavening.

Meet the Editors

Teté is an unconventional writer, artist and podcaster, whose passions run gamut from comics to literature, to 80's Synth music to PolSci to chess to tarot-deck collecting.

Teté is currently working on "Fragments of Identity," (a video game script, based on her story collection featuring her private eye character, Ethan Kantz) as well as nonfiction works, including the essays, "The Pervasive Anatomy of Fascism" and "The 40-day Eulogy."

Teté is the creator and host of her own podcast, "The Real Stuff," available on Spotify and Spotify for Podcasters.

Keep up with Teté:

@ Instagram: tete.depunk

@Twitter: @punk tete

Meet the Editors

Imelda Wei Ding Lo (she/her) is the founder of Fortunus Games and a graphic novelist, podcaster, and writer.

Her short stories have been published in the Victoria Literary Festival, Trash to Treasure Lit, the Sixpence Society Literary Journal, and The Hooghly Review.

Imelda also co-hosts/contributes to "The Nuts and Bolts of Writing Podcast".

You can find her on Twitter/Instagram @fortunusgames. Her website is www.fortunusgames.com.

R. N. Roveleh is a writer of prose, artist and doctor in medieval literature.

She is the author of "Lucky Wolf”, a historical novel published in 2021 and set in 10th century Scandinavia, and of "Tales from the North”, a serialised anthology of short-stories available on Tapas.io and in several literary magazines.

On her YouTube channel, Dr. Metalhead, R. N. blends two of her passions: literary analysis and heavy metal.

You can follow her on Instagram: @helevorn bor, Twitter: @NRoveleh and Tapas : RobRoveleh.

"Only he who keeps his eye fixed on the far horizon will find the right road."

Dag Hammarskjold